Dread Champion

by Brandilyn Collins

  Too hard a rule, Kerra thought. She couldn’t imagine following it, if she were in Aunt Chelsea’s shoes.

  She reached the box and pulled out the paper. Opened it to the front page. She read the large headline … and her breath snagged in her throat.

  “Visions”Woman from Trent Park Murder on Welk’s Jury

  Kerra scurried back into the kitchen.Aunt Chelsea took one look at her face and stilled. “What is it?” Fear flattened her mouth. “No, don’t tell me.”

  “Aunt Chelsea, I have to.”

  “No, you don’t!”

  “You’re in the paper!” Kerra blurted. “Not your name but all about who you are—how you were involved in the Trent Park case.”

  Aunt Chelsea’s eyes closed. She gripped the counter, breathing hard. Kerra froze, not sure what to do.Not sure what it all would mean.

  A long moment passed. Finally resolve crossed Aunt Chelsea’s face. “It’s okay, Kerra. I knew it would happen. I was hoping it wouldn’t, but … ” She brought a hand to her forehead. Straightened. “You’d better not go today.More people will come out of curiosity, and they’ll all be watching me. I don’t want you involved in it.”

  Indignation bounced up Kerra’s spine. This was just too much. Life wasn’t fair—not for her, and now not for Aunt Chelsea. She smacked the paper down on the tile counter. “Oh yes, I am going! I’m going because I need to—both for me and you!”

  “There’s nothing you can do for me, Kerra.”

  “Well, if nothing else, you’ll know I’m out there!” Kerra focused her fury on her aunt, a fist at her hip. “I’m not going to let you be there alone. And I’m not staying here alone.”

  Aunt Chelsea regarded her wearily. Kerra could practically read her thoughts. All right, so she was spewing out her passion again. Kerra always felt deeply, fully.What’s more, she’d never learned how to hide it. And she wouldn’t back down once she’d made up her mind.

  Air puffed through Aunt Chelsea’s lips. “You know what makes this even worse? I can’t act like I know, because I’m not supposed to.”

  Inexplicably Kerra’s anger drained away. She rubbed her aunt’s arm. “It’ll be all right. I’ll be there.”

  “But you just can’t. The reporters will be all over you.”

  “We’ll go in separately,” Kerra declared. “No one will know I’m with you.”

  “No, Kerra.”

  “You can’t stop me.”

  “Yes, I can.”

  Kerra’s face hardened to stone. “I’m going. I won’t talk to reporters. But I—am—going.”

  Her aunt’s shoulders sagged. She raised a hand in futility. “I can’t believe I’m letting you do this.”

  ELEVEN

  Milt Waking ruled. Yesterday’s scoop about Chelsea Adams had practically turned the media upside down.Other stations had heard his noon story and scrambled to come up with their own. Then newspapers picked it up. Some of the print reporters may have recognized Chelsea Adams themselves, but Milt was willing to bet most of them owed their stories to him.

  And hadn’t a crowd turned out to watch the proceedings this fine day.

  Milt greeted his colleagues with the charming smile and slightly raised eyebrow that he’d made famous in his five years at Channel Seven News. As a mass communications major at the University of California, Berkeley, he’d literally practiced that smile in the mirror, lacing it with just enough warmth. Somehow during those practice sessions the slightly raised eyebrow had become part of his expression. Milt thought it lent him a sense of sincerity.

  He smoothed his hair, patted down his tie. He hung back as a couple of newspaper reporters and the gal from Channel Five claimed their seats among those reserved for the media. Milt’s seat would be carefully chosen.He wanted at least an over-the-shoulder view of certain people, namely Brett Welk and Shawna’s flamboyant sister, motorcycle mama Lynn Trudy. Trouble was, they wouldn’t be sitting together.Milt hoped they didn’t place themselves as far apart as their loyalties would have it.

  A moment later Brett Welk entered the courtroom. He was dressed in khaki pants and a red Tommy Hilfiger shirt, coming down the aisle as if attending a funeral.Milt sidled next to a row of seats to let him pass.He caught the young man’s eye and nodded. Brett gave him the once-over, then nodded back. Something about the young man’s brown eyes captivated Milt. They were deep-set and watchful, dark brows practically jamming together. Brett’s shoulders slumped but his chin led him down the aisle. Deeply tanned muscles bulged beneath his shirtsleeves, his arms held away from his sides. Milt watched as Brett slowed at the second row, then slid toward the middle, his large hands clasping empty chairs in front of him. He lowered himself into a center seat, resting his hands on his thighs. His jaw flexed as he stared straight ahead.

