Ten Plagues

Paul looked at her under the dust and grit. Both she and O’Shea were so filthy he doubted he’d be able to pick them out of a lineup if his life depended on it. She’d been treating him like a suspect, and he’d had to fight to control his temper. Paul might not have succeeded if he hadn’t seen what looked like the tracks of tears cutting through the dirt on her face.

Detective O’Shea said, “We had a body count of twenty last I knew. Most of them were vagrants living in the adjacent buildings, which also collapsed. The buildings were all condemned, so it didn’t take much to bring them down.”

Paul closed his eyes as he thought about the people he’d come to love. The oddballs, the outcasts. Losing them, some of them before they’d had a chance to turn to God, left him with a crippling feeling of failure.

“There was a little boy, Chico. I carried him away from the building. He was bleeding badly. I think they transported us in the same ambulance … it’s all pretty foggy after the medic came—” Paul’s heavy eyelids dropped closed with the weight of this defeat.

O’Shea interrupted, “We just don’t know, Pastor Morris. We nosed around the ER, looking for you, but we saw a lot of kids—”

“This one was young, early elementary, Hispanic.”

“You just described every child in the place,” Collins said with a dismissive shrug. “It was a Hispanic neighborhood.”

“I know what neighborhood I was in.” Paul clamped his mouth shut to stop yelling. It also helped his control that yelling hurt. He closed his eyes against the pain then found he couldn’t get them open again. “If you could just check.” The sound of his desperation echoed inside his head.

He tried to sit up straighter so he didn’t lose his train of thought. His ribs punished him for the shift of his weight, and his neck sent a razor-sharp jolt of pain all the way down his spine.

“Reverend Morris,” Collins said, “don’t move. You’ll only make it worse.”

A note of compassion had sneaked into her voice, the first she’d shown him. Paul forced his eyes open. Thank You, God, that I’m no longer a cop. Her penetrating look was common to all cops. But he had a sense that there was more to it. She didn’t like him for some reason.

If only he could make her understand. “I know you’re busy. I know you’re tired.” He fumbled for the edge of his mattress. “If I could only get to my feet I could do it myself. These cracked ribs will quit aching once I’m on my feet.”

She caught his hand before he could get a grip on the mattress. “They’ll quit aching unless you breathe or walk or talk. I’ve had cracked ribs. I know how they feel.”

He squeezed her hand until he was afraid he was hurting her, but thinking of Chico was driving him crazy. And what was he doing worrying about one boy when there were so many hurt? What was he doing lying here when there was so much need? What about Juanita?

“It’s just that I felt like God was guiding me when I ran.” Tears burned at Paul’s eyes and he tried to pull away from her. “Surely God didn’t do that and then let the boy die.”

The lady detective had a grip like iron. “You’re near collapse, Reverend. Let me ask the doctor if it’s time for more pain medication. There’s nothing more you can do tonight.”

She wouldn’t let him up, even if he could have managed it, which he doubted. Paul shook his head, or tried to. He wasn’t sure if he got it to move. He had to tell her he wasn’t tired. Sure,

he was banged up, but it was only cuts and bruises and a sprained wrist. The IV drip and the neck collar were all part of the doctor’s fiendish plan to keep him prisoner. He had no internal injuries, no broken bones. He was one of the lucky ones. He had to get out of bed and comfort these people.

He’d tell her that, if only he could get his eyes open.

“We’ll ask around, if you’d like.” She leaned close. “We’ll find out about the little boy.”

Paul’s brain fuzzed but he forced his eyes open. The world seemed to go all soft focused on him, and suddenly the riot of curls swirling around her head fascinated him. She had his right hand held tightly, so he reached his injured left hand unsteadily toward her, lifting the blue sling away from his body. His fingers closed over a handful of corkscrews. He felt the grit, saw how dirty it was, and still it was soft and silky.

He stared at the hair he held. “Pretty.”

He saw something other than compassion flash in her eyes. She pushed his hand away roughly and stepped away from his bedside. He knew it was rough because it made his sprained wrist hurt like crazy. Of course, breathing made his sprained wrist hurt like crazy, too, so he couldn’t be sure if she’d meant any harm.

“We’ve got to let you rest,” she said. “Do you think you can remember the words carved on that sign? It might give us a place to start searching for Juanita. If you can tell us, we’ll get out of here.”