The Chosen (3 page)

There was a long moment of silence in which they stared at each other in disbelief. Then, without saying a word, January picked up her tote bag and disappeared.

By the time Ben came to his senses and walked out from behind the hedge, the news van was driving away.

“That did not happen,” he muttered, and then headed back toward the crime scene to finish his job.

 

Someone honked a horn.

January reacted with a jerk as she was thrust back into the here and now. Her fingers tightened around the steering wheel as Ben passed beyond the glare of her headlights. Still she watched him, eyeing his rain-slicked hair and the weary set of his shoulders, and wondered where he'd been when he'd gotten the call to come out. Had he been wrapped in some sweet woman's arms, or had he been sleeping alone? Even though she watched him until he disappeared into the shadows, there were no answers to satisfy her curiosity.

Finally the traffic cleared and she was able to get home. As she pulled into the parking lot at her apartment building, she saw that all the spaces in front of the place were taken. That meant driving behind the building, which she hated. The security lights were few and far between, and the parking was allocated between a half-dozen Dumpsters. When she circled the place and realized the only vacant spot was right beside an overflowing trash bin, she stifled a curse.

She parked and got out, her nose wrinkling in disgust from the odor. Ignoring the rain that persistently fell, she sidestepped some garbage that had fallen out onto the concrete, then made a run for the back door.

As she ran, it occurred to her that the parking lot in this upscale neighborhood didn't smell all that different from the area of the city Marjorie Culver called home. But that was where the similarities ended.

Letting herself in with a passkey, January breathed a sigh of relief as the security door locked firmly behind her.

The hallway was wide and well-lit, and led directly to the elevators in the front lobby. The faint scent of pizza emanating from someone's apartment reminded her that she'd skipped dinner, and made her wish she'd had the foresight to pick up some takeout on the way home.

Still, when she finally let herself into her home, food was the last thing on her mind. She locked the door and then began undressing as she walked through the rooms, leaving a trail of sodden clothes on her way to the bathroom. Despite the mild June weather, the rain had chilled her all the way through. The warm jets of water from the shower felt like liquid silk on her skin. She stayed until the chill was gone from her body, then got out and dried quickly. By then, her limbs were starting to shake. She crawled into bed, remembered to set the alarm, and pulled the covers up around her shoulders as her head hit the pillow. Within seconds, she was asleep.

 

Benjamin North was a fifteen-year veteran of the D.C. police force. He'd seen his share of blood and gore, and had become callous to most of it. But there were times, like tonight, when he wished to hell and back that he'd stayed in Montana on the family ranch, like his father had wanted. Tonight, he would rather be facing a mountain lion barehanded than have to tell the parents of the young woman who'd been found dead on the side of the highway that she'd been beaten to death before being set on fire. And the only reason they knew this for a fact was that the boy who'd been with her was still alive—barely—to tell the tale.

He glanced back at the scene of the crime one more time, giving away none of the emotions he was feeling as the crime scene investigators began packing up their things. The coroner had come and gone, taking what was left of Molly O'Hara with him. The ambulance that had sped off earlier was racing against time to get Molly's boyfriend into surgery before he bled out on the rain-soaked thoroughfare.

Ben shuddered, then angrily shoved his fingers through his hair, combing the wet strands back from his face as he glanced around for Rick Meeks, his partner. Meeks was still interrogating two passersby, who'd been the ones to call 911. When Rick looked up, Ben waved him over. Moments later, Rick made a quick dash through the rain to their car.

“What's up?” he asked.

“We've got an ID on the dead girl,” Ben said. “The boy's parents have been notified and are en route to the hospital where he's being taken.”

“Does she have any next of kin?” Rick asked.

Ben nodded. “Mother and father about thirty minutes from here. We have the go-see.”

His partner grimaced. “Damn, I hate this part of the job.”

Ben nodded in agreement. “I do, too, so let's get this over with.”

They got in the car without speaking. Ben rechecked the name and address the injured boy had given him, then made a U-turn in the street. It was two forty-five in the morning, and he still had to break a mother's heart before he could go home.

 

Jay Carpenter braked for a red light. Out of habit, he glanced up into the rearview mirror, checking the traffic behind him. Between the rain and the time of night, the streets were almost deserted. His gaze slid from the view through his back window to the reflection of himself in the mirror. His appearance was completely different from the way he'd looked after being released from the hospital. His resurrection had changed his focus in life. He neither looked nor behaved the same way he had before.

The Off Duty sign on his yellow cab was lit up, but it didn't stop two hookers on the opposite corner of the intersection from hailing him. Their clothes were plastered to their bodies and the overabundant makeup they were wearing was running down their faces like wet paint. Even though he was bone-tired and wanting nothing but a warm bed, when the light turned green, he drove through the intersection and then pulled to the curb and picked them up.