  One down, one to go.Milt eased toward the back wall to wait for Lynn Trudy. He didn’t have to wait long. A small flurry of activity out in the hall aroused his attention, and he leaned around to peek out the door. The sister of the deceased was holding court, four or five reporters pressing around her, scribbling down her vehemence against the defendant.

  “Darren Welk had better be convicted for what he did to my sister,” she declared, “or everybody in this state’s going to have to deal with me.”

  Milt suppressed a satisfied smile. This gal was obviously enjoying the limelight. He caught a peek at flashing green eyes under heavy mascara.When he’d first seen her yesterday, he knew he had to get this lady on camera. Everything about her bristled, right down to her short, blue black spiked hair. Her lips flamed red, as did the long fingernails that stabbed the air as she vented. Over her rolling hills of flesh she wore a tightly fitted blue shell top with equally tight white pants.

  Milt wondered if her long fingernails got in the way when she was riding her Harley.

  Yesterday he’d cornered her for her “essentials,” as he liked to call them. She lived in Flint,Michigan, and worked as a salesperson in a store that catered to motorcycle riders, offering leather gear and all the accoutrements a biker’s little heart might desire.

  “Ms. Trudy,” a reporter jumped in. “What do you think about Chelsea Adams being an alternate on the jury? Are you concerned that her so-called visions from God may interfere with the proceedings?”

  “Well, she won’t be deliberating as an alternate, right?” She looked to the reporter for confirmation. “But even if she was,” she added with defiance,“as far as I’m concerned, she can have all the visions she wants.God knows who killed my sister!”

  What a quote. Milt whipped out his notebook and wrote it down.Later, babe, he thought, and I’ll catch you on camera. He’d get some exclusive stuff from her then. He didn’t doubt for a moment that she’d hesitate to run her mouth some more.Having your name in the paper was one thing; being on TV was something else.

  The laconic Brett Welk was another story.Milt wondered what he thought about the morning papers. He strode down the aisle and crossed over to stand directly in front of Brett. “Lynn Trudy’s out there talking to everyone about the visions gal on the jury,” he declared. “How do you feel about this woman?”

  Brett frowned at him. Yes! thought Milt. He’d caught the guy by surprise. “You haven’t seen the papers?”Milt asked.

  No response. But Brett’s eyes questioned.

  Swiftly Milt told him about Chelsea Adams. “I was the first to cover the story last year,” he added. “I know all about her.”

  “She for real?” Brett blurted.

  “Apparently so.”

  Brett’s gaze drifted to the empty jury box.Milt moved in for the kill.

  “Are you worried she’ll see the truth about your stepmother’s murder?”

  Brett’s eyes flew back to Milt, trailing fear. Then his expression fell into a poker-faced mask. “Get out of here,” he snarled.

  Milt shrugged as he turned on his heel.At least he’d gotten something. The words for his next segment began running through his head. Brett Welk, son of the defe
ndant, seemed shocked to learn…

  Lynn Trudy and her entourage bowled into the courtroom.Milt stepped aside and waited. Lynn propelled herself into the third row, awkwardly scooting past the knees of two elderly spectators and a young blond woman before plopping into a seat. Eschewing the reporters’ seats, Milt claimed a chair in the fourth row, where he could keep an eye on both Brett and Lynn. He pulled out his pad and pen as Darren Welk was escorted to his seat beside Terrance Clyde. The jury filed in.

  Milt watched Lynn examine each of the jurors as if they were specimens under glass.

  His eyes fell on Chelsea Adams.Well now, Ms. Adams, what kind of day shall we have today? He wondered if she knew about the news reports. Far more important, would she have a vision about this trial? The Trent Park case had proved that this woman possessed remarkable skills, however incomprehensible they were.

  One thing was puzzling. Judge Chanson could have kicked Chelsea Adams out of the courtroom during voir dire. Yet for some reason she hadn’t.Milt shook his head. If he were a God-fearing man, he’d say it was a miracle Chelsea Adams was sitting in the jury box.

