persuasive.”
They ran quickly and quietly up the five flights of stairs. The whole building was a slum. More apartments empty than lived in. Graffiti on the walls, broken light fixtures, and shattered glass littering the hallways. They got to Caldwell’s floor and it was no better, except the doors were all hung and closed.
Higgins went up to the first one and tried it. He whispered, “Locked.”
He turned to the dozen men who had accompanied him. “I want every door kicked open at the same time. Don’t go charging in without backup.”
“Ready?” There were five doors on both sides of the hallway. Two men stood at each door. Keren and Paul stood back, out of the way, near the door Higgins had chosen.
“Go!” Higgins’s voice exploded. Ten doors crashed open.
“FBI,” Higgins shouted. The same shout echoed down the hall. Higgins disappeared. Keren and Paul went in right behind him.
“This is it,” Paul said to Keren. “We’ve got him.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
They missed him.
Every room was wide open. There was no place to hide. There was no killer.
“He was here,” Higgins raged. He touched a coffee cup sitting on a counter. “It’s still warm. He can’t have been gone long.” He called into the hall, “Fan out. We’ve got the exits blocked. Check every apartment in this building.”
But Paul knew it was a waste of time. They all did. One clue said it all. A wooden sign, set neatly beside a shiny new telephone, that said, WELCOME, REVEREND.
EXODUS 9:3
Pravus was wise to the ways of police. They were right this minute kicking down the doors of that old building.
For one long beautiful moment, he imagined them finding his people. He imagined the awe. He’d done them a great honor to let them be the first to see his work. Would they be wise enough to cherish what he’d given them? Would they finally set his people free?
With a smile, he acknowledged that they probably would not.
He was as far above them as Michelangelo was from kindergarten finger painting. He hated to give up the little paradise he’d created, but it didn’t matter. He had a spare paradise.
Looking backward was a waste. He looked forward. He’d already done such powerful work here that what was left behind easily faded. But then he’d always had the skill of separating himself from little hurts.
When his father would enforce Francis’s studies with his hard hands, the poor little boy had needed escape and Pravus had taken him away, far away. Then the two of them would watch that pathetic Francis take the punishment while they’d sit back and laugh at the boy’s fears and tears and his father’s futile lessons.
As if Father’s blundering training could make Pravus’s genius better. It was already so staggering, it was nearly painful.
The beast offered to come inside him and protect him. Francis had jumped at the chance, thrilled with the offer of power.
And the two of them had set out to watch Francis, and laugh, and create.
The day had come finally when they’d tired of Father’s cruelty and put an end to it. And Pravus had finally known freedom. And the next person to harm him had earned wrath that couldn’t be satisfied through art. She had sneered at his work.
Oh she’d used polite words, but she’d been too blind to accept the blessing he tried to bestow upon her. And then the reverend had brought the law down on Pravus. The reverend had sealed his own fate.
From that moment, Pravus had plotted revenge. Pravus visited a plague on the reverend and anyone who got in his way. The whole city would suffer, too.
He turned back to Wilma… unworthy of his gift, but good enough because it hurt the reverend. Good enough.
The police were too stupid to find him. Simple call forwarding led them to his other building to discover the gifts he’d left. Television stations would send camera crews. Art galleries would take notice, and the power of the plagues would only enhance the stunning gift.
Pravus laughed to think the real shame was that the police would use force and ruin the only working doors in that tenement.
He went back to making Wilma into a creation of beauty.
Pestis ex bestia.
The plague of beasts.
This one he really liked.
“I thought I’d seen the worst that men could do on this job. But this tops it all.” Keren checked every room. He had covered the walls with paintings, carvings. Ten rooms, ten themes, ten plagues.
The room Higgins hit first was Francis’s tribute to the plague of blood. Red. Everywhere. The walls painted red, the paintings on the walls brutal works in red and black, the photos of Juanita enlarged to the size of posters. PESTIS EX SANGUIS was carved over the door, right into the woodwork.
Three other rooms were the same, except for the theme. All of them were decorated. And the ones where Caldwell had already carried out his plague included pictures of his victims and the plague Caldwell had visited on her. In the last room were posters of Wilma wearing her white dress.
Keren walked up to the huge picture. “How’d he make the picture so big? Where did he buy the equipment?”
“We found a room where Caldwell must have slept. He had his own photo enlargement equipment.” Higgins’s cell phone rang and he checked the number and turned his back to talk.
“Nothing painted on Wilma’s dress is even identifiable. He’s getting so sloppy.” Keren leaned close. “You can tell from the lines on this one that his hands are shaking. I can’t believe he can walk around in the open and not be noticed.” Keren looked at Paul. “He probably isn’t. We probably couldn’t pick him up at the mission anymore. I doubt he’s even coming in.”
“I can’t tell.” Paul studied the crime scene with cynical eyes, assessing, searching for clues. “So many of the people are gone, it doesn’t shorten our list much.”
They all went in the room that was a tribute to the plague of beasts. Keren said, “There’s no sign that Wilma’s ever been in here.”
“He’s taken less time with each room,” Higgins observed. “The setup, the larger paintings, were obviously done before he took the first vic, before he started to deteriorate. The things he added after each kidnapping get progressively sloppier.” Higgins pointed at the pictures showing awful bleeding cuts on Wilma’s arms. “The display of photos is rushed. Each gown shows he’s getting more and more out of control.”
Paul stared at the oversized pictures of Wilma. From where Keren stood, she couldn’t tell whether he was the cop or the pastor. He seemed to be frozen somewhere in the middle. Finally, he visibly relaxed and Keren knew, for the moment, he was letting the cop take charge.
“This is the latest vic.” Paul pointed at the walls.
“You know her?” Higgins asked.
“First one I’ve been able to ID since LaToya,” Paul said. “I wonder if Caldwell is back to his original plan of taking women I know, or was Wilma just handy? Get forensics in here. The DNA won’t really help catch him, since we already know who we’re hunting for, but when we get our hands on him, there will be plenty in these rooms that’ll help put him away.”
Paul and Keren finally had a chance to brief Higgins and Dyson fully on Wilma.
