Ten Plagues

Paul realized at the same moment the man spoke, that he held a piece of wood in his hands. It was a rectangular plaque about an inch thick, sanded satiny smooth, stained to a dark brown.

“Are you the one who sent this wood carving?” Paul turned his attention from the gift to the caller. It wasn’t that unusual to receive gifts from people who supported his mission.

Pravus was etched in a delicate script in the lower right corner.

“It would be worth a fortune if I’d gone into art as a living.” The voice was soft, almost singsong, with a tone that made the hair on the back of Paul’s neck stand up.

“Who is this?” Paul repeated. “I’d … uh, like to send a thank-you note. This is beautiful.”

And it was. There was delicate carving across the front. Letters that spelled words Paul couldn’t read, although they struck a chord. Natio. That was Spanish maybe, which he spoke adequately but couldn’t read. Natio meant “nation” or maybe “tribe.”

“My true creation is in the photographs.” A sigh of ecstasy hissed across the phone lines.

There’d been a time when Paul’s instincts had kept him alive. Those instincts kicked in hard. Paul dropped the envelope on the table and used a pen to tip it. Polaroid pictures slid onto the table. The instant he saw them he knew what kind of paint the caller had used to write the address.

Blood.

“What have you done?” It had been five years since he’d been a cop, and he no longer had the detachment he needed to survive this kind of thing.

“Isn’t she beautiful?”

Sickened by the pictures, Paul forced himself to study them, desperate to understand what this caller wanted. Then his eyes fell shut. He whispered, “Juanita.”

“Yes, that’s right, Juanita. I’d forgotten her name. She’s just canvas to me, not as nice to work with as wood.”

“What have you done to her, you …” Biting back rage, Paul knew then he could turn back into a cop. All the reflexes were still there.

“Now, now, Reverend, I expected better from you than that. We’re in this together.”

Gripping the phone until his fingers ached, Paul asked, “What are we in together? Why are you calling me? Where is she?”

“She’s going to stay right where she is unless you deliver a message for me, Reverend.”

“Message? What message?”

A scream sliced through the phone line.

“No,” Paul roared. “Don’t hurt her. I’ll do what you want.”

The screams increased. Paul couldn’t think. Not as a pastor. The old coldness that at one time had cost him his faith, his family, and almost his life, settled on him. “Tell me what you want, Pravus.” Paul heard the level tone of his voice and couldn’t believe he sounded like that while his heart thundered with fear.

“Take the sign to the address I included in the envelope. Don’t call the police. Don’t talk to anyone. Hang it on that building and wait for me to phone.”

“Hang it on the building? Wait! How do I do that?”

“That’s your problem, Reverend. When you have delivered your message,” Pravus cooed, “I’ll tell you where to find this harlot.”

Juanita’s cries increased, broken by screams of pain.

“I’ll do what you want, and then, if you want to survive this, you’ll give me Juanita.”

There was an extended silence on the phone. Pravus said, “You sound more like a policeman than a man of God. Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

CHAPTER THREE

There was an address in the envelope. I found it and I ran.” Paul studied Detective Collins as he muddled through to the end of his story. She was filthy. Her hair looked like a bale of straw had been given an electric shock. Then all of her had been liberally coated with white dust. He vaguely remembered a woman at the explosion helping him, but he never would have recognized her.

“I called 911. All I remember after that is thanking God for the car.”

“Okay, Reverend,” Detective Collins said. “Now, I have a couple of questions.”

An hour later, she flipped her notebook closed. But she wasn’t done talking. The woman never got done talking.

“And as far as you know, the sign this man who identified himself only as Pravus gave you burned up with the tenement?”

Detective Mick O’Shea grunted as he scanned his notes.

“For the fifth time,” Paul said, “as far as I know, it burned or is buried in the rubble. I don’t know. What about Juanita?”

Detective Collins gave him a glowering look, like he was a hostile witness. Had he been this tedious and annoying when he was a cop? Not possible.

“Whichever kid took it away from me might have kept his hands on it when he ran. I could identify most of the gang members I saw, and you could question them.” Paul had been as cooperative as he could, and he’d deliberately waited until the end to ask his own questions. “You don’t have any idea how many of them got out, do you?”

“No,” Detective Collins said briskly.