Читать книгу Gabriel's Mission - Margaret Way - Страница 7
ОглавлениеCHAPTER ONE
IT was well after nine-thirty when Chloe finally made it back to BTQ8, thinking she mightn’t have a job at the end of the day. In the year since he had become Managing Director of the Brisbane link in the national network, McGuire had been reducing numbers at the drop of a hat. Downsizing, he said, in the quest to achieve better results. Not being a fan of McGuire’s, Chloe chose to ignore the fact the TV station had been staging a remarkable comeback from near disaster under her old mentor, Clive Connor, who had since been moved on with a very generous redundancy package. She had never taken to McGuire, Clive’s successor, but the Big Guys loved him. He was the Golden Boy with a big future in the industry. The man who could do no wrong. This might very well be her day to get the shove. The third monthly meeting she had missed in a row when she always started out with the very best intentions.
Hunching her shoulders against the heavy tropical downpour, Chloe dashed across the station car park and into the main building, struggling with her brolly which, being cheap, was playing up. When she looked up, McGuire was coming towards her. Six foot three of raw animal power. He had shoulders like a front rower which he had been apparently at University. She wouldn’t have cared to be his opposite number. She didn’t like men who were so dark, either. So in-the-face uncompromisingly male. For a man of Irish ancestry he was almost swarthy with thick jet-black hair he wore short to discourage the curl, a bronze skin and, it had to be admitted, rather fine near-black eyes with eyelashes most women would die for.
Chloe raised her hand and before she could help herself gave him a cheeky wave. Where for the love of mike was her sense of survival? Gone with the great wind from Hell that had blown away her entire world.
“Cavanagh, you’re late,” McGuire said with a touch of gravel, amused and irritated by the sort of cockiness she usually exhibited with him. He moved to join her, watching her fiddle with a floral umbrella that looked more like a child’s sunshade, then flip back her trademark mane of red hair. It was pouring outside and her hair curled extravagantly in the humid heat. Corkscrew locks spilled forward onto her forehead and flushed cheeks. She looked ravishing, like a heavenly illumination in a Medieval manuscript where the artist used precious pigments and gold inks. All that was missing was the bright halo and she sure didn’t deserve that. Three missed meetings in as many months. It made him so damned mad. Exaggeration. Exasperated. For some reason that evaded him, he had a soft spot for Cavanagh. Maybe it was the look of her, the finely constructed frame he would like to give a good shake. She appeared so light, so fragile, so feminine, the tender curves of her breasts, the willowy waist and delicate hips, the ballerina legs. Yet there was something strong about her, something supple and resilient that shone through the lightness. Of course he knew her tragic background, and that smote him. Not that she would ever confide in him. He was well aware of her hidden antipathy. Almost a revulsion, he sometimes thought, like a princess under siege with the barbarian at the gate. She had been ready to dislike him before he had ever been given the chance to open his mouth. He had no hand at all in Connor’s sacking. Poor old Clive had brought it all on himself.
Chloe looking up at McGuire towering above her suddenly coughed, making him aware he had been staring. “In my office in ten minutes,” he clipped off.
“Right, Chief.” She just barely refrained from saluting him. What had stopped her? Perhaps because McGuire had swung back on her. Lord, for a big man he was remarkably light on his feel A sudden vision of him in a tutu almost made her laugh aloud. “I’m so sorry I missed the meeting,” she found herself saying hastily, “I do most humbly apologise.”
It was so sweet he damn near lifted a hand to toy with her rain-sequined hair. Instead he asked sarcastically, “Another hot story breaking?”
“Could be a real scoop.” It was a fib. She had made an unscheduled early morning visit to see her mother then got caught up in road works. No use to tell McGuire that. She could see the flint in his all-encompassing dark eyes.
“Sure you’re not getting overly ambitious?” he challenged her, worried it might be the case. She had taken so many risks of late, even if they had managed to come off.
“It was you who persuaded us to lift our game, Chief,” she pointed out innocently.
“Then I’ll have to dissuade you from placing yourself in danger, as well. Get rid of these wet things then we’ll have a nice chat.”
Chat? Ha! As if she needed a chat with McGuire. Communications between the two of them were becoming increasingly edgy. She didn’t know why she disliked him so much. Every other woman in the building fell in a swoon as he passed. Hers was a feline reaction, much like her marmalade cat confronted by a very large Doberman. Chloe raced on, greeting fellow workers to her left and right in her bright, friendly fashion, beaming at Mike Cole, senior sports writer, as he held the door of the outer office for her.
