by Sharon Sala
“I don’t understand,” Jay cried, and lifted his hands toward the sky. “Lord, how could you let this happen?”
Someone laughed. Jay spun toward the sound. It was Simon Peters, and he was pointing at Jay.
“He doesn’t understand,” Simon said, speaking to the other captives, who were yelling and cursing and begging to be let free.
But Simon wasn’t done. “He doesn’t understand. Can you believe that? He doesn’t understand.”
He pointed at Jay again. “You lie, you crazy bastard, and the Lord doesn’t have anything to do with it. It happened because you chained him up and starved him, and you know it. Look at his wrists, you son of a bitch. The wounds have turned to gangrene, and there are maggots in the sores on his head. He’s been out of his mind for weeks, and you don’t understand how this could happen? Damn you! Damn you to hell!”
“Not that!” Jay screamed, and began staggering backward. “Not that! Not that! Never that!”
He stumbled over the threshold, then turned and started to run. He could hear Judas screaming to be let out and thought of the blood between his—no, not his, her—the blood between her legs. Nothing was going right. It didn’t make sense. The plan had been flawless.
His heart was pounding so hard and so fast that he couldn’t hear the sound of his own footsteps. The walls of the warehouse appeared to be moving in and out like bellows. When he looked toward the roof, the pigeons roosting overhead morphed into demons, staring down at him with smiling faces.
He screamed, then put his hands over his eyes. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.
He sank to his knees with his arms over his head, expecting to be devoured at any moment. But nothing happened. When he looked again and there was nothing there, he wailed. Not even the pigeons he’d imagined before.
His head hurt. It hurt so much these days. Nearly all the time. He needed quiet. He needed to pray. He needed to figure out what he’d done wrong, but the dull pain at the back of his neck was ballooning. By the time he reached his cab, his legs were refusing to work properly and his right arm had gone numb. He managed to get inside before he collapsed. Just as he rolled over onto his back in the front seat, his body began to convulse. The last thing he remembered was seeing a tear in the head liner and smelling feces.
January walked into the precinct wearing a pair of white slacks, a yellow camisole and a yellow-and-white waist-length jacket. Her hair was loose and her heels were high. Her red lipstick said, “Look at me,” and at the same time, the jut to her chin was a warning to the faint of heart to stay back.
Ben looked up when he heard a wolf whistle from the other side of the room. Then he saw January coming toward him and understood. However, it didn’t stop him from glaring at the file clerk who’d dared to whistle, which earned a grin from the clerk in return. Before Ben could comment, January was at his side.
“I’m here,” she said.
He eyed her appreciatively, then frowned.
“You sure are,” he said. “I don’t know about this outfit, though, honey. It’s a little drab. Don’t you think you could have dolled up just a little bit more…like, uh, oh…I don’t know…maybe stripping butt-naked and doing a Lady Godiva down Pennsylvania Avenue?”
January smiled. “Thank you. I try.”
He stifled a curse and took her by the elbow.
“So, let’s go into the captain’s office. They’re waiting for you there.”
“Who’s waiting for me?” January asked.
“Borger, Rick and two techies from surveillance.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’m ready.”
Ben looked at her, then looked away. “Just so you know, I’m never going to be ready for this.”
January slipped her hand into his. “I need to tell you something before we get started,” she said.
“What?” Ben asked.
“I’m so in love with you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you…but, I won’t be horrified if you don’t feel the same. Still I wanted to say it anyway…just in case.”
Ben’s vision blurred. He’d been waiting a lifetime to hear those words from the right woman, and the moment she’d said them, he knew she was the one. Even though he’d been feeling some of the same emotions himself, he hadn’t let himself put it into words, and now she’d gone and beaten him to it.
“Ah, honey, you humble me. You know that?”
She shook her head, but he could tell she was lying. She knew he was smitten, and suddenly he didn’t give a damn who was watching or where they were. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, then laid his cheek against the crown of her head.
“I would love to spend the rest of our lives together,” he whispered softly. “More than I can say, and what you’re about to do may just cost me my sanity.”
January put her arms around his waist, ignoring the whistles and cheers from the onlookers, and planted a long, slow kiss square in the middle of his mouth.
“I’m going to be fine. You’re going to see to that,” she said. “Now let’s get me wired. I have a news conference to do, and a couple of interviews with some reporters.”
“Hey, North!”
Ben looked up. Borger was standing in the doorway of his office.
“If you two are finished with the CPR lesson, bring her in here.”
“Yes, sir,” Ben said, then eyed her closely, admiring her determination. “Just so you know, I’m really proud of you, and I promise I won’t let anything happen to you, okay?”
January nodded. “I’m going to hold you to that.”
The interview she’d done at the television station had gone out live. Thanks to an understanding producer, as well as the owner of the station, they’d focused the entire feature section of the noon newscast on her. And even better, they’d found a way to work her full given name into the interview five times, as well as use it three times as taglines beneath pictures illustrating different phases of her life.
