by Mary Nealy
The cop straightened and his face looked pale in the streetlight.
Keren continued. “He definitely studied the other dump site and waited until he was alone to leave the body. He’ll be watching, waiting for you to make a mistake.”
“Yes ma’am.” The cop stood at attention.
“And when you make a mistake with this maniac, you’ll end up dead.” She slashed one finger at him like she was slitting his throat.
The officer took a half step back. “Yes ma’am!”
“I’ll radio to have someone take over for you when your shift ends.” Keren pulled out of the parking lot.
“You went overboard a little scaring that kid, don’t you think?” Paul asked.
“I sure tried.”
Paul slumped down in his seat. “Good girl.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Preach your sermon tomorrow like you’re supposed to,” Keren ordered Paul as she pulled up at the shabby back door of the old brick mission. “It’ll remind you of who you are.”
Paul leaned over and kissed her good-bye, as if he’d done it a thousand times before and it was his right. He pulled back and his eyes ran over her face.
“What’s that thing you’ve got in your hair?”
Keren, flustered, reached up for her leather tie. “It’s the only thing that works.”
“Works? What does that mean?”
“Keeps my wild mop of hair under control.” She pulled the odd contraption free and her hair spread in a riot of curls all around her head.
Paul took the hair ornament. “Beads, ties, weird.” He looked up at her. “You ought to let your hair loose. I love it down.”
Reaching out he caressed it and closed in again.
It took Keren way too long to put a stop to that. She waited until he was inside then drove back to the precinct to sleep.
There was a light burning in the room where they’d met with the FBI, and Keren went to see what was going on. Higgins sat at the desk, Dyson on a folding chair. Both were poring over stacks of paper.
“You’re working late, gentlemen.” Keren wished she’d just walked straight to the room with the cots.
Higgins gave her that I’m-a-predator-and-you’re-lunch look, and Dyson did his odd impression of a mind reader.
“Can you give us a minute, Detective?” Higgins had a way of making requests that sounded like orders. “We’ve got some things we’d like to go over with you.”
Feeling every ounce of the weight of her long hours without sleep … and the poor quality of the sleep when she did get it, Keren said, “Sure.”
“The mayor has asked us to be part of a task force to deal with this.”
“I’ve been expecting that. The bizarre murder, the explosion combined with the second abduction—”
“We want Pastor Morris to be part of it.” Higgins was so alert, Keren couldn’t shake the sense that he was always on the hunt.
“I’m sure he’ll be agreeable to that.” Privately, Keren suspected they’d have more than they could handle if they tried to keep him out.
“Have you made any headway on the profiling?” She sat down on a folding chair next to Dyson. Higgins faced them from across the desk.
Higgins looked at Dyson and Dyson turned his spooky blue eyes on her.
“We’ve come to the conclusion that Pravus has too much inside knowledge of the mission to have done research on it from the outside.”
A chill raced up Keren’s spine. “You mean he comes and goes in that building all the time.”
Higgins nodded. “It’s possible it could be a deliveryman or someone with a reason to be in the mission, but it’s more likely—”
“It’s one of the street people.” Keren hated the thought of it.
“No, it’s someone who’s masquerading as a street person.”
Keren considered her impression of evil. She needed to go in the mission when the inhabitants were around. But there was no way to explain that to these men.
“What is it, Detective Collins?” Dyson asked. He was watching her like a hawk … or maybe a vulture.
“There’s a church service in the morning, during breakfast,” Keren said reluctantly. “Someone should attend and get a closer look at those people.”
“We need a list of everyone who is associated with the mission.”
Keren hated the thought of using Paul’s mission service in her police work. It seemed like such a betrayal of people who might be making a fragile step in faith. “It’s a very transient group.”
“It figures this guy hasn’t gone anywhere,” Higgins said sarcastically.
“And they’re not going to cooperate.” Keren was getting tired of Higgins, and all the while he sparred with her Dyson stared, trying to pick up nuances. When he asked questions it was like her every word, gesture, and expression was being watched under a microscope. He was sitting beside her, so if she focused forward she could ignore him, but she could feel his creepy gaze boring into her brain. He was probably a real bust at parties.
“Not cooperating is almost a defining characteristic of street people.” She wished she’d never mentioned Paul’s church. She should have let it come from the FBI. “A lot of them probably don’t even go by their real names.”
“I’ll bet every one of them has a rap sheet and a mug shot.” Higgins slumped back in his chair, but the sense of his utter alertness never eased.
“You know, Higgins, the people at the mission are really going through a tough time.”
“They’re bums.”
“They’re mostly mentally ill, with no family to care for them.”
“They’re drug addicts and alcoholics who did so much damage their families finally washed their hands of them and dumped their problem on the streets.”
“A little compassion wouldn’t be out of place here.” Keren’s jaw tightened. She should drop this. She should get some sleep. “A lot of them are bipolar and they drink and drug to silence the voices in their heads. And a lot of families just can’t deal with it. A lot of them have tried and tried until they’ve given up to save what’s left of their own lives. That mission is trying to do more than just feed them. Paul is trying to lead them to a Christian faith that will give them hope, help them find a purpose for living and a reason to reclaim their sanity.”
