Ghost at Work (25 page)

“Anita Leland.” Anita Leland, who had often followed Daryl Murdoch, knew his daily routine.

Irene's eyes were empty. “There wasn't any reason for him to have a policewoman come to the church.” Her lips quivered. “Except for me.”

Her voice was so low I could scarcely hear. She flung up her head and the words came fast as rocks thrown by an angry crowd. “If I'd had a gun, I would have been glad to shoot him. Father Bill was going to let me pay everything back. I would have. Somehow. But Daryl wanted everyone to know. He wanted me to go to jail. I hated him. I turned and ran to my car. I was afraid to go home. I drove around for hours and finally I was so tired, I drove up my street and the houses were dark and no one was waiting for me. And now…”

I heard Irene's bitter tirade while the puzzle pieces slotted into a perfect pattern. I'd tried to jam the wrong shapes together, poking a weak-willed woman into the role of a quick-thinking, opportunistic, coolheaded adversary.

Anita Leland hated Daryl Murdoch. Anita blamed Daryl for her sister's husband's suicide and her sister's disappearance. Anita had planned to shoot Daryl Wednesday evening at his cabin, but she looked through the window and saw Kathleen and the red silk nightgown. Anita changed her plan, decided his death on the rectory back porch would provide a ready-made suspect.

Anita had been warned to stop her ticketing campaign against Daryl. Thursday evening she stopped him as he left his office. She didn't give him a ticket, so why…Maybe she told him there had been trouble at the church, a break-in, and he told her he was on his way there, would meet her in the parking lot.

Anita didn't park in the church lot. She hid the police car in the
nature preserve, walked the few hundred yards to the parking lot, met Daryl. Perhaps he had been told the problem was at the rectory and he walked willingly with her to the back door and onto the porch.

Anita shot him. Did she tell him who she was when she held the gun to his head? She shot him and slipped through the gathering gloom, seen by no one. She must have felt very safe when she reached the preserve. Bayroo heard the crunch of leaves. Was it at the time of Anita's departure for the church or at the time of her return? Whichever, Bayroo had been frightened until she saw the car. A police car. This afternoon, Bayroo turned away the story of her derring-do, saying she'd been scared until she saw the car.

Anita Leland could not let Bayroo describe that car.

I looked at the clock above the stainless-steel sinks. A quarter to seven. Now the shadows were falling, dusk turning to dark. And Bayroo…My throat ached.

“…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.

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.

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…”

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…”

M
y 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,
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.

“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, defenseless, 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.

Bayroo's green eyes glistened. Tension eased from her stiff frame, terror erased.

Please God, her faith would be justified. Yet I had no surety of success. Even if I were able to find a weapon—that scythe in one corner? the ax handle without a head?—there was no guarantee I could wield an awkward tool quickly enough to forestall a gunshot.

I glanced toward the stairs. A push? I felt a bone-deep chill. I could defend, yes. I could protect, yes. But could I be the instrument of injury or worse?

The loft was cold, cold with my foreboding, cold with the chill of a late October night, cold with the emptiness of an abandoned building. The loft was a repository for discarded household goods. Cotton wadding poked from holes dug by mice or rats in an old sofa and a stained mattress. A refrigerator door lay next to a rusted plow. The ax handle leaned against a worn saddle. Thick dust covered everything.

Anita gave an abrupt nod. “Come here, kid.”

Bayroo reluctantly took one step, another, came nearer, the handcuff links clinking.

Anita gestured at the mattress. “Sit down.”

Bayroo's face wrinkled in distaste. “It's dirty.”

Anita gave her an odd look. “Dirt won't hurt you.”

Bayroo glanced toward me.

I nodded, made a tamping-down gesture, hands outstretched, palms down.

Obediently, Bayroo sank down. She sat with her knees hunched to her chin, her body drawn tight.

Anita moved fast. She dragged the refrigerator door to the mattress, knelt next to Bayroo. In an instant she loosed the handcuff from Bayroo's right wrist, snapped it in place around the door handle. She pushed up from the floor, strode to the table, reached for the flashlight.

As she started for the stairs, Bayroo cried out, “Please, don't leave me in the dark.” Her young voice quavered.

I stood at the top of the stairs. Slanting steps plunged into gloom.

Anita came even with me; her face looked old and empty. She hesitated for an instant, hunched her shoulders, started down.

I raised my hand. If I caught Anita in the middle of her back, pushed with all my might, she would tumble head over heels.

My hand slowly fell.

The light went with her, fading as she thudded down the wooden steps, her hurrying feet pounding. The golden glow diminished, less and less, and then was gone. Blackness, thick and heavy, enveloped us, pressing down with the weight of the unseen.

“Auntie Grand!” Bayroo's thin voice rose in a wail. .

I whirled, went to Bayroo, wrapped her in my arms. She sobbed, hiccuping for breath, her body shaking in uncontrollable spasms. “…hate the dark…always hated the dark…mean things…awful things in the dark…Oh, Mom, I want my mom.”

“Hush, dear child.” I pressed my cheek against her sweet-scented hair, held her tight. “We'll find a way. She's gone now. I'll open the loft window and it won't seem so dark.” I loosed my hold, started to get up.

Immediately her fingers closed tightly on my wrist. “Don't leave me.”

I squeezed her shoulders. “We're fine.” I kept my voice easy. “I'll get us out of here.”

“What did I do wrong?” Bayroo cried harder. “I just hid so I could watch for Travis.”

