The Chosen Page 2

With the windshield wipers swishing back and forth in January’s line of vision, she thought back to the disaster that had brought them together.

  It had been snowing for hours, which was frustrating for the crime scene investigators, because the snow had covered up whatever clues might have been left behind that might help them find out who had killed Mandy Green.

  She hadn’t taken up much space in the world, and what space she had had been what nobody else wanted. Now she was dead—raped and strangled, although the coroner couldn’t say which had come first. What was newsworthy about the murder of this particular hooker was that, according to the ID Mandy Green had in the purse beneath her arm, she was only twelve years old.

  Benjamin North had been assigned to the case. What he hadn’t known until his arrival at the scene was that the victim was a child. Granted, the child was wearing a faux fur coat and knee-high white boots, but that was all.

  When he lifted the blanket to look at the body, he stilled, too shocked to let go, too numb to look away. Her baby lips were smeared with a dark red lipstick; her wide, sightless eyes were a clear, pure green. Her hair was red and curly and wet from the snow in which she was lying. But it was her pale, childlike body that knocked him for a loop. She had buds where her breasts were meant to be, and a small thatch of pubic hair that had just begun to grow. One leg was lying at an awkward angle, and her right arm had been flung over her head, as if the attacker had shoved it out of the way to do his deed.

  “Jesus,” Benjamin whispered, and then dropped the blanket and turned away.

  His hands were shaking and his stomach was rolling. He could handle anything but kids. They got to him every time. He lifted his head and took a deep breath, hoping the blast of cold air would clear the horror from his mind. As he did, he noticed that a news crew was already here.

  “Damn vultures,” he muttered, as his control shattered.

  He strode past crime scene investigators, street cops and a waiting ambulance, ready to do battle. He rounded the bumper with a fight on his mind and found no one to fight.

  The camera crew was nowhere to be seen. He turned abruptly, expecting to see them across the parking lot, getting film of the victim. The only people he could see were the crew from CSI and a couple of patrol cops.

  It wasn’t until he started to walk away that he heard someone on the other side of the hedge, crying. He walked around it, then froze.

  He knew who she was. Everyone knew January DeLena. But he’d never seen her like this.

  “Lady, you’re not supposed to be here,” he said gruffly.

  January flinched. She hadn’t heard him walk up, and she wasn’t in a mood to talk. She raised her head and then swiped at the tears on her face before turning around.

  Oh perfect. It’s North. I don’t need any more grief right now.

  She meant to argue, to state her rights to get the facts of a story—her usual freedom of speech and press argument. But when she opened her mouth, her sorrow betrayed her.

  “Did you see her?” she cried. “She’s only a child.” A huge, hiccuping sob came out between an inhale and an exhale as she threw her arms up in the air and then hit the trunk of a tree with the flat of her hand. “Where is God when things like this happen?” She spun angrily, her face streaked with fresh tears. “You’re the detective. You tell me!” she cried. “Where is God now?”

  Ben was stunned by her rage. It was like looking at a mirror image of what he was feeling. When she turned on him, he acted without thinking. He grabbed both her arms at the wrists and pushed her against the tree she’d just hit.

  “Stop it,” he said. “You don’t want to hit me. You could get arrested for assaulting an officer.”

  She looked up at him, but saw nothing but a blur through her tears.

  “Why don’t they get her out of the snow? It’s fucking freezing, and they’ve let her lie in the snow like a piece of trash.”

  Ben felt her pain. Without thinking, he pulled her into his arms. She fought him, pushing and moaning and trying to get free. He dodged blows and turned a deaf ear to her curses as she wailed at everything from God to the lowest lizard, and still he held her. And when she wore herself out from the grief and the rage, he took out his handkerchief and wiped the tears from her face—and then kissed her.

  It wasn’t anything planned, and if he’d had his head on straight, it wasn’t anything he would ever have done. But he was as appalled by the waste of the brief life as she was and it seemed natural to give comfort to another grieving soul.