  “All rise,” the bailiff intoned. Judge Carol Chanson bustled in, her reading glasses resting on her ample chest.

  “Good morning,” she addressed the jury, a swift smile curving her pale lips. They murmured back a greeting. “Good morning, counsel.” She nodded at Stan Breckshire and the defense team. Ter-rance Clyde’s grayed head bowed gracefully while Stan’s dipped and jerked like a hyperactive schoolboy’s. “Good morning,” Erica Salvador murmured.

  Judge Chanson busied herself with her computer, positioning the mouse just so. “Okay.” She turned to the prosecution table. “Ready with your first witness for the day?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” Stan Breckshire sprang to his feet. “The people call Tracey Wilagher.”

  Milt watched the young woman approach the witness stand with the discomfited awareness that all eyes were upon her. Tracey was short, as apparently her mother had been, and very slender.Her hair was a light brown, layered and with fashionable bangs cut at various lengths. Not too bad-looking. She wore a sleeveless green dress that exposed bony shoulders and a graceful neck.Milt pondered the outfit.Was she trying to make herself appear wispy, vulnerable?

  Stan Breckshire massaged his right arm. Pacing before the witness box, he asked questions about the background she and her mother shared. Her mother, formerly Shawna Wilagher, had married Darren Welk four years ago, when Tracey was sixteen. Shawna had been thirty-seven. Tracey had rarely seen her biological father, although they kept in contact. The father she’d known as a child had been the man whom Shawna had married when Tracey was seven. He and Shawna divorced six years later.

  “How did you feel about your mother’s marriage to Darren Welk?” Breckshire asked.

  Tracey raised a knobby shoulder. “It was something she wanted to do. She really loved him.” Her expression sickened, as if she couldn’t believe such a thing could ever have been true. She lowered her gaze to her fingers, laced and fidgeting.

  “Did you get along with Mr.Welk?”

  Tracey’s eyes wandered toward the defendant, then swung away. “Sometimes.”

  “What do you mean by ‘sometimes’?”

  “I basically stayed out of his way.He had his work; I had school. And then I started working after school. So we didn’t see each other too much. Plus it was a big house, you know?”

  Breckshire nodded. “Where did you work?”

  “When Mom opened her adoption agency, she paid me to help answer the phones and do books.”

  “I see.Were you the only person who worked with your mom in the adoption agency?”

  “No. Janet Cline was there. She was Mom’s partner. I just helped out where I could.”

  “Did you like working there?”

  “Yes.” Tracey managed a smile. “For the same reasons my mom did.We loved seeing couples matched with babies. It made people so happy.”

  Tracey’s words curled at the edges. She blinked rapidly.

  Breckshire paused. His next statement was in the sotto voce of lawyerly empathy.“Tracey, I need to talk to you about the night your mother was killed.”

  “Objection,” Terrance Clyde’s voice boomed. “There is no basis in fact for that statement.”

  Breckshire swiveled a hawkeyed stare at the defense attorney, then shook his head.

  “Sustained.” Judge Chanson’s face was impassive.“Continue, Mr. Breckshire.”

  The prosecutor pursed his lips with a look of rabid apology. “Tracey. I need to talk to you about the night your mother … disappeared.” He emphasized the word as if it were utter nonsense.“Are you ready to do that?”

  Tracey seemed to shrivel in her dress. “Yes.”

  “Okay. How did you first hear that something was amiss?”

  “I got a phone call,” she said quietly. “About one forty-five in the morning.”

  Milt Waking’s pen scrawled as Tracey Wilagher told her story. …

  TRACEY WAS SOUND ASLEEP in her large bedroom. She’d come down with the flu three days before and had finally given up and crawled into bed after twenty-four hours of suffering through fever. She’d hardly been out of her room since then except to eat and go to the bathroom.

  The ringing phone jangled through her head like a distant warning bell. Slowly she opened her eyes. Her room glowed with the bluish tint from the “flying windows” on her computer’s screen saver. The jeans and sweater she’d worn two days ago draped over the padded chair in front of her desk. She fumbled an arm to answer the phone.

  “Tracey, you’ve got to help me.” Her mother’s voice sounded tense.

  “Darren’s drunk and I’m afraid. I need you to come get me.”

  “What?” The words swirled in Tracey’s head.