By now, the entire city of Washington, D.C., knew that their favorite on-the-spot television journalist had been born January Maria Magdalena in a little village outside of Juarez, Mexico, and raised in Houston.
With one newspaper interview finished and one left to go, January felt she’d covered all the bases. Now it was up to Jay Carpenter. If he was on the up and up about trying to relive the life of Jesus Christ, then he was definitely going to need a Mary Magdalene.
And after her trip to the D.C. police department, she wasn’t nearly as nervous about setting herself up as bait. The techies from the D.C. surveillance team had used a total of three tracking devices. One had been fastened to the inside of her bra. One was in a tube of lipstick in her purse, and the last one had been fastened to her car. They had also given her a tiny spray can of Mace for her purse.
They talked about her carrying a gun, but January told them that although she already owned one, if she had one in her purse but didn’t use it and Jay Carpenter found it later, it might alert him to the fact that he was being set up.
The whole purpose of the plan was to get herself taken to the place where he’d taken the others, and that wouldn’t happen if she pulled a gun. It was going to be up to the police to find her and, hopefully, the rest of the missing people, as well. She’d done all she could do. Now it was simply a matter of going through the motions and seeing if the Sinner took the bait.
Jay was wearing his last change of clothes and an attitude that was difficult to discern. Although there was a wild, angry gleam in his eyes, his manner was quiet, almost subservient.
When he’d come to in the cab only to find he’d shit his pants, it had been the last straw. He wanted this over. He needed it to be over before anything else went wrong. He still had hopes that he’d done enough good to outweigh the bad. After all, no one on earth was supposed to be perfect. People with the best intentions still failed from time to time. Some even faltered in their faith. They just needed to keep asking for forgiveness. That was what he kept te
lling himself. That was what kept him moving from place to place.
There had to be a reason why everything was unraveling. He just couldn’t put his finger on what it was. But he would. He hadn’t worked this long and hard only to have it all blow up in his face.
So when he dropped off his last fare and realized it was almost noon, he turned on the Off Duty sign and headed for a diner to get some food. He’d missed breakfast. He needed to eat something to be able to finish out the day, and right now, he couldn’t bear to think about facing what was waiting for him at the warehouse.
Jay’s choice of restaurant was dictated by the availability of a parking space, so he passed a half-dozen places before he saw one with an empty spot out front. That it happened to be a barbecue joint didn’t matter. He just needed to eat. He parked quickly and hurried inside. His plan was to grab a bite, then get back to the warehouse. He needed to get Matthew’s body and give it a proper burial. He wouldn’t let himself think of the pervasive anger within the group. They just didn’t understand how vital they were to God’s plan.
He slid onto a barstool at the counter and picked up a menu from between a pair of napkin holders.
“Coffee, mister?”
He glanced up. A waitress was standing in front of him with a coffeepot in one hand and a cup in the other.
He nodded.
She poured.
“Know what you wanna eat?” she asked.
“Chopped brisket sandwich with fries.”
“Hot or mild sauce?”
“Hot. On the side.”
She set a glass of water beside his coffee. “Comin’ right up,” she said, and hurried away to turn in his order.
Jay lifted the coffee cup to his lips, wincing when the first sip burned his tongue. He spooned a couple of ice cubes from his glass of water into the coffee, then stirred. The temperature was perfect.
Half a cup of coffee later, the caffeine had begun to kick in. Jay took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly. For a few moments he thought about getting back into the cab and driving it off the nearest bridge into the Potomac, then quickly shook off the thought.
Suicide was forbidden.
He couldn’t get to heaven that way.
He had to trust the process.
It would work.
It had to.
“Here you go, mister,” the waitress said, as she slid a plate in front of him. “Can I get you anything else?”
Jay scanned the plate, then pointed down the counter.
“Ketchup.”
She furnished his request and disappeared.
Jay shook the ketchup bottle, then squirted a good dose onto his fries and dug in. Halfway through his meal, someone yelled, “Hey, Trudy, turn up the volume. That’s January DeLena on the tube, and she’s hot.”
The waitress rolled her eyes, but she did as the customer asked.
The customer wasn’t the only one curious as to what January was doing on the noon news. Jay paused in the act of taking another bite as the sound came up. He didn’t recognize the interviewer talking to January, but he zeroed in on her and began to listen.
“…in Juarez, Mexico. So when did your family come to the United States?”
“When I was nine,” January said. “My maternal grandmother had been a resident of Houston, Texas, all her life, and when she died, Mother, who was a citizen of the U.S., too, inherited the property. We all moved back here, and the rest, as they say, is history.”
“Fascinating,” the interviewer said. “So what led you to this job?”
January laughed. “If you can believe it…a boyfriend.”
The interviewer laughed with her. “You’re kidding?”
“No. It was in college. He wanted to be in television and was taking classes to follow his passion. I followed him. The classes were great. He quit. I didn’t. End of story.”
“So that was the beginning for January Maria Magdalena.”
“Yes.”
“Since I’ve mentioned your given name, it might be interesting for our viewers to know when and why you shortened your name from January Maria Magdalena to January DeLena.”
