The Chosen

by Sharon Sala

  It was the last one Rick would have guessed to be female.

  “You’re kidding,” he mumbled.

  “No. I told you she looks like a guy. That’s why I’m worried. You know how people hate queers.”

  “She looks pretty tough to me,” Rick said.

  “I guess, but we bleed just like everyone else, you know.”

  “We?” Rick said.

  Her chin rose just a fraction. “Yeah. We.”

  Rick eyed her curiously. She didn’t look queer, but what did he know?

  “Come on,” he said. “I want you to talk to my partner.”

  “Why?” she said.

  “Just because.”

  She shrugged. It was a better reason than most people gave her.

  “Whatever. I just want someone to help me find my friend.”

  Seventeen

  Rick found Ben coming out of Captain Borger’s office and waved him over to the desk. As he went, Ben took note of the tiny woman Rick was escorting. Her hair was streaked with pink and purple. Her clothes were brief, tight and revealing. But nothing was more revealing than her eyes. They were large, blue and shimmering with tears. Her chin was trembling, as was her lower lip. Whatever was going on in her life had obviously knocked her for a loop.

  Rick had her by the elbow, guiding her to a chair, when Ben got to the desk.

  “Mitzi, this is my partner, Ben North.”

  Ben nodded cordially, then looked at Rick. “What’s up?”

  “Not sure,” Rick said. “But it might be something to do with our preacher.”

  Ben arched an eyebrow but remained noncommittal as he sat down beside her. Rick took the chair on the opposite side of the desk. As soon as they were settled, Rick pointed to Mitzi.

  “This lady has a friend who’s gone missing. Three days now, you said. Isn’t that right?”

  Mitzi nodded.

  Ben knew immediately where Rick was going, and cut to the chase. “What’s his name?” Ben asked.

  “It’s not a he, it’s a she,” Mitzi said.

  Ben frowned, then looked at Rick. “Come on, Rick. You know this doesn’t—”

  “Maybe…maybe not. Hear us out.”

  Ben leaned back, waiting for them to make their case.

  “The missing friend goes by the name of Jude, right, Mitzi?”

  She nodded.

  Ben’s interest sharpened. As far as he knew, the preacher hadn’t taken a Judas. Maybe Rick was on to something after all.

  “Now tell my partner what you told me about Jude’s appearance,” Rick said.

  Mitzi’s eyes pooled and overflowed. “We’re always being misjudged,” she whispered.

  “I don’t get it,” Ben said.

  “Mitzi is a dancer at the Club Lesbo. Jude is one of the bouncers,” Rick said; then he turned to Mitzi. “Tell Ben what Jude looks like. If you wanted Ben to find her in a crowd, what would he need to look for?”

  “Okay.” Then she sighed. “She’s really big, you know? Like way over six feet tall, with a body like a guy who’s a bodybuilder. You can’t see her boobs or anything for the muscles in her chest. And, uh…her hair…she wears it buzzed, and she has barbed wire tattoos. One around her neck like a necklace, and one on each arm, up here.” She grabbed her own arms at the biceps. “Oh, and, uh…she wears a piece of barbed wire in her ear for an earring. She’s really good to me, but Jude doesn’t look like a woman. Doesn’t walk like a woman. Doesn’t talk like a woman, and she never misses work. Never does the disappearing act with a new lover like some. Something has happened to her. I just know it, but I can’t make anybody listen.”

  Ben eyed Rick with respect.

  “Okay, partner, I get where you’re going with this, and it’s not a bad guess.” He looked back at Mitzi. “I don’t suppose you’d have a picture of your friend?”

  Mitzi nodded.

  “I do. I already showed your partner. It was taken just this past year on New Year’s Eve. This is Jude at the far right.”

  Ben’s mouth dropped. He knew he was staring, but he couldn’t seem to stop.

  “That’s a woman?”

  Mitzi nodded.

  “Now do you see what I mean?” Rick asked.

