They hadn’t told her what they were doing.
When they got to the church on that Sunday morning, she pleaded with Burt to drive away.
But the more she’d pleaded, the more hatred had grown inside her father. When he wound down the window and fired three shots at the church, she screamed over and over.
She sobbed the entire drive home, and they told her not to say a word.
That was her punishment for watching Reverend Green’s videos on YouTube. She shouldn’t have liked one of his sermons. That was her mistake. When Chuck found out, he went into a psychotic rage. How could his own daughter betray everything he had taught her?
Her Uncle Burt hit her so hard the day he found out. They wouldn’t even give her the chance to explain why she was doing it. They wanted to hear nothing about it.
That day wasn’t the first time he hit her, but it was the hardest.
After the church shooting, the van wasn’t supposed to leave the garage, but now she didn’t care.
This was the end.
The choice had been made.
She had spent the night crying in bed, not sleeping a wink after hearing about her uncle’s arrest. She couldn’t avoid the story; it was the lead news on every station, the lead talking point for every chat show.
The police took her father and uncle into custody immediately after her father’s statements. It was the first night that she had spent alone in the house, ever.
It felt so cold. So alone.
She thought that it might happen. Her father wasn’t smart enough to outwit those educated lawyers. When her father told her the plan, she begged him not to take the stand; she knew what they could do. Although he had been coached many times, he wasn’t smart enough to hold onto the lie.
She had to do it now.
It took thirty minutes to reach her destination in the suburb of Bucktown. When she arrived, Caylee Johnson sat in the van, watching the outside of the suburban home.
It looked like a pleasant residence; close enough to the city to be part of the action, but far enough into the suburbs so that it felt like an escape.
She watched the latest news bulletin on her phone. Someone had taken footage of Amos Anderson celebrating with friends, supporters, his lawyer, and his lawyer’s team.
Of course, Anderson looked so happy. He had been cleared of murder; a murder that her uncle committed and her father was an accomplice to.
In the first video, Anderson looked joyous. In the second video, he looked like a drunken mess. She was sure that he would be inside his house, probably nursing a very large hangover.
A middle-aged woman with a stroller walked past the van. The woman was bundled up, keeping the cold out with her goose-down jacket, but soaking up the weak winter sunshine.
A man, walking his dog, said hello to the woman and then waited for his dog to use the tree next to the van. Caylee made eye contact, and he smiled a friendly hello.
The suburb was nice.
Something she wasn’t used to.
Everyone in her neighborhood hated the Johnsons. That was all she had ever felt directed towards her family—hate. People had spat at them when she walked with her father to the post office. People often destroyed the fences around their home or threw rubbish over their hedge from the street. Three of her teachers at high school wouldn’t even look at her—not because of anything she did, but because of her father, her family.
Growing up, the only place she had ever felt welcome was in her home.
And now that home was about to be taken away from her.
Her father was driven by anger. All of his rage was born from a place of hatred for what happened to his wife. Caylee understood but didn’t feel the same hate inside of her.
She was more level-headed, less emotional than her father.
Her style was more planned, less impulsive.
She still felt hate; it was always part of her life.
She couldn’t understand the people that avoided anger—it was an emotion, a feeling. She had always been taught to embrace her hatred, let it flow out like a river of rage.
To her, hate was a part of life; as common as sunshine.
To reject it would be to reject herself.
“I can do this.” She said aloud, biting her fingernails. “I can do this.”
Inside the van was every gun that the White Alliance Coalition owned.
And every explosive.
She drew a deep breath.
“I can do this.”
She stepped out of the van.
It was time.
CHAPTER 48
Anderson’s house was a fifteen-minute drive from Hunter’s office, and he wanted to make it in under eight. He raced through the streets, screeching his tires around every corner, pushing through the red lights. He sped around the quiet streets, only slowing down when he turned onto the street that Anderson lived on.
He wasn’t sure what he would find, he wasn’t sure what Caylee was capable of, but he knew that she was in a position with nothing to lose. Everything had already been taken away from her; her life had already been turned upside down by the court case.
He had no idea how dangerous she was, no idea how much hate she harbored.
As he came closer to Anderson’s house, he saw it.
The white van.
The same van that he saw on the day when his shoulder was shot.
He slowed his car, looking for any sign of activity, any sign of danger. Cautiously, he rolled the car forward until it was next to the van.
And there, in front of the van, was Caylee Johnson, dressed in a black sweater and jeans, biting her fingernails, staring at Anderson’s house.
“Caylee.” Hunter slowly stepped out of the car, palms open to her. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Tex Hunter?” She turned to look at him, confused. “How did you know that I’d be here?”
