Josie heard it before Linda did. Max's growl. Josie strained to see him but her face was pressed hard into the floor. She caught a glimpse of him struggling to his feet. He barked loud and long.
"Shut up!" Linda screamed and yanked harder on Josie's arm. "Shut him up!"
Josie cried out in pain. Max lunged but he was old and didn't get very far. He growled and snapped as Linda fought him off, scuttling off Josie long enough to kick the animal in the chest. Max yelped, and then the yelp turned to a whimper. Josie looked back in time to see him stumble and Linda go after him in a blind fury. Linda screamed and kicked him again and again. She picked up a lamp and clubbed him. Max went down, his legs giving out as he backed away.
It was all the time Josie needed. She ran to the hall and into the dining room heading for the back door. Linda was on her in a second but Josie twisted away and reeled into the dining room wall. Above her, her mother's plates shook loose. One hit Josie's shoulder, and the other hit the floor with the crack of gunfire as it shattered.
Linda whirled toward the sound. Locked in on Josie, Linda hurtled across the room, tossing chairs out of her way. Her hip hit the table and threw it off center. Josie pushed back against the wall and sank to the floor, steeling herself for the assault. Linda would be on her before Josie knew it. She watched. She waited. Linda drove forward, thinking of nothing but keeping Josie from telling her secrets, thinking only of herself, and that was Linda Rayburn's downfall.
No strategy.
No patience.
No game.
She lunged.
Terrified, Josie still held her ground, judged Linda's trajectory and moved at the last possible moment. Gripping a shard of pottery Josie raised her hand and slashed. She felt the give as the sharp edge of the plate fragment hit skin and tore through veins; Josie prayed she could hold on long enough for it to work through an artery. Instantly, Josie's hand was covered in blood. It spurted onto her face and into her hair.
Josie turned her face away but it was too late. The blood was in her mouth, her eyes, on Linda Rayburn as she fell into Josie Baylor-Bates' arms. The impact sent them both skidding across the wooden floor, crashing into the corner of the room.
Josie's hand was still on the shard of porcelain and that shard was still buried in Linda Rayburn's throat when the outside door was kicked open. The last thing Josie saw was a gun, a man in blue and Linda Rayburn's bloody neck as she was lifted off her.
CHAPTER 40
"In a stunning turn of events, Linda Rayburn was indicted for the murder of California State Supreme Court Justice, Fritz Rayburn. She is being held without bail pending her trial. You may recall that her daughter, Hannah Sheraton, pled guilty to the crime but new evidence showed that . . ." ABC News
Josie turned off the ignition. She knew the story by heart. Newspapers, radio, television, there wasn't a reporter in the country who hadn't called her for a comment. She had declined them all.
The sun had come back with a vengeance and October was looking like a record setter. Taking off her baseball cap Josie tossed it in the back seat, slid her sunglasses down her nose and checked out her black eye in the rear-view mirror. It wasn't looking too bad. More green than purple, the bruise should be gone in another week. Her left arm was in a sling but she cheated and opened the door with her left hand anyway. After all, her arm wasn't broken, just a good old-fashioned dislocation.
She took a deep breath and stepped down from the Jeep. It seemed a lifetime ago since she'd been here to meet Hannah. Thanks to Archer she was alive to remember the first time. Surprised by Linda, Josie hadn't hung up the phone just right. When Archer got back from Burt's his answering machine was still recording the sounds of a struggle. He led the charge. He brought the cavalry. Archer wrapped Josie up in his arms and carried her to the ambulance. Not a word was said. What he felt was in his touch, and in his eyes. That was Archer's way. He found Max and got him to the vet. Since then he had nursed them both with such tenderness, in such watchful silence, that Josie wept with gratitude when she was alone. No one had ever treated her as if they were afraid to lose her. But now she was well and Archer had kissed her goodbye, knowing what was being done today had to be done alone.
Josie crossed the parking lot, opened the door to Sybil Brand prison, checked with the officer in charge and waited for Hannah Sheraton to be released.
Ten minutes later, Hannah stood in the doorway and for the hundredth time Josie Baylor-Bates was struck by her beauty. That skin was still the color of milk chocolate; her green eyes were still as clear and bright as an emerald. The only thing that was different was Hannah Sheraton walked toward Josie Baylor-Bates and stopped only twice to step back and begin again.
Hannah smiled softly, sadly. She put out her hand. It was completely healed but still carried the scars of the fire. Josie nodded. She smiled. She touched Hannah's hand and then her hair.
"I think you're going to start a trend."
Hannah's hand went to the tight curls of the new hair that was growing in over her scar. Broken, mended, always a scar. Just like the hula girl plate. The tongue and nose studs were gone. The heavy bandages on her arm were gone. The make-up was gone. Everything about her was bare and fragile as if she was rice paper waiting for the gentle stroke of a brush to define her.
"Maybe," Hannah said shyly. Awkwardly, she pointed to Josie's eye. "You're hurt, too."
"So, I guess we've got something in common," Josie said. She put her hand on Hannah's shoulder. Come on. Let's get out of here."
