The Chosen

by Sharon Sala

  “I know it’s been recently,” Rick said. “It’s like trying to remember a name that’s on the tip of your tongue. You know what I mean?”

  “Yeah,” Ben said.

  “Maybe he was part of that bunch we pulled in for questioning about that dead drug pusher. Remember the one they pulled out of the Potomac with his shoes on the wrong feet?”

  Ben stopped for a red light, then peeled a stick of gum and popped it in his mouth while Rick continued to ramble.

  “Hey, Ben, remember that guy? You’re the one who noticed the shoes.”

  “I remember the guy, and I remember the users we hauled in with him, and I don’t remember anybody looking like Jesus.”

  Rick snorted in disgust. “Then where? Where?”

  “It’ll come to you. Ease up. You’re trying too hard.”

  “God, this kind of stuff makes me nuts.”

  The light turned green.

  As they drove through the intersection, Ben quickly realized he would have to take a detour. The next street up was blocked off. From where they were sitting, they could see water shooting a good eight feet up into the air.

  Rick groaned. “Oh man, isn’t there a street in this city that’s not under construction?”

  “They aren’t fixing a street, they’re fixing a water main break.”

  “Same dang thing,” Rick muttered.

  “It’s no big deal, we’ll swing past the IRS building and—”

  Rick almost jumped out of the seat.

  “That’s it! Now I remember where I’ve seen that face. It was that film clip on the guy who wanted to throw the employees out of the IRS building. Remember? We were eating lunch at Jerry’s Java, and they were showing the clip on the TV above the counter. The cops were hauling this religious nut down the steps. They showed a close-up of his face, and it just stuck in my mind, you know? He has to have some kind of arrest record. It should be easy enough to check out.”

  Ben frowned as he turned the corner. He did remember the incident, but unlike Rick, the man’s face hadn’t registered. He just remembered thinking the man was probably another street preacher.

  The hair on the back of his neck suddenly crawled.

  Street preacher.

  They were looking for a street preacher.

  Lord have mercy, could it be that easy? Could they have stumbled onto the answer after all?

  “I remember the piece, but I didn’t focus on the face. Which station ran it, do you remember?”

  Rick shook his head. “No.”

  “Not a problem,” Ben said. “It will be easy enough to check out.”

  “I’ll do it,” Rick said.

  Ben glanced at Rick and made a quick decision. His old partner was trying to redeem himself. It was time to let him.

  “All right,” Ben said. “I’ll fill in the captain, then check the other departments to see who hauled him in. You make some calls and see if we can get a copy of that clip.”

  Rick smiled, pleased. “Will do,” he said.

  A few minutes later they arrived at the precinct. Brady Mitchell went one way, and the two homicide detectives went another.

  Rick Meeks wasn’t the only one bothered by the sketch Brady Mitchell had made. Ever since January had seen that face, she’d been racked with guilt for not telling the police where she’d seen him. She consoled herself with the fact that it wouldn’t change anything about their investigation. Besides, she couldn’t swear with complete certainty that it was the same man, although she knew in her heart that it was.

  She finished the day in a mode that could only be called “low productivity” and left before anyone called her on it. She picked up some Italian takeout on her way home and arrived back at her apartment a few minutes before 8:00 p.m.

  The moment she put her key in the door, the stress of the day began to fade. The click of the tumblers locking her in and the rest of the world out sent what was left of the stress into the shadows. She tossed her keys on the hall table as she made her way through the rooms, leaving her takeout in the kitchen as she moved toward the bedroom.

  Within minutes, she’d changed from work clothes into a pair of sweats and an old T-shirt. It felt wonderful to be barefoot as she walked into the kitchen, anticipating the pasta primavera waiting for her on the counter. She dug through the cabinets, looking for the bottle of red wine someone had given her last year on Valentine’s Day, then remembered she’d emptied that on Valentine’s Day of this year to stifle the blue funk she’d fallen into over the fact that, at the age of thirty-one, she was still without a significant other.

  A lack of wine with her meal wasn’t enough to ruin the mood she was in. She was humming to herself as she snagged a Pepsi from the refrigerator and a plate from the cabinet. She dumped the pasta onto the plate, popped it into the microwave and gave it a minute to heat. It was just long enough for her to get a glass, drop in some ice and fill it to the brim with soda. She took her first sip from the glass while the fizz was still strong, relishing the tickle of bubbles at the tip of her nose. The microwave dinged, signaling that her food was ready. She laid a fork on the plate, picked up her glass and carried her meal to the living room.

  The first bite was as good as she’d expected. She chewed and swallowed before she picked up the television remote. She was, by nature, a channel surfer. Part of it had to do with always checking out the competition, and part of it had to do with being easily bored.

  She surfed as she ate—except for the green peas, which she left in a small pile at the edge of her plate.

  She was on her way to the kitchen to clean up when the telephone rang. She set her dishes in the sink, then reached for the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, honey, it’s me.”

  January was thankful that no one could see the silly grin on her face.

  “Ben?”

  She heard a slight snort of disgust.

  “How many other men call you honey?” he muttered.

  She burst out laughing.

