Mary Nealy - Ten Plagues

The phone clicked. Paul read the address, knew exactly where he was going and why, dropped the photo on the table, and ran.

Rosita crept into the entry area of the mission, staying close to the wall. She slipped up to the table and snatched up the picture. She clapped her hand over her mouth at the ugly sight, then she produced yet another cell phone, the one that nice lady detective had slipped her last night. She called with the address.

With another fearful look at the picture, she gathered the pictures into the envelope Paul had left behind and took it into the kitchen with her. She prayed fervently as she carefully slid it behind a cupboard for safekeeping as Detective Collins had instructed her. With a faint heart because of what she knew her friend LaToya was going through, but a soul rock steady in the Lord Jesus Christ, who had pulled her out of a living hell, she went back to preparing breakfast.

Pravus watched the pastor run, then he turned back to the mission for one last glance. Through the front window he saw little Rosita, so happy, so helpful, so terribly soiled, take his package.

He’d planned to involve her eventually, but he was pleased she’d volunteered.

Then he swung his binoculars back toward the pastor. He couldn’t see Pastor P every second, but he’d picked this place to live because his view was so ideal. Rather than try to pick out the running man, he just watched the doorway of the house where the good pastor was destined. Maybe this time he’d meet his end.

If so, Pravus would savor it. If not, there were many more people who needed to be shrouded with purity. And many more pictures for Pravus to paint.

Keren grimly took the message and phoned every car in the vicinity, and there were plenty of them. The fact that it wasn’t Paul who called made her angry. What did the man plan to do on his own?

Pravus had no doubt come up with some very creative threats. Even though she’d expected it, planned for it, Keren was furious. She was a lot more comfortable with fury than with being scared to death.

The crack house Pravus had chosen to hit wasn’t far, and Paul would no doubt beat them there. Keren went in quiet, no sirens. Nothing to draw attention to herself.

A demon was watching. She knew with God on her side, no one could stand against her.

Paul set some kind of land speed record running to Ahmad’s house.

His ribs were punishing him for it, but they didn’t even slow him down. He was up against big trouble with this destination.

There would be no one trying to kill him in this place. In this house they’d all be sleeping off a night of drugging. He wasn’t going to be able to get them out in time. He had to stop the explosion. Racing against time, he prayed with every step. He only hoped Pravus had used the same method to vent his rage. Paul had given some thought to defusing a bunch of gasoline bombs. But if Pravus chose another, more elaborate explosive, Paul was going to die along with a house full of people.

He hesitated for one second before he simply set the sign on the ground against the house; then he went in and began opening doors, looking for a way to the basement. Unlike Carlo’s place, this was a house, not an apartment building. It was part of a row of ancient, decrepit houses that lined this block. Paul knew if this house went, the whole row would go. But it wasn’t a very large house. It didn’t take him long to find the way downstairs.

The smell of gasoline hit him the second he opened the door. He ran down the stairs and froze in horror. Every support post in the murky cellar had a gallon glass jar taped to it. A couple of inches of yellow gasoline showed in each jar, all of which had been plugged with red rags. Wires, stripped of their insulation, with two ends frayed and bent just sparking distance apart, ran into every jug and dangled inches above the gas. The wires ran to every light socket in the basement, waiting for a spark to ignite the tightly enclosed fumes. The walls glistened from being soaked with gas.

Paul looked desperately for a fuse box and saw nothing. He ran for the first light sockets. There were no bulbs in them. Instead a converter had turned the socket into an outlet with four plug-ins. Pravus had plugged in a bomb. Paul jerked the plugs out of the first socket, careful not to strike a spark in his hurry. He got all four of them out and ran on to the next converted socket. When he grabbed it, the light fixture pulled out of the ceiling. Its corroded wires nearly broke off in Paul’s hand. Paul forced himself to slow down. If he broke a wire he might set the bomb off without any help from a murderer. He gently disconnected the bomb wires from the power source.

Gas fumes thickened the air. He went to the next socket and the next and the next. He pulled the last plug free just as his cell phone rang.

“How dare you toss my sign on the ground like so much trash, Reverend? For that alone I’ll declare this effort of yours a failure.”

Paul looked around, trying to see anything he missed in the room. The only light filtered through dirt-encrusted windows. At that second Keren came running down the stairs. Paul wanted to shout at her to get out. Get away. But he was starting to know Keren well enough to not waste his time. He pointed at the light fixtures, hit the MUTE button on the phone, and said, “Look for any other plug-ins. Look for a fuse box. I don’t know what else he might’ve hooked up wires to.”

Keren began checking corners and behind rubbish.

“Your time is up,” the voice sang.

Paul unmuted the phone. “No, Pravus, they’ve agreed. They’re going to let your people go, just as you asked.”

Keren glanced over at him with her brow furrowed. Paul shrugged helplessly.

Keren went on with her search. Paul walked the edges of the basement, checking every socket, every outlet.

“No, Reverend, scum like that never learn. They never change.”

Keren pulled the electric wires out of the jugs, then she looked behind a rusted-out furnace and a pile of toppled boxes and gasped with shock.

She hissed at Paul, “Keep him talking; there’s another socket behind this junk. I’ve disconnected it from the bomb, but I’ve got to unplug the cord. Even a spark could set this whole place off.”

Paul followed her to the dusky corner. All the while he kept talking, trying to buy her the time she needed as she scrambled over the debris. “They believed you, Pravus, and they fear you. I told them your people have been enslaved long enough. Come in here, Pravus, come and see how you’ve humbled them. Your message reached Pharaoh, just as Moses’ message did. It worked.

They’re going to let your people go.”

Keren slipped out of sight. Paul had to clench his jaw to keep from yelling at her to get out—save herself and let the building blow. Instead, he stood and listened to Pravus like a useless bystander.

“Do you think I’m a fool, Reverend? I don’t like to be treated as if I’m a fool.”

Paul leaned back and saw Keren wrestling with the plugs. The crackle of sand crumbling off the cement walls told Paul just how quickly and utterly this place would collapse if Keren didn’t get that connection broken in time.

“The trash in that house will die. LaToya will die. This time you will die along with them.”

Pravus hung up.

Keren pulled out the last stubborn plug. A snapping erupted from every outlet in the basement. But no sparks. Paul held his breath. The fumes didn’t ignite.