Dread Champion (10 page)
“Listen to me.”He shoved his face close to hers. “I'm getting our baby back. And you're going to help me. After that you don't ever need to see meâor herâagain.You got that? You'll be hearing from me, Kristin.”
He spun around and slammed through the door. As he jumped down the porch steps, he heard her rising wail.
Rain pounds the windshield of Dave's car. Kerra senses the motion of driving, feels the familiar fabric of the seat beneath her.
From nowhere a high-sided truck leaps into view, its brake lights reflecting blood red through the rain. The truck swerves left into their lane as its back tire bursts and flaps in the wind. “Dave!” Kerra feels the scream rip her throat as he throws on his brakes, veering his Acura to the right .
Something jolts inside Kerra, and the picture transforms into cruel slow motion.â¦
Her hands rising to her mouth, her hair floating around her face, sticking to her tongue. Dave's head slowly turning, his eyes drifting too late behind him to check for traffic, his head turning back. The squeal of tires against wet pavement, sounding on and on like a stuck record as their car merges onto that record, revolving, revolving, the world spinning, the tree, its bark shiny with rain, disappearing, cycling closer, disappearing, cycling closer. Nausea rising in Kerra's stomachâ¦
Then a distant horn blares and weeps, ramming the scene into warp speed. The tree rushes at them. Dave yanks the wheel harder to the right, and the tree jumps left. The smash deafens the world and everything in it. It splinters and grinds and tears and shatters. The left front of the car dissolves. Aragged branch explodes through the windshield and crunches Dave's shoulder.His head snaps back; his eyes glaze. The steering wheel crumples toward him, buries itself in his stomach.Dave's jaw sags. Blood, dark and thick, bubbles over his bottom teeth.
Somebody screams. Kerra feels the gush of air through her own mouth.
Dave lifts dazed eyes to her.
The scene freezes, just for amoment. A moment hanging in the air, fuzzed at the edges, like a paused frame on a home video
.
Kerra's eyes lock onto Dave's, reading their pain, their utter disbelief, their hopelessness. Shock immobilizes her. She wants to reach for him but cannot. She gazes deeply into his eyesâand she knows. They remain fixed, and she sees life ebbing from them, as a wave would pull back from shore. The wave recedes⦠recedes⦠recedes⦠then is gone. The eyes settle, flatten, like sand once the water has passed. The lids slowly droop shut.
Kerra cries out. She reaches for him, the man who has become her world, who would be her husband. “Dave! Dave!” Her cries sear her throat, the world blurring. She grasps his head, her fingers sinking into his thick dark hair, her arms shaking him, shaking him. She lets go and his head sinks to his chest. She grabs it again, shaking it, sobbing his name, pleading to God to save him, save him, save him.â¦
Kerra's body jerked and her eyes flew open. For a moment her mind scrambled to catch up with itself.
Morning light. The guest room at Aunt Chelsea's.
A dream. It seemed so real.
But then, it
was.
Kerra breathed raggedly as tears spilled from the corners of her eyes.
When
would she get over Dave's death? When would she be able to move on?
She turned on her side, fingers grasping her pillow.Her gaze fell upon the digital clock. She'd have to pull herself together soon so she could go with Aunt Chelsea to the trial again. No way did she want to stay home, not after the dream. She'd have nothing to do but think.
F
ORTY MINUTES LATER
K
ERRA
was still trying to clear her head as she walked down her aunt's long driveway to retrieve the newspaper from its box. She was curious to see how reports of the trial compared with what she had witnessed. She'd had no time to watch the news the previous evening. She and Aunt Chelsea had gone straight from the courthouse to sightsee in San Francisco.
“Don't tell me what you read,” Aunt Chelsea had said as she stepped onto the porch. “I'm not supposed to hear anything about the trial.”
Too hard a rule, Kerra thought. She couldn't imagine following it, if she were in Aunt Chelsea's shoes.
She reached the box and pulled out the paper. Opened it to the front page. She read the large headline ⦠and her breath snagged in her throat.
“Visions”Woman from Trent Park Murder on Welk's Jury
Kerra scurried back into the kitchen.Aunt Chelsea took one look at her face and stilled. “What is it?” Fear flattened her mouth. “No, don't tell me.”
