by Mary Deal
Abi intuited another vague clue out of a dead end. “Now they do? On what grounds?”
“Because this Jane Doe's been six feet under for more than seven years.”
“And?”
“Her parents have been receiving Christmas cards up until three years ago.”
It took a while for the facts to come together in Abi's mind. “Someone gave her an overdose, and then kept sending cards? That's morbid. Why would anyone do that?”
Det. Britto had a look of knowing. “To cover the fact that someone took her out. The cards from all those states would keep the parents from filing a missing persons report on a daughter who never stayed in one place very long.”
Joe's hands rested on her shoulders and felt comforting. “I don't get it. She lay in the morgue and no one claimed her? You'd think one of her gangland friends would identify her.”
“What good's a dead body to them? If someone's of no use anymore, they just take 'em out. Eliminates a potential witness.” Det. Britto shrugged. “They don't care what happens to the corpse.”
Joe sat down and Abi could almost hear his mind working. “We've got about three weeks before the Supreme Court releases its decision. Even without this witness, we're gonna' pull this off.” He pounded a fist lightly on the arm of his chair. “This proves Becky was right about a witness who knew something. Doesn't that buy us anything?”
“Not from the Supreme Court and probably not from the Governor either. We have no witness to verify Becky's claim. Tess is just another dead Aryan that Becky knew and who used an alias and got amped for kicks.”
“It doesn't help at all.” Once again, Abi's hopes were dashed. Every good clue would mean nothing in the legal arena.
“I can't imagine why we haven't located Yates. Everyone in the country's seen his mug by now and there's none like it.”
“Iowa, Britto. They saw him in Iowa. Did they pinpoint where?”
“Oskaloosa, I think.”
“What the hell is he doing?”
“Afraid and running, Arno. Running from responsibility.”
“He knows how desperate we are.” Abi stood, then paced. “What's he got to be afraid of?”
Det. Britto stood and threw up his hands. “Who knows the warped mind of a lifetime drunk?”
As much as they knew about Yates, he most certainly drank to escape reality. His problems began long before his house was torched.
The strain was showing on Joe's face. “He's a man full of vengeance who's running because he doesn't care.”
“I gave him an out, Joe” She had to face it. “By restoring his sight, I gave him permission to escape it all.”
Chapter 47
Another week passed without further word of Yates's whereabouts. Abi was exhausted but would not admit it. Every time the phone rang, the voice was Emery's or that of Det. Britto, but the news was never good. She neither ate nor slept well and lost a lot of weight. The stress became obvious. Even Becky noticed. Sometimes Joe would not shave, though she found the stubble quite manly on him. They kept to themselves and diligently made treks to the prison. When Joe worked, Abi went alone. When he accompanied her, he sometimes waited outside so that Abi could spend as much time with Becky as possible. Abi and Joe prayed a lot, not formally maybe, but the word prayer came up frequently in conversations.
They should have been able to turn up more to help Becky, though Abi was well aware that with many innocents in prison, simply nothing new came to light to vindicate them. Even the news media played up the toll it was taking on their lives. Their moods changed. They lost interest in cooking at home. For meals, they ate out.
They sat in a secluded booth. “I'm tired of seeing where and what we ate for dinner showing up on TV.”
Det. Britto found them and scooted in close to Abi. The detective was a vital player in their personalized game of whodunit, with spectators participating via the six o'clock news, which aired updates every hour on the hour on various channels, anticipating the Supreme Court's decision.
Any semblance of privacy eluded them. Then, curiously, the news crews began keeping a distance, but remained poised like cats waiting to pounce on anything that moved.
After Det. Britto arrived, their meals were served. “There's a warrant out for Yates now.” He ripped off a piece of crusty bread. His prime rib was so big and rare that it looked as if it might walk off his plate. He grimaced slightly. “This old man shoulda' ordered a kiddie plate.”
They had changed their meeting places for meals, finally settling on the Port Authority, a steak and seafood restaurant along the sea wall. Dockside patrons were boisterous. If the media got close, all their microphones might pick up would be background noise.
Odors of both steak and seafood wafted, along with the smell of beer and bar. All the scents gave the restaurant its ambiance. To breathe them all together, and survive the noise, was to fully experience the place. Except when one of those big burly dockworkers was drunk and in denial about how much liquor he could hold and drank himself sick. Then it was best not to draw a breath anywhere near the restrooms. Still, the food was the best, and at times, their privacy seemed guarded.
Joe leaned across the table so his voice could be heard without having to yell above the din. “On what charge?”
“Obstruction of justice, to begin with.”
“How'd you make that stick?”
“At this point, I'll try anything.” He shot a glance out of the corner of his eye. Lately, Det. Britto ate fast, like a man on the run. However, he had no interest in eating his entire meal. He cut the meat in half, pushing a piece to the side of his plate.
Det. Britto had his cop's way of dealing with matters and the techniques were best kept to himself. Like the news release that got Hazel's house torched. Despite Edith finding her a place to stay, all Hazel had left was a gutted plot of ground. Maybe Det. Britto thought living on the edge was worth the risk for Becky's sake, since he was adamant about her innocence. But, if using desperate measures was his last-ditch effort, he stood a chance of ruining everything for all of them. Abi dared not verbalize her criticisms. She clenched her jaw and reminded herself that the detective and Emery were Becky's only hope.
