Free Bless the Child by Cathy Cash Spellman Page B
Authors: Cathy Cash Spellman
evening with minimal success. Her once wide world had narrowed to a tiny focus. Cody was gone. Cody was in danger. Those two thoughts blotted out all else.
“ Oh God, baby, how I miss you!” A sudden flash flood of longing surged through Maggie like an unexpected wave that hits when you’re nearing shore, drowning her in loneliness . . . sucking her out past the markers, into fathomless fear.
She fought her way back through the icy torrent, shocked by it’s magnitude. The taxes won’t wait past tonight, she chided herself forcefully. The IRS doesn’t give a damn if my heart is broken. Life goes on; I forget just why .
Emphatically, she pushed her glasses up on here nose one more time, hating their damnable reminder of middle age. Another vulnerability. “You can see the grass grow, child,” her grandmother always said when she was small; she’d thought it would remain so forever. Instead, she was doomed to these wretched little Ben Franklin spectacles, that slalomed down her nose, and were never where she needed them to be.
The telephone was a welcome diversion; Maggie padded barefoot across the carpet to answer the call.
“I know what your daughter is doing, Mrs. O’Connor,” an anonymous female voice whispered hoarsely. “Your daughter’s involved with Maa Kheru, God help her.” Maggie’s brain shifted gears to sudden alert.
“Who are you?” she demanded. “What do you know about my daughter?”
“It doesn’t matter who I am. What matters is Maa Kheru!”
“What on earth is Maa Kheru?”
“It’s a high-priced cult full of powerful people. They control things! The police . . . the newspapers . . . You don’t know how dangerous they are. Oh, God . . . I wish I didn’t know either!” The voice sounded semi-hysterical. “They worship Satan, Mrs. O’Connor. They’ve sold their souls to get success and money.”
“Who are you?” Maggie shouted, really frightened, now. “How do you know all this?”
“I used to live with Maa Kheru . . . you don’t know what they’re capable of . . .” There was a strangled sob, then, “They killed my baby! I’m in hiding . . . they’re after me, and they’ll get me, too—it’s only a matter of time till they kill me. I only called so you could do something to save that child. Please don’t let them sacrifice her like they did my Stacy. They skinned her alive , Mrs. O’Connor, do you understand? The skinned my baby and they drank her blood!” Before Maggie could recover enough to reply, the phone went dead.
She grabbed her coat from the hall closet and ran toward the police station.
CHAPTER 10
T he Sixth Precinct house was located on West Tenth Street between Bleecker and Hudson streets. Maggie raced up the steps trying to stay calm enough to sound coherent.
The desk sergeant was stocky and dark complected, with what looked like five o’clock shadow, long out of control by 7:00 P.M. He cut her off halfway through her explanation, with a practiced gesture.
“No point telling me your whole story, ma’am. What you need is a detective,” he pronounced. “I’ll see who’s available.” He motioned to a wooden bench against the wall, but Maggie was too agitated to sit down. The desk sergeant finished his paperwork, before picking up the phone.
Finally, a big, lethargic-looking man beckoned her from the doorway; he was gray all over, hair and eyes, pants and tie—even his sallow skin had the grayish tinge of one who never sees sunlight. Maggie groaned inwardly as she followed him through the rabbit warren offices; he had the look of a man who isn’t happy in his work. Detective Hillyer motioned her to a seat, then ignored her for a full five minutes while he took two phone calls and dialed another.
“Okay,” he said finally, glancing at the paper the desk sergeant had filled out. “You’ve got a drug addict kid who’s causing you problems, right? Just like
“ Oh God, baby, how I miss you!” A sudden flash flood of longing surged through Maggie like an unexpected wave that hits when you’re nearing shore, drowning her in loneliness . . . sucking her out past the markers, into fathomless fear.
She fought her way back through the icy torrent, shocked by it’s magnitude. The taxes won’t wait past tonight, she chided herself forcefully. The IRS doesn’t give a damn if my heart is broken. Life goes on; I forget just why .
Emphatically, she pushed her glasses up on here nose one more time, hating their damnable reminder of middle age. Another vulnerability. “You can see the grass grow, child,” her grandmother always said when she was small; she’d thought it would remain so forever. Instead, she was doomed to these wretched little Ben Franklin spectacles, that slalomed down her nose, and were never where she needed them to be.
The telephone was a welcome diversion; Maggie padded barefoot across the carpet to answer the call.
“I know what your daughter is doing, Mrs. O’Connor,” an anonymous female voice whispered hoarsely. “Your daughter’s involved with Maa Kheru, God help her.” Maggie’s brain shifted gears to sudden alert.
“Who are you?” she demanded. “What do you know about my daughter?”
“It doesn’t matter who I am. What matters is Maa Kheru!”
“What on earth is Maa Kheru?”
“It’s a high-priced cult full of powerful people. They control things! The police . . . the newspapers . . . You don’t know how dangerous they are. Oh, God . . . I wish I didn’t know either!” The voice sounded semi-hysterical. “They worship Satan, Mrs. O’Connor. They’ve sold their souls to get success and money.”
“Who are you?” Maggie shouted, really frightened, now. “How do you know all this?”
“I used to live with Maa Kheru . . . you don’t know what they’re capable of . . .” There was a strangled sob, then, “They killed my baby! I’m in hiding . . . they’re after me, and they’ll get me, too—it’s only a matter of time till they kill me. I only called so you could do something to save that child. Please don’t let them sacrifice her like they did my Stacy. They skinned her alive , Mrs. O’Connor, do you understand? The skinned my baby and they drank her blood!” Before Maggie could recover enough to reply, the phone went dead.
She grabbed her coat from the hall closet and ran toward the police station.
CHAPTER 10
T he Sixth Precinct house was located on West Tenth Street between Bleecker and Hudson streets. Maggie raced up the steps trying to stay calm enough to sound coherent.
The desk sergeant was stocky and dark complected, with what looked like five o’clock shadow, long out of control by 7:00 P.M. He cut her off halfway through her explanation, with a practiced gesture.
“No point telling me your whole story, ma’am. What you need is a detective,” he pronounced. “I’ll see who’s available.” He motioned to a wooden bench against the wall, but Maggie was too agitated to sit down. The desk sergeant finished his paperwork, before picking up the phone.
Finally, a big, lethargic-looking man beckoned her from the doorway; he was gray all over, hair and eyes, pants and tie—even his sallow skin had the grayish tinge of one who never sees sunlight. Maggie groaned inwardly as she followed him through the rabbit warren offices; he had the look of a man who isn’t happy in his work. Detective Hillyer motioned her to a seat, then ignored her for a full five minutes while he took two phone calls and dialed another.
“Okay,” he said finally, glancing at the paper the desk sergeant had filled out. “You’ve got a drug addict kid who’s causing you problems, right? Just like
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