Bitter Sweets

she had uttered a long, formal prayer. Most of her prayers were said on the run, hasty words muttered in the heat of battle. “Please, God, don’t let so-and-so happen,” or “Oh Lord, what should I do now?”

    The last few times she had stepped into a church, it had been in the course of an investigation, not for worshiping purposes. So, she felt a little rusty around the edges.

    “I’m not so good at this,” she whispered. Her voice sounded alien and strained to her in the dark quiet of her bedroom. “You haven’t exactly heard from me in a while.” She laughed at herself. “But I guess I don’t need to tell You that. Gran says You keep pretty good tabs on things like that.

    “I hope you’re keeping track of Christy. Please don’t let her be hurt any more than she already has. To be honest, I’ve always had a problem understanding why You let bad things happen to innocents like Christy and other kids. But I guess You have your reasons. Gran says You do. I hope You do.”

    She thought back on her childhood prayer format, looking for direction to continue.

    “And God, bless Gran for being the wonderful person that she is, and thank You for sending her to me at a time like this. Bless the colonel and try to numb his pain, if You can. Keep Christy in the palm of Your hand and help me return her to the love and safety of her family.

    “And while You’re at it, could You make me a little smarter? Right now, it would really help. Amen.”

    She lay there, thinking about what she had done, feeling a bit like the Scarecrow asking the Wizard of Oz for a brain.

    But a quiet voice inside-maybe the voice of Hope, that her grandmother sang of-whispered a word of comfort.

    It told her that her prayer, rusty or polished, had been heard and received.

    The last time Savannah had tried to speak to Vanessa Pearce, she had been eighty-sixed from the Shoreline. But Savannah experienced only a passing twinge of misgiving as she pulled up before the tiny, bread box of a house. Talking to people who didn’t like her or want to talk to her was a part of the job. Not the most pleasant part, to be sure, but an accepted one.

    Earlier, Savannah had decided that she had some time to kill before meeting Dirk for the electrician’s interview. So, she had called the Shoreline to see if Vanessa wa$ working. She had been told that Vanessa was taking the day off to “fix her motorcycle", its having “thrown a rod.”

    Not being especially knowledgeable about vehicle repair, Savannah hoped she would be finished “throwing” things by the time she arrived. A tussle with a six-one, purple-haired bad-ass motorcycle chick wasn’t her idea of a good time.

    Apparently, automobile repair rated high on Vanessa’s list of priorities, far above lawn and home maintenance. Half a dozen partially dismantled vehicles littered the lawn and an engine had been Tom apart on the porch.

    Savannah left the Camaro and waded across the sea or grass. In the rear, next to the alley, stood a two car garage that was larger than the house. Its two doors were flung open, hanging loosely on their hinges, like a bird’s brok^n wings. Rom inside came a long, colorful stream of verbal a1^use-

    Vanessa was making eloquent observations about someone or something’s family pedigree, Oedipal tendencies and probable eternal destination.

    She walked through the open doors, just in time to see a wrench fly across the garage and smash into the tar wall, it seemed Vanessa liked to throw her tools, to.

    “What the hell do you want?” Vanessa squatted on the floor, a mess of greasy components spread out before etr. The smell of gasoline was strong, emanating from a washtub filled with gas and more oily engine pieces. Savannah recalled that this practice was what her brother Macon called “soaking parts.”

    “To talk a few minutes. You can keep working though, if you want,” she added, hoping to sound cordial.

    Standing, Vanessa tossed her dirty shop towel onto the cement floor. “I’m warning you, I just found out that my Harley’s engine has to be completely overhauled, so I’m not in a very good mood.”

    Mmmmm , Savannah thought. Cordial doesn’t seem to beworking . She dropped the “nice” routine and allowed her expression to register her fatigue and annoyance. “My investigation isn’t going very well, either,” she said, “so that makes two of us.”

    “The cops say somebody blew Earl’s brains out.” Vanessa’s tone