The Chosen (15 page)

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 full 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.

As soon as January was safely inside, Jay pulled out of the alley and drove away. A few blocks later, he turned down a busy street and went to work. There was money to be made and more disciples to bring home to the fold.

I
t began to rain just after sunrise. The sound was deafening on the warehouse roof. Every time it thundered, Matthew grabbed handfuls of his hair and wailed.

Simon Peters sat with his back to the wall as if in a coma. His pants were urine stained, and the smell of feces was so strong within the chamber that men less hardened than these would have been unable to breathe without gagging.

For once, Andy wasn't happy. Not even the act of playing with himself could alleviate his fear. Thunder rattled what windows were left in the outer shell of the warehouse. Even the rats seemed uneasy about the storm and moved about without caution, seeking better shelter than what they had.

Tom Gerlich was holding on to sanity by nothing but willpower. His army surplus clothing had been ragged to start with, but he'd been semi-clean. Now he reeked like a soldier who'd been weeks in the jungle without a bath or a change of clothes. Being chained with these men was too reminiscent of being caged with his fellow soldiers in a Vietnamese prison camp.

The man who called himself Jimbo appeared to be in shock. He kept staring at the others as someone might stare at animals in a zoo. It was almost as if he couldn't believe that he was there.

And then there was John. He hadn't stopped cursing since he'd come to and discovered he was chained to the wall.

Tom watched the door intently, waiting for their captor to come back. He knew the man was crazy, but was hoping he could find a chink in the man's insane reasoning that could give them an edge. If they only knew why they'd been brought here, it might help him find a way to get them out.

It thundered again, this time so loud it made Tom's ears ring. He winced, cursing softly beneath his breath at the panic that swept through him. It had been years since he'd felt this helpless, and he hated it.

Then he looked up.

The cab driver was standing in the doorway.

“Good morning, my children,” Jay said.

Tom could see the man's mouth moving, but because of the noise from the storm, couldn't hear whatever he said next.

“Why are we here?” Tom shouted.

Jay ignored him, choosing instead to put small sacks of food and water near each man while taking care not to get too close.

Jim grabbed the sack of food and water, but also hit Jay with a request.

“Hey, man, I don't know what you're playin' at here, but I gotta use the facilities.”

Jim could have been mute for all the good it did. The cab driver didn't even look at him.

John Marino was twenty-six years old. He'd been on his own for more than ten years and prided himself on being a survivor, but this was beyond anything he'd ever experienced. He didn't know what was going to happen, but it couldn't be good. The nutcase who'd done this was walking around dressed up in costume. And what was his deal? He wanted them to eat but didn't care if they shit their pants?

“Yeah, so do I,” John said.

“We must suffer in small ways to do good in other ways,” Jay said.

Tom Gerlich slapped the wall so hard that the furnace vibrated.

“We?
We?
Where the fuck do you get ‘we' from? You're not chained up like some animal, sleeping in your own shit, and wondering when someone might decide to show up and kill you.”

Jay turned on the man, pointing angrily.

“Again you doubt me, Thomas. And again I tell you that I am about doing my Father's work.”

“Your father? Who was he, the Marquis de Sade?”

“You do not belittle the name of God Almighty!” Jay screamed.

Gerlich stared.

“You're serious? You actually believe that you're the Son of God?”

If Jay had had anything to throw, he would have thrown it, straight at his doubting Thomas's face.

“I never said I was His son. I never said that, and you can't make me say it! You're bad. You're bad. Maybe I made a mistake with you like I made a mistake with Bart. Maybe I need to replace you, too!”

Simon stood up and yanked at his chains. “Replace all of us!”

“Yes!” others shouted. “Replace us, too.”

Lightning cracked somewhere nearby, followed by one long continuous roll of thunder. It passed, leaving Jay shaking with rage. Before he could speak, a pain so sharp that his head felt sliced in two pierced his right eye. He grabbed at his face as he dropped to his knees.

“Shut up! Shut up!” he screamed. “This is your fault. It's all your fault!”

“Replace me,” Tom kept shouting, as he yanked and rattled his chains. “Let me go! Let me go, too!”

Jay staggered to his feet with the heel of his hand pressed hard into his eye.

“I didn't let him go, you stupid bastard! He's dead! He's dead! He was the wrong one! Are you the wrong one, too? Are you, Thomas? Are you the wrong one, too?”

Gerlich shuddered. He'd opened a can of worms that he didn't know how to contain. But before he could say anything, the big black man began to cry.

“Andy's scared,” he whimpered, and cupped his hands over his ears. “The sky is loud. I don't like loud.”

Jay shuddered as the pain began to subside.

“Neither do I,” he said. “Neither do I. Please, you don't understand. I need you. I need all of you to make this work.”

Simon Peters had been one of the first to be kidnapped. He had no home, no friends and no money. He, more than anyone there, wanted to understand why he'd been taken.

“Why?” he asked. “Why us? Help us understand.”

Jay shoved his hands through his hair, then twisted his fingers in the long locks and pulled. In a sick way, the pain in his scalp alleviated the pain inside his head. He was tired—so tired. Tired of trying to make amends. Tired of trying to make sense of things that were all mixed up in his head.

Finally he straightened, combed his fingers through his hair and beard in an effort to maintain some control, and then lifted his chin. His words rang out in strong, sonorous tones.

“I'm dying.”

Simon Peters rattled the chains on his ankles.

“So the fuck what? Are you planning on taking us with you?”

