walked toward the buzzing hive of police activity inside the yellow tape.
“You the reverend?” an ebony-faced policeman, dressed in city blues, asked.
“Yes, I’m Ian Carpenter.” He had never been comfortable with the formalities of his profession. He was a street missionary, plain and simple. As his mama liked to say, “There but for the grace of God go you or I.” He was no better or more holy than anyone else. Reverend might fit some, but not him.
“What happened?”
“Looks like an overdose.” Even in the early morning, with the sun only peeking above the horizon, sweat beaded the officer’s forehead. Death was hard work for anyone. “You think she was comin’ to your place?”
“Possibly.”
“You mind having a look, see if you know her?”
Ian glanced toward the plastic-draped body. Unfortunately, in his line of work, this wouldn’t be a first. If she was a local, chances were pretty good that he’d at least seen her before. The street people were his love and his life. He made it a point to know them.
“Okay.” Though he dreaded what was to come, he fell in step with the officer and walked the few yards to the body.
With a respect Ian appreciated, the cop gently pulled the plastic away from a young woman’s deathly white face. Ian’s heart fell to his knees. A weight as heavy as the humidity over Lake Pontchartrain pressed against his lungs.
Maddy. Lost forever. So close to the help here in the mission that he and God longed to offer. Yet, she hadn’t made it.
Another failure for Ian.
He rubbed the back of his neck and blew out a weary sigh. He’d had the dream again last night. The nightmare where he was trapped in a dark place, filthy and cold and scared. For once, he hadn’t minded the phone yanking him from his bed. Not until he’d discovered the reason.
“Her name is Maddy,” he said quietly. “She stayed here for a couple of weeks.”
And for a while Ian had hoped she would heal. But no matter how much he’d prayed and counseled, one day she’d walked out, back to the addiction that had finally stolen her life. She’d once been beautiful, a curse on the streets, but a way to pay for the drugs. So young. And her big green eyes were always filled with confusion.
The officer jotted the information onto a tiny spiral notebook, then squinted up at him. “You know her last name?”
“No.” Most of the time, street people didn’t share identifying information and he accepted them as they came. “But she was a sweet kid. Gentle. Kind of innocent, if that makes sense. Innocent and lost.”
“Any kin you know of? Family she might have mentioned?”
Ian shook his head, feeling worse by the minute. He’d tried to minister to Maddy’s soul, but he didn’t know much about her former life. Every time he’d asked, she’d walked away. “I’ll ask around.”
Some of Isaiah House’s other residents might have known her better than he had.
A blue Channel Eleven News van careened to a stop along the edge of the street and a petite woman jumped out.
Ian groaned inwardly.
Just what he didn’t need this morning. Gretchen Barker, the Channel Eleven barracuda. An investigative reporter with a reputation as a watchdog for the public, Gretchen’s particular interest of late was religious groups. For the last year and a half she’d had her nose and camera in every New Orleans charity, making sure they toed the line.
Ian had no problem with that. He strongly believed that churches and charitable organizations should be held accountable for every donated penny. But he did have trouble with the woman’s attitude. Though he ran a squeaky-clean organization, Isaiah House had come under her scrutiny and her criticism a couple of times lately for the most mundane things.
She seemed especially interested in Ian’s finances, which was ludicrous to say the least. Every month Ian waited, partly in fear and partly in anticipation to see how God would keep Isaiah House afloat. As for his personal accounts, he wasn’t exactly stockpiling luxury cars and vacation houses. He lived in the mission and drove an old passenger van that needed an overhaul. His only indulgence was on his feet.
“We don’t need any reporters out here yet.” The officer eyed the van with similar distaste. “This poor girl may be dead but she deserves some respect.”
Ian had to agree. “I’ll go talk to them.”
By now, Barracuda Barker was standing at the yellow tape, straining toward the body on the ground as the police officer repositioned the plastic before carefully covering the victim’s face.
Before anyone could stop her, the reporter grabbed the tape and slid beneath.
“Whoa, lady.” Ian hurried toward her. The police had yet to finish their investigation and the forensic crew had only just arrived. “You can’t come past that tape.”
Face set, Gretchen Barker pushed by him. Ian caught her arm. “Did you hear me?”
The reporter’s head swiveled toward him. Beneath hair the color of gold, her face was pale. She yanked from his grip and started to run toward the still form on the ground. Ian caught her from behind, wrapping both arms around her waist. She kicked out, caught his left shin with the sharp heel of her sandal. Ian yelped, but held on. He’d never seen a reporter act so bizarre. She couldn’t want the story that badly.
He looked toward the photojournalist on the opposite side of the tape. The cameraman stood stock-still, staring at the scene, clearly shocked at the behavior of his colleague.
In that brief instant while Ian looked at the cameraman, the barracuda slammed an elbow into his lax gut. “Let me go. I need to see.”
Air whooshed out of him. He loosened his grip, but not before she whirled around and slammed the heel of her hand beneath his chin, knocking his teeth painfully together. Ian’s head popped backward. For a little woman, she packed a wallop.
What was her problem anyway? Was she so bent on getting her story that she had no respect for the dead? The idea curled Ian’s hair.
He caught her arm before she could slam him again. This time he stared fully into her face. What he saw gave him pause. Something was seriously wrong here.
Fear, not determination, dilated her pupils.
Ian relented a little. The death of someone so young was a hard thing to deal with—even for him.
Had she never reported a death scene before?
If that was her trouble, she deserved his understanding. Even though he choked a little to think of the barracuda and compassion in the same sentence, Ian tried one more time.
“Gretchen,” he said. “You know better than to break the police barrier. What’s wrong? How can I help? Haven’t you ever reported a death scene before?”
Her chest rose and fell. Her entire body trembled. Her mouth worked but nothing came out. And then, with an anguished
