“That’s
true.
You’re
pretty
smart.”
Lacey
checked
to
make
sure
Cassandra’s
chest
was
still
moving.
“She’ll
be
okay.”
Lacey
hoped her
words weren’t
just
bravado.
“That’s
good,”
the shepherd agreed.
“We’re
really saving
her,
huh?”
“Yes,
we’re
saving
her.
What else did the man do?’
The shepherd thought about it for a moment. “He
looked
up and
saw
me. He points his
finger
like
a gun. He starts coming
after
me.
But
I
squeeze
behind
that
old
Dumpster
again.
He’s
like
way
too big to get me in
there.”
The
shepherd’s
eyes
were
very
large.
“And
he didn’t catch
you,”
Lacey said. “What made
him
leave?”
“A
car came
down
the
alley.
The other end. So the Santa Dude, he ran
away.
But the car turned
off,
like
to park in the
garage
or
something.”
“You’re
all right, then?”
“Sure.”
The shepherd
looked
around as if to
make
sure there was no Santa Dude in the
alley.
“Sure I am. I’m always
all
right.”
“That’s
a nice
costume.”
It
looked
homemade to
Lacey,
per haps
sewn
out of a
wool
blanket.
“Are
you late for a school pag eant tonight or something? Should I call your parents?”
He ignored the question. “Do you think the
lady’s
going to
die?”
“I don’t
know.”
Lacey wondered if she should say
some
thing more hopeful for the
shepherd’s
sake.
“Yeah,
me
neither.
But she could die, right? People die
every
day in
D.C.”
The child
was
silent for a moment.
“What’s
her
name?”
“Cassandra.
Cassandra
Wentworth.”
Lacey
looked
at
her
watch,
then at the child.
Where
the
hell
is
that
ambulance?!
“What’s
your name? And where are your parents
anyway?
Are you meeting them
somewhere?”
“You
ask a lot of
questions,”
the
boy
said.
“So
do
you,”
Lacey
said.
“Why
were
you
in
the
alley?”
“Why do
you ask
so
many
questions?”
She
could
ask
him
the
same
thing.
“It’s
my
job.
I’m
a
reporter.”
The shepherd
cracked
a small smile.
“That’s
a
funny
job.
All you do is ask questions?”
“I do. And after I ask questions I write stories about the an swers.” A
siren
suddenly
howled
in
the
distance
and
grew
louder.
“I
work
for
the
newspaper
in
this
building,
The
Eye
Street
Observer
.
That’s
where Cassandra works too.
She’s
a writer too. My name is
Lacey
Smithsonian.”
She
extended
her hand.
“And
you are?”
He shook her hand very
formally,
but
he didn’t offer
his
name.
“Lacey
Smithsonian? And
you’re
a
reporter.
And your phone number is—” He rattled
off
her cell
number.
A quick
learner.
“Are
you going to put this in the paper?”
“I
don’t
know.
Someone
will.”
“You
gonna mention me?”
“You’re
a hero.
You
saved
her.
So maybe we will.
What’s
your name?”
He
seemed
to
finally
consider
this,
rolling
it
over
in
his
mind,
but
the name
was
not forthcoming. He touched
Lacey’s
mouton coat with its thick
fur.
“I
like
your coat.
It’s
soft.”
“Thank you.
It’s
warm.
It
was
my
aunt’s.”
“Handmedown,
huh?”
He
nodded
sagely.
“I
know
all
about
that.”
“Yes.
A handmedown.
Tell
me
something,”
Lacey
said.
“You
picked
up her cell phone?”
“It fell on the ground.
You
can
make
it call the last number it called, you
know?
I
figured
you must be her friend, so you
would
come and help
her.”
Cassandra’s
friend? He
didn’t
know
that
Lacey
almost
didn’t
answer the call. A twinge of guilt hit
her.
“Where is her phone
now?”
“I
don’t
know.”
The child made a dramatic
show
of looking up and
down
the
alley.
