Dread Champion (48 page)

Tracey twisted her mouth. “She made me drive her to a bus station on the outskirts of Monterey, talking all the way. Planning her story for the police and making me repeat it again and again. An overnight bus happened to pull into the parking lot when we got there. Mom sort of fell in step with the passengers so she wouldn't stand out. She went to the bathroom in the terminal, cut her hair really short, and flushed it down the toilet. Then she put on the baseball cap. The bus was going on to Los Angeles. She got a seat on it.” Tracey's voice nearly faded away. “And that's the last time I saw her.”

“When did she go to Brazil?” Draker pressed.

“I don't know.Maybe a month later. She had to find a new identity, get a passport. She also dyed her hair. In Brazil she had plastic surgery.Why not? She had all that money,” Tracey added bitterly. “While I crimped for every penny to move out of the Welks' house. But it wasn't supposed to be for very long.We didn't know there had to be a body to get the money.Mom thought she'd left enough evidence and that would be it. So I was stuck waiting for the trial. All those months. And having to testify.”

Testify? More like lie through your greedy little teeth.
Stan didn't feel one bit sorry for her.

By the time Tracey was done, his arm throbbed like mad. This case had done him in, body and soul.He'd be famous in Salinas for sure—for all the wrong reasons. The deputy D.A. who prosecuted the crime that wasn't.He might as well pick artichokes. Stan snorted. And to think that not two weeks ago his biggest worry of the day had been Chelsea Adams's direct line to God.

What a joke
that
turned out to be.

EPILOGUE

On Monday, August 19, Chelsea found herself in a standing-room-only Salinas courtroom to witness the arraignments of Shawna Marie Welk and Tracey Ann Wilagher. Reporters crowded into every niche of the room, more spilling into the hall. Chelsea, Kerra, and Brett had seats only because Darren Welk insisted to the bailiff that he save three on the end of the front row for them. Darren Welk's seat had been allotted by the judge himself.

Chelsea had not wanted to come, but Kerra had pleaded until she'd given in. “On one condition,” Chelsea had told her obstinate niece. “The minute that arraignment is over, we're out the door. We're
not
going to be inundated by reporters.”

The arraignments lasted only minutes apiece. Cut and dried, uneventful, belying the intensity of emotion swirling about the events that had led to them. Shawna Welk pleaded not guilty to her myriad charges. Tracey pleaded no contest. According to the newspapers, she'd cut a deal with Stan Breckshire.

Tracey was led away in handcuffs, out the same door through which her mother had disappeared. The courtroom filled with a cacophony of rustling clothes, squeaking chairs, and conversation. Chelsea rose quickly. “Okay.” She tapped Kerra's arm. “Let's get out of here.”

“I'll meet you outside,” Kerra whispered to Brett.

They hurried up the aisle, beating most of the milling crowd, and pushed through the doors. In the hall, news crews readied for filming. Automatically Chelsea ducked. “Come on!” They scurried toward the stairs.

“I want to watch,” Kerra declared suddenly, veering away.

“Kerra, no!”

“Oh, good grief, Aunt Chelsea.” Kerra grabbed her arm and pulled. “We can just melt into the wall clear on the other side. The reporters have far bigger targets than us.”

Helplessly Chelsea allowed herself to be propelled across the floor. She would not leave Kerra alone. They turned in time to see Brett and his father exit the courtroom, surrounded by a mass of reporters. Lights flicked on, throwing their shadows onto the wall. Cameras whirred. Reporters shoved microphones in their faces.

“How do you feel,Mr.Welk?”

“Will you be called to testify against your wife?”

“Are you filing for divorce?”

A smiling Darren Welk held up both hands, clearly enjoying his moment in the sun. “Yes, I am filing for divorce. As for how I feel, well …” He gave a short laugh. “I am glad my soon-to-be ex-wife rose from the dead to exonerate me.”The crowd chuckled with him, then shouted more questions, one voice tumbling over another. Darren waited until all was again quiet. “Most of all, I am glad to be reunited with my son, who stuck by me all this time.”He placed an arm around Brett's shoulder. “We're going back to our ranch now, where we'll work side by side, bringing our products to tables everywhere.” Darren grinned, pointing a finger at the nearest camera. “When you eat your salad at dinner, remember the Salad King.”