“Chloe, damned if I’ve ever seen anyone look so pretty in the rain,” Mike exclaimed. “You’ve got messages, kid. They’re on your desk. Better warn ya, Gabe was browned off when you didn’t show up for the meeting.”
Chloe looked up at Mike with a little grimace. “Don’t I know. I saw the dear boy in the lobby. I started out so early, too, but I got caught up a traffic jam. Road works at Lang Park. Hopeless. They do everything right before an election. Fact is I called in on Mum. I had the weirdest dream last night. Mum was trying to tell me someone was coming. Pathetic isn’t it?”
Mike shook his head in sympathy. He had been on his way out but decided to walk back with her. He and his wife, Teri, were very fond of Chloe. A frequent visitor to their home, she was the godmother to their newest baby, Samantha. Chloe had been given a very rough deal in life. But she was such a fighter. “What about a coffee?” he suggested.
“Love one. A rushed one,” Chloe said. “I didn’t have time for breakfast. McGuire gave me a drop-dead invitation. In his office in ten minutes.” She glanced at her watch. “Correction, eight. He was looking at me so queerly as if he couldn’t figure me out.”
Mike snorted. “For such a tough guy, he’s mighty easy on you.” He walked to the coffee machine, came back with two steaming cups of black coffee. “And how is Mum?” he asked. He and Teri had accompanied Chloe to her mother’s nursing home on several occasions. Delia Cavanagh was still a beautiful woman but the life switch had been turned off. Probably for good, Mike thought sadly.
“She looks so serene, Mike,” Chloe said, a bright glitter of helpless tears in her dark blue eyes. “For all that has happened to her she doesn’t seem to have aged a minute. It’s like she’s locked in time.”
Mike shook his sandy head, receding rapidly at the hairline to his distress. “It’s been hard on you, Chloe, but you’re a daughter in a million.” Chloe visited her mother on almost a daily basis when Mike knew her packed schedule. No wonder she looked like a breeze could blow her out of town.
Chloe gulped her coffee, too hot. “Why did it have to happen, Mike? Isn’t it enough to lose your husband and child? I try, but I don’t know that I believe in God anymore.”
“Well, he sure isn’t selling this world,” Mike observed with a wry expression. “Maybe it’s the next we should be aimin’ for, kid.”
“I think McGuire is of the opinion I’m trying to get myself killed.”
Mike took a while to answer. “It makes sense, Chloe. Goodness knows Teri and I think you’re the bravest girl in the world but you haven’t quite come to terms with all the blows fate has dealt you. That’s what worries Gabe.”
Blue fire flashed from Chloe’s beautiful eyes. “What would McGuire know about it? He knows nothing about me.”
“Of course he does, Chloe. Don’t take it so hard.” Mike leaned back against Chloe’s desk, a gangling attractive figure. “Your father was a well-known physician. It was in all the papers. Gabe has access to anything he wants to know.”
“I wouldn’t put a great deal of faith in McGuire’s kind heart.” Chloe started to push her coffee away. “I don’t want him to know anything about me. I certainly don’t want his pity.”
“Chloe, love, settle down.” Mike’s voice carried a fatherly note. “I know you can’t see this, but Gabe’s a great guy.”
“Who gave our good friend, Clive, the push and laid off Ralph and Lindsey,” Chloe retorted.
“Connor had it coming. Be fair, in fact they all did. You have to admit Clive had lost his drive. I know we all liked him. You saw him as some sort of a father figure, but he totally lacked Gabe’s skills, let alone brilliance.”
“Gabriel McGuire, the one-man razor gang?” Chloe mocked, twiddling her fingers at a junior staffer.
“Everyone is cost conscious these days, Chloe. The shareholders want an adequate return and Gabe has to satisfy our national bosses. He’s single-handedly pulled us from disastrous near-bottom ratings to giving Channel Nine a run for their money.”
“All right, all right,” Chloe sighed, wishing she had a croissant. She was hungry. “He’s a dynamo but there’s something kind of ruthless about him. I don’t like men who look like that. So dark and overpowering.”
“You just cut your teeth on poor old Clive,” Mike pointed out gently.
“At least he was a gentle man.”
“You just don’t like Gabe, full stop.”
“I told you. Something about him frightens me away.”
“Hey, Chloe, like a muffin?” someone called. “Nice and fresh.”
Chloe looked up as a young production assistant sauntered up to her, holding out a white paper bag.
