Dread Champion

by Brandilyn Collins

  Mama Yolanda set aside one tortilla and began rolling out another. “You think he is not telling the truth?”

  “I don’t know what to think!” He ran a hand through his hair. “He doesn’t care about Roselita; all he cares about is getting a story. He’ll make decisions based on that, not on what’s best for us.”

  “The story’s gotten bigger than we ever imagined,” Milt had told him. “Ihave to run down more facts and put this all together.” From the way he’d made it sound, he may need another couple of days. Milt had pleaded with him to hang in there, even if the story did not air until the jury was deliberating.

  “Maybe so.”Mama Yolanda picked up the rolling pin and aimed it in another direction. “But God will watch over us.”

  Rogelio sighed in exasperation. How could she be so sure about everything? After all he’d gone through to prepare Kristin, now he’d have to tell her the story wasn’t airing tonight. And he had no indication it would air tomorrow. Kristin’s emotions seemed about as balanced as a little kid standing on one foot.How long was she going to put up with this?

  “Well, God can do all the watching over us he wants,” he growled, “but Milt Waking is watching out for Milt Waking. And I’ll tell you something: I’m not going to wait for him much longer!”

  TERRANCE CLYDE STRETCHED IN his hard chair as he watched Darren drop into his seat on the other side of the glass. His client regarded him with silent suspicion, tongue pushed between his teeth and upper lip.

  “You brought Brett into it again,” he said at length. “I told you not to do that.”

  Here it came. Terrance shrugged.“Barely. There was far more testimony about arguments with boyfriends and Tracey than about arguments with him.”

  “One witness is one too many.”

  “What do you want, Darren?” Terrance’s voice rose. “You want me to get you out of here or not?”

  “What I want,” Darren declared through his teeth, “is to walk out of this hellhole and go back to my ranch and my son.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to accomplish.”

  “I don’t want my son sacrificed to do it!”

  Terrance leaned toward the glass.“Darren, hear me. For the hundredth time. Any suspicion laid on Brett or anybody else will go nowhere once the trial’s over. But it could raise enough reasonable doubt to get you off.”

  “Suspicion follows you; it’s hard to get rid of.”

  “What matters is that you’ll both be free.”

  “Yeah, so’s O. J.”

  Terrance shook his head wearily. Arched back against the chair. “That’s hardly a comparison.” They glared at each other.

  “Let me testify,” Darren said.

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve told you why. Breckshire would kill you on cross.”

  “I’d handle him.”

  “Not in a million years. He’d dance and punch.”

  “I’d handle him.”

  “Darren!” Terrance smacked his palms against the edge of the table.“Fine then. Tell me, Mr.Welk, did you fight in public with your wife?”

  Silence.

  “Did you?”

  “Yes, okay? So what?”

  “Did you run around with women?”

  “A few.” Darren blinked in defiance.

  “Did you hit Shawna that night on the beach?”

  Darren’s mouth hardened. “I didn’t mean to; I was drunk.”

  “Oh, drinking makes you hit people, does it?”

  “No!”

  “You just said it did.”Cynicism oiled Terrance’s words. “Just how does drinking affect you? Are you nicer? Or meaner?”

  Darren shoved his arms into a fold.

  “Would you like me to call some folks to testify about how you behave when you’re drunk, Mr.Welk?”

  “Okay, so I get a little testy.”

  “A ‘little testy,’” Terrance mocked. “Testy enough to make your wife bleed all over her silk blouse?”

  “She was hardly hurt.”

  “How about the tooth? Did you knock that out, too? And— here’s a great one—let’s talk about the blouse turning up in your backyard.”

  “I—”

  “And do explain, Mr.Welk, your very convenient loss of memory after your wife began to bleed. After that let’s talk about the footprints in the sand.And while we’re at it, let’s replay the video of your interview sentence by sentence so you can explain all your lies! Let the jury see one more time all those guilty expressions on your—”

  “All right, all right!” Darren threw out his hands. Futility slumped him in his chair.

