Ten Plagues

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.

CHAPTER EIGHT

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.

Pravus had never been so uncontrolled. He’d never cut himself this many times.

Father had taught him better than to show such a lack of restraint.

In the end, when Father died, Pravus had been in strict control the whole time.

He’d gotten here at six a.m. Stupid. No delivery was going to come that early.

He could have kept studying files. Paul kept the phone at hand as he took a quick shower and put on a clean sweat suit and gym shoes, getting ready to run. He thought of the last morning he’d taken a jog and dreaded what this day might bring.

There were a few people up and at work in the kitchen. Street people weren’t exactly early risers, but a few would stagger in all through the morning—Rosita, then Myrna, an older lady who never spoke a word but had a cooking style suited to a five-star restaurant. Of course, she didn’t exactly have the supplies to produce that kind of meal. She created magic with beans and hamburger, though.

Murray and Louie were both at work in the kitchen.

They did little more than grunt hello, though Murray waved with the spoon he was using to stir oatmeal and Rosita had her usual smile.

“I’m tied up again today. Sorry. Thanks for keeping things going.” Paul watched the bustle of the kitchen and wanted to be part of it. He wanted his life back.

He wasn’t getting it, at least not today.

The front apartment in this building was a quiet room where Paul could watch the neighborhood and spend time in prayer—where he had sessions with individuals, urging street people to sign up for the detox program. Now he went there to keep an eye out for the messenger who’d bring that package to the front door, right past this front window. Usually Rosita, or whoever was on duty, took anything that arrived and, if it was for Paul, tracked him down.

He settled in and turned to his Savior for strength. He let the peace of God ease into his mind and his muscles and his soul. He felt that ambitious, hard-driving, selfish part of himself loosen its grip.

There was every chance he might die today.

There was every chance LaToya might not survive.

By the time he was done praying, he knew God was in control.

He opened his Bible and read with a renewed spirit. He was still reading an hour later. He closed the Bible and asked God what next. Shortly after he asked, he hit a wall. Like a distance runner who’d gone too far, he ran out of steam. He didn’t consciously choose sleep. God chose it for him. He simply leaned forward and rested his head on the table, his Bible a pillow, and slept. His last waking thought was of Keren’s face. Had he seen her before?

The ringing phone jerked him awake. A thrill of fear jagged through him as he fumbled for it. He managed to drop it twice before he opened it. He made a note of the number on the liquid quartz display. It was the same one as yesterday.

“Just like old times, Reverend,” Pravus oozed. “I’m coming to enjoy our little visits.”

Paul began praying, trying to forget his fear and center himself on God. There was nothing else to do. The police were doing their best. The FBI would do their best. Paul was going to do his best. But in the end they were in God’s hands, the same as every other day. “Pravus, are you going to let me come and get LaToya? Are you going to let my people go?”

“Have you looked at the package?”

Paul hadn’t even thought of that. He’d been asleep. He glanced around and saw a package on the table next to where his head had rested. His name and address front and center. Written in blood. Someone, maybe Rosita, had quietly left it. He wondered how many precious seconds had been lost. If the address was inside the package, he could have had the police en route minutes ago.