Ten Plagues

She was surprised at the strength of the image she had of strangling him with her bare hands. The neck brace wouldn’t save him. Not if she threw herself into it.

With the same insight that had washed a demonic presence over her at the bomb site, she knew she was looking at a good man. Sometimes she got a mild impression of good or evil dwelling inside a person. Sometimes it hit her so hard it almost knocked her to her knees. Right now, she was taking a hit.

Paul Morris, whatever he had been when he’d stomped Keren under his heel, was now a man of powerful faith. She found herself moving into the room—drawn to him, even in his sleep, wishing she had as strong and bold a spirit.

He was wearing the tattered remains of sweatpants, and Ace bandages where his shirt should be. Besides the neck brace, he had a bandage covering half his head. One of his arms was in an inflatable cast, strapped to his chest with a blue sling. Bruises blackened his face. Stitches lined his temple, jawline, and lower lip.

Keren stared at him and felt forces clashing inside her. She wanted to talk to him, share her faith, and learn about his.

She wanted to break his other arm.

Was Morris even going to remember her? He’d done all his damage long distance, taking down several young detectives when he’d stormed through their lives. Keren was the only one who had put up with the reprimands and suspension and stayed on the force. Now, she could sense the goodness in him. It was completely at odds with the glory-hogging, career-destroying rat he’d been. So, maybe he’d changed, or maybe he’d always had both goodness and cruelty in him. Keren had never before gotten close enough to him to get a positive impression.

There was no point in dredging up the past. If she did mention it, he’d probably demand another police officer. Keren wondered if he really knew anything now, or was he just in the right place at the right time? He’d left the force. Maybe he missed having his name in the paper.

She stepped out of the cubicle and waved to get O’Shea’s attention over the crying and shouting injured. O’Shea nodded. She went back for one more look before she schooled her features into neutrality for O’Shea’s benefit. She sucked in a deep breath and tried to remember it wasn’t Christian to hate someone’s guts. She’d take Morris’s statement then get back to real police work.

Paul Morris was the guy who’d run into the building, and that meant he hadn’t set the bomb. She’d just lost her prime suspect. She had hoped to find a man on whom she could blame this whole mess. It wasn’t going to happen.

O’Shea slipped into the cubicle.

Keren had never told O’Shea about Morris and why she’d been assigned to the evidence locker. After six months of pushing paper, she’d helped O’Shea crack a case, and he’d asked for her to be assigned as his partner. She wasn’t about to go into it now. “Paul Morris?”

His eyes popped open so quickly, and his focus was so clear, Keren doubted he’d been sleeping.

“Yes. Pastor Paul Morris, Lighthouse Mission.”

Pastor? Keren checked the ceiling to see if pigs were flying overhead. “I’m Detective Keren Collins, Chicago PD. We got a call that you had information about today’s bombing.”

“At last.” A sigh of relief almost wiped the pain and concern off his face. Almost. “I’ve been asking to talk to the police. I have some idea what happened this morning. I mean, I don’t know who did it or anything.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” O’Shea muttered. “Life just isn’t that sweet.”

“I was at the gang hangout this afternoon,” Keren said. “I was looking for Juanita Lopez when the building exploded.”

“Juanita.” Morris’s eyes closed. “Poor Juanita.” He shook his head and flinched with pain. “Sorry, some of it’s a blur.”

Keren said, “Tell us what happened.”

“I got this phone call.” Morris raised his uninjured hand to his head. “But before that, a delivery man dropped off a package. Or no … pictures. He dropped off pictures of Juanita, and a sign.”

Morris shook his head. “I’m not making sense. I’m sorry. The doctor has given me some pain medication. I’m not thinking too clearly.”

“Just start at the beginning, Pastor Morris. Tell us what happened first.”

“I was just back from my morning run. Before I got inside, a delivery man came up to me with a large manila envelope. I went into the mission and ripped the envelope open. I found …”

The beautiful writing was done with ink too coarse to be a marking pen. Paint of some kind. It made Paul uneasy, for no reason he could define. He slipped his thumb under the flap. The paper ripped open. He reached inside just as his cell phone rang.

He answered. “Hello?”

“I’m an artist, you know.” A man spoke, his voice so smooth and quiet he purred. “I’ve given you something priceless.”

“Who is this?”

“Wood isn’t my favorite medium, but I’m very good with it. Every new creation is like a child. And who can create a child? A father. Or God.”

God?