Dread Champion

by Brandilyn Collins

  Her own forged signature stared back at her.

  TWENTY-ONE

  This is a fine how-do-you-do, Stan Breckshire ragged to himself as he tried to swallow the last bite of a turkey sandwich. He’d eaten at the deli counter, standing up. Couldn’t restrain his energy enough to sit.

  As he walked briskly back to the courthouse, he wondered how his twelve were doing in the jury room. Heaven knew they’d better get used to those four walls, because they were going to be seeing a lot of them. Lunch would be brought in from now on. Escorted trips to and from the courtroom. Escorted trips to some nearby hotel, probably as sterile and cold as his own. Only one or two immediate family members would be allowed to call.

  Nearly two o’clock. Court would be resuming. Finally. It seemed like days ago that Stan had questioned Detective Draker. The man had been cooling his heels all day as he waited to continue his testimony. Great, thought Stan as he bounced up the courthouse steps. A ticked-off witness, a ticked-off jury, and no doubt about it, a ticked-off judge.

  Just great.

  By two thirty Stan was once again ensconced in questioning the detective. Everybody had reconvened, one big unhappy family— except for the extra-large flock of reporters. Stan wondered where they all had come from. Some soundless cry had summoned them from all corners of the wind. Now they perched in their seats like beady-eyed seagulls picking just-hatched turtles off a beach.

  Something else swirled in the courtroom. Suspicion. Stan saw it played out in the probing eyes of the spectators and jurors, the glare of the judge, the stone face of Darren Welk. Somebody had contacted the jury—somebody with a lot to gain or lose.Was that person in the courtroom? Stan knew that the major players in the case, like Lynn Trudy, Tracey Wilagher, and Brett Welk, would be among the first questioned, regardless of whether they were rooting for the prosecution or the defense. And hopefully Trutenning would question reporters too. Calls from the jail were taped, so Darren Welk couldn’t have managed the deed. Nor could he have known the phone numbers of the two jurors. But he certainly had the dough to pay someone.

  Was he that stupid?

  “Now,Detective Draker,” Stan said, bringing his thoughts in line as he paced in front of his table, “you told us yesterday that on the Saturday after the disappearance of Shawna Welk, two items washed up on the beach—a piece of navy blue fabric and a tooth.Would you tell us what you discovered about these two items? Perhaps the fabric first.”

  Detective Draker’s expression was as flat as always. “The fabric was ripped and looked as if it had come from the bottom of a pant leg. Tracey Wilagher identified the fabric as belonging to the suit her mother had worn the night of February fifteenth.”

  Stan nodded. “Did you verify this information?”

  “Yes.Miss Wilagher had brought her mother’s jacket home with her from the beach.We were able to match the piece of fabric to the jacket.”

  Stan turned to the prosecution table and pulled forward a large paper bag.Opening it, he extracted the piece of fabric and the jacket and spread them carefully before the detective. “Can you identify these items?”

  The detective examined them carefully, almost grimly.“Yes. This is the piece of fabric that washed up onshore, and the matching jacket.”

  “Thank you.” Stan gathered the items and held them out for the jury to see. Slowly he walked the length of the jury box. The new juror number one, Clay Alton, perused the items at length, then jotted in his notes. Stan slid a glance to Chelsea Adams.Her expression was impassive as she considered the clothing. Her hands lay folded in her lap. No notebook.

  His display done, Stan returned the clothes to their bag and logged them with the clerk.

  “Now, Detective.What about the tooth? You said it appeared to be human?”

  “Yes.We took it to Dr. Richard Cooper,Mrs.Welk’s dentist, and asked him to determine if the tooth belonged to Shawna Welk.”

  IT WAS EVERYTHING CHELSEA could do to keep her eyes from straying to Kerra as the afternoon’s testimony dragged on. Sequestered only four hours, and already Chelsea’s fears were coming to pass.

  Kerra and Brett were sitting together.

  Chelsea had given up trying to convince herself that it didn’t matter. Trouble was brewing; she could smell it. A young woman ready to “love again” thrown together with a lonely young man.

  Lord, please protect Kerra. You know she needs to draw back to you.

  Iclaim in your name, Jesus, that this relationship won’t lead her further astray.

