Gabriel's Mission

“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.