Web of Lies (4 page)
“Annie, it’s Tim Blanche.” He sounded pushed, irritated. “Bad news. The security camera at the 7-Eleven was broken. Turns out the owner knew it and was just about to have it fixed. Murphy’s Law and all that. We’re going to need you to draw a composite of the shooter.”
My heart sank. I carried the receiver around my desk and sank into my chair. “From what I heard, none of the people in the store saw him clearly except for the boy who was shot.”
“Right. Toby Brown. Looked right into the guy’s face.”
What a terrifying second that must have been. “How is he?”
“They’ve removed the bullet. He’s lucky it didn’t hit anything major. They’ve stabilized him, although there’s some problem with bleeding, so he’s staying in the hospital a day or two. Doped up on medication for the pain. He’s in no shape to be interviewed now, but tomorrow should be fine.”
“Okay.” The sooner the interview took place, the better Toby’s memory would be. I ran a hand through my hair. “Any word on the identity of the man who died?”
“Yeah. Name’s Mike Winger. Twenty-two. One of our men met his parents at the morgue. They had to cover up that mangled side of his face. I hear the mother nearly collapsed.”
My eyes closed. I could not begin to imagine her grief.
“Annie, you got a pen and paper? I’ll give you Toby’s hospital room number.”
“Yeah.” I jotted the note —
Room 287
. “I’ll see him tomorrow. And Tim?” Righ teous indignation surged through me. How could
anyone
stick a gun in someone’s face and pull the trigger? “We’re gonna get this guy.”
Tim grunted. “It’s my case. You bet I’ll get him.”
T
hat night I couldn’t sleep. I lay on my back, blinking at the grim play of light from a streetlamp across the log beams of my ceiling. The projector in my head replayed the shooting with the jerky motions of a handheld camera. Flash! and
I glance into the SUV’s rearview mirror, see the shooter, running . . .
Toby’s expression, wrenched in pain . . .
The bloodied pulp of a half-missing face . . .
I fisted my bedcovers, willing the pictures to stop.
When I finally fell into a tossed and troubled ocean of sleep, my mind swelled with taunting dreams. Dreams of darkness . . .
And the tangy smell of dirt. Staleness.
A light turned on.
I found myself
sitting in a courtroom, sketchpad on my lap, colored pencils in hand. A petite young woman takes the witness stand. With a start I recognize her. Tracey Wilagher. Her shoulders are bony, drawn inward. She runs a nervous hand through her brown hair.
An
attorney asks her questions about the night her mother died. As I draw her face, I visualize everything she relates. Her fear and denial that night, when her mother’s panicked call pulled weak, flu-stricken Tracey out of bed to drive to the beach and rescue her mom from the rage of a drunken, abusive husband.
By the time she reaches the edge of the beach, Tracey says, her head pounds. Her body feels heavy and dull. She forces herself from her car, a sliver of a moon doing little to lighten her way. Where is her mom? She should be here, waiting. Down toward the water a fire flickers, casting light on a form sprawled in the sand. Her stepfather, passed out. “Mom?” Tracey whispers in the darkness. “Where are you?”
No response.
Her knees tremble. She swallows hard, wincing at pain in her throat.
Where
could her mother be? The last thing she wants is to wake a drunken Darren Welk. She whispers louder, muscles tense. “Mom!” Still no answer.
Tracey tells the court that her next memories jumble. She finds herself stumbling around the edge of the beach, calling her mother’s name louder, louder, a rising flood of fear sweeping away all caution. Her chest grows heavy, her knees turn weak. Then she is raking open the doors of Darren Welk’s car, searching the front seat, the back. On the floor of the front seat she sees her mother’s small evening purse. A horrifying, black thought mushrooms in her brain, and she fumbles for the latch to pop open the trunk. Tears scalding her face, she stumbles to the back of the car to check the trunk — and sways with relief when she sees it’s empty.
