The Chosen (20 page)

“Yeah, okay,” Ben said. “Can you fax your info here to me at the office? I think you just stumbled onto the latest abduction by our street preacher.”

“The hell you say,” Walls said, then added, “Happy to help. We'll get this info over to you ASAP.”

“Appreciate it,” Ben said.

“No problem,” Walls said.

Ben disconnected, then sat for a moment with his head in his hands.

He didn't know where to go from here or what to make of what was happening. They needed to find this man who called himself the Sinner and get him off the streets, but how did you catch a shadow? The only people who knew the streets as well or better than the cops were cab drivers, and now they had one who'd gone amok. In a city filled with both federal and local law enforcement, no one seemed able to find him.

Ben picked up the phone and started to call Borger, but as he began to punch in the numbers, he realized he was calling January, instead.

J
anuary was asleep. It was the first time in weeks that she'd gotten to bed before midnight, and she was so deeply asleep that when the phone rang, she thought she was dreaming. It wasn't until the answering machine kicked on and she heard her own voice in the other room that she rolled over and picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

Ben winced. Her voice sounded blurry. He knew he'd awakened her, but he also knew that when she found out why he'd called, she wouldn't care.

“January, it's me.”

She sat up, then swung her legs off the mattress as she turned on the lamp beside the bed.

“Ben? What's happened? Is something wrong? What time is it?”

“Yes, it's me, honey, and it's late. Sorry I woke you.”

“It's okay,” she mumbled.

“We think your preacher snatched another disciple.”

Now she was well and truly awake. She reached for the pen and paper that she kept by the phone.

“Talk to me.”

“A deliveryman from Grammy's Garden—that's a florist shop—has gone missing. His van broke down. Wrecker picked up the van. Cab picked up the driver. Van made it to the repair shop. Driver never showed up at home. Looks like we've got an outlaw cab and a missing deliveryman.”

“His name…what's the driver's name?” January asked.

“Thad Ormin.”

January exhaled on a soft sigh. “Thaddeus. He's taken himself a Thaddeus.”

“That's what I thought, too.”

“Oh Lord, Ben. We are
so
not in control. This is bad, really bad.”

“I know, honey. I know.”

“What are we going to do?” she asked.

“You're not going to do anything,” he said. “I'm telling you only because you deserve to know. We're the ones on the hot seat, but thanks to you, considerably further along than we were this time yesterday. Go back to sleep. I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

“It's already tomorrow,” she said softly. “I'll see you tonight…if we're still on for the ball?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “I have no intention of wasting all those dance lessons.”

For some reason January felt like crying. Instead, she pressed her fingers to her lips to stifle the urge, then managed a smile.

“See you tonight, then,” she said.

“Can I bring my toothbrush and jammies, too?”

He made her laugh, as if he'd known she was on the verge of tears.

“Yes, please do,” she said. “But you may as well leave the jammies at home.”

“Hot damn, woman. The stuff you put in my mind is barely legal.”

“Yeah, well, I'm pretty partial to your stuff, too.”

Now she'd made
him
laugh.

“Thanks for calling me,” she added.

“Sure,” he said. “But will you promise me something?”

She hedged by saying, “If I can.”

“If he calls you again, let me know.”

“Done.”

“See you later.”

“Yes, later,” she said.

When they hung up, she lay back down and buried her face in her pillow.

Ben would have given a lot to have been lying there beside her. Instead, he made a call to the captain, and another to Rick. They made arrangements to meet first thing in the morning at the repair shop. If they were lucky, the preacher might have left some fingerprints on the van. If they weren't, then so be it. But it was a place to start.

 

Thad Orwin woke up. His head was pounding, his stomach was rolling, and it was pitch-black. He didn't know where he was or how he'd gotten there, but he knew he wasn't home. The last thing he remembered was getting into the back seat of that cab.

It took him a few moments to realize someone was snoring nearby and that the stench was so disgusting he almost gagged. Then he heard another sound—the quiet desperation of near-silent sobs.

“Who's there?” he called.

“Shut the fuck up,” someone muttered.

Another voice answered. “Leave him alone. You weren't any different when you first arrived.”

Thad gasped. How many people were in here, anyway?

“Please…who's there?” he repeated.

One by one, eight of the nine men answered by calling out their own name.

“Simon Peters.”

“Andy.”

“James.”

“Jimbo.”

“John.”

“Phillip.”

“Simon, and Matthew is here, too, but he doesn't talk anymore.”

“What's your name?” someone asked.

“Thad. Thad Ormin.”

“Thad? There wasn't any…ah, my mistake. Yes, I believe there was. Thaddeus. Yes, of course. Welcome, Thaddeus. I'm Tom.”

Thad rolled over onto his hands and knees, but it wasn't until he tried to stand up that he realized there were restraints on his wrists.

“What in hell?” he muttered.

Someone—he thought it was Tom—laughed.

“You nailed it on the head. This
is
hell. Make yourself comfortable, Thad. Unless we get ourselves a miracle, we're gonna be here a long time.”

Thad panicked. Millie! She would be worried out of her mind.

“Who did this?” he asked.

“The crazy cab driver,” Tom said.

Thad groaned. He'd known something was weird about that man. If only he'd paid attention to his instincts.

“But why?” Thad asked.

“He's gathering disciples,” Tom said.

“Disciples? What kind of disciples?” Thad demanded.

“The same kind Jesus had.”

“Jesus? What does
He
have to do with this madness?”

