Free Child of Silence by Abigail Padgett

tell me and I'll get the message to her. Who may I say it's from?”

    Whites and their rude, abrupt ways. Who knew who it was from? It was from the spirits.
     
    “The license plate on the yellow car. . .” Annie tried again.

    “Wait a minute. Who is this?”

    “I found the child.” Annie identified herself proudly. “I saved his life! And tell her a 3 and a 5 and a 1 and a star. I'm going to Lone Pine now, going to a pow-wow.”

    “I need to know who—”

    Gently Annie replaced the receiver. The white woman would be happy to get the spirit message. And Annie would be happy to get a cup of vending machine coffee.

    The hotline worker doodled threes and fives and ones on a notepad and considered whether or not to convey the message to Bradley over in the court unit. The call was obviously a joke. Or some crazy on Bradley's caseload. Probably a schizophrenic. He'd read somewhere that they talked in numbers.
     
    Then he remembered that Bo Bradley worked in Madge Aldenhoven's unit. “Monster Madge,” who'd get you fired for not completing a DSS315 phone memo form as the procedures manual required.

    The hotline worker had just bought a new car. With stiff payments. Quickly he filled out the DSS315 and dropped it in the out basket. Then, to be doubly efficient, he phoned

    Bradley's office. She wouldn't be in at 2:00 in the morning, but he could log the call and cover his tail.

    “Bueno,” Estrella Benedict answered yawning, forgetting where she was. “I mean Child Protective Services, Bo Bradley's desk.”

    “What are you doing in the office at this hour?” The hotline worker was amazed.

    “An emergency. What in hell do you think we're doing? Folk dancing? What's up?”

    “Got a message for Bradley. Just came in long-distance. A crazy, I think. An old woman. Said she was going to a pow-wow in Lone Pine. Something about a yellow car. And a star. She said, ‘3, 5, 1, and a star.’”

    The worker could hear a small dog yipping in the background. Why would there be a dog in the office? It must be true what everybody said about the court investigators. Too much stress.

    “Wow,” Estrella breathed. “That's the Indian! I'll get the message to Bo over at the hospital. Thanks!”

    The hotline worker hung up, shaking his head. Barking dogs at the office at 2:00 a.m.? Indians with stars? Maybe he'd go back to school. Maybe computers.

     

12 - Sliding Toward the Edge
    “My God, that's great!” Bo exclaimed into the third floor nurses' station phone as Estrella relayed Annie Garcias message. “Let me get it down.” She gestured to Police Detective Bill Denny, who was standing with LaMarche and Madge Aldenhoven. “A 3, a 5, a 1, and a star, right?”

    Andrew LaMarche, having examined Weppo and arranged for an army of private security guards who would patrol the hospital until further notice, could not bring himself to leave. The shooting reminded him of a past in which people were blown to bits for obscure reasons in Asian jungles. He'd joined the Marines after his freshman year at Tulane. Now he tried to remember why. Something to do with adventure, with a need for discipline, with a young man's hunger for a concept of honor. He'd wanted to learn about honor. And he had. Its antithesis could be found in the armed invasion of a sanctuary for children. The fact made him deeply angry, and deeply concerned for the deaf little boy somebody was determined to kill.

    As Madge Aldenhoven orchestrated by phone the legal intricacies of the boy’s status, he listened and somberly made medical recommendations the Department of Social Services would be obliged to follow. Among these was a strong suggestion that Weppo's foster care arrangements include extensive training in American Sign Language. Aldenhoven, efficient even at 2:00 a.m., made a note of the recommendation. It would be included in the court orders now hurriedly being prepared.
     
    Bo watched the two of them from the nurses' station. LaMarche