“Gee, thanks, Rosie. I’m hungry, missed breakfast.”
“Just popped into my head.” Rosie smiled and moved off.
Chloe made short work of the delicious apricot muffin, wiped her mouth and fingers, then adjusted the collar of her yellow silk crepe blouse and stood up. “That’s it, then. I’d better see McGuire.”
“I’ll walk out with you,” Mike said. “I should have been over at the Broncos training session ten minutes ago.”
McGuire was watching her approach through the glass wall of his office, motioning her in with a near pugilistic lift of his arm. Needless to say he was on the phone, one hand riffling through some papers, the other holding the receiver slotted between his aggressive cleft chin and his broad shoulder. Chloe took a seat, sitting upright, slender legs neatly locked at knee and ankle. She wished now she hadn’t worn the yellow outfit, a favourite because it brightened her mood, but the short skirt was undeniably short. McGuire must have thought so, too, because his eyes moved slowly over her legs before settling on her face.
Drat. Why did he have to do that? He was carrying on a high-powered conversation while his near-black eyes almost bound her to the chair. He was openly studying her. Not politely, formally, but with confrontational male interest. Chloe couldn’t help knowing she was pretty—other people said beautiful—but Chloe, at twenty-four, was still a virgin with a very fastidious mentality. Having sex, for Chloe, involved falling in love, and Chloe knew better than anyone that love and the loss of it meant terrible suffering. She had friends, of course. Lots of friends. Male and female. But she couldn’t play the jump-into-bed game. One of the things about McGuire that bothered her was his sexual charisma, the certain knowledge that he would be a passionate maybe too demanding lover. She had known the second she had laid eyes on him, felt his eyes on her; recognised the looming battle ahead. She had readied herself, immediately raising her defences against such a threatening aura.
Now inexplicably she knew a bleak moment She was a mess. Had been since the fabric of her life had been ripped apart. No man could ever put his heart in her hands. She wouldn’t know what to do with it.
McGuire slammed the phone down and leaned across his massive mahogany desk, causing Chloe to audibly exhale.
“Tell me why you couldn’t make the meeting?” he asked, almost gently for him.
For an instant, to her amazement, she considered telling him about her visit to her mother. What was the matter with her? “I was held up in traffic, Chief. They’ve decided at long last to do something about Lang Street.”
His sensual mouth so clear cut, compressed. “Our meeting was set for 8:30 sharp. Road works commenced at 9:00 a.m. I heard it on early morning radio.”
He would. “I’m sorry. I apologise.” Even to her own ears she sounded sincere. “I know it’s my job to attend. I fully intended to but I couldn’t make it through the traffic.” Heck, usually she threw down the gauntlet.
“Why can’t you talk to me, Chloe?” He leaned back in the leather armchair, powerful body languid, two seeing eyes trained on her.
She got some kind of a mad rush just hearing him speak her Christian name. She flushed. “There’s nothing to talk about, Chief. Outside work.”
“We’ll settle for that. You have a lot of potential, Cavanagh.” He could see she was more comfortable with the surname, the odd, sweet, prickly little creature. “How long is it now since you joined BTQ8?”
“Of course you know. Four years. I came straight from University to cadet reporter. Clive taught me everything I know.”
“I know he took you under his wing.” Why not? She must have looked like a cherub. “Clive in his heyday as anchorman never had your flair. People are starting to get riveted to your on-camera reporting. That was a good piece you did on the Fairfield tragedy. I got a phone call from upstairs. Sir Llew was very pleased with the way you handled it.”
“Maybe, but I hate covering tragedies,” Chloe said.
“We all do but it’s our job. The public appetite for news is voracious. What sets you apart from many others is your compassion.”
Chloe looked down at the hands locked in her lap. “I didn’t feel too compassionate staging a wait outside his house. I felt more like a vulture.”
“That’s understandable but we all know about real life. A prominent politician about to be investigated for corruption. Not even his widow guessed he was going to commit suicide. I marvel she could talk at all.”
“Only to me,” Chloe said, shaking her head sadly. “Only to Chloe Cavanagh. I don’t know why.”
“I do,” he said briefly. “You have a special knack for communicating with grieving souls.”
Why not? Chloe thought. I have a troubled soul myself.
“The only problem is, you’re putting yourself too much in the front line.” His voice switched suddenly, rasped.
“But this is a tough industry, Chief. No need to tell you that. I’m after the best story for the channel.”
