by Mary Nealy
She reached for a slice of cold pizza. One of the other detectives had taken pity on them and had one delivered.
O’Shea rubbed both hands over his eyes. “They’ll do that in the morning.”
“Morning is going to be too late for LaToya,” Paul reminded them darkly. He stood from his chair. “More coffee?”
Keren nodded and set the pizza aside. After two bites her appetite was gone.
O’Shea said, “It’s better than that syrup I bought yesterday afternoon.”
“Yeah,” Paul said sarcastically. “But it’s still lethal.”
“No argument there.” O’Shea went back to the files.
Keren said, “Was that just yesterday? It seems like a month ago.”
Paul gathered all three cups and went to the coffeemaker. The dregs in the pot were burned black. His stomach was boiling with the acid from the coffee and the tension of the night. He threw out what was in the glass carafe and started a new pot then went back to the chair he’d pulled up to the side of Keren’s desk.
When the sun began lighting an east window in the squad room, Paul rubbed his burning eyes. “I’ve got to go. That first package came early. And I want to be there to question the delivery guy. The one before had a uniform on but no company marking. He could have been hired privately, which means his company wouldn’t have a record of who ordered the delivery.”
“We’ve been through nearly all the files.” Keren closed the folder she was studying with a soft clap. “I’m going to send someone out to follow up on the possibles. The FBI will want to hit the ground running.”
She opened her desk drawer and produced two phones. “I’ve got a borrowed cell—besides the one I’ve got linked to your number. The FBI can call me if their profiler comes up with anything that might help. And here’s a spare one for you, Paul. Now we can stay in communication without messing up an incoming call from Pravus.”
Paul’s heart lurched as he tucked the little phone in his pocket with a trembling hand. “He’s going to do it again. Kill LaToya and do who knows what other act of terror.”
“We’ve staked out possible locations for this strike,” O’Shea said. “LaToya used to run with a gang. They don’t have such a well-known hangout as Carlo’s bunch. Pravus talked about her drug dealing. We are tailing some of her better-known clients and a couple of suppliers that might have been involved with her. LaToya had a record that gives us a lot of places to cover.”
“She was real hard core when I found her,” Paul said. He paused over the fond memory of LaToya and how far she’d come.
“I looked at her record.” Keren got up from her chair and stretched her back. “You worked a miracle to turn that girl around.”
“Not me. Pastor P doesn’t do miracles. Those are the sole dominion of God.”
“I agree. You should have gotten a few hours of sleep last night.” Keren took his arm and urged him to his feet.
“I couldn’t sleep, knowing that this morning I’d—”
“I know. That’s why I didn’t even suggest it. But, Paul, he wasn’t exactly careful with you last time. You barely survived that explosion. He’s glad to play with you, but he doesn’t seem to care all that much if you get killed in his chaos. You need to be on top of your game today.”
“No, I don’t. I just need to give my life over to God. That’s how I’ll survive. Or how I’ll die, serving Jesus Christ.”
“Good answer.” Keren patted him on the shoulder then jerked her head at the exit door. “Now get the lead out, Rev. We’ve got a murderer to catch and, just as I predicted, you’re a wimp who is slowing me down.”
That at least got his attention. He grinned. “Thanks, I needed that.” He started moving without her dragging him. By the time he hit the stairs he was jogging.
He was going into the mission alone. They’d agreed Keren couldn’t go with him. He had her spare cell phone to notify her if Pravus called. Paul would send her a text message of the location he was to deliver the expected sign to. Keren would then send CPD to the location to evacuate it.
Paul glanced back at her. She gave him a tiny, solemn wave, praying for LaToya, for himself, and for whoever would be the focus of Pravus’s wrath today.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Pravus looked through his telescope and saw the pretty detective drive the reverend up and let him out a block from the mission.
The reverend was here. He’d obeyed. The sense of power was intoxicating. The reverend was a puppet dancing on the end of Pravus’s strings.
