The Chosen (6 page)

He saw her waving her arm, and the man shrugging and talking. Obviously he didn't talk fast enough, because January suddenly held up one hand in a motion that meant she'd heard enough; then she pivoted sharply and headed back toward Ben's table.

Ben stood. January flopped back down into the chair she'd just vacated and folded her arms across her chest.

“Oh, for goodness sake, sit down and finish your food,” she muttered.

Ben glared. He'd been trying to do that for some time now, but she wasn't making it easy.

“Thank you so much for permission to eat,” he muttered.

January sighed, then reached across the table and laid her hand on his arm.

“I'm sorry. I was just ticked. I hate people who are late. Even more, I hate myself for finally saying yes to a date with that creep only to have him pull this. I should have heeded my own warning signal and kept telling him no.”

Before Ben could comment, the waiter returned with her cheesecake and drink.

“Will there be anything else, Miss DeLena?” he asked.

“No, thank you,” she said, then picked up her fork and took a quick bite of the cheesecake, closing her eyes in ecstasy as she savored the flavor melting on her tongue.

Ben glanced down at what was left of his steak and indicated that the waiter could remove his plate.

“May I bring a dessert menu?” the waiter asked.

Ben eyed the look on January's face.

“I'll have what she's having…but with coffee.”

The waiter nodded and left, while Ben kept watching January's face. She couldn't have been any more turned on if she'd been having an orgasm.

“You're really into sweets, aren't you?” he asked.

“Ummm,” she moaned, then took another bite of the dessert. “So good,” she said, as the cheesecake slid past her tongue, then down her throat.

Ben cleared his throat. “I'll bet you are.”

January's eyes came open. “What did you say?”

Shit. He'd been made.

Somehow, he managed to keep a straight face. “I said…I'll skip the bar, meaning, I'm driving, so I won't be drinking.”

She frowned. His gaze never wavered. His mouth didn't twitch. Finally she decided she'd simply misunderstood.

“Yes, well, that's a good idea,” she muttered, and then toasted him with her drink before taking a quick sip. “I came by cab, and the margarita is delicious, too. It's too bad you can't—”

“Oh, I can,” Ben mumbled. “I just know better.”

Her frown deepened. “Are we talking about two different things here?”

The waiter came back, saving Ben from having to answer. He quickly dug into his dessert, skillfully shifting her focus by asking her why she'd decided to become a reporter.

“For the same reason you became a cop.”

“Oh, so now you know why I chose police work?” Ben asked.

“Do you like what you do?” she countered.

“Most days,” Ben admitted.

“You're good at it,” she said.

Ben didn't bother to hide his surprise.

“And you know that because…?”

“Did you get Brother John's real identity?” January asked.

Ben reeled from the change of subject, so fast that he answered before he thought.

“Yes.”

She nodded. “That's good. I'm glad I was able to help.”

“I'm not talking about this,” Ben said.

January smirked. “Well…actually, you already are, but don't worry. I'm not going to quote you or anything horrible like that.”

The cheesecake in Ben's stomach did a quick one-eighty. For a moment he was afraid it might come back up.

“Can I ask you one last thing?” she murmured.

“Maybe,” he said, ever cautious when it came to the media.

“Did he have any next of kin?”

“Who?”

She rolled her eyes.

“Brother John…the man who was murdered.”

“Yes, actually, he did.”

She nodded. “That's good. I think it would be sad to die without someone left behind to grieve. What was his name…his real name?”

“Jesus, lady. Don't you have someplace else to be?”

Her expression fell.

The moment he said it, Ben wished he could have taken it back, but it was too late.

“Look, Miss DeLena…January…I didn't mean that like it sounded. But damn it, you make me nervous, okay?”

She thought about that for a moment, took another drink of her margarita, then picked up her purse.

“You make me nervous, too, Benjamin North. One of these days we'll have to figure out a way to calm ourselves down, won't we?”

With that, she dug a handful of bills out of her purse and tossed them on the table.

He knew he was going to regret this, but it was no longer a secret. Next of kin had been notified. It was a matter of public record.

“His name was Jean Louis Baptiste.”

January's face went pale. She sat for a moment, then got up from the table and left the restaurant without looking back.

Ben was in over his head. He was so busy watching the sway of her hips beneath that tiny black dress that he never noticed she'd been afraid.

D
aylight was still at least an hour away when January woke up. She glanced at the clock, groaned, turned her pillow over to the cool side and tried to go back to sleep, but it was no use. Her mind had gone into gear the moment her eyes were open. She would never have believed that being stood up on a date would wind up being the best night of her life.

Benjamin North liked her, she was sure of it. He just didn't know it yet. It was unfortunate that their first off-work moment together had been spent with her dislodging a hunk of steak from his throat. Things like that tended to put men on the defensive. Traditionally, they were the ones who liked to do the rescuing.

A faint ding sounded from the kitchen, signaling that her coffeemaker had come on. She sat up on the side of the bed and then leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees as she noticed a tear in the lace on her nightgown. That was the story of her life. It appeared perfect, like the polish on her toenails, but there was always a little flaw just waiting to surface.

