Black Lotus Read online

  The alarm on her cell phone went off, reminding her that she had an appointment to keep, so her investigation into Detective Wolf would have to wait.

  CHAPTER 8

  Kahllah felt a chill run down her back when she crossed the threshold of the church. She had been raised in an Islamic home until she was captured by the slavers. Those men worshiped no God, and in those days the only thing Kahllah could find the strength to pray for was death. Her adopted father was a man of God . . . a Christian, and religion was a big deal in his house so Kahllah had embraced his faith. She’d been a member of this church’s congregation since she was a teenager, and had spent many Sundays praying in their halls, though she still felt out of place. She navigated the carpeted aisle and stood before the stained glass mural of Jesus that dominated the wall behind the pew. She had loved it since the first time she saw it and could stare at it for hours. Something about it gave her peace.

  Tearing her eyes away from the mural, she walked over to the confessional box. A man was coming out with an expression on his face that said he had just unloaded a heavy burden. She couldn’t help but to wonder what sins he’d whispered. Was he a good man or an evil one? Would heaven be his last stop or hell? It was a game she and her friends at church would play when they were kids. They would watch the people coming out of the confessional and try to guess how deep their sins went.

  Kahllah placed her green knapsack on the floor outside the confessional and stepped in. The booth smelled of musk and old wood. When she heard the screen to the adjoining window slide free, she crossed herself and laid down her burdens.

  “Forgive me father for I have sinned,” she began.

  “How long has it been since your last confession?” the priest on the other side asked.

  “One hundred and eighty-two days,” Kahllah said shamefully.

  “Why so long?”

  Kahllah shrugged. “I guess I’ve just been busy with work.”

  “So, you’re saying that there isn’t enough room in your life for your career and your God?”

  “No, I’m not saying that,” Kahllah assured him. “In a sense, my work is for God. What I do helps a lot of people.”

  “A shepherd of lost souls,” the priest said.

  “I’ve never really looked at it like that, but it sounds about right. I encounter more than my share of lost souls . . . Sometimes it feels like too many.”

  “The Lord never heaps more on us than we can handle.”

  “I know, but sometimes it can be overwhelming. My best friend says I’m trying to save the world all by myself. I just wanna help those who can’t help themselves,” Kahllah told him.

  “None but the Lord can save the world, but we can all do our parts to help the process along. Tell me, have you been doing your part?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “I detect some uncertainty within you.”

  “Father, I bust my ass from sunup to sunup for my cause. I’m not complaining, because I believe in what I’m fighting for, but to what end? It seems like for every wrong that I right, two more pop up in its place. The world is so full of wrong that I often find myself wondering when it gets easier.”

  “Never,” the priest answered honestly. He was silent for a few moments before continuing: “The kingdom of heaven is like a man who sowed good seed in his field. But while everyone was sleeping, his enemy came and sowed weeds among the wheat, and went away. When the wheat sprouted and formed heads, weeds also appeared. The owner’s servants came to him and said, Sir, didn’t you sow good seed in your field? Where then did the weeds come from? He replied, An enemy did this. The servants asked him, Do you want us to go and pull them up? Then he answered, No, because while you are pulling the weeds, you may uproot the wheat with them. Let both grow together until the harvest. At that time I will tell the harvesters: first collect the weeds and tie them in bundles to be burned; then gather the wheat and bring it into my barn.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Kahllah said.

  “In time you will. God will guide your steps through the weeds and lead you to the wheat. Say five Hail Marys and fast for a day. At the end of your fast your mind and your eyes will be refreshed.”

  “Thank you, father.” When Kahllah stood up and left the booth, her knapsack felt a little heavier.

  A few seconds after she had departed, the priest emerged from the confessional, smoothing his black robe. He was a hard-looking man, with a clean-shaven head and a salt-and-pepper goatee. Over his left eye he wore a black leather patch. “Too many lambs and not enough shepherds,” he said aloud to himself before disappearing into the back of the church.