Together they walked out the door. The prison was behind them, the Jeep in front. Josie rounded to the driver's side. She took her time getting in and winced when she reached in the back for her hat. Hannah stopped her. She was the one who got the baseball cap and put it on Josie. Hannah leaned back and made sure it was straight.
"Okay?" Josie asked, touched by the gesture. Hannah nodded and both of them sat in silence, looking at the prison.
"Josie?"
"Yep."
"I'm sorry for my mom. I'm sorry for everything."
"It's all right."
Josie took the keys from her pocket. But Hannah wouldn't leave it at that.
"I just couldn't tell you what really happened. You understand that, don't you?"
"I don't think I'll ever understand it. I can't imagine giving up my life for anyone, not even my mother," Josie said. She fiddled with the keys, knowing they had to have this conversation but somehow wanting to just skip over it, leave it behind. "If you're asking if I'm upset with you, I'm not. Everybody does what they have to do."
"You're not even mad about what she tried to do to you?" Hannah asked.
Josie twisted, sitting gingerly so she could look Hannah in the eye.
"I'm not exactly happy. In fact, I'm royally ticked off. I've never had anyone try to kill me before. But, Hannah, that's what your mother did and you are not your mother. I'm not my mother. How can I be angry with you for something she did?"
Hannah lowered her lashes, "Because I am her. I lied like my mother lies. If I told you the truth, then you wouldn't be hurt."
"That doesn't make you her, Hannah," Josie assured her. "You stayed quiet because you loved her. Your mom wanted to protect her money and her security. She was willing to gamble with your life and all the while you were protecting hers. There's a big difference."
Hannah's eyes were trained on the low-slung building where she could have possibly spent the rest of her life.
"I don't think she thought of it as gambling. She had a plan, but it just didn't work out the right way and she got scared. You know that snowball thing? First she figured she wouldn't get caught. Then she figured you would get me off. When you wanted to go to trial you just painted her into a corner. You have to understand, my mom has been scared her whole life."
"And you haven't been scared?" Josie asked quietly.
"Not the way she is. I've never been scared like that."
Josie to
uched the bill of her cap; she tipped her face toward the sun. It was so hot. It felt so good. She wanted to be on Archer's balcony. Instead, she was back in school, rooming with Linda Rayburn. Josie spoke more to herself than to Hannah.
"Your mom used to act like she had the world on a string. I don't know what happened."
"Nothing happened," Hannah answered. "She was always afraid of being alone, of having nothing. She used to curl up in a corner and cry when she didn't have someone to take care of her. I took care of her. That was my job because she gave me life. I would have taken care of her forever." Hannah sniffed. She put her elbow up on the window. "Who'll take care of her in there? Who'll take care of her when she's scared?"
"I don't know, honey," Josie said truthfully.
"I don't think she deserves to go to prison," Hannah whispered. "Not really."
Josie looked toward the prison. They didn't speak. They looked at that place the same way they had watched the stars in Malibu the night Hannah counted only to two. The night Hannah had touched Josie's hand and her heart and her mind. Finally Josie asked the question that seemed so obvious to her but had flown under Hannah's radar.
"Did you deserve to be there?"
Hannah closed her eyes and pulled her bottom lip under her teeth. So like her mother but so much her own, brave woman. Josie didn't wait for a response because it would be a long, long time before Hannah would be honest enough with herself to answer it.
Josie put the key in the ignition and started the car. Hannah opened her eyes. She put on her seat belt and looked straight ahead. Josie wondered if Hannah was well enough to see the future, or was just taking a last look at a place she never wanted to see again.
"Where are we going?" she asked as they turned toward the freeway.
"Haven't got a clue," Josie answered. "Let's try to figure it out at my place."
<<<<>>>>
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SILENT WITNESS
Silent Witness
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Though certain elements of this novel were suggested by actual events, it is a work of fiction. All characters, whether central or peripheral, are purely products of the author's imagination, as are their actions, motivations, thoughts, and conversations, and neither the characters nor the situations were invented for them are intended to depict real people.
For my sons
Prologue
He shot the naked woman at nine thirty in the morning; the naked man was in his sights at nine forty-five.
Three more shots: the front door and address, the woman's car nestled in the shadows of an Acacia tree, the man's car parked in front of the house – as subtle a statement as a dog pissing to mark its territory. The camera started to whir. Archer decided he had enough to satisfy his client that the missus wasn't exactly waiting with bated breath for him to high tail it home.
Archer reloaded and stashed the exposed film in his pocket then let his head fall back against the Hummer's seat. Cradling the camera in his lap, Archer felt his body go heavy as his eyes closed. He was tired to the bone and not because he had another couple of hours to wait before Don Juan decided to pack up his piece and take his leave. This tired was in Archer's soul; this tired crept way deep into that heart muscle and made it hard to pump enough blood to keep him going.
He moved in the seat, put one leg up and tried to stretch it out. There wasn't a comfortable place for a man his size even in this hunk of Hummer metal; there wasn't a comfortable place in his mind for the thoughts that had been dogging him for days.
