Web of Lies

by Brandilyn Collins

  Death penalty . . . Murder is a sin.

  “Go away!”

  He thrust more eggs and bacon into his mouth. Ground them between his teeth, tasting the salty flavor with manic concentration.

  They’ll kill you, like you killed us.

  “Shut up!” He shoved away from the table, jumped to his feet.

  The taunts whiplashed through his head.

  He pressed palms to his ears. Paced a circle, humming. “Mm, mm, mm. Can’t hear you!”

  You killed us, and they’ll find you. They’ll shove you in a cell. And we’ll laugh, laugh, laugh, ’cause you deserve it, deserve it, deserve it!

  “Stop!” He wheeled around, lashed a fist at the air, then stumbled into the counter like a drunken man. Yeah, that’s what he needed — a drink. He flung himself toward a cabinet, yanked out a bottle of gin. Poured some into a glass.

  “Cheers!” He guzzled it down. The gin pinched his cheeks, tingle-tangled his throat.

  You killed us . . . you killed us . . .

  He banged down the glass.

  The dirt came next, the dank, biting smell of burial. Pieces of it stuck to his feet like worms. The worms started to crawl — up his heels, over his ankles — their slimy bodies sucking at his skin.

  “Ah!” He scrubbed both legs with his hands, but still they crawled.

  He fled to the bathroom to scour them off.

  In the shower he sucked steam deep into his lungs. Watched the wormy dirt particles nudge across the tile, disappear down the drain.

  “Hah, good riddance!”

  Droplets splashed and pounded, clearing his head, cleansing his soul.

  He turned off the water, braced himself, and listened.

  No voices.

  He exhaled in relief. His skin glowed red, fresh as he stepped out of the shower, reached for a towel, raised one leg.

  Wait, was that dirt on his ankle? How had it stayed there, after all that water?

  He cursed, rubbing it away with the towel.

  More dirt on the other foot. He gasped, smacked at it two, three times.

  When he stepped into a pair of pants, new whispers echoed in his brain. Thou shalt not kill, kill, kill . . . Murder is a sin, sin, sin . . .

  Dirt crawled onto his big toe. An ant this time. A big, black dirt ant.

  “No!”

  He threw off his pants. Ran back to the shower and yanked on the water, shoving his body under it, trying to drown out the voices with the sizzle, hiss, pound.

  Where are you going to hide when they know everything you’ve done? When we scream at them that you killed us?

  Where are you going to hide . . .

  Chapter 6

  Chelsea Adams huddled on the couch in her family room, frowning at her Bible. The verses ran together in a mindless stream. She couldn’t concentrate on anything but the horrifying picture pulsing in her brain: the dim, claustrophobic room in her vision.

  Who were those people? Where were they? When would it happen?

  The memories taunted her. That earthy, dusty smell. The rasping whisper of some demented man holding two people against their will. One of them was the crouching figure on the floor — a female. And the second captive . . . Through whose eyes had Chelsea viewed the scene? A man? Woman?

  After the vision of that room passed, Chelsea had seen a face. She could close her eyes now and see those features clearly in her mind.

  She flopped her Bible closed and tossed it on the couch. God, this is too confusing. Why can’t You tell me everything so I don’t have to guess?

  Last night her husband had sensed her terror. One look at her expression when she emerged from the kitchen, and Paul’s face went slack. “What’s wrong?”

  “I had another vision.” Tears bit her eyes.

  He pulled in a breath. “A bad one?”

  “The worst yet.”

  He held his arms out to her and she pressed against his chest. Wishing she could hide her fear, wishing she didn’t have to tell him. Before Paul became a Christian, he tried to deny the visions. Now he knew God sent them, but couldn’t understand why his wife had to be the conduit. Why not somebody else for once?

  Chelsea stared without seeing at the coffee table. God, I need Your help. Please lead Annie Kingston to call.

  The phone rang and Chelsea jumped. She jerked her head toward the receiver. It rang once more before she picked it up. “Hello?”

  “Hi. I’m trying to reach Chelsea Adams. This is Annie Kingston, returning her call.”