  The moment she started laughing, Ben knew he’d been had. Somehow it seemed more proper to stay pissed, at least for a few more seconds, but he loved the sound of her laugh.

  “Okay, you got me,” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” January said. “I just couldn’t resist.”

  “Have you eaten?” he asked.

  “Just finished. You?”

  “About to start. I just wanted to catch you up on a couple of things.”

  “About the sketch?”

  “Yes. Rick remembered where he’d seen the man.”

  “Really? Do we know who he is? Have you found him?”

  Ben smiled. There was no doubting January’s persistence.

  “Yes, really. No, we don’t know who he is, and no, we haven’t found him—yet. However, there’s a plus we didn’t count on. He’s already in the system.”

  “You mean he’s a criminal?”

  “Not in so many words, but he has been arrested for disturbing the peace.”

  “What’s his name?” she asked.

  “That’s a small issue we have yet to solve. The only name he gave the cops was Sinner.”

  “Oh, Ben, it’s him. It has to be him. There can’t be two men calling themselves the same thing.” January shivered. Finally they were on to something.

  “I don’t suppose you have any address or next of kin?”

  “Nothing like that.”

  She sighed. “Where had Rick seen him? Had he arrested him? Maybe if we—”

  “As it turns out, your Sinner was on the news a while back. They removed him from the steps of the IRS building. Seems he was preaching some stuff about kicking the employees out of the building.”

  “The employees? What do they have to do with anything?” she asked.

  “Who knows?” Ben said.

  January frowned. “It has to mean something. Everything else he’s done seems to be some crazy attempt to copy the life that Christ lived. So…the IRS has to do with
money and—oh! That’s it! The money changers. Remember in the Bible when Jesus went into the temple and threw out the money changers? It’s the same skewed reasoning he’s used on everything else he’s done.”

  Ben was amazed at the way her mind worked.

  “You know something, lady? That sounds just wacky enough to make sense, at least from this guy’s point of view. Money changers? Yeah, that would fit. But it still doesn’t explain why he killed Bart Scofield. If he’s trying to recreate the life of Jesus, that doesn’t fly.”

  “Think of it this way,” January said. “For whatever reason, he believes he has to take each step the Bible says Jesus Christ took. He told me that Scofield was the wrong one. That doesn’t mean he won’t get himself another Bartholomew. And there’s one other thing I didn’t tell you, because I have no way of knowing he was involved. Still, it fits.”

  “What?” Ben asked.

  January hesitated. All of this was so far-fetched that it sounded crazy to say any of it aloud, but there was no denying the facts as she knew them.

  “You remember the Vietnam War vet who was beheaded?”

  “All too vividly,” Ben said.

  “You remember his name?”

  “Yes, Jean Baptiste, but what does—?”

  “Say his name in English,” she said.

  “What…you mean John Baptist? What does…oh shit. John the Baptist?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “I feel sick,” Ben muttered.

  January knew what he meant. She’d gone through the same disbelief months ago when the pattern had begun to emerge.

  “You’ve got to find him,” January said.

  “No kidding. But at least now we know where you and Meeks saw him,” Ben said.

  “Oh…no, that’s not my memory of him. Not at all. I don’t know where I was when that piece aired, but I’m completely unaware of it,” January said.

  Ben frowned. “Really? Well, let me know if you remember anything. It might be the key to finding him.”

  Another wave of guilt dug at her conscience. The fact that she’d seen him on the street in the rain and in a park early one morning told them nothing. She wasn’t willing to admit he might be stalking her, for fear the police would do something that might send him into hiding. Also, if the cops thought she was in danger, they might limit her freedom to come and go to the point that she couldn’t do her job. For now, what little else she knew she would keep to herself.

  “Yes, I will let you know if I remember. Oh, another thing. What’s your captain going to do with the sketch? Is he going to put it out in the papers?”

  “No. We have copies all over the precinct, but we don’t want this head case to run. If he gets wind that we’re onto him, we might never find him.”

  “Of course,” January said. “I wasn’t thinking. I just…” She sighed. “I have this really bad feeling that we haven’t seen the last of him.”

  “I know. So I’ll see you tomorrow night?”

  “Absolutely,” January said.

  “Do I need to bring music to dance to?”

  She grinned. “You listen to music?”

  “Just because I can’t dance doesn’t mean I can’t sing.”

  “You sing?” she asked.

  “No.”

  She laughed again. This time louder. This time longer.

  He loved the sound of her laugh, and he wasn’t sure, but he might be falling in love with her, too.

  January woke early to take a morning run through the park before going to work. After all the pasta she’d had last night, she needed at least a two-mile run—maybe longer, if she had the time. She thought about the possibility of running into the Sinner again, then shrugged it off.

  She washed her face, brushed her teeth and put her hair up in a ponytail. The weatherman had predicted rain, but from the looks of the sky, she figured she had plenty of time for her workout before the weather changed.

  She chose a pair of lightweight sweatpants, a sports bra topped by a sleeveless tee, and her most comfortable pair of running shoes, pocketed her house key and headed out the door.

  As always, she paused at the curb, checked the traffic both ways, then crossed the street and started to jog. When she reached the intersection, she turned right. Within a few moments, she was out of sight of her apartment building and on her way to the park.