  How Chelsea wished her Christian mentor,Gladys,were around to help her pray for Kerra and the trial. But Gladys was on a three-state tour with her group of “motorcycle grannies.” Chelsea also longed to talk to Marian Turnbow, the dear friend she’d made during the Trent Park case. But Marian and her new husband, Pat, were still on their long honeymoon in Europe.

  Dear God, appoint someone to cover me in prayer. You know how much Ineed it.

  Chelsea drew in a deep breath. She needed to keep her mind focused as Terrance Clyde cross-examined Detective Draker. Brett and Kerra continued to pull at her eyes. But she would not look. She would not allow her dismay to show. Chelsea knew Kerra well enough to realize that her concern would be seen as overprotection. Raising a barrier between herself and Kerra would be the worst thing she could do. The only communication they would have now would be by telephone, and Chelsea needed her niece to listen.

  Only four hours had passed.And the weekend was coming. That would be a lot of empty time. Chelsea needed to get Kerra on a plane back home—now.

  THE JURY ROOM BUSTLED with activity. Court was over for the day, and Chelsea knew that she and the other jurors would soon be escorted to a bus that would take them to their as-yet-undisclosed hotel. Once in their individual rooms, they’d be allowed to call family members and instruct them what to pack. Suitcases were to be brought to the hotel lobby and disbursed from there.Dinner would be brought to jurors in their rooms. Once in a while, Sidney told them, they’d be escorted as a group out to dinner.

  One detail after another had to be dealt with. Some of the jurors lived alone.Who would pack for them? Friends had to be called to the courthouse to be given a key to these jurors’ homes. Victor Chavarria had planned to stop by a twenty-four-hour pharmacy after court and drop off a prescription for his heart pills. His wife would need to come get the prescription, now tucked in his pocket. Mike Bariston was supposed to pick up his four-year-old son from day care.He wasn’t sure if his wife could make it from work in time if he waited to call her from the hotel. Could he call now? Sylvia Caster had a meeting that evening. She needed to call to say she couldn’t attend.

  Sidney managed to deal with them all, never losing his good cheer. Chelsea felt sorry for him as he tried to keep everyone straight. She waited until things had finally calmed down, then pulled him aside to speak with him.

  “Sidney, I have no one to call at home, either,” she said.“My husband’s out of the country.However,my niece is visiting and has been watching the trial. She’s no doubt in the hall right now, wondering what to do. She has no way to get home; I have the car keys. I need to see her now.”

  The whites of Sidney’s eyes grew large as he drew back to study her. “Your niece is watching the trial?”

  Chelsea hesitated. “Yes. But we certainly haven’t been talking about the proceedings. Do you think it’s wrong that she’s here?”

  “I really don’t know.” Sidney thought a moment. “Do the judge and attorneys know your niece is out there?”

  “I doubt it.What would they do anyway?”

  “Not sure.”He gave her a grin.“Let me go find your niece.You’ll have to meet her outside the door here in a hurry, okay? What does she look like?”

  Chelsea told him. Then prayed hard as he disappeared to find Kerra. Please, God, help me convince her to go home.

  BRETT PUSHED OUT the courthouse door, thoughts cycling between hope and fury. He was headed straight for his hotel room, where he’d take a
shower before going out. For the rest of the evening he wanted nothing to do with reporters, attorneys, onlookers, even his father.

  “Brett Welk!”

  He scudded to a stop, snapped his head around. “What?”

  A large man with steel gray eyes approached, dripping authority. “Afternoon. I’m Jed Trutenning, detective with the Redwood City police department.”He held out a hand.

  Brett shook it reluctantly.What now?

  “I’m investigating the jury tampering that occurred last night,” Trutenning said. “Just need to ask you a few questions.”

  Brett looked heavenward in disgust. “What do you want to talk to me for? I don’t know anything about it.”

  “It’s routine; I have to talk to everyone connected with the case.” Trutenning shifted his considerable weight. “The best way to catch the perpetrator is to cross the innocent ones off our list.”

  Brett blew out air. “I’ve got to be somewhere; can’t we do this another time?”

  “Afraid not. I’ve got to get moving.You want us to get to the bottom of this, don’t you?”He gave Brett a piercing look.