  * * *

  It was late when Kahllah pulled up in front of her Coney Island apartment building. She had a great view of the beach, though Audrey always asked her why she chose to live so far from where she worked; she didn’t understand Kahllah’s need for solitude. Much had changed with Kahllah since college and she valued her privacy.

  She grabbed her purse and the green knapsack from the backseat and got out of the vehicle. A light wind tickled her face, whipping strands of hair across her forehead as she strolled from the curb to the brightly lit lobby of her building. The gray-haired doorman nodded to her, but didn’t attempt to strike up a conversation. Everyone on staff knew that Kahllah wasn’t big on conversation, though she rewarded them for respecting her privacy with envelopes stuffed with cash on the holidays. Kahllah smiled at the old man and continued on to the elevator.

  On the twentieth floor she stepped out into the carpeted hallway. The walls were painted eggshell white with mahogany trim, to match the small coffee table in its center. The doors were all painted the same shade, with brass doorknobs. She proceeded down the hall and stopped in front of unit twenty-six. She unlocked her apartment door, but before opening it, she ran her hand along the edge of the frame. Neither of the pieces of clear tape she stuck in place every time she left had been disturbed. Some called Kahllah paranoid for the precautions she took, but she knew better than most the kind of evil that lurked in the world. Once she was sure it was safe, she stepped inside and engaged the multiple locks on the door behind her.

  With the touch of a switch her living room was illuminated by track lights. It was tastefully decorated in shades of cream and gold, giving it an old-world effect. A leather sectional circled around the rear of the living room, just in front of the balcony. On the left wall, there was an entertainment system, housing a thirty-two-inch television and a CD player. On the right was an oak bookshelf that stretched from ceiling to floor.

  Kahllah tossed her jacket over the arm of the wingback chair that sat against the wall by the door. She would hang it up later. Kicking off her shoes, she made her way to the sofa and placed her knapsack on her lap. She rifled through the folders containing stories that she was working on, and from the bag produced a thick manila envelope. She peeked inside and nodded in approval. She removed a photo from the envelope and placed it on the table. The envelope, and the cash inside, would go into her wall safe later on, until she was able to get to to her safe-deposit box at the bank. Kahllah never kept large sums of cash in her apartment. The building staff seemed honest enough, but she was a young woman, living alone, and there was no need to tempt fate.

  She examined the photo, familiarizing herself with the face. On the back of it were some notes written in sloppy handwriting that Kahllah was familiar with, so it wasn’t hard to decipher the information. After committing everything to memory, she went into the kitchen and set the photo on fire. She dropped it into the sink, then leaned against the wall to watch it burn. When there was nothing left but ash, she rinsed it down the garbage disposal. Now she was ready for bed. She had a long day ahead of her and would need to be well rested.

  * * *

  Kahllah’s sleep was anything but peaceful. She was plagued with nightmares as soon as she closed her eyes. The last one was the most intense. She dreamed that she was a young girl again, back at the hovel the slav
ers kept the girls in. She was curled up on a dirty cot, listening to the screams of a girl being raped in the next room. That night, just like every night she was there, she prayed for death, but it never came. A few minutes later, her door creaked open and several men walked in. It was her turn to be conditioned, as they called it. They wanted their girls to be tight for their clients, but not too tight, so they broke some of the fresher ones in.

  She fought the men with everything she had but there were too many of them. Two of them bound her arms to the bed, while a third forced her legs open. Kahllah pleaded for mercy, but she knew that mercy was a foreign concept to these men. When one forced himself inside her, Kahllah felt like she had just been ripped in half. He did his business and freed his seed inside of her, before moving aside to let the next man have a go. Kahllah lay there, by now numb to the pain, and detached, while the men dripped sweat onto her frail body. She could still feel their rough mouths suckling her underdeveloped breasts. She wanted nothing more than to cry, but would not give the rapists the satisfaction.