He continued to appraise her as though seeking to see through to her soul. “You’re not taking enough care and you know it. I know for a fact Rob has concerns.”
She was utterly taken aback. “Did he speak to you?”
“Most people outside of you, do.” He smiled, a little tightly. “He’s entitled. He’s your sidekick, your photographer. He’s very protective of you, like your mate Mike. But that was a very expensive camera that got wrecked. It’s not your job to beard international con men in their den. You can leave that to our top investigative reporter.”
“But he didn’t get the story, did he?” She spoke with a light note of triumph.
“No, but he has a black belt.”
“Are you suggesting I learn karate?” she asked sweetly.
He shrugged a broad shoulder. “I’m suggesting you learn a few moves if you’re going to continue to get yourself into situations where angels might fear to tread.” His tone, tough and uncompromising, suddenly changed. “What would you think about taking over as anchorwoman at the weekend?” Hell, what a good idea. It just popped into his mind.
Chloe, too, was startled and looked it. She didn’t want to take anyone’s job but the thought excited her. “I don’t know that I’m ready for anything like that,” she evaded. The weekends gave her extra time with her mother.
“That doesn’t sound like you, Cavanagh. Too boring?”
“I suppose you could say that,” she sighed. “My talent is for getting a story, getting to the bottom of things. I’m not a talking head.”
“You will be if I think you fit the bill.” He had to think this thing through.
She sat very still. “You’re the boss.”
“And that continues to enrage you.” There was a slight bunching of the muscles around his hard jawbone.
“Not at all.” Her answer was surprisingly, disarmingly soft.
“So why look at me as if I’m a woman-eating tiger?”
Because you are and you’d better believe it. “You did send Marlene Attwell on her way,” she pointed out.
“You admired her, did you?” His expression was cynical.
“Not quite. She was too bitchy for any of us to like her, but she’s a professional. She looked good in front of the cameras and she has credibility.”
He quelled a little rush of anger. Like some other people, he wasn’t a forgiving soul. “She insulted a lot of powerful people once too often, Cavanagh. Not to set the story straight but to establish her own questionable style. Then as you say, her in-house standing was far from good.”
Chloe nodded, looking suitably chastened. “I knew I wasn’t going to leave your office with a big smile.”
“Why so sure?” His black eyes sparkled with sardonic humour. “Mel Gibson will be in town the beginning of next month,” he found himself saying. “A quick trip home to promote his new movie. He’s willing to talk to us. I’ve had it confirmed.”
Chloe looked back at him in astonishment. “You’re surely not handing the job to me?” Her melodious voice, one of her big assets, took on a decided lilt.
“Can’t handle it?” One black eyebrow shot up, giving him a rakish look. Surely he should be handing the interview to Jennifer?
“I’ll have you know I once sat a few seats behind Mel on a plane.” She smiled.
“Is that so? Then you won’t want to miss this golden opportunity, either. He’s happy to talk. Keep it short and keep it light.”
“A pleasure.” She totally forgot herself and beamed at him. Gosh, what was in that muffin? “It should be fun. They say he’s the easiest person in the world to talk to. None of that Big Star ego. A down-to-earth Aussie. Won’t Jennifer have her nose put out of joint?”
He held up a large palm. “There’s no law against passing over our senior female reporter. Though Jennifer is never late, never misses meetings, and never gets herself involved in ongoing brawls.”
“She’ll certainly have something to say to me.” Chloe smiled wryly. There were big jealousies abroad. Grudges. Undercurrents.
“That’s your problem, Cavanagh.” He stared at her for a minute or two. “I had intended to bawl you out, but I seem to have surrendered to your charm. You can go now. I’m busy. By the way, Sir Llew is giving a small party, which means roughly a hundred people, Saturday night. You’d better go out and buy yourself a new dress.”
Anyone else but McGuire, she would have rushed to kiss his cheek. “You mean, I’m invited? That’s a first.”
His eyes sparkled sardonically. “Cavanagh, you’re well on your way to becoming a high flier. I’m in a position to provide you with wings. Sir Llew wants four of us for company. Bright, engaging people, he said.”
Chloe suppressed a snort. Sure! McGuire was brilliant. Engaging? Never.
He had to be a mind-reader because his dark eyes flashed. “Cavanagh, your face is so transparent you ought to wear a mask. The party’s for Christopher Freeman, by the way.” He named an international businessman of legendary wealth. Australian born, but currently residing in the U.S.A.
“The wild one.” Chloe feigned a gasp. “Freeman has quite a reputation as a womaniser.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be there to protect you.”