  Slowly Terrance straightened. “And that,” he said quietly, “is why you will not testify, and why I am handling this case.”He pushed back his chair and stood. “Breckshire will finish his cross-examination of Peter Chesterton tomorrow morning. I’ll shore the guy back up on redirect; I think the jury’s willing to believe his testimony. Then we’ll go to closing remarks. I’ll put it all together for the jury then.With a little luck you’ll be out of here soon. But keep quiet while I talk, Darren”—Terrance pointed a finger at his client—“and let me do my job.”

  He turned away from his client, still hunched in the chair, and left the tiny room.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Kerra sat on the rock beside Brett and cried. Tears had filled her eyes the moment she’d slid into her car. The day had been agony. Holding herself together during court, forcing herself to appear impassive while that awful man testified about Brett’s argument with Shawna. It seemed as if every eye in the courtroom had been turned on them, analyzing, watching for the least suspicious movement.

  “Oh, Kerra, I never should have told you,” Brett said soothingly.

  “Yes, you should have. I don’t know how you bore it alone for so long. You had to tell me.”

  Her throat closed. Brett hugged her as she cried against his chest. “I’m sorry,” she hiccuped after a few moments. “You’d think I’d be done by now.”

  “It’s okay.” He smoothed her hair. Finally she sat up and wiped her face, sniffling.

  “Do you know,” she said, “that’s the first time in over a year I’ve cried about anything other than Dave’s death?”

  Brett smiled sadly.

  She exhaled, tried to steady her breathing.“Know what else?” She pulled away a strand of hair that was stuck to her cheek.“Ever since last weekend I haven’t seen the accident in my head.” She focused on the bay, dwelling on that fact. “Aunt Chelsea told me she felt sure God wanted me to visit so he could help me move on with my life. I think so, too. But I think he knew all this would happen and that I’d end up with you.”

  “You think he put us together?”

  “I don’t know. Frankly, I never asked him. All I know is, you needed me and I needed you.”

  “That’s for sure.”He gazed out over the tree-covered hills, utter weariness on his face.

  It struck her then how self-centered she was being. So focused on her feelings, her fears. Brett needed her far more than she needed him right now.He was practically drowning in his own anxiety and guilt. In her heart she knew Brett needed more than just her to help him through.He was seeking spiritually, whether he fully realized it or not.How wrong, how selfish, she was to hold back her knowledge of that truth.

  “You know what I think we should do?” she heard herself say. “I think we should pray.”How rusty the word sounded on her tongue. She remembered how joyous she’d been after she found Christ.How she’d shared her faith with Dave.How they’d begun to pray together, laying a deeper, stronger foundation for their relationship.

  Brett looked at her, nonplussed.“How?”

  “Does that mean you want to?”

  “Yeah, I guess. But I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.”

  “Brett,” she ventured,“we’ve talked about how a person can reach up to God in response to him.You can do that right now if you want. To tell the truth, I need to get back
to him myself. I think we should do that, plus ask for his help in all this mess. Goodness knows we’re not doing too well on our own.”

  He pondered her words. “Okay.”

  She took his hand. “I’ll start.” She hesitated, words snagging on her lips. It had been so long. “Dear Jesus,” she began,“we need you. Please lead us through this hard time. And as for me, I’m sorry for falling away from you. Help me be close to you like I was before.”

  She fell silent. “You want to say anything?” she asked Brett quietly.

  “Uh, yeah.” She heard him swallow. “God. Thank you for Kerra. Thank you for what she told me about you. If it’s true—well, I mean, I’m sure it’s true—help me to follow you.You reached out to me, so I’ll reach back.”He pressed her fingers. “I guess that’s it.”

  “Amen,” she said.

  “Amen.”

  They looked at each other.

  “Am I supposed to feel anything?” he asked.

  “Not necessarily. But you will if you keep talking to him.At least I sure did.”

  He nodded. Then sighed. “It didn’t exactly take away all our problems, did it.”

  “No.”Kerra rubbed his thumb. “But I know it’ll help us through them. Somehow, Brett, some way, God’s going to see us through this.”

