Free Striking Out by Alison Gordon Page A

hadn’t seen her since then either. And I hadn’t noticed her boxes when I got back from the hospital.
    “Do you think we should call the cops?” T.C. asked.
    “I guess we should,” I said.
    “Like they’re going to care,” Anthony said, dismissively.
    “You guys wait here,” I said. “I’ll call 911.”

Chapter 16
    The operator at the police emergency number didn’t seem to think that a missing homeless woman was much to worry about, but I managed to convince her to send out a cruiser. We had to wait half an hour for the uniforms to arrive, police constables Brewer and Martineau. We took them to the laneway, where the boys explained their fears.
    “When did you last see her?” asked Martineau, a tall guy with sorrowful eyes, apparently the senior of the two.
    “We saw her yesterday,” T.C. said.
    “What’s your connection with the woman?” asked Brewer. A younger, blond man with Slavic cheekbones, small, pale eyes and a weedy moustache.
    “She’s a friend,” T.C. said. Brewer looked at him and snickered.
    “Funny kind of a friend for a kid,” he said. T.C. glared.
    “We look out for her,” he said. “Just because we’re kids doesn’t mean we can’t care about people.”
    He had a certain dignity as he said that, but he looked close to tears.
    “I don’t think he meant to insult you,” I said, glaring at Brewer until he shrugged.
    “Yeah, forget it, kid,” he said. “Your mother’s right.”
    “Strike two,” I said. “I’m not his mother. Just a friend.”
    “Kid’s got some strange friends,” Brewer muttered.
    “Let’s get back to the matter at hand, ma’am,” Martineau interrupted. “Unless you’ve got something that says this bag lady didn’t just move on, there’s nothing we can do here.”
    “What about the blood?” Anthony asked.
    Brewer poked through one of her boxes with his night stick.
    “Maybe she had a nosebleed. Or her period. Who knows?”
    “Is there a problem, officers?”
    We turned at the voice. A small, fine-boned woman stood in the nearest gateway. I recognized her as Dr. Janet Sachs, the gynecologist that was the target for Reverend Ken and his happy band.
    “Is this your place?” Martineau asked.
    “Yes, I’m Dr. Janet Sachs. Is something wrong?”
    “It’s about Maggie,” I said. “I’m Kate Henry, from down the street. The garage with the blue roof.”
    “Of course, I’ve seen you around.”
    “And this is T.C. Parkes, who lives in my house, and his friend Anthony.”
    “Pleased to meet you. What has happened to Maggie?”
    “You know this homeless woman?” Martineau asked.
    “Of course. I told her she could stay here for as long as she liked. I don’t have a car, so I don’t need the space. Has someone complained?”
    “When was the last time you saw her?”
    “I don’t recall. Maybe three or four days ago. I’ve been pretty busy.”
    “Ms. Henry here and her young friends seem to think that she may have come to some harm.”
    Janet Sachs looked around at the chair and boxes.
    “What’s this? What happened here?”
    “It looks like blood,” T.C. said.
    She leaned over and looked more carefully, then straightened up, shaking her head.
    “I think maybe I can explain this, officers,” she said. “I suspect that this is the work of God’s Law.”
    “The religious group?”
    “I work at the Women’s Hassle-free Clinic at Queen and Coxwell,” she said. “As you know, we have been the target of some of the extremist anti-abortion groups. I’ve had them out in front of my house, too. Last month, they splashed cow’s blood all over the front of the clinic. This is probably the same thing.”
    “You could be right,” I said. “Maggie said the other day that she’d kept some of the God’s Law people away from your yard.”
    “Obviously they came back,” she said. “What a nuisance.”
    She turned to me.
    “I can’t tell you how sorry I am about the disruption in the neighbourhood. I’m afraid there’s