“Why don’t you”—Keren turned and met Dyson’s spooky blue eyes directly—”use whatever ability you have to profile Pravus instead of trying to pick up messages from every tiny expression that flicks across my face? Or is reading minds some trick you do to win bets in a bar?”
Dyson kept staring.
Higgins sat watching, too. Keren decided she’d had enough of it.
“Maybe if I wasn’t running on little to no sleep for the last few days I could enjoy being stared at. I’d enjoy having my faith sneered at. I’d enjoy listening to you mock a man who has committed his life to helping people in need.” Keren rose from her chair. “Yes, he preaches a sermon. He’s trying to give them more than a meal that will last a few hours. But no one is denied food if they refuse to stay. If you don’t have anything to say about the case, then I’m going to try to get some sleep.”
“One more thing before you go, Keren.” Higgins spoke mildly again, but he might as well have shouted at her to stop.
“What is that?” Keren turned to face him.
“We’ve listened to the tapes. You have to know Pravus has you in his crosshairs. It’s very possible he sees you as one of his potential victims.”
“Wow,
“We expect cooperation from local law enforcement agencies, Detective.”
“And you sometimes don’t get it, is that your point?”
“I’m not talking about sometimes. I’m talking about now, and I’m not seeing much of it from you.” Higgins’s golden eyes had seemed so attractive and contained such strength when she’d met him earlier. Now they repelled her. Between his rudeness and his crude remark about the mission’s outreach and the contempt he held for the homeless, she was fed up.
“And why do you think I’d hesitate to work with you? What possible reason could I have? I’ll bet you don’t even need Dyson reading my mind to get the answer to that. Unless you’re both idiots, you should get it loud and clear.”
Dyson stared. Higgins stood as if he needed to be on the prowl. Neither of them answered.
“Good night, gentlemen. If I have any spare time tomorrow, maybe I can stop in again to be insulted for things that have nothing to do with this case. I’m sure it never gets old … for you.” Keren left the room, closing the door behind her with a firm
The lousy bed made it easy to get up early.
She ran home to shower and change. As she entered her apartment, a chill went up her spine. She’d known Pravus was possibly going to target her, even hoped for it so they could get him. But now Higgins’s voice haunted her. It made her furious that her own home spooked her. Stepping into the main room, she suddenly saw all that was wrong about her apartment. She was savvy about personal safety, but she lived in a decent neighborhood and hadn’t ever worried much.
The building had a secure entrance. But she was on the ground floor. It wouldn’t exactly take a CIA agent with cat burglar skills and high-tech electronics to get in. Access could be gained with a hammer slammed through her patio window, for heaven’s sake. And there were bushes and shade trees on the side where her glass patio doors were. There was a stylish streetlamp back there, but it was more for show than illumination. The shrubs and trees shrouded the area in darkness.
Now, in full daylight, she stood for a moment, looking out in that pretty little green space. She’d always loved it. It had helped sell her on this apartment. Now it scared her and she hated that. Hated knowing she was vulnerable and that, along with her own danger, she might bring danger to her neighbors.
She’d already known she might be a target, but she didn’t think it was her time yet. Not while Pravus was busy pouring out his madness on poor LaToya.
Rushing through getting dressed—to get out of an apartment she’d enjoyed for the last few years, she didn’t put on church clothes. They’d be badly out of place at the mission. Only now, several days too late, did she realize that she should have been hanging around the mission from the first, trying to sense that demonic presence. It irritated her a little that Higgins and Dyson had helped her realize that. She wanted to believe their presence was a waste of taxpayer dollars.
So, though she’d already decided she wanted to listen to Paul preach, now she was going for another, less honorable reason—a cop reason. She hoped Paul didn’t realize it. Or if he did, he didn’t blow a gasket.
She wore khaki slacks, a polo shirt, and her best shoes. Nikes. One of the rules she lived by was that she never put anything on her feet that wouldn’t allow her to chase a fleeing criminal or run for her life.
She got to the Lighthouse Mission in time for breakfast. Paul was on the business side of a counter covered with steaming stainless steel pans.
“Hi, come to help?” He saluted her with a spatula.