He shrugged. “Musta lost
it.”
Lacey
smiled
and
lifted
her
eyebrow.
“You
got
a
hidden
pocket
in that robe?” No
answer.
“How
old are you
anyway?”
“Fifteen.”
“Uhhuh. I think
you’re
more
like
ten. Or
eleven.”
Offended,
the shepherd set her straight. “I am totally almost
thirteen!”
“So
you’re
twelve.”
Lacey could
believe
twelve. A
small
twelve.
“Almost
thirteen!
Twelve
and
three
quarters.”
The
little
shepherd
boy
smiled,
showing
pretty white teeth. But he froze at the sound of police sirens suddenly almost on top of them.
“The police are going to
want
a
statement,”
Lacey
said.
“I’ll
help
you.”
“Nuh uh. I
don’t
talk to the police.
It’s
my
policy.”
The
boy
started
walking,
then
running,
as
the
blueandred
flashing
lights of a Metropolitan Police car entered the Eye Street end of the
alley.
An
ambulance
was
right behind it.
“Wait!
You
won’t
get in trouble. I promise!” She started to
follow
him,
but
she
didn’t want
to
leave
the injured Cassandra. “There could be a
reward,”
Lacey
shouted.
“A
reward
from the
newspaper.
Wait!
Come back!”
But the child was running fast
now.
Lacey caught a final glimpse of blueandwhite stripes flashing under a streetlight at the
far
end of the
alley.
Then the little shepherd
boy
was
gone.
In moments the
alley
was
full of people, the
ambulance,
three police cars and the
newest
member of
The
Eye
staff.
With
her freckled
face,
Kelly
Kavanaugh
looked
like
a kid on her
way
to study hall. Her straight
brown
hair hung to her shoulders and her straight bangs reached to her
eyebrows.
Kavanaugh
wore
khaki slacks, a lightweight green
windbreaker
zipped up to her neck, and a pair of cross trainers. The junior member of the po lice beat
was
not dressed for the
office
Christmas
party.
Okay,
you’re
a
cops
reporter,
Kavanaugh,
let’s
see
you
re
port,
Lacey
thought.
Let
me
know
if
there’s
a
fashion
clue
I
can
decode
for
you.
The EMTs were checking Cassandra and preparing to lift her into the
ambulance.
“Whoa,”
Kavanaugh
exclaimed.
“Cassandra
Wentworth
from
The
Eye
?
What’s
she doing in that
awful
sweater,
Smith sonian? I thought she
wouldn’t
be caught dead in those!”
“You’re
right about that. But
she’s
not
dead.”
“So
far.
So
it’s
someone
hacked
off
about
that
Sweatergate
thing?”
Lacey
shrugged.
Kavanaugh
didn’t
need
any
help with the
obvious.
They
had no more time to talk before a youngish po liceman approached and
wanted
Lacey’s
statement. He took her
out
of
earshot
of
the
young
and
hungry
reporter
and
Lacey
filled
him in on the details of
how
she found Cassandra. But he
didn’t
believe
her.
“A
boy?
In a
shepherd’s
robe? And
he’s
gone
now?
Right.
You
been drinking, miss?”
“No,
officer,
and all I can say is: This is the
District.”
The cop appraised her and took in the
alley.
“Yes,
ma’am.”
Lacey
repeated the story the child had told
her.
She retraced the path from Cassandra to the Dumpster for the
officer’s
ben
efit,
and there hanging on the Dumpster she noticed a
tiny
piece
of
torn
fabric.
Its
blueandwhite
threads
matched
the
little
shepherd’s
robe. She pointed this out. The cop sighed. His part ner came
over
to look.
“So
now
you
believe
me?”
The second cop
gave
her a slight inclination of his
head.
“It’s
the District,
ma’am.”
He reached for the scrap of
fabric.
“Hey,
don’t
touch
that,”
the
first
cop said.
“We’ll
let the foren sics
boys
pick that
up.”