  Too stunned by the taste of him on her lips, she didn’t move. But when reality began to click in and she knew this wasn’t part of some dream, she slid her arms around his neck and wholeheartedly kissed him back.

  She had a vague memory of unbuttoning his coat and sliding her hands beneath his sweater to the warmth of his skin before they both gasped and then stepped back.

  There was a long moment of silence in which they stared at each other in disbelief. Then, without saying a word, January picked up her tote bag and disappeared.

  By the time Ben came to his senses and walked out from behind the hedge, the news van was driving away.

  “That did not happen,” he muttered, and then headed back toward the crime scene to finish his job.

  Someone honked a horn.

  January reacted with a jerk as she was thrust back into the here and now. Her fingers tightened around the steering wheel as Ben passed beyond the glare of her headlights. Still she watched him, eyeing his rain-slicked hair and the weary set of his shoulders, and wondered where he’d been when he’d gotten the call to come out. Had he been wrapped in some sweet woman’s arms, or had he been sleeping alone? Even though she watched him until he disappeared into the shadows, there were no answers to satisfy her curiosity.

  Finally the traffic cleared and she was able to get home. As she pulled into the parking lot at her apartment building, she saw that all the spaces in front of the place were taken. That meant driving behind the building, which she hated. The security lights were few and far between, and the parking was allocated between a half-dozen Dumpsters. When she circled the place and realized the only vacant spot was right beside an overflowing trash bin, she stifled a curse.

  She parked and got out, her nose wrinkling in disgust from the odor. Ignoring the rain that persistently fell, she sidestepped some garbage that had fallen out onto the concrete, then made a run for the back door.

  As she ran, it occurred to her that the parking lot in this upscale neighborhood didn’t smell all that different from the area of the city Marjorie Culver called home. But that was where the similarities ended.

  Letting herself in with a passkey, January breathed a sigh of relief as the security door locked firmly behind her.

  The hallway was wide and well-lit, and led directly to the elevators in the front lobby. The faint scent of pizza emanating from someone’s apartment reminded her that she’d skipped dinner, and made her wish she’d had the foresight to pick up some takeout on the way home.

  Still, when she finally let herself into her home, food was the last thing on her mind. She locked the door and then began undressing as she walked through the rooms, leaving a trail of sodden clothes on her way to the bathroom. Despite the mild June weather, the rain had chilled her all the way through. The warm jets of water from the shower felt like liquid silk on her skin. She stayed until the chill was gone from her body, then got out and dried quickly. By then, her limbs were starting to shake. She crawled into bed, remembered to set the alarm, and pulled the covers up around her shoulders as her head hit the pillow. Within seconds, she was asleep.

  Benjamin North was a fifteen-year veteran of the D.C. police force. He’d seen his share of blood and gore, and had become callous to most of it. But there were times, like tonight, when he wished to hell and back that he’d stayed in Montana on the family ranch, like his father had wanted. Tonight, he would rather be facing a mountain lion barehanded than have to tell the parents o
f the young woman who’d been found dead on the side of the highway that she’d been beaten to death before being set on fire. And the only reason they knew this for a fact was that the boy who’d been with her was still alive—barely—to tell the tale.

  He glanced back at the scene of the crime one more time, giving away none of the emotions he was feeling as the crime scene investigators began packing up their things. The coroner had come and gone, taking what was left of Molly O’Hara with him. The ambulance that had sped off earlier was racing against time to get Molly’s boyfriend into surgery before he bled out on the rain-soaked thoroughfare.

  Ben shuddered, then angrily shoved his fingers through his hair, combing the wet strands back from his face as he glanced around for Rick Meeks, his partner. Meeks was still interrogating two passersby, who’d been the ones to call 911. When Rick looked up, Ben waved him over. Moments later, Rick made a quick dash through the rain to their car.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “We’ve got an ID on the dead girl,” Ben said. “The boy’s parents have been notified and are en route to the hospital where he’s being taken.”

