The Chosen (12 page)

January stood in the foyer for a few moments after he was gone, then reached for the dead bolt and gave it a turn. The click of tumblers punctuated his exit.

 

Meeks was at his desk when Ben got back to the precinct. When he saw Ben, he grabbed his coffee cup and stood up, nodding toward the break room.

Ben followed him there.

“What's up?” he asked.

“You,” Meeks said.

Ben frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Captain knows you were at DeLena's place.”

All expression disappeared from Ben's face. He went from anger to guilt.

“And how did he know that? You're the only one I told.”

A red flush spread up Rick's neck to his face.

“Captain asked where you were…. I told him you were at DeLena's following up a lead. So what? Was it supposed to be a secret?”

Ben didn't answer as he strode out of the break room.

“Hell, you never told me it was a secret,” Rick said, as he hurried to catch up.

Ben kept walking, past his desk, past Rick's desk, all the way to the captain's office. He knocked once, then went inside, closing the door in Rick's face.

There was a knot in Rick Meeks's belly as he, too, knocked for permission to enter. When it was given, he entered with his shoulders hunched and his head down.

“Sit,” Captain Borger said. He pointed to an empty chair, then turned his attention back to Ben. “So you were at January DeLena's residence?”

“Yes.”

“And you were there because…?”

Ben never raised his voice, but his anger at the situation was evident.

“Just for the record, Captain, I resent the hell out of this formal interrogation. You're both acting as if I did something wrong.”

Borger leaned forward. The expression on his face was cold and fixed.

“You can resent any damn thing you please, but meanwhile, I'm fielding crap from the mayor and every one of his minions while we scramble to figure out what the hell happened to Bart Scofield. So if you have any information, I want it.”

“I'll tell you what DeLena told me, but it's not going to be anything you can take to the bank.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Borger asked.

Ben glanced at Rick, who was still looking down at the floor, then stared straight into the captain's face.

“I got a call from January DeLena during lunch today, although I suppose you already know that. She said she had some info that might pertain to Scofield's murder, but she wouldn't talk unless I came alone. This pissed off my loyal partner, but it couldn't be helped. I treated the information as I would treat any tip from an informant. I played her game as far as I thought prudent. I went alone.”

Borger relaxed. “Look, North, I'm sorry I came down on you so hard. Just tell me what you know.”

Ben wasn't as ready to play friendly with the two people who should have believed in him to begin with, so the tone of his voice remained cool.

“I got to Ms. DeLena's home around three. After she started talking, I quickly realized why she didn't want to make a formal statement to the police.”

“Probably because she wanted to keep the story for the evening news,” Rick muttered.

Ben didn't waste so much as a glance at Rick, but the look on Borger's face shut his partner up.

“So what's the scoop?” Borger asked.

“Ms. DeLena has been working on a story on her own for several months. It has to do with people who have died and then been brought back to life. Near-death experiences, that sort of thing. Anyway, during her research, she heard about some street preacher who calls himself the Sinner, who had a similar experience, only his claim was that he hadn't gone to heaven. He'd been in hell. You can imagine why she was looking for him.”

“What does this have to do with Scofield's disappearance?” Borger asked.

“I'm getting to that,” Ben said. “One day a few weeks ago, she said this guy called her at work. Told her to quit looking for him, that she was messing everything up. Then she said he called her again today and said the same thing. Only Ms. DeLena said that because of some things she'd learned between the first call and the one she received today, she had reason to believe that this street preacher might have been involved in Scofield's disappearance, so she asked him point-blank if he'd killed Bart Scofield.”

“The hell you say!” Borger snapped, and sat straight up in his chair. “Then what?”

“After that, he hedged when she asked him again if he had anything to do with Scofield's death, but he said a real weird thing. He told her that Scofield was ‘the wrong one.' After that, he clammed up.” Then Ben glanced at Rick. “I was on my way back to fill my partner in on everything when he called to tell me about your news conference. I told him there wasn't anything you'd be able to use for the conference other than that we were following up on some new leads.”

“I don't get it,” Borger said. “What does she know that even made her think this guy might be responsible for Scofield's murder?”

Ben hesitated. He'd told January he wouldn't divulge any more than he had to, and the way he was feeling now, he wasn't in any mood to break his word.

“I don't know anything more than what I just told you. She doesn't know what the Sinner looks like, so we have no way of finding him to pick him up for questioning. She did say that if he called again, she would definitely let us know.”

“We could get a court order and tap her line,” Rick said.