His nose wrinkled as they piled in the back seat. Despite the makeup and clothes they were wearing, they couldn't have been more than twenty. One of them had a black eye. He could tell because part of the makeup she'd put on to hide the bruising had washed off in the rain. The other one was shaking—obviously in need of a fix—and they both smelled like stale cigarettes and sex.

“Thanks a bunch,” Black-eye said.

“Yeah, thanks,” Druggie echoed.

“God bless you,” Jay said.

They both seemed startled that his accent was so obviously American. His long ponytail and full beard gave him a foreign appearance.

“Yeah, sure, thanks,” Black-eye said, then rolled her eyes at her friend and stifled a giggle.

“Where to?” Jay asked.

Druggie gave him an address. Jay pulled away from the curb without turning on the meter. Both girls noticed it and then shrugged.

Jay saw the byplay but chose to ignore it.

“Do you know Jesus?” he asked.

Black-eye looked as if he'd just spat in her face, but Druggie laughed aloud.

“Yeah, I think I gave him a blow job last week.”

Black-eye frowned.

“Shut up, Dee-Dee. That isn't funny.”

Druggie, who he now knew as Dee-Dee, shrugged and lit up a cigarette.

“Oh, screw you, Phyl. Don't get uptight with me,” Dee-Dee said.

Phyl unconsciously stroked the purple-and-black bruise beneath her eye, then turned and stared out the window without answering.

Jay wondered what she was thinking and then wondered how they'd come to this place in their life. He felt sad for them, remembering his own downfall and how fortunate he was that he'd been given a second chance to rectify his sins.

He stopped for another red light, although there wasn't another car in sight.

“Come on, mister. We're beat,” Dee-Dee said. “No one's coming. Drive through.”

“The laws of God weren't made to be broken,” he said softly.

Dee-Dee snorted. “God didn't have anything to do with traffic lights.”

“God is everywhere,” Jay answered.

“Crap, mister. What are you…some Jesus freak?”

“I've been to hell. I don't want to go back,” he said.

“Yeah, well, we live in hell, so step on the gas and get me there fast. I've had enough of your shit.”

“I'll pray for you,” Jay said a few minutes later, as he pulled up to the curb of the address they'd given him, and stopped. “Go with God,” Jay added.

“Whatever,” Dee-Dee said, and slid out of the back seat.

But the girl with the black eye wasn't as callous.

“Thanks a lot,” she said, then added, “Dee-Dee didn't mean anything by what she said. She's just had a hard time in life.”

Jay eyed the purple-hued bruise on her face.

“Go home,” he said.

“We're already there,” Phyl said.

“No. Not here. Go back where you came from.”

This time, she was the one who laughed in his face.

“So my mother's old man can fuck me for free again? I don't think so. At least out here I get paid.”

She slammed the door and dashed through the rain into the apartment building.

Jay sat for a moment, listening to the rain hitting the windshield. As he sat, pain suddenly struck behind his right eye. It was so sharp and so unexpected that he grabbed his face in reflex, as if it had been dealt a blow. He doubled over the steering wheel, wondering if he would draw another breath. Slowly, slowly, the pain subsided and he was able to look up. When he did, his sight was blurred, and for a moment he feared he was going blind; then he realized it was only rain obliterating the view.

He was struck with an overwhelming sadness. So it had begun. The doctors had warned him it would. Panic hit him like a fist to the gut. He had hoped for more time. He wasn't ready.

Then he reminded himself that he wasn't the one in charge. So what if he wasn't ready? That didn't mean he couldn't get that way fast. Satisfied that it wasn't too late, he put the car in gear and slowly drove away.

Even after he got home to his one-room apartment, he felt a sense of urgency. Memories of the symptoms of his previous illness began pushing at the back of his mind. So far these symptoms weren't as severe, but he felt off-kilter. What if he didn't live long enough to offset the sins of his previous lifestyle? He'd been preaching and trying to do good to his fellow man, but now he felt it wasn't going to be enough. The panic that ensued left him weak and shaking. He didn't want to go to hell.

“God help me. What do I do?”

The answer came as a thought, soundless, quiet, but affirming.

Live as
I
lived.

J
anuary was getting ready for a live on-the-spot interview with a man who, only an hour earlier, had rescued a woman and child from the Potomac River. She glanced at her watch. In less than three minutes, they would be live on the air, but the hero of the moment was still throwing up, due to what he called an unfortunate side effect of stress.

“January, two minutes and counting,” Hank, the cameraman, said.

She glanced at the backside of the man puking in the bushes, and rolled her eyes.

“How are we doing?” she asked.

The man shuddered, then turned around.

“I'm sorry, Miss DeLena. This will pass, I promise you.”

“We're on the air in two minutes. Is there anything I can get you that might help settle your stomach?”

He shrugged, then wiped a shaky hand across his face.

