by Sharon Sala
When she reached the taxi, she opened the door. The man was a stranger to her. She felt for a pulse at the base of his neck and breathed a sigh of relief when she felt a steady thump. She put a hand on his forehead, then gently pushed him back. His head lolled sideways against the headrest.
Then he moaned.
“Sir. Sir. What’s your name? Can you tell me your name?”
“Jay Carpenter.”
Mother Mary T. grabbed Joseph by the arm.
“Joseph, I need you to go to the shelter and tell Sister Sarah to call 911.”
“Is he dead?” Joseph asked.
“No. Now hurry! Go!”
The man was slow, both in body and mind, but he could follow simple instructions. Confident that he could do what she asked, she turned her attention back to the cab driver, who, to her relief, was beginning to come around.
“Mr. Carpenter. Can you hear me?”
Jay nodded, trying to focus on the sound of her voice. He knew it. He’d been hearing it in his dreams for months.
“Mother…Mother Mary…is it you?”
Mother Mary T. frowned. She’d never seen him, but he seemed to know her.
“Yes, I’m Mother Mary Theresa. Can you tell me what’s wrong? Are you ill? Do you hurt?”
Jay shook his head, trying to clear his mind. He needed to do something, but he couldn’t remember what.
“Mr. Carpenter, can you hear me?”
Jay nodded.
“Just rest, and don’t worry. There’s an ambulance on the way.”
“No, no ambulance,” he mumbled, and turned toward the sound of her voice.
“It’s you,” he said, as he opened his eyes.
Mother Mary T. frowned. “Do we know each other?”
Jay grabbed her wrist.
“Mother…will you pray with me?”
She tried to pull free, but his grip was surprisingly firm.
“Yes, of course I will,” she said. “But you need to let me go first.”
Jay nodded, but he didn’t let her go. Instead, he managed to slide out of the cab, then open the back door.
“You…sit there,” he said, and shoved her toward the back seat.
“I don’t need to sit,” she said. “Just let me—”
“You sit!” he said, this time more forcefully.
Mother Mary Theresa stumbled, then fell headfirst into the seat. As she was trying to get up, she was being pushed farther inside.
“Stop! Stop! Let me up! Help!”
The door slammed on her cries for help. The driver climbed behind the wheel. Just as she reached for the handle, she heard a distinct click.
The door wouldn’t open, and, to her horror, the driver was shutting and locking a glass panel between the front and back seats.
She began to beat on the window, begging to be let out, but no one seemed to notice her predicament.
She turned to the driver, pounding on the safety window. She saw him look up into the rearview mirror.
Their gazes met.
It was then she realized that she knew him, after all.
He’d cut his hair and shaved off his beard, and he’d given up his style of dress for something more contemporary, but it was the preacher. She would know those cold, soulless eyes anywhere. She’d found the man January was looking for, but feared it wasn’t going to matter.
He started the motor.
She heard a soft hissing sound and then nothing at all.
January finished the taped piece only minutes before airtime. Her assistant hand-carried it to the producer, who was in the production booth muttering beneath his breath. He glared, took the tape and shut the door in the assistant’s face.
January breathed a sigh of relief and then reached for her coffee cup, intent on a quick pick-me-up, when her cell phone rang.
It was Ben.
“Hey,” she said. “Don’t tell me you’re going to renege on our date. I’m counting on you for my sustenance, among other things.”
She expected him to laugh—at the least chuckle. She got neither.
“January…honey…”
Her stomach knotted.
“What’s wrong?”
“Your friend Mother Mary Theresa was kidnapped about two hours ago. She was last seen with a cab driver who appeared to be ill. She sent someone inside to call 911. By the time the message was delivered, she was gone, and so were the cab and driver.”
“Oh God, oh God…no. Please, not her.”
“I’m so sorry, honey. It appears he’s begun taking women now. The captain is leaning toward the theory that he knew Jude was a woman after all.”
“No. No. It’s not that,” January said, and then started to cry. “He has all his disciples, now he’s moved on to family. It’s obvious, Ben. Her name is Mother Mary, therefore she must be Mary, the mother.”
“Well, damn,” Ben muttered. “We should have seen that.”
“You haven’t lived with this theory as long as I have.”
“Rick and I are going to the shelter.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“Yeah, okay, but drive safe.”
January dropped her cell phone into her pocket, set her coffee cup back on her desk and grabbed her purse.
“Hey! Where are you going?” her assistant asked.
“I just got a tip on a story I’ve been working on. I’ll let you in on it later.”
“The boss isn’t going to like this.”
“Trust me, when I break this story, it will be worth more to him than pure gold.”
Eighteen
January didn’t remember a moment of the drive through the streets of D.C. She kept going through a thousand scenarios that the little nun might have experienced, and none of them were good.
They still had no idea what was happening to the victims who were being kidnapped, and the very thought of the tiny old woman coming to harm at the hands of the Sinner made her physically sick. By the time she reached the shelter, she was in tears.
She pulled into the parking lot in a skid. Two uniformed patrolmen turned abruptly. One put his hand on his service revolver as they both started toward her.