“Which one?” Ben snapped. “He called her once at work and once at home. I can guarantee that television station isn't going to go for a phone tap, and neither is DeLena—and we don't have enough to push the judge to issue an order for either place.”

“Well, hell,” Borger said, then opened a drawer and pulled out a bottle of antacids. He shook a handful into his palm, popped them in his mouth and began to chew.

“Look,” Borger said. “Make this a priority. Get out on the streets and find this preacher who calls himself the Sinner, then bring him in for questioning.”

“Yes, sir,” Ben said, then added, “But not with Meeks.”

Rick looked up.

“Now see here,” he sputtered. “I didn't—”

Borger interrupted. “Look, North, Meeks didn't—”

“I'm not working with someone I can't trust,” Ben said.

“You'll work with whoever I tell you to work with,” Borger said.

Ben stood. “No, sir, I won't. So am I fired?”

Borger picked up the antacid bottle and threw it back in the desk, then slammed the drawer shut. He glared at both men.

“I don't need this shit,” he yelled.

Ben silently stood his ground.

“Damn it, North, you and Meeks kiss and make up or—”

Ben took off his badge and gun and started to lay them on Borger's desk. When the captain realized how serious Ben was, he threw up his hands in defeat.

“Fine! Get your ass out there on the streets and find me a killer. You'll have no one but yourself to blame when you wind up in trouble with no backup.”

“At least I won't have to wonder if it's my partner who's going to betray me.” Even as he said it, he wondered how much of his anger was directed at Meeks and how much had to do with his own confused feelings for January DeLena.

Meeks was livid. He jumped to his feet and grabbed Ben's jacket.

“I didn't betray your ass. I just answered the captain's question. You have no right to—”

Ben grabbed Rick's wrist and yanked his hand away.

“Don't add lying to the mix. You were pissed off because I went to question DeLena without you. If it had been anyone else, you wouldn't have thought twice about it.”

Rick paled. His shoulders slumped as Ben pushed him aside.

“She's a damn reporter,” he muttered.

“If you're so sure that she's playing us, then tell me why she called? She didn't have to tell us anything to make her story.”

“We've been partners for nine years,” Rick mumbled.

“I know,” Ben said quietly. “You're the one who forgot.” With that, he walked out of the captain's office without looking back.

“Go home,” Borger said to Meeks. “When you come in to work tomorrow, you'll be working with someone else.”

“But, Captain, you know I didn't—”

“Take your lumps like a man, Meeks. Bottom line is, your partner doesn't trust you, so you need a new one.”

“But, Captain…”

“Go home. Have a better attitude when you get in tomorrow. As for what happened here today, it stays between the three of us.”

Rick was in shock when he left, wishing he could take back the last five hours of his life and live them over.

 

Ben was still furious when he got home that evening. He stomped through his town house without purpose, hurt and angry at everything that had transpired. His center of gravity had shifted, and it would take time to come to terms with what had happened in both his professional and personal life.

Today he'd lost a friend as well as a partner—and it was partly his own fault—but he'd gained something, as well. He didn't know where this newfound relationship with January DeLena was going, but he knew he wasn't willing to give it up.

C
arpenter had just dropped off a fare when the pain hit, knotting muscles in a spasm that began at the base of his skull and ran the full length of his jaw and neck. He grabbed at his head as a gut-wrenching moan slid out from between his teeth.

The fare he'd let out was about to close the door when he witnessed Jay's attack.

“Mister…Mister, are you all right?”

Jay could hear someone talking, but answering was impossible. His tongue felt thick, and his jaws were locked. He moaned, then choked.

The fare yelled to the passersby, “Call 911! Something's wrong with the cab driver.”

Jay grunted, wanting to tell him to shut up, that his voice hurt his head, but the only sounds that came out of his mouth were garbled. He'd had this pain before, but it had always abated quickly. This time it wasn't. This time the symptoms persisted. He couldn't help but fear that this was the end—that he'd failed to recreate heaven on earth before his second passing.

Then, finally, the pain eased. When he looked up, to his dismay, a group of people had gathered around his cab.

Oh no.

If they came and took him away to a hospital, he would die in there before his mission was finished. His words were slurred as he struggled to focus both thoughts and vision.

“Go 'way. Let me be.”

“You can't leave like this. You're obviously ill. Let us help,” the fare said, reaching through the window and grabbing Jay's arm.

“No help.”

Jay yanked his arm away, put the cab in gear and pulled out from the curb without bothering to look behind him. Only the skill of the other drivers on the road kept him from causing a major collision.

