A Wish and a Prayer

by Beverly Jenkins

  Eli’s mouth dropped.

  Jack spelled it for him and moved on to Amari. “You’re next.”

  He sighed heavily. “Give me number one.”

  “Euripides.”

  “I hope that’s some kind of car,” he grumbled, writing down the letters as Jack gave them.

  “Preston, you get number three by default. Eurydice.”

  Shaking his head, Preston wrote while Jack spelled.

  “Now, the rest of you aren’t allowed to help them in any way, unless you want a paper of your own.”

  The look on the faces of Tiffany, Devon, Leah, Megan, and Samantha said they had no intentions of getting anywhere near the projects, especially Megan and Samantha, who were under the gun with their own papers, but at least allowed to use their laptops.

  A disgruntled Eli asked, “When’s this due?”

  “Two weeks. A week to do the research, and a week to write the paper.”

  “That’s all?” Crystal cried. “But we have to paint the fence, too!”

  “Not my problem. No extensions will be given.”

  “Man!” Preston declared.

  “Any questions before we move on?”

  None. They appeared to be too mad.

  “Okay, let’s get started on last night’s math homework.”

  Bernadine’s morning wasn’t going so well either. Having tossed and turned all night because of the threat, the laughing voice, and Crystal, she was still unsettled as she got dressed for work.

  She’d never dealt with anything this bizarre before, and she wasn’t sure what kind of precautions she needed to take other than being careful and on alert. Would the person or persons threaten Crystal, or someone else close to her heart, next? Did she need to hire private security? She probably should’ve asked Will Dalton that. She and the residents of Henry Adams lived under such idyllic conditions, it was easy to lose sight of the fact that they actually lived in a world where security precautions were de rigueur. She sighed, then forcibly pushed aside the troubling thoughts, along with all the rest of the scenarios and questions clamoring for attention, and concentrated on getting herself ready to head to the Power Plant. All the drama notwithstanding, she had a town to run.

  The phone played the “I’m Every Woman” ringtone, so she picked up. “Morning, Lil.”

  “Morning. I’m at the Dog. Reporters are camped outside the Power Plant.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Probably to interview you about that call last night. There’s a story about it on the front page of the morning paper.”

  She blew out a breath.

  “See if anyone’s out in front of your house.”

  Bernadine moved to the window. Making sure she stayed behind the open drape, she peeked out at the street. Sure enough, there were three vans, all bearing logos of local television outlets. “I’m not giving any interviews. Why would they want to give this nut publicity?”

  Her text alert chimed. “Hold on. Mal just sent a text.”

  What she read made her smile. “Lil, he’s on his way. I’ll see you after I run the gauntlet.”

  She ended the call and went downstairs to wait for Mal. While there, she brought up his message again. She’d paraphrased it to Lily, but in actuality it read, “Whitney. On the way. Kevin Costner.” Amused, all over again, she put the phone in her purse. Yes, he was her light.

  He arrived a short while later and parked his truck in her driveway. In response, the press poured out of their vans in pursuit, but he was already on the porch and inside before they could catch up and stick their microphones in his face.

  “Not happy with all this,” he said after greeting her with a kiss.

  “Me either.”

  “Have you heard from Will?”

  “Not yet.” Logically she knew the lab wouldn’t have been able to provide any information overnight, but that hadn’t kept her from hoping. “Thanks for coming.”

  “You could handle those jokers outside on your own, but I thought it might be fun saying, ‘No comment,’ over and over again. Never knew anyone besieged by the press before.”

  She could always count on him and his humor.

  “Ready?”

  She was.

  “They’re probably going to follow us.”

  “I know, and I don’t want them hanging around the building all day, making me crazy.”

  “Then we implement Plan B.”

  “Why am I suddenly afraid?”

  He gave her that July grin. “You’re going to love it.”

  “All right, Hannibal,” she replied, making reference to the leader of the A-Team. “But I want to get to work in one piece.”

