distracted, and he knew just how to do that—how to listen in on his room. Strike while the reverend slept.
He went to the window to look down on the mission, and the final piece of the next child he’d create came to him instantly, when he saw pretty little Rosita.
In spite of all the nickel-sized burn marks on her, Paul easily identified the schizophrenic Hispanic woman who came and went from the mission.
He had to fight back his rage when he stood over her, thrown away like garbage in an alley.
“I should be praying,” he said to O’Shea. “Or crying.”
O’Shea shrugged.
“If I look in a mirror, will my eyes be as detached and cool as yours?” Paul shoved his hands in his pockets to keep them from hitting something.
O’Shea looked away from the mutilated body. He stared at Paul but didn’t say anything.
Paul could feel his own cold-blooded cop personality oozing out of him. “Let’s get this over with.”
“The FBI just pulled Keren aside to ask her some questions. She’ll be back in a minute. She’ll want to hear your statement, maybe ask some questions.”
“I’m not waiting around.” He gave his statement, then he went straight back to the Lighthouse.
He went later to visit LaToya. She lay immobilized in the hospital bed. The beeping monitor was the only thing that proved she was alive.
Caldwell didn’t call.
The streets around the mission were so heavily patrolled that the vagrants and gangs were driven inside or underground. By the end of the day, there wasn’t a single person in the mission. No one showed up for the evening meal.
Paul ran down a list in his head of every woman he knew who lived on the streets. He tried to figure out a way to track them down and bring them inside for the night. Even thinking about it was a waste of time. He’d never find them, and if, by some fluke he did, they wouldn’t come with him unless he used force.
He considered using force—considered it hard. In the end he stayed inside and prayed.
His prayers seemed futile, and he thought about the gun permit he’d been issued when he left the force. He was tempted to get one. He was sorely tempted to walk a foot patrol up and down the South Side, hunting Caldwell. Make himself an easy target to see if he could draw this maniac out.
Pounding awakened Paul after only a couple hours of restless, nightmare-plagued sleep.
Coming instantly awake, something he’d learned on the force, he rolled off the mattress, got to his feet, and yanked the door open.
Higgins was in the hall. “We’ve got another one.” He jerked his head toward the stairway. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.”
“What is going on? Why didn’t he call? Why is there no sign delivered to me? Why no threats, no bombs?” Paul took the time to pull on his running shoes and was after Higgins in seconds, wearing the jogging suit he slept in.
Higgins led the way to a seedy bar a block from the mission.
Higgins pushed his way through a crowd, Paul right on his heels, until Paul saw the ghastly contents of the bar’s ice machine.
Paul saw the gaping eyes and the cold blue skin. “Talking Bertha.”
“One of yours?” Higgins asked.
“One of mine.” Paul analyzed the position of the body. The medical examiner, a young black man, fixed plastic bags over the woman’s hands, hoping to preserve evidence under her fingernails.
“Anything?”
“Nope, just routine.” The ME started loading equipment in a kit.
“Okay if I touch her?”
The ME dragged a pair of plastic gloves out of the kit and tossed them to Paul. “Go ahead. I’ve got everything I need. We’re ready to transport.”
“When’d you find her?” Paul glanced over his shoulder at Higgins as he pulled on the gloves.
“The bar has a silent alarm that went off at two a.m. Police response time was three minutes.” Higgins rapped out the details as the examiner left.
“So she was probably dead when he brought her in, not like the first two. Juanita was probably killed on-site, and he was planning to kill LaToya the same way.” Paul crouched down to pinch a clear plastic encased hand, hanging suspended from the wide door of the ice machine. “Those welts on her body look like burns.” Higgins snapped plastic gloves on his hands and ran a finger over the raised welts on Talking Bertha’s neck, just above the words EAMUS MEUS NATIO MEARE, painted on the white dress she wore.
“This is the plague of hail, right?” Higgins flipped open his notebook.
“Yeah, these are probably freeze burns. Liquid nitrogen, maybe.”
“How does she fit the profile?” Higgins lifted an eyelid over Talking Bertha’s slack, lifeless eyes.
“She knows me. What other profile is there?” Paul stood away from the body. His stomach twisted at the casual tone of his voice. He knew it was wrong to work over Bertha’s body without praying, without crying, without feeling for her. “I’ve got to get out of here.”
“Go then. We’ll send someone over later.”
“You don’t need a statement. You know everything I know already.” Paul turned on his heel and walked out.
Keren showed up at the mission an hour later.
Paul saw the dark circles under her eyes. Her hair looked like she hadn’t done more than run her fingers through it and twist it into her barrette for days. He was tempted to smooth the riotous curls. He wanted to take her in his arms. He wanted to share his strength with her and take some of hers for himself. But was that the cop who wanted that or the preacher?
Because he couldn’t be sure, he led her toward the coffeepot.
He got her a cup and one for himself, and, remembering that Caldwell had been watching the mission, Paul dragged her away from the front windows and they sank down at the table closest to the lunch counter.
“He hasn’t called?” Keren asked.
“I’d have let you know,” Paul said with more bite than he’d intended.
Keren nodded and closed her eyes. She held her coffee cup like her hands were freezing, even though it was seventy-five degrees outside. “Sorry. That just slipped out.”
“I know.” Paul drank his stout, bitter brew until he’d emptied the cup.
“So are you still spending the nights at the hospital?”
Paul shook his head. “Rosita is pretty much living there. It’s safer than her going back and forth.”
“You moved back into your apartment?” Keren asked idly.
“No. I don’t think I ever will. There’s another one on that floor. Not big and not in good repair. But I think I’ll move into it permanently.” He got up to refill his cup. He got back and noticed hers was empty. He refilled hers, too, without asking.
“Thanks,” she said, again gripping the cup.
“What about you?” Paul asked. “Are you going back?”
Keren shook her head. “I’m already hunting for a new place. I’m sleeping at the precinct for now.”
“Those cots’ll kill your back.”
“Tell me about it,” Keren muttered. “O’Shea said I could stay at his place when his wife comes back. I know her pretty well. She’s a nice lady. It would work for a couple of weeks if I can’t find something soon.” She shrugged. “Who’s got time to apartment hunt?”
Paul didn’t respond.
“Are you okay?” Keren looked up from her cup. “Are you getting yourself back a little?”
“I’m trying.” Paul took a long drink of the acid coffee. “I don’t know how much success I’m having. I know I should be helping more, but I just can’t. Not right now.”
“I understand. I respect your desire to get away from it.”