Jay careened down the street, weaving between lanes with no regard for lights or cars. By the time the ambulance arrived, he was long gone.

For the rest of the night, every time Jay saw a cop car, he ducked into an alley or took the turn at the next block. The pain in his head had eased to a dull ache. Not for the first time, he longed for the comfort of his old apartment. A hot bath and a clean bed sounded like heaven, instead of the cot and the camping equipment at the warehouse.

But then he thought of Jesus, and the suffering He'd endured before He'd gone to be with His Father in heaven, and told himself to suck it up. He couldn't worry about his own misery. There were disciples yet to gather, others to be fed, and much to be done before he went home to glory.

He turned on the Off Duty sign, dug through his jacket pocket, and pulled out the day's receipts and counted them. Two hundred and forty-seven dollars. It wasn't the best haul he'd ever had, but it would hold him over for the next few days, which he intended to devote to finding the rest of his men. They were out there, just waiting for him to bring them home.

He drove until he came to a supermarket, parked beneath a broken security light, then ducked his head as he went inside, making sure he dodged the security camera.

The persistent headache he was learning to live with prompted him to hasten his shopping. He bought the usual—canned meats, crackers, bottled water—but tonight, he added bananas as a change of pace. As he was moving toward the checkout lane, he thought of Matthew's deteriorating condition and tossed some basic first-aid items into the cart, as well. Matthew had already pulled out large clumps of his hair, and Jay feared he would get infections in the wounds. It sickened his heart to know how disturbed this Matthew was. If he'd only known, he would have chosen another.

He wouldn't let himself think about Bartholomew. The whole incident had been tragic from beginning to end, and he blamed himself for jumping to conclusions—for assuming that just because a man named Bart had gotten into his cab, he was the one God meant him to choose. From now on, he was gathering his people from the streets, as he'd intended. God had proclaimed, “The meek shall inherit the earth.” Jay needed to remember that.

He paid for his groceries, then hurried outside. There was one more stop he wanted to make before he got home. He needed to make sure that God understood Bart's death had been an accident, and the best place for that kind of communication was in a house of the Lord.

 

Father Patrick had been a priest for thirty-seven years. He prided himself on knowing the names of all the regulars in his congregation. But the man lying prostrate on the floor down in front of the altar was a stranger to him.

He'd been watching him for the better part of ten minutes. During that time, the man had wept, begged, cursed and moaned, and had not uttered one syllable of a word Father Patrick understood. He hesitated to intrude, but the man seemed ill, possibly incapable of moving from where he lay. Because of that, he stepped out of the shadows and moved toward him.

“My son…are you ill?” Father Patrick asked.

Jay jumped as if he'd been shot. He rolled over onto his back, his eyes wide and fear-filled. Even after he recognized the man as a priest, he still didn't relax.

“Leave me alone,” he muttered, and scrambled to his feet.

“I'm sorry,” Father Patrick said. “I didn't intend to intrude. I thought you were in need of assistance.”

Jay thoughts were scrambled. He was tired and sick—so sick—but he was afraid to trust. Still, the man
was
a servant of God. Who would better understand?

He glanced up at the priest again, then staggered to a pew and collapsed.

Father Patrick went to him, put an arm around Jay's shoulders, and held him as he would a child.

“Do you need medical assistance?” he asked.

Jay shook his head. “No, not like you mean. I'm dying, Father, and it's okay. I died once before. There's really nothing to it.”

Father Patrick's heart went out to the man. His appearance was strange—foreign, even—yet his speech belied his dress.

“So you know the Lord, then?” Father Patrick asked.

Jay grimaced as his eyes filled with tears. His head was pounding again.

“The Lord? Not as I should, and I didn't meet Him first time around, but I'm hoping to up my odds this time.”

Father Patrick frowned. “What are you saying, my son?”

“I've never been to heaven, but I have seen hell.” In a voice so soft the priest had to lean down to hear it, he added, “And I heard the devil's voice.”

Father Patrick flinched. He couldn't imagine what kind of a life this man must have lived to put himself in such a place, and even though he knew his own faith was enough to protect him on this earth, he still felt a sudden presence of evil.

“I'll pray with you, son,” Father Patrick.

Jay staggered to his feet.

“Thank you, but I'd rather you prayed
for
me.”

Father Patrick sighed as he, too, stood up.

“Of course. What is your name?”

“Just call me the Sinner. He'll know who I am.”

With that, Jay walked away.

One week later

January was at her desk when her phone rang. She answered it absently, her thoughts still on the piece she was working on for the nightly news.