  There was a crash from somewhere behind them. Kahllah’s vision was blocked by the man who was on top of her. There was shouting, followed by the sound of gunshots. Blood splattered everywhere, including in Kahllah’s eyes. She tried to rub them clean, but it only made the blood seem to stick. She could feel herself being snatched from the bed and the wind whipping past her face like she was falling from a rooftop. She closed her eyes, waiting for the impact of the ground below, but it never came. When she opened them, she was no longer at the hovel, but in a church.

  She was older now, maybe about thirteen. She was wearing a pretty white dress and white Mary Jane shoes. She was on her knees before an altar, but she wasn’t worshipping. Her arms were spread and tied to it. She struggled against the leather straps, but she was no match for them.

  “The enemies of God are the enemies of His sword,” she could hear someone behind her in the dream saying. “Those who would stand against the one true God must be made to feel the sting of His blade.”

  Fire shot through Kahllah’s back as a whip was brought down across it. Blood now stained the arms of her pretty white dress and her back throbbed, but she knew this was only the beginning—it only hurt in the beginning.

  “The will of God is the only law,” the voice continued. “Man has been corrupted and the wrong must be righted. Who has been chosen for this?”

  “The sword,” Kahllah could hear herself saying in the dream. “The sword must cut the weeds so that the wheat may grow.” Another blow fell across her back, but she refused to scream out.

  “And it is the sword who has taken the sacred oath. It is the sword who has spoken the words before God and pledged to put the needs of man and the Lord in front of their own. Speak the words!”

  Kahllah’s lips moved but she could no longer speak. What were the words?

  Another crack of the whip landed across her back. This one was so intense she felt like it had taken off her skin. She felt a strong hand grab a fistful of her hair and lift her head. Kahllah still couldn’t see who it was speaking to her, but she could smell him. He wore the unmistakable smell of death like a designer fragrance. She could feel the cold touch of steel from the blade that was now pressed into her neck. “Only the evil cannot speak the words. And as decreed by my Lord and Savior, the evil must be purified by blood and steel.”

  This time Kahllah did scream. She screamed until her throat was raw and she was awake. Her eyes snapped open and she was on her feet and in a defensive stance before she could totally shake the sleep off. She looked around the room for the man who had been torturing her, but she was alone. There was no altar and no church; she was in her bedroom.

  Her adoptive father once told her that the nightmares would fade, but she had yet to see evidence of that. The nightmares rode her like a dark horse and she doubted she would ever be free of them. Kahllah’s body was still tired, but as hard as her adrenaline was pumping, she knew there was no way she would be able to make it back to sleep. She would likely be up for the rest of the night and through the day.

  As long as she was up, she figured she would do something productive with her time. Slipping on a pair of sweats, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and running shoes, she headed out into the night.

  CHAPTER 9

  Detective Wolf tried to get some rest that night, but he couldn’t. Ever since he’d left the Goodens’ the case had been eating at him more than ever. There was something he was missing and he needed to find out what.

  The way Captain Marx had reacted at the crime scene confirmed what Wolf had already suspected: the man had a personal stake in it. Wolf was sure that if he followed the threads of these crimes he would find the connections and see who all the players were, so he turned his living room into a staging ground for his investigation. There were pictures of different people, locations, and evidence from each crime. Files littered every flat surface in the house and his printer was working overtime. He imagined if he could figure out who the Black Lotus’s next target was, he could beat him to it and lay this all to rest.

  Wolf stood in the middle of his messy living room, examining the big board of information he had erected. In the center there were two pictures, one of Johnny Gooden’s dead body, and one of the priest’s corpse. Each had lines drawn from them with marker that connected them to different photos. So far the players in the game who Wolf had identified were Mr. Gooden, Roger, Poncho, and of course Captain Marx.

