Free Ten Plagues by Mary Nealy Page A

P. That’s how he knows. He pulled me off the street. He saved me.”
    “I didn’t save you, Rosita. Only God can save you. Now don’t change the subject. You watch Manny,” Paul scolded.
    “Manny cares about me.”
    “If he doesn’t care enough about you to wait for marriage, then he doesn’t care enough about you.”
    “I guess that makes sense,” Rosita said with a pout. Then her grin escaped, and Paul knew she was teasing him. “Manny behaves himself, I see to it.”
    “Good girl. If you explain things to him, he’ll insist on bringing you home.” Paul reached into his pocket and pulled a ten-dollar bill out. He pressed it into her hand. “Now, no excuses. This will cover the bus ride for both of you.”
    Rosita clutched the ten dollars to her chest. “Thank you, Pastor P.” With a bright smile, she whirled toward the mission.
    The two of them watched her run. Keren said dryly, “Can you remember ever being that young?”
    “I had a paper route from the time I was nine. I worked nights all through high school. I entered the police academy when I turned eighteen and went to night school to get a degree. I don’t think I was ever young.”
    Keren took a deep breath. “We’ve got to get back to your apartment. The FBI is sending someone over to inspect the place better than we can, and if they find bugs, they’ll try to trace them. They’re bringing in a profiler from DC. We’ll break this case. We’ll get this lunatic.”
    Paul shoved his hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t do something stupid like touch Keren again. “In time to save LaToya?”
    They headed back to the building. Keren said, “Hey, how come she can call you Pastor P and I can’t call you Rev?”
    “It’s all in the inflection.”
    Keren smiled and something passed between them. A moment of uncomplicated peace.
    His phone rang.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    P ravus leaned close with his fine brush. Details, he loved the tiny details. He imagined how the monks had labored over their translation of the Bible. They’d written it in Latin of course, God’s language.
    Opening a vein was like breathing life into dust and making a living being. Pravus could feel it, that he was godlike in his creation, and in his power over life and death. The white dress, virginal covering for the foul sinners he chose. It made the perfect backdrop for his art. To protect his work he’d used brown ink for Juanita, since his plans included getting her very wet. But for the rest of them, he’d paint with his victim’s blood.
    A tremor of excitement shook his hand and he pulled away quickly, terrified he’d ruined it. He hadn’t. There was a bit of a waver in the line he’d made, but it was right. It was beautiful. He looked at what he’d done, and he smiled. Pharaoh was a fool. Powerful, but so sure he ruled his little world that he didn’t even know the end was coming.
    Paul Morris was such a man. Thought he was powerful. Wouldn’t let the people go. Ran his little kingdom just like he’d run the police department.
    Once his hand stilled, Pravus found again that center of peace and power he’d learned at his father’s knee. He’d been taught with the end of a belt to sit still and create.
    Father would be so proud.
    A few more details. A flourish on the words that made his heart sing. LaToya’s veins provided the life in this work of genius. He stepped back.
    “It is good.” His elation was so great he strode to the window to throw it open and shout. He didn’t, of course. He wouldn’t waste his words on a world too ignorant to understand him. Then he looked down to where he always watched and almost laughed aloud.
    There was someone who’d want to share the news. The reverend. Standing there with the lady detective. He’d seen her at the site of the explosion and listened, then studied her carefully. Everything was at a man’s fingertips on the Internet these days. Pravus had already done some searching to find out just who she was, and he