“Ms. DeLena?”

“Yes?”

“This is Sophia Harlow from Sheltering Arms. Remember we met during this past year's fund-raiser?”

“Yes, of course,” January said. “I remember. How can I help you?”

The woman laughed. “That's just like you, and one of the reasons I'm calling. You're such a shining example to us all with your giving nature, and it's my pleasure to tell you that you've been chosen by the board of all three women's shelters in the tri-state area as Woman of the Year.”

It was one of the few times in her life when January found herself speechless.

“You're kidding,” she said finally.

Sophia laughed again. “No, I'm not. The presentation will be made during our annual fund-raiser, which is the Black and White Ball this coming Saturday. I realize this is late notice, but for some reason, it's tradition. The honoree is never notified before the week of the event, so who am I to thwart convention?”

“I don't know what to say,” January said, and stifled the urge to giggle. “I'm honored.”

“Great! An official notification was overnighted to you today, with all the information about the time and place. It should be at home waiting for you when you get there. Of course you're invited to bring a guest, whether a husband or significant other, or just a friend.”

Without prompting, January found her thoughts turning to Ben….

“Yes, well, thank you,” she said.

“That's that, then,” Sophia said. “We'll see you Saturday night, and again…congratulations.”

“Thank you,” January said. “Thank you so much.”

One of the producers walked past her desk just as January disconnected.

“Who put that smile on your face?” she asked.

January giggled. “Just some good news.”

“That's great,” she said. “So how's the piece coming?”

“Almost ready,” she said, called back to reality. “It'll be done within the next ten minutes.”

“Great,” the producer said, and strode away.

January made herself focus on finishing. When she was done, she hit Send and e-mailed the piece directly to her producer's computer.

With that out of the way, her mind turned to the real issue at hand: who to take to the award ceremony. Only one named appeared: Ben North. He probably wouldn't like it. No man she'd ever known liked the fluff and hustle of formal affairs and wearing a tux. But it was him or no one. She would rather go alone than take a friend or drag out her little black book. The last time she'd done that, she'd been stood up. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained. The phone calls they had exchanged since making love had been a little awkward. All he could do was say no.

She reached for the phone and started to call him at work, then changed her mind. Instead, she flipped through her Rolodex, got his home phone number and dialed it. The luxury of calling his home was that she would be talking to an answering machine. As soon as it clicked on, she began to speak.

“Ben, it's January. I've just gotten a rather nice call from a charity organization I've worked with in the past, telling me that they're honoring me as Woman of the Year at their annual Black and White Ball on Saturday. They said I could bring a guest. I'm asking you. You have to wear a tux. I'll let you know time and place later. If you're going to weasel out of this invitation, just leave a message on my machine. That way you won't have to hear me wailing.”

Smiling to herself, she hung up and started thinking about what to wear. A new gown was definitely in order.

 

After Jay's visit to the church, his physical condition had improved, which raised his confidence, as well. He'd made several visits to the Sisters of Mercy shelter and had a couple of hot meals. Like many of the others, he ate without looking up or interacting with those around him in any way. And before he left, he meandered into the clothing area, taking whatever they would let him have in the way of extra clothes and blankets. The days were still comfortable, but the nights could get chilly. He wanted to make sure that his disciples would be warm.

Mother Mary Theresa looked across the room at Jay. She'd been watching him recently, curious as to why he took different sizes of men's clothing and asked for more blankets than an individual normally received. Ever since January's last visit to the shelter, Mother Mary T. had been determined to help her own favorite helper get some answers, and this man fit the description of the street preacher she'd been hearing about. If January was right about someone kidnapping people off the streets, she wanted to help stop it. She wouldn't have admitted it, but she was getting something of a kick out of playing sleuth, and she made a promise to herself that she would speak to this man before he left.

 

Jay kept a low profile while listening to the chatter around him. Tonight he was changing the setup at the warehouse. He'd spent the last few days outfitting what had once been a huge blast furnace so that the disciples could be together. He'd decided the problems he'd been having with the men were coming from the fact that he'd isolated them from each other. In the Bible, he pictured the disciples sleeping, eating and doing their Master's work together. He didn't know what he'd been thinking by keeping them apart.

He smiled to himself as he drank the last of his coffee. If things went as he planned, he would be adding two more disciples to the fold this very night. As he got up from the table to carry his paper plate and cup to the trash, he caught a glimpse of motion from the corner of his eye. He turned just in time to come face-to-face with an elderly nun.

“Good day,” Mother Mary T. said. “It's good to have you here.”