“Aunt Chelsea, I have to.”
“No, you don't!”
“You're in the paper!” Kerra blurted. “Not your name but all about who you areâhow you were involved in the Trent Park case.”
Aunt Chelsea's eyes closed. She gripped the counter, breathing hard. Kerra froze, not sure what to do.Not sure what it all would mean.
A long moment passed. Finally resolve crossed Aunt Chelsea's face. “It's okay, Kerra. I knew it would happen. I was hoping it wouldn't, but ⦠” She brought a hand to her forehead. Straightened. “You'd better not go today.More people will come out of curiosity, and they'll all be watching me. I don't want you involved in it.”
Indignation bounced up Kerra's spine. This was just too much. Life wasn't fairânot for her, and now not for Aunt Chelsea. She smacked the paper down on the tile counter. “Oh yes, I am going! I'm going because I need toâboth for me
and
you!”
“There's nothing you can do for me, Kerra.”
“Well, if nothing else, you'll know I'm out there!” Kerra focused her fury on her aunt, a fist at her hip. “I'm not going to let you be there alone. And I'm not staying here alone.”
Aunt Chelsea regarded her wearily. Kerra could practically read her thoughts. All right, so she was spewing out her passion again. Kerra always felt deeply, fully.What's more, she'd never learned how to hide it. And she wouldn't back down once she'd made up her mind.
Air puffed through Aunt Chelsea's lips. “You know what makes this even worse? I can't act like I know, because I'm not supposed to.”
Inexplicably Kerra's anger drained away. She rubbed her aunt's arm. “It'll be all right. I'll be there.”
“But you just can't. The reporters will be all over you.”
“We'll go in separately,” Kerra declared. “No one will know I'm with you.”
“No, Kerra.”
“You can't stop me.”
“Yes, I can.”
Kerra's face hardened to stone. “I'm going. I won't talk to reporters. But Iâamâgoing.”
Her aunt's shoulders sagged. She raised a hand in futility. “I can't believe I'm letting you do this.”
Milt Waking ruled. Yesterday's scoop about Chelsea Adams had practically turned the media upside down.Other stations had heard his noon story and scrambled to come up with their own. Then newspapers picked it up. Some of the print reporters may have recognized Chelsea Adams themselves, but Milt was willing to bet most of them owed their stories to him.
And hadn't a crowd turned out to watch the proceedings this fine day.
Milt greeted his colleagues with the charming smile and slightly raised eyebrow that he'd made famous in his five years at Channel Seven News. As a mass communications major at the University of California, Berkeley, he'd literally practiced that smile in the mirror, lacing it with just enough warmth. Somehow during those practice sessions the slightly raised eyebrow had become part of his expression. Milt thought it lent him a sense of sincerity.
He smoothed his hair, patted down his tie. He hung back as a couple of newspaper reporters and the gal from Channel Five claimed their seats among those reserved for the media. Milt's seat would be carefully chosen.He wanted at least an over-the-shoulder view of certain people, namely Brett Welk and Shawna's flamboyant sister, motorcycle mama Lynn Trudy. Trouble was, they wouldn't be sitting together.Milt hoped they didn't place themselves as far apart as their loyalties would have it.
A moment later Brett Welk entered the courtroom. He was dressed in khaki pants and a red Tommy Hilfiger shirt, coming down the aisle as if attending a funeral.Milt sidled next to a row of seats to let him pass.He caught the young man's eye and nodded. Brett gave him the once-over, then nodded back. Something about the young man's brown eyes captivated Milt. They were deep-set and watchful, dark brows practically jamming together. Brett's shoulders slumped but his chin led him down the aisle. Deeply tanned muscles bulged beneath his shirtsleeves, his arms held away from his sides. Milt watched as Brett slowed at the second row, then slid toward the middle, his large hands clasping empty chairs in front of him. He lowered himself into a center seat, resting his hands on his thighs. His jaw flexed as he stared straight ahead.
One down, one to go.Milt eased toward the back wall to wait for Lynn Trudy. He didn't have to wait long. A small flurry of activity out in the hall aroused his attention, and he leaned around to peek out the door. The sister of the deceased was holding court, four or five reporters pressing around her, scribbling down her vehemence against the defendant.
