The Chosen (7 page)

 

January was at her desk when she saw Kevin Wojak doing a live, on-the-spot piece from Bart Scofield's place of business. She stopped what she was doing to listen.

“…talked to him last. At the time, he stated he was in a cab and only minutes away from work. But Bart Scofield never reached his destination. It's been six hours now, and no word. Authorities fear the worst. At this point, no ransom demand has been made, but—”

January reached for a pen and paper, and wrote down Scofield's name. A man gone missing. There was nothing to indicate this had anything to do with the story she was following, although more and more street people were claiming that some of them were missing and had been for weeks. She would have bet a month's salary that no one had reported those people missing. Very few of the street people would willingly go to the law for anything.

Another man gone missing could be just a coincidence, but she wasn't going to blow it off until she checked it out. She needed to go back to the streets—see if she could find some help in putting names to the others. There might be a connection, there might not, but her reporter's instincts said there was. She just needed to find it.

She was still fiddling with her pen, drawing doodles on the paper around Scofield's name, when the phone rang at her desk. She answered absently, her mind still on the abduction.

“DeLena.”

“Hey, it's me, Ben.”

Her heart skipped a beat.

“I swear, Officer, I didn't do it,” January said.

He laughed in spite of himself. The real January DeLena was nothing like he'd imagined.

“Actually, that's not true,” Ben said. “You
are
guilty.”

January lowered her voice and slid into a fake Hollywood version of a gangster's moll.

“Okay, copper, you got me. So what is it I'm supposed to have done?”

He was still smiling. “I tried to remember if I'd thanked you the other night, and so, on the off chance that I hadn't, I'm thanking you now.”

“Thank me? For what?”

“I know I'm not your favorite person, but I'm real fond of living, so I'm thanking you for saving me when I was choking.”

“Oh…well, sure, although I think you already did. Thank me, I mean. Anyone would have done the same. I'm just happy it all turned out all right. I would have hated it to progress to artificial respiration without a little participation from you.”

Ben laughed out loud. She'd caught him off guard again.

“Yeah, well, if it's another kiss you want, I always pay my debts. Consider yourself warned.”

January's toes curled inside her shoes. She wished she had some measure of control when it came to Ben North, but she didn't. It was her opinion that facing one's weaknesses ultimately made one a better person. If this was true, then she was a good candidate for sainthood.

“I'll hold you to that,” she said, and then quickly changed the subject before she got in over her head and made a complete fool of herself. “Say…I don't suppose you've made any inroads into solving the murder of Jean Baptiste?”

Ben frowned. “You know I'm not going to talk about that.”

She sighed. “It never hurts to try.”

He grinned, then was glad she couldn't see him. Knowing January, she would view that as knuckling under.

“At any rate, I owe you one,” he said softly.

The rumble of his voice sent a shiver up her spine. “And I won't let you forget it, either.”

“I never thought for a minute that you would.”

“Okay…um, it was good to talk to you,” January said.

Ben started to say more, then saw his partner approaching and shut the conversation down quick before Rick found out who he was talking to.

“You, too,” he stated, then added, “Be careful out there.”

“Same to you,” January said, and sighed when she heard him disconnect.

 

Bart Scofield woke up in total confusion. He had no idea where he was or how he'd gotten there. The last thing he remembered, he'd been on his way to the office. His head was reeling, and his thoughts were fuzzy. He rolled from his side to his back and had started to stand up when he realized his movements were hindered. But by what?

It wasn't until he raised his hands that he began to panic. Iron bracelets encircled his wrists. Attached to the bracelets were two lengths of heavy chain, which in turn were attached to iron rings in the wall.

“What the—”

He scrambled to his feet and began yanking at the chains. The harder he yanked, the more frightened he became.

“Help!” he yelled. “Help! Help! Somebody help!”

To his shock, he began hearing voices—laughing, crying, shouting. The cacophony was too confusing to sort out what they were saying. All he knew was that he wasn't alone.

“Who are you?” he called. “Somebody…anybody…tell me your names.”

There was a brief silence, then a man spoke.

“My name is Simon…Simon Peters. What month is this?”

“Late July,” Bart said.

“Dear Lord,” he said. “It's been almost a month.”

“Hello,” another voice said.

“Who are you?” Bart called.

“My name is Andrew Warren Williams, but Mother calls me Andy.”

Bart frowned. The man sounded simple. What the hell was going on here that could explain this madness?

“Who is that?” he yelled. “Who's crying? Come on, man…talk to us. What's your name?”

“James, but everyone calls me Jim. Andy is my friend.”

“Who else is here?” Bart called out.

“Matthew Farmer…Airman First Class…799442013.”

“Don't bother him,” Simon said. “He's having a tough time here.” Then his voice broke, and he, too, began to cry. “Hell, we're all having a tough time.”

“Who did this?” Bart asked.

“The cabbie. It was the cab driver,” Simon said.

Bart frowned, trying to recall the man's face, but all he could remember was a long ponytail and a beard.

“But why?” Bart called out.

“He calls us his disciples,” Simon said. “He thinks he's Jesus.”

“What's going to happen to us?” Bart asked.

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

The hair on the back of Bart's neck stood on end as he listened to the captive repeating his name, rank and serial number. Obviously the man had once been a POW. What irony that he'd come back to the States, only to be subjected to what must, for him, amount to a living nightmare.