  “Does she have any next of kin?” Rick asked.

  Ben nodded. “Mother and father about thirty minutes from here. We have the go-see.”

  His partner grimaced. “Damn, I hate this part of the job.”

  Ben nodded in agreement. “I do, too, so let’s get this over with.”

  They got in the car without speaking. Ben rechecked the name and address the injured boy had given him, then made a U-turn in the street. It was two forty-five in the morning, and he still had to break a mother’s heart before he could go home.

  Jay Carpenter braked for a red light. Out of habit, he glanced up into the rearview mirror, checking the traffic behind him. Between the rain and the time of night, the streets were almost deserted. His gaze slid from the view through his back window to the reflection of himself in the mirror. His appearance was completely different from the way he’d looked after being released from the hospital. His resurrection had changed his focus in life. He neither looked nor behaved the same way he had before.

  The Off Duty sign on his yellow cab was lit up, but it didn’t stop two hookers on the opposite corner of the intersection from hailing him. Their clothes were plastered to their bodies and the overabundant makeup they were wearing was running down their faces like wet paint. Even though he was bone-tired and wanting nothing but a warm bed, when the light turned green, he drove through the intersection and then pulled to the curb and picked them up.

  His nose wrinkled as they piled in the back seat. Despite the makeup and clothes they were wearing, they couldn’t have been more than twenty. One of them had a black eye. He could tell because part of the makeup she’d put on to hide the bruising had washed off in the rain. The other one was shaking—obviously in need of a fix—and they both smelled like stale cigarettes and sex.

  “Thanks a bunch,” Black-eye said.

  “Yeah, thanks,” Druggie echoed.

  “God bless you,” Jay said.

  They both seemed startled that his accent was so obviously American. His long ponytail and full beard gave him a foreign appearance.

  “Yeah, sure, thanks,” Black-eye said, then rolled her eyes at her friend and stifled a giggle.

  “Where to?” Jay asked.

  Druggie gave him an address. Jay pulled away from the curb without turning on the meter. Both girls noticed it and then shrugged.

  Jay saw the byplay but chose to ignore it.

  “Do you know Jesus?” he asked.

  Black-eye looked as if he’d just spat in her face, but Druggie laughed aloud.

  “Yeah, I think I gave him a blow job last week.”

  Black-eye frowned.

  “Shut up, Dee-Dee. That isn’t funny.”

  Druggie, who he now knew as Dee-Dee, shrugged and lit up a cigarette.

  “Oh, screw you, Phyl. Don’t get uptight with me,” Dee-Dee said.

  Phyl unconsciously stroked the purple-and-black bruise beneath her eye, then turned and stared out the window without answering.

  Jay wondered what she was thinking and then wondered how they’d come to this place in their life. He felt sad for them, remembering his own downfall and how fortunate he was that he’d been given a second chance to rectify his sins.

  He stopped for another red light, although there wasn’t another car in sight.

  “Come on, mister. We’re beat,” Dee-Dee said. “No one’s coming. Drive through.”

  “The laws of God weren’t made to be broken,” he said softly.

  Dee-Dee snorted. “God didn’t have anything to do with traffic lights.”

  “God is everywhere,” Jay answered.

  “Crap, mister. What are you…some Jesus freak?”

  “I’ve been to hell. I don’t want to go back,” he said.

  “Yeah, well, we live in hell, so step on the gas and get me there fast. I’ve had enough of your shit.”

  “I’ll pray for you,” Jay said a few minutes later, as he pulled up to the curb of the address they’d given him, and stopped. “Go with God,” Jay added.

  “Whatever,” Dee-Dee said, and slid out of the back seat.

  But the girl with the black eye wasn’t as callous.

  “Thanks a lot,” she said, then added, “Dee-Dee didn’t mean anything by what she said. She’s just had a hard time in life.”

  Jay eyed the purple-hued bruise on her face.

  “Go home,” he said.

