Ten Plagues

“That’s a little far north. He seems to be working in this area.”

“Yeah, but his stunt with that bloody pond was a cry for attention. And you managed to tone it down so the press didn’t even mention it. He might go outside the area if he thought it would get him the spotlight he craves.”

“I can ask about Lincoln Park.”

Paul began shepherding her back into the mission. “I know Chicago PD, they’re all dying to stop this nut before he makes a career out of attacking this city. We could probably get a boatload of officers to volunteer—maybe they’d even forego overtime.”

“Okay, we can try.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The frogs died in the houses, in the courtyards and in the fields. They were piled into heaps, and the land reeked of them

.

Pravus packed them carefully, almost sad to say good-bye to his second plague. He dressed LaToya in the shroud with care, took a long, loving look at the painting he’d created, then he hoisted her still form into his car trunk and waited for darkness.

She hadn’t moved for hours now. He had been boiling with rage when his explosion didn’t happen and the reverend wasn’t able to get them to let his people go. The beast within him drove him to his most exquisite creation yet and he’d needed everything LaToya could give to make it perfect.

He had an odd moment of wondering when the beast had first come—when the voice had first spoken and given him strength. At first, the beast had the voice of his father. But it was different now. It had become a snarling, wolfish howl.

The noise only quieted when Pravus was under complete control of himself, and that came when he created. He turned his attention to LaToya for a moment.

She slept.

He was always frustrated when his sculpture wouldn’t be still, but her motionlessness was boring. Perhaps he’d taken too much, perhaps his rage had reigned over the artist this time, which meant a lack of control. But he looked at the gown and he knew he’d done something wonderful. He couldn’t regret it. All in all, it was high time to be finished with this one.

Keren believed firmly in a day of rest, but she wasn’t getting one this Sunday. Not with LaToya still missing and a meeting of the mayor’s task force. She and Paul headed into the precinct soon after the mission church service with no new information about anyone carrying gasoline into the crack house.

“We’ve got a bigger meeting room.” O’Shea was at his desk when Keren got there.

“Good, we need it. Let’s go.” Keren led the way, with Paul and O’Shea right behind her. When she entered the room, she saw the same four FBI agents as yesterday, plus two other detectives and Dr. Schaefer.

Keren nodded a greeting to Dee, surprised to see her there. The department really was pulling out all the stops.

Then the front of the room drew Keren’s eye. A bulletin board stretched nearly the whole length of the room, covered with pictures. Her eyes were drawn immediately to Roger, his photo snapped as he entered the mission.

“Pastor Morris, good. You’re here.” Higgins stood at the front of the room, clearly in charge. “We have pictures of everyone who entered the mission this morning.”

Keren glanced at Paul and saw his distress. These people weren’t cold statistics. He knew their stories, knew that each one of them had come to the lowest place on earth in his own way. And each needed help as individuals. Now their faces were on a wall, their photos taken without permission. Their privacy about to be deeply violated.

“With the profile we’ve created, we’re working on the theory that one of the people who hangs around the mission is our perp. We’re cross-checking everyone for priors, especially a history of violence. And we’ve got our eyes open for fanatical religious beliefs, since this loon is quoting the Bible constantly.”

Keren’s jaw tensed, and she felt Paul go rigid beside her. Rosita was up on that bulletin board.

“You stood outside my mission today snapping photographs?” Paul spoke through gritted teeth. “How many of my people did you scare off? We had about half the usual crowd this morning.”

“We were discreet, Morris,” Higgins said. “We didn’t want to tip off the bums that we were suspicious. What we need to know from you is who’s missing. We need you to study this group and add any names you can think of. We want your impressions of them and any background information you might have. And we want you to think hard about who might be pretending to be homeless, since obviously our perp takes his vics somewhere.”

Keren flinched at the cop talk. Why hadn’t it bothered her before?

She felt the subtle shift in Paul’s temper, his fight to control himself. This did need to be done, but Keren hated it, hated the cynicism, hated the intrusion and disregard for the street people.

“And what do you have to report, Collins?” Higgins asked. “You told me you’d go there this morning to get a closer look at the suspects.”