  Mr. Gooden was a mean son of a bitch when Wolf had first met him, and the murder of his son hadn’t done much to improve his disposition. He had a violent temper and a drinking problem, so was it possible that he could’ve killed the priest? Maybe John Sr. had put more stock in his eldest son’s story about the priest being a pedophile than Scott had known and paid Father Fleming a visit. He could see John Gooden Sr. after a long night of drinking confront the priest and things going south. Still, John Sr. was a brawler, not a butcher, and both victims had been butchered.

  Then you had the late Father Fleming. Let the neighborhood tell it, he was a sweet old man who baptized babies and married young couples off, but Scott Gooden had a different impression of him. With all the stories Wolf had been seeing on the news about sexual abuse in the church, it didn’t seem that far-fetched that Father Fleming could’ve been a predator. It was always the ones you least expected to have the ugliest secrets.

  It took a simple phone call to confirm that Poncho had been working at the city morgue at the time Johnny’s body was brought in and he was fired not long after. From what Wolf had heard about the man, the notion of him being fired for fucking corpses was plausible—and one thing working that case had taught Wolf was to take nothing at face value. It was his guess that the man’s firing had nothing to do with necrophilia and everything to do with what happened to Johnny. He would’ve been the first one to come into contact with Johnny’s body before it made it to the medical examiner’s table and the last one to make contact with it before it was sent back down to the freezer. Was it possible that he had done something to make Johnny’s death look like something other than what it was?

  Roger was another story. From the way he’d taken off when Wolf asked about his patch, clearly he was hiding something. Wolf had reached out to a few people about the patch worn over Roger’s jacket and found out that it was the insignia of an Army Ranger unit that called themselves Born to Kill, or B.T.K. for short. They were all whack jobs who did the dirty work behind enemy lines, no questions asked. Roger was without a doubt a killer, but not the Black Lotus killer. Even if it hadn’t been for the conflicting times between the last murder and he and Roger’s fight, he wouldn’t have pegged the guy for the assassinations. He had the training, but not the mental capacity. The murders were skilled, and well thought out, and Roger was a half-witted brute. He had scratched the man from his list of killers, but he still wondered what his connection was. What or who was he hiding that would’ve made him risk assaulting a police of
ficer, knowing he’d likely be caught?

  Last but not least, there was the ringmaster of it all, Captain Marx. Wolf had known Marx almost all of his life. He knew Marx was a good cop, but he also knew that he was a man who didn’t mind straying from protocol to manipulate the strings of justice. He had been like a surrogate father to Wolf growing up, but now he was a suspect. His reaction at the crime scene confirmed what Wolf had already suspected—that he was connected to all this somehow. The question was, how deep was he in it? Could it be possible that the man, who had taught him everything that he knew about the law, was pissing on it to save his own ass?

  Wolf found a headache coming on from trying to answer all these questions, so he decided to take a break. He grabbed a beer from the fridge and flopped on his couch in front of his laptop to check his e-mails. In the spam folder he found a correspondence he’d been waiting for from the administrative department at One Police Plaza. He was banging one of the clerks, so he would call in favors from time to time. The e-mail had details about the Johnny Gooden case, such as chain of custody and the names of the officers working on it. Captain Marx had been a lieutenant back then and was spearheading the investigation. It was mostly information that Wolf already knew, so he was about to discard the e-mail when something caught his eye. One of the files included as an attachment had been submitted by a lawyer in the DA’s office. It wouldn’t have warranted a second look had Wolf not noticed her name, Margaret Stone.

  Detective Wolf knew the name because every time he turned around she was in the newspaper. She’d had a promising career in law before abandoning it to run her husband Dirk Stone’s mayoral campaign. Though her husband didn’t win, Margaret’s tireless efforts made her an overnight celebrity and a regular on the New York social scene. When she wasn’t busy with her nonprofit organization, she was picketing abortion clinics and petitioning for better health care in inner cities. The woman was damn near a saint and it was surprising that her name would be attached to something so dirty.