  “Trust me,” he said, Hannibal’s usual response.

  She punched him playfully in the arm. “Come on, crazy man. Let’s go.”

  As soon as they stepped out of the door, the press pounced. Bernadine had never been besieged before either, and although there were only three reporters—two men and a woman—the scene was just like on TV. Making her way through the tangle of them and their cameras, she ignored the questions and focused on not falling down the stairs. Shoving microphones in her face, they barked out: “Ms. Brown! Do you know who the caller is?”

  “Ms. Brown!”

  “Ms. Brown! What time did he call?”

  “Ms. Brown! Do you have a message for him?”

  On the other hand, Hannibal Costner, shielding her as best he could, kept up a steady reply of, “No comment. No comment.” His voice was terse, and he was glaring, but he shot her a sly wink, so she knew he was having a ball.

  Because his truck was parked only a short distance away, the entire ordeal lasted maybe three minutes. Then she was in the passenger seat, drawing on her seat belt. He jumped in on the driver’s side, slammed his door, and keyed the engine.

  The reporters swarmed the truck like zombies, waving their mics and yelling questions at the glass on the raised windows.

  Her threw the truck into reverse. “Hold on!”

  He backed down the driveway on squealing tires. In the side mirror she saw people diving to get out of the way. With another squeal the truck hit the street, and the souped-up old Ford took off.

  Just as they’d predicted, the reporters and crews ran to their vans and sped off behind them.

  “Let’s lose these jokers!” he crowed with glee.

  They roared up the road that led from the subdivision to Main Street, hooked a screaming left, and blazed down Main. A knot of vans and people was clustered in front of the Power Plant, but the truck blew by so fast that she only saw them for a second. “More press?” she called.

  “Probably!”

  Bernadine assumed that once the group outside the Power Plant saw their brethren chasing the Ford, they’d join the chase too.

  A few seconds later, Mal let her know she’d called it right. “We have a train behind us, baby girl. Let’s see if those fancy vans can keep up!”

  The Ford barreled past the mound of rubble that was once the old Liberian Lady saloon and onto the unpaved road that led into the countryside. The view from her mirror showed the vans in the distance bouncing up and down over the ruts and gullies. Their truck was taking a pounding too, but there was no expensive electronic equipment to worry about, and unlike the vans, it was fitted with a heavy-duty suspension.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To have brunch.”

  “What!”

  “Trust me,” he called out, and gave her that smile of his again.

  Bernadine wanted a further explanation, but she was too busy hanging on.

  He was driving like a bat out of hell, and she could only imagine the bruises forming on her behind as she was tossed up and down like a bull rider at the rodeo—thank God for seat belts!

  About a mile later he took a right and headed north. Originally there’d been six vans in pursuit. Looking back, she saw one pull over, smoke pouring from beneath the hood. And then there were five.

  They
were coming up on Bing and Clay’s farm, and she wondered if Mal was planning on swinging in there, but when he approached the split that led to their private road, he made a two-wheeled right and headed on east onto Jefferson instead.

  There were now only four vans in pursuit. Mal sped past the land belonging to Genevieve Curry and the spot where her now-razed home once stood. Another half mile, and they were passing the partially painted picket fence that sat between the Jefferson homestead and the road. Seeing it made her think about Crystal and the boys, but he didn’t stop there, either.

  They were approaching the Jefferson road split. A right would take them south toward the Dog and back to town. The left led to Tamar’s. The vans were still behind them.

  He took the left, and they approached Tamar’s at warp speed. Up ahead, Bernadine saw Tamar standing by the open gate that led onto the property. She was cradling a shotgun.

  Mal flew through the gates, wheeled the truck around as if they really were filming an episode of The A-Team, and came to a stop. Tamar had already closed the gates on the fence when the press vans roared up. Bernadine took in a deep breath to calm her racing heart and got out of the truck, wondering what might happen next.

  Mal came around and draped an arm around her waist. The smile on his face spread from ear to ear.

