Ten Plagues (13 page)

“It’s for their own protection,” O’Shea added. “There’s a demon after them.”

“Does browbeating these poor, sleeping people make you two feel better?” Paul asked.

O’Shea tipped his head and shrugged and nodded. “Yeah.”

“A little.” Keren hauled him out the back door.

The FBI was at the station when they got back.

They’d commandeered a small office, and when they called Keren, Paul, and O’Shea in, they made a tight fit. Keren had met several of the local agents over the years and usually worked fairly well with them.

“I’m Special Agent Lance Higgins.” A tall man with golden eyes so predatory, Keren had a feeling those eyes would be the last thing a lot of bad guys would see when Higgins pounced. He had black hair swept off his forehead like a mane. He was leaning against the wall behind the gray metal desk in the office, and he uncoiled and stepped forward with leonine grace. He offered Keren his hand.

Keren couldn’t help responding to the man’s powerful strength. She shook his hand just a second too long before he pulled away. Higgins turned to Paul and O’Shea and gave them the same greeting. He was wearing the standard FBI black suit, but on him it looked great. Two other black-suited men Keren knew were from the Illinois FBI office were standing against the wall on Keren’s right.

Higgins gestured to the left. “This is our profiler, Agent Mark Dyson.”

With one glance, Keren decided Dyson must be extremely good at what he did or the FBI would never put up with him. Agent Dyson towered over all of them, six foot six and beanpole thin. His long hair was bleached white. He had manic curls almost as wild as hers, pulled back into a ponytail. He wore wire-rimmed glasses so thick they magnified his light-blue eyes, hole-riddled jeans, and a green button-down shirt with the sleeves turned up to his elbows. The shirt was a mass of wrinkles, and it hung, untucked, most of the way to Dyson’s knees. He clasped her hand in both of his, and Keren had the weird feeling that the guy could profile her just from the way she shook hands. His magnified eyes seemed to penetrate her mind rather than look at her face.

“I’ve been combing the Pravus file for over an hour,” he murmured. “I have questions.”

He waved them into three folding chairs. The FBI agents all stayed on their feet. “You’re sure it’s a man?”

“Yes. The voice is soft, but it’s definitely male,” Keren answered.

Dyson periodically glanced at Paul or O’Shea. Keren felt like the guy was boring into everyone’s brain, reading every changed expression. But he aimed all his questions at Keren. She felt like she was connected to a human lie detector and fought down a mild resentment. Surely Paul was the one who ought to be questioned.

“The first murder victim is Hispanic, the second black.” Dyson tried to drill into her brain with his eyes. Keren could feel the bore holes.

“There’s only one murder victim,” Paul snapped. “The second is still a kidnapping. We hope that she can be rescued.”

“We should be going through Pastor Morris’s case files,” O’Shea said impatiently. “You don’t need to talk to all of us at once.”

“Most serial killers pick victims of their own race.” Dyson ignored Paul and O’Shea to focus on Keren. “Usually they’re acting out rage against an abusive childhood, and they’re trying to punish their mother or father or some significant person in their lives.”

“Obviously that’s not the case here, Agent Dyson,” Keren said with some sting, “since he’s already picked girls of different races.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions, Detective Collins. Maybe his mother was biracial, or maybe his mother was one race and his father another. Those are the kinds of details that could identify him for us.”

“Great.” O’Shea rubbed his hands together as if preparing to dig into a great meal. “If you can guarantee he’s biracial, we can throw out all the files except those.”

No one missed his sarcasm.

Agent Higgins said, “Not helpful, Detective.”

O’Shea rolled his eyes.

The interrogation went on and on. It took Keren about five minutes to realize every question Dyson asked was already answered in the file he’d been studying. Keren saw Paul grow fidgety and begin glancing at his wristwatch.

An hour had crept by when Paul lunged out of his chair. “We can’t sit here anymore. You’ve got enough. Pravus could be out there right now killing LaToya. I have to do something besides talk!”

“If our profiler can narrow this down, we could go straight to the person responsible for this.” Higgins glared at Paul.

Paul grabbed the doorknob. Keren could see him trying to force himself to stay in the room. He said through clenched teeth, “Agent Higgins, you’re right to an extent. Agent Dyson can help. We know how profiling works. But this is a pure waste of our time. There is nothing we’ve said that isn’t in our report.”

“That may not be true.” Higgins stood and went to the door to stand close to Paul. “Sometimes people have impressions that they haven’t put in their report. You may not even be aware of them, but they can come out under questioning.”

“Yes, I know that, but we’re trained policemen.” Paul stopped talking for a long minute, then he went on. “I mean
they
are trained policemen and I
used to
be one. We know how instincts work and how to pinpoint minor clues from tone of voice and background noise. Your methods are very useful with civilians, but they are a waste of our time.”

“You’ve been a minister for five years, Reverend Morris. You haven’t used those instincts for a long time.”

“Oh, but they’re still there.” Paul stood away from the door and crossed his arms, his head hung down until his chin nearly rested on his chest. “Despite my best efforts to rid myself of them, all my old habits are right there, dying to spring to life.”

Dyson seemed to have ignored the whole exchange between Paul and Higgins. “I want to listen to the recorded messages again. I heard the ones from last night, but the one you brought in this morning is new.”

“Fine.” Keren rose from her seat. “Listen to the tapes while we get to work.”

“Sit down, Detective.” Higgins wasn’t making a suggestion.