  Chelsea almost laughed at the timing. Thank You, God! She clutched the phone, her heart turning over. “Oh, I’m so glad you called. I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. In fact, I wasn’t sure if you’d call at all.”

  Annie Kingston’s laugh was nervous. “Well, Ms. Adams, I have to admit I was rather curious.”

  “Oh, please call me Chelsea.”

  “Okay. And I’m Annie.”

  An awkward pause followed.

  “I was in the courtroom, you know,” Annie ventured. “For those two cases. As an artist.”

  Those two cases. No explanation was needed. “I know. I recognized your face the first time I saw you on the news. Then those magazine features mentioned that you’d been in Redwood City. And of course I’ve heard about you numerous times since.” Chelsea paused. She shouldn’t have said all that. Maybe Annie didn’t like making the news any more than she did. “Anyway, thank you so much for calling back. I’ve been praying that you would.” She stopped. “I . . . that is, the most recent stories I read about you mentioned your faith. I understand you’re a Christian?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, good.” Chelsea hesitated. Here came the hard part. Lord, give me the right words. “Look, when this kind of thing happens — and fortunately it’s not often — it isn’t easy for me. I never know how a person’s going to respond. But I want you to know I’m clear on one thing. God impressed upon me very strongly to call you.”

  Silence. Chelsea held her breath.

  “Okay.”

  The word came slowly, wrapped in wariness. “I hear the caution in your voice, Annie, and I don’t blame you. I mean, you and I are both — how shall I say it? — known for finding ourselves in the midst of trouble. I can understand why receiving a phone call from me might be rather . . . startling.”

  Tension crept across Chelsea’s shoulders. Was she being too candid?

  “I just might startle you,” Annie replied. “Fact is, I had a dream about you last night.”

  Chelsea blinked. “About me?”

  “Well, not really about you. But about the Salad King trial — and that story can’t be told without your part in it. I dreamed about Tracey Wilagher’s testimony, just like it happened. I woke up feeling strange and unsettled. Heavy with premonition. So when I heard you wanted to talk to me . . .”

  “Oh, thank You, God.” Chelsea closed her eyes, relief flooding her chest. “Isn’t that just like Him — merciful enough to give us both a confirmation. Your dream certainly wasn’t a coincidence.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “Not at all. See, last night was . . . memorable for me too. God sent me a vision. I have to admit it was terrifying. Then when it faded, I saw a face. Clearly. A few hours later I felt the strong impression that I was to meet with you, tell you everything. Describe the face so you could draw it.”

  Silence again. Chelsea could imagine Annie’s thoughts — How do I end this phone call in a hurry? The woman had been through a lot in the last few years. Why should she allow herself to become tangled in Chelsea’s problems?

  God, if this is right, please help her hear.

  Chelsea waited. Still no answer. “Annie?”

  “Yes. I’m . . . listening.”

  Chelsea sighed. “You didn’t like what I just said, did you? You’re thinking, ‘Keep me out of this.’ ” She laughed self-consciously. “I know how obnoxious I must sound. Plus you’re busy, and I have no right to demand your time. I don
’t expect you to answer right now. Maybe the best thing to do is just let you pray about it. You can call me back . . . maybe tonight?”

  Annie cleared her throat. “I’m not sure. First of all, I couldn’t complete a composite by hearing a description over the phone. I’d have to show it to the person. There’s usually a give-and-take as the drawing is refined.”

  “I know. I would need to come see you.” Chelsea winced. How demanding she must sound. “Believe me, I know I’m asking a lot — ”

  “Are you still in the Bay Area? That’s almost four hours away.”

  “Yes, I am. And it’s hard for me to leave. I have two boys in high school. But tomorrow’s Saturday, so I could take the day to drive up and see you. I mean, if you’re available. Which is a lot to expect with such little notice, I know.”

  Chelsea’s words faded. What more to say? She pictured herself in Annie’s shoes — hearing a perfect stranger claim her huge request was some message from God.

  “Chelsea, thank you for calling. I really appreciate your trust in me. I do need time to think and pray about this, okay? It’s just that we had a murder here yesterday, and I’m already needed to work on that case.”