“ ‘Paul’?” Dyson asked. “Is he more to you than a witness to a crime?”
Suppressing a flash of irritation, Keren kept quiet. She preferred talking things through, bouncing ideas off O’Shea. The two of them worked well that way. But Higgins just seemed to delight in pointing out the obvious when she’d only meant to run through her thoughts aloud. And Dyson, with his eternal search for the key to everyone’s thoughts, was about halfway to a mental patient himself.
Higgins made a soft scoffing sound. “Figures a mission would force hungry people to sit through a sermon in order to get food.”
Keren’s impression of Higgins dropped through the floor.
“You’re a believer?” Dyson was still watching her. Still reading her mind.
“Why don’t you”—Keren turned and met Dyson’s spooky blue eyes directly—”use whatever ability you have to profile Pravus instead of trying to pick up messages from every tiny expression that flicks across my face? Or is reading minds some trick you do to win bets in a bar?”
Dyson kept staring.
Higgins sat watching, too. Keren decided she’d had enough of it.
“Maybe if I wasn’t running on little to no sleep for the last few days I could enjoy being stared at. I’d enjoy having my faith sneered at. I’d enjoy listening to you mock a man who has committed his life to helping people in need.” Keren rose from her chair. “Yes, he preaches a sermon. He’s trying to give them more than a meal that will last a few hours. But no one is denied food if they refuse to stay. If you don’t have anything to say about the case, then I’m going to try to get some sleep.”
“One more thing before you go, Keren.” Higgins spoke m
ildly again, but he might as well have shouted at her to stop.
“What is that?” Keren turned to face him.
“We’ve listened to the tapes. You have to know Pravus has you in his crosshairs. It’s very possible he sees you as one of his potential victims.”
“Wow, Lance. Did you figure that out all by yourself? Or did you fly a whole bunch more people in from DC to help you?”
“We expect cooperation from local law enforcement agencies, Detective.”
“And you sometimes don’t get it, is that your point?”
“I’m not talking about sometimes. I’m talking about now, and I’m not seeing much of it from you.” Higgins’s golden eyes had seemed so attractive and contained such strength when she’d met him earlier. Now they repelled her. Between his rudeness and his crude remark about the mission’s outreach and the contempt he held for the homeless, she was fed up.
“And why do you think I’d hesitate to work with you? What possible reason could I have? I’ll bet you don’t even need Dyson reading my mind to get the answer to that. Unless you’re both idiots, you should get it loud and clear.”
Dyson stared. Higgins stood as if he needed to be on the prowl. Neither of them answered.
“Good night, gentlemen. If I have any spare time tomorrow, maybe I can stop in again to be insulted for things that have nothing to do with this case. I’m sure it never gets old … for you.” Keren left the room, closing the door behind her with a firm click.
The lousy bed made it easy to get up early.
She ran home to shower and change. As she entered her apartment, a chill went up her spine. She’d known Pravus was possibly going to target her, even hoped for it so they could get him. But now Higgins’s voice haunted her. It made her furious that her own home spooked her. Stepping into the main room, she suddenly saw all that was wrong about her apartment. She was savvy about personal safety, but she lived in a decent neighborhood and hadn’t ever worried much.
The building had a secure entrance. But she was on the ground floor. It wouldn’t exactly take a CIA agent with cat burglar skills and high-tech electronics to get in. Access could be gained with a hammer slammed through her patio window, for heaven’s sake. And there were bushes and shade trees on the side where her glass patio doors were. There was a stylish streetlamp back there, but it was more for show than illumination. The shrubs and trees shrouded the area in darkness.
Now, in full daylight, she stood for a moment, looking out in that pretty little green space. She’d always loved it. It had helped sell her on this apartment. Now it scared her and she hated that. Hated knowing she was vulnerable and that, along with her own danger, she might bring danger to her neighbors.
She’d already known she might be a target, but she didn’t think it was her time yet. Not while Pravus was busy pouring out his madness on poor LaToya.
Rushing through getting dressed—to get out of an apartment she’d enjoyed for the last few years, she didn’t put on church clothes. They’d be badly out of place at the mission. Only now, several days too late, did she realize that she should have been hanging around the mission from the first, trying to sense that demonic presence. It irritated her a little that Higgins and Dyson had helped her realize that. She wanted to believe their presence was a waste of taxpayer dollars.
So, though she’d already decided she wanted to listen to Paul preach, now she was going for another, less honorable reason—a cop reason. She hoped Paul didn’t realize it. Or if he did, he didn’t blow a gasket.
She wore khaki slacks, a polo shirt, and her best shoes. Nikes. One of the rules she lived by was that she never put anything on her feet that wouldn’t allow her to chase a fleeing criminal or run for her life.
She got to the Lighthouse Mission in time for breakfast. Paul was on the business side of a counter covered with steaming stainless steel pans.
“Hi, come to help?” He saluted her with a spatula.
“I’m counting on it.” Keren ferreted out a huge apron and asked Rosita if she could use a break from dishing up eggs. Rosita gladly gave up her spot in the serving line.