“You really think a warrant's going to get him?” Somehow, she had to believe all they were learning would bring positive results.
“Why not stick it to him?” Det. Britto chewed mannerly, then swallowed. “Right now, any break depends on his word alone.”
More burly dockworkers arrived after working late. The regular patrons of the restaurant seemed to understand and acted strangely protective as she, Joe and Det. Britto, and sometimes Emery, huddled in a corner booth. Those rugged patrons may have been what kept the media out of their faces.
Another week passed. Media coverage had created a monster with the eye-for-an-eye proponents and the anti-cruel and unusual punishment advocates vying for equal time. In the broad spectrum of politics, the life and times of Becky Ann Fisher was front and center. With the Supreme Court's decision due, time to beat the ratings was short. The media would soon have to find another story to keep the public tuned in.
Somehow, the media had gotten hold of details of the heated legal proceedings between her and Preston and even a copy of their marriage certificate and legal separation orders. When one station came up with something new, eventually they all discussed it. “It's ludicrous. They'd interview casual bystanders if they claimed to have information.”
Every newscast headlined Becky's case and compared it to numerous, however slightly, related cases. Commentators, lawyers, and so-called legal experts speculated.
“They probably take bets under the table.” Joe's sarcasm seemed to want to bubble over.
The local television channels vied in a battle for ratings. Each promised to present the best coverage, news you wouldn't hear or see elsewhere.
The abolitionists could do no more to delay what seemed inevitable.
Surprisingly, Emery declined all interview
s, not even when chased down the street. Joe reported that Emery was once cornered in a restroom at a urinal. Only then did he threaten to do something raunchy that left everyone no choice but to flee.
Det. Britto now kept company with a bodyguard. If Det. Britto had his own bodyguard, was either her or Joe's lives in danger? What about Becky too? The thought that anyone might penetrate prison security and harm her sent a morbid chill up Abi's spine. Det. Britto confirmed Abi's suspicions about the unmarked cars recently noticed no matter where she and Joe went. Too, one frustrated detective must have had a talk with media personnel because cameras no longer poked into their faces.
Abi could not be in her store without customers commenting on her situation. Business was brisk. People flocked in, not only to buy children's clothing and donate to the homeless, but to ogle. They wanted to see her and watch her suffer. Not in a menacing way, perhaps, but to share the grief and feel thankful that the horrible situation was not happening to them. It was human nature. To avoid being harassed, Abi began calling Lindsay to check on the business and stopped going to the store altogether.
Joe and his spacious, airy home were her only solace. Masculine though it was, the decor was an expression of him and she was comfortable with that. She did miss her own place, the home she sometimes secretly referred to as Becky's house. How abruptly it had been snatched away. Now it seemed that not only Becky but she, too, would be taking the long way home.
A letter came for Joe from the East Coast with no name included in the return address. The moment she touched the expensive stationery, Abi knew who sent it. With heart pounding, she flung it onto the foyer table. What right did Margaret have to correspond with Joe? They said their goodbyes and that was to be the last contact. Abi remembered the conversation she overheard of Margaret tempting Joe in the kitchen saying she could remain in Seaport. Joe had been adamant about cutting off contact with her, but evidently Margaret was not giving up.
Abi made her way to the sofa. She shook with anger. “I don't need the aggravation.” Finally she broke down and wept bitterly for the first time.
“Abi, honey.” Joe was suddenly at her side. “What is it?”
“Oh, Joe! I-I didn't hear… you're here.”
“What's going on?” He held her and comforted her. “What brought this on?”
She could only point toward the foyer.
He brought the letter and sat again. He had not guessed who sent it and opened it. “Oh, no.” He continued to read. “I don't believe it.” His lips pinched tight. “I don't believe it.”
“What does she want?”
“I have no secrets from you, Abi. Here.” He offered her the sheet of fancy stationery. “You should read this.”
Abi didn't want to touch it again and recoiled. “No, Just tell me.”
“First of all, are you okay?”
“I-I'll be all right. Why is she coming back into our lives?”
“I don't know. I did nothing to encourage her, I swear.”
“She's not letting go.” Abi reached for some tissues and blew her nose.
“I'm not really sure. It's not that kind of letter.” He scanned the page again. “Let me read it to you.”
“No, just tell me.”
“I can't believe she'd do a thing like that.” He stared at the page sighed heavily. “She just bought Monk's Hill with that big hooded rock and everything.”
“Monk's Hood? Not Becky's rock.”
“She's put a deposit on the entire thirty-some acres overlooking the north shore at Pt. Meare.”
“She bought Monk's Hill?” Heat rushed to her face. “Why here?” That could only mean one thing. “She's not giving up, and I'm too tired to fight.”
Joe took her hand and sighed heavily. “You don't have to fight for me, Abi.” He pressed her hand against his lips and stared into her eyes. Finally, he picked up the letter again. “There's more. She's divorcing and has reclaimed her father.”
“And all his money. That's how she's able to buy that land.”