“No problem,” Chloe responded blithely. “The likes of Christopher Freeman would get nowhere with me.” A professional virgin with ice cubes rattling in her veins.
“I like that, Cavanagh,” he said. “By the way, I’d like you to know our present weekend anchorwoman is looking to retire.”
Chloe, walking to the door, turned back in surprise. “She never said so.”
“She hasn’t seen much of you of late,” McGuire pointed out dryly, bewitched despite himself at the image of her. “For a girl who doesn’t run with the crowd, you keep yourself mighty busy.”
“I have a wonderful garden,” she quipped.
“I admit you’re a bit of a puzzlement, Cavanagh.” He seemed to lose interest in her, reaching for a pile of papers. “Get Farrell in here, would you. I wish he had a few of your daredevil qualities.” He glanced up casually. “I can give you a lift Saturday night if it would help. Drop you off home afterwards. The party’s at Sir Llew’s so it’s going to be difficult getting parking near the house.”
It sounded so simple yet it took her by storm, McGuire at close quarters? How claustrophobic could one get? Her moods were shifting madly back and forth. She couldn’t account for it. “Thanks for the offer, Chief, but I’ll be okay. I know my way around that neck of the woods.”
“Well, the offer’s open in case you change your mind. Oh, there’s something else, too. I want a piece on Jake Wylie, the writer. I don’t suppose you’ve gotten around to reading his book, One Man’s Poison?”
Chloe’s expressive face brightened. “As a matter of fact I have. I bought the hardback to see what all the fuss was about. A mite strong, but a cracking good story, very funny in places.”
McGuire nodded. “He has all the makings. Our new great white hope, though he could pare down a bit on the sex. We don’t need a potted course in how and where to do it.”
I might, Chloe thought. “When would you want the piece?”
“Couple of weeks.” His eyes were already on some newspaper clipping on his desk. “I’ll give you time. Talk to him first. If you think he might have some on-camera potential we can find a spot for you both.”
Just when she thought miracles were for someone else! “That’s great!” From such a shaky start she thought a soft billowy cloud was beneath her. She could almost have gone skydiving. Sans parachute.
“Well?” He glanced up. For all his black eyes could bore a hole through her, their expression was almost kindly. “Everything okay, Cavanagh?” he jeered. Why did she have to look so beautiful, so delicate, so refined? It pierced his heart. She was usually such an uppity little devil, as well, with a lot of aggravation. Hair like flame, and a spirit to match.
“Everything’s fine, Chief.” Chloe tried to move off but she seemed stuck to the spot. “I suppose about Saturday it doesn’t make sense taking two cars?” She didn’t say that. She couldn’t have said it. She began to seriously wonder what had befallen her. Maybe she should rush out and see a psychiatrist. This was McGuire, remember? The Wolf Man. Rumour tied him to Sir Llew’s nubile daughter, the very attractive, high-profile party-goer, Tara.
“No sense at all,” McGuire casually agreed. “Let’s say I pick you up around eight o’clock.”
So that was that.
Chloe fled McGuire’s office before she found herself agreeing to dropping off his dry cleaning.
She and Bob were watching a clip on a monitor, one of her assignments due to air, when Rosie, clipboard in hand, bustled into the studio. “Listen, there’s a protest meeting going on out at Ashfield parklands. Caller rang in. Usual thing, the greenies versus a developer. Rowlands, big shot He wants to put in a shopping centre. Some of the locals are all for it but it would mean clearing a section of bushland where the koalas hang out.”
“But surely the shire council is falling over itself trying to protect the wildlife?” Chloe lifted a brow.
“Up to a point. Hell, is it us or the koalas? They’re all over the place. Shift the little devils. All they need is a good feed of gum leaves,” Rose muttered.
“The right gum leaves, Rosie. And they are being killed on the roads despite all the signs.”
“Want the job or not? We could send Pamela.”
“Pamela can’t give an accurate account of anything. No, we’ll be there.” Chloe lost no time switching off the monitor. “If people are prepared to talk instead of shouting at one another they might be able to come up with a solution.”
“I know Rowlands,” Bob, fortyish, almost as short as Chloe, said casually. “He’s not much good at listening.”
“I don’t suppose he’ll be there. It’ll be one of his people.”
They arrived at the Ashfield parklands in twenty minutes flat, Chloe jumping out almost before the BTQ8 van streaked up onto the footpath.
“Oh-oh, trouble,” Bob chortled. “I wasn’t expecting anywhere near as many people.”