Laughter bubbled from Kerra's mouth, wrenching into a stifled sob. Chelsea reached for her hand and squeezed. Kerra had cried in wild relief the better part of the last two days. As Brett and his dad had immediately returned to their ranch, she had clung to Chelsea like a child adrift. Kerra knew Brett needed time with his father, and was glad to allow them their privacy. But the need to talk, to think out loud, to pray, had overwhelmed her. Secretly Chelsea was glad for her neediness. Kerra talked to her like never before, spilling the story about the growing relationship she shared with Brett and how they had prayed.

Kerra hung tightly to Chelsea's hand. “I'm just so glad for Brett,” she said, her voice shaking. “Glad enough that I'm able to leave him tomorrow.”

Chelsea would be taking Kerra to the airport in the afternoon. Two days later Paul would come home, followed soon by their boys. Chelsea could hardly wait for their family to be reunited. As for Kerra's last evening in the Bay Area, Chelsea knew she'd be spending it with Brett.

Chelsea was silent for a moment, watching Darren work the crowd of reporters. Despite what Kerra had told her about Brett's decision for Christ, she still worried. The thought of Kerra around Darren Welk left her cold.“He's not exactly a nice guy, Kerra.”

Kerra withdrew her hand.“God will work on him through Brett,” she said firmly. “You'll see.”

M
ILT
W
AKING BROKE FROM
the mass of bodies and strode across the hall toward Chelsea and Kerra. Even from a distance he could see the distaste on their faces when they saw him approach.
My, my,
he thought,
such ingratitude.
No matter. Since his breaking-news exclusive footage had aired midafternoon two days ago, he'd been the Man of the Hour.Make that Man of the Year.He'd already had a preliminary phone call from one major network. He imagined there would be more after Channel Seven aired its unprecedented hour-long special about his single-handedly dissolving the Salad King trial. The program was slotted for prime time on a Friday night, two and a half weeks away.Milt had already been scrambling for interviews with the attorneys and jurors.

He drew to a halt in front of Chelsea and her niece. “Kerra. Ms. Adams.”

Kerra regarded him with grudging deference. “Hi.”

Chelsea clasped her hands at her waist. “Well, Mr.Waking. Once again congratulations are in order.”

“Thank you,” he replied.
And well I deserve them.
He pulled a mask of humility over his features. “Ms. Adams, as I mentioned to you earlier, I'm putting together a one-hour special about the case. I've already had a few jury members admit they gave you quite a time in the deliberation room.”

He paused. No response.

“I'm still hoping you'll tell your side of the story.”

“Why do you need me, Mr.Waking?” Chelsea's voice was as light as lead.“Your reports have already been full of your incredible exclusives. You must be very proud of yourself.”

He tilted his head in self-satisfaction. “All the same, Ms. Adams, I need your story. I heard about the last day of deliberation. How you did nothing but pray.”He narrowed his eyes. “I'll bet you had a vision, didn't you? You knew
something.
That's why you fought the jury so hard in deliberations. You gave me time to reel in Shawna Welk like a fish.”He spread his hands. “So what exactly did you see in your vision? Shawna on the beaches of Brazil?”

She considered him at length, a little smile on her face. “I'm sorry to say, Mr.Waking, that you are wrong. I did not know Shawna was alive, and I had no visions concerning Darren Welk.However, I will tell you one thing. And you can quote me. If you dare.”

Milt worked to keep the smugness from his face.He was actually going to get Chelsea Adams to talk! “I'm waiting.”

“God
did
speak to me—before the deliberation and during it.”

“And what did he say?”

“That he was sending me his chosen servant. That in good conscience I was to stick to my vote until that servant accomplished what God had called him to do.”

Milt sifted through possibilities, rejecting them all. “Who was that?” he asked, frowning.

“You.”

He blinked. “No way. I never consulted God about anything. I did it all on my own.”

That little smile on her faced twitched. “Ever read the Bible, Mr. Waking?”

“No.”