  Oh no, another murder in Redding? Chelsea closed her eyes. “I’m so sorry to hear that. I understand you’ll be busy. Plus you have family, and tomorrow’s supposed to be a day off. So . . . I’ll just wait to hear from you.”

  “Okay. I’ll get back to you by tonight.”

  “Thank you, Annie. Very much.”

  Chelsea hung up and pressed back against the couch, wrung out. Well, that didn’t go very well. The day stretched before her, oppressive and foreboding. If only she could clear the horrible memories from her head. Now she’d done all she could, and there was nothing to do but wait. God could send messages, but He would not force anyone to act against their will.

  Lord, what am I going to do if I never hear from Annie Kingston again?

  Chapter 7

  One o’clock. My mind ran along dual tracks as I pulled into the parking lot of Shasta Regional Medical Center. For the sake of Toby Brown and Mike Winger, I needed to concentrate on the task at hand. But I couldn’t shake Chelsea Adams’s call from my mind. For some masochistic reason I’d stuck her phone number in my purse, and now it practically burned a hole through the leather.

  After Chelsea’s phone call, Jenna pounced me with questions. I kept nothing from her, but I cringed upon relating the “God-told-me-to-call-you” part. As a loving sister, Jenna tries not to denigrate my increasingly vocal faith, but she certainly hasn’t embraced it either.

  “Annie, that’s crazy.” She frowned. “How can anybody say ‘God told me’ when they don’t hear a thing? And how are you supposed to respond to that? She’s really put you on the spot.”

  I know very well how God can talk to people. The way He led me — and other Christians, including Dave — to pray while the Poison Killer was still on the Redding streets had been undeniable. “Jenna, I hear you. But remember the news stories from Redwood City. You have to admit Chelsea Adams knows what she’s talking about.”

  Jenna folded her arms. “Fine, but why drag you into it? There are plenty of forensic artists in the Bay Area.”

  My mouth opened, then closed. She had a point.

  She jabbed a finger at me. “Don’t you go getting mixed up with her, Annie. That would be all you need. All we need.”

  So much for help from my sister. She was all gut reaction with no Christian wisdom. I’d headed out the door to talk to Dave about the phone call. As I crossed the street, I registered the distant rumble of tractors beginning work at the Grove Landing airstrip. At least that would make Jenna happy.

  In Dave’s kitchen I told my tale once again. He listened with an expression of wariness and intrigue. When I finished, he laid a hand at the back of his neck and stared out the window. Vestiges of my past narrow escapes haunted his expression. “Well. I don’t know what this is all about.” The words came reluctantly. “But yes, I’ll pray about it today. Sounds like it might be something important that God needs you to do.”

  Now, as I drove into the medical center parking lot, it struck me we were all being a little silly. So Chelsea Adams wanted me to draw a composite. Big deal. I did that on a regular basis. And most of the time it was a normal project, no danger involved.

  Most of the time.

  Annie, stop now. You’ve got other things to think about.

  I pulled into a parking space, climbed out of the SUV, and opened the back door to retrieve my drawing kit. The sun beat through my knit shirt as I crossed the lot. Suddenly a car pulled out of a space right in front of me. I jerked to a halt, then drifted backward, giving him room. A middle-aged man. He didn’t even see me.

  Hospitals. I’d never felt comfortable around them. People inside and out wrapped up in their pain. Two and a half years ago, after my father’s death from a heart attack, I’d crossed this same parking lot, head down, arms hugging my chest, barely noticing the rain or cars. I could only imagine how Toby’s mother must have felt yesterday as she hurried into the hospital to see her son.

  Justice, Toby. We’re going to find who did this to you.

  A few minutes later I entered the young man’s room. He occupied the first bed, the curtains drawn back. The second bed was empty. Good. We’d have some privacy during the interview.

  A woman sat beside Toby, both of them staring blank-faced at an old movie on TV. Her brown hair was uncombed, her posture slumped. Seeing me, she clicked off the show and pushed to her feet, questions in her weary brown eyes. She was a few inches shorter than my five-foot-five frame. Worry lines jagged across her forehead, and her mouth drooped. My heart ached for her. Had she been here all night?