“The more, the merrier,” Chloe said briskly. “Get a move on, Bob. Let the camera roll.”
“People do wacky things when a camera’s on them, Chloe,” Bob called. “Take care. I don’t want any more broken equipment.”
“Look at that! BTQ8,” someone cried as Chloe made short work of crossing the parkland. “Chloe Cavanagh. That’s a blessing. We might get heard.”
By the time Bob arrived with his camera, Chloe was right in the thick of it. She’d be on the side of the koalas, of course, but you couldn’t please everyone. A lot of people seemed to want the shopping centre to go ahead, when as far as Bob could see there was a perfectly good one back down the road.
Chloe, one of those journalists who could really get people talking, worked the crowd briskly, taking opinions left and right. Most were concerned citizens, a few troublemakers, a couple from the lunatic fringe, their heads swaddled in red bandannas, with matching red waistcoats.
“They won’t be satisfied until there are no koalas left.” A very tall woman glowered.
The Rowlands’ representative, an attractive, middle-aged woman, stylishly dressed, smiled and took Chloe’s hand. “Mary Stanton, Miss Cavanagh, a pleasure. I’d like you to know no company is more environmentally conscious than we are at Rowlands, as I’m trying to tell these people.”
This was howled down while Bob, busy videoing at Chloe’s side, suddenly aimed the camera at a tree. Chloe looked up expecting to see a koala so dopey on gum leaves it hadn’t noticed it was broad daylight and there was a rally in progress, only to find a boy about nine or ten waving at her when he should have been at school.
“You’d better come down,” Chloe called, swinging ’round in surprise as a voice spoke softly in her ear. No one. That was odd. Disconcerted, she began again. “Come on down from there.” The child was straddling a fairly high branch. None too substantial. Hadn’t anyone noticed?
“I’m all right.” He gave her a wide toothy grin, and slid further along the branch.
“The koalas have absolutely nothing to fear from us,” the woman from Rowlands was saying very earnestly. “We try to get along with everybody. Not all of these trees are grey gums. The wildlife people will be only too pleased to rescue the very small koala population.”
“Who does that boy belong to?” Chloe asked, trying to puzzle out where the voice had come from. A soft melodic voice, young, infectious, with a kind of bubbling happiness. She really didn’t like the boy up there even if she knew she was being overly protective. It all had something to do with losing her little brother. Boys were always climbing trees. They had a lot of talent for it. But just looking up was giving her vertigo.
“All I want to ask is this,” a stout woman in baggy jeans and a T-shirt two sizes too small, cried over the top of the male protester beside her. “Do we really need another shopping centre? There’s a good one about a mile down the road.”
“We don’t all have cars, love,” an elderly lady decorated in beads piped up. “The way I heard it they’re going to sell out to a chain store. I feel terrible about the koalas but a new shopping centre right here would be exciting. I could walk over every day. Meet people.”
“And you, sir?” Chloe asked, confronting an elderly man with military medals festooning his jacket.
“Why doesn’t Rowlands pack up and go back to where he belongs,” he barked.
“We can’t give in to the greenies,” a young mother with fuzzy blond curls, babe in arms, was exclaiming. “We all want the shopping centre. Everyone except those guys.” She gestured towards the red bandannas.
“You couldn’t put it somewhere else?” Chloe asked Mary Stanton doubtfully.
“Not a chance. We’ve done our homework. We have community backing.”
At that there was an outcry, people on the fringes rushing in to protest, some with the light of battle in their eyes.
It should have made Chloe uneasy but for some reason she was focused on the boy in the tree. What was the big deal? It wasn’t all that high. Yet...
When the branch suddenly snapped it was no real surprise to Chloe. People underneath panicked, running out of harm’s way, but Chloe, the slender, the fragile, the petite, zeroed in. She wordlessly put up her arms, waiting for the boy to topple into them.
Incredibly he did.
People gaped in amazement, blinking like rabbits, honestly not believing their eyes. Chloe was spinning across the springy grass almost dancing, holding the boy aloft before they both suddenly fell, full stretch, side by side, to peals of merriment.
The crowd, a moment before in full roar, fell silent, then broke into a delighted round of applause and some giggles, as first Chloe then the boy leapt lightly to their feet. “How the heck did she do that?” one of the red bandannas asked in wonderment.
“She must be pumping iron,” his companion replied.
“Look, isn’t that sweet?” the old lady cried.