  “We’re at Breaker Beach. Darren’s drunk and roaring mad. The Browards are gone and I’m scared. I’m afraid he’s going to hurt me.”

  “Hurt you?” Fear chased away the thickness in Tracey’s brain.

  “Where is he right now?”

  “He’s stumbling around the fire, cursing and breathing his own smoke. I’m up here by the car.”

  “Well, get out of there. Take the car and come home. We’ll worry about him later.”

  “Ican’t. Darren has the keys. Itell you, he’s roaring mad. Idon’t dare ask him for them.”

  Tracey struggled to compute. “But it’ll take me twenty-five minutes to get there.”

  “Iknow.” She breathed hard into the phone. “Darren’s drunk enough; Ihope he’ll pass out soon. If he does, maybe Ican get his keys.

  You come on and get me. Keep your cell phone on. If Ican get the keys, I’ll call you and let you know.”

  Tracey ran awarm hand over her face and swallowed. Her throat still hurt. “Okay. I’ll move as fast as Ican. But I’m still kind of shaky.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Iforgot. You’re sick!”

  “That’s okay. I’ll come. Just be careful. Call me soon, okay? Once I’m on the way, call me and let me know you’re all right.”

  “Iwill. I’ll just stay up here by the car until you come. Hurry.”

  Tracey tried to hurry, but her legs and arms shook from fear as well as flu while she dressed. She’d seen her stepfather drunk before and it was not a pretty sight. He turned mean, illogical. Even Brett steered clear of Darren Welk when he drank. As far as Tracey knew, Darren had never yet physically hurt her mother. But there was always a first time.

  Dizziness washed over Tracey more than once as she fumbled for her keys and purse. On the stairs she sat down hard, closing her eyes until the woozy feeling passed. Her car was parked out front. She slipped through the front door without seeing Brett. She assumed he was in bed and his car in the garage, but she gave him barely athought.She was too concerned for her mother.

  Tracey knew the location of Breaker Beach. She hoped she could roll in quietly, pick up her mom, and back out in ahurry, never laying eyes on her stepfath
er.

  Turning right out of the long driveway, Tracey headed up Cooper Road and onto Nashua, crossing over Highway 1where it temporarily turned inland. Nashua turned into Molera Road, which cut a corner and crossed Highway 1 again, nearer to the ocean. Tracey turned north on the highway.

  Fifteen minutes passed. Tracey’s body felt heavy and dull.Uneasiness settled at the back of her neck. Her mom hadn’t called yet. She checked her cell phone, reassuring herself that she had asignal.Another five minutes passed. Still no call. Tracey bit her lip, fighting the urge to call her mom’s cell phone. Probably wasn’t agood idea. What if her stepfather heard the ringing? What would he think? Tracey drove on, slumped close to the wheel, her labored breathing loud in her ears. The turnoff was about five miles up. She passed no one on the road. By this time it was 2:30 a.m. She turned left onto the winding road that would take her to Breaker Beach and eased her way around its dark curves. Her eyes cruised the night, expecting that her mother had walked out aways to meet her. But she saw no one. When Darren Welk’s car came into view ahead, she immediately stopped, cutting her own car’s lights and engine.

  Her heart drummed hard, beating pain through her head as she clicked open her door and slipped into the night air. The sliver of a moon did little to light her way as she took a few hesitant steps, gazing toward the beach. Down toward the water afire flickered, casting light on a form sprawled in the sand. Tracey stared at the still form, heart clutching. It had to be Darren, passed out. Tracey cast her eyes right and left. “Mom?” she whispered into the darkness. “Where are you?”

  No response.

  Her knees trembled. She swallowed hard, wincing at the pain in her throat. Where could her mother be? The last thing she wanted was to waken Darren Welk.“Mom,” she whispered louder, muscles tense. Still no answer.

  Tracey’s next memories jumbled into a near-mindless sequence. She found herself stumbling around the top of the beach, calling her mother’s name louder and louder, the rising flood of fear within her sweeping away all caution.Her chest grew heavy, her knees jellied. Then she was raking open the doors of Darren Welk’s car, searching the front seat, the back. On the floor of the front seat she saw her mother’s small evening purse. Ahorrifying, black thought mushroomed in her brain, and she fumbled for the latch to pop open the trunk. Tears scalding her eyes, she stumbled to the back of the car, swaying with relief when she saw the trunk was empty.