  “Yeah, sure.Whatever.” Brett’s shoulders slumped. “But better make it quick. I’m not missing my appointment.”

  CHELSEA AND KERRA FACED each other outside the jury room, Sidney respectfully waiting at a distance. Chelsea handed Kerra the keys to the car and told her she’d be calling with instructions about what to pack.

  Kerra hesitated. “Okay.What time will you call?”

  “I don’t know; as soon as I can.Why?”

  A shrug. “No reason.”

  Chelsea eyed her, not bothering to mask the distrust on her face.

  Kerra looked perturbed.“Okay, so I may be going out for a quick dinner, that’s all. But I’ll do everything you need first, don’t worry. I’m going to miss you. I was so upset when I heard the news! But I’ve gotten hold of myself now. At least it’s good I’ll be around to feed your fish and water the plants.”

  “Kerra,” Chelsea replied,“there’s no point in your staying.About the time the trial’s over, you’ll be scheduled to fly home.”

  “I know, but I’m not leaving.” Kerra fiddled with the handle of her purse. “What’s to go back to anyway? I can sit around here as well as at my parents’ house. Besides, like I said, I can take care of your place. And just by being in court every day, I’ll support you. Plus you said we can talk at night, right?”

  Desperately Chelsea sought the right words.“Kerra,what are you going to do the whole time, especially on the weekend? You don’t even know anyone else here.”

  Kerra’s eyes flickered. “I’ll be fine. Really.”

  They stared at each other, unspoken words almost tangible between them. Kerra blinked first. “Look, I’d better go to the house. I’ll be waiting for your call.”

  They hugged each other. “I’ll be praying for you,” Chelsea said, defeat in her voice. “You take care of yourself. And be careful.”

  Chelsea leaned against the wall as she watched Sidney lead her niece away. If Kerra had been as upset at the news as she’d claimed, she certainly had recovered in a hurry.

  MILT WAKING HOVERED NEAR the door leading to the hall behind courtroom 2H, thoughts churning. Moments ago he’d seen the blond babe that had been hanging around Brett Welk disappear through it, ushered by the bailiff. And he’d overheard the bailiff ’s explanation: “Your aunt needs to see you.”With the inevitable backstage chaos of sequestering the jury, Milt could only imagine one reason for such a statement. One jaw-dropping reason.

  The blond’s aunt was one of the twelve.

  His mind raced through the possibilities and came up with few. There weren’t that many white women on the jury.He pictured the thin-lipped, severe-looking juror number two; juror number seven, about the same age, with short dark hair; and the younger, rather chubby woman with the straight brown hair who sat in seat five. And of course Chelsea Adams.

  No way. Too good to be true.

  Footsteps sounded behind the door. Milt gathered himself for the gamble. He’d slam her with a question, see if she squirmed.

  The door opened. The blond slipped through, car keys clutched in her hand.

  He pounced. “Did your aunt have any visions about this happening? She is Chelsea Adams, right?”

  The blond jumped.Her face drained white.Milt couldn’t believe it. He’d hit pay dirt!

  “I’m not … I don’t want to talk to you,” she stammered, turning away.

  “Please, wait.”He laid a hand on her arm, voice coated with sincerity. She darted frightened eyes to his face. He thought quickly. “I just want to tell you to be careful. You’re visiting here, aren’t you?”

  Her lips parted.“How did you know that?”

  “I heard you talking about sight-seeing. But look,my concern is that you’re now left on your own while your aunt’s sequestered, and—”

  “What’s that to you?” she snapped, drawing away from his touch.

  How ridiculously easy this was. Milt zigzagged worry lines into his forehead. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered you. But I was hoping …Would you have dinner with me tonight?”

  She gazed at him in utter disbelief. Then blinked in defiance. “Sorry, I’m busy.”

  He sighed. “I knew it. Brett Welk beat me to it.”

  She drew back, mouth tightening. The glare she gave him could have frosted ice. “I have nothing to say to you. Ever.”