  MILT STEPPED INTO HIS town home with a sigh.He plunked down his laptop and threw his suit coat over the back of the couch, followed by his tie. It was seven thirty, his evening report had aired, and his stomach was grumbling.He’d been running on nervous energy and too little sleep.

  He’d received two more emails from Maria. They hadn’t been full of substance, but they’d sure been full of frustration and anger. He’d written her back, playing the confused, love-crazed Tracey. Hadn’t been too hard, after he’d watched the girl in action two nights in a row.He hoped he’d said just enough to keep Maria on her cyberspace toes.

  He poured a glass of wine and headed for his computer, chuckling to himself. And he thought he’d had a coup last year with the Chelsea Adams exclusive. That success, together with his scoops in this trial,wouldn’t begin to match the glory he was bound for in the next few days. Once he got this all worked out, he would single-handedly bring the entire Salad King trial to its knees. His ratings would shoot the moon! Offers from television stations would whirl around him like Tasmanian devils.

  Milt set down his glass and booted up the computer, idly pondering how ironic his future coverage of Tracey Wilagher’s murder trial would be. He logged on to his email, making small popping sounds with his mouth as he waited. Ah, there it was. Another note from his lovely Maria.

  He clicked it happily, brought a fist to his chin and read.

  The fist slackened. His hand fell to his lap.

  The words refused to sink in. He shook his head. Read it again. Read it a third time. And a fourth.

  The message rooted him to his chair.Milt Waking’s stomach sank to his toes.

  PART 3

  PURPOSE

  I am God, and there is no other;

  I am God, and there is none like me.

  I make known the end from the beginning,

  from ancient times, what is still to come.

  I say: My purpose will stand,

  and I will do all that I please.

  Isaiah 46:9–10

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 15

  FORTY-SIX

  Milt dressed for court on automatic, exhaustion and excitement fighting in his veins. He had barely slept all night. For hours he lay thinking, figuring, putting the last pieces of the puzzle together. Finally, in the wee hours of the morning, he had formulated a plan. Whether it would work or not remained to be seen. The only thing he wasn’t sure about was Lynn Trudy. But he would take no chances there.

  One immediate thing to do. Before leaving for court, he fired up his computer and wrote a final email to Maria. It had been fun, but all good things must come to an end.

  I’ve made my decision. It looks like the case will go to the jury by the end of tomorrow. They will deliberate through the weekend. Everyone agrees they won’t take long to find Darren guilty—probably by Saturday afternoon. I’ll be at the courthouse so I can get the death certificate from the judge right after the verdict. Then Milt and I are out of here. I’m not even saying where.He’s paying for our trip. Somewhere along the way we’ll have the insurance money wired to us. TWO MILLION dollars. Small payback, wouldn’t you say?

  Don’t bother trying to contact me anymore. I won’t be checking emails. I won’t even be home.

  Been nice talking to you.

  Tracey

  Milt cocked his head, surveying the last line. He hadn’t planned on it but he liked the sarcasm. He smiled, pleased with himself.

  He hit the send button. Two minutes later he was in his car, headed for the freeway.

  CHELSEA WATCHED STAN BRECKSHIRE pace, brow furrowed in concentration. The prosecutor’s hair stuck out in all directions, from his frequent head scratching. His tie was askew. His closing argument had begun immediately after the morning break, and he was now summing up. He’d gone over every piece of evidence, explaining with waving arms and staccato words why the jury could do nothing else but find Darren Welk guilty of second-degree murder. Chelsea drank in the words, desperately hoping they would put an end to her questions. She was so close to believing Darren Welk was guilty, but something continued to nag her.Her pen was poised over the piece of paper she’d headed Facts to Support Guilt.

  Stan drew up in front of the jury box and spread his hands. “As you can see, everything fits, ladies and gentlemen. Everything.We have Lonnie Broward’s testimony about Darren and Shawna Welk’s escalating argument. We have Tracey Wilagher’s testimony, with quite precise timing as to when she received the desperate plea for help from her mother, when she arrived at the beach, and when she returned to the house. We have the bill from Shawna Welk’s cell phone to support Tracey’s testimony about receiving the phone call from her mother. All the timing, and Tracey’s explanation of the partial footprints she saw on wet sand, coincides with the testimony of Dr. Gaston, the expert in currents and tides.He told you almost to the inch how far the water had receded between high tide and when those footprints were made.”

