Dread Champion

by Brandilyn Collins

  The doorbell rang. Janet propelled herself to answer it.

  “Okay,” she began slowly after she and Rogelio had seated themselves in her living room.“I’ve seen the papers, and it seems there is a problem with the adoption.”

  Rogelio leaned forward on her couch, long arms dangling between his knees.At her statement his face lit up. Janet’s heart sank. “What do we do now? How soon can I get the baby?”

  Janet searched for words. “I don’t think we should pursue this.”

  Surprise contorted his face. “Why?”

  What to say? He could end up going to the police, telling them she’d refused to help. “I don’t think it would be safe. For either of us.”

  “Why?”

  As its jaws opened before her, Janet realized the trap she’d set for herself. Mentally she flung about for a way out, landing in the formal speech of a social worker. “First, the reputation of the adoptive father suggests that he’s not likely to accept his child being taken away from him after so many months.” She shook her head. “What father or mother would? Second, these parents are the only ones the baby has ever known. It would be very upsetting to the child to remove her from the home now.”

  “Who is the father?” Rogelio demanded.

  Janet braced herself. “I’m not going to tell you that.”

  “You have to tell me! If the adoption’s not legal, you have to make it right!”

  “Rogelio”—Janet leaned forward, intensity in her voice—“you’re not hearing me. This man’s not going to give up easily; he’ll fight. And it may not be pretty. I can’t allow you to go banging on his door. What if he hurt you?”

  “Hurt me?” Rogelio shoved to his feet, lips whitening. “I don’t care what he tries; I can take care of myself. Besides, if he’s so bad, why should I leave my baby with him?”

  Janet traced a pattern on her skirt with a fingertip. She hated herself for what she was about to say. “You may not worry about your own safety. But what about your grandmother? She is older, less able to defend herself.”

  Rogelio’s anger undulated over her. “A man can take care of his own family! I want my baby back, especially after what you have told me. And I’ll get her, with or without your help!”

  Weariness weighted Janet to the chair. “What can you do if I don’t help you? These records are closed. You cannot find out the name of the adoptive parents.”

  “I’ll go to the police, that’s what I’ll do! I’ll tell them everything.”

  “Think about it, Rogelio.” Her words fell rapidly, twisting the truth to save her hide. Even as she spoke, Janet felt sick. “What kind of trouble will you place yourself in if you tell the police? You sold a baby.What about your girlfriend? Kristin was given a lot of money. How is she going to feel about you after you turn her in to the police?”

  Rogelio swallowed, anger crumbling into obvious confusion.He stared at her, breathing hard. Seconds ticked by. “Will you help me or not?”

  Janet squeezed her eyes shut. “I don’t know.”

  “Fine.”He headed for the hall. Janet hurried after him.

  “Wait—”

  “I’ll give you until tomorrow to decide.”He pointed an accusing finger at her. “You say the problem is me, Kristin,my grandmother. No, Mrs. Cline, the problem is you. I will get Roselita Nicole back, for my grandmother’s sake. You won’t stop me.”

  He strode into the entryway and yanked open the door. It slammed on his way out.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Kerra pulled the large wheeled suitcase up to the reception desk of the Welthing Hotel in San Carlos. In it was enough clothing for her aunt Chelsea to wear to trial through the end of the following week. Kerra had found herself scanning pages in Aunt Chelsea’s Bible as she packed it. The Bible sure had been used a lot.Verses were underlined, notes carefully written in the margins.Kerra had closed the Bible reverently, hands lingering on the textured leather cover.How did it feel, she’d wondered, to know God as well as Aunt Chelsea did?

  Within minutes the transaction at the reception desk was complete. The suitcase would soon be delivered to the appropriate room. Kerra exited the hotel, reading a short note Aunt Chelsea had left for her at the desk.

  Please call Paul in London and give him the number of this hotel. You and he have been approved to call me. Also, please phone me yourself sometime this evening. Take care.

