The Chosen (2 page)

Nine months later

J
anuary DeLena was one of Washington, D.C.'s most well-known journalists. On 9-11, she'd been on-site and broadcasting only minutes after the plane had flown into the Pentagon. Then the world had watched as she'd abandoned her microphone and begun helping survivors who'd come running out of the building. By the time she'd remembered what she'd been sent there to do, she was covered in soot and blood, and had cursed and cried on air. Normally, that would have gotten her fired, but not that day. That day she'd only voiced what the nation had been feeling. By the end of the week, everyone knew the name of the pretty television journalist who'd called Osama Bin Laden a bad name.

Over time, it became apparent that January DeLena wasn't just a pretty face. When it came to getting a story, she was tenacious, which was why on this night she was on the streets of the red-light district at one-thirty in the morning, mingling with the homeless, instead of sleeping in her own bed.

For months, she'd been hearing a rumor about a man who called himself the Sinner and who claimed to have had a near-death experience. Now she'd heard he was moving among the homeless and the lawless, preaching his own version of eternity. In most cases, this would have been just a story about another religious zealot. However, this story had a unique twist, and unique was the key to January's success.

It had become fashionable to speak of near-death experiences. Many had written books on the subject, usually claiming that they hadn't wanted to come back, and that they'd felt a great sense of peace in death. But this man had a different story to tell, and one that had tweaked her curiosity. According to the gossip on the street, this man had literally been to hell and back, and lived to tell the tale.

Now January huddled beneath the awning of a secondhand store as wind blew rain against the backs of her legs. She didn't mind so much getting wet, but the stench emanating from the woman with her was overpowering, and getting wet only added to the odor. She turned her back to the wind and tried not to breathe too deeply as she spoke to the woman beside her.

“So, Marjorie, you say you've seen the Sinner yourself?”

Marjorie Culver's fingers curled a little tighter around the push bar on her shopping cart. It had been a long time since anyone had taken notice of her, and the attention made her feel a little disoriented and vulnerable. Still, she felt no threat from this woman and finally nodded.

“Yep…I saw him two, maybe three days ago. He was beneath an overpass near the Potomac, passing out coupons for a free fish sandwich from Captain Hook's. He had a whole basket of 'em. Someone said they were probably fakes, but I took one anyway, and they took it at the drive-through when I gave 'em my order.”

Then she laughed, as if struck by the humor of going through a drive-through on foot.

“Was he preaching?” January asked.

Marjorie shrugged. “I guess you could call it that.”

“What do you mean?” January pressed.

“Well, he was holding a Bible and all, but what he was saying sounded pretty radical. I don't think he was quoting any scriptures.” She shrugged again. “It didn't really matter, though. No one was paying him any mind. They just wanted the coupon for the free sandwich.”

January nodded. She certainly understood. There had been days in her youth when she might have done just about anything for something to eat. Thank God those times were far behind her.

“Do you know where he lives?” January asked.

Marjorie frowned. “Nowhere and everywhere, I guess. I wasn't sure, but I got the impression that he was one of us.”

“You mean homeless?”

Marjorie glared. “For some, it's a choice, you know.”

January backed off on her intensity. “I'm not demeaning your existence, Marjorie. I was only asking as a means of locating him so I can talk to him myself.”

Marjorie frowned and shoved her cart a little closer to the door she was leaning against. The stuff in her cart was all she owned, although she'd long since forgotten what all was in there.

“Yeah, well…I can't help you any on that. I'm not into addresses myself.”

January sighed. She hadn't meant to, but she'd obviously insulted the woman. “All right then,” she said, and gave Marjorie's arm a quick squeeze. “Thank you so much for talking to me, Marjorie.” Then she slipped a hundred dollars worth of twenties into Marjorie's hand. “Get yourself a room tonight and treat yourself to something good to eat.”

Marjorie was taken aback by the money and for a moment thought about being insulted all over again, but then a quick gust of wind blew rain down her neck. She took the bills and stuffed them into one of her countless pockets.

“Yeah…I'll do that,” she said, then added, “See you on the TV.”

“Absolutely,” January said, wondering when Marjorie ever got to watch TV, and made a dash toward her car, which was parked less than half a block away.

Once inside, she locked the doors and breathed a quick sigh of relief that she had a home to go to and a car to get her there. When she turned the key, the sound of the engine starting echoed the jump of her heartbeat. As she turned on the windshield wipers, a tall thin man wearing dirty white pants and a shirt that hung loose to his knees stepped out of the alley in front of her. His clothes were sopping wet. His long hair was equally soaked, and plastered to his face and neck, as was the beard hiding most of his face. There was a brief moment of connection as their gazes met. When he began to smile, she hit the headlights, flipping them on bright. It was his signal to move, which he did, but without shifting his gaze.

The expression in the man's eyes made January shudder. The degradation of the place and its people hit her like a slap in the face, and for the first time in her life made her doubt the wisdom of following this story.

Then she gathered her wits and reminded herself of how far she'd come from the poor little Latino girl from Juarez, Mexico, to the woman she was today. She'd worked long and hard to gain credibility, and apologized for nothing. With renewed vigor, she slammed the car into gear and stomped on the accelerator. Tires squealed as rubber burned. All she needed was a hot bath and a good night's sleep, and she would be fine.

Less than a mile from her apartment, a police cruiser came racing past her, running with lights and siren. Up ahead, she could see what appeared to be at least a half-dozen more police cars and almost as many emergency vehicles.