“Sometimes something salty helps.”

January grinned, tossed her microphone to Hank and raced to the news van for her purse. Moments later she was back, carrying a pack of salted nuts. She tore into the pack and shook a couple into the man's hands.

“I don't know if I'd be eating anything just yet if I were you, so why don't you just suck the salt off of them and then spit them out?” she suggested.

“Yeah, right,” he said, and shakily popped the nuts into his mouth.

To January's relief, the salt began to work. By the time they went on air, the hero of the moment was standing steady beside her, recounting the events. As soon as the interview was over, January thanked the man and followed Hank to the van.

“Good job, January,” Hank said.

“Thanks, Hank, same to you.”

“Hell of a thing he did, jumping into the river like that.”

“Yes, and not once, but twice. First the child, then the mother.”

Hank nodded. “Yeah, and he says he can't swim.”

January slid into the seat and dropped her bag onto the floor.

“Fear does strange things to people,” he stated.

January leaned back in the seat as her thoughts slid elsewhere.

“And sometimes fear makes people do strange things,” she muttered. “Let's go, okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” Hank said.

 

It was just after three in the afternoon, and the first time Ben and Rick had a chance to eat some lunch. They'd stopped at a little place called Jerry's Java, but not for the coffee. The coffee sucked, but the burgers were good.

Rick pointed to the television mounted on the wall above the diner counter.

“Hey, North, get a load of this.”

Ben was reaching for the salt when he looked up. His gaze landed on the woman's face hogging most of the screen, and for a moment, he forgot to breathe.

There was a tiny bead of sweat at the corner of her right eyebrow. When the camera pulled back, revealing the slender curve of her neck, and the red jacket and scarf she was wearing, his jaw went slack. Ketchup ran out of the bun he was holding, then down through his fingers onto his plate as he exhaled with a sigh.

It was January DeLena with one of her famous on-the-spot interviews—nothing he hadn't seen a dozen times before. Only that didn't change the sudden ache in his gut. He wanted her. As much as he had the first time he'd kissed her, and as much as he did every night when he went to bed. There was no denying the lust. But that was all it was—lust. No way would a self-respecting cop get mixed up with a news hog. Too many cases had been screwed up because the media had released information before it was time. Their “the public has a right to know” claims were a pain in the butt to a hardworking cop trying to crack a case, and she was no exception, although, to be fair, he couldn't remember any specific time when she'd personally screwed up a case of his. Still, she was a journalist, which made her part of the problem.

He glanced around the diner, hoping that no one else had seen him gawking like a lovesick teenager. Satisfied that everyone was too busy eating to pay any attention to him, he forgot the salt and took another bite of his burger before allowing himself a second glance.

Damn, she looked hot. Her eyes were the color of dark chocolate, and that mouth of hers was enough to make a man lose his mind. Her lips were full and pouting, her mouth just wide enough to allow a man a most indecent sexual fantasy.

He groaned.

Rick glanced at him. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just bit the inside of my mouth,” Ben said. It was a lie, but it was better than admitting the truth.

Rick nodded, then pointed to the French fries on Ben's plate.

“You gonna eat all those?”

“Yes,” Ben said, without taking his eyes from the screen.

Rick shrugged, gave the fries a last longing look, then waved down the waitress behind the counter and ordered a piece of pie.

When January's interview was over, the show cut back to the news anchor. At that point Ben lost interest and settled down to finish his food before Rick ate it off his plate. But the news bulletins weren't over. Rick pointed to the TV again, this time laughing.

“Check out the nutcase.”

Ben glanced back up at the screen. It showed a man in some sort of costume. From what he could tell, he appeared to be one of those religious zealots. What was funny, though, was that he was preaching on the steps of the IRS building.

“What's with the robe and sandals?” Ben asked.

“Who knows?” Rick muttered, then signaled the waitress, who was hurrying past them with a carafe of fresh coffee. “Hey, honey, put some ice cream on that pie of mine, will you?”

“Yeah, sure. Give me a sec,” she said, and hurried away.

Ben spied Jerry, the owner of Jerry's Java, and pointed to the television.

“Jerry, would you turn up the volume?” he asked.

Jerry picked up a remote from behind the counter and aimed it at the television.

“…seemed bent on casting out the money changers.” The news anchor turned to his co-anchor and grinned. “I'm certainly not advocating this kind of behavior, but I have to admit that every April 15, I get the same feeling.”

“Sounds like the man needs to see a shrink,” Rick said.

“Don't we all?” Ben muttered, and dug into his fries.

 

January was at her desk working on a story for the ten-o'clock news when her phone rang. She answered it absently, still focused on ending the sentence she'd been typing, but her attention shifted when her caller spoke.

“I've been told that you're looking for me.”

