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I settled beside her on the sofa. “Just for a moment.” I took a shaking hand between mine, held it tight. “You saved Bayroo. You were very brave.”
Her eyes blinked. Some of the fear seeped away. “That’s what everybody’s been saying and it makes me think, maybe things work out the way they should. I mean, if I hadn’t taken the money from the collection plate, he wouldn’t have caught me and got those awful pictures. I still don’t know where those pictures are, and if anyone ever sees them they’ll know I’m a thief even though Father Bill said I could pay the money back.”
I was emphatic. “The pictures were destroyed.” As Irene said, maybe things happen for a purpose. I had been upset when Kathleen flung the cell phone into the lake. Now I was glad.
“Destroyed?” Her lips were tremulous. “I don’t have to be afraid?”
“You don’t have to be afraid.” I gave her hand a final squeeze, stood. “Everyone’s proud of you.”
She waved a hand in dismissal. “You saved Bayroo. I’m sure of that. I know what everyone’s saying, that she was clever and managed to get free, but I know you were there and you asked her not to tell.”
“I was there only because you made it possible.” I was fading away.
“You’re going, aren’t you?” Irene called after me. “I’m going to pay the money back, and I won’t ever gamble again.” The Rescue Express would be here soon. I’d almost completed my rounds. I actually felt a little thinner, as if I weren’t quite here. Of course I wouldn’t be here much longer. Any minute now I expected the Express to barrel across the sky, sparks flashing from its smoke-stack, wheels thrumming.
I zoomed to Daryl Murdoch’s office. Once inside, I turned on 284
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the light. After all, I don’t see in the dark and I had to find Walter Carey’s confession. I’d promised him it would be destroyed if he had nothing to do with his former partner’s murder.
I lifted the rug, picked up the envelope, and, once again, faced that pesky law of physics, the impossibility of wafting a concrete object—the letter—through walls with the ease I enjoyed.
It was a minor impediment. I opened the office door, stepped into the secretary’s anteroom. I found Walter Carey’s address—619 Cherry Street—in the directory on Patricia’s desk. Now all I had to do was deliver this material. Walter would be exceedingly relieved and my duties would be nearing completion. I opened the door to the hall.
Brrrng. Brrnng. Oooh-wah. Wah-oooh.
The cacophony almost startled me into my skin. Flashing lights joined the wails and rings. Heart thudding, I was at the end of the hall. I yanked on the door, almost fainted when it refused to open.
I scrambled to release the lock, yanked the door open, and flew outside.
“Halt or I’ll shoot!” The shout was harsh. “Stop! Police.” A patrol officer stood at the base of the steps, gun aimed at the door.
I rose into the sky. When I looked down, the officer was staring upward for a last glimpse of the letter rising above him. His head swiveled to the open door through which no one had emerged.
I listened hard. Was that the shriek of the Express in the distance?
Fortunately, Cherry Street was only a few blocks from downtown.
I circled the Carey house. Light splashed out on a stone terrace from a room at the back. I looked through the window.
Walter Carey was writing steadily on a legal pad. He stopped to raise his arms above his head, stretch, massage a spot on his back.
A distant whoooo brought my head up. I had to be quick. I tapped on the French door.
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He looked toward the terrace, frowned.
I tapped again. I became visible, once again choosing the purple velour outfit. My image was indistinct in the glass.
Walter unlocked the French door. His lips parted. No sound came.
I thrust the envelope at him. “Here it is. The confession. You did a good job tonight. With the Scouts.” His fingers closed on the paper, held it tight. He managed an odd, lopsided smile. “You get around, don’t you?” I smiled in return. “Sometimes. Good-bye, Walter. Good luck.” And I disappeared.
Only a few minutes remained. I must take my return ticket and board the Express. But there was one more stop I had to make.
Father Bill was stirring dark chocolate into hot milk. A tray held three mugs and a plate full of oatmeal cookies.
Upstairs, in Bayroo’s room, Kathleen sat beside her bed. Bayroo’s Titian hair, shining clean, tumbled over the shoulders of her soft white nightgown. Propped up against a bolster, Spoofer curled against her side, purring with a happy rumble. Bayroo held her mother’s hand.
“I’m okay, Mom.” Bayroo’s smile was drowsy. “I’m all right. I—” Then, eyes shining, she rose on one elbow, looked where I stood had I been there to see. “Auntie Grand, I told Mom you saved me.” Kathleen stood up so quickly her chair fell to the floor. “You’re here?
Oh, Bailey Ruth, thank you. I wish we could tell the world—” I touched a finger to her lips. “It’s our secret, Kathleen. I came to say good-bye.”
The wheels clacked, the Express thundering toward the rectory, just as it had on Thursday evening. I had no time left.
“Good-bye.” I threw a kiss to Bayroo. “Good-bye. I love you.” I rushed outside, hurrying up to grab the handrail, and was swept up into the Express. I looked down at the lights below, watched until I could see them no longer.
Good-bye, dear Adelaide. Good-bye.
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The Rescue Express thundered into the familiar red-brick station. I was the last passenger to disembark. The other travelers seemed to follow a well-known drill, dropping their ticket stubs down a chute attached to the office, gathering their luggage, and hurrying away, faces shining, voices merry.
I slowly crossed the platform, passing carts laden with luggage ready for other departures. I’d not had time to pack even a satchel when I’d jumped on board on my way to help Kathleen. Perhaps the haste of my departure would excuse my mistakes.
Except there had been so many. I pushed away memories. Certainly I had intended to honor the Precepts.
Wiggins strode toward me.
My steps were lagging. I looked here, there, everywhere, admiring the dash of gold in the arch of clouds, the trill of birdsongs, the sweet scent of fresh-mown grass, the sound of a faraway choir with voices lifting in joy.
Foreboding weighed upon me, heavy as midnight gloom.
Wiggins boomed, “Bailey Ruth, where’s your get-up-and-go?” He sounded genial.
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I risked a look.
Wiggins’s stiff cap was tilted back atop his bush of curly brown hair. His round face was bright and eager, his muttonchop whiskers a rich chestnut in the sunlight. His high-collared white shirt was crisp, his gray flannel trousers a bit baggy, but his sturdy shoes glowed with bootblack.