With his telescope he studied the Fairest in the Land as she sat in her car. She wanted to be part of this.
Fine.
The beast felt intense pleasure to think of the pretty detective at his mercy.
LaToya lay motionless on the table. He didn’t know if she was sleeping or unconscious. He began another part of his creation. She woke up and struggled like a bug pinned to a board.
Pravus had never been so uncontrolled. He’d never cut himself this many times.
Father had taught him better than to show such a lack of restraint.
In the end, when Father died, Pravus had been in strict control the whole time.
He’d gotten here at six a.m. Stupid. No delivery was going to come that early.
He could have kept studying files. Paul kept the phone at hand as he took a quick shower and put on a clean sweat suit and gym shoes, getting ready to run. He thought of the last morning he’d taken a jog and dreaded what this day might bring.
There were a few people up and at work in the kitchen. Street people weren’t exactly early risers, but a few would stagger in all through the morning—Rosita, then Myrna, an older lady who never spoke a word but had a cooking style suited to a five-star restaurant. Of course, she didn’t exactly have the supplies to produce that kind of meal. She created magic with beans and hamburger, though.
Murray and Louie were both at work in the kitchen.
They did little more than grunt hello, though Murray waved with the spoon he was using to stir oatmeal and Rosita had her usual smile.
“I’m tied up again today. Sorry. Thanks for keeping things going.” Paul watched the bustle of the kitchen and wanted to be part of it. He wanted his life back.
He wasn’t getting it, at least not today.
The front apartment in this building was a quiet room where Paul could watch the neighborhood and spend time in prayer—where he had sessions with individuals, urging street people to sign up for the detox program. Now he went there to keep an eye out for the messenger who’d bring that package to the front door, right past this front window. Usually Rosita, or whoever was on duty, took anything that arrived and, if it was for Paul, tracked him down.
He settled in and turned to his Savior for strength. He let the peace of God ease into his mind and his muscles and his soul. He felt that ambitious, hard-driving, selfish part of himself loosen its grip.
There was every chance he might die today.
There was every chance LaToya might not survive.
By the time he was done praying, he knew God was in control.
He opened his Bible and read with a renewed spirit. He was still reading an hour later. He closed the Bible and asked God what next. Shortly after he asked, he hit a wall. Like a distance runner who’d gone too far, he ran out of steam. He didn’t consciously choose sleep. God chose it for him. He simply leaned forward and rested his head on the table, his Bible a pillow, and slept. His last waking thought was of Keren’s face. Had he seen her before?
The ringing phone jerked him awake. A thrill of fear jagged through him as he fumbled for it. He managed to drop it twice before he opened it. He made a note of the number on the liquid quartz display. It was the same one as yesterday.
“Just like old times, Reverend,” Pravus oozed. “I’m coming to enjoy our little visits.”
Paul began praying, trying to forget his fear and center himself on God. There was nothing else to do. The police were doing their be
st. The FBI would do their best. Paul was going to do his best. But in the end they were in God’s hands, the same as every other day. “Pravus, are you going to let me come and get LaToya? Are you going to let my people go?”
“Have you looked at the package?”
Paul hadn’t even thought of that. He’d been asleep. He glanced around and saw a package on the table next to where his head had rested. His name and address front and center. Written in blood. Someone, maybe Rosita, had quietly left it. He wondered how many precious seconds had been lost. If the address was inside the package, he could have had the police en route minutes ago.
“I know about your spare cell phone, Reverend. I don’t just have microphones in your apartment, you know. I have eyes and ears everywhere. How is the pretty detective, anyway? Is she happy, do you think, chasing down criminals for a living? Is that any way for a decent woman to spend her life? She pretends to be good, but I wonder. Is she one of those who won’t let my people go?”
Paul’s throat clogged with fear as he thought of Pravus turning his attention to Keren. Only holding God close to his heart prevented him from raging at this lunatic. “I won’t use the spare phone, Pravus. I’m opening the package now.”