Immediately, her heartbeat accelerated as her instinct for the story rose. But she reminded herself she was not on duty, and as she drove past, saw the news crew from her station.

Kevin Wojak was standing near an ambulance with a mike in his hand, speaking directly into a camera as rain peppered his face. She smirked. All he had to do was take a few steps to the left and he would have been standing under a canopy, but that would have diluted the dramatic effect he was obviously going for.

Wojak considered January competition.

January considered Wojak a pain in the ass.

Despite her reluctance to watch Wojak working the camera, she was forced to stop as an ambulance pulled away from the scene. When it raced past her, she said a quick prayer for the occupants, then waited for traffic to clear.

As she waited, a tall, dark-haired man suddenly stepped out from between two parked police cars and walked in front of her vehicle, momentarily spotlighting himself in her headlights, much as the bearded man on skid row had done earlier. But her reaction to this man was far different. She knew him intimately, had made love to him in her bed, on the living room floor, in her shower, and once in her walk-in closet—but only in her dreams. Benjamin North, one of D.C.'s finest homicide detectives, didn't know it, but he haunted her sleep, taunting her with his heavy-lidded stare and slow, sexy smile.

In reality, they'd done little more than trade jibes at various crime scenes—his springing from disgust at the arrival of the media and hers from what she considered unfair disrespect. Except for one night over a year ago.

With the windshield wipers swishing back and forth in January's line of vision, she thought back to the disaster that had brought them together.

 

It had been snowing for hours, which was frustrating for the crime scene investigators, because the snow had covered up whatever clues might have been left behind that might help them find out who had killed Mandy Green.

She hadn't taken up much space in the world, and what space she had had been what nobody else wanted. Now she was dead—raped and strangled, although the coroner couldn't say which had come first. What was newsworthy about the murder of this particular hooker was that, according to the ID Mandy Green had in the purse beneath her arm, she was only twelve years old.

Benjamin North had been assigned to the case. What he hadn't known until his arrival at the scene was that the victim was a child. Granted, the child was wearing a faux fur coat and knee-high white boots, but that was all.

When he lifted the blanket to look at the body, he stilled, too shocked to let go, too numb to look away. Her baby lips were smeared with a dark red lipstick; her wide, sightless eyes were a clear, pure green. Her hair was red and curly and wet from the snow in which she was lying. But it was her pale, childlike body that knocked him for a loop. She had buds where her breasts were meant to be, and a small thatch of pubic hair that had just begun to grow. One leg was lying at an awkward angle, and her right arm had been flung over her head, as if the attacker had shoved it out of the way to do his deed.

“Jesus,” Benjamin whispered, and then dropped the blanket and turned away.

His hands were shaking and his stomach was rolling. He could handle anything but kids. They got to him every time. He lifted his head and took a deep breath, hoping the blast of cold air would clear the horror from his mind. As he did, he noticed that a news crew was already here.

“Damn vultures,” he muttered, as his control shattered.

He strode past crime scene investigators, street cops and a waiting ambulance, ready to do battle. He rounded the bumper with a fight on his mind and found no one to fight.

The camera crew was nowhere to be seen. He turned abruptly, expecting to see them across the parking lot, getting film of the victim. The only people he could see were the crew from CSI and a couple of patrol cops.

It wasn't until he started to walk away that he heard someone on the other side of the hedge, crying. He walked around it, then froze.

He knew who she was. Everyone knew January DeLena. But he'd never seen her like this.

“Lady, you're not supposed to be here,” he said gruffly.

January flinched. She hadn't heard him walk up, and she wasn't in a mood to talk. She raised her head and then swiped at the tears on her face before turning around.

Oh perfect. It's North. I don't need any more grief right now.

She meant to argue, to state her rights to get the facts of a story—her usual freedom of speech and press argument. But when she opened her mouth, her sorrow betrayed her.

“Did you see her?” she cried. “She's only a child.” A huge, hiccuping sob came out between an inhale and an exhale as she threw her arms up in the air and then hit the trunk of a tree with the flat of her hand. “Where is God when things like this happen?” She spun angrily, her face streaked with fresh tears. “You're the detective. You tell me!” she cried. “Where is God now?”

Ben was stunned by her rage. It was like looking at a mirror image of what he was feeling. When she turned on him, he acted without thinking. He grabbed both her arms at the wrists and pushed her against the tree she'd just hit.

“Stop it,” he said. “You don't want to hit me. You could get arrested for assaulting an officer.”

She looked up at him, but saw nothing but a blur through her tears.

“Why don't they get her out of the snow? It's fucking freezing, and they've let her lie in the snow like a piece of trash.”

Ben felt her pain. Without thinking, he pulled her into his arms. She fought him, pushing and moaning and trying to get free. He dodged blows and turned a deaf ear to her curses as she wailed at everything from God to the lowest lizard, and still he held her. And when she wore herself out from the grief and the rage, he took out his handkerchief and wiped the tears from her face—and then kissed her.

It wasn't anything planned, and if he'd had his head on straight, it wasn't anything he would ever have done. But he was as appalled by the waste of the brief life as she was and it seemed natural to give comfort to another grieving soul.

Too stunned by the taste of him on her lips, she didn't move. But when reality began to click in and she knew this wasn't part of some dream, she slid her arms around his neck and wholeheartedly kissed him back.

She had a vague memory of unbuttoning his coat and sliding her hands beneath his sweater to the warmth of his skin before they both gasped and then stepped back.