  “Take her in to the captain. I’m going to give January a call. She was going to talk to her friend, the nun who helps run the Sisters of Mercy shelter. Maybe she can verify this, or maybe they’ve heard of another Jude being snatched, in which case we need to get Mitzi here up to missing persons.”

  Mitzi looked confused.

  “But I thought this was the place to report missing persons.”

  “No, ma’am. This is homicide,” Ben said.

  Mitzi gasped and then started to cry. “Do you already know something about Jude?”

  Ben touched her shoulder in a comforting gesture.

  “No, we don’t, and I’m sorry I led you to believe that. However, there is a possibility that if your friend Jude has truly gone missing, she might be the victim of a serial kidnapper.”

  “But why would you think that?” Mitzi asked.

  Ben hesitated briefly. “Because she fits the profile. We don’t know this, and we have nothing to base our suspicions on other than theory, okay?” Then he held up the picture. “Do you mind if we keep this? I’ll make sure you get it back.”

  “No, it’s okay. I have others,” Mitzi said. “So what do I do?”

  “Give Detective Meeks your address and any phone numbers where you can be reached. We’ll be in touch.”

  “Yes, all right,” she said.

  “I’ll take her in to the captain,” Rick said.

  “And I’m going to call January.”

  January was on the scene of a house fire, doing an interview with a mother who’d gotten herself and her baby out of the house by using her husband’s mountain climbing equipment. She’d fastened her infant into her baby carrier, then lowered it and the child into the flower garden below. Then she’d used a second set of ropes, with one end fastened to their king-size bed, to lower herself out the window. A ten-year-old neighbor across the street, who had been home with the flu, was the one who’d called 911, then caught the whole thing on tape.

  January had already interviewed the boy, who was the hero of the hour, and she was wrapping up an interview with the mother as she and the baby were being examined by the paramedics. With the tape of the rescue in her purse and the footage with the mother just finished, she had another big scoop for the six-o’clock news.

  She pointed to her cameraman.

  “Okay, Hank, that’s a wrap.” Then she turned to the mother. “You know something, Jessica? I’m so thankful you and your baby are okay, and I hope if I’m ever faced with danger, that I’m as brave and coolheaded as you were today.”

  The woman was teary-eyed but remarkably calm as she cradled her infant in her arms.

  “I never used to be,” she said, then looked down at her daughter, who’d fallen asleep in her arms. “But when you have someone else you love more than your own life, it’s amazing what you can do.”

  January touched the baby’s hair, then brushed a fingertip over her tiny hand.

  “I completely understand,” she said, then added, “This will air on the six-o’clock and eleven-o’clock news.”

  “Hey, January,” Hank said. “I’m ready when you are.”

  “Okay,” she said, and then waved goodbye. “Take care. We’ll be in touch.”

  She started across the street and was dodging fire hoses and water puddles on her way to the news van when her cell phone rang. She jammed her hand into her purse to grab it, and answered on the move.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, honey. Can you talk?”

  January broke into a smile. “Hey, yourself, and yes, I can. What’s up?”

  “I was wondering…have you and your little nun friend come up with any more missing men?”

  January’s smile disappeared.

  “No. Why?”

  “Well, we
just had a missing person complaint come into the precinct that might fit, only there’s a twist.”

  “What’s the missing person’s name, and what’s the twist?”

  “Jude…but it’s a woman.”

  January sighed. “Not possible,” she said.

  “Wait a minute,” Ben said. “Let me explain.”

  “Honey, there’s no way our preacher can make that work for him,” she said.

  “What if he didn’t know Jude was a woman?”

  Now he had January’s attention.

  “How could he not?” she asked.

  “We’ve got a missing person who’s well over six feet tall, built like a bodybuilder, no visible signs of femininity, butch haircut, barbed wire tattoos, barbed wire earring, pretty damn scary-looking character. In fact, I’m staring at her picture right now, and I would never have guessed it was a woman.”