  “Nice job, Hannibal.”

  “I love it when a plan comes together.”

  She threw back her head and laughed.

  The press wasn’t laughing, however.

  “This is private property!” Tamar yelled. “Move along!”

  Bernadine didn’t know if it was arrogance, hearing loss, or just plain stupidity that made them ignore the July matriarch, but they left their trucks with their mics and cameras and quickly approached the fence.

  Tamar rarely repeated herself, and she didn’t this time, either. Instead, she purposefully primed the barrel on the pump-action shotgun, and the ominous sound froze the entire contingent in their tracks.

  Bernadine saw their surprise. They looked from Tamar to the smiling Bernadine and Mal, standing by the Ford.

  One of the reporters called out boldly, “Ms. Brown. Are you going to—”

  The blast from the shotgun drowned out the rest of the question.

  “I’ll be shooting tires and windshields next! You got fifteen seconds to get off my land!”

  They ran like Godzilla was on their heels, and scrambled back into their vehicles.

  The road was public property, and if they wanted to sit on the shoulder in their vans until the first snow fell, they had that right, but no way were they going to get anywhere near Bernadine Brown in the foreseeable future without trespassing on July land.

  She was pleased.

  Tamar looked pleased too. As she passed them on her way back to the house, she said, “Bernadine, I don’t ever remember us having this much fun before you moved in, but thanks. You keep this old girl young.”

  Mal said, “Thanks for the backup.”

  “Anytime.”

  She climbed the steps to the porch and disappeared inside.

  Bernadine asked, “So she knew we were coming?”

  “Yep. Gave her a call on the way to your place. Come on. Let’s drive down to the creek. I figure if we stay here long enough, they’ll eventually get tired and go home, but until then, I’m declaring a Bernadine Brown Mental Health Day.”

  “But I have to go to the office.”

  “Where you will spend the day being pestered on the phone and in person by stupid questions from obnoxious people.”

  She had to admit he was right. The press were still positioned on the side of the road. She got in the truck.

  They drove down to the creek bank, where they were out of sight of the road. The weather was a bit cool and windy, but the sun was shining, and there were no microphones or cameras, just peace and quiet.

  After parking, Mal walked around to the back of the truck. When she joined him, he was removing a cooler and a small hibachi grill from the bed.

  “What’s this for?”

  “Our brunch. I swung by the rec and grabbed a pair of your sneakers out of your locker. They’re in that sports bag.”

  She was impressed by his forethought. “You really did have a plan.”

  “Told you.”

  She took the sneaks out of the bag, put them on instead of the Choos—nothing worse than attempting to walk on spring-softened earth in five-inch heels—and followed Mal to the bank to begin the Bernadine Brown Mental Health Day.

  A short while later, they had the blanket spread out and were sitting on it, sipping cold water from bottles he’d taken from the cooler. “I’ve never been in a high-speed chase before,” she said.

  He chuckled.

  “You obviously learned to drive from Tamar.”

  Before he could offer a reply, they were interrupted by the buzz of her phone. She glanced at the caller ID. “It’s Will Dalton.”

  She and the sheriff chatted for a few minutes before she ended the call, sighing.

  “What did he say?”

  “They traced the call to a phone booth at a gas station up on 183. Manager didn’t remember seeing anybody suspicious around the time the call came to me, and his outside security cam’s busted, so Will’s people can’t get a look at any images it may have caught.”

  “That’s disappointing.”

  She agreed. “Secondly, Kyle’s buddies at the Bureau won’t be able to get to the voice print for at least another ten days. Some big-ticket case they received this morning bumped us out of line, but they promised they’d get to it soon as they’re able.”

  “Don’t worry. Dalton will figure it out,” he said supportively.

  “I know. I just wish we had an answer now.”

  “Well, let’s put that aside for now and see if we can catch us something to eat.”

  “I know you didn’t bring me out here to go fishing in this suit.”

  “You’re so beautiful when you’re angry.”

