The Witness Series Bundle

by Rebecca Forster

  "Your Honor. Judge. I'm only sixteen, but I've been around. Not like those women want you to think, but I've seen a lot. One thing I know is that adults screw up and make bad choices, and kids have to pay for them; kids screw up and make bad choices and they get creamed. I never had one person looking out for me, and now I've got a whole little city worried about me and Josie. You don't know how worried everyone is, and how they are all trying to help. I may have screwed up with the posters, but I was trying to do the right thing. Maybe that wasn't the right thing, but I have to tell you there's one thing I can do that nobody else can."

  "What would that be, Hannah?" Judge Leisinger asked.

  "I can wait. I know how to keep my eye on the door. If I'm not there, Josie will know. If I am there, she'll come back to me eventually. Waiting always brought my mom back, and she didn't even care about me."

  Nobody could argue with what Hannah brought to the table. In that final sixteen-year-old argument for independence, was a message of hope and faith and love that was both an uplifting explanation of her own strength, and a devastating commentary on the system.

  "Judge?" Mrs. Crane cleared her throat, and it sounded like she was singing too loud in church. "That was quite lovely, but we have to also point out that it is this person," she half turned toward Archer, "a man who has been Ms. Bates' significant other who appears to be offering himself as interim guardian to Hannah."

  Mrs. Rice lumbered up beside her counterpart in a show of solidarity. Her sweater had bunched up on her substantial hips; her arms were akimbo instead of at her sides because of her bulk. She couldn't help but add her two cents.

  "It would be one thing if this gentleman was in a committed relationship with Ms. Bates, then we could argue that he was a father figure within the household. But this relationship is casual, and that is hardly the optimal situation for Hannah. She will be a young woman alone in an environment that this man has access to, day or night."

  Outwardly, Archer didn't flinch; inside he was boiling. It was a good thing this woman wasn't talking that kind of trash in Burt's bar. Archer would have decked her in a minute, wiped that self-righteous piggy purse off her lips. Hannah, though, started. He pressed his shoulder against hers and felt the tension in her body.

  "We're good," he whispered.

  "Thank you for that input, Counsel. Mrs. Crane." The judge took thirty long seconds to consider the paperwork on his desk.

  "Your Honor," Mrs. Rice didn't know when to quit. Judges could be like sleeping dogs, better to let them lie. The expression Leisinger showed to her was less than pleased. She didn't notice and kept poking at him. "Please also consider that Ms. Bates is known to have been attorney of record in some quite notorious defendants. Even this man." She indicated Archer. "Even he admits that they are tracking one of her clients as the possible perpetrator of her disappearance. But he is not the only possibility. No matter what has taken Josie Bates away from Hannah Sheraton, it boils down to the fact that there are only two choices – the situation she finds herself in is dangerous or she is selfish. "

  Archer was on his feet. "You don't know what you're talking about."

  "Sit down," The judge snapped. "Now."

  Before Archer could settle in his seat, the judge who had heard enough nonsense, made his ruling.

  CHAPTER 32

  Josie Bates' House, Hermosa Beach

  "Totally awesome, Hannah! Come on, you gotta admit it. Three patties on those burgers is way awesome. And fries? And onion rings? And pie?"

  Billy Zuni balanced on the low wall that separated the Strand from the sand. Every fifth step he threw out his arms, pretending he was going to fall, but Hannah didn't bite. She walked a few steps ahead, her thumbs crooked in the pockets of her low cut jeans. Her sweater was tied around her waist because it had been too hot to wear a sweater in the first place. She had thought it would be okay since it was made of an open weave cotton that she figured the breeze would go right through it, if there ever was a breeze. It was the heat that made her even more edgy and impatient with Billy. The burgers were awesome, but she wasn't going to go on like some fool about them. Besides, Billy was ignoring the fact that Burt was treating them like kids whose parents were divorcing.

  "He gave you a deal, Billy. Burt doesn't charge twenty bucks for all that food," Hannah sniffed.