He hated this gig, spying on wayward wives. No self-respecting cop would be doing this kind of work even if the wronged husband were paying big bucks. But then Archer wasn't a self-respecting cop anymore. He was a part-time photographer, a retired detective, a freelance investigator and a man who was running on empty when it came to making ends meet this month. And then there was the anniversary.
He didn't want to think about that either, but it was impossible to clear his mind when California autumn had come again, a carbon copy of a day Archer would just as soon not remember. It had been sunny like today: bright sky blue up high, navy in the deep sea. A nip in the day air. Cold at night. Lexi, his wife, was sick. And then there was Tim. God, he hated thinking about it. But on a day like this, with too much time on his hands, it couldn't be helped.
Archer stirred and held the camera in the crook of one arm like a child. His other one was bent against the door so he could rest his head in his upturned hand. He moved his mind like he moved his body, adjusting, settling in with another thought until he found a good place where it could rest.
Josie.
Always Josie. The woman who saved him from insanity after Lexi died. They'd hit a little rough patch lately but even that didn't keep the thought of her from putting his mind in a good place. Sleep was coming. What was happening in the house was just a job. The other was just a memory. Josie was real. Josie was . . .
Archer didn't have the next second to put a word to what Josie meant to him. The door of the Hummer was ripped open, almost off its hinges. Archer fell out first, the camera right after. Off balance already, he was defenseless against the huge hands that grappled and grasped at his shoulders and the ferocity of the man who threw him onto the asphalt and knelt on his back.
"Jesus Christ. . ." Archer barked just before the breath was knocked out of him.
"Shut up." The man atop him growled, dug his knee into Archer's back, and took hold of his hair.
Archer grunted. Shit, he was getting old. The guy in the house not only made him, he got the drop on him. Archer ran through what he knew: the guy was a suit, one seventy tops, didn't work out. He should be able to flick this little shit off with a deep breath.
Hands flat on the ground, Archer tried to do just that but as he pushed himself off the pavement he had another surprise. It wasn't the guy in the house at all. The man on his back was big, he was heavy and he wasn't alone. There were two of them.
While the first ground Archer's face into the blacktop, the second found a home for the toe of his boot in Archer's midsection. Archer bellowed. He curled. He tried to roll but that opened him up and this time that boot clipped the side of his face, catching the corner of his eye. The blow sent him into the arms of the first man who embraced him with an arm around his throat. Archer's eyes rolled back in his head. Jesus that hurt. His eyelids fluttered. One still worked right. He looked up and stopped struggling.
The guy who had him in a headlock knew what he was doing. If Archer moved another inch and the man adjusted his grip, Archer's neck would snap. As it was, the guy was doing a fine job of making sure Archer was finding it damn hard to breathe.
His eyes rolled again as a pain shot straight through his temple and embedded itself behind his ear. He tried to focus, needing to see at least one of them if he was going to identify them when – if – he got out of this mess. They could have the car. No car was worth dying for. But he couldn't tell them to take it if he couldn't speak and he couldn't identify them if he could barely see. There was just the vaguest impression of blue eyes, a clean-shaven face, and a checked shirt. Archer's thoughts undulated with each new wave of pain. Connections were made then broken and made again like a faulty wire. The one that stuck made sense:
these guys didn't want his car but they sure as hell wanted something. Just as the chokehold king tightened his grip, and his friend took another swipe at Archer's ribs, one of them offered a clue.
"You asshole. Thought you got away with it, didn't you?"
That was not a helpful hint.
***
Roger McEntyre took the call at ten thirty-five without benefit of a secretary. Didn't need one; didn't want one. The kind of work he did wasn't dependent on memos and messages. He kept important information in his head. If he shared that information, it was because he wanted to. If Roger wasn't in his office, couldn't be raised on his cell, had not told his colleagues where to contact him then he meant not to be found. That's what a company guy did. He delivered what the company needed and was rewarded with the knowledge that he was the best in the business. Everyone had tried to hire him away: Disneyland, Magic Mountain, Knott's Berry Farm but a company man was loyal. Roger was loyal to Pacific Park, the oldest amusement park in California, loyal to the man who had given his father a job when no one else would, loyal to the man who treated him like a son.
Now he was about to deliver a piece of good news the company needed bad. He was delivering it before schedule and that made him proud, though it was difficult to tell. Roger's smile was hidden by the walrus mustache he had grown the minute he left the service. That was a pity because he actually had a nice, almost boyish grin when he thought to use it.
So he left his office – a small, spare space off a long corridor – and passed the two offices where his colleagues worked. One ex-FBI, the other a product of New York's finest. Roger, himself, was Special Forces. Honorable discharge. Fine training.
He walked through the reception area of building three and gave the girl at the desk an almost imperceptible nod as he passed. She was a cute kid and Roger doubted she knew his name. Given her expression, he imagined she wasn't even sure he worked there. That's the kind of man he was. He walked like he knew where he was going and didn't mess where he wasn't supposed to. If he had been another kind of man that little girl would have been open season. She didn't know how lucky she was.
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