  “We’re already there,” Phyl said.

  “No. Not here. Go back where you came from.”

  This time, she was the one who laughed in his face.

  “So my mother’s old man can fuck me for free again? I don’t think so. At least out here I get paid.”

  She slammed the door and dashed through the rain into the apartment building.

  Jay sat for a moment, listening to the rain hitting the windshield. As he sat, pain suddenly struck behind his right eye. It was so sharp and so unexpected that he grabbed his face in reflex, as if it had been dealt a blow. He doubled over the steering wheel, wondering if he would draw another breath. Slowly, slowly, the pain subsided and he was able to look up. When he did, his sight was blurred, and for a moment he feared he was going blind; then he realized it was only rain obliterating the view.

  He was struck with an overwhelming sadness. So it had begun. The doctors had warned him it would. Panic hit him like a fist to the gut. He had hoped for more time. He wasn’t ready.

  Then he reminded himself that he wasn’t the one in charge. So what if he wasn’t ready? That didn’t mean he couldn’t get that way fast. Satisfied that it wasn’t too late, he put the car in gear and slowly drove away.

  Even after he got home to his one-room apartment, he felt a sense of urgency. Memories of the symptoms of his previous illness began pushing at the back of his mind. So far these symptoms weren’t as severe, but he felt off-kilter. What if he didn’t live long enough to offset the sins of his previous lifestyle? He’d been preaching and trying to do good to his fellow man, but now he felt it wasn’t going to be enough. The panic that ensued left him weak and shaking. He didn’t want to go to hell.

  “God help me. What do I do?”

  The answer came as a thought, soundless, quiet, but affirming.

  Live as I lived.

  Two

  January was getting ready for a live on-the-spot interview with a man who, only an hour earlier, had rescued a woman and child from the Potomac River. She glanced at her watch. In less than three minutes, they would be live on the air, but the hero of the moment was still throwing up, due to what he called an unfortunate side effect of stress.

  “January, two minutes and counting,” Hank, the cameraman, said.

  She glanced at the backside of the man puking in the bushes, and rolled her eyes.

  “How are we doing?” she asked.

  The man shuddered, then turned around.
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  “I’m sorry, Miss DeLena. This will pass, I promise you.”

  “We’re on the air in two minutes. Is there anything I can get you that might help settle your stomach?”

  He shrugged, then wiped a shaky hand across his face.

  “Sometimes something salty helps.”

  January grinned, tossed her microphone to Hank and raced to the news van for her purse. Moments later she was back, carrying a pack of salted nuts. She tore into the pack and shook a couple into the man’s hands.

  “I don’t know if I’d be eating anything just yet if I were you, so why don’t you just suck the salt off of them and then spit them out?” she suggested.

  “Yeah, right,” he said, and shakily popped the nuts into his mouth.

  To January’s relief, the salt began to work. By the time they went on air, the hero of the moment was standing steady beside her, recounting the events. As soon as the interview was over, January thanked the man and followed Hank to the van.

  “Good job, January,” Hank said.

  “Thanks, Hank, same to you.”

  “Hell of a thing he did, jumping into the river like that.”

  “Yes, and not once, but twice. First the child, then the mother.”

  Hank nodded. “Yeah, and he says he can’t swim.”

  January slid into the seat and dropped her bag onto the floor.

  “Fear does strange things to people,” he stated.

  January leaned back in the seat as her thoughts slid elsewhere.

  “And sometimes fear makes people do strange things,” she muttered. “Let’s go, okay?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Hank said.

  It was just after three in the afternoon, and the first time Ben and Rick had a chance to eat some lunch. They’d stopped at a little place called Jerry’s Java, but not for the coffee. The coffee sucked, but the burgers were good.

  Rick pointed to the television mounted on the wall above the diner counter.

  “Hey, North, get a load of this.”

  Ben was reaching for the salt when he looked up. His gaze landed on the woman’s face hogging most of the screen, and for a moment, he forgot to breathe.