Tracey can stand it no more. She makes her way back to her car and drives forward as far as she can, stopping at an angle so her headlights wash the length of the beach. The figure of Darren Welk lights up but he does not move. Tracey lurches out of her car, searching the beach up and down, forcing her fogged brain to process. “Mom, please, where are you?”
The sizzle-hiss of waves upon land is the only sound.
Something on the sand catches her eye. Something glistening, not far from the fire’s embers. A block of ice falls into Tracey’s stomach as she stares. She forces her leaden legs forward. As she nears the glimmering dot, she sees others like it. She stops above them, unwilling to bend down and add undeniable senses to the terrifying shadows ghosting her mind. Slowly she reaches out a trembling finger and touches the disfigured surface of the sand. Granules stick to her skin. She raises her finger, turns it toward the car’s headlights. The granules are dark red . . .
A strangled cry in my windpipe awoke me. My heart churned.
What . . .
Where . . .
No . . . No. It’s okay. My room, my bed.
My throat convulsed in a swallow. A dream. Just a dream.
But so vivid. So
real
. Almost as real as that day I sat in the Redwood City courtroom, sketching Tracey Wilagher’s face as she testified.
A chill brushed my shoulders. The air around my bed hung heavy. I pulled the covers tightly around me, breathing, shivering. Why had I dreamed about this now? That case was three years ago. I shivered again, more violently. What was going on? First the shooting, now this.
Whatever was happening, I needed to pray. Now. Pray against . . . something. Something I could almost feel, but not quite touch . . .
Dear Jesus, help. Why did I dream this? What am I sensing? I feel like . . . almost like I did this past summer, when the serial killer roamed the streets. Oh, God, please tell me something that frightening isn’t happening now. I can’t go through anything like that again . . .
Prayers and fears swirled like chilled fog in my mind. Until slowly the fog weighted . . . settled . . . blanketed me with a restless sleep.
I
awoke slowly, still haunted by the dream. Tracey Wilagher on the stand . . . the drop of blood on her finger . . .
With bleary eyes I checked the digital clock by my bed. Six forty-five. Time to get up, shake off the night. Make sure the kids were moving. By seven thirty Stephen and the girls would need to be driving to school —
Wait, what day was this?
Friday. That meant it was Dave’s turn to pick up the girls in the afternoon. Good. I was supposed to be at the hospital then, interviewing Toby Brown, and Jenna needed to work on her computer software project all day.
The dream gnawed at me. I forced it from my mind.
In the shower I talked to God. Prayer had become a consistent, reliable force in my life, soothing raindrops upon the thirsty ground of my soul. First I simply praised Him for all He’d done for me. Then I asked for a calmer spirit. And for justice in the shooting I witnessed, that God would heal Toby Brown’s leg, and that He’d be with us during our interview. As always, I sought God’s protection and His mercy upon my children and Jenna.
And Lord, help me with Dave. Why do I want him yet push him away? Why can’t I just enjoy what’s happening between us?
Seven thirty. With the kids gone, Jenna and I headed for the kitchen and our coffee. I hoped the routine would settle my nerves. But nearing the kitchen table, I was jolted with a reminder of yesterday. Today’s
Record Searchlight
lay upon it. The front page blared news of the latest homicide in Redding, accompanied by a photo of Toby Brown being loaded into the ambulance.
I sighed and walked to a cabinet for a mug. Poured myself some coffee. Sinking into a chair at the table, I pushed the newspaper away. I would deal with it later.
Jenna settled into a seat across from me and pursed her lips. “You don’t look so good.”
“Thanks.”
“What’s up? I mean, is it more than what happened yesterday?”
The dream nibbled at my nerves. “Forget me, what about
you
? Did you and Eric patch up your argument last night?”
She made a little
tsking
sound. “I’m not patching up anything. He lied to me. End of story.”
“Oh. Okay.” I wondered how long the argument would last. Jenna was crazy about Eric.
“So.” She tapped a fingernail against the table. “What’s wrong?”
