A Touch of Grace (8 page)

The need to talk to this particular girl stuck in Gretchen’s craw. Sooner or later, she would find a way.

But right now, the preacher was digging in a hall closet and talking about something called street patrol. She had a feeling her night was about to get very interesting.

“What’s street patrol?” she asked again, coming up beside him.

He pulled a backpack from the closet. The old house had dimly lit, narrow halls. Two was a crowd. She backed against the paneled wall, felt the cool smoothness through her blouse.

“Troubled kids hit the streets at night. So do I.” He yanked a weathered ball cap from a shelf and shoved it onto his head, adjusting with both hands for a perfect fit.

“I don’t get it. Exactly where are you going?”

As patient as the proverbial Job, he said, “I drive the streets, looking for runaways, kids who are too young to be out, kids in trouble. Or about to be.”

He couldn’t be serious. “Now? But it’s after dark.”

“That’s the most dangerous time for the kids.” He slid the backpack over one shoulder and maneuvered around her. The intriguing scent of soap and whatever made a man a man teased her as he passed.

“But when do you sleep?” she insisted.

“I usually get back in around one or two. I manage.” He’d arrived at a side entrance by now. “This is what I
do, Gretchen. If I’m going to minister to the runaways, I have to go where they are, when they are. They seldom come to us.”

No wonder he’d looked frazzled and unshaven the other morning at the station. He’d been up all night.

“People have to sleep.”

A wry grin lightened his face. “I can sleep when I’m dead.”

“Well, you’ll forgive me if I don’t wait that long. What’s the backpack for?”

“Essentials,” was all he said.

“Wait a minute while I get my satchel,” she said.

Ian froze with a hand on the doorknob. “For what?”

“To go with you. Remember? Total access? I’m your tagalong.”

“I can’t let you do that. You need to go home, get some rest.” He stepped out into the black night and closed the door in her face.

Red-hot fury raced through her bloodstream. She yanked the door open and stormed out behind him.

If he thought he was leaving her here while he cruised the streets looking for teenagers, he was crazy. This kind of unorthodox concept of ministry was exactly what she’d come to investigate. If he didn’t sleep, she didn’t sleep.

Chapter Six

T
he night hung dark and sultry as Ian guided the rattling van through the cleaner, touristy area around Jackson Square and then into the seedier back streets of the ninety-block section known as the French Quarter. Neon lights pulsated over dark, mysterious entryways tucked into the long continuous brick wall of tiny shops, cafés, and bars. Zydeco music pumped out of a bar, stirring the air with frantic gaiety while Dixieland jazz thrummed from yet another. A flood of people, New Orleans’s night-life, roamed the streets or dappled the upper balconies of old historical houses turned business establishments.

Ian glanced at the woman in the passenger seat, wondering how she’d managed to talk him into this. He rarely took anyone with him, mostly because no one wanted to come along, but he also liked the freedom of doing things his way. He’d finally given in to Gretchen when it became clear she wouldn’t back off. She was as much bulldog as barracuda.

He only hoped she didn’t interfere. Or worse yet, scare the kids off. He had tentative, fragile relationships with any number of street people. All they needed to fade into the shadows was a strange face or the wrong word. He’d tried to explain this, only to have her promise to remain quiet. A newswoman remaining quiet? This he’d have to see.

“Where to first?” she asked. The flickering lights from the gas lamp flames glinted off her short, but very feminine blond hair and silvery blouse. As a rule, Ian tried not to notice women, certainly not their clothes or hair or how good they smelled. In his profession, as one of his friends had discovered shortly out of seminary, the wrong woman could ruin a ministry. But for some unfathomable reason, Ian was very aware of Gretchen Barker.

Maybe his mother had put ideas into his head, because after their conversation the other day Ian had started to feel lonely. Which was crazy. He was surrounded by people all the time, sometimes to the point of claustrophobia.

“There are some drug hangouts back in here.” He made a left-hand turn, taking them deeper into the belly of the Quarter. “We’ll check those first.”

He didn’t bother to tell her that he had a couple of specific kids in mind tonight. Kids that worried him because they were so close to the edge. Any day now they’d fall over into the cesspool of drugs, prostitution, crime.

