The Chosen (4 page)

Ben tried another angle. “And when do you think that might have happened?”

“If I was guessing, which you know damn well I don't do, I'd say maybe two or three hours.”

He made a couple of notes in his notebook. “Anything you can tell me about the murder weapon?”

“It was sharp.”

Ben shifted, then stood abruptly. “Come on, Fran. I don't like being out here any more than you do, but I need something to work with.”

She motioned toward one of the other investigators as she got up.

“Bag him up,” she ordered, then turned toward Ben. “I'll send you a complete report as soon as I know more.”

“Thanks,” he said, and headed back to the perimeter, where his partner was interviewing a witness. Just then a news van pulled up.

“The vultures have arrived,” he muttered, then cursed beneath his breath when he realized it was January DeLena who was getting out of the van. “Son of a bitch.”

Meeks looked up. “What?”

“News crew's here.”

“Your turn to head 'em off. I'm taking a statement.”

Ben eyed the wino who'd found the body. He was still crying. Ben couldn't blame him. But the longer he stood here, the closer that woman was going to get. He hadn't seen her up close or talked to her since that night behind the hedge, and he wasn't looking forward to it now. He set his jaw and turned around just as January slipped beneath the crime scene tape and headed toward him.

He quickly grabbed her elbow, escorting her back to the perimeter as he sent the cameraman back to the van with a warning look.

“Come on, Miss DeLena, you're not allowed in here and you know it.”

The words January meant to say were rolling around in her head, but when she'd seen Benjamin North walking toward her, they hadn't come out in the proper sequence. Then, when he'd taken her by the arm, she'd lost her train of thought.

“The public allows…I mean, it's a job for…Shit.”

Almost immediately, she felt a flush spreading across her face, and hoped to goodness it was too dark where they were standing for Detective Yummy to see.

January's discomfort became a source of amusement for Ben. It was the first time he'd seen Miss Hot-To-Trot at a loss for words, and he couldn't let it go.

He grinned.

January glared.

“Since when is murder funny?” she snapped.

“Did I say it was? Did I say anything to you except to indicate—once again, I might add—that you're trespassing?”

January sighed. “Come on, North. You know me. I don't give up details until you give me the go-ahead.”

“And I don't make deals with the media. Please get back.”

January stood her ground with an intensity that surprised him.

“Is it true?” she asked.

“Is what true?” he countered.

“The victim…was he really beheaded?”

Ben flinched. Damn. Someone on the scene was feeding info to the media. They had to be, or she wouldn't have gotten here this fast with that kind of information.

“Who told you that?” he asked.

“Never mind. Just answer me. Is that the truth?”

“It's none of your business,” he snapped.

“Do you know his name?”

“Not yet.”

January shifted from one foot to the other. She had to know, even though she feared the truth. Finally she blurted out another question, and this time she got Ben's attention.

“Is the victim the same guy who preaches hell and damnation on the street corners?”

Ben grabbed her by the arm and pulled her toward a streetlight.

“I don't know, but if he is, what does that mean to you?”

She shrugged. “Maybe nothing.”

“Would you recognize his face if you saw him?”

“Yes.”

Ben turned and waved at Fran Morrow.

“Hey, Fran…hold up a minute, will you? We might have an ID on the victim.”

Fran frowned at January, then glared at Ben.

“She won't know a hill of beans. She just wants a scoop on the others.”

“No cameras. I promise,” January said.

Fran stopped the men who were moving the body into the van and then unzipped the upper portion of the bag.

The head rolled a bit to the right, then tilted back toward the left before it came to rest.

January swallowed the bile that rose up her throat and peered in.

“It's him,” she said, and then covered her face with her hands. “Dear God, it's him.”

“Him, who?” Ben asked, as Fran zipped the bag and proceeded to load up her cargo.

“He calls…called himself Brother John,” she said.

“And how do you know him?” Ben asked.

January dropped her hands and looked away.

“January! Look at me,” he demanded, but she was staring down, as if she'd taken a sudden interest in his shoes.

Ben took her by the shoulders, gently but firmly.

Startled by the unexpected contact, she pulled out of his grasp.

“Get your hands off me,” she muttered.