“You didn't do anything wrong.” I held her tight. “Not a single thing. It's Mr. Murdoch's murder. You see, she shot him and she'd hidden the police car there.”

Bayroo gasped. She sat up straight, her breaths coming quickly. “She did? He was the senior warden. I read all about it in the paper, but Mama wouldn't talk about it. Why did she do that?”

“Anger. ‘Anger is a weed; hate is the tree.'” The words came readily. I'd learned that and much more in a recent class I'd taken with Saint Augustine. “She was angry for things he'd done and she let anger take over her life.” There would be, please God, time and enough to try to explain to Bayroo the noxious growths that can squeeze out love and forgiveness and grace from our lives.

“Now she's mad at me?” Bayroo's voice was small, but no longer shaken by sobs.

“Not you.” Not at a child, a pretty girl who baked a special cake for her new friend, a beloved daughter, a friend. “At what's gone wrong in her life.” At the loss of choice and hope and a future.

Bayroo moved uneasily. “What is she going to do?”

“I don't know.” Had murder been in Anita's heart when she enticed Bayroo away? I feared so. She had come close, desperately close, when the gun was aimed at Bayroo. What would she do now? Her only chance was to make a run for it, perhaps drive to Dallas, lose herself in that sprawling city. For now, she'd left Bayroo alone.

I needed to make haste, find a way for Bayroo to escape. “You can help me figure out how to get you out of here.”

“Out?” She moved and the links of the handcuff clinked. “I'm fastened here.” Her voice wobbled.

I spoke easily. “Let's get a little moonlight. That will help. I'm going to move that chest away from the loft window, open the shutter. I'll be right back.” I gave her a reassuring pat. Her body stiffened, but she made no complaint.

I pulled the drawers from the chest, placed them to one side. I gripped the sides of the chest, edged it away from the shutter. The bottom scraped against the floor. I paused to listen. Would Anita hear the noise, return to discover the source? Or did she feel confident that Bayroo was stuck and noise didn't matter? No sound came from the stairs. In a moment I'd shoved the chest to one side.

The shutter was harder to manage. I didn't know if Anita had
wedged something to keep it in place or if an old hinge had jammed. I pulled and struggled and finally, with a desperate yank, the shutter splintered and gave way. I tumbled backward.

Moonlight splashed into the loft. Night air swept inside, cool swift air threaded with wisps of smoke.

“I smell smoke.” Bayroo's voice was puzzled.

I smelled smoke, too, thicker and stronger. Now that it was silent in the loft, the scrapes and bangs and screeches ended, I heard a faint crackling sound, the insidious rustle as flame devoured desiccated wood. Now a rustle, the fire would soon be a roar.

“Auntie Grand!” Bayroo yanked her arm. The bracelet rattled against the handle. “I can't get loose.” In the spill of moonlight, she was a small, dark shape jerking frantically.

In a sudden, frightening rush, hot, oily smoke clouded the loft, obscuring the moonlight, turning our world dark again with no glimmer of light from the loft window. Bayroo began to cough. “Auntie Grand, look at that funny glow.”

Orange-tinted smoke swirled into the loft, rising from the barn floor. Flames could not be far behind.

“Auntie Grand, did she set fire to the barn?” Bayroo's voice was stricken.

“Yes.” Away from Bayroo's young face, Anita Leland had made a fatal decision.

Bayroo choked and sputtered, words coming in short gasps. “…stuck…can't move that door…chest hurts…”

“I'm coming.” I pictured the ax shaft and I was beside it, my grasping hand tight on its splintery handle. Bayroo was not far away. I dropped down beside her.

Thin arms reached out, clung to me. Bayroo breathed in quick, desperate gasps. Acrid fumes clogged our throats.

“I'm here.” I wedged the shaft into the space between the handle and door, used the ax handle as a fulcrum, and applied my weight.
I pushed and pushed and pushed. Abruptly the refrigerator door handle snapped. The ax shaft went flying and I fell in a heap, but I was laughing and crying and hugging Bayroo. “The window,” I shouted. “We've got to get to the window.”

Bayroo wobbled to her feet. I clutched her arm and we blindly moved forward. How far? Ten feet, perhaps twelve. Blessedly, the smoke thinned in time for me to see the opening. Bayroo hung her head out, drawing in deep breaths. The rush and hiss of flames crackled ominously.

Moonlight spread its glory over the barnyard, making the branches of the huge old maple distinct against the night sky.

The nearest branch was only fifteen feet away. Not many feet to walk or run, too many feet to jump. I looked down and saw the moonlight spread across the dirt so far below. The loft window was at least thirty feet above the ground.

Behind us the fire flared and heat pulsed toward us, flames curving and twisting, reaching to the roof.

Bayroo looked down. She clung to the side of the loft. “Auntie Grand, I can't jump down and the tree's too far!”

Despair curled in my heart. Beloved Bayroo was doomed. I would try, but I knew, even as I slipped my arm around her shoulder, that I would not be able to carry her to the tree.

I'd never felt more alone. I'd insisted to Wiggins that I wanted no more interference, that I was capable of completing my task. Pride had prompted my outburst to him, and now Bayroo would pay a dreadful price because of me.

I bent close to her cheek, shouted over the roar of the flames. “We'll make it. Jump toward that lower branch, Bayroo. I'll be with you.”

We jumped. I clutched Bayroo and held tight and struggled, but she was too heavy, slipping from my grasp, her cry rising in the night.

“Steady, now.” Wiggins's deep voice was as strong and loud as
the clack of train wheels. “I've got you both. Here we go,” and we reached the tree.