Chosen (4 page)

Agent Francesca Angelica Theresa Manzetti sat at her desk reviewing her open cases. All three of them. She wondered (not for the first time) if all the aggravation and frustration she’d gone through was worth it. Defying her parents, getting a bachelor’s degree in Criminal Justice from Walden University, landing a prestigious job with the Federal Bureau of Investigations, then putting up with all the male bullshit—for what? To be handed all the
schlock
cases?

She glared at the phone as it shrilled on her desk then picked up the receiver. “FBI, Agent Manzetti. How may I help you?”

“Agent Manzetti, this is Captain Eric Bridger of the San José PD, 21st Precinct.” He hesitated for minute. Then, “We’ve been given what appears to be a solid lead in the Amanda Forrester kidnapping.”

Frannie felt a rush of adrenaline. The man assigned to the case, Tom MacAllister, was a
putz
who still thought armpit noises were funny. Wrapped up in a nice red ribbon, Bridger was handing her what might be the
oomph
her career needed.

Frannie got more excited as she scribbled down all the information. Not only did she get the exact location where the kid was being held, but also the names and addresses of the informants. Here was a kidnapping case handed to her on a silver platter along with a crystal-ball gazer and a cleric!

She hung up and grinned. She was not going to turn this over to MacAllister. And she was
not
going to tell Craig Osterman, her chauvinistic boss, until she had corroborated all the information and choreographed the rescue. Osterman might reprimand her for stealing the case from MacAllister, but if it went well, all he was really interested in is if it made him look good. Of course, if she screwed up, he’d let her swing by her neck all alone. She was confident, however, that she would not only nail the abductor, but maybe even expose the informants as frauds or disillusioned accomplices. Frannie didn’t buy that crap about a religious experience and getting into Amanda’s head—that manure was for the movies. Happy days, she was on her way up!

Frannie called the Bureau in Reno, Nevada, the city where Bridger’s people had found Mr. Italy’s Pizza Palace near the airport. Within minutes, the seedy hotel across the street from the restaurant was surrounded. Tiptoeing up the stairs to the second floor with guns drawn, the Reno agents crept down the hallway to the last room whose windows faced the street. It was registered to a Billy Kramer and daughter, former residents of California. The half-wit answered the knock at the door, was thrown to the floor and handcuffed without any shots fired.

Amanda was more frightened than hurt. Whisked away to the Reno Airport and strapped into a seat on a jet, she was brought triumphantly back home, her parents being notified en route. It was a great photo opportunity, the federal agent transferring the child to her father’s arms, everyone smiling and sniveling.

Step One
, thought Frannie, an exultant grin spreading across her face when she was notified that everything had gone as slick as a waxed surfboard.
Now I go after the witch and her familiar
.

Michael led Mariah to a tiny room off his office which had nothing in it but a cot, its sole purpose to allow him a quick nap when necessary. Asking for the window to be opened, Mariah collapsed onto the cot and kicked off her shoes. By the time he pulled the quilt over her, she was asleep.

He assumed that she was going to sleep for quite a while, so he finished a few chores and left the church at eight, leaving her a note with his home phone number and instructions on how to get out of the locked building without setting off the alarm. He spent the remainder of the evening with his wife discussing what had happened.

Abigail was not only his wife but his best friend and closest confidant. They had known each other since the sixth grade when her family had moved into his neighborhood. An immediate friendship began, even though his friends had tormented him about having a girlfriend.

She was sharp and insightful and as devout as he. Michael was grateful that she not only accepted his many late nights at the church, but also provided moral support and assistance to the parishioners.

She now listened, spellbound. Abigail remembered meeting Mariah at a monthly dinner held to welcome new members into the church. A fervent believer in miracles, she accepted God’s will without question.

It was difficult for Michael to describe the initial sensation of his spirit flowing into Mariah, followed by the trance in which he experienced unprecedented peace, and then the wondrous
Joining
of their souls. If Abigail felt a twinge of jealousy at this unimaginable closeness she would never share with her husband, she kept it to herself. Not for the first time since it happened, Michael bowed his head, his humble words of thanks inadequate, yet all he had.

He was not surprised when he arrived at his office the next morning and found Mariah still asleep. The quilt he had drawn over her last night was tucked under her chin, but now her feet were bare. She must have gotten up during the night (probably to use the restroom) and removed her socks before lying back down on the cot.

He stared at her for several minutes, the first time he recalled seeing her face in repose. He remembered thinking when they first met that she looked younger than thirty years old. Now in sleep, she looked no more than in her early twenties. Dark auburn hair framed her oval-shaped face, and long black eyelashes rested fan-like on her cheeks. Her lips were parted as she softly snored.

