When Keren trusted her voice, she said, “We’ve got to keep trying.” She lifted her head off Paul’s chest and put her hands on his shoulders. He straightened away from her, and she looked him square in the eye. “Our only other option is to do nothing.”
Paul held her gaze for a long time. She could feel him gathering his strength. He knew they didn’t have any choice.
“All right.” His voice broke. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Let’s get to work on those files.”
Keren nodded silently and led him upstairs and toward the back of the house, where she’d left her car. The inhabitants of the crack house were emerging from their rooms, grousing and threatening the cops. She turned back to these people who were alive because a man had risked his life for them. They were throwing their lives away, with no notion of what a precious gift they’d been given.
“Bust every one of them,” she snapped. “Lock ‘em up and keep ‘em there. We don’t have to charge them for forty-eight hours, so stall the bond hearing. Maybe the idiots will sober up enough to realize they’re lucky to be alive.”
“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
“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