  “Really?”

  “Really,” Ben said.

  “What does this Jude do?”

  “She’s a bouncer at Club Lesbo.”

  “Okay. I’m with you,” January said. “How long has she been missing?”

  “Three days, and according to her friend who made the report, it’s one hundred percent not in her behavior to pull a disappearing act. So do you agree it’s a possibility?”

  “Given all that, then I have to say yes.”

  “That’s what Rick and I think, too.”

  “You know what this means, then, don’t you?”

  “What are you getting at?” Ben asked.

  “If he has all his disciples, and if he’s experiencing some kind of mental or physical breakdown, he may be moving toward some kind of climax.”

  “Climax? Like what?” Ben asked. “What the hell comes next…crucifixion?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Well, crap,” Ben muttered.

  “And if that follows,” January said, “you have to consider what happened to Judas in the Bible. This preacher has beheaded his own John the Baptist, killed his Bartholomew for being the wrong one, and God knows what else that we don’t know about. What we do know is that Judas hanged himself. If the preacher feels the need to recreate that, as well, I can guarantee you that your missing Jude is going to get some help in making that happen.”

  There was a long silence, followed by a muffled curse.

  “You’re being careful, aren’t you, honey?” Ben asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Will you do something for me?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Call your Mother Mary Theresa again and talk to her. See if she’s heard anything new.”

  “Okay.”

  “And let me know what she says.”

  “Okay.”

  “I love you, baby,” Ben said.

  January exhaled softly. “I love you, too.”

  “See you tonight?”

  “Yes,” she said. “But it will be late. I don’t get off until after the eleven-o’clock news.”

  “That works for me. I’ll bring supper.”

  She grinned. “Fabulous.”

  “Anything in particular you want to eat?”

  “Surprise me,” she said.

  “Okay. See you later,” Ben said, and hung up.

  January disconnected, then dropped her cell phone back in her purse and hurried toward the van. She slid into the passenger seat and grinned at her cameraman.

  “Okay, Hank, let’s get this show on the road. I’m going to need at least an hour to edit the tape and do any necessary voice-overs.”

  “So…buckle up,” Hank said, and put the van into gear.

  Jay was on the way to the Lincoln Memorial with a back seat full of blue-haired women, all over the age of seventy. They’d been arguing with each other for the past fifteen minutes over the merits of water soluble fiber as opposed to getting it naturally through food. He now knew more than he’d ever wanted to know about intestinal gas. As a means of changing the subject, when they stopped at a red light, Jay cleared his throat and then raised his voice so as to be heard above their voices.

  “Ladies…ladies.”

  The silence that came was so welcome that for a moment he considered saying nothing, but then he figured they would just resume their conversation, and he viewed this as an opportunity to witness for the Lord.

  “Ladies,” he repeated. “Do you know the Lord?”

  One of the four cupped her ear and said, “Eh? What did he say?”

  “He asked if we knew Gerald Ford.”

  Jay frowned. “No, I said—”

  The little lady in the middle held up both her hands.

  “No, he didn’t,” she said. “He asked if we were getting bored.” Then she leaned forward and patted the back of the front seat. “We’re just fine, young man,” she said. “How long before we get there?”

  Jay frowned. He didn’t like being thwarted, but they weren’t arguing with him. They just couldn’t hear.

  “About five minutes…maybe ten, depending on the traffic.”

  “What did he say?” the first one asked.

  “He said we were too graphic. I told you it was rude to talk about constipation.”

  “No, he didn’t,” the one in the middle said. “He said—”

  The light turned green. Jay stomped on the accelerator, which ended the conversation. He took every shortcut he knew to get to the memorial and was nothing but relieved when he let them out.

  He kept telling himself that the fares he was earning were worth any kind of hassle if the money kept his people fed and helped him finish his quest. To say he was disappointed with what was happening with his followers would be putting it mildly. They’d been apathetic, even refusing to eat.