“Darren Welk had better be convicted for what he did to my sister,” she declared, “or everybody in this state's going to have to deal with
me
.”
Milt suppressed a satisfied smile. This gal was obviously enjoying the limelight. He caught a peek at flashing green eyes under heavy mascara.When he'd first seen her yesterday, he knew he had to get this lady on camera. Everything about her bristled, right down to her short, blue black spiked hair. Her lips flamed red, as did the long fingernails that stabbed the air as she vented. Over her rolling hills of flesh she wore a tightly fitted blue shell top with equally tight white pants.
Milt wondered if her long fingernails got in the way when she was riding her Harley.
Yesterday he'd cornered her for her “essentials,” as he liked to call them. She lived in Flint,Michigan, and worked as a salesperson in a store that catered to motorcycle riders, offering leather gear and all the accoutrements a biker's little heart might desire.
“Ms. Trudy,” a reporter jumped in. “What do you think about Chelsea Adams being an alternate on the jury? Are you concerned that her so-called visions from God may interfere with the proceedings?”
“Well, she won't be deliberating as an alternate, right?” She looked to the reporter for confirmation. “But even if she was,” she added with defiance,“as far as I'm concerned, she can have all the visions she wants.
God
knows who killed my sister!”
What a quote. Milt whipped out his notebook and wrote it down.
Later, babe,
he thought,
and I'll catch you on camera.
He'd get some exclusive stuff from her then. He didn't doubt for a moment that she'd hesitate to run her mouth some more.Having your name in the paper was one thing; being on TV was something else.
The laconic Brett Welk was another story.Milt wondered what he thought about the morning papers. He strode down the aisle and crossed over to stand directly in front of Brett. “Lynn Trudy's out there talking to everyone about the visions gal on the jury,” he declared. “How do
you
feel about this woman?”
Brett frowned at him.
Yes!
thought Milt. He'd caught the guy by surprise. “You haven't seen the papers?”Milt asked.
No response. But Brett's eyes questioned.
Swiftly Milt told him about Chelsea Adams. “I was the first to cover the story last year,” he added. “I know all about her.”
“She for real?” Brett blurted.
“Apparently so.”
Brett's gaze drifted to the empty jury box.Milt moved in for the kill.
“Are you worried she'll see the truth about your stepmother's murder?”
Brett's eyes flew back to Milt, trailing fear. Then his expression fell into a poker-faced mask. “Get out of here,” he snarled.
Milt shrugged as he turned on his heel.At least he'd gotten something. The words for his next segment began running through his head.
Brett Welk, son of the defendant, seemed shocked to learnâ¦
Lynn Trudy and her entourage bowled into the courtroom.Milt stepped aside and waited. Lynn propelled herself into the third row, awkwardly scooting past the knees of two elderly spectators and a young blond woman before plopping into a seat. Eschewing the reporters' seats, Milt claimed a chair in the fourth row, where he could keep an eye on both Brett and Lynn. He pulled out his pad and pen as Darren Welk was escorted to his seat beside Terrance Clyde. The jury filed in.
Milt watched Lynn examine each of the jurors as if they were specimens under glass.
His eyes fell on Chelsea Adams.
Well now, Ms. Adams, what kind of day shall we have today?
He wondered if she knew about the news reports. Far more important, would she have a vision about this trial? The Trent Park case had proved that this woman possessed remarkable skills, however incomprehensible they were.
One thing was puzzling. Judge Chanson could have kicked Chelsea Adams out of the courtroom during
voir dire.
Yet for some reason she hadn't.Milt shook his head. If he were a God-fearing man, he'd say it was a miracle Chelsea Adams was sitting in the jury box.
“All rise,” the bailiff intoned. Judge Carol Chanson bustled in, her reading glasses resting on her ample chest.
“Good morning,” she addressed the jury, a swift smile curving her pale lips. They murmured back a greeting. “Good morning, counsel.” She nodded at Stan Breckshire and the defense team. Ter-rance Clyde's grayed head bowed gracefully while Stan's dipped and jerked like a hyperactive schoolboy's. “Good morning,” Erica Salvador murmured.