“Crack houses? Oh, goodie.” The sarcasm was not lost on Ian.

“Want me to take you home?” They rumbled past a row of bars, a voodoo shop, a sidewalk café.

She grinned at him. “You wish.”

Yes, he did. And for more reasons than the news story. Tonight at the mission when she was unaware, he’d watched her serve up beans and franks. He’d watched her chatting with the guests as if they came from the upper crust. He’d watched her interact with the in-house kids at the mission. The barracuda attitude she took with him disappeared every time, replaced by kindness, even friendliness.

She was nice to others, but not him. Though he was working on the issue, one of his great failings was the need for approval—even from suspicious news reporters.

“So, who won the race?” he asked, remembering the tickets she’s been so thrilled about the day he’d confronted her at the news station.

“Pardon me?”

“Bigfoot or Grave Digger?”

“Oh, the monster trucks.” She twisted sideways in the seat to face him, her expression animated. “Neither, but the show was awesome. We had a great time. Have you ever been?”

Gaze scanning the sidewalks, he nodded. “The noise was deafening in a good kind of way.” But not, as his dad had reminded him, any more deafening than the music he listened to.

“Yeah.” She savored the word, grinning like a kid. “I love the noise.”

“What about the guy at the station? Did he go, too?” He didn’t know why he’d asked that.

“David? Oh, yes. He’s a big truck fan.” She laughed at the play on words. “I mean, he’s an avid fan of big trucks…like me.”

Another question was on Ian’s tongue, but he drew the line at asking if David was her boyfriend. Her personal life was not his business. He wasn’t even sure he liked the woman, and he knew she would skewer him on the six o’clock news at the drop of a hat. Thinking personal thoughts just showed how tired and overworked he was.

Although the curious question lingered, he clamped his mouth shut and drove in silence for a few blocks as he scoured the streets for a familiar face. If Gretchen noticed how quickly he’d ended the conversation, she said nothing.

They neared an intersection, and Gretchen pointed out the side window. “Look, the Tin Man.”

At the apt description of the street performer, Ian smiled. On the corner, a man painted all in silver from head to toe had drawn a small crowd with his bizarre looks and accordion music. Beside him, a boy no more than eight tap-danced to the energetic rhythm while onlookers filled their box with change and dollar bills.

“Want to stop and listen for a while?”

She glanced at him, the green eyes catlike in the dimness. “I thought we were on the lookout for people in need.”

“We are.”

She thought about that for a minute before saying, “Do whatever you normally would do. I’m only the tagalong.”

Ian edged the van to the curb. They couldn’t stay long without a legal parking place and those were hard to find.

After he turned the key off the engine chugged for several more seconds.

“Sounds like your van is sick,” Gretchen said as she shoved her shoulder against the sticking passenger door.

“Nah. She just didn’t want to stop here.” His humor was rewarded with a smile.

“Your van is a she?”

“Gotta be.” He gave his head a sad shake. “She has a mind of her own, and she’s way too complicated for a mere man to figure out.”

This time Gretchen giggled.

A giggle?
From Barracuda Barker? He didn’t know she had it in her. And to tell the truth, he liked the fresh, feminine sound.

With that troubling notion rolling around in his head, Ian hopped out and rounded the vehicle. The Tin Man ripped into “When the Saints Go Marching In,” the accordion pumping back and forth with amazing speed. The Tin Man always saluted his arrival in this manner, though Ian never knew if the music served as a greeting to him or a warning to the others.

As they neared the small gathering, Ian spotted familiar faces and stopped to say hello. He kept the conversation low-key and friendly. They knew who he was and what he stood for. Hammering the message home would only drive them away.

Though his mother would chastise him for rudeness, he didn’t introduce Gretchen to anyone. A reporter in the midst would clear the streets faster than yelling fire. As it was, he was amazed no one recognized her.

She hovered at his elbow, thankfully saying nothing for the moment. He would hardly have known she was there except for her magnolia fragrance, a pleasant respite from the mingling smells of humanity, aged buildings and thick river air.

He kept an eye out for kids in general but especially for those who’d come to Isaiah House for help and had left without it. As always, his heart expanded with an odd mixture of love and pity for the street people.