“Well, it certainly wasn’t my idea,” January said. “It was at one of my earlier jobs, and the producer said it was too much of a mouthful. He actually changed it without my okay by introducing me on air one night as January DeLena. As furious as I was, he proved himself right. It stuck. However, I am fiercely proud of my Latino heritage.”
The interview went on, highlighting her recent award, but Jay didn’t hear it. His mind was in rewind. Now he knew why his plans were going awry. Jesus had had a Mary Magdalene. He needed one, too. Even more, she’d been right under his nose all the time. God had been trying to show him time and time again, and even though he knew he’d been drawn to her, he’d been oblivious to the clues.
But no more.
He dug into his pocket, pulled out some cash and tossed it on the counter before hurrying out into the sunlight. He paused on the sidewalk and inhaled deeply. It was going to be all right.
“Praise the Lord,” he muttered, then headed for his cab.
Mother Mary Theresa was lying on the cot in nothing but her shift. Her habit was folded on the only chair in the room, and her shoes and stockings were under it. Sweat had beaded on every inch of her skin, and her breathing was shallow. She ached in every muscle and joint, and was only faintly aware that she was not at the Sisters of Mercy.
Every now and then she thought she could hear someone crying. It sounded like Joseph. She needed to get up and see to him, but her legs didn’t seem to want to work. She kept telling herself that she would rest just a little bit longer, then get up. But time passed and the sounds dissipated, and still she didn’t move.
The small ray of sunlight coming in through the window near the ceiling began to fade. Shadows lengthened. The room darkened and finally night came to Mother Mary T., marking the end of her second day in captivity.
Twenty
Jay didn’t make it back to the warehouse until after dark. He thought about removing Matthew’s body, then changed his mind. He needed more light than what a lantern would provide. Besides, one more night could hardly hurt. Matthew was already in a better place. All that was left was a shell.
Now that he’d convinced himself of that, all he needed to do was point that out to the others. He wanted to talk to Mother Mary, but there were no sounds coming from inside her room, and he didn’t want to wake her, so he bypassed her door.
The others had been without food and water all day. They had to be tended, and he was ready. He couldn’t wait to see their faces when they realized what he’d brought them. Chicken dinners with all the fixings, compliments of the supermarket deli where he usually shopped. He wished he’d come earlier so that Mother Mary could enjoy her meal, too, but he would just save it for tomorrow. She could have it for breakfast.
He set one for her in his ice chest, then took the others, picked up a large fluorescent flashlight and started the long walk down.
He paused in front of the barred door and took out one dinner.
Judas.
No. Jude.
God had led him to this woman, so he had to believe it wasn’t a mistake. He removed the bar, took the dinner and the lantern, and opened the door, then flashed the light in her face.
Jude was lying on her side. She’d pulled her pants back up to her waist, but they were still undone, revealing a bulge of fat and muscle. The blood from her menstrual cycle had soaked through her jeans and onto the floor.
Jay looked away.
“If you haven’t come to let me go, then get the fuck out of my face,” Jude said.
Jay could tell she’d been crying. Her eyes were almost swollen shut, and her nose was red. Her condition was at such odds with her appearance that he couldn’t quit staring. Then he remembered why he was there.
“You must be hungry. I brought you some food. It’s a chicken dinner.”
Jude pushed herself up from t
he floor and then held up her hands. In the dark, the palms looked black.
“You see this?” she said. “It’s blood. You think I’m going to put food in my mouth with hands that look like this? Get out,” she said. “Get the fuck out and don’t come back.”
The absence of emotion in her voice undid him.
“You can wash your hands with some of your water. I’ll get you some water.”
“All I can smell is my blood. Get that food out of here before I puke. I mean it. Get the fuck out of the room, wacko!”
Even though Jay was supposed to be the one in charge, he felt helpless in the face of her disgust. He backed out of the room, still carrying the chicken dinner, and then, almost as an afterthought, replaced the bar on the door.
“Fine,” he muttered, as he turned toward the blast furnace. “At least the others will be appreciative.”
He stepped into the opening and was hit with a smell that nearly gagged him. He swept the room with the flashlight and then gritted his teeth.
“Who’s sick?” he asked.
“Four of us,” someone said. “We’ve all got the shits, and Matthew is rotting. Go to hell.”
Jay’s pulse kicked.
“Don’t say that,” he said. “I told you never to say that.”
“So what are you going to do about it?” another asked. “Kill us?”
A titter of laughter filtered through the space, shocking Jay by the fury it held.
“I brought all of you chicken dinners.”
“Shove them up your ass. Or better yet, bend over and let me.”
Jay swept the light across the faces staring back at him. Dirt and whiskers marked every one, as well as numerous weeping sores. Rattled, he set the sack of dinners down and then toed it toward the man closest to the opening.
“You pass them around,” he said.
“James is unconscious,” Tom said. “Has been for hours. Probably be dead by morning, too, so if you want to get rid of your chicken dinners, take off the lids and leave them on the floor. It’ll give the damn rats something to eat besides Matthew.”