“Fine,” Ben said, and jammed his hands into his pockets. “But you invited yourself into my investigation, so you can answer the questions. How do you know him?”

“I work the streets a lot. You know that,” she said.

“Somehow I can't picture you listening to sermons on street corners.”

She looked up at him. “Why, Detective, I didn't know that you pictured me at all.”

This time it was Ben's face that turned red.

“Listen to me, lady. This isn't a game. What do you know about that man that I don't?”

She sighed, her shoulders slumping. “He called himself Brother John. He's from somewhere in Louisiana, and he's a Vietnam vet. That's all I know about him.”

There was a slight inflection to the word
him
that led Ben to believe she might know something else indirectly related to the case.

“What aren't you telling me?” he asked.

January hesitated. What she knew was mostly a bunch of suppositions and guesses, and she was too much of a professional to put her reputation on the line with a story she couldn't prove.

“That's all I know about him. Really.” Then she added, “But I think there's something else going on down in that place. There's a man down there who calls himself the Sinner, and there's gossip on the street that he's doing some really weird things.”

“Homeless people do weird things. My next-door neighbor does weird things. The world is full of weirdos, and Jesus freaks are everywhere.”

“Fine. You asked. I told you. Now if you're not going to give me anything else, I've got a story to turn in.”

“You don't have anything,” Ben said.

“I have enough. Chopping a man's head off is news, whether you like it or not.”

She turned abruptly and ran toward the van.

Ben watched her go.

 

Whether Ben liked it or not, January DeLena's information about their victim being a Vietnam vet was paramount in helping them with identification and locating his next of kin. By ten o'clock the next morning, he'd learned the man's name was Jean Louis Baptiste. He had one daughter, a woman named Laurette Bennet, who lived near New Orleans. She'd cried all the way through their conversation, then thanked him for the call before she hung up.

Ben followed suit by laying the receiver back on the cradle. Then he opened his desk drawer, took out a bottle of aspirin and shook three out into his hand. He'd awakened with a headache, and it wasn't getting any better. He would have liked to blame it on January DeLena's unexpected visit to the crime scene last night, but that wouldn't have been fair. There were plenty of reasons why his head would be hurting, the strongest of which came from the phone call he'd just made. He hated notifying next of kin, and so far this week, he was two for two.

He popped the pills into his mouth, then started to wash them down with the last of his coffee, only to realize the cup was empty. The aspirin were already beginning to melt on his tongue, so he bit the bullet and crunched them between his teeth like candy. The sour, bitter taste sent him straight to the water cooler. He drank until the taste was washed out of his mouth and wished the bitter part of his job would disappear as easily.

 

The church was small and in a less than desirable part of the city, but the doors were never locked, which was the reason Jay Carpenter had chosen it. He lay prostrate in the aisle near the altar, flat on his belly with his arms outstretched, parallel to his shoulders, in much the same manner as Jesus had been nailed to the cross. He didn't hear God from down there, but it made him feel righteous.

He wore a white shirt—oversize and untucked—while the pale gray fabric of his loose, wide-legged pants was soft and creaseless. His long, dark hair fell forward, completely covering his face.

He was praying aloud, trying to block out the memory of Brother John's screams, although it was no use. He could still smell the coppery scent of Brother John's blood, although he'd washed himself judiciously. He had tried to explain to the man what a special and integral part of Jay's journey he had become, but Brother John had not been impressed. It bothered Jay that there had been resistance, although he was certain he was doing what God meant him to do.

A door banged in another part of the building as Jay continued to wrestle with his demons; then he heard footsteps.

The priest.

It was bound to be the priest.

He didn't want to talk to anyone. There was nothing to be said that he didn't already know. A siren wailed somewhere outside the building, fading as the vehicle moved away, but the sound triggered an old pain behind his right eye, followed by a muscle tic near the corner of his mouth.

He knew what was wrong. The tumor was growing again. The knowledge was frightening. Instinct told him to go back to the doctors, but he knew if he did, they would keep him. He would die there, just as he'd done before, and he wasn't ready to die. Not yet. He needed to be certain that everything possible had been done to cancel out the sins of his past before he succumbed to the inevitable. And he knew how to do it. After all, he'd heard the words from God Himself.

