Dead River (41 page)

“Those techniques haven’t been proven to actually work,” Harley said with a quick smile. “I would say any evidence produced by experimental techniques would also lend to a very weak case.”

The judge put both of his hands up as though trying to stop traffic at a busy intersection. “Wait—wait now, gentlemen,” he ordered. “I’m not going to let this turn into a pissing contest. Both of you listen to me very carefully. First of all, Mr. Jacobson, ironically, just yesterday I finally decided on the State’s request to record David Sikes’s voice. My decision was to allow the recordings to proceed. However, in light of the scandal at the FDLE lab and looking at the entire case, I’m now inclined to not allow this.”

“But why, Judge?” Jacobson begged. “This could prove very useful to the State’s case.”

“I disagree, Mr. Jacobson,” Vetter said, now lecturing with his index finger. “It wouldn’t provide any beneficial evidence to the case. Again, Mr. Buckwald makes a good point. Those techniques to analyze speech signals are experimental and therefore have many legal holes.”

Vetter stared directly at Mr. Slick, as if he were the only other person in the judge’s chambers. “Mr. Jacobson, I would highly recommend that you drop the kidnapping and murder charges against Mr. Sikes and make sure he is out of the county jail no later than one week from today.”

“But, Your Honor, there’s another piece of critical evidence that has to be considered.”

Now Vetter’s cork popped. “Are you referring to the letter that has the imprint of a phone number? Is that what you’re referring to?”

“Well, yes, sir, I am.”

The judge leaned forward, resting his arms on the thick desktop. “That is as weak as the testimony of the two individuals that claim they can identify the defendant’s voice on the tapes. So if—”

“But—”

“Don’t interrupt me again, Mr. Jacobson. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

Vetter cleared his throat and continued. “So if you look at the remaining evidence, there’s basically nothing, nothing that would give you a chance in hell for a conviction. If you had an eye witness, that would be another story, but you don’t. So, I’m not going to sit through hours and hours of testimony for a trial that has a very predictable outcome. I doubt if you could even get a grand jury indictment with what you have left. So again, I would strongly suggest that you drop the kidnapping and murder charges against Mr. Sikes and ensure he’s out of the county jail in one week.”

“Yes, sir,” Jacobson submitted.

 88

THE SAME DAY David Allen Sikes’s fate was sealed by Judge Warren Vetter, Adam felt a strange sensation. It had no definable beginning or end, just a sense of being watched and followed. It had begun about six weeks ago, shortly after he received the mysterious phone call suggesting that David Sikes might be set free. But it couldn’t be Sikes—he was in jail. Maybe he had an accomplice. The police didn’t seem to think so, but they’d been wrong about a lot of things on this case.

At first Adam tried to ignore the feeling, but the frequency of its occurrence increased as his power to rationalize it away slowly melted. Paranoia was engulfing him, and he found himself checking the rearview mirror in the Volvo more often now. It wasn’t unusual for him to glance over his shoulder several times walking through the company parking lot, or anywhere else for that matter. Strangers became stranger, and even people he knew were becoming suspect.

Lately, he’d been wandering the dimly lit sidewalks of his neighborhood when he couldn’t sleep. The sound of a squirrel scurrying in a tree, a car passing by, or a croaking frog made him leery with every step he took. He searched for answers to uncertain questions and tried to sort out his deteriorating relationship with Valerie. Nothing seemed to make sense anymore.

That evening Adam drove to the R & R Gun Rack, taking the same route as he always did. It was five-twenty as he headed north on the four-lane A1A, not aware that he was cruising just under the forty-miles-per-hour speed limit. The last hint of the sun flowed over the tops of distant clusters of pines and palms as night slowly settled in. Nearby buildings cast their long shadows over the road, and street lights flickered.

Damn it, there it is again.

Adam checked his rearview mirror and spotted two cars, both more than a block behind him. He glanced at the road in front of him, clear of traffic, then back at the rearview mirror. The car in his lane, the left one, was now accelerating, it was coming up fast.

Jesus, who is this?

Suddenly, without signaling, Adam veered right, down a small side street and parked on the grassy shoulder next to a chain-link fence. He shut the car’s lights off but kept the engine running. Sweat began beading on his forehead, and his palms were moist. He checked his rearview mirror again. There were no cars coming down the street behind him. What’s going on? He wiped away the sweat from his forehead with the back of his right hand.

He checked again, still no cars. As he eased off the shoulder and steered sharply into a U-turn, he caught an explosive flash of headlights in front of him. The twinge deep in his gut started his heart pounding. He jammed on the brakes, and the Volvo rocked to a quick stop. The car in front of him braked hard and slid for a few feet before coming to rest, he guessed no more than five feet from his front bumper. Adam sat motionless with his foot still mashed down hard on the brake pedal, his hands latched tightly on the steering wheel.

Two men emerged from the car but left their doors hanging open. The street light was dim but bright enough for Adam to see that the two were not cops. The pang in his gut returned followed by a flow of adrenaline. Both men had thick mustaches and long hair. One wore his hair back in a ponytail. They approached Adam’s car in a menacing stride, heading for the driver’s side.

God, what the hell do they want?

Adam watched the two men stop beside his car. The one without the ponytail was carrying what looked like a baseball bat, but smaller than normal size, like kids use in Little League. He rapped the bat twice on the driver’s side window.

“Get out of the car, riata,” the man with the bat yelled through the glass.

Adam searched his limited Spanish vocabulary. Jesus, he called me a dick.

“What do you want?” Adam said, his voice wavering a bit.

Ponytail Man tried the door handle, but the Volvo’s doors were locked.

The man with the bat said something to Ponytail Man, but Adam couldn’t make it out. Then he rapped the bat on the window again, this time harder. Adam was now concerned that the glass would shatter.