  Kerra folded the note and slid it into her purse, then checked her watch. In ten minutes she was to meet Brett for dinner at Max’s in Redwood City. Her skin fairly tingled at the thought, despite her anxiety over the encounter with that awful reporter. She did not know how that man knew. But she told herself she didn’t care. She just wanted to think about tonight.

  Something had happened that afternoon between her and Brett. Holding hands as they ran from reporters, breathlessly flinging themselves on the bench—those actions, fueled by shared surprise and fear, had linked them together within this bizarre chain of events. They’d sat on that bench for over an hour, ignoring the beating sun, saying nothing in one moment, venting their frustration the next. By the time they returned to the courthouse, their dinner date had been set.

  Entering the crowded restaurant, Kerra put her name on the waiting list, then stood aside, watching the door.

  Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. The host called Kerra’s name, and she had to let others go ahead of her. Twenty minutes.Her legs grew tired from standing. Kerra leaned against a wall, doubts filling her. Should she give up and leave? Maybe this wasn’t the right thing to do anyway.Wasn’t she being terribly unfaithful to Dave’s memory?

  Of course she was. How could she even think of doing this?

  She pushed away from the wall to go. Then in whisked Brett, eyes darting, his face a mask of concern. “I’m sorry! I’m just so glad you’re still here.”He caught her hand, drawing quick breaths.

  Her heart melted at his touch, her doubts tumbling away. “It’s okay. I wouldn’t leave.”

  Brett’s eyes searched hers, as if he wondered whether she was telling the truth.“Let’s get our table and I’ll tell you what happened.”

  As soon as they were settled, Brett related his interview with Detective Trutenning.

  “What did you tell him?” Kerra asked, amazed. How could they even think Brett had anything to do with the phone calls?

  “Nothing, except I didn’t do it.”Brett took a drink of water.“How would I know those jurors’ phone numbers? I don’t even know their names.”

  Kerra tilted her head.“How would anybody know?”

  He shrugged.“Someone with access to records, maybe. Someone who at least knows how the system works. And evidently someone who wants my dad found innocent. Although it’s not too hard to think of a whole list of such people. Do you know how many we employ on the ranch? Someone may figure that if my dad were convicted, we’d have to sell the place, even though that’s not true. Still, how would someone in Salinas know those numbers?” He lapsed into silence. Then shook his head. “But I don’t want to talk about the trial anymore,” he declared. “I’ve had enough of it.” He pushed aside his water glass and slid his hands across the table to cover hers. “I want to talk about you.”

  “Iwant to talk about you.”

  Kerra’s throat constricted as Dave’s face rose in her thoughts. The same words, at another table, another restaurant, so long ago. Dave had urged her out of her shell, eventually made her fall in love.

  Brett watched her intently. For a moment she thought she’d pull back in sudden vulnerability, and they’d fall into the quicksand of trivial chatter. Perhaps that was best. Perhaps this should go no further.

  “Earth to Kerra.” Brett squeezed her hand. She couldn’t help but be drawn toward him.

  The guilt rose again. She pushed it down.What was wrong with being attracted to Brett? She’d loved Dave, but Dave was dead.He’d died a year and a half ago. Now here was Brett, holding her hands. Waiting.

  Willfully Kerra blinked away the memo
ry of Dave. She gave Brett a wan smile. “What would you like to know?”

  “OKAY , SO I MAY be going out for aquick dinner.”

  Right, Chelsea thought as she unpacked her suitcase. A quick dinner.Nothing to trouble her head about.Her niece, who’d apparently left God far behind, was only going out for “a quick dinner” with the son of a man accused of murder.And there wasn’t anything Chelsea could do about it. Not tonight. Nor tomorrow or the next day, should this new friendship continue to grow.And why shouldn’t it, with no sensible person around to stop it?

  Is this what you brought Kerra here for, God? Chelsea railed. Just to separate me from her when she needs me badly—now more than ever?

  Chelsea jerked her Bible out of the suitcase and tossed it on the bed. Then stood staring at it. She really ought to pick it up, read some. Perhaps she’d find some comfort.

