A Touch of Grace (2 page)

This morning his courtyard sanctuary was hushed, the willows weeping condensation onto the cobblestone walkway as if mourning what lay just outside the mission walls. Beyond the dripping-wet elephant ears and lemon-scented magnolias, yellow police tape vibrated in the twilight stillness.

The stark contrast wasn’t lost on Ian. He’d worked
the streets and slums of various cities all over the country since junior high school when Mom and Dad signed him up for summer missions’ work. Now, at twenty-eight, he’d come to understand all too well that beauty and tragedy coexisted everywhere. Sometimes he felt overwhelmed by his need to make a difference and the utter numbers of despairing mankind.

Ian leaned for a second against the rough bark of a moss-draped oak and squeezed his sleep-gritty eyes shut against the covered body lying on the ground.

Somebody had lost a loved one.

He hadn’t even heard the sirens. No surprise. They went on all night in this part of New Orleans. Sirens and reveling. And the desperate meanderings of runaways and drug addicts.

“Grace for today, Father,” he said simply. “To do Your work.”

And as always peace descended. He pushed off the giant oak, opened the lacy black iron gate and 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 bar
racuda 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 cry that Ian would remember as long as he lived, she looked toward the body on the ground and said, “That’s my sister!”

Ian looked from the huge green eyes of the reporter to the covered body of the dead girl. Huge green eyes. They had the same eyes.

He had been breathless before, but now he couldn’t breathe at all. This strong, self-confident woman was a sister to fragile, helpless Maddy?

“Maddy. Maddy.” And then the woman he’d considered tough and hardened shattered before his eyes. She went to her knees on the thick, wet grass and sobbed brokenly. Ian followed her down, guilty for the negative thoughts he’d had about her, and gathered the shaking Gretchen to his chest.

“I’m sorry, so sorry,” he muttered against silky hair that smelled as fresh as the flowers in his garden.

Gretchen Barker, the barracuda whose news reports had teeth in them, felt small and soft and helpless in his arms. A protective urge, totally out of place given who she was, suffused Ian. For a man who kept women at arm’s length to protect the integrity of the mission, having a beautiful, grief-stricken woman in his embrace was not an everyday occurrence.

If he hadn’t been so saddened by the circumstances, Ian would have seen the humor in his predicament. He didn’t even like the thorn-in-the-flesh reporter and here he was thinking how pretty she was and how good her hair smelled. He was more than exhausted. He was losing his mind.

Reining in the wayward thoughts, he gently patted her back until the racking sobs subsided. Slowly, she pulled away, leaving damp spots on his green T-shirt. Her bereft expression tore at him.

“Could I call someone for you? A friend? Your family?”

“Maddy is my family.” Her face crumpled. She pressed shaking fingertips against her lips. “Oh, Maddy.”

Wanting to help, but not certain what to expect from a woman who’d kicked him, hit him and then collapsed in tears, he slipped his arm around her narrow shoulders. For a fraction of a second, she relented and leaned against his side. Then, she placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed up. The knees of her dark slacks were grass-stained and soaked with dew.

Crossing her arms as if they could shield her heart from the terrible sorrow, she said, “I have to see her.”

Ian understood. He didn’t like it, but he understood.

“I’ll ask the officer.”

Since she was next of kin, they had no problem securing permission. The police appreciated a positive ID.

Slowly, they walked toward the body. Ian had never in his life wanted so badly to comfort someone. She was shattered. She needed another human being to help her through this, but now that she’d gathered her compo
sure and made up her mind to see her sister, she had pulled away from him, both emotionally and physically. She tolerated his presence, but not his comfort.

She knelt beside her sister’s body and waited for the policeman.

The officer’s dark, rough hand rustled the plastic. “Are you ready, ma’am?”

Shoulders stiff and resolute, she gave one curt nod.

When the still face was revealed, Gretchen didn’t react. She knelt there, staring down for the longest time. At last, when Ian wondered if perhaps there had been some mistake and this wasn’t her sister after all, she nodded.

“That’s Maddy.”

The policeman slid the cover back in place and moved quietly away, leaving them alone. Gretchen still didn’t move.

Another siren wailed in the distance. Across the street teenagers bounced a basketball while staring openly at the swarming police, trying to get a peek at the tragedy. Motors roared. Doors slammed. Voices carried on the morning air. Other news crews had arrived by now and were filming from outside the barrier.

Regardless of her occupation, Ian wanted to get Gretchen away from the reporters.

“Tell me what you need, Gretchen. What can I do?” Ian asked.

“Do?” she asked. “Do?”

She shot up from her knees, and that quick the barracuda returned. She turned on him, green eyes flashing fire. “I think you’ve done enough.”

He had no idea what she meant, but the lady was distraught.

He reached for her. “Gretchen.”

She slapped his hands away, striking out like a wounded animal. “You don’t know me.”

Ignoring the rejection, he offered his hand again, palm up. He couldn’t leave her like this. “You need to get away from here. Come on, I’ll take you inside the mission.”

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Take me inside and feed me soup and a pack of lies. Tell me that you have all the answers to my problems like you did for my poor druggie sister.” Her face contorted in sarcasm. “You were different, Maddy said. You could help her get her life together.” She glanced from her sister’s still form to Ian, stabbing him with accusing green eyes. “Well, you really did a good job of that, didn’t you?”

While Ian grappled to understand why he was the focus of her animosity, Gretchen Barker, the Channel Eleven barracuda, stormed across the wet grass to her van and drove away.

Chapter Two

T
he long, slow notes of “Amazing Grace” reverberated on the air and trembled into silence. Even in the worst of times, Ian found solace in his music and in the beautiful old saxophone his father had given him. Like the Psalmist David, he felt closer to God when he played than when he prayed.

He leaned the instrument carefully against a chair and went to answer the knock on his office door.

The bushy, gray mustache of Roger Bryant twitched at him from the doorway. “You fretting about something, son?”

Roger always knew when something was eating at him. He claimed the saxophone sounded different. Ian figured it was true enough. Through his music he was able to express the emotions that otherwise stayed locked inside.

Roger, skinny and frail with scraggly strands of gray hair slicked down with some kind of shiny oil, was one
of Ian’s first success stories. At fifty-nine, his ash-gray face and broken body looked seventy, a testament to years of slavery to alcohol and self-loathing. Homeless and destitute after too many stints in county lockup, he’d asked Ian to help him get his life together. Then he’d stuck around to help run Isaiah House. For Ian, who loved the hands-on part of ministry but detested the business end, Roger had literally been an answer to prayer.