Live as
I
live.

That was what he'd heard. That was what he was determined to do, and after tonight, he was one step closer to glory. When the approaching footsteps were just outside the door of the sanctuary, Jay got up swiftly and left.

He went out onto the streets with more purpose. It was time to gather his disciples around him, and he knew who the first one would be.

 

After filing her story on the murdered man in the park, January had gone straight home to a hot soaking bath. She'd stayed in the water until it turned cool, but it hadn't been enough to wash away the memories of what she'd seen that night. Hours later, she was still awake and going through her notes, trying to come to terms with the unfolding drama.

She'd been in the business long enough to know that there were all kinds of oddball, off-the-wall fanatics who followed voices only they could hear, and who still remained harmless to everyone but themselves. But as much as she would have liked to believe that the man called the Sinner was one of them, she didn't buy it.

She'd spread her notes out on the dining room table, from the earliest incidents she'd learned of to the latest, the beheading of Brother John. No matter how many times she tried to tell herself it was only coincidence that tied them together, she failed.

It was close to daybreak when she gathered up the papers and slipped them back into a file. Her hands were shaking and her eyes red-rimmed from exhaustion and lack of sleep. Today was her day off. Usually she spent it running personal errands and shopping for food she rarely had time to eat, but not today. Today she was going to crawl into bed, pull the covers up over her head, and pray for a long and dreamless sleep.

A short while later she was in bed. The curtains were drawn and the phone unplugged, but as weary as she was, she couldn't get past a feeling of impending doom.

J
ay's first attempt at bringing in disciples had been promising. He already knew a man named Simon Peters from a shelter where he sometimes ate. It had been almost too easy to sway the man to his way of thinking.

Simon Peters was a man with no purpose. Following a street preacher and passing out bookmarks with Bible verses had been a way to make the day go quicker. And when the preacher brought two more into the fold, it was like having a party.

A big black man named Andy, who the preacher called Andrew, and Andy's friend, Jim, who the preacher called James, became Simon Peters's companions. They rode with the preacher to different destinations in his old yellow cab, dined on hamburgers and hot dogs, and bowed their heads in unison when he broke out in prayer. For a while it was great, and then, as it comes to all things, the honeymoon ended.

 

They were standing beneath an awning as the rain poured down beyond. Water splattered the hems of their pants and chilled them all the way to the bone. The three men wanted nothing more than to go down to the Sisters of Mercy shelter, get a bowl of soup and maybe play checkers. They had a good time with the preacher, all right, and he fed them real good. But there were times when they didn't feel all that sociable, and for Simon Peters, today was one of those days.

And, because he had balked, so had Andy and Jim.

Jay was incredulous. He had the day all planned, and to have all three of his disciples turn mutinous had been an ultimate betrayal.

“What do you mean, you don't want to come? We have this all planned. We're driving into Virginia to—”

Simon Peters pointed to the rain.

“Look, preacher, it's cold and wet, and frankly, I don't give a damn about lost souls today. I don't feel like being all that friendly. I'll catch up with you tomorrow, maybe. But today, I just want to go get me a bowl of soup.” He shivered slightly. “I feel like I might be coming down with something.”

Jay glared, but there was nothing he could do about it. He could hardly force three grown men to come with him when they were determined to refuse.

“Fine,” he muttered. “And after all I've done for you.”

Jim felt guilty, but he wasn't going to go without the others. “Look, preacher. We'll go tomorrow for sure, okay? Just come by tomorrow and we'll be here waiting.”

Jay turned, strode back to his cab and got in. He felt thwarted and betrayed, and wanted to scream. But as he sat, he began to think—and as he thought, he began to plan.

He would fix them. They didn't know it, and obviously didn't understand, but they couldn't walk away from him like this. He needed them to help him get to heaven.

Two weeks later

The pain behind Jay's eye was a throbbing annoyance as he loaded the last of his suitcases into the trunk of his cab. He glanced longingly at his old apartment building, then reminded himself what lay ahead. After one last look, he got in the cab and drove away. His apartment had not amounted to much, but it was definitely more comfortable than the place where he was going now. However, it was time to join his growing band of disciples. The Lord hadn't separated Himself from His men. Jay could do no less.

