Why wouldn't they leave her alone? She had tried to answer their questions, had tried to make them understand. But they circled her like vultures waiting for the moment of death. They shoved microphones in her face. They bombarded her with questions so personal her cheeks flamed with embarrassment. Hashes of light from their cameras blinded her.
If only she could escape. But there was no escape from the media—from the frenzied crowd of reporters determined to get a story out of Jeannie Alverson. Nor did there seem to be any escape from Maynard Reeves and his followers. At least a dozen of the reverend's disciples were there this Thursday morning, dispersed throughout the crowd, their Die Witch posters held high for everyone to see.
How could this have happened? She'd been so careful for the past fourteen years, revealing the truth to no one, using her abilities to only a limited degree, so that others would not suspect.
The day Cassie Mills was shot, how could Jeannie have known that by helping her, she would doom herself to a living hell? Poor Cassie, in all her childish innocence, had told the police exactly what had happened, and neither she nor the police had realized a snoopy reporter could hear their conversation at the hospital. Tory Gaines had not been content to exploit the present facts. No, he had dug into Jeannie's past—a past she had prayed would never return to haunt her.
"When did you realize you possessed the ability to heal, Ms. Alverson—or should we call you Ms. Foley?"
"Do you claim to work miracles for God?"
"How much money did your mother and stepfather cheat people out of by passing you off as a faith healer?"
"What religion are you, Jeannie?"
"The people we've questioned who were present when you supposedly worked your magic on Cassie Mills claim that you seemed to go into shock, taking away the child's pain and stopping the bleeding from her gunshot wound. Is that true?"
Dr. Julian Howell wrapped his arm around Jeannie's shoulders. She desperately wanted to lean heavily on the man who had been her foster father since she was thirteen, but Julian was a very old man, and his health had been failing these last few years. Jeannie realized she had to be strong as much for him as for herself. But she wasn't sure how much longer she could endure the endless questions, the clamor, the noise, the bodies that pushed closer and closer.
Dear Lord in heaven, help me, she prayed. Agreeing to hold this press conference had been a terrible mistake. She should have listened to Sam Dundee. He'd tried to warn her. Why, of all places, had she chosen the gymnasium of the Howell School as the location for this debacle? There was nowhere to run, and no one to help her and Julian.
Tory Gaines shoved his way through the throng of reporters, his tall, gangly frame towering over the others. His dark eyes focused on Jeannie.
"I understand that since the truth was revealed about you, Jeannie, you've been flooded with requests from terminally ill people begging you to heal them."
"Is it true that a man you refused to help actually attacked you?" a red-haired TV news reporter asked.
"Please, listen to me." Jeannie couldn't bear the way they were looking at her, the way they were treating her. As if she were some freak, some alien creature. "I do not possess the power to heal people. I never have. I have certain … abilities … as an empath. I can feel the pain of others. What I do for people is temporary. That's all—"
"You can't only feel their pain, you can take it away." Tory raked back a long strand of black hair that had fallen over his right eye. "You can remove both physical and psychological pain, can't you, Jeannie?"
"I am not a true healer." Jeannie glanced down at her wooden cane. "If I could heal others, why wouldn't I heal myself?"
Julian's arm, clasping her shoulder, trembled. Jeannie sensed her foster father's frustration at not being able to protect her.
"I'm all right, Julian," she whispered. "Please don't worry. All this stress isn't good for your heart."
"We have answered every question we can," Julian said, facing the crowd, his voice strong and authoritarian. "Jeannie has told you everything. There is no more. Please, allow us to leave."
When Julian, aided by Marta McCorkle, the supervisor of the Howell School, tried to assist Jeannie through the crowd, the media closed in around them, pushing and shoving. Julian and Marta flanked Jeannie, slowing their pace to accommodate Jeannie's hampered gait.
"I had hoped he would be here by now." Julian leaned down, directing his conversation to Jeannie. "When you spoke to him again early this morning, he promised he would arrive in time for the press conference, didn't he?"
"He'll be here soon." Jeannie saw the microphone as it came toward her face. She stopped dead, aware that the young female reporter for the local television station was not going to move aside.
"Is it true, Ms. Alverson, that the deacons from the Righteous Light Church here in Biloxi have condemned you as a fraud, and their minister, Reverend Maynard Reeves, has gone so far as to claim you are a witch, a devil worshipper?" The reporter glanced meaningfully at the Die Witch signs held high in the air by Reeves's avid disciples.
Jeannie tried to turn her head, wanting to avoid answering the question. But the reporter was persistent, stepping closer, inserting one of her feet between Jeannie's feet, pressing the microphone a hairsbreadth from Jeannie's mouth.
"Let us pass," Julian commanded, unaccustomed to people disregarding his orders.
"I've called the police." Marta pointed her index finger at the persistent reporter.
"Are you a fraud, Jeannie? Or are you a witch?" the reporter asked.
"I'm neither."
The reporter's foot slid into the side of Jeannie's walking stick. Jeannie gripped her cane, but to no avail. The cane tumbled from her hand. Her knees gave way. She clutched at Julian's sleeve, but her clammy hands slipped off the soft material of his jacket. Marta cried out, reaching for Jeannie, her fingers just touching her hair as she toppled over, landing roughly on her knees.
* * *
Sam Dundee saw Jeannie Alverson fall, accidentally tripped by the overzealous redhead harassing her. Sam cut through the media horde like a machete slicing through untamed jungle. The reporters stared at him, whispers rising from the mass, questioning the big man's identity.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" a bearded middle-aged tabloid photographer asked.
"I'm the cavalry to the rescue." Sam proclaimed, the deadly curve of his mouth an easily understood warning to others.
Sam reached out, grabbing the red-haired reporter who had tripped Jeannie Alverson. Manacling her arm, he glared at her, noting the shock in her green eyes. When he released her, she backed away, the surrounding swarm following her lead.
Sam stared down at the woman whose face had been plastered on the front page of newspapers and across every television screen in the country for the past few days. Jeannie looked even more delicate, more fragile, in person. Bending on one knee, Sam gently shoved Julian Howell aside and lifted Jeannie into his arms. She gazed into his eyes, and a hard knot of fear formed in the pit of Sam Dundee's stomach. He remembered those compassionate eyes. Those warm, compelling brown eyes.
Jeannie clung to Sam, draping her arm around his neck, resting her head on his shoulder.
"Everything will be all right, Ms. Alverson. I'm here now. I'll take you to safety. I had a limousine pick me up at the airport. It's waiting outside."
The crowd watched in stunned silence while Sam Dundee carried Jeannie Alverson through their midst. Once the pair had exited the building, the reporters followed, taking little note of Dr. Julian Howell or Marta McCorkle.
Sam told himself not to look at Jeannie Alverson again, to simply carry her out to the waiting limousine. Her fingers touched the nape of his neck. A soft, tender touch. Sam's nerves screamed. His body tensed.