Mary Nealy - Ten Plagues

“It wouldn’t take that much. A couple of gallons to splash around and another gallon or so to make a bunch of Molotov cocktails, waiting for a spark to set them off,” O’Shea said. “According to the few gang members who would talk to us, they never went down to the basement. It was full of junk and the foundation was crumbling. Pravus could have brought the gasoline in early in the morning. He could disguise himself like a homeless man and no one would look at him twice, especially since the people who live in the house are stoned most of the time. No one is prowling around much—not in the morning. Two gallons at a time under a big coat. He could have done it in a couple of trips.”

“How’d he detonate it?” Keren reached for the report.

“They’re not sure yet, because everything was blown to smithereens.” O’Shea didn’t hand it over, evidently in the mood to be the center of attention.

“He might not use the same trick again,” Paul said as he tried to picture the bomb. Tried to figure out what he’d do if he saw one.

“Let’s hope we get him before we find out.” O’Shea looked the report over as he talked.

“We’ve got an ID on the cell phone. The couple who lost it only realized it was gone when a detective came to their house to ask about it. They keep it in the car for emergencies.”

“Are you sure?” Paul leaned forward. “How closely were these people questioned? Some serial killers work as a team.”

“We’re checking their backgrounds, but they’re in their late seventies,” O’Shea said. “They live in an assisted-living apartment complex on the North Side. She’s a retired social worker, he was an accountant for thirty-five years. They have six kids and seventeen grandkids. They pay their taxes, don’t get speeding tickets, and they host a Bible study in their home every Wednesday night. It’s just not them, Paul. No amount of stretching will make it fit. They’ve even got an alibi for the morning of the explosion. They’d gone with a group from their church on a boat ride out on Lake Michigan. We’re canvassing the area, hoping we can find someone who saw their car burglarized, but so far, nothing. They don’t have a clue how long their phone has been missing. We checked their call records, and the last time they made a call was two weeks ago to one of their daughters.”

On that note they all turned back to the files.

It was midnight and no one suggested leaving. They culled the stack to two dozen people in the area who were still among the living. Keren ran them through the computer, looking for current addresses.

She arched her back in her creaking desk chair. She tried to force her spine to bend into a straight line. “If the FBI were here, their profiler could maybe pare this list down further.”

She reached for a slice of cold pizza. One of the other detectives had taken pity on them and had one delivered.

O’Shea rubbed both hands over his eyes. “They’ll do that in the morning.”

“Morning is going to be too late for LaToya,” Paul reminded them darkly. He stood from his chair. “More coffee?”

Keren nodded and set the pizza aside. After two bites her appetite was gone.

O’Shea said, “It’s better than that syrup I bought yesterday afternoon.”

“Yeah,” Paul said sarcastically. “But it’s still lethal.”

“No argument there.” O’Shea went back to the files.

Keren said, “Was that just yesterday? It seems like a month ago.”

Paul gathered all three cups and went to the coffeemaker. The dregs in the pot were burned black. His stomach was boiling with the acid from the coffee and the tension of the night. He threw out what was in the glass carafe and started a new pot then went back to the chair he’d pulled up to the side of Keren’s desk.

When the sun began lighting an east window in the squad room, Paul rubbed his burning eyes. “I’ve got to go. That first package came early. And I want to be there to question the delivery guy. The one before had a uniform on but no company marking. He could have been hired privately, which means his company wouldn’t have a record of who ordered the delivery.”

“We’ve been through nearly all the files.” Keren closed the folder she was studying with a soft clap . “I’m going to send someone out to follow up on the possibles. The FBI will want to hit the ground running.”

She opened her desk drawer and produced two phones. “I’ve got a borrowed cell—besides the one I’ve got linked to your number. The FBI can call me if their profiler comes up with anything that might help. And here’s a spare one for you, Paul. Now we can stay in communication without messing up an incoming call from Pravus.”

Paul’s heart lurched as he tucked the little phone in his pocket with a trembling hand. “He’s going to do it again. Kill LaToya and do who knows what other act of terror.”

“We’ve staked out possible locations for this strike,” O’Shea said. “LaToya used to run with a gang. They don’t have such a well-known hangout as Carlo’s bunch. Pravus talked about her drug dealing. We are tailing some of her better-known clients and a couple of suppliers that might have been involved with her. LaToya had a record that gives us a lot of places to cover.”

“She was real hard core when I found her,” Paul said. He paused over the fond memory of LaToya and how far she’d come.

“I looked at her record.” Keren got up from her chair and stretched her back. “You worked a miracle to turn that girl around.”

“Not me. Pastor P doesn’t do miracles. Those are the sole dominion of God.”

“I agree. You should have gotten a few hours of sleep last night.” Keren took his arm and urged him to his feet.

“I couldn’t sleep, knowing that this morning I’d—”

“I know. That’s why I didn’t even suggest it. But, Paul, he wasn’t exactly careful with you last time. You barely survived that explosion. He’s glad to play with you, but he doesn’t seem to care all that much if you get killed in his chaos. You need to be on top of your game today.”

“No, I don’t. I just need to give my life over to God. That’s how I’ll survive. Or how I’ll die, serving Jesus Christ.”

“Good answer.” Keren patted him on the shoulder then jerked her head at the exit door. “Now get the lead out, Rev. We’ve got a murderer to catch and, just as I predicted, you’re a wimp who is slowing me down.”

That at least got his attention. He grinned. “Thanks, I needed that.” He started moving without her dragging him. By the time he hit the stairs he was jogging.

He was going into the mission alone. They’d agreed Keren couldn’t go with him. He had her spare cell phone to notify her if Pravus called. Paul would send her a text message of the location he was to deliver the expected sign to. Keren would then send CPD to the location to evacuate it.

Paul glanced back at her. She gave him a tiny, solemn wave, praying for LaToya, for himself, and for whoever would be the focus of Pravus’s wrath today.

Pravus looked through his telescope and saw the pretty detective drive the reverend up and let him out a block from the mission.

The reverend was here. He’d obeyed. The sense of power was intoxicating. The reverend was a puppet dancing on the end of Pravus’s strings.

With his telescope he studied the Fairest in the Land as she sat in her car. She wanted to be part of this.

Fine.

The beast felt intense pleasure to think of the pretty detective at his mercy.

LaToya lay motionless on the table. He didn’t know if she was sleeping or unconscious. He began another part of his creation. She woke up and struggled like a bug pinned to a board.