Ben heard the screech of tires and knew before he turned around that it was January. He could only imagine how upset she must be, and stopped the patrolmen before they reached her.
“I’ve got this one,” he said quickly, and started toward her at a jog.
January slammed the car into Park and killed the engine. She was already out of the car and running before she saw Ben, and when she did, she ran straight into his arms.
“Oh, Ben, tell me there’s been a mistake. Please tell me that she’s been found.”
“I’m sorry, honey, but it’s no mistake.”
“Damn it. Damn it to hell,” she said, and pulled out of Ben’s embrace. With tears still on her face, she curled her fingers into fists. “Tell me,” she demanded. “Tell me what you know.”
“Come with me,” he said. “We’re interviewing the only witness right now.”
January followed Ben back to where the police had gathered. She recognized Captain Borger, as well as Rick Meeks. A couple of uniformed officers were standing beside a patrol car. She didn’t know either of them.
The witness had his back to her, but when she came closer, she quickly realized it was Joseph.
The officers gave her a “What are you doing here?” look, which she ignored. She eyed the captain and decided that practicing a little decorum would be in order.
“Captain Borger.”
He nodded, then gave Ben a glance that was less than pleased.
It set her teeth on edge, and decorum went out the window.
“You might as well save that look for someone you can intimidate,” she snapped. “I’m not here for the story. I’m here because of Mother Mary Theresa. I think I involved her in this when I began trying to find this man, and I know why he took her.”
“Look, Miss DeLena, we appreciate your position,” Bor
ger said. “But we have no definite proof that she was a victim of this preacher of yours. Besides that, this is a police matter and—”
“And you wouldn’t know shit if it wasn’t for me. So do we continue to trade verbal barbs over who’s got the biggest balls, or do we act like the grown-ups we are and find Mother Mary T. before she winds up like Scofield?”
Borger wanted to be mad, but he liked her style.
“Okay, Miss DeLena. You win. Your balls are the biggest. Now what can you tell us that we don’t already know?”
She fired back with a question of her own. “What have you learned from Joseph?”
Borger’s eyes widened.
“You know this man?” he asked, as he pointed to their witness.
“Of course,” she said. “I’ve done volunteer work here for years. I know all the regulars. Besides, Joseph lives here, don’t you, Joey?”
Joseph recognized January and clapped his hands. “Jannie…it’s Jannie. Did you bring me a surprise?”
January moved past the police and gave Joseph a hug.
“Hi, honey. No, I didn’t come with a surprise today. I came to help find Mother Mary T.”
Joseph’s expression crumpled. His small, almond-shaped eyes filled with tears as he covered his face with his hands.
“Can’t find my Mother Mary. Mother Mary reads to me. Who’s gonna read me stories?”
January’s heart went out to him. Truth was, she was about as scared as Joseph. She just couldn’t show it.
“Let’s go sit down on the bench, okay? You can tell me what happened.”
January led him to a bench. They sat down, still holding hands.
“Now, honey, you know how proud I am of you, and how smart Mother Mary T. says you are. So I need you to tell me what happened.”
Tears had puddled in the fat wrinkles at the corners of Joseph’s eyes, and there was a little stream of snot at the edge of his upper lip.
January looked up at Ben. “May I have your handkerchief?”
He handed it over.
“Thanks,” she said, dabbing at Joseph’s eyes, then his nose, then handing him the handkerchief. “You may keep this. Ben won’t mind.”
Joseph smiled at Ben, then folded it in his hands.
“Now, let’s talk about the man, okay, honey?” January said.
Joseph smiled again. If January said things were okay, then it was good enough for him.
“Man was sick. Mother Mary say go tell Sister Sarah to call 911. I didn’t find Sister Sarah. I look, and I look, and I didn’t find her.”
January stifled a groan, wondering how much precious time had been lost that might have been spent in hunting Mother Mary Theresa.
“So then what did you do?” January asked.
“I go to office. I can call 911. I will call 911, but Sister Ruth say no. I say Mother Mary tell me to find Sister Sarah. Sister Ruth tell me not to use the phone. I cry.”
At that point, he started to cry again.
January put her arms around him and rocked him where they sat.
“It’s okay, honey. It’s not your fault.”
“I cry now,” he said.
“And it’s still okay,” January said.
“Look, we’re not going to get anything from him,” Borger said.
“For Pete’s sake, you can wait a few minutes, okay?” January said. “You don’t have anything else. At least give him a chance.” Then she took the handkerchief and dabbed at Joseph’s tears again.
Finally his sobs subsided. With his head on January’s shoulder, she began questioning him again.
“Okay, honey, where was Mother Mary T. when you saw her last?”
Joseph stood up and pointed to the loading zone.
“What was she doing?”
“Talking to the man.”
“What did she say to him?” January asked.
“She say, ‘What your name? What your name?’”
“Did he tell her?” January asked.
“Yes.”
January’s hopes rose. “What did he say his name was?”
Joseph frowned. The longer he sat there, the more confused he became. He started rocking back and forth, hitting his knee with his fist and then crying some more.