Almost two weeks ago he'd found an old warehouse on the outskirts of the city that had been abandoned for years. The area around it was nothing but a wasteland of junk, metal and old rubber tires. It was an obscure graveyard of outdated machinery and abandoned vehicles, and he'd watched it for days before assuring himself that it was of no consequence to anyone.

Then he'd rented an arc welder and done a little renovating in some of the rooms that had once served as offices. The skill was a leftover from his high school days in shop class, and he would never have imagined using it again. Still, life had a way of presenting a series of surprises, and this had been one of them.

Now that he was done with the changes he'd needed to make, it was time for him to join his companions, who had moved in a week ago. The old warehouse was three stories high and had not been used in years. He called it the catacombs, because of the rabbit warren of offices on the ground floor.

Besides the offices, there was an enormous blast furnace the size of the largest office, plus piles of abandoned scrap metal and stacks of wooden pallets.

Since Jay's future did not include increasing his earthly wealth, doing without electricity and running water in the building had been inevitable. Instead, he'd invested his small savings into some camping gear, chosen the largest office cubicle for himself and unpacked his gear for the day when he would be living in the warehouse. He had made his daily trek to visit the three disciples already in residence, bringing them food, reading aloud from the Bible and praying with them. It was a little disappointing that their adjustment period was taking so long. He ached for the day when they would all live in loving unity together. It was his hope that living beside them would seal the bond. It was why he'd decided to move in with them.

It was a couple of hours before dark as he pulled his cab into the warehouse. He manually tugged down the big overhead door, locking it from the inside, then carried his suitcases into his new residence and lit a Coleman lantern, taking comfort from the small circle of light. Rats scurried into corners as he set up his cot, adding a small pillow and a sleeping bag to serve as bedclothes. Frowning, he pulled a half-dozen rat traps from a bag, then baited and set them in various places near the walls. He unpacked a portable toilet and situated it behind a stack of wooden pallets, then pounded a nail into the wall and hung a fresh roll of toilet paper from the spike.

Smiling now at the room's homey transformation, he unpacked a small propane stove, quickly assembled it, then put a pan of water on to boil before sorting through an assortment of dehydrated foods and boil-in-a-bag meals. He chose a beef and gravy packet and then dropped it into the simmering pan of water. As he waited for it to heat, he took out a coffeepot, poured a small amount of bottled water into it and set it on the second burner to heat. Once the water was steaming, he stirred in some instant coffee, poured it into a cup, then leaned back and took a careful sip, savoring the warm, nutty taste of hazelnut cream. He glanced at the stove, then poked a finger at the boil-in-a-bag meal, testing it for doneness. Judging it as needing a couple more minutes, he picked up a sack containing canned meat and crackers, some bottles of water and some fruit, turned off the flame under the burner and started out the door. Then he stopped, retraced his steps, retrieved a covered pail and set out again.

His footsteps echoed on the concrete floor as he moved toward the rooms at the other end of the building. Daylight was drawing to a close, but there was still enough light coming in from the small windows above the catwalk for him to see. He sidestepped the dusty wooden pallets and broken packing crates scattered about, wincing slightly at the sight of rats scurrying back into the shadows as he passed.

About halfway down the length of the building, a flock of pigeons in the rafters took flight. At that point, he began hearing voices. The sound filled his heart. It was his faithful disciples awaiting his return. He shifted the sack of food to the crook of his arm and hastened his steps. When he reached the first door, he unlocked it.

The odor of excrement met him head-on as he stepped into the room, followed by a string of curses from the tall, angry man chained to the opposite wall.

It was Simon Peters, and he was sporting a week-old beard and the clothes he'd been abducted in. There were running sores around his wrists where the iron shackles rubbed. The pain only added to his anger.

“There you are, you bloody bastard. I'm near to dying of thirst here, never mind the fact that my belly has started chewing on my backbone, and that chamber pot you call a bathroom is past running over.”

Jay inhaled slowly, giving himself a mental countdown to calm his displeasure with Simon. The man was a whiner.

“Good evening, my dear Simon, I trust—”

“I'm not your dear anything, you crazy son of a bitch. Let me go.”