Michael eased the door shut. He smiled when he realized that Mariah Carpenter reminded him of his long-dead sister, Dorrie; her spirit, her quick smile, her shyness in the face of others she felt more accomplished than she. Dorrie had died of leukemia when he was twelve.

He shook himself out of his reverie and found an address book in Mariah’s purse. Calling her manager’s office, he assured the gentleman that Mariah wasn’t ill; she had just been through an ordeal the previous evening. Michael promised she would call when she awoke.

He sat in his worn leather chair, his fingers steepled, elbows on the armrests, eyes gazing out the window at the blue sky that heralded another lovely day in San José. Even though he had been physically and emotionally depleted the previous evening, he felt invigorated.

More than that. The bursitis in his left shoulder was gone.

The pain had been a constant reminder of a bad hit taken during a varsity soccer game between Queen Mary College and their traditional rival, King’s College. Years later, the bursa became inflamed, plaguing him, especially first thing in the morning. This morning however, as he began his socket-limbering exercises, the normal sharp twinges were gone.

Michael knew he was going to have one hellacious time keeping his mind on his daily activities. His thoughts strayed to the extraordinary healing of his shoulder and to the Hebrew words she had spoken. He was sure she was the reason behind this extraordinary healing.

When he heard the door from the hideout open around nine o’clock, he looked up to see Mariah emerge, yawning. He straightened, having been hunched over his desk in a vain attempt to rewrite his Sunday sermon. She approached; grinning, she said, “So what’s on the agenda for today?”

He began to chuckle and the two of them laughed hysterically. The comment hadn’t been that funny; however, it was more a release of tension that made them howl until tears streamed down their faces and their sides hurt.

Michael caught his breath in a hiccup and said, “Amanda’s been found, my dear. The FBI called me at home, plus it was in the newspaper headlines this morning. Just where you said she’d be! No one was hurt during the rescue, and she was brought back to California last night.

“Oh, by the way, I called your manager and told him you were rather tired after a trying ordeal last night, and you’d call him when you woke.”

Trying ordeal
. She smiled at the understatement, delighted at the safe return of Amanda Forrester. She called her boss to assure him she was fine but still pretty tired, so would stay home for the rest of the day.

Instead of leaving, she sat down in the guest chair next to Michael’s desk and, for several minutes, stared at the wall. Then she yawned and said, “I’ve got to go home, shower, get out of these sweaty clothes and get something to eat—I’m starving. I feel lots better than I have in days, but I need more sleep.”

Yet she made no move to leave, her upper lip caught by the lower one. She was desperate to believe his explanation: that the
Visitation
was a miracle from God. “I spent years denying the Lord’s existence, believing that religion was an escape for weak-minded people who couldn’t face reality without a crutch. My disbelief was aided by the exposure of religious charlatans. But finding Amanda Forrester ... have all my values, based on logic and common sense, been shattered?” Her expression changed from bewilderment to anger. “Was everything I accepted as the truth now a lie?”

Seeing the confusion and fear in her eyes, Michael wanted to reach out and comfort her, sympathetic to her distress. The phone rang, startling them both. “Yes, Ada, what can I do for you?” Michael asked his secretary. Listening, he frowned, his gaze shifting to Mariah.

“Not necessary, she’s here with me ... can’t it wait until she’s more rested?” He sighed. “No, I suppose they’re right, or at least they’re following procedure. Tell them she needs about twenty minutes to powder her nose.” Michael hung up, his tone an attempt at reassurance. “Two agents from the FBI are downstairs requesting an interview with me. They were pleased when they discovered you were still here. I tried to put them off—she nodded, having heard his end of the conversation—but they insist on talking to you before you leave.

“Off to the washroom and take your time,” he said. “I’m going to find some food for you. They can jolly well let you eat while we talk.”

“This is going to be a dilly, trying to explain to them how I knew where Amanda was.” Mariah sighed. “What kind of odds are you giving they think I had something to do with it?”

With a shake of her head, she grabbed her purse from the couch where she threw it last night, and left the room. Michael rose, stretched the kinks out of his back, and headed for Ada’s office.

She stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, trying to find visible signs of change. Her face looked pretty much the same: maybe a little weary, her eyes sticky from having slept in contact lenses, hair messy from being smushed against the pillow. But nothing to mark what happened. What did she expect—lights blazing from her eyes? A halo around her head, proclaiming her divinity? She chuckled. If she had seen gleaming eyes or a bright halo, she’d be looking for Rod Serling.

Mariah combed her hair and continued to inspect her face in the mirror. Not paying attention, she set the comb down too near the edge of the sink. It balanced for a second, and slid off. Catching the movement out of the corner of her eye, she made a grab for it and straightened quickly with the comb in her hand.

Her image in the mirror frowned at her.
Where was that old familiar pain that felt like electric shocks running down her left thigh?