Standing next to Paul, Keren checked to see if he was as exhausted as she was.
He had red veins running through his eyes and dark circles under them, but he smiled, and for one split second he focused on her lips. She thought he might just kiss her again right here in front of everyone.
“Get to work.” He jabbed his spatula at her pan of eggs and grinned.
Keren ignored a stab of regret that he hadn’t followed through and kissed her. “Right away, sir.”
A line filed past and she scooped eggs onto the trays of shuffling homeless men and women. She ignored the smell of unwashed bodies and mass-produced food and watched the men as they came through, mindful of the way people treated the homeless. She said hello to each of them. This was her precinct, and she knew a few by name because they were regulars in the neighborhood. Some of them recognized her as a cop and gave her doubtful looks, but they must have been hungry, because they took their food and moved on.
Paul was in his element. He talked to each man and woman. He asked about personal matters and apologized for being gone so much that week. LaToya’s name came up several times, as did Juanita’s. It was an insular community in many ways. They knew what was going on around them, even if they chose not to get involved with it.
When the line finally dwindled, Paul said, “I really appreciate your help this morning, Keren. Some of my most regular helpers are missing today. Murray didn’t even show up to preach. This is about half the crowd we usually have. I think they blame the mission for the trouble in the neighborhood.”
“What else can I do?”
“Fill those white thermal pitchers with coffee from the big pots and pour.” Paul smiled and arched his brows in a conspiratorial way then whispered, “If they take a second cup, they usually settle in and stay for services.”
Glad for a chance to move through the crowd, Keren filled a pot and circulated through the room. She laid her hand on many shoulders and occasionally stopped to talk.
She was surprised how much she enjoyed this act of service. Paul came up behind her to trade her nearly empty coffeepot for a full one.
“Jesus reached out over and over to people who were outcasts,” he murmured in her ear. “He calls us to do the same. The act of serving is one of the purest forms of Christianity, and it invariably returns more to us than we ever give.”
“But if we’re doing it for the blessings we receive, then is it a true act of service?” Keren asked.
“Ah, philosophy,” Paul said with a grin. “I suppose that depends on what’s in your heart. Is this a pure act of service, Keren, or are you here trying to earn God’s blessings?”
Before Keren could respond, Paul leaned closer. “Or maybe you’re trying to catch the interest of a certain preacher.”
She pulled away and gave him her best squinty gunslinger look.
“That cranky look’s not scaring me off. I’m definitely interested.” He left to refill his pot, and it was only with the greatest effort that Keren managed to close her mouth.
She turned back to the men she was serving. I’m not here for that, Lord.
No reassuring answer.
Am I?
She got to a man who had gone through the line before she’d arrived, and, as simply as that, she sensed the demon. Not Pravus—the impression was nowhere near that powerful—but there was no denying her discernment.
The man looked and smelled like the rest. His clothing was hanging in tatters. He was probably mid- to late-forties, but the street added years to a face. He could be younger. He had on a ragged sweatshirt that might have at one time been red. One of the shirt’s wrists was ripped away, the other hung by a thread. His pants were army fatigues, and his hair and beard looked like they hadn’t been washed or combed for years, or cut for a decade.
There was an empty place beside him; in fact, there were only two others si
tting at the utilitarian table with him, and they were seated as far from him as possible. Keren wondered if the other transients could sense that he was different, more awash in evil than the rest of them. She eased herself into the chair beside him. She glanced up and saw Paul shake his head at her. So even Paul was careful of this man. She nodded once to let him know she got the message but she didn’t move. She was praying silently, asking for Jesus’ intervention, asking for leading. She laid a hand on the man’s arm and he turned to her with a sudden jerk. He snarled under his breath like a cornered wild animal.
Keren didn’t flinch. She looked at the man, trying to see past the surface, trying to see if there was someone here who would be open to her. Their eyes locked. She saw the struggle in him, the bitter unhappiness, the total defeat.
At last she said, “I know a way out of the darkness.”
“There is no way.” He moved as if he would get up and leave, but something kept him in his seat.
She gripped his shoulder and spoke softly. “Accept my prayers. I can help you get free from what’s inside of you.”
The man’s eyes cleared and Keren saw his longing. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“R–Roger.” Keren wondered how long it had been since he’d spoken his name out loud. His eyes lost focus, and she saw the effort he made to hang on to himself. “My name used to be Roger Prewitt.”
“Your name is still Roger Prewitt.” She leaned close. “I’m going to pray for you, Roger. The demon inside of you can be cast out. He’ll stay out if you turn your life over to Jesus. You can get out of the misery that controls your life.”
“There’s no way out.” Roger shook his head. Lice crawled along his hairline. His voice was guttural, as if he hadn’t used it in a long time. “This has been with me since I was in a car accident. I made a deal and I thought it was worth it to survive. But it’s not worth it. I’d rather have died that night than live like this. But at the time, burning alive was too much to face.”
Keren saw twisted, damaged skin on the back of his hand. She reached for the sleeve with the wrist cuff torn away and carefully pushed the shirt up. She uncovered deep, ugly scars.
