by Carolyn Hart
The hayloft…
I arrived in the filthy, junk-filled loft.
A Maglite lay atop a battered wooden table. In its beam, Anita struggled to push an old chest of drawers against the shutter, throwing a monstrous shadow against a stack of galvanized tubs.
Bayroo’s frightened eyes followed Anita’s every move. Bayroo’s face was pale, her wrists manacled, her pirate costume torn at one shoulder. She was a few feet behind Anita. As Anita shoved the chest, the wood grating on the loft floor, Bayroo edged toward wooden steps that descended into a black void.
The handcuffs clanked.
Anita whirled. She clamped her hand to her holster, drew out the gun, whipped it level with Bayroo’s head.
If I rushed her, the gun might fire. I was poised to move, knowing a desperate struggle would ensue. Anita was young and fit, trained to overcome attackers.
Anita held the gun steady with both hands. “How old are you?” Her voice was thin.
“Eleven.” Bayroo’s green eyes were wide and staring.
I wished I could take her in my arms, tell her she was going to be safe, that someday she would look back and understand she’d been caught up innocently in the ugly aftermath of dark passions, that anger and murder and violence would not touch her life, take her life.
Bayroo had not yet seen me. Her eyes, young, vulnerable, defenseless, questioning, never left Anita’s ashen face.
Anita’s lips trembled. “Eleven. Vee was eleven when Mama died. I raised her up. She was always beautiful. You’re beautiful, too.” Her haggard face was heavy with remembered grief and love.
“Thank you.” The words hung between them, Bayroo’s polite response automatic. How often must Kathleen have said, “Always say thank you when you are complimented.”
“Eleven.” Slowly the gun sank until the muzzle pointed at the dust-laden floor, streaked now by footprints.
The moment had passed, the awful moment when Anita had chosen between life and death for Bayroo.
“Why did you have to be in the preserve?” Anita’s voice shook. “Why? If you hadn’t been there, if you hadn’t seen me, everything would be all right.”
Bayroo looked puzzled. “Weren’t you supposed to be there?”
Anita ignored her. She jammed the gun into her holster, flexed her fingers as if her hand ached.
Bayroo shivered. “I’m cold. Are we going to stay long? My mom and dad will be worried about me. Why did you bring me here?”
“Don’t talk, kid.” Anita’s voice was gruff. She swallowed hard, her features drawn in a tight frown as she studied the loft. Her face was pale, remote, distant. I saw no trace of the young woman whose tremulous glance had spoken of love to Sam Cobb.
Bayroo looked up and saw me. Her eyes widened in amazement, in joy, in relief.
I placed a finger to my lips, shook my head.
Bayroo’s green eyes glistened. Tension eased from her stiff frame, terror erased.
Please God, her faith would be justified. Yet I had no surety of success. Even if I were able to find a weapon—that scythe in one corner? the ax handle without a head?—there was no guarantee I could wield an awkward tool quickly enough to forestall a gunshot.
I glanced toward the stairs. A push? I felt a bone-deep chill. I could defend, yes. I could protect, yes. But could I be the instrument of injury or worse?
The loft was cold, cold with my foreboding, cold with the chill of a late October night, cold with the emptiness of an abandoned building. The loft was a repository for discarded household goods. Cotton wadding poked from holes dug by mice or rats in an old sofa and a stained mattress. A refrigerator door lay next to a rusted plow. The ax handle leaned against a worn saddle. Thick dust covered everything.
Anita gave an abrupt nod. “Come here, kid.”
Bayroo reluctantly took one step, another, came nearer, the handcuff links clinking.
Anita gestured at the mattress. “Sit down.”
Bayroo’s face wrinkled in distaste. “It’s dirty.”
Anita gave her an odd look. “Dirt won’t hurt you.”
Bayroo glanced toward me.
I nodded, made a tamping-down gesture, hands outstretched, palms down.
Obediently, Bayroo sank down. She sat with her knees hunched to her chin, her body drawn tight.
Anita moved fast. She dragged the refrigerator door to the mattress, knelt next to Bayroo. In an instant she loosed the handcuff from Bayroo’s right wrist, snapped it in place around the door handle. She pushed up from the floor, strode to the table, reached for the flashlight.