Bart didn't want to think about what was going to happen. He kept telling himself that people would surely be looking for them, and that they would surely be found before long. Then he remembered Simon's remark. He'd been here almost a month. Why hadn't they been found? Bart was religious about watching local and national news, and not once had he heard a mention of any missing men.

Slowly he turned, for the first time surveying his surroundings. The portable commode was obvious, as was a small table. He moved toward the only door in the room but was stopped by the chains at least six feet from the exit. There was a tiny window mounted up near the sixteen-foot-high ceiling, but it was so grime encrusted that only minimal light came in.

When Bart heard a rustling sound behind the commode, he flinched, then watched in horror as a large rat ambled out from behind the pot. Bart could see its nose twitching as it tested the air for scents, and wondered how in the name of God he was going to get out of this place alive. At the same time, it occurred to him that he might die in here. His stomach turned, and his knees went weak.

As the rat moved toward him, he backed up against the wall. One of the prisoners was whimpering. It took a bit for him to realize it was himself that he heard.

Finally the rat disappeared through the space under the door. Bart leaned against the wall, then slid all the way down to the floor. His head was throbbing, his heart pounding so hard he couldn't hear himself screaming.

But he was.

And the others heard.

Simon Peters cursed and turned his face to the wall, while in the room next to him, Matthew Farmer put his hands over his ears and began hammering his head against the floor.

James rolled into a fetal position and began to wail.

Andy didn't bother to join the manic chorus. Minutes before, he'd managed to catch one of the rats that infested the building, and now he was clutching it in both hands. As the other men screamed and cried, he grabbed the rat's neck and squeezed, harder and harder, until blood started coming out of the rat's nose and ears. When the eyeballs suddenly popped, he laughed aloud and threw it across the room.

 

Jay circled the block to his warehouse twice before he pulled around to the back and drove in. Even then, he sat in the cab without getting out, watching the opening in the rearview mirror, as well as scanning the large open space of the warehouse floor. Nothing had changed. Same stacks of wooden pallets. Same forlorn feeling of failure. Satisfied that all was as it should be, he opened the car door. But his sense of security quickly disappeared when he heard the racket coming from the other end of the building. He jumped out of the cab and started running, tracking the loudest wails to the room where his newest disciple, Bart, now resided.

Without taking the usual precautions, he unlocked the door with shaking hands and dashed inside. Bart Scofield's business suit was covered in blood. His nose was dripping blood, as were several cuts on his forehead. His wrists were bracelets of blood, with spreading bruises just visible beneath the once white shirt cuffs.

“Bartholomew…what's happened? What's wrong?”

Bart Scofield was past pain and out of his mind when he turned on the cab driver. Still running on the adrenaline of panic, he whipped one of the chains up in the air and then brought it down and around Jay's neck.

Jay managed one panicked squawk before he went down. It was instinct that made him grab at the chain with both hands, and it was the only thing that saved him from a broken neck. He felt a finger bone snap as the chain tightened, but it was that pain that saved his life. Without thought of what would happen when he let go of the chain, he bolted to his feet and dived headfirst at his latest disciple.

Scofield slipped on the puddle of urine in which he'd been standing and lost his hold on Jay as he went down. He landed flat on his back. His head snapped backward, hitting the floor with a sickening thud. After that, he didn't move.

Jay rolled off him, then sat up.

“Bartholomew…are you all right?”

Bart wasn't talking.

Jay nudged Bart's shoulder. When the man didn't respond, he moved a little closer and felt for a pulse. The only thing he felt was the trembling of his own hands.

“No,” Jay muttered, then got up on his hands and knees and tried again, to no avail.

He slid his hand beneath Bart's head, testing for a wound. At first he felt nothing; then something odd caught his attention and he thrust his fingers through the man's hair to the scalp, then beyond. Shocked, he yanked his hand back. It came away covered in blood and brain matter. Bart Scofield's skull was smashed.

Jay scooted backward like a crab, then scrambled to his feet. This wasn't supposed to happen. He rocked back on his heels, folded his arms across his chest, and began to sway back and forth. A moan slid from between his lips; then he let out a wail.

What did this mean?

Was God angry with him?

Had He taken Bartholomew because Jay had done something bad?

The niggling pain he'd been dealing with all day exploded into a full-blown blast at the back of his neck. He leaned forward until his forehead touched the floor. The scent of urine and blood and desecration filled his nostrils. He opened his mouth to pray and was only slightly surprised when he screamed instead.

He screamed until his throat burned and his voice was gone—until the shock and rage within him were spent. Only then did he allow himself to look at Bartholomew again. Jay's shoulders slumped. It wasn't a bad dream. It was true. The man was dead.

He covered his face with his hands as his mind ran the gamut of panic. What to do now? Only hours earlier it had seemed so simple—adding another disciple to the fold.

He dropped his hands in his lap and closed his eyes.

“Lord, You know I never meant for this to happen. You know I would never step off the path You trod. Help me, Lord. Tell me what to do.”

Jay sat for what felt like hours. Finally it was the cries from the others that brought him back to his senses. His face was expressionless as he took a key from his pocket and removed the chains from Bart Scofield's wrists. Jay's hands were steady as he grabbed Scofield by the feet and dragged him out of the room.