  Lonnie B., Chelsea wrote in her notes.Tracey precise timing. Cell phone bill. Footprints.

  Stan’s pacing resumed, his fingers jabbing the air.

  “Then of course we have the blouse. Evidence clearly shows that it was transported underneath the seat of Darren Welk’s car. DNA evidence proves that the blood on the blouse belongs to Shawna Welk.And we have a witness,Victor Mendoza, who has proved himself reliable and trustworthy through twenty years of service at his employment.He saw Darren Welk bury that blouse in his backyard in the middle of the night.

  “You heard Dr. Gaston testify as to the hazardous conditions of the rip currents on Breaker Beach. In fact, he told you about the sign on the beach warning people of the danger.You heard further testimony as to the horrifying shark attack on Eddie Hunt in nearby waters.We have the remains of Shawna Welk’s body, the piece of fabric and her tooth that washed up onshore. ‘As good as a fingerprint,’ her dentist said of that tooth, due to its unusual qualities.”

  Chelsea noted all these items.

  Stan slid to a halt, leaning toward the jury with a confidential air. “Now. Defense counsel will try to convince you, even after all this evidence, that because Shawna Welk’s body was never found, you can’t be completely sure she is dead.”He shook his head in disbelief. “He will try to convince you that she must have simply ‘disappeared,’ perhaps with some unnamed boyfriend.Isay, given the facts that we know about Breaker Beach, its currents, the outgoing tide, plus the presence of a great white shark, it’s little wonder her body was never found. In fact, it would have taken a miracle for her body to be discovered. Again, remember Dr. Gaston’s testimony about the large sign on the beach, written in English and Spanish: ‘Danger’ in capital letters in a big yellow triangle. ‘Wadi
ng and swimming unsafe.’ Shawna Welk’s body would have been swept out to sea in very little time.”

  The prosecutor’s eyes cruised the jury, from Clay to Tak to Chelsea. She looked back without blinking.

  “I may not have a grisly photo of Shawna Welk’s remains. All the more fortunate for you.Who among you would enjoy seeing it? But in no less way, she is crying out from her watery grave to tell you what happened in the early-morning hours of February sixteenth. Through her blood on the last blouse she wore, she is crying out. Through the blouse itself, buried by her husband, she is crying out. Through a piece of fabric washed up on the beach, she is crying out. She cries out to you through the one part of her body that we do have—her tooth. She cries out through her half footprint that went into the water and, tragically, did not come out again.

  “And who is the only person who could be responsible for her death?” Stan turned and pointed toward the defense table. “Darren Welk, her husband.Who argued with her on the beach in front of two witnesses? Darren Welk.Who hit her, made her bleed? Darren Welk.Who was the last person to see her alive? Darren Welk.Who admitted to police that he’d buried her bloody blouse? The man who had promised before God to love, honor, and protect her—her husband, Darren Welk.”

  Chelsea stole a glance at Kerra.Her face was pale but her jaw was determinedly set. Her expression spoke volumes. She’d cast her lot with Brett Welk, no matter the outcome. Chelsea felt sick as she imagined the effect of a guilty verdict on her relationship with her niece.Would Kerra ever forgive her?

  Lord, what are you going to do about that? Idon’t want to lose my niece!

  “I’m asking each of you,” Stan concluded,“to heed the desperate pleas of Shawna Welk. And to find the man who hit her, killed her, and threw her body upon the wild waters of Breaker Beach in the middle of the night guilty of murder in the second degree.No other verdict would serve justice in this case.”He ducked his head in a curt nod. “Thank you.”

  A collective breath sighed through the courtroom. Chelsea lay down her pen and flexed her fingers. She glanced about the room, noting reactions. Judge Chanson shifted in her chair. Reporters scribbled final notes. Hesta Naples coughed delicately, a fist to her mouth. One of the three gray-haired women who always sat in the second row whispered in her friend’s ear. The other woman whispered back.