“I’m not getting out!” Adam shouted.

“Where the fuck you learn to drive, shithead?” the man with the bat bellowed through the glass.

Adam gauged the distance again to the car in front of him. His steering wheel was already cranked to its maximum.

“Chingate rul!” Ponytail Man screamed as he pounded both fists on the driver’s side window.

“No, fuck you, asshole!” Adam shouted. Then he thrust his right foot down hard on the accelerator, and the Volvo lunged.

The man with the bat managed to back off before Adam’s car clipped him, but his cohort wasn’t as fortunate. Out of the corner of his left eye, Adam could see Ponytail Man go down. Then he felt a thud followed by the back of the car lifting slightly then falling.

Jesus Christ, I ran him over.

Adam’s palms were slick with sweat, and his heart felt as though it was pumping blood from his throat. He reached the highway and looked back into his rearview mirror. The man with the bat was helping his friend to his feet. He trounced the accelerator pedal, flicked on the headlights, veered left, and headed back home.

Adam raced up the driveway and quickly depressed the button on the visor, opening the garage door. The heavy metal door lifted slowly, too slowly for his liking right now. It let out an occasional howl and a crinkling and cracking sound. He tapped his hands on the steering wheel waiting for the door to open. He was pretty sure the two men hadn’t followed him but didn’t want to take any chances. He gunned the car into the garage and punched the button on the visor. The door crept back down the metal tracks and closed with a dull thud.

He sat in the car long enough for the overhead light on the garage door opener to automatically flick off. He had mixed emotions about the trip tomorrow to Key West with Val and Dawn. The mini-vacation has been planned for several months, actually from back in June. He convinced himself the getaway was necessary, a hiatus for everyone to clear their minds. But things weren’t going well with Val. With each day that passed they seemed to grow farther apart. When they weren’t arguing, they didn’t speak to each other. Maybe the trip to the Keys would change things … maybe.

 89

THE DAY AFTER he met with Judge Vetter and Owen Jacobson, Harley saw his client in the afternoon at the Brevard County Jail. The two men were in their familiar positions in the musty meeting room. Sikes’s handcuffs were secured to the eyelet on top of the metal table with a hefty brass padlock. His fingers were laced and his forehead rested on them. The chain that secured his handcuffs to the steel table was drawn tight. The way his head was tucked downward gave the appearance of someone deep in prayer. Perhaps he was.

“Let me know when you’re ready,” the guard said as he strolled out.

Harley glanced up and nodded as he slid his chair closer to the table.

“Your boy there is in another one of his moods, counselor,” the guard warned, using his fingers for quotation marks to emphasize moods.

As Harley eased back in his chair the guard slammed the door shut, and the heavy lock engaged. Sikes raised his head slowly and stared at Harley with dark hollow eyes, his fingers still interlocked.

“You all right, son?” Harley inquired.

Sikes didn’t speak. He seemed detached. He just sat there, glumly, staring at Harley. But then he formed a narrow smile.

“You have something important to tell me, don’t you?” Sikes asked in a deep voice.

“As a matter of fact, I do. How’d you know?”

Sikes’s smile widened. Maybe it was more like a smirk. “Tell me, now.”

Harley sat silent for a moment trying to sort out how Sikes could know anything about what he was about to tell him. It didn’t matter, not now.

“Okay, let me get right to the point. The judge has ruled in our favor on both motions we filed. You’ll be a free man no later than next Tuesday.”

Sikes continued staring at Harley with that haunting grin, not saying a word.

“You hear what I said, son?”

“I heard you,” Sikes finally answered. Then the smirk faded, and his eyes seemed even darker, like two pieces of coal set back into his skull. There was nothing to read in them, just dark, cavernous holes.

Harley reached down for his briefcase at his side and swung it up on the table.

“I’ve got to get back to Orlando,” Harley said dryly, and with a hint of annoyance.

“Leaving so soon?”

Harley snapped his briefcase open, shoved some papers into one of the accordion folds, and shut the lid.

“Have you read your Bible since the last time we talked, Mr. Buckwald?”

“I don’t have time for this nonsense.”

“Nonsense?” Sikes crowed out a hideous laugh that lasted several seconds. “I can assure you, this is far from nonsense.”

Harley slapped the top of his leather briefcase. “Then what the hell is it?”

Sikes lifted off his chair and jerked up hard on the chain that secured him to the table, the handcuffs digging deep into his skin. “It’s coming!” he blurted out coldly.

Harley wheeled back in his chair. A chill ran down his spine and temporarily numbed his legs. “What’s coming?” Harley asked, his voice wavering.

Sikes sat back down and lowered his hands, resting them one on top of the other on the cold steel table.

“Apofasi mera,” he whispered.

“What?”

“Apofasi mera, the day of resolution.”

Harley had had enough. He felt the strength return to his legs so he stood. “Boy, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, and I don’t care.”

Sikes once again broke out into shrill, unnerving laughter. With his briefcase in hand Harley headed for the door and never looked back. He’d seen and heard enough of David Allen Sikes to last a lifetime. Right now all he cared about was seeing his wife and having a relaxing dinner at their favorite restaurant, Flavio’s, the best Italian place in Orlando.

It appeared that dinner would have to wait. Outside the jail was a sea of news vans, reporters, and cameramen. When the press saw Harley emerge from the front door, a swarm of reporters, with their cameramen in hot pursuit, converged on him. A barrage of questions were shouted, cameras flashed, and microphone booms sparred to gain advantage.

Harley finally managed to make it down the long ramp from the front door. He stopped at the bottom and looked out over the crowd. They were in a state of delirium. He had talked to the media on three prior occasions concerning this case, but this time he looked forward to the exchange. Why not? He’d won and Mr. Slick had lost.