The boy had leaned up to kiss Chloe’s cheek, fumbling in his pocket for a piece of paper for her autograph. How could a skinny, five-three maybe five-four girl with a mop of wild red hair have the strength to catch him? He figured she had to have had some help from her guardian angel. His had disappeared the same day his dad had left home and never returned.
Everyone wanted to shake Chloe’s hand.
“It was nothing,” she felt compelled to say, still trying to grasp how the boy had seemed to weigh little more than Samantha, her baby goddaughter.
“Adrenaline,” an elderly man, an ex-professor explained. “One becomes absolutely superhuman in a crisis. Wonderful, my dear, and your cameraman got it.”
“What a turn-up that was!” a protester in scruffy running shoes cried.
The crowd was delighted, for the first time turning to one another, wondering, smiling, ready for a friendly chat.
“You know there’s another possible site we passed on the way,” Chloe addressed Mary Stanton, who was giving her wide-eyed attention. “Huge corner block near a nursery. A For Sale sign on it.” Had she really noticed all that?
“Old Waverley’s farm,” Military Medals supplied. “He won’t sell to any developer,” he added sternly.
“You tried him, did you?” Chloe prompted the still confused Mary.
“We certainly did, but he was very hostile,” Mary managed ruefully.
“Try him again,” Chloe suggested. “He’s sitting in the blue Holden over there.” She waved a hand.
Mary took a deep breath. “You know him, do you?” As she had just witnessed, anything was possible.
“Never met him in my life, but I’m sure that’s he.” My goodness, why? Chloe thought. If she was psychic, she wanted to be the first to know.
“I can’t bowl up to a stranger.” Mary turned to Chloe, flustered. “You could be mistaken.”
“All right, anyone know Mr. Waverley?” Chloe’s voice echoed like a silver bell.
Sure enough, Running Shoes answered. “Old Jack? He’s sitting over in his car. Probably hoping to bump up the price of his farm. That’s where the shopping centre should be, if you ask me. We could all agree to that.”
“Well, I never!” Mary Stanton thrust her shoulder bag under her arm. “Normally I don’t revel in these contentious occasions but this has been really amazing. I just might be able to get Mr. Waverley to listen.” She touched Chloe’s arm. “Thank you, dear. I’ve never seen a young woman so vibrant with life. Or so strong.”
“Keep me posted,” Chloe called, shooting a hand behind her to grasp a bony wrist. “Just a minute, Archie.”
The boy’s mouth fell open in astonishment. This Chloe was a female to be reckoned with. “How did you know my name?” He grinned.
“You told me, didn’t you?” Chloe looked down brightly.
“No, I didn’t.” Archie blew out his breath. She didn’t look at all different from the people around her but she certainly had powers. “I’m called after me grandfather, Mum and I are going to live with him.”
“You can tell me all about it when we give you a lift home,” Chloe said, “but first things first, Archie. Why aren’t you at school?”
“They won’t miss me,” Archie whispered. “The koalas are my friends. I don’t want to see them go.”
Around them the protest meeting was breaking up, the crowd faintly dazed, collectively beginning to lose all memory of that extraordinary incident. If old Waverley would sell out, things could work out. That Chloe Cavanagh was a magical girl.
“I can’t understand it,” Bob said as they stood watching the film run through the monitor. “I’ve got everything bar the moment when you caught the kid and started your astonishing dance.”
“The crowd surging around didn’t help, Bob. Sure you had the camera trained on me?”
“Are you crazy?” Bob gave her an injured glance. “Of course I’m sure. Hell, Chloe, you should be ashamed of yourself for asking. I’m one of the best in the business.”
“Well, you’re never going to live down this one, Bobby.” Chloe patted him kindly on the shoulder. “All we have is this shot of Archie and me in deep conversation.”
“It was a miracle,” Bob suddenly announced. “I know it. How am I supposed to video a miracle? It just doesn’t happen.”
“If you say so, Bobby.” Chloe laughed. “I’ve got to tell you, I’ve never felt like that in my entire life. It was like some other being got hold of Archie. I suppose it’s not all that unusual. I had a friend who lifted a car off a neighbour’s child. The mother backed out the garage not realising her little girl was there. Ian jumped the fence when the mother screamed and lifted the rear of the car right off the toddler. Do you know, she wasn’t even hurt.”
“I’d say the kid had a darn good guardian angel.” Bob scratched his head in some perplexity. “Let’s run the tape through again. I want to check if something’s wrong.”
They were still talking about it in the corridor when McGuire happened along.
