“. . . you want me to tell that policeman I was there.” Irene was talking again. “He knows about the money. What if he won’t listen? He won’t think a police officer could be involved. Oh”—she choked back a sob—“I have to tell him. Do you think we can save Bayroo?”
I blinked back a tear. Irene Chatham was an unlikely heroine, downtrodden, frightened, querulous, selfish, yet kind at heart, wanting to do right but failing and falling as we all so often and easily do.
I gave her a swift hug. “You can do it. You’re strong, Irene. This will put a star in your crown.”
She looked startled. I resisted an urge to reassure her that Heaven was all and more than she could ever imagine and someday all despair would be gone for her, all sadness and tribulation.
I grasped her elbow and turned her toward the entrance to the parish hall. “I’ll be right there with you.” In a manner of speaking.
Irene struggled for breath, gave a short nod.
When we reached the door, I disappeared.
G h o s t at Wo r k
Irene’s gaze darted uneasily around the hall, stopped on Chief Cobb. Lucinda was huddled in a chair drawn up to one side of the central table, where he sat with a mass of papers and an array of phones.
People clustered in one corner, waiting to speak with detectives.
Lucinda no longer wore the bouffant wig. Her Marie Antoinette gown looked bedraggled. She lifted a hand to wipe away tears that spilled from reddened eyes.
Irene slowly approached the table, stopped a few feet away.
Chief Cobb spoke gently. “Don’t cry, Lucinda. You’re doing a good job. Try to remember what the voice sounded like.” Lucinda’s face squeezed in misery. “I wasn’t paying attention.
I barely heard it. I thought maybe her mom or dad wanted her to come help them somewhere. It was a grown-up. A woman. But”—
she shook her head—“it could have been a man with a high voice.” Fresh tears flooded.
I gave Irene a little push.
Her head swung toward me. She blinked in utter surprise. She glanced down at her arm, which I held in a firm grip. “Where . . .” It was a strangled whisper.
“I’m here.” I spoke softly. “You can’t see me. Don’t worry.” She wobbled unsteadily, the beginnings of panic in her face.
“This is no time to faint.” I squeezed her arm. “I’m here on earth to help Bayroo. That’s all you need to know. Now it’s time for you to do your part.”
She tried to pull away.
I urged her forward. “Don’t think about me. Think about Bayroo.” Bayroo and the desperate woman who had taken her away.
I pulled her up to the table. It was crowded with papers, phones, a radio set, and maps.
“. . . and that was the last time you saw her?” Chief Cobb’s expression was bleak.
“Chief Cobb?” I managed a credible imitation of Irene’s voice.
Ca ro ly n H a rt
He glanced up. “Yes?” He was brusque.
Irene stood mute, her breathing quick and shallow, trembling like a poplar in a high wind.
I whispered, “Start with the parking lot.” Her eyes slid sideways, where I should have been. She gulped for air. “I was at the church Thursday evening. I saw Daryl walking to meet that policewoman. Officer Leland.” Chief Cobb frowned. “Officer Leland?” Lucinda wiped her teary face, sniffled. “Was she the one who put the police car in the preserve?”
Chief Cobb looked from Irene to Lucinda. His look of incredulity slowly faded. Shock drained the ruddy color from his face, made him look old and gray and unutterably weary.
“Bayroo was scared to pieces in the preserve until she saw the police car. Then she knew everything was all right. And now . . .” Lucinda dissolved in sobs.
Cobb stood up so quickly his chair crashed to the floor of the hall.
The sudden clatter brought silence.
Father Bill swung around from the portable television set that was blaring the story of Bayroo’s abduction, the call for volunteers, the progress of the investigation. He took a step toward the chief, stopped as if his legs had no strength. He reached out a shaking hand.
Walter Carey turned toward the chief ’s table, holding up a hand to quiet a muscular scout’s rapid speech.
The chief’s eyes scanned the faces in the room, searching, hunting, hoping. Abruptly, he called out, “Where’s Anita? I thought she’d gone with one of the search parties.” No one spoke.
Once again I spoke in Irene’s wavering voice. “Can you call her car?”
Cobb shot Irene a look of surprise, then bent over the table, punched at the radio set. “Calling Car Six. Calling Car Six . . .”
G h o s t at Wo r k
Just then, Walter Carey plunged through the crowd, frowned down at Cobb. “GPS?”
