Chosen by Paula Bradley Page A

The Chicago bureau chief was cornered, repeating yet again that, “the FBI acted on information from a psychic.” When the press demanded he reveal the name of this person, he justified his lack of cooperation by stating that the psychic had stipulated complete and total anonymity in exchange for the information.
    One astute reporter from the Herald tied the two rescues in California with the one in Chicago. He titled the follow-up story: “ANGEL RESCUES GO NATIONAL. FBI CONTINUES TO STONEWALL PRESS.”
    The police were besieged with all kinds of “psychics” crawling out of the woodwork like cockroaches. Since none of them could authenticate any of the unpublished conversation with Kevin O’Reilly or Agent George Cornish, and Mariah was not about to expose herself, the reward went unclaimed.
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    Frannie refused to divulge Mariah’s name to anyone, a decision that nearly cost her job. As far as she was concerned, there were already too many people who knew of Mariah’s existence: the two ministers (and their wives, she was sure); Sapitnaski; Sanders; and Bridger. Frannie Manzetti had no intention of adding any more to the list. The Feds in Chicago could not make her give up Mariah and, unexpectedly, Osterman backed her up. He was no fool: as long as one of his agents was in control, and the psychic was playing ball, he could sit back and figure out how this would benefit him. He was even able to play it coy with his boss. He nearly got fired, but saved his butt with Manzetti’s threat that the psychic would stop finding kidnapped children and no longer assist the Feds if forced to come forward.
    Stop finding kidnapped children? That’s what you think, Mariah thought glumly, I have no more control over these Findings then you do, buddy boy .
    It dawned on Mariah the following day that she had done something during this Finding that she hadn’t done in the previous two:
    She had seen the stadium sign through Kevin’s eyes.

Chapter 16
    Frannie sat in a conference room, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded in her lap. Through years of practice, she knew her face was expressionless. She’d be damned if she would give the pompous ass across from her the satisfaction of knowing how furious she was.
    She had called a local seminary to request the assistance of a professor who taught biblical linguistics. Assured that Alistair Poindexter was their best, Frannie called him, told him she needed something translated, and he agreed to meet her at the office.
    Frannie and Alistair were antagonists the minute they laid eyes on each other. She thought him a middle-aged, chauvinistic, woman-hating Brit, stuffed with his own egotistical importance, acting like he was infinitely superior to her and the entire United States population. He thought her a castrating slut, who was probably sleeping her way up the ladder in a man’s profession, a product of over-indulgent, liberalistic policies, what Yanks referred to as “Affirmative Action.”
    He’s doing this on purpose . Frannie’s body was rigid, her teeth, clenched. She barely restrained herself from leaping over the table and clawing that smirk off his face.
    With a condescending smile in her direction, Alistair played the edited tape for the fourth time. You fucking turd , Frannie seethed. If you think I’m going to beg you to write something down, we’ll just wait until the Second Coming before I give you that satisfaction !
    Alistair must have sensed that Frannie was about to pounce on him and ram the recorder up his rear end, because he finally took pen in hand and began to write. She smiled, satisfied that he must have realized how close he’d come to mutilation.
    Finished, he pushed the paper across the table in Frannie’s general direction, making sure she had to uncross her legs and stretch to retrieve it. As she began to read, he stood up, reaching for his cap and umbrella.
    Frannie glared at him through lowered brows and said, “Have a seat Professor