Jay spun, facing Simon angrily. “No. No. The first time I died, I went to hell. I'm trying to make amends. Can't you see? Don't you understand? Why doesn't anybody understand? I'm trying to live like Jesus. I'm trying to live the perfect life.”

Simon was dumbfounded. “By kidnapping? By killing?”

Jay started to shout, but the sound came out like a scream. “Why, Lord, why? Why can't they understand?”

He began waving his hands above his head as if he were batting away flying missiles. Spittle was running from the corner of his mouth, and his eyes wouldn't focus.

Then suddenly he stopped and his body stilled, his hands high above his head. For a few moments he didn't speak; then he turned his palms up to the heavens.

“By living as He lived…with His disciples, preaching to the masses. I will be saved.
I will be saved.
”

Tom Gerlich shuddered, then swallowed around a knot in his throat.
Disciples? He's gathering disciples?
Then it hit him. He stared at the other men chained to the inside of the blast furnace and thought about their names. There was his fellow vet, Matthew. And his own name was Thomas, of course. And the others. The horror of what he was thinking was too incredible to be true.

“You.” He pointed to Simon. “You're Simon.”

“Simon Peters.”

Tom groaned in fear and went on reciting the other men's names.

“Andy.”

“John.”

“James.”

“Jimbo—James, too.”

His eyes narrowed as he spoke the names aloud, more to himself than to them. “Simon whom He also called Peter, Andrew, John, James, Matthew, a second James, and Thomas.” Seven of the twelve disciples. Then he amended the count. At one time there had been eight. Bart. Bartholomew. Only he'd been the wrong one.

Tom felt sick to his stomach. “Okay, men, there's a lesson in here for all of us. We are well and truly fucked.”

 

It was raining when Ben got to January's apartment. Despite what she'd said, he brought his favorite CD and a dozen brownies from his neighborhood bakery.

He knocked, then sniffed appreciatively as the scent of something warm and spicy wafted out into the hall. Before he could identify the smell, the door opened.

She was wearing gray slacks and a silky blue off-the-shoulders blouse. Her hair was hanging loose around her face and neck, and her arms and feet were bare. Ben stifled a groan.

“You look beautiful,” he said softly.

“And hello to you, too,” January said. “I hope you brought your appetite. I got carried away with the food.”

“I brought Willie Nelson and a dozen brownies. Will that suffice?”

January grinned. “Yes, and oh, yes,” she said, then took him by the hand and pulled him inside.

She locked the door as he handed her the brownies, then pulled off his jacket. She started to hang it in the coat closet when he stopped her.

“Wait. Don't forget Willie,” he said, and slipped the CD out of the pocket.

She hung up the coat and then laid the CD near the stereo, beside some others she'd chosen.

“Something sure smells good,” he said.

“The best Mexican food this side of Tijuana,” she said.

He didn't bother to hide his surprise and delight.

“Mexican! Lady, you are a witch for sure. It's my favorite food.”

January smiled. “Mine, too.”

He sniffed again, this time identifying some of the aromas.

“I'm smelling warm tortillas and fajitas. What kind?”

“Beef and chicken. I also have quesadillas, chips and salsa and a pitcher of margaritas.”

“You must have cooked all day.”

“Tia's Taco Tavern did. I don't cook, remember?”

He grinned. “And I don't dance, so let's eat. At least we know we can do that right.”

“You pour us a couple of margaritas while I set out the food. The glasses are chilling in the freezer.”

He took a chip and dunked it into the bowl of salsa sitting on the dining table, then popped it into his mouth before he got the glasses from the freezer. With a careful hand, he filled them to within an inch of their salty brims, then carried them to the table.

January had transferred the food from the takeout containers to bowls and platters, and set the table with her favorite yellow stoneware.

Ben eyed the spread, appreciating the ambiance she'd created. “Honey, you might not cook, but you dish up just fine.”

January beamed. “I hope you're hungry,” she said.

“For you…always.”

January's smile slipped. The look in his eyes was hotter than the spicy food on the table. She wasn't sure how to respond.

He grinned, then winked and eased the moment by pulling out her chair.

She sat, shivering slightly as he leaned down and kissed the bare skin behind her ear before sitting across from her.

Without missing a beat, he took another chip and dunked it in the bowl of salsa between them.

“Open wide,” he said, and popped it in her mouth.

She rolled her eyes as she chewed.

“Good old Tia,” Ben said, and grabbed one for himself.

And so it began. The time went as fast as the food that had been on the table. Before Ben knew it, January was pouring coffee and bringing brownies to the table.

“I'm so full I shouldn't be eating this,” she said, as she took a big bite of one of the brownies he'd brought.

“We'll dance it off,” Ben said.

“Ah yes, the dance lesson,” January said, as she licked the chocolate off her fingers. “I need to put on some shoes.”

“You have any combat boots?” Ben asked.

“You can't be that bad,” she said.

“Yeah, well, we'll see what you say about that later.”

“Are you finished?” she asked, rising.

He wiggled his eyebrows and blasted her with a dark, pretend leer.

“With you…never.”

This time, she laughed.

“You know something, Detective? You could be dangerous.” Then her expression changed. “Speaking of dangerous, have you had any luck finding our man?”

“The street preacher? Unfortunately no. But the whole department is on it. Street cops, vice, homicide…they're all carrying pictures. We took Brady Mitchell's sketch and compared it to the man in the film clip. It's the same guy, all right. We made copies of his close-up and distributed it with the sketch, as well. If he's spotted, there will be no mistaking him.”