I regarded my sister for a moment. Should I tell her? Jenna had grown mighty protective of me — with good reason. What if she read too much into my premonition, got all antsy about things? She’d go into overdrive bossing me. That I didn’t need.
“It’s nothing.” I focused on my coffee cup. “Just a dream I had.”
“Really. Not usual for you to be bothered by such a thing. Better tell me about it.”
I made a face. “What are you, Miss Dream Interpreter all of a sudden?”
“Annie. Tell me.”
I am no match for my sister. I poured out everything. How real it was. How unsettling.
She drew a breath and sat back, gaze drifting out the window. “What was the name of that woman on the jury? You know, the one who made all the headlines the year before?”
“Chelsea Adams.”
“Oh yeah. Chelsea Adams.” She rubbed a finger on the table, brows knit. “Well.” She looked me straight in the eye. “If you’re thinking that dream’s telling you to move back to Redwood City, you can think again. I’m just beginning to like it here.”
Yeah,
like I’d want to go back there.
Jenna had finally taken the plunge a year and a half ago to leave the “civilization” of her Bay Area town house and now worked as a software consultant from Grove Landing. She flew back to the Bay Area to meet with clients, staying in her town house in Redwood Shores.
I smiled lopsidedly. “Thanks for the warning.”
“That’s what sisters are for.”
We drank our coffee in silence.
The newspaper beckoned. Against my will I drew it toward me. “You read this yet?”
“No, just brought it in. Thought I’d give you the honors.”
“Wonderful.” I began reading, paraphrasing for Jenna. “Mike Winger was the victim, twenty-two years old — Blanche told me that much yesterday. His parents live in Redding. His dad works construction, and his mom’s — oh wow. His mom is assistant to the principal at Foothill High School.”
Jenna’s coffee cup stopped halfway to her lips. “Oh, how sad. I wonder if the kids know her.”
“Well, maybe Stephen. I don’t know that Kelly’s spent much time in the principal’s office.” Mike’s half-blown-away face flashed in my head. I focused on the wood grain of the table. Was his mother sitting in her own kitchen right now, staring at nothing, just trying to survive? I took a slow drink of coffee and turned back to the article. “It talks about the kid who was shot. Toby. He has three younger siblings. No father. Toby was working at 7-Eleven to help support the family. Oh, Jenna.” I leaned back in my chair. “Can you imagine him going back to his job after this?”
She shook her head. “If I were his mom, I wouldn’t let him.”
“But sounds like they’re pretty short on money. And now they’re going to have hospital bills.”
“Yeah.” Jenna tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “That would be tough.”
I stared at the newspaper, thinking about Toby and his family. It took a minute for me to register the article’s final words. “This says I’m going to interview Toby today and draw a composite of the shooter. Good grief. Whoever in the Police Department told the reporter that should have kept his mouth shut.”
“True, but no surprise. Somebody always talks too much.” Jenna pushed back her chair. “Okay, time for breakfast. I’ll put a bagel in the toaster for you.”
As usual, she hadn’t asked. “And if I don’t want one?”
She snorted. “Since when do I ever listen to you?”
The phone rang. Jenna answered it, then handed the receiver to me. “It’s Chetterling.”
I raised my eyebrows. The sheriff’s detective and I hadn’t worked together since the serial killer case. We’d had little reason to talk since then. “Hi, Ralph, how are you?”
“Hi, Annie. I’m doing fine. Busy as usual. I see you’ve got some work to do for the Police Department today.”
“Oh, you read the papers too, huh.”
“Great, aren’t they?” He paused. “So, Annie. I have an unusual request for you.”
Jenna turned from the toaster, two bagels in hand, to watch me. Chetterling’s phone calls never tended to bring good news. I gave her a shrug —
Who knows?
“Okay. Shoot.”
“I got a call this morning from a woman down in the Bay Area. Says she needs to talk to you. She couldn’t get your phone number since it’s unlisted, but she’s read about the cases you’ve worked on with me, so she called the Sheriff’s Department. Asked if I’d pass on the message.”