“Okay you two? You look like you’re back from a space flight.” He paused for a moment to study them.
“There are some things in life, Chief, that just don’t add up,” Bob said. “Chloe and I were at a protest meeting a couple of hours ago—”
“Cavanagh never outlives her enthusiasm for protests.” McGuire’s black eyes were mocking.
“Don’t I know it. But she’s so helpful. People love talking to her. Anyway, this most amazing thing happened.”
“Tell me,” McGuire urged, his deep voice a purr.
“It’s nothing,” Chloe murmured briefly, feeling embarrassed.
“Nuthin’ don’t say it.” Bob tilted his head to address his tall Chief. “There was this kid up a tree. About ten, stopped home from school so he could join the protest. Course the mother didn’t know. This big branch snapped under him. You had to hear the noise. Everyone scattered but not Chloe. While we all thought the kid could break a leg, Chloe, wait for it, positions herself like Arnie Schwarzenegger while the kid takes a nosedive.”
“No. So what did he break?” McGuire asked laconically.
“What I’m trying to tell you, Chief, is Chloe caught him.”
McGuire said nothing for a moment, not taking his eyes off Chloe’s flushed face, then he patted Bob’s arm. “Sounds like you two stopped off for lunch. Cracked a bottle of wine.”
“Never on the job,” Chloe said. “I’m still not sure how I did it. I’ve had this funny voice in my ear all day.”
“A visit to your doctor might help. You wouldn’t have it on camera, I suppose, Bob?” McGuire asked.
“Now this is the really amazing part. I got everything else but some outside force seemed to put the camera into freeze.”
McGuire set his fine white teeth. “You’ll have to excuse me, folks. Ordinarily, I love to hear the mad stories you two make up.”
“It wasn’t a story, truly. I did catch him,” Chloe said.
McGuire wasn’t convinced. “You? Listen, you look like you’d have trouble emptying your shopping trolley. Heck, what do you weigh?” He took a step towards her, eyeing her slight figure, then before Chloe could move he swept her off her feet in one lightning-fast movement. “I’d say about fifty-four kilos.” He actually bounced her like a baby. “Am I right?”
She was utterly devastated. Her heart did a mad somersault and the blood whooshed in her ears. “Put me down.”
“Soon.” McGuire saw the rush of feeling flash through her eyes. Probably saw herself as Jessica Lange borne aloft by King Kong. “It’s a joke, right?” he asked with elaborate casualness.
“There were plenty of witnesses.” Bob was fascinated by the sight of Chloe looking like a porcelain doll in the Chief arms. He had to be dreaming all of it. “I can find you someone to speak to,” he offered.
McGuire laughed. “So there’s magic in you, Cavanagh.” Just holding her made him feel bedazzled. “Magic to move people. Catch them if you have to. That has to be the reason. It’s also quite possible you two screwballs dreamed the whole thing up.”
Bob looked shocked. “We’ve got too much respect for you, Chief, to waste your time.”
McGuire looked down at Chloe, noting every nuance of her expression. The scent of her was in his nostrils; honeysuckle, golden wattle, the fragrance of Spring.
“Chief,” she said, exasperated. She knew he could hear her unsteady breathing. Those smouldering black eyes zooming in on the telltale rise and fall of her breast.
“This is where it all falls apart, Bob. Cavanagh couldn’t possibly break the fall of a ten-year-old boy. You know it I know it.”
“What happened was a miracle,” Bob proclaimed like a convert.
“Nope. You’re just mad.” McGuire lowered Chloe to her feet, keeping his hand on her shoulder for a moment as though recognising she was very fluttery. “Sorry, you two. Got to run. You might like to be there when the jury returns a verdict on the Chandler case. I’ve just had a tip-off it could be late this afternoon.”
“Does this mean you still trust us?” Chloe challenged.
McGuire looked back over his shoulder, gave a twisted grin. “Sure, Cavanagh. What you obviously need is a good night’s sleep.”
“I guess you could call it mass hysteria,” Bob said later.
Chloe looked away from him. She could still feel McGuire’s strong muscular arms wrapping her body. She could still feel the shock waves, the chemistry as old as time, the brush of heat. It shamed her. “Let’s put it out of our minds,” she advised. We have to concentrate on the Chandler job. It has to be guilty.”
“There’s always a shock verdict, Chloe.” Bob sighed. “I’ve discovered that. Hang on a minute and I’ll get another tape. There must have been something wrong with the other one.”