“It’s all right,” January said. “Let’s think. Jannie will help you think. Is that okay?”
“Yes. Yes. Jannie will help.”
January’s thoughts were racing. She needed another way to trigger Joseph’s memories. Finally she thought of the sketches.
“Ben, do you have those sketches with you?”
“Yes,” he said.
“I’ll get them,” Rick offered, and ran toward the car, returning quickly. “Here they are.”
January smoothed out the three pictures, then laid them down on the ground in front of Joseph.
“Now, Joseph, I need you to look at these pictures for me, okay?”
“Okay,” he said, and leaned over.
“Do you see the man who took Mother Mary T.?”
“Yes.”
“Show me,” January said, expecting him to point to one of the pictures in which the preacher had a beard and long hair. To her surprise, he pointed to the clean-shaven one. “Are you sure?” she asked.
Joseph nodded.
“What color were his clothes?” she asked.
“He had a green shirt. I like green.”
“I do, too, honey. Now tell me something else. When Mother Mary T. asked this man his name, what did he say?”
“He is the blue bird. He makes houses for the birds.”
“Hell on wheels,” Borger muttered. “I’m going back to the precinct. Call me if you have any news.”
Ben had been silent, allowing January to do the talking because Joseph knew her. But he was beginning to follow January’s line of thought. Coming at the same questions from different angles seemed to help her connect with the man’s simple thought processes.
“Which blue bird, Joseph?” Ben asked. “Can you show me?”
Joseph nodded, then took Ben by the hand and led him to the back of the shelter to a bench beneath some trees. He pointed up into the branches.
“That bird. See. His name is the bird.”
As Joseph pointed, a large blue jay dropped from a branch down to the ground, pecked at a bug, then took off with it in its beak.
“That’s a blue jay,” Ben said.
“Yes, yes,” Joseph said. “Jay. He say Jay. His name makes houses.”
“Who makes houses?” Rick muttered.
Ben began running through words, hoping they’d get a hit. “Builders…contractors…”
Then January offered a name. “How about carpenter? Joseph…did he say carpenter?”
“Yes. He say carpenter. That’s what he say.”
January was elated. She hugged Joseph warmly, then turned to Borger.
“You’ve got a face, and now, thanks to Joseph, you’ve got a name. Do something with it and let me know what you find out.”
Rick picked up the sketches.
Borger grimaced, but apologized. “Again, it seems we have to thank you.”
“I don’t need thanks,” January said. “I just need you to find my friend.”
“We’ll run this name and face through the computer and see if we get a hit,” Ben said.
“I’m going to take Joseph inside,” January said.
Ben hesitated. He wanted to stay, but he needed to get to work on the new information.
“Call me when you get home, okay?” he asked.
“You call me if you get a hit,” she countered.
Ben nodded, then followed Rick to the car.
Within a few minutes, the police were gone. January was inside with Joseph, helping him make peace with Sister Sarah and Sister Ruth, while Jay was trying to make peace with his mother.
Mother Mary Theresa awakened to find herself in what appeared to be a filthy room in some derelict building. The cot she was lying on was dusty but appeared to be
new. Not one thing was familiar, except the man who was sitting at the foot of her cot. She recognized the cab driver.
“Mr. Carpenter, isn’t it?”
Jay frowned. Her calmness was unnerving, as was the fact that she’d called him by name. He didn’t remember that he’d told her, so her knowledge seemed to confirm his belief that she must be divine.
“Mother…how do you know the name by which men call your son?”
She didn’t get his meaning.
“I have no son,” she said.
Jay reeled as if he’d been slapped. This wasn’t right. She was supposed to call him son and help him through his last days. Angry and confused, he stood up, then stumbled as he moved to the head of the cot. His ears were ringing, and there was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He put his hands over his ears to shut out the rejection of her words.
Mother Mary T. swung her legs to the edge of the cot and sat up. The room was spinning. She grabbed hold of the bed to steady the world.
“Please, you need to let me go,” she said. “I’m not well.”
“Shut up,” he said. “You don’t talk to me now.”
Mother Mary Theresa was afraid. She had no inkling of what he wanted with her, or what he might do. She wanted to panic, but then there would be two of them flying out of control, and that wouldn’t do.
She closed her eyes, and as she did, she pictured the Virgin Mary at the altar in her room, and the thought gave her peace. This man had told her not to talk, which suited her fine. She didn’t have to talk to him, but she could still talk to God.
She bowed her head, clasped her hands together in her lap, then closed her eyes and began to pray quietly.
Jay saw her, and warmth flowed over him. This was what he needed. This was what she was meant to do. She was in prayer for her son, whose last days on earth were swiftly dwindling.
Relieved, he sat down on the side of the cot and closed his own eyes. He wanted the blessing of her prayers, but to his horror, he realized she wasn’t praying for him, she was praying for herself—praying to be delivered from this hell.
He jumped up from the cot, then slapped her hard on the face.
She fell backward, knocking her head against the wall. The solid thunk of her skull against the wall should have concerned him, but he was too out of control to think.