“Everyone is looking for you, Caylee. The police, the firefighters, and the SWAT teams. They know what’s in the van.”
She looked confused. “How? How could they know that?”
“The police are at your house, Caylee. Your father told them everything. They know what’s missing. They know there are explosives in that van.” He stepped closer to her, keeping his arms wide.
She turned and looked towards Anderson’s house, biting her fingernails again.
“You don’t have to do anything, Caylee. You don’t have to do this.”
“My uncle and father are in prison.”
Anderson stepped out of his house, rubbing his sore head. He hadn’t bothered to answer Hunter’s calls; he needed a dose of fresh air first.
He saw Hunter, guardedly stepping across the street, and then he spotted Caylee Johnson at his front gate, only ten yards away from him.
He almost fell over backwards.
“Don’t move.” Caylee said to Anderson. “I want to talk to you.”
Anderson didn’t respond; he couldn’t. He was struck by fear. The attacks from the public over the past few months had almost broken him and he was sure that it was over now, he was sure that part of his life was finished. To be confronted with his worst threat, one of the people he feared the most, was almost too much.
“Caylee.” Hunter moved onto the sidewalk. “Don’t take another step towards him.”
She was still biting her nails, still staring at Anderson.
“I’m not going anywhere, Caylee.” Hunter came within five yards of her. “I won’t allow you to do this. Not now.”
She stared at Anderson, who was still in shock, and then turned to Hunter.
“That van has every gun, weapon, and explosive that belongs to my family. Everything that the White Alliance Coalition owns. There’s enough pain in that truck to sink an army.” She took a step towards Anderson, who was on the other side of the small fence. “I have to know, this faith healing, does it really work?”
“It works.” Anderson mumbled. “If you believe it works.”
&nb
sp; “But how can you be so sure that it works?”
“The results speak for themselves.” Anderson took a step back, onto the first of the stairs that led to his front door. “We’ve cured hundreds of people from their issues.”
Caylee paused and bit her lip, then turned back to Hunter.
“Caylee. Don’t do anything stupid.” Hunter was ready to dive at her.
“I had a choice to make—one road or the other. Do I continue with the generational hatred, or do I end it? It’s something I’ve wrestled with for a long time.” She bit her nails again. “In the van is everything that keeps the White Alliance Coalition going. I don’t want it anymore. I want it gone. If I left it at home, one of the other men would’ve taken it. I don’t want it, and I don’t want the White Alliance Coalition to have it. It ends here. Today.”
She reached into her pocket, and then threw the van’s keys to Hunter.
She turned back to Anderson. “Can you cure hatred? I don’t want it anymore. I don’t want to hold onto this hatred any longer. I want to be one of these people that can let go of the past. Can you cure me?”
“Do you believe I can?” Anderson stepped towards her.
“I do.” She pulled a strand of hair behind her ear. “I believe you can cure me. That’s why I came to you, that’s why I’m here. I want all this to be over. I don’t want this hate. I don’t want this racism. I want to leave it all in the past and be friends with whoever I want to be friends with. I want to be free of this pain.”
“Then, yes, faith healing can cure you of your hate.” Anderson’s smile was nervous. “We can leave it in the past. We can use this moment to turn over a new leaf, create a new chance, a new spring; but you have to believe.”
Anderson looked at Hunter.
Caylee Johnson turned as well and offered him a smile. “I believe.”
Amos Anderson walked up the four steps to the door of his home, opened it wide, and gestured for Caylee to follow him.
“Then, please, Caylee Johnson, come inside.”
CHAPTER 49
“You’re outta here!”
Maxwell Hunter jumped up and punched the air, the crowd erupting around him. The sea of blue was engulfed in the contest, engrossed by the game they weren’t supposed to win. The Chicago Cubs were playing well, better than they had in a month, and were about to deliver the greatest upset victory for the year.
The crowd had packed in on the Saturday afternoon, and the smiles couldn’t be wiped off any of the Hunters’ faces. Patrick and his son, Maxwell, sat next to each other in the fourth row from the front, with Tex next to them. It was the first time Patrick and his son had seen each other in over a year, and Patrick hid his first tears under his sunglasses. It was also the first time that Hunter and Patrick had been to a baseball game together.
Alfred Hunter’s actions had stolen his sons’ youths, stolen any chance to spend time together in public, but the brothers were beginning to make amends for the past.
“Mr. Hunter?” The voice came over the back of the aisle, and all three Hunter men turned around. “Tex Hunter?”