Tom laughed again, but the sound held its own shade of insanity. “He has everything to do with it, buddy,” he said. “Our crazy cab driver claims he's dying, and the best we can tell, he thinks he's Jesus. He's gathering his disciples and whatever else he thinks he has to have to get his sorry ass into heaven.”

For a few moments Thad was speechless. Before he could gather his wits, something furry ran across his feet.

He gasped, stifling a scream.

“What?” Tom asked.

“Something ran across my feet. I think it was a rat.”

“Yeah, they're everywhere,” one of the other men said.

“Oh God, oh God,” Thad whispered. “I hate rats.”

“You'll get used to them,” another said.

“Which one are you?” Thad asked.

“John. John Marino, and rats ain't so bad…not when you're real hungry. I've eaten 'em before.”

Thad felt sick, but he stifled the urge to puke, knowing that if he did, he would most likely be sitting in it for some time to come.

 

January slept until 6:00 a.m., then woke suddenly, as if someone had tapped her on the shoulder. She lay there for a moment, wondering if she'd dreamed the touch, or if instinct had awakened her for a reason. It took her a few seconds to remember Ben's call last night, and when she did, she leaped out of bed, her mind racing, wondering what to do first.

She wanted to interview Mr. Lazarus's widow, but she'd been told to back off, so the woman was off-limits for now. She also needed to talk to Mother Mary Theresa—see if she'd heard about any more men going missing. January had a hair appointment at 2:00 p.m., as well as a manicure and pedicure in preparation for the award she would be receiving that night.

At that point, she gasped. Award! Oh Lord! She needed to write some kind of acceptance speech.

“I need coffee,” she muttered, and headed for the kitchen.

She was pouring water in the pot when the phone rang. She answered absently, her mind still focused on the unwritten speech.

“Hello.”

“Hello to you, too, Ms. DeLena.”

January's fingers curled around the receiver. “Creep.”

There was a moment of silence, then a sigh. “You disappoint me,” Jay said.

“I wish I could say the same, but you're pretty damn predictable,” January said.

Jay frowned. “Defiance is not an attractive trait.”

“You kidnapped another man, and you dug up a dead one. You snatched yourself a Thaddeus, didn't you? Was he the last?”

Jay began defending himself. “You blaspheme! I did nothing. Lazarus has risen. It is God's will.”

“What have you done with the other men? Are they dead, too?”

“My followers will be spreading God's word.”

“The police are going to find you, and when they do, they're going to put you away for life.”

Jay laughed.

The sound startled January, then made her angry.

“You think that's funny?” she yelled.

“Decidedly,” Jay said, and laughed again. “I'm dying, woman. Don't you remember anything I've told you?”

For the first time since he'd started calling her, she began to realize he was serious about that. That he meant
soon,
not just someday. This was something she hadn't given much credence to. Granted, he'd died once, but she'd mistakenly believed that whatever had been wrong with him had been corrected. However, if he was telling her the truth, that meant he'd had a definite diagnosis. From a doctor. Which meant she'd completely missed a huge clue. They all had. They should have been showing his sketch around to the hospitals, too.

“How do you know you're dying?” January asked. “Who's your doctor? Maybe he was wrong. What if you're not ill at all?”

Jay slapped the inside of the phone booth. “The doctors know what's wrong with me, but they couldn't fix it before, so why bother with them again? Besides, there's nothing to know. One day soon my head will burst open from this pain, and then you'll all be able to see for yourselves.”

“See what—a brain black with evil? You know what I think? You claim that when you died before that you went to hell, right?”

“I did. I did go to hell. It was terrible. Don't you see? That's why all of this must be done. I'm walking in His footsteps. I'm living as He lived, so that it won't happen again.”

“I'll tell you what
I
see,” January said. “I see a man who's out of control. A man who thinks he can buy his way into heaven by committing crimes, which makes you crazy, mister. And you know what else I believe? When you came back from hell, you brought the devil back with you.”

“No!” Jay screamed. “You lie! You lie!” It was the last intelligible thing he said as pain exploded.

January could tell he was still talking, but the words no longer made sense. She heard him drop the phone. It banged against something—probably the wall of the phone booth—but he didn't disconnect. She could hear him babbling and crying, but she couldn't feel an ounce of sympathy.

She'd started to hang up when it dawned on her that if there was an open line, the police might be able to trace where he'd been calling from. Without hesitation, she left her phone off the hook and ran for her cell phone.

 

Ben was coming out of a diner with a cup of coffee in one hand and an apricot Danish in the other. His cell phone rang in the middle of his first bite of sweet roll. He hurried to the curb, set his coffee on the hood of the car, then swallowed and answered.

“North.”

“Ben. It's me. He just called me again and—”

“Are you all right? Did he say—”

“Ben! Ben! Shut up and listen to me.”

Ben took a deep breath. “I'm listening.”

“We were talking, and he freaked out. I think he's probably in some public phone booth. I hear traffic and people and city noise. And he keeps babbling words I can't understand.”

“What the hell are you saying?” Ben yelled.

Now it was January who took a breath.

“The line between my phone and the place where he made the call is still open. He didn't hang up, and he's still there. I can hear him in the background.”

“Oh, man,” Ben muttered. “Look. I've got to call some guys at the phone company. Whatever you do, don't hang up that phone.”

“Can you trace the call without being here?”

“I'm about to find out,” Ben said. “Don't leave. I'll call you back on your cell.”

January disconnected.

The coffeepot bubbled, then burped, signaling the end of the brewing process.