Murray and Louie were both at work in the kitchen.
They did little more than grunt hello, though Murray waved with the spoon he was using to stir oatmeal and Rosita had her usual smile.
“I’m tied up again today. Sorry. Thanks for keeping things going.” Paul watched the bustle of the kitchen and wanted to be part of it. He wanted his life back.
He wasn’t getting it, at least not today.
The front apartment in this building was a quiet room where Paul could watch the neighborhood and spend time in prayer—where he had sessions with individuals, urging street people to sign up for the detox program. Now he went there to keep an eye out for the messenger who’d bring that package to the front door, right past this front window. Usually Rosita, or whoever was on duty, took anything that arrived and, if it was for Paul, tracked him down.
He settled in and turned to his Savior for strength. He let the peace of God ease into his mind and his muscles and his soul. He felt that ambitious, hard-driving, selfish part of himself loosen its grip.
There was every chance he might die today.
There was every chance LaToya might not survive.
By the time he was done praying, he knew God was in control.
He opened his Bible and read with a renewed spirit. He was still reading an hour later. He closed the Bible and asked God what next. Shortly after he asked, he hit a wall. Like a distance runner who’d gone too far, he ran out of steam. He didn’t consciously choose sleep. God chose it for him. He simply leaned forward and rested his head on the table, his Bible a pillow, and slept. His last waking thought was of Keren’s face. Had he seen her before?
The ringing phone jerked him awake. A thrill of fear jagged through him as he fumbled for it. He managed to drop it twice before he opened it. He made a note of the number on the liquid quartz display. It was the same one as yesterday.
“Just like old times, Reverend,” Pravus oozed. “I’m coming to enjoy our little visits.”
Paul began praying, trying to forget his fear and center himself on God. There was nothing else to do. The police were doing their best. The FBI would do their best. Paul was going to do his best. But in the end they were in God’s hands, the same as every other day. “Pravus, are you going to let me come and get LaToya? Are you going to let my people go?”
“Have you looked at the package?”
Paul hadn’t even thought of that. He’d been asleep. He glanced around and saw a package on the table next to where his head had rested. His name and address front and center. Written in blood. Someone, maybe Rosita, had quietly left it. He wondered how many precious seconds had been lost. If the address was inside the package, he could have had the police en route minutes ago.
“I know about your spare cell phone, Reverend. I don’t just have microphones in your apartment, you know. I have eyes and ears everywhere. How is the pretty detective, anyway? Is she happy, do you think, chasing down criminals for a living? Is that any way for a decent woman to spend her life? She pretends to be good, but I wonder. Is she one of those who won’t let my people go?”
Paul’s throat clogged with fear as he thought of Pravus turning his attention to Keren. Only holding God close to his heart prevented him from raging at this lunatic. “I won’t use the spare phone, Pravus. I’m opening the package now.”
With no regard for possible fingerprints, since he knew full well there wouldn’t be any, Paul tore the manila envelope open and the wooden sign slid free. He read aloud, “Pestis ex Rana. Plague of frogs.” Paul scrambled for the pictures, terrified to look at them but desperate to find his assignment. “LaToya.” The anguished whisper escaped past all his self-control.
“You’ve seen the photograph?” Pravus nearly sang the question, his voice was so smooth. “Good. I wonder how many people she killed with her drugs. How many more did she enslave by making them addicts? Her death will make the world a cleaner place. The fact that you associated with her and her kind makes your ministry a failure. It makes you a failure, Reverend.”
“No, Pravus, that’s not true. Jesus went to the sinners. How do you help them if you won’t reach out to them? You think you can solve the problems of the world by destroying sinners, but that isn’t Jesus’ way.”
“It was Moses’ way. And it was God’s way. How many died because of the plagues?”
“But God sent Jesus. He always planned to send His Son. Even in Moses’ time God gave Pharaoh chance after chance. LaToya is a part of the kingdom of God now. Even people who haven’t repented are loved by God. It’s not for you to decide if they’re worthy of life.”
“You plead eloquently for the people who foul your mission. Jesus was a new way, and now there is a new way yet again. Me. Do you need me to make pretty little LaToya cry and beg so you’ll believe she’s here? I’d be glad to do it. It would be my pleasure, really. My chisel is newly sharpened.”
“No, don’t hurt her anymore,” Paul shouted. He looked at the picture and saw the absolute terror on LaToya’s face. Duct tape over her mouth and around her wrists. LaToya, who had so recently adopted a lifestyle of chastity and modesty, stripped bare and displayed in a photo for her minister. She was cut. Red blood gleamed against her black skin. Beside her lay the dress; it would be her burial shroud. In the picture, Paul could see clearly Pharaoh, Moses, and Aaron painted on the dress just as they were on the dress Juanita wore. Around Pharaoh’s feet, frogs, blood red, not green. But Pravus had rendered them with a fine, gifted hand so they were unmistakable.
“Do you see the address?”
It was scrawled in dried blood across one of the photos. “Yes, I’m going. This time I won’t fail, Pravus. I’ll tell them exactly what you want. Do you have any other words for me to say? Do you want me to preach to them? Should I arrest them? Tell me exactly what you want me to do so I can obey you. I want to do whatever you need so LaToya can be spared.” Paul hated the sound of his begging. He wondered if he shouldn’t deal with Pravus from a position of strength. Right now he didn’t have it in him.
“Go to the house. It’s within running distance. Remember, I’m watching you. You’re by the front door of the mission this time, rather than in your rooms.”
It chilled Paul to realize how closely he was being watched.
“Come out the front door, without contacting the police, and head straight for that address. I’m not going to give you as much time as before, Reverend. I remember a time when you weren’t the least bit patient with me.”
The phone clicked. Paul read the address, knew exactly where he was going and why, dropped the photo on the table, and ran.
Rosita crept into the entry area of the mission, staying close to the wall. She slipped up to the table and snatched up the picture. She clapped her hand over her mouth at the ugly sight, then she produced yet another cell phone, the one that nice lady detective had slipped her last night. She called with the address.
With another fearful look at the picture, she gathered the pictures into the envelope Paul had left behind and took it into the kitchen with her. She prayed fervently as she carefully slid it behind a cupboard for safekeeping as Detective Collins had instructed her. With a faint heart because of what she knew her friend LaToya was going through, but a soul rock steady in the Lord Jesus Christ, who had pulled her out of a living hell, she went back to preparing breakfast.
Pravus watched the pastor run, then he turned back to the mission for one last glance. Through the front window he saw little Rosita, so happy, so helpful, so terribly soiled, take his package.
He’d planned to involve her eventually, but he was pleased she’d volunteered.
Then he swung his binoculars back toward the pastor. He couldn’t see Pastor P every second, but he’d picked this place to live because his view was so ideal. Rather than try to pick out the running man, he just watched the doorway of the house where the good pastor was destined. Maybe this time he’d meet his end.