Free A Touch of Grace by Linda Goodnight Page A

fresh, feminine sound.
    With that troubling notion rolling around in his head, Ian hopped out and rounded the vehicle. The Tin Man ripped into “When the Saints Go Marching In,” the accordion pumping back and forth with amazing speed. The Tin Man always saluted his arrival in this manner, though Ian never knew if the music served as a greeting to him or a warning to the others.
    As they neared the small gathering, Ian spotted familiar faces and stopped to say hello. He kept the conversation low-key and friendly. They knew who he was and what he stood for. Hammering the message home would only drive them away.
    Though his mother would chastise him for rudeness, he didn’t introduce Gretchen to anyone. A reporter in the midst would clear the streets faster than yelling fire. As it was, he was amazed no one recognized her.

    She hovered at his elbow, thankfully saying nothing for the moment. He would hardly have known she was there except for her magnolia fragrance, a pleasant respite from the mingling smells of humanity, aged buildings and thick river air.
    He kept an eye out for kids in general but especially for those who’d come to Isaiah House for help and had left without it. As always, his heart expanded with an odd mixture of love and pity for the street people.
    “Hey, Preach.” A boy with dreadlocks and a charming, open-faced smile sidled up beside him.
    “Sticks,” Ian said using the fourteen-year-old’s street name. He had never seen the kid without a pair of drum-sticks. “What’s going on?”
    Sticks loved to talk. The habit was useful to Ian, but one that could get the boy hurt out here on the streets.
    Gretchen fidgeted at his elbow. He ignored her.
    “Streets are pretty quiet tonight so far.” Over the noise of zydeco music, Sticks moved closer to Ian and lowered his voice. “Posse got busted last night. Him and Spud robbed some old dude outside the casino.”
    “Did you tell his mama?” At sixteen Posse was out of control, but his mother sometimes rode the van with Ian looking for her son, asking Ian to pray. He always obliged, though he questioned the good either of them accomplished.
    Sticks rolled a drumstick over one finger and under another. “Yeah. She’s pretty torn up.”
    “I’ll go see her.”
    “She’ll ask you to get him out.”
    “I know.” Hadn’t he done that once before? “Youseen Terry Anne tonight?” The young runaway was heavy on his mind.
    Sticks executed a silent drum roll in the air. “Saw her with some strange dude over on Frenchmen Street.”
    Some strange dude. Ian’s heart sank. “When was that?”
    “’Bout an hour, I guess. Might as well give up on her, man. Jackie ain’t likely to let go now that he’s got hold of her.”
    Ian fought the urge to agree. Jackie went through young girls like water through the swamps, leaving them soiled and broken. But Terry Anne had come to the mission a few times, and Ian couldn’t give up hope that she could still escape.
    “Thanks, Sticks. Anything else you can tell me before I head that way?”
    “Check the alley behind Andre’s place and the under-pass down the street from there. Never know what you might see.”
    Ian nodded, understanding that this was all the boy could safely say. “Thanks. Wanna come back to Isaiah House with me?”
    “Wasting your time, man. I’m hopeless.” The boy laughed and tapped Ian with a drumstick. “Who’s your lady?”
    Ian didn’t bother to correct the mistake. “Gretchen, meet Sticks.”
    “Nice to meet you, Sticks. A drummer, I guess?”
    “Will be when I get me some drums.” The boy guffawed, his dreadlocks wiggling like Medusa’s snakes. “See ya at the Square next week, Preach?”
    “Wouldn’t miss it.”

    With that, Sticks moseyed on down the street, playing air drums as he went. In no way did Ian consider him hopeless.
    “Interesting character,” Gretchen said as they headed toward the van.
    “Sticks is a good kid with a lot of potential. He just