She glanced at the clock again, then looked out the window. The sky was clear, and she was too wide-awake to stay in bed. It wasn't often that she found time for a workout. Maybe a good run through the neighborhood would get the day off to a good start and reset her mental focus.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she pulled her hair up into a ponytail, dressed in jogging clothes, put on her favorite sneakers, and headed for the kitchen and the freshly brewing coffee. She drank it in front of the kitchen window, gauging the new light of day and the weather with a practiced eye, then pocketed sunglasses and her house key, and out the door she went.

Even at this time of the morning, traffic was brisk. She paused at the curb, waiting for a chance to cross, then, when the break came, jogged across the street. Once there, she did a few warm-up exercises. The sun was up now, just high enough above the horizon to be right in her eyes as she turned east. She put on the sunglasses, patted her pocket to make sure her house key was still there and took off.

The air was brisk with a bit of breeze. It ruffled the tiny wisps of January's hair around her temples and cooled the quick sheen of perspiration on her forehead as she ran. The jolt of her feet on the pavement matched the rhythm of her heartbeat, making her feel one with the world. She ran through the neighborhood, aiming for the small park up ahead. When she hit the footpath that wound beneath the trees, she kicked up her pace.

It was good to get away from the traffic and sidewalks, and get under the trees. If she squinted her eyes just right and focused on the limbs shading the running path, she could almost believe she was at her grandmother's home in Houston, Texas. Within moments, she'd let her mind wander back to a kinder, gentler time, remembering the gingerbread cookies her
abuela
made and going fishing with her daddy.

Lost in thought, she'd circled the running path twice before she became aware of passing time. She hadn't brought her watch but knew it must be time to head for home. She was at the point of turning back when a man walked out from between some bushes onto the footpath only feet in front of her.

“Look—”

It was all she had time to say before they collided. They went down in a tangle of arms and legs. January winced as her elbow scraped the ground, but the man's shoulder cushioned her forehead, preventing her from further injury. Embarrassed, she rolled off him and jumped up. He followed her up, touching her shoulders to steady her, then picking at leaves and grass on her clothes.

“I'm really sorry,” he said. “It's my fault. I wasn't paying attention to where I was walking. I didn't realize there was a jogging path here. Are you all right?”

January was hurting, but not badly. She touched a finger to the scrape on her elbow. It stung but was hardly life-threatening. Shakily, she brushed the loose hair away from her face and retightened her ponytail.

“Yes…I think so,” she said, for the first time getting a good look at the man.

He was tall and thin. His hair was long and pulled back at the nape of his neck into a ponytail. If it had been the seventies, he would have passed for a flower child. But it wasn't the seventies, and if she'd had to put a name to his appearance, except for his accent, she would have guessed he was from the Middle East. His shirt and pants were of the same soft white fabric, and the cut of the clothes was such that they moved with the motion of his body. His smile was somewhat hidden by his beard, but when her gaze moved from his beard to his eyes, she froze. She'd seen him before—but where?

The air stilled. January felt as if she was standing outside her own body, watching this moment take place. She could hear her own heartbeat loud in her ears, as well as the sharp chatter of a squirrel in a nearby tree. His eyes were so dark they appeared to be black. There were no visible signs of pupils or expression, just the feeling that there was nothing within.

No soul.

The thought came and went so quickly that it startled her. She took a defensive step backward and then wrapped her arms around herself as if a cold wind had just blown past.

As she watched, the man's smile widened.

“I know you,” he said softly. “You're that television reporter. You're January DeLena, aren't you?”

“Yes. Yes, I am, and I'm going to be late for work.”

“Of course,” the man said, and then closed his eyes, lifted his hands palms upward toward heaven and began speaking in a loud, sonorous voice. “Bless this woman, Father, for she does good in Your name. Amen.”

Granted, the man was an odd one. Even so, his prayer should not have been upsetting, but for some reason she couldn't name, it was. By the time he finished and opened his eyes, she was already backing up.

“You're afraid,” he said softly.

“No, no, I'm not,” January said, but it was a lie, and she hated that he knew it. “I really have to go.”

She turned abruptly and began to run—out of the park, through the neighborhood, back to her apartment—and never looked back.

It didn't bother her that he'd recognized her. That happened to her all the time. But she'd seen him before; she just couldn't remember where, and that
did
bother her.

She was in the shower, and had just washed her hair and was lifting her face to the spray, when a flash of memory struck.

The night she'd been down in the old part of town talking to that homeless woman—what was her name? Oh yes…Marjorie. There had been a man who'd crossed in front of her car in the rain. That was who the guy in the park reminded her of. But he surely wasn't the same one. That would be more than coincidence.

The weird thing about the man in the park was that he'd prayed for her, and she'd been looking for a street preacher. The one who called himself Sinner. And Sinner knew she was looking, because he'd called her and told her to leave him alone.

She turned off the shower, grabbed a towel and stepped out onto the bath mat.

Was it possible? Could the man from the rain and the man in the park be one and the same? And if they were, was he the Sinner? If he was the Sinner, then she felt decidedly uncomfortable. It was too much like being stalked.