“Of course. But no mention of her mother and brother. She only talks about inheriting the big bucks. Went to a plastic surgeon two days after arriving home. Had a total body make-over.” He looked up from the letter. “Why move to a place of bad memories?”
“She wants you, Joe. She even fixed her face… her whole body. She….” Excruciating pain exploded in her chest. Abi pushed back against the sofa, trying to escape it. She stiffened and then flailed her left arm, which ached. She gasped for breath.
“Abi? Abi… what's wrong?”
She had meant to take a nitro and now fumbled for a tablet, with Joe's help, finally placing it under her tongue. That should have calmed her, but it didn't. She went limp, felt her eyes roll in their sockets. She kept throwing her left arm trying to dispel the pain. She could barely draw a breath. “It's not… helping. Joe! Joe…?”
He ripped the cell phone off his waistband and punched in 911.
Chapter 48
Despite the pain, Abi was fully aware of everything around her. She had not lost consciousness. She prayed it was only another heart spell. The thought occurred to her that if she couldn't control her stress levels, she could die before Becky was freed. She had held on, but in the ambulance, felt herself slipping into darkness.
When she came to, she looked around. It was familiar, another morning of waking in the hospital. She heard Joe's and another man's voice beyond the curtain.
“The best time to tell her might be now, while she's sedated.” It must have been the doctor giving permission, but for what?
“Is there any way you could be here when she wakes? She'll take this awfully hard.”
Having heard, Abi turned her face toward them. She felt groggy. “What is it? Tell me what?”
Joe threw the curtain aside and came to her. “Abi, my Abi.” He looked haggard.
“My heart, Joe. Is it bad?”
“No.” He shook his head and rubbed her hair. “You're a fighter, you've pulled through again.”
“What is it, then?” Nothing had ever made Joe look so worried.
The doctor, with whom Joe had been speaking stepped closer. “Just stay calm, Mrs. Fisher.” He gently patted her arm.
“Calm, why? What's going on?”
Joe sighed heavily and looked down at the sheets. “Oh, Abi.”
She tried to sit up and fell back into the pillows. “Damned drugs!” She squeezed her eyes tightly closed, as if she could dispel their affect. “It's about Becky, isn't it?”
Joe shook his head. “Abi…”
Again, she struggled to sit up. “Joe, ple-ease!”
The door opened and Det. Britto walked in while a uniformed officer remained outside the doorway. She didn't understand the frightened look in Det. Britto's eyes. “Am I on time?”
“On time for what?”
The doctor turned to leave. “We'll watch her on the monitors.”
Joe and Det. Britto looked at one another. “I was just about to tell her.”
Det. Britto put up a hand. “Let me do this.” His voice sounded apologetic.
Joe raised the head of her bed as a solemn Det. Britto turned to face her.
“Ma'am, I don't know any way to soften this, so I'm just gonna say it.” He paused, only a second, looking straight into her eyes. “The PD received a suspicious package in the mail a few days ago. After we made sure it wasn't a bomb or something, well, the lab opened it.”
“This has something to do with Becky?”
“Everything to do. What we found inside was a lab vial, a blood sample, you know.”
“And?”
“It was marked with Megan Winnaker's name and other information.”
Again, something stirred in the pit of Abi's stomach. She pulled herself further upright in the bed. She no longer felt ill. Instead, her nervous system pumped adrenalin. “Does the lab always return the vials to the police department when the tests are done?”
Det. Britto fidgeted and wrung
his hands. “No, they don't.” He sighed heavily, letting off stress. “And the vial was full, though the blood had coagulated.”
Abi felt irritated. She didn't understand. “Why would you receive that vial back then? Becky's blood's been tested.”
“That's the point. Someone's blood's been tested, but it wasn't Winnaker's.”
“Wha-at? Becky's blood was sent along with mine. We got the results….” Suddenly Abi realized what the detective was trying to convey. “Whose blood is that?”
“The blood in the vial the PD just received was tested and it contains Megan Winnaker's sample.” He looked like he might collapse. He pulled up a chair and sat down facing her. “The package and the vial are being dusted for prints, as we speak.”
Joe had remained silent and watched as if making sure she understood. She did not. “Honey, what Britto's trying to say is that it looks like Megan Winnaker's blood sample has been exchanged for someone else's that went to the lab.”
That was even more confusing. “So Megan is not Becky?” She felt like screaming, but something else had already replaced the disappointment. “Becky! She's not in prison?”
Det. Britto stood again. “Looks as though the blood vials were switched somehow. This package we just got was the real blood taken from Winnaker in prison. It's the prison's vial, with the prison's label on it, but it's not their packing materials. We've already talked to the lab people in Lawton and they described the package supposedly Winnaker's vial was received in. It was the sealed carton the prison doc said he sent to be shipped with your blood, but the vial inside was marked differently. Whoever switched it used one of those white secretarial-type stick 'um labels on the vial that went to the lab in Lawton.”
“Maybe they ran out of regular labels, Britto.”
“Prison labels are computer printed when needed.” Det. Britto turned his attention back to her again. “In fact, we now have the prison's vial with their standard label in that package in our possession at the PD.”