  Milt smiled to himself as he watched her stalk away on shaky legs.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Mama Yolanda sat on the worn couch in her living room, eyes closed, head bent. The windows were open, and a hot breeze filtered through the screens, flicking at a page of an open Spanish magazine lying on the coffee table. The soft crackle of the paper mixed with the shouts and laughter of neighborhood children, but Yolanda barely heard the noises as she prayed.

  The feelings had grown in strength today. Strong enough to drown out the sounds in her head, the sounds of the baby crying. Something was wrong with the trial. Yolanda had no idea what. She only knew that she was to pray. Still, she did not know why God was calling her. But surely he had a reason. Yolanda’s faith, honed over years of hardship, was simple: Give your heart to Jesus, then trust him enough to do what he says.

  A car chugged up to the curb and cut its motor. Yolanda only half-registered the sound. A moment later the door opened, then closed. Yolanda’s lips ceased moving. Rogelio was home.

  “Hi, Mama Yolanda.” He wiped sweat from his brow as he dragged himself to stand before her. He looked so tired. “What are you doing, dozing?”He spoke to her in Spanish.

  “What do you think I am, an old woman?” She clucked her tongue. “I was praying.”

  Remorse flicked across his dirty face.Ay, did her grandson think she prayed about nothing but the baby? An urge to ease his pain filled her chest. “I was praying for the trial of Darren Welk.”

  A frown. “Why?”

  Yolanda sighed. “I am not sure, mijo. God knows.”

  He regarded her silently, processing.

  “When God wants to do something special on this earth,” she said, “he calls people to pray.”

  “But why you? About the trial, I mean?”

  Something in his tone. What was it? Yolanda sucked her gold tooth, considering him. It was almost as if he knew something.

  But that was impossible.

  She flicked a hand. “So many questions. And I have yet to hear, ‘What’s for supper?’”

  His shoulders relaxed. “What is for supper?” He lifted his nose and sniffed.

  Unfortunately, there was nothing to smell. She’d been praying so hard, she’d forgotten to start cooking.

  ROGELIO WONDERED AT HIS grandmother’s words as he drove toward Janet Cline’s house. The amazing thing was,Mama Yolanda did not know that the Welk Adoption Agency was responsible for taking her own great-grandchild away. Had she guessed?

  He parked in front of the woman’s ho
use, turned off the motor, and took a deep breath.He was ready to face whatever she told him. If she stopped helping him, he would do what he had to—even go to authorities with his story. But he cringed at the thought. The rift between him and Kristin was already bad enough.

  Kristin.

  Rogelio’s heart sagged with grief. He dropped his head back against the car seat and closed his eyes. He would get Kristin back. Just as he would get their baby back.

  “When God wants to do something special on this earth, he calls people to pray.”

  Rogelio exhaled audibly. The car was so hot. As he slipped the keys from the ignition, he offered his own prayer. God, please. If you do this for me, I’ll do whatever you want.

  He got out of the car and shut the door. As he forced himself to saunter up Janet Cline’s sidewalk, he fervently hoped God would accept a bargain.

  THROUGH THE SHEER CURTAINS, Janet watched Rogelio approach the door, dread in her veins. She could not tell him everything she now knew. Once she’d seen the smoking gun of that first fax, she’d called her friend in Sacramento and asked that the other signed documents be sent, including the ones from the adoptive parents. She’d nearly dropped the papers when she read their names.

  No wonder Shawna hadn’t told her about this adoption. Janet never would have accepted this couple. The question was, why had Shawna? Surely she knew the man’s reputation as well as anyone who read the Salinas papers. The Californian had certainly run enough stories about all the charges he’d faced. He’d always managed to squirm out of them, but that only spoke more loudly of his guilt, as far as Janet was concerned. The man evidently had friends in high places.

  What was she going to do?

  Could she convince Rogelio to drop the whole idea? Leave his baby with the adoptive parents? Janet bit the inside of her cheek. Could she have that on her conscience? What kind of future might the little girl have with a father like that?

  Yet how to set this matter straight quietly? Unquestionably, the media would pick up on it, obsessed as they already were with the other events surrounding the Welks’ lives. It would be just one more titillating detail for the public to feast upon. And she, Janet Cline, would be thrust into the spotlight. That was what she feared most. She didn’t trust the adoptive father.What might he do if he heard his baby was about to be taken away?