The Chosen (29 page)

The men were rank and covered with rat bites and sores. When the first gurney was unloaded from an ambulance and wheeled into the hospital, there was a brief moment of stunned silence, then soft cries of disbelief.

Instead of being disgusted by the men's appearances, the doctors and nurses demonstrated an instant empathy. Jobs that ordinarily fell to nurses and orderlies, such as changing bedpans and cleaning up vomit, were attacked with vigor by doctors and nurses alike. Orderlies ran back and forth filling garbage bag after garbage bag with the clothes that had to be cut off the men, then brought basins of warm water and soap to bathe their emaciated and wounded bodies.

Two pink ladies with degrees in cosmetology heard about what was happening down in E.R. and volunteered to shave the men's hair and beards so their bodies could be treated.

Within hours of the rescue, all the victims' names had been released to the public, including the one who had died. The uproar of shock and dismay was citywide. The good citizens of D.C., who on an ordinary day would have complained about the homeless, came forward with every kind of offer imaginable.

Psychiatrists offered their services free. People with rental properties offered housing. Job offers abounded. Monetary donations were being taken at several downtown banks. The city hadn't pulled together in such a fashion since 9-11, and January wondered why it always took a tragedy for people to remember their fellow man.

Ben wouldn't leave her side, not even when she was being examined. The fact that she'd pulled off the rescue made him so proud of her, but he was still struggling with the fact that things had gotten so out of control that she'd almost died. He was the cop. He was the one who'd taken an oath to serve and protect, and he'd let her get in harm's way, and had nearly lost her. He still had nightmares of seeing Carpenter astraddle January, his hands around her throat. If they'd arrived even a single minute later, she would have died.

If January had been aware of Ben's state of mind, she would have told him to get over it. She'd been in charge of her own fate since the day she left home, and no one, even the love of her life, was ever going to tell her what she could and couldn't do. She'd said it at the beginning and still believed it was true. If she hadn't set herself up as bait, she would never have been able to live with herself.

Mother Mary Theresa was on the road to recovery, but another couple of days without a doctor's care and there might have been a different outcome. As for the others, the ones Carpenter called his disciples, January still couldn't think about them without crying. The extent of their suffering had been mind-boggling. That they hadn't given up was a testament to their courage, and she was making sure the world knew it.

For the first time in her life, January was on the other side of the camera, not as an unbiased reporter, but as one of the victims, and it was even harder than she'd expected.

She had announced to her bosses that the macabre film coverage of the men's concentration-camp appearance had been done and overdone. What she wanted the public to know was how special each victim was—how each one's journey through life had provided the strength of mind to survive. And she intended to speak about the wounded spirit of Matthew Farmer, who had succumbed.

 

Even as the victims were being treated and healed, Jay Carpenter's body was undergoing an autopsy. It surprised no one that he'd died from a single shot to the heart and that the tumor in his brain was no longer in remission. What the coroner couldn't explain were the odd burns and tiny blisters on his face.

Even as suppositions were being tossed around by cops and coroners alike, January knew why. That she chose to keep it to herself was of no consequence. She didn't have to be believed to be satisfied by the outcome.

Not in this case.

The irony was that when he'd been sick before, he'd signed papers indicating a wish to be cremated. That what was left of him was still going to be consumed by fire seemed oddly fitting.

 

January had been home for a couple of days, on leave from the job and suffering flashbacks from time to time.

Her cuts were healing, her bruises beginning to fade, although her throat was still terribly sore.

She'd made it her business to find out the fates of the others who'd been rescued, and for the most part was quietly pleased with what she had learned.

Thad Ormin had gone to home to Millie, his devoted and loving wife.

Simon Peters had returned to the shelter, along with both Jameses, who'd settled their differences, and the other Simon, who swore his addiction to alcohol had been cured.

An uncle from another city had seen the story on the news, recognized Andrew as his long-lost brother's boy and arrived to claim the big, simple man.

John Marino, who'd made his living digging through other people's trash for items he could recycle, was given a job with the D.C. Department of Sanitation.

Phillip Benton's wife had appeared on the third day after the story broke, with bus tickets to get both of them home to Kentucky.

Jude left D.C. the same day she was released. She packed her belongings, bought herself and Mitzi one-way tickets to Florida, and went home to the Keys. She'd grown up on a fishing boat working alongside her father, and although he was dead now, she still knew how to bait traps with the best of them, and vowed Mitzi had danced her last dance at a club like the Lesbo.

Once Tom Gerlich was healed and released from the hospital, he'd gone back to the streets and intentionally disappeared.

Mother Mary Theresa had given over the running of the shelter to others in the order and now spent her days at the convent, reading and praying.

Life returned to a semblance of normalcy, except for January. She hadn't told anyone, but she had yet to be rid of the man who had tried to be Jesus.

She kept seeing him on the streets, passing by in a yellow cab, turning a corner in the aisle of a supermarket as she was shopping, haunting her in her sleep.

She didn't understand it and had yet to tell Ben, although it was only a matter of time. He seemed to know her better than she knew herself. If she didn't tell him soon, he was going to figure out that something was wrong and press her until she told him anyway.

 

It was Sunday.

