Free Broken Souls (The Chronicles of Mara Lantern, Book 2) by D.W. Moneypenny

chairs, a charred clarinet and a shoe. A woman continued to whimper offscreen.
    The video suddenly ended, replaced by the frozen first frame of the man holding the oboe.
    “Lord, have mercy,” Bohannon said. “Did that happen in Portland?”
    “No, at a community orchestra practice in Little Rock a few days ago. The man with the oboe was Marcus Gentry. He completely vanished. There is no sign that he was ever there. No body parts, no blood, no DNA. He disappeared in that flash of light.”
    “Was anybody else hurt?”
    “Not seriously. It knocked over a bunch of people, broke a few instruments and burned a hole in the carpet.”
    “There was a blast mark like that at the Harringtons’ house too. You think there’s a connection?”
    “Gentry was a passenger on Flight 559. I talked to the police in Little Rock. They were willing to share facts, but they refused to conjecture about what happened. They’ve been deluged with calls from tabloid papers and television shows from all over the world.”
    “You tell them about Gentry being on the flight?”
    “Hell no. They’re probably already getting calls from psychics and UFO buffs. They don’t want to hear what we have to say. They’d dismiss it as more crackpot nonsense, like we would if we were in their place. I bet they are hoping someone will start spreading word that the video was a hoax.”
    “So what do we do about it?” Bohannon asked.
    “There’s not a whole lot we can do about it, so let’s keep the focus on Portland for now. Agreed?” He rubbed his face and turned the computer monitor back around.
    Bohannon nodded and asked, “What can I do to help?”
    “Well, you being off the books, as it were, for the next week or so, I thought you could look into a few things, unofficially, to see if there are any dots that can be connected. Talk to a few people. See what’s going on. I can’t order you to do this, but it might be the best way to see what’s up without having to worry about politics or looking crazy. No paperwork, no reports. Take a look-see. Can you get around with that thing on your leg?” He pointed to the cast on the detective’s left leg.
    “Yeah, since they lowered the cast to below the knee, I can fit behind the wheel of my truck. Couldn’t do it in a car though.”
    “Okay, drive your truck. Turn in your mileage to me, and I’ll figure out how to get the reimbursement through without drawing any attention. Remember, you are officially still on sick leave, so no shooting, no arresting. Talk to folks, and let me know what you hear. Hopefully it won’t amount to a hill of beans.”
    “Who do you want me to talk to?”
    “Start with this guy, Denton Proctor. He and his wife, Melanie, were passengers on the flight that went into the river. Before that, they were schoolteachers out in Beaverton.” Lt. Simmons reached across the desk and handed a blue sheet of paper to Bohannon.
    It was a flyer. Across the top, big bold type screamed Come be HEALED ! Below that sat a blurry photocopy of a blurry photograph of a man and woman. And below that a caption:
    Denton and Melanie Proctor have been blessed with the power to restore both your body and soul. Come to Pioneer Courthouse Square, Thursday, at 3:00 p.m., and experience the miracle of their remarkable abilities. As seen on Channel 2 News.
    A footnote at the bottom, in smaller type, but in all capital letters read DONATE WHAT YOU CAN, IF YOU CAN, SO WE CAN CONTINUE THE WORK .
    Bohannon looked up, wide-eyed. “You’re not saying they are healing people, are you?”
    “Actually it’s Proctor, the husband, who has the healing hands. The Channel 2 report didn’t come right out and say he was a healer, but they interviewed several people who swore Proctor had cured them. One guy had gout, and a woman said he cured her deafness. They had video of him curing the woman. That could have been faked, but, if it was, that woman was quite an actress. I mean, she spoke like a woman who was