As she started for the stairs, Bayroo cried out, “Please, don’t leave me in the dark.” Her young voice quavered.
I stood at the top of the stairs. Slanting steps plunged into gloom.
Anita came even with me; her face looked old and empty. She hesitated for an instant, hunched her shoulders, started down.
I raised my hand. If I caught Anita in the middle of her back, pushed with all my might, she would tumble head over heels.
My hand slowly fell.
The light went with her, fading as she thudded down the wooden steps, her hurrying feet pounding. The golden glow diminished, less and less, and then was gone. Blackness, thick and heavy, enveloped us, pressing down with the weight of the unseen.
“Auntie Grand!” Bayroo’s thin voice rose in a wail. .
I whirled, went to Bayroo, wrapped her in my arms. She sobbed, hiccuping for breath, her body shaking in uncontrollable spasms. “…hate the dark…always hated the dark…mean things…awful things in the dark…Oh, Mom, I want my mom.”
“Hush, dear child.” I pressed my cheek against her sweet-scented hair, held her tight. “We’ll find a way. She’s gone now. I’ll open the loft window and it won’t seem so dark.” I loosed my hold, started to get up.
Immediately her fingers closed tightly on my wrist. “Don’t leave me.”
I squeezed her shoulders. “We’re fine.” I kept my voice easy. “I’ll get us out of here.”
“What did I do wrong?” Bayroo cried harder. “I just hid so I could watch for Travis.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.” I held her tight. “Not a single thing. It’s Mr. Murdoch’s murder. You see, she shot him and she’d hidden the police car there.”
Bayroo gasped. She sat up straight, her breaths coming quickly. “She did? He was the senior warden. I read all about it in the paper, but Mama wouldn’t talk about it. Why did she do that?”
“Anger. ‘Anger is a weed; hate is the tree.’” The words came readily. I’d learned that and much more in a recent class I’d taken with Saint Augustine. “She was angry for things he’d done and she let anger take over her life.” There would be, please God, time and enough to try to explain to Bayroo the noxious growths that can squeeze out love and forgiveness and grace from our lives.
“Now she’s mad at me?” Bayroo’s voice was small, but no longer shaken by sobs.
“Not you.” Not at a child, a pretty girl who baked a special cake for her new friend, a beloved daughter, a friend. “At what’s gone wrong in her life.” At the loss of choice and hope and a future.
Bayroo moved uneasily. “What is she going to do?”
“I don’t know.” Had murder been in Anita’s heart when she enticed Bayroo away? I feared so. She had come close, desperately close, when the gun was aimed at Bayroo. What would she do now? Her only chance was to make a run for it, perhaps drive to Dallas, lose herself in that sprawling city. For now, she’d left Bayroo alone.
I needed to make haste, find a way for Bayroo to escape. “You can help me figure out how to get you out of here.”
“Out?” She moved and the links of the handcuff clinked. “I’m fastened here.” Her voice wobbled.
I spoke easily. “Let’s get a little moonlight. That will help. I’m going to move that chest away from the loft window, open the shutter. I’ll be right back.” I gave her a reassuring pat. Her body stiffened, but she made no complaint.
The shutter was harder to manage. I didn’t know if Anita had wedged something to keep it in place or if an old hinge had jammed. I pulled and struggled and finally, with a desperate yank, the shutter splintered and gave way. I tumbled backward.
Moonlight splashed into the loft. Night air swept inside, cool swift air threaded with wisps of smoke.
“I smell smoke.” Bayroo’s voice was puzzled.
I smelled smoke, too, thicker and stronger. Now that it was silent in the loft, the scrapes and bangs and screeches ended, I heard a faint crackling sound, the insidious rustle as flame devoured desiccated wood. Now a rustle, the fire would soon be a roar.
“Auntie Grand!” Bayroo yanked her arm. The bracelet rattled against the handle. “I can’t get loose.” In the spill of moonlight, she was a small, dark shape jerking frantically.
In a sudden, frightening rush, hot, oily smoke clouded the loft, obscuring the moonlight, turning our world dark again with no glimmer of light from the loft window. Bayroo began to cough. “Auntie Grand, look at that funny glow.”