“Hey, Preach.” A boy with dreadlocks and a charming, open-faced smile sidled up beside him.

“Sticks,” Ian said using the fourteen-year-old’s street name. He had never seen the kid without a pair of drum-sticks. “What’s going on?”

Sticks loved to talk. The habit was useful to Ian, but one that could get the boy hurt out here on the streets.

Gretchen fidgeted at his elbow. He ignored her.

“Streets are pretty quiet tonight so far.” Over the noise of zydeco music, Sticks moved closer to Ian and lowered his voice. “Posse got busted last night. Him and Spud robbed some old dude outside the casino.”

“Did you tell his mama?” At sixteen Posse was out of control, but his mother sometimes rode the van with Ian looking for her son, asking Ian to pray. He always obliged, though he questioned the good either of them accomplished.

Sticks rolled a drumstick over one finger and under another. “Yeah. She’s pretty torn up.”

“I’ll go see her.”

“She’ll ask you to get him out.”

“I know.” Hadn’t he done that once before? “You
seen Terry Anne tonight?” The young runaway was heavy on his mind.

Sticks executed a silent drum roll in the air. “Saw her with some strange dude over on Frenchmen Street.”

Some strange dude.
Ian’s heart sank. “When was that?”

“’Bout an hour, I guess. Might as well give up on her, man. Jackie ain’t likely to let go now that he’s got hold of her.”

Ian fought the urge to agree. Jackie went through young girls like water through the swamps, leaving them soiled and broken. But Terry Anne had come to the mission a few times, and Ian couldn’t give up hope that she could still escape.

“Thanks, Sticks. Anything else you can tell me before I head that way?”

“Check the alley behind Andre’s place and the under-pass down the street from there. Never know what you might see.”

Ian nodded, understanding that this was all the boy could safely say. “Thanks. Wanna come back to Isaiah House with me?”

“Wasting your time, man. I’m hopeless.” The boy laughed and tapped Ian with a drumstick. “Who’s your lady?”

Ian didn’t bother to correct the mistake. “Gretchen, meet Sticks.”

“Nice to meet you, Sticks. A drummer, I guess?”

“Will be when I get me some drums.” The boy guffawed, his dreadlocks wiggling like Medusa’s snakes. “See ya at the Square next week, Preach?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

With that, Sticks moseyed on down the street, playing air drums as he went. In no way did Ian consider him hopeless.

“Interesting character,” Gretchen said as they headed toward the van.

“Sticks is a good kid with a lot of potential. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

But Ian intended to keep on working and talking and building a relationship until he found a way to help the talented boy. Right now, environment weighed Sticks down. His dad was in prison, his mother dead. Sticks stayed here and there with relatives, but mostly on the streets. Even though Ian had invited him to live at Isaiah House more than once, so far Sticks had refused. As hard as that was for Ian to accept, there wasn’t much he could do.

Gretchen broke into his thoughts. “Who’s Terry Anne?”

The nagging worry returned. “A runaway. Really young and innocent. A sweet kid who should be back in Alabama cheering at football games, not hanging out with pushers and pimps.” Though he didn’t say as much, Terry Anne reminded him of Maddy.

“Is she underage?”

“Fifteen maybe.”

“Why don’t you report her to the police?”

“Some kids are worse off at home than on the streets. Besides, street people protect each other. No cop is going to find her if she doesn’t want to be found. And if I turn her in, she’ll not only disappear, I’ll lose every ounce of credibility I have with the people out here. Then who will
be there for them? Who will they have to call on when something happens? Right now, I’ve developed an uneasy acceptance from a lot of people who don’t usually trust anyone. If I lose that, I’ll lose them all.”

He climbed behind the wheel and slammed the door, waiting to crank the engine until Gretchen buckled up.

“I guess I never looked at it that way,” Gretchen said as they rumbled back onto the narrow street.

“Yeah, well, put that in your report. Street ministry is not clean or orderly or easy.”

“Do you do this every night?”

“Mostly. At least for an hour or two. When I miss a night, something bad happens.”

“Bad things happen anyway.”

“True.” But he always felt as if he should have been there. That he could have prevented trouble with his prayers and his presence.