  “Mrs. Brown?” I held out my hand to her. “I’m Annie Kingston.”

  “Yes.” She gave me a weak handshake and tried to smile. “I recognize you. Can’t tell you how glad I am you’re the one going to draw the picture. I know we’ll find the man who did this to my boy, with your help.”

  I managed to smile back. If she only knew what kind of pressure those words heaped upon me. The more tragedy I’d seen, the more I hated crime. Every victim deserved justice, every one. But all too often it proved elusive. “Those of us working on this case will do the best we can, Mrs. Brown, I promise you that.”

  “Yes. Thank you.” She laced and unlaced her fingers. “And please, call me Sheila.”

  I nodded, holding her gaze with all the warmth I could muster. She looked so nervous, and my heart went out to her. “Okay. Sheila.”

  Setting down my portfolio of art supplies, I turned toward Toby. He lay with the covers pulled midchest, hands resting on his stomach, fingers interlaced. His thumbs batted at each other. The bed had been cranked up to elevate his head, numerous pillows used to cushion. I could imagine his mother fussing with those pillows, trying to do what little she could to ease his discomfort. Even now her hand hovered over him, seeking something to do — any small act that could afford some sense of control over her son’s fate.

  “Hi, Toby.” I laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, noting the faint color in his face. “You look a lot better now than the last time I saw you.”

  The sides of his mouth lifted. “That’s not saying much.”

  “I understand they removed the bullet from your leg and got you patched up. And you’re going home tomorrow?”

  “Praise God,” his mother whispered behind me.

  “Yeah.” Toby shifted his head against the pillows. “They just want to watch me for today, ’cause I was bleeding some. But they said I was lucky. The bullet didn’t hit a bone or nerve or anything.” He swallowed. “I want to thank you for helping me yesterday. As bad as it was, you helped keep me calm. There was just something about you being there . . .”

  That was Jesus’ presence, Toby, not mine.

  I pulled a chair close to the bed. His mother hesitated. “The detective told me I should leave while you do your work.”
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  “Yes.” The presence of any face could skew Toby’s memory as he tried to recall the suspect’s features. Even I would sit at an angle so he would not look directly at me. “But let’s just talk for a while first, all right?”

  “Okay.”

  I sat down while Sheila resumed her seat on the other side of the bed. For a good half hour we simply chatted. Although Toby already seemed to trust me, I wanted to put him more at ease. My work would require him to “see” again the face that caused his trauma. He needed to be eased into emotional readiness for the task. I asked him about school, his friends, if he planned to go to college. I told him about my kids, wondering if he’d ever met Kelly or Stephen, perhaps at a football game.

  “No, don’t think so,” Toby said, “but maybe I will sometime.”

  Sheila told me the names of Toby’s younger brother and sisters. Carla was thirteen; Jeremy, ten; and Maria was seven.

  “From what I heard, Toby, you help take care of them.” I kept my voice light, conversational.

  He shrugged. “I do what I can.”

  I didn’t want to stray into the topic of their financial difficulties. Toby had other worries to concentrate on. “And you’ll be back at it. Soon.”

  We fell silent. Toby pulled in a slow breath and his countenance shifted. I’ve learned to read the signals — resolve steeling across a victim’s features, an aura of expectation misting the air. He was ready.

  I looked to his mother. Sheila clasped her son’s arm, then rose with a final, pleading look at me — Take care of my boy. Help him remember. I nodded.

  She crossed to the door and closed it softly behind her. I brought her chair over beside mine to use as a place to lay my materials. Reaching into my portfolio, I first pulled out an eleven-by-fourteen-inch Bristol pad with smooth finish. As an artist who tends to draw with as much detail as an interviewee’s memory will allow, I use this paper rather than others of a rougher texture. Then came various pencils, both hard lead and soft, some with rounded tips for the initial, proportional drawing of the face, and others sharpened to a point for the finer details. A kneaded rubber eraser for creating highlights, and a harder vinyl one for full erasure.