Orange-tinted smoke swirled into the loft, rising from the barn floor. Flames could not be far behind.
“Auntie Grand, did she set fire to the barn?” Bayroo’s voice was stricken.
“Yes.” Away from Bayroo’s young face, Anita Leland had made a fatal decision.
Bayroo choked and sputtered, words coming in short gasps. “…stuck…can’t move that door…chest hurts…”
“I’m coming.” I pictured the ax shaft and I was beside it, my grasping hand tight on its splintery handle. Bayroo was not far away. I dropped down beside her.
Thin arms reached out, clung to me. Bayroo breathed in quick, desperate gasps. Acrid fumes clogged our throats.
“I’m here.” I wedged the shaft into the space between the handle and door, used the ax handle as a fulcrum, and applied my weight. I pushed and pushed and pushed. Abruptly the refrigerator door handle snapped. The ax shaft went flying and I fell in a heap, but I was laughing and crying and hugging Bayroo. “The window,” I shouted. “We’ve got to get to the window.”
Bayroo wobbled to her feet. I clutched her arm and we blindly moved forward. How far? Ten feet, perhaps twelve. Blessedly, the smoke thinned in time for me to see the opening. Bayroo hung her head out, drawing in deep breaths. The rush and hiss of flames crackled ominously.
Moonlight spread its glory over the barnyard, making the branches of the huge old maple distinct against the night sky.
The nearest branch was only fifteen feet away. Not many feet to walk or run, too many feet to jump. I looked down and saw the moonlight spread across the dirt so far below. The loft window was at least thirty feet above the ground.
Behind us the fire flared and heat pulsed toward us, flames curving and twisting, reaching to the roof.
Bayroo looked down. She clung to the side of the loft. “Auntie Grand, I can’t jump down and the tree’s too far!”
Despair curled in my heart. Beloved Bayroo was doomed. I would try, but I knew, even as I slipped my arm around her shoulder, that I would not be able to carry her to the tree.
I’d never felt more alone. I’d insisted to Wiggins that I wanted no more interference, that I was capable of completing my task. Pride had prompted my outburst to him, and now Bayroo would pay a dreadful price because of me.
I bent close to her cheek, shouted over the roar of the flames. “We’ll make it. Jump toward that lower branch, Bayroo. I’ll be with you.”
We jumped. I clutched Bayroo and held tight and struggled, but she was too heavy, slipping from my grasp, her cry rising in the night.
“Steady, now.” Wiggins’s deep voice was as strong and loud as the clack of train wheels. “I’ve got you both. Here we go,” and we reached the tree.
The refrigerator door handle dangling from the handcuff banged against Bayroo, but her grasping fingers locked onto a branch. She swung for a moment, pulled herself up, and clung to the trunk, pressing her face against the bark, her back heaving as she struggled for breath.
I landed beside her.
“Auntie Grand.” Her voice was faint. “I thought I heard a deep voice.”
I started to answer, then heard a faint cautionary rumble. Dear Wiggins, determined to the last that proper procedure be followed. I reached out until I found his hand and squeezed it in thankfulness.
“The fire’s making noises.” And it was. The old barn seemed to groan and cry. “Shh. We’d better be quiet.” I peered down at the uneven ground, seeking any trace of Anita. “Just in case.”
Fire poked through the roof, a darting, angry tongue of red.
Suddenly a shout sounded from the loft. “I’m coming. I’ll get you out. I’m coming.”
Bayroo and I stared at the loft window. Smoke whirled and curled, orange and black and gray. A single light stabbed through the swirls. “Where are you? I’ve got the key for the handcuffs—” A whooshing sound marked the collapse of the loft. The voice was lost in the burst of sound. Flames whirled skyward as the walls crumpled, turning the night sky crimson.
Stainless-steel handcuffs, soiled with dirt and oily smudges, lay on Chief Cobb’s desk. He jerked his head toward them. “The kid’s story has to be true. Those handcuffs prove every word. That and the scrapes on her arms. It beats everything how she got herself free. It sounds like a Houdini trick, working in the dark, using an ax shaft to prize away the refrigerator handle, jumping out to catch the tree.”
