The Night Ranger Read Online Free PDF Page A

like an old-time preacher. In reality, as he’d told Hutchens, he came from a family of railroad workers. He ran WorldCares/ChildrenFirst as a secular organization, no proselytizing allowed. “We’re here to feed the hungry and help the sick. We look after their bodies. Their souls are their own business, as far as I’m concerned.”
    Hutchens could already see that James Thompson would star in her feature on the aid groups at Dadaab. Fine by her. She was a reporter for the
Houston Chronicle
. Normally she covered the mayor, but the paper had reached into its not-so-deep pockets to send her on a ten-day reporting trip to Kenya. Roy Hunter, the
Chronicle
’s publisher, had taken an interest in Dadaab after his daughter read a book about Somali refugees. Every few months, Hunter called the paper’s editor and demanded a series on something that had caught his attention. Deep-sea fishing in the Gulf. The potential for hypersonic passenger jets. HOUSTON TO HONG KONG IN TWO HOURS? IT’S POSSIBLE!
    The editor knew better than to argue with the man whose name graced his paycheck. He looked for a plausible excuse to send a reporter to Kenya, and found it in WorldCares and other Texas-based aid organizations working in Dadaab. Now Hutchens was working on a series tentatively called “Texans with Heart.” It had been “Texans Who Love the World” until Hutchens pointed out that the title sounded like a bad porn movie.
    She couldn’t claim to know much about the issues over here, but she’d done some research on WorldCares before she’d come over. The group had grown a lot in the last few years. After meeting Thompson, she saw why.
    He leaned forward now, lasered in on her with those blue eyes. “What do you think, Ms. Hutchens?” He had a slight southern accent that took the edge off his ferocity.
    She hated when sources tried this tactic. Reporters didn’t have much going for them anymore. Her job security and prestige had evaporated years before. But she still had the privilege of asking the questions, not answering them. “About what?”
    “About this. All of it.”
    “I’m a reporter. My job is to tell your story. In any case, I just got here.”
    “With all due respect, ma’am, that’s a bunch of junk. People look to you for advice. They want the newspaper to tell them what to think.”
    “I’ve never noticed that, Mr. Thompson. Though the idea does have a certain appeal.”
    “I’m not joking. I’m serious as a heart attack. I’m publishing a book next spring. Called ‘The Children Will Lead.’ I want the world to know. It’s a crime to let these people suffer. And I’m not saying do everything for them, I’m not saying that at all. I’m saying work with them, build something together.”
    “I get it.” Her digital tape recorder beeped. She decided to bring the interview to a close. For now, anyway. She had a feeling that Thompson wasn’t done talking, and might never be. “I’d like to see a little bit of the camp itself today, if that’s possible. You know, since I got here this morning, I’ve hardly seen a refugee.”
    “Today may not work. We don’t like to send people out late in the afternoon for security reasons. But tomorrow morning, sure.” Thompson settled back in his chair. “And you’ll still be here when my nephew and our other interns get back, right?”
    “When will that be?”
    “Two days, three at most.”
    “I should be here, yes.”
    “I think they’d give you a really good perspective. The four of them just graduated college and they’ve been here three months working seven days a week. Finally I told Scott, that’s my nephew, take a couple days off before you burn out. They went to Lamu.”
    “What’s Lamu?”
    “Island just off the coast. Amazing place. So I hear. Never been myself.”
    “I look forward to talking to them.” She slipped her recorder into her computer case.
    “Feel free to talk to anyone you might like on our staff. I’ve told