Page 2 of Bringing Chelsea Home

“Do you think this Tina is spying for him?” Elaine asked.

“I’ll bet even money on it,” Bernie said. “Tina probably remembers seeing you visit the clinic, told him, and he put it together. Thank God she was off today.”

“I’ll tell Sergeant Miller that too,” Elaine assured her. “Now, I have some good news. Tennessee Task Force, a new multi-agency dedicated to helping find lost, trafficked children and teens, has invited me to be a Families United representative. Maybe they’ll consider helping women like Lulu and Roxie.”

“That’s great!” Bernie declared. “And I’ve a feeling Chelsea is finally on her way home.”

“Maybe she’s with those girls Big Daddy is bringing and the card is her way of letting me know?” Elaine dared to hope.

“Then we’ll catch and bust the bad guys!” Bernie vowed.

Her friend’s optimism was infectious. “How about lunch atSophia’sto celebrate?”Elaine suggested. “My treat.”

“A nun with a vow of poverty never turns down a free meal,” Bernie joked. Whatever money she occasionally had, she spent on everyday items for her patients.

“But you’ll freeze in that jacket,” Elaine scolded. “Wear this.” She took her Rainbow Pride jacket from the back of her chair and passed it over. Her heavy fisherman’s style sweater and scarf were more than warm enough.

Outside, a drizzling rain met them, and Bernie pulled the jacket’s hood over her head. Foot traffic was heavy, and Elaine guessed folks were already shopping for pre-holiday bargains at the downtown stores and boutiques.

A burly man in a UT t-shirt, ballcap and ski-goggles approached as they crossed the street. He bumped heavily into Bernie, and she clutched his arm, but he jerked away, and she staggered, grabbing Elaine. “Oh, my precious Savior,” she gasped, holding up a blood-covered hand.

“Bernie!” Elaine shouted. “Someone please call 911!” She lowered her friend to the street and knelt beside her as onlookers sprang back. The man wheeled around, but the goggles covering his face made him unrecognizable.

“Son-of-bitch!” he hissed. “She’s wearing your jacket!”

He plowed through the onlookers while in the distance an emergency vehicle’s screams drowned out the crowd’s shouts and cries for help.

“Hang on, Sister Bernie.” Elaine propped her friend against her. “Help is almost here.”

“I’d have given him the jacket if he’d asked,” Bernie gasped. “Good thing I went to confession last night, huh?”

“Hush.” Elaine unzipped the blood saturated garment to gently apply the handkerchief someone had pushed into her hand against the wound in Bernie’s chest.

Bernie’s breathing slowed and her eyelids fluttered. “He thought I was you,” she gasped. “Everyone knows you wear this jacket. He thought I was you.”

“Don’t talk,” Elaine begged as the EMS van roared up. Behind her, the crowd was silent.

“When does an Irish nun not talk?” Bernie managed a huffed laugh. Then she gripped Elaine’s arm. “Stop Big Daddy,” she whispered. “Don’t let him hurt any more girls.”

She sighed, as if sliding into sleep and her body went limp. Elaine gently closed Sister Bernadette Nolan’s eyes, kissed her forehead and wept, ignoring the EMT’s touch on her shoulder and their suggestion to go to the ER.

Much later, after going to the convent with Sergeant Miller to tell the other nuns what had happened, Elaine returned to her office where she kept a change of clothing. On her desk lay a note, with the cryptic message, printed in block letters. UR next BITCH.

So, after giving Miller her blood-soaked sweater, she called her friend Anne Hamilton to ask about her recent experience with Brotherhood Protectors.

CHAPTER2

Tuesday Afternoon

“Looks like The Cadre is back in Knoxville.” Brotherhood Protectors’ founder Hank Patterson announced from Montana. “That is if they ever actually left. Sounds as if they’re still mad as hell for our interference and looking to kick our ass.”

“We think this attack is The Cadre?” Lieutenant Griffin A. Tyler, USMC, retired, asked grimly. “Why can’t scum like that stay in Chicago and leave my hometown alone?” He stared at his employer’s image on the computer screen, stretched out his legs and winced. The PT session he’d requested earlier had challenged him, but he’d needed it. The old injury to his right leg and shoulder flared when the weather turned rainy and cold, but he refused to interrupt his fitness routine even if it hurt like hell. Brotherhood Protectors had called him into action for this mission and he was determined to be ready.

“Very possibly,” Hank agreed. “Killing Sister Nolan in broad daylight has all the marks of The Cadre. But the local police think it’s more likely the work of Obadiah Collins, an East Tennessee pimp and crime boss also known as Big Daddy.”

“I’d hoped The Cadre had left,” Griff said. Last month, he’d helped fellow BP member and friend, Keith “Mac” McFarlane and reporter Anne Hamilton find and rescue her niece, five of her friends, as well as BP member, Parker Evans’s long-lost sister. Griff’s expertise with computers and all things IT had helped track down a ring of local pedophiles. “Was Ms. Prescott injured at all?”

“No,” Hank said. “In her police report she stated the man who attacked Sister Nolan said, ‘She’s wearing your jacket.’ Apparently, Ms. Prescott loaned Sister Nolan her Rainbow Pride jacket that lots of people from the street knew she often wears.”

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