  The sun was just coming up, painting the eastern sky a light shade of pale yellow, trimmed in darker shades of blue. Probably the weather change the weatherman had predicted. She glanced at her wristwatch, timing her run so as not to be late for work, then jogged across one more intersection before she moved into the park.

  The air smelled damp. Moisture that had collected on the leaves overnight was dripping onto the sidewalk beneath her feet, making the surface a little bit slick. She adjusted her stride accordingly.

  A pair of squirrels scampered from beneath a bench and up the nearest tree, scolding her as she jogged past. A half-dozen pigeons that had been perched on a statue took flight, as well, while a few others continued to feed on day-old popcorn they’d discovered beneath some shrubs.

  January saw them, but her thoughts were focused on the upcoming day and, even more importantly, on the date she had that night with Ben North.

  She saw a pair of men jogging in the distance, and a policeman on horseback riding parallel to her own route. His presence made her feel safer.

  As soon as the thought went through her mind, she felt off-kilter. She hadn’t known she was uneasy until the thought of feeling safer surfaced. She reminded herself that it was broad daylight. There was no reason to assume she wasn’t safe.

  She glanced again at her watch, then continued to follow the path that took her back to her apartment.

  Sweat was running down the middle of her back now. The muscles in her legs were burning, and there was a stitch in her side—a reminder that she was definitely out of shape and needed to run more often.

  Less than a hundred yards from the exit, a park employee stepped out from behind some trees and almost ran into her. He dropped the hedge clippers he was carrying as he grabbed her to keep her upright.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, miss,” he said quickly. “I didn’t see you coming. Are you all right?”

  January was shaking.

  “Yes, I’m fine. I didn’t see you, either.”

  “Well, if you’re sure you’re okay, I’ll be on my way,” he said.

  “Yes…sure…I’m okay.”

  He picked up his clippers and hurried on down the path, leaving in his wake a thought that made the skin at the back of her neck crawl. The Sinner had been watching her. In the park, on the streets, even at the homeless shelter. He’d as much as told her he’d seen her there talking to Mother Mary Theresa.

  January turned abruptly, assuring herself that the park worker was moving away, then did a slow three-sixty, making sure there was no one else hiding in the bushes, waiting to grab her when she wasn’t looking.

  She shoved a shaky hand up to her forehead and smoothed a few straggling hairs away from her face, then took a deep breath. Nothing she could see led her to believe she should be concerned. She began to move toward home, telling herself it was fine. But the longer she walked, the more certain she became that she was being watched. She was less than five minutes from her apartment when she began to run, and she didn’t slow down until she’d locked her front door behind her.

  She still didn’t know whether to keep quiet about what she knew, or tell Ben, as she’d promised. One thing was for sure, when he found out, there was every possibility that he would come to the same conclusion she had.

  The street preacher—the Sinner, the man who believed he was Jesus—was stalking her.

  But why?

  She moved to her bedroom, then stopped in front of the mirror.

  Her features were marked by her Latino heritage—something she’d always been proud of. Her dark hair and eyes were almost black, like her father’s. But her ful
l lips and straight nose came from her mother, as did her laugh. She’d always been proud of herself for overcoming a lot of obstacles related to her sex and her ethnicity. But right now she was wishing with all there was in her that she was some ordinary Caucasian with blond hair and blue eyes and a name like Susie Smith. Only a few people in the business knew her real name, but if the Sinner was one of them, she was in big trouble.

  With an angry jerk, she turned away from the mirror, stripping off her clothes as she went. She showered quickly, dressed for the office and headed for the door. Halfway across the living room, she stopped. Her hands were shaking, her fingers curled into fists. She stood for a few long moments, then turned around and went back into her bedroom and opened her closet. She took down a lock box, got the key from the inside the toe of one of her winter boots, then opened up the box.

  The gun inside was a semiautomatic, pewter-gray with a full clip lying beside it. She picked up both, loaded the gun, dropped it into her shoulder purse and put the box back on the shelf. It had been at least a year since she’d fired it, but she hadn’t forgotten how. If she had to, she would use it.

  The added weight of her purse was a comfort as she left her apartment and started down the stairs. Suddenly she stopped, remembering something a cop had once told her about a murder victim. It had to do with predictability. The cop had told her that if the man hadn’t been such a creature of habit, his enemies wouldn’t have known how to get to him so easily.

  She retraced her steps and rode the elevator down instead. If it meant taking a different way to work each day, she was willing. She would do anything it took to stay alive.

  As for telling Ben that she, too, remembered where she’d seen the man, she would think about it today and probably tell him tonight.

  Probably.

  Jay had been sitting in his cab in the alley behind January’s apartment when she’d come running from the park. He’d seen her looking over her shoulder before she’d gone into the building. She acted as if she was afraid. He didn’t like the thought of her being afraid. He thought about calling her at work today, just to hear her voice, then changed his mind. His obsession with her seemed out of sequence with what he was trying to accomplish, but he was drawn to her and didn’t know why. His second chance for redemption was growing shorter by the day, and he had much to do before he felt ready.