With no regard for possible fingerprints, since he knew full well there wouldn’t be any, Paul tore the manila envelope open and the wooden sign slid free. He read aloud, “Pestis ex Rana. Plague of frogs.” Paul scrambled for the pictures, terrified to look at them but desperate to find his assignment. “LaToya.” The anguished whisper escaped past all his self-control.
“You’ve seen the photograph?” Pravus nearly sang the question, his voice was so smooth. “Good. I wonder how many people she killed with her drugs. How many more did she enslave by making them addicts? Her death will make the world a cleaner place. The fact that you associated with her and her kind makes your ministry a failure. It makes you a failure, Reverend.”
“No, Pravus, that’s not true. Jesus went to the sinners. How do you help them if you won’t reach out to them? You think you can solve the problems of the world by destroying sinners, but that isn’t Jesus’ way.”
“It was Moses’ way. And it was God’s way. How many died because of the plagues?”
“But God sent Jesus. He always planned to send His Son. Even in Moses’ time God gave Pharaoh chance after chance. LaToya is a part of the kingdom of God now. Even people who haven’t repented are loved by God. It’s not for you to decide if they’re worthy of life.”
“You plead eloquently for the people who foul your mission. Jesus was a new way, and now there is a new way yet again. Me. Do you need me to make pretty little LaToya cry and beg so you’ll believe she’s here? I’d be glad to do it. It would be my pleasure, really. My chisel is newly sharpened.”
“No, don’t hurt her anymore,” Paul shouted. He looked at the picture and saw the absolute terror on LaToya’s face. Duct tape over her mouth and around her wrists. LaToya, who had so recently adopted a lifestyle of chastity and modesty, stripped bare and displayed in a photo for her minister. She was cut. Red blood gleamed against her black skin. Beside her lay the dress; it would be her burial shroud. In the picture, Paul could see clearly Pharaoh, Moses, and Aaron painted on the dress just as they were on the dress Juanita wore. Around Pharaoh’s feet, frogs, blood red, not green. But Pravus had rendered them with a fine, gifted hand so they were unmistakable.
“Do you see the address?”
It was scrawled in dried blood across one of the photos. “Yes, I’m going. This time I won’t fail, Pravus. I’ll tell them exactly what you want. Do you have any other words for me to say? Do you want me to preach to them? Should I arrest them? Tell me exactly what you want me to do so I can obey you. I want to do whatever you need so LaToya can be spared.” Paul hated the sound of his begging. He wondered if he shouldn’t deal with Pravus from a position of strength. Right now he didn’t have it in him.
“Go to the house. It’s within running distance. Remember, I’m watching you. You’re by the front door of the mission this time, rather than in your rooms.”
It chilled Paul to realize how closely he was being watched.
“Come out the front door, without contacting the police, and head straight for that address. I’m not going to give you as much time as before, Reverend. I remember a time when you weren’t the least bit patient with me.”
The phone clicked. Paul read the address, knew exactly where he was going and why, dropped the photo on the table, and ran.
Rosita crept into the entry area of the mission, staying close to the wall. She slipped up to the table and snatched up the picture. She clapped her hand over her mouth at the ugly sight, then she produced yet another cell phone, the one that nice lady detective had slipped her last night. She called with the address.
With another fearful look at the picture, she gathered the pictures into the envelope Paul had left behind and took it into the kitchen with her. She prayed fervently as she carefully slid it behind a cupboard for safekeeping as Detective Collins had instructed her. With a faint heart because of what she knew her friend LaToya was going through, but a soul rock steady in the Lord Jesus Christ, who had pulled her out of a living hell, she went back to preparing breakfast.
Pravus watched the pastor run, then he turned back to the mission for one last glance. Through the front window he saw little Rosita, so happy, so helpful, so terribly soiled, take his package.