  "So?" Billy jumped down from the wall, his flip-flops slapping on the concrete. He ran ahead of her and turned around to walk backward. "Doesn't mean that they weren't awesome, does it?"

  "No," she muttered.

  "And maybe he just wanted to celebrate that the judge let you go. I know I want to celebrate. Man, you beat the whole system."

  Hannah couldn't argue with him about Burt's generosity so she didn't try. She just didn't like overt kindness. It bothered her, made her skin itch, made her think there was another shoe that was going to drop if she gave in to comfort. Burt had put his hand over hers as he passed on his way to give an order to the kitchen. She had smiled at him even though she didn't like people touching her. When he stopped to ask if there was anything she needed at the house, he didn't take no for an answer and promised to send over some ready-made meals. She would have preferred he accepted her word that she was fine. When he didn't, it made her feel like he thought she was lying. And when he went about his business, greeting other patrons and filling their orders and that made her mad too. She didn't want anyone to be doing business as usual. Nothing was usual.

  Then she saw his mangled legs, trophies from that horrid motorcycle accident. He had almost died but he worked his way through the pain and terror and come out the other side, business as usual. That's when Hannah got up to leave. She didn't mind working through the pain and terror, she just didn't want to be more mangled when she reached the end of the journey. So she left the restaurant and Billy followed. He caught up with her, but knew better than to actually touch her as she walked. He fell behind for a while, then for a while he walked in front of her. All Billy really wanted was to help.

  "Bet Archer was glad you didn't have to go to a foster home, too."

  Hannah's eyes lowered, and she couldn't help smiling. She and Archer had both been jazzed when they walked out of court, leaving the two county witches to stew over the fact that they hadn't cast the proper spell on Judge Leisinger. Archer had even managed a smile. It wasn't big and it wasn't wide, but Hannah saw it.

  "Forty-eight hours isn't much but it's something," Hannah said, not wanting to voice what she really thought.

  In her soul, Hannah took this as a sign that everything was going to be all right. She had tried to thank Archer, but he got back in the Hummer like he hadn't heard her so she didn't try again. The morning had turned to afternoon by the time he dropped her back at Josie's. The last thing he did was reach in the back for her big bag. He gave it to her and said:

  "Put that stuff away."

  He took off, needing to catch up with Liz Driscoll and check his messages hoping the people he was tracking had called him back with information that could lead to Josie. It was Archer's twenty that had bought them the feast at Burt's, and now Hannah was getting antsy. She wanted her phone to ring. She wanted to get home to see if there was a message on the house line. She wanted Max by her side because he made her feel like she was home for sure, but Billy was sticking to her like glue. He was walking backward again, jabbering as he always did about nonsensical stuff, hardly noticing that Hannah wasn't just lost in thought, she had come to a dead stop.

  "Hannah, want to go over to …"

  A few steps later, Billy figured out she was mesmerized by something she saw over his shoulder. He stopped, too, and shook back his blond shock of hair.

  "Hannah? You okay?"

  Without a word, she put her hand out like a sleepwalker and pushed him aside. Billy followed. He didn't see anything, yet it was clear that Hannah did. She walked slowly at first, and then picked up the pace until she was running. That pretty sweater unwound from he
r waist and dropped to the ground as she ran. Billy scooped it up and followed after her.

  "Hannah," he called, but she didn't stop until she was at the 'T' where Josie's walk-street dead-ended into the Strand. Billy pulled up behind her.

  "Shit, dude," he breathed.

  Shoulder-to-shoulder, they stood looking at the people surrounding Josie's house. There were a hundred of them, maybe more, holding candles whose flames didn't flicker in the hot, still evening. On the far side of the crowd, traffic crawled on Hermosa Boulevard as drivers gawked. One driver who had obviously had one too many slowed to a stop, lifted his middle finger and hollered something that Hannah could not hear but knew to be vile.

  There was a television truck illegally parked against the curb and a blond woman was speaking earnestly into the lens of a huge shoulder cam pointed her way by a big guy wearing a green t-shirt. When sirens sounded in the distance, the commentator picked up the pace. Hurriedly, she finished speaking, and then shouldered her way through the crowd, raised her hand and pushed her microphone up toward the man standing atop the low wall that Josie had built. His arms were outstretched like Christ on the cross, and he was talking trash to the faithful and the fools.