Detective Sergeant Price slumped in the chair across from the chief’s desk. “Anita.” He spoke the name in sadness, in grief, in farewell.
Cobb’s face was gray and drawn. He stared at the handcuffs. “Right from the first, I should have looked at her. Anita told me about her sister, Vee, and Daryl. Anita knew all about Murdoch, where he went, his girlfriend. But I never thought…” His hand shook as he touched a folder on his desk. “I checked on the girl whose body she went out to California to see. This came in just a little while ago.” He read in an empty voice: “‘Re inquiry unidentified body found Huntington Beach, female approximately midtwenties, blond, DOA drug overdose, positive ID made: Virginia Leland Durham.’” Cobb pushed the folder away. “It was Vee. Anita lied to me.”
The detective pushed back his chair. “Sam, can I take you home?”
Chief Cobb sounded remote. “I’ve got stuff to see about. I’ll go in a little while.”
The detective came around the desk. His voice was gruff, but firm. “Anita tried to save the kid, Sam.”
Chief Cobb was stern. “Anita set that fire.”
“Yeah. But she came back, tried to save her.” He placed his hand for a moment on the chief’s shoulder, then walked away, his steps slow.
When the door closed, Sam Cobb folded his arms on his desk. He bent forward, rested his head. “Anita…”
A log crackled in the fireplace. Kirby Murdoch poked and flames spurted. He was smiling.
His mother stood in the doorway to the den. Judith Murdoch still looked worn and weary, but peace had smoothed away the tight and anxious lines from her face. She looked toward the plaid sofa and the slender young woman with a tortoiseshell cat in her lap. “Lady Luck likes you, Lily.”
Lily Mendoza smoothed the angora cat’s fluffy fur. “That’s a great name.”
“She’s a great cat.” Kirby replaced the poker. He settled beside Lily and Lady Luck, smoothed his hand over the distinctive brown and yellow and black fur. “You know, Mom, that’s how I knew you’d buried the gun. Lady Luck was rolling in the fresh dirt, and when I went over, I thought it looked funny, and since somebody’d broken in, I thought maybe they
’d hidden something and so I dug up my gun.”
Judith gasped. “What did you do with it?”
“I shinnied up the drainpipe and hid it on the roof. I’ll get it down tomorrow. But it won’t matter since the case is closed.”
There was no light in the small bedroom at the home for unwed mothers, but moonlight flowed in a golden stream through a window. Even breathing indicated that the occupant of the near bed was deep in sleep. I still wore Officer Loy’s uniform. I hesitated, decided that she could make her final appearance. I became visible and stepped quietly to Cynthia Brown’s bed.
“Cynthia, it’s Officer Loy. I wanted to see how everything is going for you.”
She struggled upright. “Oh, I didn’t hear you come in.” She sounded drowsy, but relaxed. She reached out, took my hand. “Everybody’s been so nice to me. Father Bill helped me come here. They’re going to help me find a job and I can stay here and have my baby. And then—” Her hand tightened on mine.
“And then?”
She took a deep, uncertain breath. “I don’t know. I haven’t decided. I could keep my baby, but they have families who want babies and will love them and be good to them. What do you think I should do?” Her voice was young and trusting.
“Do what is in your heart. God bless.” I bent down, lightly touched her cheek with my lips. “Sleep now.” I squeezed her hand, stepped away from the bed.
She sank back onto the pillow, and in a moment her eyes closed.
I smiled a farewell. Officer Loy faded away.
The frowsy living room blazed with light. Irene Chatham ate a macaroon and watched, eyes wide, as the TV newswoman swept the beam of a huge flashlight across smoking rubble. “Nothing remains of the abandoned barn where an Adelaide child was held hostage tonight, barely escaping with her life. Her captor was Adelaide police officer Anita Leland. Leland, who perished in the blaze, is considered the prime suspect in the murder of well-known Adelaide businessman Daryl Murdoch, whose body was found Thursday evening in the cemetery adjoining St. Mildred’s Church. Irene Chatham, a church member, is credited with setting officers on the right track. Earlier tonight, Chatham spoke with reporters.”