“Now, Simon, we've already had this conversation. You know that's not possible. You wouldn't stay with me willingly, and there is so much work we have yet to do.”

“Work? Work! What kind of work am I going to be doing chained in this shit-hole?”

Jay sighed. “Simon, Simon…You know it's your own fault. If you had a better attitude and had given me reason to trust you, you would be out on the streets right now, preaching God's word.”

Simon Peters's features ran the gamut of expressions. It was as if he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. His own fault? Attitude? Trust? This man who called himself the Sinner was delusional.

“You're right,” Simon said. “Sinner, I beg your forgiveness.”

Jay beamed and raised his hand over Simon Peters's head, then closed his own eyes as he began a prayer.

“Father, forgive this man for his shortcomings, and give him the wisdom and knowledge to follow me all the way to glory.”

Simon's anger wilted as frustration and fear took its place.

“Oh God,” Simon begged. “I don't want to go to glory, I just want out.”

Jay frowned. “Soon, my son. Soon.” Then he took out a can of Vienna sausages, a small packet of crackers and an orange, and set them on a nearby table, along with a fresh bottle of water.

“Don't forget to bless the food before you eat,” he said.

“I can't reach the table,” Simon said, as tears began to run down his cheeks.

Jay pushed the table within reach of the chained man, glanced at the overfull portable toilet and sighed. He opened the lid on the bucket, shook a liberal dusting of quicklime onto the contents from the pail he carried, then made the sign of the cross before backing out of the room. He shut and locked the door before moving to the next.

This time, when he walked inside, he was met with total silence. This was the last disciple he'd gathered, and he'd instantly shut down. Jay had chained him to the wall like all the others, and he was lying on the floor, curled into a fetal position. The food from the last time Jay had visited was right where he'd left it, minus the bits that had obviously been eaten by rats. Jay moved closer, suddenly afraid that he'd find him dead.

“Matthew…my son…are you ill?”

Matthew Farmer shifted closer to the wall and folded his arms over his head. He was covered in excrement and soaked in urine, and there were raw patches on his scalp, as if he'd pulled out his own hair in clumps.

Jay frowned. “Matthew…speak to me.”

Silence.

“Pray with me, Matthew…. Let Our Father in heaven heal your woes.”

“Matthew Farmer—Airman First Class—799442013. Matthew Farmer—Airman First Class—799442013. Matthew—”

“Shut up!” Jay shouted, then regretted his outburst when the chained man urinated on himself, then began to cry.

“Don't hurt me…please don't hurt me.”

Jay sighed.

“I have no intention of hurting you, but you're going to have to buck up and do your part.”

“Let me go…let me go…. Matthew Farmer—Airman First Class—799442013…Matthew—”

Jay stood, kicked the uneaten food aside and left some fresh food and water where Matthew could reach it. Since Matthew had not been using the portable potty, there was no need to open his little plastic bucket. He could hardly put quicklime onto the man's skin and clothing, so he said a rapid prayer and left him to his suffering. It was Jay's opinion that what was between each man and God was a personal thing that no one should disturb. Obviously Matthew Farmer was in emotional pain. He just didn't know how to alleviate it and still follow his own path.

It had to be said that Jay was losing faith in choosing this particular disciple. The man obviously had some prior issues with the military and didn't understand the importance of his place in the Sinner's journey. But what was done was done, although Jay could still hear Matthew repeating his name, rank and serial number as he shut and locked the door.

For a moment he stood looking up at the ceiling and the skeletal frame of iron and steel, then down toward the row of doors running the length of the building. There were fifteen of them, although Jay had need of only the twelve, besides one for himself.

With a couple of disciples left to visit and eight others yet to bring to the fold, he was feeling a bit overwhelmed. He knew he was doing what God had commanded him to do, but his confidence in his ability to make this work was beginning to wane. He took a deep breath and shifted his load to one arm as he rubbed at his temple, trying to ease the internal pain with external touch.

It didn't work, nor had he expected it to.

He consoled himself with the fact that he still had Andrew and James. Andrew was turning out to be his rock. Jay unlocked the third door and walked inside. With only one small window, high up the wall and covered in years of grime, this room was the darkest of the lot. For a moment the place seemed empty, but as his eyes began to adjust, he saw movement in the shadows.