  An Outbuilding in the California Mountains

  Erika tore a piece of her skirt off, wrapped it around her bound hands and rubbed her face. She rubbed and rubbed. Her skin was raw, but Josie had given up trying to make her stop.

  "How's this?" Erika asked, and for the tenth time Josie looked up.

  "Yeah, looks good."

  Erika smiled. "Great. Okay. Your turn. If we make ourselves look nice, maybe it will make a difference. God, I wish I had a comb."

  "Hmmm." Josie was half listening because the knot of the rope around her hands was starting to give. She stretched her finger as far as it could go and wiggled it under the knot, but she couldn't get enough leverage.

  "Erika, come here. Quick. I can't hold it too long." Erika did as she was told, crawling toward Josie who was holding her wrists up. "Look, see, it's giving. Can you work one of your fingers underneath?"

  Silently Erika bent to the task. She straightened her pointer finger and worked it under the rope. Josie held her breath, but Erika breathed hard with the effort. Slowly the rope gave. Neither woman uttered a sound and certainly not a word of delight. Superstition was the order of the day inside that hut. Don't speak of hope because God might hear and dash it. Don't wish for water because it might rain outside and they would have none inside. Don't talk of their lives before this, because they might never get back to them. So, when that little loop of cotton rope jiggled, when Erika crooked her finger underneath, when the end of it popped through that loop, they dared only look at one another.

  Erika bent again and pinched the remaining knot between thumb and pointer finger. She worked the rope back and forth, back and forth. Impatient, Josie contracted and expanded her wrists. She wriggled them, and the work became frantic. Erika giggled, and Josie barked a laugh.

  "Oh Jesus. That's it. That's it." Josie rejoiced. In the next second the rope fell away and blood rushed to her extremities. She rubbed her wrists, she wiggled her fingers, and looked at her hands as if she had never seen them before. Then she heard:

  "Josie? What about me?"

  "Oh, Lord. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

  Josie reached for Erika's bindings, but the other woman pulled her hands away. She wasn't smiling anymore. She seemed peeved.

  "I mean, what about me?" Erika said again. "Do I look nice?"

  Josie Bates' House, Hermosa Beach

  Hannah heard all she needed to hear. The man on the wall, the guy who looked like an undertaker, was calling down God's wrath on Josie Bates and it pissed Hannah off.

  Without thinking, she tore through the crowd, pushing aside the candle holding idiots and flew at the man in black, knocking him off the wall. There was a collective gasp. Someone hollered. A woman screamed. All Hannah heard was the sounds of commotion; all she saw was the man in black. Hannah was over the wall in the blink of an eye, pushing him back into the small yard. She was younger and faster than he, and she straddled him before anyone knew what was happening. Her fists flew and the fact that he made no effort to protect himself enraged her even more.

  Some people called for her to stop; some implored God to intervene; someone was calling out a play-by-play. The moment had turned into an event, but Hannah didn't care about any of it until she felt a man's hands on her shoulders. She wriggled out of his grasp.

  "Back off," she screamed. "He can't say those things. He can't."

  Hannah was sobbing now. The blows she delivered were soft with despair and exhaustion. Soon she couldn't raise her arms any more, and she collapsed on the man in the black suit.

  The crowd hushed. In the fading light of day, in the glow of the flickering candles and the light atop the shoulder cam, Isaiah Wilson put his hands atop Hannah Sheraton's thick black hair as if he was blessing her.

  In the next moment, the man who had tried to pull Hannah away grasped her shoulders again, but the preacher's arms encircled Hannah even tighter. Lying on the ground, holding the sobbing girl as if she were his own, Isaiah Wilson looked at the man who would have taken her away. He smiled. He said:

  "Hello, Daniel."

  CHAPTER 33

  "Is she alright?"

  Reverend Wilson looked up as Archer and Daniel Young came into Josie's living room.