January's fingers froze on the keyboard. She glanced up and then around, checking to make sure someone wasn't playing a joke. Everything seemed on the up and up.

“Who is this?” she asked.

“Just a sinner trying to right his wrongs.”

January's heart skipped a beat. Sinner? Was this the man who called himself the Sinner? The man who claimed he'd been to hell?

“Are you the preacher who calls himself the Sinner?”

“I'm not a preacher, and everyone is a sinner. It's what we do to rectify our sins that matters.”

“Did you really have a near-death experience?” January asked.

“No.”

Excitement fizzled. “So you didn't have a near—”

“It wasn't
near
death. It
was
death, and it was hell,” he said.

Excitement resurrected, she said, “Oh! Would you consider—”

“Why are you looking for me?” he asked.

“That's what I've been trying to say. I want to interview you.”

“Why?”

“Well…because it would be—”

“A good story?”

Her excitement shifted to her voice. “Yes, but also one that would be meaningful. Think of the people who might change their ways because of what you experienced…what you saw. So, what do you say?”

“No.”

January frowned. “Why not?”

“Jesus didn't present himself to the world in that manner, so neither will I.”

January sighed. “Are you one of those WWJD people?”

“I'm not familiar with that term. What does WWJD mean?”

January picked up a pen. “It means What Would Jesus Do? The letters WWJD have become synonymous with a certain group of young people who advocate abstinence from drugs, sex and all sorts of sinful behaviors.”

There was a long moment of silence, then January heard a tremor in his voice.

“If I'd belonged to something like that, maybe I wouldn't be in the place I am today.”

“Then reconsider,” January begged. “I can make you famous. Think of all the good you could do…the number of people you could reach with your message. What do you say?”

“I say that's
your
agenda, Miss DeLena, not
mine.
My agenda is already in place and moving forward.”

January's interest shifted. “Agenda? What agenda might that be?”

“My agenda is your story,” the man said.

January's fingers tightened on the receiver.

“Then tell me what it is! What is your agenda? What are you talking about?”

“He told me…live as I lived. So I am.”

“Who told you?”

“Jesus Christ, my lord and savior.”

The line went dead in her ear. January slammed the phone down in disgust, then pulled her notebook from the back of the desk drawer. She wanted to get down every word he'd said before she forgot them. Her hands were shaking as she wrote. She didn't know what he was talking about, but she was determined to find out.

She finished her story and turned it in just under deadline. As soon as she could, she headed out of the studio and back to the streets. There was a story in this, she could feel it.

One week later

In a city full of lawmakers, it stood to reason that there would also be a part of the city allotted to law
breakers.
In the old days, it had been called the red-light district; now, some just considered it a good place to get lost.

It was there, on a street corner, that a tall, bearded man who called himself Brother John stood on a milk crate and held audience to a small crowd. Even though he was being heckled constantly, his message became no less fervent. His clothing was a mishmash of Hindi and African, but his Cajun accent, red hair and beard, and light-colored eyes marked him as a man with Louisiana roots.

“It's not too late to know the Lord,” he promised. “Any day now, He'll be coming back! Do you want to be left behind? Listen to me, now. Jesus is coming. Jesus is coming!”

“By land or by sea?” someone yelled.

The heckler didn't faze him. He just raised his voice a little louder.

 

Jay was transfixed by the preacher on the street corner. As a convert to the Lord, he'd been watching this man for several months now, knowing that when it became necessary, Brother John would play a vital part in helping Jay get to glory. It was all so perfect—as if God Himself was guiding Jay's every move.

When Brother John raised his voice, Jay moved closer, drawn by the passion in his voice and the look in his eyes. It was fervor. He knew it well. It burned within him, too.

When Jay was so close that he could see blue veins bulging on the backs of the man's hands, he lifted his head, his nostrils flaring.

Brother John's gaze settled on Jay, and as it did, the preacher stuttered, suddenly racked by the same kind of fear that had dogged his steps through four years in Vietnam. Then he shook off the thought as being foolish, and focused his attention on the man standing at his feet.

“Welcome, brother,” John said.

Jay started to smile.

Brother John's belly knotted. He knew as well as he knew his own name that he was in the presence of evil.

“Who are you?” he whispered.

Jay Carpenter held out his hand. “I'm the man you've been waiting for.”

 

Rick Meeks had already commented that it was a piss-poor night for working a homicide. Ben hadn't argued, although he was of the opinion that it was the victim who should have had the right to complain. A dead man was a dead man, but the added indignity of being beheaded seemed, to Ben, a large case of overkill.

He squatted down beside Fran Morrow, waiting for her to bag whatever it was she had picked off the forehead of the victim. She was pushing sixty, a tad on the skinny side and cranky as hell, but she was one of the best crime scene investigators in the city.

“Hey, Fran, how long you think he's been dead?”

“Ever since someone lopped off his head,” she snapped.