Finally she convinced herself that that was too big a coincidence to be true, that there were dozens of homeless men who were street preachers, and she dressed for work, forcibly putting the man out of her mind.

 

Jay stayed outside her building until she left for work. She didn't see him, of course, because she wasn't looking for him. He'd become skilled at blending into the background. However, it cost money to feed his disciples and it was going to cost even more when they were all in the fold, so it was time for him to get to work, too.

Confident that his plan was progressing as intended, he walked back to the park to get his cab and, like January, began his day.

 

Bart Scofield was late for work. The alarm hadn't gone off. The coffeepot quit before even an inch of coffee had run into the bottom of the pot. He'd spilled jam on his only clean shirt, and when he'd gone out to get in the car, it wouldn't start. Frustrated and angry, he called a cab, then sat outside on the front porch to wait.

He was on his cell phone when the cab arrived. He opened the door without looking at the cab driver, tossed his briefcase into the back seat and followed it inside. Once seated, he focused on the driver and frowned.

Another foreigner. Didn't citizens of the United States drive cabs anymore?

“Where to?” the driver asked.

Bart's frown lessened as he gave the address. The accent sounded American. Then he remembered the call he'd been on and put the phone back to his ear.

“Sorry…my cab just arrived,” he said, then grimaced and laughed. “Don't ask. It's already been one hell of a day and I haven't even gotten to work yet.” He paused, listening to the caller on the other end of the line, then opened his briefcase and dug through some papers. “Yes…I have it right here. It's going to be a go for the Carson project. The figures are right on.” He chuckled. “Yes, yes, I agree. I'll be opting for that corner office with my name on the door.”

He disconnected, slipped the phone into his briefcase and then leaned back. There was a fast-food restaurant up ahead. Remembering the coffee he'd missed, he leaned forward and spoke to the driver.

“Hey, buddy…pull into the drive-through at McDonald's. I want some coffee.”

“Yes, sir,” the driver said, and turned on the blinkers before easing off the street into the parking lot. “What do you want?” he asked, as he stopped at the intercom.

“Coffee…and a Danish,” Bart said, and tossed some bills into the front seat.

A short time later they were back on the street. Bart was sipping coffee between bites of his sweet roll when his cell phone rang again. Juggling the coffee and roll, he opened the briefcase and, once again, grabbed the phone.

“This is Bart. Yes…I know I'm late, but I'm less than ten minutes from the office. No…I didn't oversleep. The car wouldn't start. I had to take a cab. Yes…I have the figures. See you in a few.”

He disconnected again, dropped the phone back into his briefcase and took another bite of the roll. At that point, he glanced toward the rearview mirror and realized the driver was staring at him.

“Please pay attention to the traffic,” Bart said shortly.

The driver's gaze slid from Bart's face to the traffic. In the mirror, Bart could see him smiling.

 

This fare was the third one of the morning for Jay. He'd had no idea when he'd picked the man up that he was going to be special. But the moment he'd heard him identify himself as Bart, he knew. The Lord was helping him fulfill his mission. Bartholomew. One of the chosen twelve.

He glanced into the rearview mirror again, making sure his fare was otherwise occupied, then pressed the button on the armrest, automatically locking all the doors.

The click was minute, the sound lost in the surrounding noise of traffic and horns. As he pulled up to a red light, he reached behind him and shut and locked the small door in the clear, Plexiglas panel that separated the front seat from the back.

Scofield was occupied with wiping the sticky residue from the sweet roll off his fingers as Jay pressed a button beneath the dash. A small amount of ether was released from a tiny plastic tube hidden in the seat behind Bart's head.

Within seconds, Bart's eyes were rolling back in his head. By the time the light changed, he was slumped over in the seat. Jay went through the intersection, then backtracked and drove toward the warehouse district. Within the hour, Bart Scofield had a new place of residence and Jay had another disciple.

He knew, though, that unlike the others he'd picked up, Scofield was a man who would be missed. Which was why, when he didn't show up at the office and his co-workers began calling his cell phone, he couldn't answer, because the phone was now at the bottom of the Potomac.

 

By the time noon came and went, and because he was the mayor's best friend, a missing person's report had gone out and detectives were tracing Bart Scofield's movements that morning. All they knew for sure was that he'd taken a cab from home to work. They had his address and were checking all the cab companies to see which one had picked up a fare at Scofield's home. It wasn't until they came up with a company that had sent a cab to Scofield's address, only to find that he was already gone when they arrived, that they began to believe something more was going on.

They were now looking for an outlaw cab.

Their driver was a loner—driving a personally owned car without working under the auspices of a local company. They called them outlaw cabs because they often stole other drivers' fares.

Sometimes they worked their own business by being available on the streets during rush hour. At other times, they scammed fares from company cars during slow times by having a scanner that picked up calls going out to other drivers. All the driver had to do was show up at the address ahead of the company cab, steal the fare and collect the money. With this being the case, it was going to prove far more difficult to discover who had picked up Bart Scofield. And they had to find out who had picked him up, because once the report of the missing man had gone to the D.C. police, the media quickly descended. Because Bart Scofield wasn't a nobody. He was the mayor's golfing buddy and best friend.