  And then there was Judas. He’d been the biggest disappointment of all. The man was vicious, and if Jay had known a way, he would have taken him back. His threats and curses were actually frightening. As it was, Jay was stuck with having to feed him to keep him quiet.

  It was after three o’clock and he had yet to eat lunch himself. He drove away from the three blue-haired ladies, thinking about food with fiber and trying not to think about the confusion he’d somehow created on his way to heaven.

  He drove for twenty minutes, passing up several different fares trying to flag him down, just to get to a café he knew that served chicken-fried steaks like he used to get in Dallas. It was strange how nostalgic he had become. Food used to hold no interest for him at all, other than as a means to feed the engine of his body. Now he caught himself remembering cookies his mother used to make, and the smell of turkey roasting on Thanksgiving. To his horror, he had to struggle against the urge to cry.

  He was dying. Food had no purpose where he would be going. Maybe that was why he was trying to get as much as he could of his favorite things before it was too late.

  That was why he was going to Joe’s Diner.

  It was an inconspicuous name for an inconspicuous place. But it was the food that drew the customers, who came back time after time for the Southern-fried specialties.

  Jay saw the sign from half a block away. His stomach growled in anticipation of the meal he planned to order. The turn signal was on and he was moving into the center lane to turn left when the pain hit. It was like getting struck in the back of the head with a baseball bat, then having the responsibility of holding his skull together with both hands.

  He stomped on the brakes and somehow managed to put the cab into Park before his leg went numb. All the feeling had disappeared from his face and right arm, and he wondered if he was having a stroke.

  God…no…please, not like this.

  Tires burned rubber. Horns honked. Brakes screeched. There was one fender bender because someone was following the car in front too close, but it was little more than bouncing bumpers. Both drivers leaned out their windows, cursed each other in languages other than English, and then drove away before someone could suggest calling a cop.

  A bicycle messenger pedaled up beside J
ay’s window and stopped.

  “Hey, mister, are you all right?” he asked.

  The light was so bright in Jay’s eyes that he thought for sure he was dying. It wasn’t until the pain began to subside that he realized it wasn’t the bright light of heaven he’d been seeing. He’d been staring into the sun.

  His lips were still numb as he put the cab into gear and eased back into traffic. Food was forgotten in his need to get to the warehouse and lie down. That was all he wanted. Just a place to lie down.

  He been driving for at least half an hour when he realized he was half a block away from the Sisters of Mercy shelter, not the warehouse. He pulled into a place reserved for loading and unloading, put the engine in Park, and then dropped his head down on the steering wheel. He didn’t think about why he was there. All he knew was that it was a safe place to be.

  Mother Mary Theresa didn’t feel well. She hadn’t felt well all day, but today was a special day for Joseph Callum, one of her most devoted volunteers. Joseph had been thirty-two when he’d come to the shelter with his aging mother. At that time, they’d been homeless for three years. His mother, worn-out from living on the street and her years of tending to a son born with Down syndrome, died at the shelter on their fifth night there. After her burial, Joseph stayed on, partly because Mother Mary T. knew he had nowhere else to go, and partly because Joseph expected his mother to come back and get him.

  Eight years later he was still there, and today was his fortieth birthday. She’d promised him a birthday cake, and she wasn’t going back on her promise.

  The cake had been baked at the convent kitchen. Mother Mary T. had iced it at the shelter. Now all she had left to do was write Happy Birthday Joseph on the icing, stick in a couple of candles for him to blow out, and it would be done.

  She was on the last word when Joseph himself came running into the kitchen.

  “Mother Mary, Mother Mary, you need to come. Someone is sick.”

  She dropped the tube of colored icing, wiped her hands on a dish towel and hurried outside.

  “Where, Joseph? Show me,” she said.

  Joseph pointed to the loading zone. At first she only saw the cab; then she realized someone was slumped over the steering wheel.