The African American male came down the concrete steps and offered his hand. Tex Hunter stood and shook it. The man looked familiar, but Hunter couldn’t quite place him.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know if we’ve met.”
The man pointed to the top of the stairs where a girl sat at the end of the row, happily dressed in Cubs colors, but distracted by the hotdog she was eating. Her mother sat proudly next to her, equally decked out in Cubs colors, and Hunter recognized the woman.
“Derrick West. We met in the hospital.” The man drew a breath. “Today is our first weekend out of there. Eva’s recovered, she’s doing well, and this is the first place she wanted to go when she got out. The Cubs heard about Eva getting out, and made sure we had good seats.” The man gave a broad smile. “We’re so lucky that she pulled through, all those prayers worked. And Mr. Hunter, I wanted to apologize for—”
“Wait. Don’t apologize. I would’ve reacted the same way. You were under a lot of stress in that hospital.”
“At least let me say thank you.”
Hunter nodded.
“Thank you, Mr. Hunter. You saved her life. Without you, Eva would be dead.” Jackson looked to his daughter. “Come up and say hello.”
“Not today.” Hunter shook his head. “Let Eva forget about it all for a while. Let her have her moment of joy here with the Cubs and be a child again.”
“Thank you.” The man smiled. “You know; my wife cooks the best lamb shanks in Chicago. We could never thank you enough for what you did, but let that be an offer of our gratitude sometime soon.”
“Well, I do love lamb shanks.”
The man patted him on the shoulder. Hunter grimaced.
“Oh, sorry. That must be your sore shoulder.”
“That’ll have to be two lamb shanks now.”
“I guarantee they’re the best in the city.” The man laughed, removed his phone, and took down Hunter’s number. He sent him a text with an address, a date and time. Hunter shook Derrick’s hand again before the man sprang back up the stairs to his family.
He took a moment before he sat back down next to his brother. The break in play had people pushing everywhere in a rush for food, beer, or the bathroom, but the mood was fun, jovial, and happy on the early spring afternoon.
“Max.” Patrick Hunter smiled at his son and handed him a twenty. “Can you grab us a hotdog? I can’t move these old legs to get up the steps like I used to.”
“Sure thing.” Max grinned and leaped to his feet. “I’ve got you covered, Dad.”
As Max made it to the end of the aisle of people and began walking up to the hotdog seller, Patrick turned to his brother and rubbed his brow.
“Tex, now that it’s all over, when are you going to release that information about the faith healing? When is Amos going to make that statement?”
“He’s not.” Hunter sat up straight. “The faith healing works. It worked for Max, it worked for hundreds of others, and hopefully, it works for Caylee Johnson. I can’t deny that. I can’t suggest that science trumps truth, no matter how relative that truth is. The fact is that if someone has faith in Anderson, then the healing works, no matter how many trials say that it doesn’t.”
“Does this mean that your sense of truth and justice has changed?” Patrick looked at him, confused.
“Everyone needs faith; whether it’s in religion, science, or the powers of the universe. My faith isn’t in a church or in scripture, or in magical powers. My faith is in people, in their innate sense of justice.” Hunter looked to the field in front of them. “And a wise man once told me that everything is relative. Even truth.”
THE END
Author’s Note:
Thanks so much for reading Faith and Justice. I hope you enjoyed the twists and turns of this story.
I wrote the bulk of this story while in Chicago, working out of various co-working offices; my favorite space was Ampersand in Logan Square. And a few of the ideas in this story were born after a night at The Burke’s Web Pub in Bucktown—what a fabulous place full of fabulous people. Thanks to those places for the creative spaces they provide; and a special thank you to Parliament Co-working.
To all my amazing family and friends, thank you for your inspiration... and your patience!
Extra thanks has to go out to my editor Lara; to my proofreader Jessica, and to Bel, my cover designer.
Whether I’m traveling, in a co-working office, or on a tour, I always come across fascinating people. I believe that everyone has a story, and I love to hear them all. To all the people I’ve met along the way, thank you. You’ve inspired these characters.
If you enjoyed this book, please leave a positive review. Reviews mean the world to authors.
I’ve already started the next book in the Tex Hunter series, so keep an eye out for it…
You can find my website at: peteromahoney.com
; And if you wish, you can contact me at: [email protected]
Thank you!
Peter O’Mahoney
In the Tex Hunter Legal Thriller Series:
Power and Justice
Coming Soon:
Corrupt Justice: Tex Hunter Book 3
*****
Also by Peter O’Mahoney:
In the Bill Harvey Legal Thriller Series:
Redeeming Justice
Will of Justice
Fire and Justice
A Time for Justice
Truth and Justice
*****
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