Keren didn’t answer to the FBI. Despite the strong first impression of Higgins’s competence, she longed to shove his orders down his throat. But she did want to hear this morning’s tape, so she sat.

The first two tapes had nothing new. Paul said, “You hear where he talks about what I did to him? We think—”

Dyson waved his hand abruptly at Paul as if he were an annoying bug. Paul fell silent and stood by the door with his jaw clenched so tight Keren thought he might break some teeth.

The last tape, when Paul called Pravus back in the basement of the crack house, held all their attention. Paul sounded steady and strong as he tried to reason with Pravus. Keren thought of how he fell apart afterward.

He was a courageous man with the power of God in his voice. She suddenly decided she’d find time to sit in on one of Paul’s sermons, even if she had to steal a shopping cart and live on the street for a few days to qualify for admittance. She knew he’d be riveting when he spoke of his faith. God was using him powerfully, or he could never have led two girls as lost as LaToya and Juanita to the Lord.

Pravus’s voice pulled her attention back to the tape. “I saw them, the dancer and her mother. But you never knew.”

Keren had forgotten he’d made that statement.

“What does that mean, the dancer and her mother?” Keren hit the P
AUSE
button. “Can you remember a case involving a dancer, either as the victim or the perp?”

Paul shook his head. “It doesn’t ring a bell.”

“That would be the two people,” O’Shea said. “A dancer and her mother. Were there any mother and child murders in those files?”

Dyson said, “You’re assuming the dancer is a child. Why is that?”

“Good point.” Keren nodded. “We could be reaching. The dancer could be a boy or a man, or an adult woman. Adults have mothers.”

“I don’t remember a mother and daughter murder,” Paul said, “but there were a couple of child murders. Let’s look more closely at them.”

“He might mean something else,” Higgins cautioned. “Narrow your search for now, but don’t get married to this theory.”

“We won’t,” Keren said. “It’s just a starting place.”

Keren glanced at Higgins. “Are you done with us?”

“For now.” Higgins waved at the door.

They left the office, but Keren could still feel Dyson’s probing eyes hunting around in her brain.

O’Shea stood and went to the coffeepot. “It’s been nearly twelve hours since his last contact. Why don’t you try the phone again, Paul?”

“I’ve tried every hour on the hour and a dozen more times when I couldn’t control myself.” Paul was dialing before O’Shea quit talking. “He’s got it shut off. He’ll leave it shut off until he has something to say to me.”

“Don’t drink that coffee, O’Shea. You’ve got to go home and get some sleep.” Keren pressed the heels of her hands to her burning eyes. “I’m losing my ability to read the English language, let alone Latin. I haven’t slept since about three yesterday morning. We’ve got our people and the FBI going twenty-four hours a day.”

“And chances are,” Paul said in a bleak voice, “we’re going to wake up tomorrow with the discovery of LaToya’s body.”

“It was two days before we found Juanita, Paul. We might get tomorrow still. And our synapses are going to french fry the rest of our brains if we don’t sleep.”

“You go ahead,” Paul said. “I can find Higgins and see if he needs help. I got a couple of hours of sleep this morning while I was waiting for Pravus at the mission.”

“You got two hours of sleep?” Keren was almost violent with jealousy.

Paul tried to smile. She could tell he really tried. He said, “I won’t sleep tonight. Impossible.”

“You’re asleep in that chair. We’re not getting anywhere.”

“Did I ever tell you I have a wife?” O’Shea asked.

Paul shook his head. “No, you’ve never mentioned that.”

“I forget it myself sometimes.” O’Shea glanced at his watch. “She’s way nicer about this job than I deserve. It’s ten o’clock now. She’ll still be awake if I hurry. I’m going to go see if she recognizes me. See you in the morning.” He stood and began pulling on his suit coat. “If you don’t want to take the time to go home, Keren will show you where the bunk beds are. A few hours’ sleep will help clear the cobwebs.”

O’Shea didn’t hang around to see if they took his advice.

Paul sagged back in his chair. “I’m afraid if I fall asleep I’ll wake up to the news that LaToya’s body has been found floating in a frog pond somewhere.”

Keren stood so quickly her chair rolled back and smacked into the desk behind her. “Why not? Why not a frog pond somewhere? Where would this nut go to find frogs?”

Paul eyes jerked wide open, all sleepiness gone. “A pet store?”

“Good, where else?”

“Is there a park in Chicago that has frogs? Some kind of reptile garden or a zoo?”

Keren snapped her fingers. “How about a petting zoo? There’s one in the park where Juanita was found. Pravus has been working solely in the area around the mission.”

“I think there is some kind of pond at that petting zoo,” Paul said. “Let’s go take a look. If we could stake it out and Pravus came—maybe he won’t kill her until he gets there. Maybe we can—”

“Paul, chances are he won’t do anything tonight. It wasn’t until two days later that Juanita showed up.”

“But he might move faster this time. Last time, maybe he was enjoying the destruction he caused. This time there was no show. His need to kill might move the schedule up.”

Keren gave him a long look.

“I know I’m reaching,” Paul said with quiet desperation in his voice. “But I can’t go lie down on some cot and rest while there’s a chance she’s still alive out there. Working on these files is driving me crazy. I’d rather be interrogated by Dyson again. I need to do something.”

“I know. Every time I close my eyes I see those cuts on Juanita’s body and the pictures of LaToya and that death shroud he painted. Let’s go. Even if we don’t find anything, we can scope the place out and decide where to set up a stakeout for tomorrow night. Maybe the fresh air will wake us up.”