  She swung away and hung up clothes instead.At the moment she was too mad for comfort.

  When all her clothes were put away, toiletries placed on the bathroom counter, the suitcase stored in a closet, Chelsea paced at the foot of the bed,wishing for some other task to channel her energies. A commentary of her disappointments ran like a broken tape through her head. She simply could not understand what God was trying to do.Why, why, why had he allowed her to be sequestered? Some thanks this was for her obedience.

  For another fifteen minutes Chelsea fretted and fumed. Then finally, in sheer desperation, she parked herself on the bed and reached for her Bible.

  Where to read?

  She didn’t want to read at all.

  Chelsea closed her eyes, tiredly asking God what to do. After a moment the book of Daniel came to mind. She’d always found it both fascinating and comforting, particularly because of Daniel’s ability to serve God in such a pagan place as the palace of the Babylonian king. Sighing, Chelsea stacked two pillows against the wall, leaned against them, and opened her Bible to Daniel.

  She read for a while, hoping that the words would calm her spirit, but no verse in particular caught her eye. Then at chapter 9, verse 3 seemed to leap off the page.

  So I gave my attention to the Lord God to seek Him by prayer and supplications.

  Chelsea read the verse again, then lay the Bible on her lap, allowing her gaze to drift across the room as she pondered. There Daniel was, she realized, in the king’s court, removed from his own people the Israelites. Given earthly power by the Babylonian king and used as a channel for God’s power. Daniel had accomplished some amazing things with God’s help—discerning dreams and God’s handwriting on the wall, surviving the lions’ den. But in this situation of seeking the Israelites’ freedom from captivity, the only power Daniel could wield was through prayer.

  Chelsea rested her head against the pillows.

  … seek him by prayer and supplications …

  The phrase resounded within her. She knew God had called her to pray for individuals involved in the trial. But she felt he was trying to tell her more. Chelsea prayed now for further understanding, asking God to help her push aside her anger and disappointment. Slowly then, as she sat waiting, listening, impressions began to fill her mind. The sense that God had chosen her for a particular purpose in this trial. That he needed her obedience, regardless of her emotions. Maybe he would send her visions. Maybe at times she would need to do something.Other times all she would be able to do was pray. She needed to keep her eyes on God every moment, as she’d learned through the Trent Park case last year. God would lead her. Even in moments when she felt very blind.

  As this understanding seeped through Chelsea, it did not bring comfort. She merely felt all the more frightened. She was no Daniel. She was just a mom who lived in California with two rowdy boys and a non-Christian husband. She could make mistakes so easily— she’d made them before. How was she going to do this?

  “Help me, Lord,” she begged aloud.“Help me be faithful. I want to do whatever you ask of me. I want to know when I should act and when I should pray. I want you to accomplish your will through my obedience.”

  Tears pricked her eyes.“But right now, Lord, I still feel pretty mad about the whole thing. Plus lonely and scared, both for me and for Kerra. I just want to run and hide, and take my niece with me.Please, God, protect her. Please.”

  KERRA RETURNED TO THE house just before eleven, heart shimmering over her evening with Brett. They had talked a long time.Mostly she had talked of losing Dave. And a funny thing had happened. The more she spoke of her past grief, the more she realized just how much she longed to put it behind her. She not only wanted to love again; she needed it. She needed to connect with life again.

  Brett had said little of himself, although he had told her of his mother’s death and how much he missed her.With unspoken agreement, they had avoided any discussion of Shawna and his father.

  It was late now but Kerra knew she should call her aunt. Then she wanted to watch the news. As she dialed the hotel number, she tried to force down her excitement. Aunt Chelsea had a knack for picking up vocal nuances.

  Their conversation was brief. Aunt Chelsea sounded tired, distracted, plus she asked too many questions. Kerra remained vague about how she’d spent her evening, although she sensed that her aunt already knew. Promising to call again tomorrow night, she hung up the phone with relief.