  "She'll be okay."

  Archer didn't break stride as he walked across the room, took the picture Isaiah was holding, and put it back where it belonged. It was Josie's favorite: her and Max when she first found him, sad and hungry and abandoned under the pier. Archer put it back next to a picture of Hannah standing in the framing of the arch between the living room and dining room.

  Isaiah Wilson's lips tipped, and Archer knew the expression for what it was: a smirk, a look of superiority, and a mocking expression. The man was getting everything he had come for, the opportunity to gloat over Josie's misfortune and another limelight to bask in. When this was over, Archer was going to have Josie's place fumigated.

  "Praise the Lord," Isaiah said offhandedly. "I would never want to see a young girl hurt."

  "I think it's yet to be seen how Hannah will weather the shock she had today." Daniel put in his two cents. Archer wasn't sure if he was voicing his concern or just wanted to get in the preacher's face.

  "She won't die, will she?" Isaiah tilted his head as if to say if Hannah were alive she was doing better than his Janey.

  Knowing that the point had been taken, Reverend Wilson pulled at his black slacks and sat down on Josie's sofa. His socks were black silk and his shoes spit-polished. But Archer was focused on the shine of blood that had seeped through the fine fabric at his knee. The injury underneath the cloth was pretty bad if Archer could see the burgundy blood on the black fabric. Not that he cared, because the guy deserved everything he got for the stunt he pulled. He would have grabbed the sucker himself if he'd been there.

  "You are a bastard. . ." Archer began, but Daniel stopped him.

  "Archer, please," Daniel said. "He didn't come here to hurt Hannah."

  "I only wish I had been praying for that girl all these years. Obviously, being Ms. Bates' child is trying."

  "You know she's not Josie's kid," Archer muttered. "She may never be after what happened today."

  "God's will, Archer," the reverend answered. "But Ms. Bates has been blessed. Hannah fought as fiercely for her as any daughter would have. Ms. Bates could learn from her: fight for a cause and not a paycheck."

  "Christ, that trial was ten years ago. Drop it."

  Archer exploded, unable to listen to this talk. What was with this guy anyway? Why bring God into all this like God had a side. Yet when the reverend turned his cool eye on Archer, the burly man immediately understood the import of what he had said. He wasn't sorry, but he understood.

  "I'm not saying you shouldn't grieve fo
r your daughter, but Josie didn't kill her," Archer argued.

  "No, she did not. At least not literally," Isaiah agreed. "All those lies about Janey, all the insinuations, that was just business, an investment in her career, wasn't it? And now, it seems, she is being paid a dividend she didn't expect."

  "So you came here to pray that she's going to die? What kind of religion is that?"

  Archer glanced out the living room window. Some of Wilson's flock had found their way back and their candles were lit once more. When Josie got home he'd talk to her about curtains. He caught sight of Paul Rothskill in the crowd. The whole gang was here – Daniel, Paul, Isaiah Wilson – and that put Archer on his guard.

  "It's the oldest kind of religion." Isaiah turned Archer away from his distraction. "An eye for an eye. I don't seek it, I simply point out that God's laws cannot be broken without the consequence. He sees, he waits, he allows free will to take its course, but always His hand is there for final justice."

  "But in this case justice isn't being handed out by God, is it?" Archer challenged. "There's a real, live, breathing human being who took Josie and Erika Gardener. God may work in mysterious ways, but he doesn't snatch women from their homes or their cars."

  The preacher put his fingers on the knee of his pant leg and probed the ever- growing stain of blood as if he wasn't listening. He did not wince or pull his hand away. It was as if he were detached from all the pain and worry except for that which he carried in his heart and soul.

  "Josie Bates stood between God and Xavier Hernandez; now God will not stand between her and him."

  "Isaiah, please." Daniel sat down opposite the reverend. "You must listen to me for a minute."

  "Really Daniel?" The reverend said mildly just before his eyes slid toward the doctor as if he didn't even deserve that much attention. "I value my time and I believe it has been established that even if one were to listen to you, there is no reason to take what you say to heart."