He’d planned to involve her eventually, but he was pleased she’d volunteered.
Then he swung his binoculars back toward the pastor. He couldn’t see Pastor P every second, but he’d picked this place to live because his view was so ideal. Rather than try to pick out the running man, he just watched the doorway of the house where the good pastor was destined. Maybe this time he’d meet his end.
If so, Pravus would savor it. If not, there were many more people who needed to be shrouded with purity. And many more pictures for Pravus to paint.
Keren grimly took the message and phoned every car in the vicinity, and there were plenty of them. The fact that it wasn’t Paul who called made her angry. What did the man plan to do on his own?
Pravus had no doubt come up with some very creative threats. Even though she’d expected it, planned for it, Keren was furious. She was a lot more comfortable with fury than with being scared to death.
The crack house Pravus had chosen to hit wasn’t far, and Paul would no doubt beat them there. Keren went in quiet, no sirens. Nothing to draw attention to herself.
A demon was watching. She knew with God on her side, no one could stand against her.
Paul set some kind of land speed record running to Ahmad’s house.
His ribs were punishing him for it, but they didn’t even slow him down. He was up against big trouble with this destination.
There would be no one trying to kill him in this place. In this house they’d all be sleeping off a night of drugging. He wasn’t going to be able to get them out in time. He had to stop the explosion. Racing against time, he prayed with every step. He only hoped Pravus had used the same method to vent his rage. Paul had given some thought to defusing a bunch of gasoline bombs. But if Pravus chose another, more elaborate explosive, Paul was going to die along with a house full of people.
He hesitated for one second before he simply set the sign on the ground against the house; then he went in and began opening doors, looking for a way to the basement. Unlike Carlo’s place, this was a house, not an apartment building. It was part of a row of ancient, decrepit houses that lined this block. Paul knew if this house went, the whole row would go. But it wasn’t a very large house. It didn’t take him long to find the way downstairs.
The smell of gasoline hit him the second he opened the door. He ran down the stairs and froze in horror. Every support post in the murky cellar had a gallon glass jar taped to it. A couple of inches of yellow gasoline showed in each jar, all of which had been plugged with red rags. Wires, stripped of their insulati
on, with two ends frayed and bent just sparking distance apart, ran into every jug and dangled inches above the gas. The wires ran to every light socket in the basement, waiting for a spark to ignite the tightly enclosed fumes. The walls glistened from being soaked with gas.
Paul looked desperately for a fuse box and saw nothing. He ran for the first light sockets. There were no bulbs in them. Instead a converter had turned the socket into an outlet with four plug-ins. Pravus had plugged in a bomb. Paul jerked the plugs out of the first socket, careful not to strike a spark in his hurry. He got all four of them out and ran on to the next converted socket. When he grabbed it, the light fixture pulled out of the ceiling. Its corroded wires nearly broke off in Paul’s hand. Paul forced himself to slow down. If he broke a wire he might set the bomb off without any help from a murderer. He gently disconnected the bomb wires from the power source.
Gas fumes thickened the air. He went to the next socket and the next and the next. He pulled the last plug free just as his cell phone rang.
“How dare you toss my sign on the ground like so much trash, Reverend? For that alone I’ll declare this effort of yours a failure.”
Paul looked around, trying to see anything he missed in the room. The only light filtered through dirt-encrusted windows. At that second Keren came running down the stairs. Paul wanted to shout at her to get out. Get away. But he was starting to know Keren well enough to not waste his time. He pointed at the light fixtures, hit the MUTE button on the phone, and said, “Look for any other plug-ins. Look for a fuse box. I don’t know what else he might’ve hooked up wires to.”
Keren began checking corners and behind rubbish.
“Your time is up,” the voice sang.
Paul unmuted the phone. “No, Pravus, they’ve agreed. They’re going to let your people go, just as you asked.”
Keren glanced over at him with her brow furrowed. Paul shrugged helplessly.