“Well, here's the rest of my answer for your one-hour special. First, Jeremiah twenty, verse eleven. God is a Dread Champion, bringing about what he will. Second, Isaiah thirty-seven, verses twenty-four through twenty-eight. This is the Lord's word to the Assyrian king, who was boasting of all he had done ‘on his own.' Verse twenty-six is God's particular quote for you.
If
you should dare use it.” She took a deep breath. “Good day, Mr.Waking.”

In unspoken assent the two women stepped around him and headed for the exit. Nonplussed,Milt watched them go.

Thirty minutes later Milt headed up the freeway for the long drive toward the news station.When he passed Redwood City after an hour and a half, on the spur of the moment he veered off the Edgewood exit toward San Carlos. He had some vague memory of a Christian bookstore on Laurel Street. He cruised slowly up Laurel, reading signs. Ah yes, there it was. The Door. He pulled into a parking space and slipped inside the store, keeping his head down. He walked through a card and gift section, spotting an area of Bibles in the center of the store. Reaching the nearest Bible, he picked it up. Now, where was the book of Isaiah? He thumbed through the front, consulting a table of contents, then found the book in the middle of the Old Testament.
“Verses twenty-four through twenty-eight.”
He read the boasts of the Assyrian king. “I” this and “I” that. The guy sure was stuck on himself.Milt ran his finger to God's reply in verse twenty-six.

Have you not heard?
                 Long ago I ordained it.
         In days of old I planned it;
                 now I have brought it to pass.

The words had a strange effect upon him. They seemed to seep into his chest like a warm salve. For a moment he stood there, staring at the verse.

Then came to his senses.

No way,
he huffed.
God could not have planned what Idid.
He slammed the book shut. He had done it alone—
all
of it. Milt reached out with purpose to plunk the Bible back on the shelf. Of its own accord his arm stilled. He let it hang there, thinking, staring at the smooth leather. Trying to make sense of what he was feeling.

Then abruptly he pulled back the Bible, swiveled, and headed for the checkout counter.

“C
OME ON, COME ON
, it's almost time!”Mama Yolanda cried in Spanish, shooing her houseful of friends and neighbors out of the kitchen. “Where's Kristin?” she asked Rogelio breathlessly.

“In the bedroom, trying to put Roselita down.”

“Ay! She cannot miss the program! Tell her to come out, Roge-lio. The baby can sleep in her arms.”

Rogelio loved the sound of those words. “Okay.”

He led Kristin out, placing her in a seat of honor beside Mama Yolanda on the couch. Roselita lay against Kristin's shoulder,whimpering softly.Mama Yolanda rubbed her back. “Shh, shh,
chiquita.”

Roselita quieted. Rogelio's heart nearly burst through his chest. The baby was slowly getting used to her new mamas. And he fully believed that in time Kristin would move into their home as his wife.

Thank you, God,
the prayer welled inside him,
for keeping our bargain.

Smiling from ear to ear, he plopped on the floor at Kristin's feet.

Music rang from the television set, fading into a voice-over.“This is a Channel Seven special. Tonight, the breathtaking, exclusive story of the Salad King trial, Enrico Delgadia's desperate secret, and how the truth was brought to light by one determined reporter.”

Collective oohs resonated through the room. Excitement plinked up Rogelio's throat. Now that it was all over, he couldn't wait to see himself, Kristin, and Mama Yolanda on television.With their baby.
His
family.He swung his head toward Janet Cline, their special guest. She smiled at him in anticipation.

Milt had been right. The news stations
could
make things happen. Plus Terrance Clyde and Erica Salvador had offered their help for free. A court hearing had been quickly scheduled, and Rogelio and Mama Yolanda had been given custody of Roselita Nicole. Del-gadia had been arraigned on charges of baby trafficking. Mama Yolanda said they should pray for him. Rogelio just wanted him to rot in jail.

Milt Waking's face filled the television screen.He was seated in a restaurant Rogelio immediately recognized, at the very table where they had eaten lunch. “‘I'll tell you my story,'”Milt began, looking straight into the camera. “‘But I want something in return.'

“Those were the words of twenty-year-old Rogelio Sanchez of Salinas,”Milt declared. “Little did I know that Rogelio's story would in the end bring back three hopelessly lost people—his illegally adopted baby, a man imprisoned for a crime that was never committed, and a scheming ‘murdered' woman who frolicked on the beaches of Brazil.”