When Mariah was a teenager, an orthopedic surgeon had cut a piece of bone from her hip and fused it to the misaligned disks in her lower lumbar spine, thus alleviating the pain in her leg caused by a pinched nerve. The procedure had to be repeated three years later because the fusion had dissolved, her body identifying and destroying something out of place. (Naturally, Rachel said. If it was going to happen to anyone...) Years later, she experienced pain in her knee which proved to be referred pain from the advanced arthritis in the disks above the fusion. There was nothing that could be done apart from cutting her open and cleaning out the arthritis, so to avoid additional surgery, she did muscle-strengthening back exercises, kept her weight under control, and tried to avoid any motion that would set it off. Like the one she just did to retrieve the comb.

Perplexed, she decided to repeat what just happened. Holding her breath, she let the comb fall, reached down to grab it, and straightened up.

No pain. Nothing. Not even a twinge
.

Her reflection looked confused then frightened. There was no doubt in her mind that this was related to having found Amanda. There could be no other explanation. It could not be a coincidence.

To take her mind off it, she thought about the upcoming confrontation with the FBI agents. They were not going to believe how she found Amanda—she barely believed it herself. Mariah Carpenter squared her shoulders and straightened to her full height of five feet four inches.
You, young lady, are not going to be intimidated by some civil servant whose salary, by the way, you pay with your taxes
. Satisfied that she looked as good as possible under the circumstances, she went back to Michael’s office.

Seeing a plastic container steaming on the end table beside the couch, Mariah plopped down with an appreciative smile at Michael
.
A glass of milk along with a dinner roll, a peach, a napkin, and a fork completed the setting. “Contributions from one grateful Mrs. Ada Morgan,” he said. “She made a tuna casserole two days ago and brought leftovers for lunch yesterday. She was most grateful to donate it, glad she didn’t have to eat it again.”

Reaching for the container, Mariah said, “Please thank Mrs. Morgan for me.” Her stomach growled in anticipation. “I’d have preferred a large piece of chocolate cake with chocolate frosting, but this will do just fine.”

Michael’s smile faded. Reaching for the telephone handset, he said, “I guess we’ve kept them waiting long enough. I’ll tell Betty to send them up.”

The words were barely spoken when there were three sharp raps on the door. They exchanged a look of surrender, she with an “oh, well” shrug, he with a conspiratorial wink. Opening the door he greeted the two federal agents who decided they had waited long enough.

Frannie Manzetti gave Michael a thorough but quick glance, her attention immediately drawn to the woman on the sofa, devouring something fishy-smelling from a plastic container. Turning back to Michael, she stuck out her hand and said, “Michael Jenkins?” When he nodded, she said, “I’m Agent Manzetti. This,”—indicating her associate—is Agent Harold Sapitnaski. We’d like to discuss the Amanda Forrester kidnapping.” She shook Michael’s extended hand, her grip firm, the shake abrupt. Sapitnaski extended his hand also, his shake more relaxed and friendly.

Frannie now turned all her attention to the woman on the couch. Mariah Carpenter appeared oblivious to them all as she sat chewing her food and staring out the window.

As Frannie walked toward her, Mariah turned her head, and their eyes met. Frannie gave her that don’t-even-think-about-lying-to-me glare which usually unnerved her prey, but she was caught off guard by the returned gaze. Honest and direct, those hazel eyes were lit with a hint of amusement
. Ok, she’s supposed to be intimidated, not entertained,
Frannie thought darkly. However, based on her track record of daunting interrogations, she was confident she could rattle this woman until her teeth loosened.

Mariah’s hair was matted and there were faint purple smudges under her eyes, proof of the sleep deprivation mentioned in the police report. Even so, Frannie recognized beauty. Not the surface kind associated with models and actresses, but a face that held warmth and intelligence, a face that would draw people’s eyes back for a second and third look. Obviously tired, Mariah still radiated a charismatic energy to which Frannie found herself involuntarily drawn.

She unexpectedly realized she was under scrutiny and smiled inwardly. She knew she came across as classically severe in the accepted FBI uniform for females. Her dark brown hair was pulled into a topknot, accentuating her angular face; her gray, man-tailored suit was set off by a deep red handkerchief in the breast pocket, and she wore a white silk blouse with just the top button undone.

The silence continued. Frannie was damned if she’d be the first to look away. She heard Sapitnaski clear his throat in an attempt to break the uncomfortable stalemate, but to no effect. It was the pastor who broke the tension by offering them chairs. She noted that he placed them facing Mariah to lessen the illusion of an inquisition.

Frannie thanked him, grateful for the interruption that allowed her to break eye contact first without losing face. She noted that Carpenter still watched her as she continued to eat. She would have been more at ease if her quarry had looked either apprehensive or belligerent.