“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.
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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 . . .” 270
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Just then, Walter Carey plunged through the crowd, frowned down at Cobb. “GPS?”
Chief Cobb looked up. His voice was level. “I wanted to equip each car with a GPS. It was voted down by the city council. Unnecessary expense. Like the mayor said, ‘How could we lose a police car?’” He bent again to the radio.
“Calling Car Six. Calling . . .”
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My eyes adjusted to the almost impenetrable darkness.
Slowly shapes formed, dark shadowy bunches of trees, tangled shrubs, branches that let through scarcely a glimmer of cold moonlight.
I heard an eerie echo of Chief Cobb’s voice, tinny and distant.
“Calling Car Six. Calling Car Six.” I moved nearer the sound, bumped into metal. Anita’s cruiser was parked alongside a tall stand of cane.
I ran my hand along the side of the car, found an open window. I poked my head inside.
“. . . report immediately. Calling Car Six, report . . .” Taking a quick breath, I opened the door. The light flashed on. I glanced front and back. Nothing. No one. I had feared what I might find, but Anita had taken Bayroo with her. I closed the door and walked through crushed grasses to the gravel road.
Branches creaked in the ever-stirring Oklahoma wind. I faintly discerned the road. Obviously, I was out in the country, some remote and untraveled area.
Was I too late? My heart twisted. Dear, sweet, fun Bayroo, where are you? I had to search, move as quickly as possible. I rose high, G h o s t at Wo r k
looking for a light, a sign of movement. Whatever Anita planned, let me be in time. It seemed an eon and yet I knew only seconds had passed.
Below me were woods and beyond the trees an overgrown field, dark and quiet in the moonlight. A ramshackle barn loomed perhaps twenty feet away, silhouetted against the night sky. A derelict combine lay on one side amid a jumble of trash, coils of barbed wire, rusted milk cans, the frame of a windowless jalopy, lumber scraps in a haphazard pile. An owl suddenly rose from the barn roof, hooting, his wavering mournful call a warning of trespass.
Light flickered from a hayloft, a brief, dancing dart. A spear of light through the wide window illuminated the dark and leafless limbs of a huge maple. A wooden shutter creaked into place and the vagrant gleam was gone.
The hayloft . . .
I arrived in the filthy, junk-filled loft.
A Maglite lay atop a battered wooden table. In its beam, Anita struggled to push an old chest of drawers against the shutter, throwing a monstrous shadow against a stack of galvanized tubs.
Bayroo’s frightened eyes followed Anita’s every move. Bayroo’s face was pale, her wrists manacled, her pirate costume torn at one shoulder. She was a few feet behind Anita. As Anita shoved the chest, the wood grating on the loft floor, Bayroo edged toward wooden steps that descended into a black void.
The handcuffs clanked.
Anita whirled. She clamped her hand to her holster, drew out the gun, whipped it level with Bayroo’s head.
If I rushed her, the gun might fire. I was poised to move, knowing a desperate struggle would ensue. Anita was young and fit, trained to overcome attackers.
Anita held the gun steady with both hands. “How old are you?” Her voice was thin.
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“Eleven.” Bayroo’s green eyes were wide and staring.
I wished I could take her in my arms, tell her she was going to be safe, that someday she would look back and understand she’d been caught up innocently in the ugly aftermath of dark passions, that anger and murder and violence would not touch her life, take her life.
Bayroo had not yet seen me. Her eyes, young, vulnerable, defense-less, questioning, never left Anita’s ashen face.
Anita’s lips trembled. “Eleven. Vee was eleven when Mama died.
I raised her up. She was always beautiful. You’re beautiful, too.” Her haggard face was heavy with remembered grief and love.
“Thank you.” The words hung between them, Bayroo’s polite response automatic. How often must Kathleen have said, “Always say thank you when you are complimented.”
“Eleven.” Slowly the gun sank until the muzzle pointed at the dust-laden floor, streaked now by footprints.
The moment had passed, the awful moment when Anita had chosen between life and death for Bayroo.
“Why did you have to be in the preserve?” Anita’s voice shook.
“Why? If you hadn’t been there, if you hadn’t seen me, everything would be all right.”
Bayroo looked puzzled. “Weren’t you supposed to be there?” Anita ignored her. She jammed the gun into her holster, flexed her fingers as if her hand ached.
Bayroo shivered. “I’m cold. Are we going to stay long? My mom and dad will be worried about me. Why did you bring me here?”
“Don’t talk, kid.” Anita’s voice was gruff. She swallowed hard, her features drawn in a tight frown as she studied the loft. Her face was pale, remote, distant. I saw no trace of the young woman whose tremulous glance had spoken of love to Sam Cobb.
Bayroo looked up and saw me. Her eyes widened in amazement, in joy, in relief.
I placed a finger to my lips, shook my head.
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Bayroo’s green eyes glistened. Tension eased from her stiff frame, terror erased.