January had been up for hours, reading the Sunday paper and enjoying the quiet of the apartment while Ben still slept. He'd moved in with her over a month ago with, as he put it, an option to buy. He'd proposed marriage, and she'd accepted, but when it came to setting a date, she'd been the holdup. She didn't want to go into a new life with this man of her heart without getting rid of old ghosts.

Her problem was telling Ben they were there.

 

Ben woke up suddenly and reached for his gun before he realized where he was. He flopped back down on the pillow and exhaled in disgust. Whatever he'd been dreaming was gone, but the anxiety still remained.

He looked over at January's pillow, then felt the slight indentation where her head had been. It was cold. He frowned. He didn't know how long she'd been up this time, but he would lay odds it had been hours. There was something wrong with her. He just didn't know what it was, or how to get her to talk about it.

He lay without moving, listening for sounds to indicate what she was doing, and when he finally heard pages rustling, realized she must be reading the Sunday paper.

He rolled out of bed, grabbing a pair of jeans as he went, and headed for the bathroom. Minutes later he was out, freshly showered and shaved, with a hunger for his woman and his coffee.

She was sitting with her back to the hall when he entered the room.

“Hey, you. How long have you been up?” he asked, as he kissed the side of her neck.

January leaned into the kiss and smiled. He looked good on a daily basis, but just out of a shower with his hair still wet and wearing nothing but jeans was his very best look.

“Long enough. Coffee's in the kitchen. Come sit with me and I'll share the paper.”

“Sounds good,” he said, and went to get a cup. A few moments later he returned.

He sank onto the cushion at the other end of the sofa from where she was sitting, then turned to face her and put his feet in her lap.

She dropped the paper to the floor and, without thinking, began absently rubbing at his feet.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked.

“Umm,” he mumbled, as he swallowed a big sip. “How about you?”

January started to lie. She'd done it a dozen times before, but something inside her just switched.

“No.”

“Tell me,” Ben said.

For a few moments she sat with her head bowed, still rubbing the arches of his feet. Just when he thought he was going to have to prompt her again, she started to talk.

“Something's wrong with me.”

Ben's heart stopped, and when it started again, the beating was physically painful. He set his coffee aside and reached for her, pulling until she was sitting between his legs with her back resting against his chest, and his arms wrapped tightly around her.

“Are you sick, honey? Have you been to the doctor?”

“No. Not wrong like that,” she said.

“Then how?”

“It's in my head. I guess I need to see a shrink. Maybe it's just a little case of PTSD.”

“That's like being a little bit pregnant,” Ben muttered, then looked at her and grinned. “Which, from my standpoint, would be welcome news.”

She managed a smile. “Well, it's good to know you would welcome the event, but you can breathe easy. That isn't the issue.”

He shrugged. “Just letting you know. Just in case. So what is it, honey?”

January sighed, then relaxed. Everything seemed so much easier to face from the location of Benjamin North's arms.

“I think maybe I'm being haunted.”

He flinched. It was the last damn thing he had expected to hear, and, yet in a way, it shouldn't have surprised him.

“Carpenter?”

“Yes.”

“Bad dreams?”

“Yes, but that's not all. I think I see him all the time…like in the supermarket or driving down the street in a cab. Once I thought I passed him on the sidewalk, but when I turned to look, there was no one there.”

Ben frowned and tightened his hold. He couldn't believe she'd been going through this alone.

“You need to see someone,” he said. “Talk this all out and understand that what happened was not your fault.”

“It's not that,” she said. “I don't feel guilt. I don't know how to explain it, but it's almost as if…as if…” She slapped her leg and then covered her face with her hands. “God…this sounds crazy.”

“Say it, honey. After the way you cracked that case, I'm completely convinced you're anything but crazy.”

“Okay, then. Here goes, but don't say I didn't warn you. I think I keep seeing him because something has been left undone.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don't know,” she said. “He had such a big master plan. He was going to save himself from the depths of hell, but everything he did seemed to put him closer, not further away. I understand the doctors' explanations about the tumor making it impossible for him to tell reality from fantasy, or understand right from wrong. And I've been told that, in his mind, all the horrible things he did were completely logical.”

“Yeah…so?”

“So we condemned a sick man, didn't we?”

Ben frowned. “I never really thought of it like that.”

“Maybe he wasn't evil. Maybe it was just the symptoms of a horrible illness being manifested in an evil way. And if that's so, then would God blame the person, or forgive him because of the illness?”

“Lord, honey, you're asking the wrong person. I think you need to talk to a priest.”

January thought about it for a few minutes, then came to a different conclusion.

“I'll get help,” she said. “But I'm not going to talk to a priest. I'm going to talk to Mother Mary Theresa.”

“Want me to come with you when you do?”

“Maybe,” she said. “But if you do, would you just sit and listen without offering comments? I don't want to hurt your feelings, but this is something I have to work out for myself.”

Ben ached for her confusion, and for her fear that she would somehow hurt him in the process.

“Honey, you can't hurt my feelings, and I'll be more than happy to keep my mouth shut. Besides, religion isn't something I can discuss with any credibility.”

“Okay, then,” she said. “I'll give her a call.”

 

Mother Mary Theresa was waiting for them in the garden. She had a tray of tea and cookies on a table beside her chair, and her rosary wrapped loosely through her fingers as her hands lay motionless in her lap.