  Hurrying into the family room, she flicked on the television to Channel Seven. Commercials. She went into the kitchen for a glass of water and returned. She told herself she was simply curious about the media coverage.What would the station have to say about the jury being sequestered? But deep within, a little warning niggled in her stomach.What if her own defensive anger at the reporter had given her and Brett away?

  Kerra stood before the television, shifting impatiently from foot to foot. The news anchorwoman flashed on the screen. “Tonight we have extensive coverage on the Salad King trial,” she announced, “as the case faced a major shake-up this morning.”Kerra’s eyes remained glued to the set as the anchorwoman told of the juror phone contacts and sequestration. “And Channel Seven has obtained inside information about the trial that only further complicates this already fascinating case.Here is Milt Waking’s exclusive report, filmed at the end of today’s court session, to give you all the details.”

  Kerra’s insides gelled. Milt Waking’s disgusting, handsome face filled the screen.Her fingers gripped the glass, her eyes narrowing as she listened to his report about the sequestering. He played up the fact that her aunt Chelsea, “the visions woman from the Trent Park case last year,” was now one of the twelve who would be deliberating. “And in further stunning news,” he continued, “I have learned that the visiting niece of this woman has been attending the trial and has struck up a friendship with Brett Welk, the defendant’s son. An inside source has confirmed that the two are having dinner together tonight… .”

  Kerra choked out a cry. The glass of water slipped from her hand.

  FRIDAY, AUGUST 9

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Stan Breckshire fumed his way toward the judge’s chambers, the morning newspaper clutched in his hand.Media report or not, Judge Carol Chanson was going to hear about this. Maybe the woman would finally admit she never should have allowed that fanatic Chelsea Adams on the jury in the first place. Look at all the trouble Ms.Adams was causing! Stan drew up short in front of the door and banged with his knuckles. Only problem was, it was too late for the judge’s admission. Now all she could do would be to call a mistrial, and Stan certainly didn’t want that.

  “Who is it?” Judge Chanson’s voice griped from behind the door. She opened it, scowling.

  “We need to talk,” he declared. “Summon Terrance and Erica.”

  Her features darkened further. “I’ll thank you not to take that tone of voice with me, counsel.” Her eyes fell on the newspaper. “What is it now; you know I can’t look at that.”

  “You have to look at it.”

  She drew herself up, neck mottling.“Mr. Breckshire, if—”

 
“The niece of our favorite juror, Chelsea Adams, has been attending the trial since day one,” he spouted. “And now she’s going out with Brett Welk!”

  Myriad expressions crossed Judge Chanson’s face. She blinked rapidly, eyes dancing from Stan to the newspaper and back. Finally she drew in a deep breath, hefty shoulders rising. “Find defense counsel and bring them here immediately.” She swung the door shut.

  Five minutes later they were all assembled in the judge’s chambers. The court reporter stood nearby, machine ready. Judge Chanson had donned her robe. No doubt, Stan crabbed to himself, to remind them all that she was in charge. If that’s what she could call it.

  The judge eyed all three of them as if they were recalcitrant pupils. She turned to Terrance Clyde. “I suppose you know why we’re here.”

  T. C. was all pomp and circumspection. “Yes, Your Honor. I saw the paper.Apparently, the print media has picked up the story from one of the—”

  “I don’t care about who’s saying what.” The words kicked across her massive desk like pebbles under an impatient foot. “I want to know if you knew about this relationship.”

  “Of course not!” T. C. exclaimed as air puffed from Erica’s offended mouth. Erica threw an icy glance at Stan. “I didn’t even know the niece was in the courtroom,” T. C. added.

  Judge Chanson considered them both. “Who is she anyway?”

  T. C. raised a shoulder. “Not sure, but from her description I’d guess she’s that young, pretty blond.”

  “Not that it matters.” The judge waved a dismissive hand. “I’ve checked my records as to who was allowed to call Ms. Adams after the jury was sequestered.A husband is listed,who’s apparently overseas on a business trip. Also listed is Kerra Fraye, a visiting niece.”