  She punched him again.

  “No, I’m going to do the fishing. You’re going to sit on the blanket and look gorgeous.”

  “That I can do.”

  Back in town at the Marie Jefferson Academy, the We’re So Slick Gang didn’t feel so slick by the time lunch rolled around. Leah carried her salad over to the picnic table where they’d gathered and sat down. Taking in the gloomy faces, she asked, “What did you all do to make Mr. James so mad that he gave you that messed-up term paper assignment and made you paint the fence?”

  The boys shot Crystal a dirty look, after which Preston explained, “We got busted for having those secret e-mail accounts, like that kid you told us about.”

  “You actually did it? Didn’t I tell you the kid got caught by his parents? I wondered why my dad asked me about that last night.” Leah’s story about a teen in Baltimore who’d successfully pulled off the ruse for nearly a year had intrigued them all. “I can’t believe y’all are that dumb.”

  “Me, either,” Preston sadly agreed. He wasn’t looking forward to more painting after school.

  “I can,” Tiff chimed in, and was roundly ignored.

  Amari cracked, “If it hadn’t been for Ms. I’m Hot for Diego—”

  “Shut up, Amari,” Crystal snarled.

  And he did, which surprised Preston. Then again, Amari probably sensed that Crystal was about two seconds from kicking major butt from having people in her face all morning, and although he’d grown a lot taller over the winter, Crystal could probably still whip him like he was Devon’s size.

  Leah raised an eyebrow. “Diego? Diego July?”

  Crystal concentrated on the straw in her soda and didn’t reply.

  “You know he’s probably just playing you, right?”

  “Exactly,” Eli said, throwing up his hands. “Finally a girl with some sense. Will you marry me, Leah, please?”

  She answered with a roll of her eyes. “I’m not marrying you. Artists starve, and so do their wives.
Even if I do get married, and I’m not, it would be to somebody like Preston. He’s smart, and physicists make big bank.”

  Preston coughed so hard he thought he might need his inhaler. When he turned his widened eyes to Leah, she smiled and gave him a cute little wink that set him wheezing. Amari pounded on his back.

  “You okay, man?”

  Still in the throes of the coughing fit, he pulled out his inhaler, gave himself a few puffs, and got some relief. “I think I choked on a piece of carrot.”

  When he glanced Leah’s way, she was eating and acting as if nothing had happened.

  “Let’s change the subject,” he said around the tangle in his throat. “So who do you think made that messed-up call to Ms. Bernadine?”

  Leah shook her head. “My dad talked about that this morning, too. He said if we see anything suspicious, to let somebody know.”

  Amari said, “What’s really messed up is that it could be anybody. Lots of folks are mad at her for trying to do the right thing. The Big Box lawyers, Mr. Brown, that wack oil company, and everybody in Franklin, seems like.”

  Devon had been sitting quietly but asked with concern, “Is somebody really going to kill her?”

  Preston shook his head. “I don’t think anybody’s going to allow that, Devon.”

  “Especially not us,” Amari pledged. “Messing with her will get somebody jacked—they better ask somebody.”

  Ms. Brown meant so much to everybody, Preston couldn’t imagine what would happen if somebody did hurt her. Like the rest of the people in Henry Adams, he was worried.

  Devon said, “I want to be in Henry Adams Idol.”

  Amari shrugged. “Okay. Go for it.”

  “I need help.”

  “What kind of help?”

  “I want you and Preston and Eli to be my Flames.”

  A confused Preston met the eyes of the equally confused-looking Amari. “Are you talking about real flames, as in fire?”

  “No. I want to be James Brown. His backup singers were called the Flames.”

  Leah asked, “James Brown, that old dead guy?”

  Crystal got up from the table. “I’ll see you all later. I’m not in this.”

  “Why do you want to be him?” Preston asked, wondering if they should all maybe follow Crystal.

  “Because he’s cool, and he was my grandma’s favorite soul singer.”