Web of Lies (5 page)
What now? The hundredth journalist wanting an interview? Another author writing a true-crime book? “Who is she?”
“That’s just it. I’ll bet you recognize her name. A few years ago she gained almost as much notoriety as you.”
Poor woman. “Great. We ought to make a smashing team.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Well, come on, Chetterling, cut the drama. Who is she?”
“Her name’s Chelsea Adams.”
My jaw slacked. I widened my eyes at Jenna. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
A shiver raked across my shoulders. I dropped my gaze to study the kitchen’s hardwood floor, searching for some semblance of reason in this unlikely coincidence.
“Know who she is?”
Did
I. Last night’s dream rushed over me. The
realness
of it — the feel of colored pencils in my hand, the musty smell of the courtroom, the
thump-thump
of the pacing attorney’s feet. “Yeah, I do.”
“Thought so. Were you a courtroom artist on the cases she was involved in?”
“Yes. Both of them.” I still couldn’t believe this. What were the chances of my dream and Ms. Adams’s phone call happening within the space of six hours? A queasy premonition slithered through my stomach. “What does she want with me?”
“Don’t know. She just says it’s very important. So here’s her phone number.”
Half in a daze, I crossed the kitchen to pull pen and paper from a drawer. Jenna surveyed me suspiciously. When the bagels bounced up in the toaster, she flung open a cupboard and pulled out two plates as if annoyed at the distraction.
“Okay, Ralph.” I tossed the pen back in its drawer. “Got it. Thanks.”
“So if you call her, you going to tell me what she says?”
“Maybe. But don’t you know curiosity killed the cat?”
“Well, can you blame me? Put you and Chelsea Adams together, and my heart goes flip-flop. I just hope if this has anything to do with what she’s famous for, the havoc wreaked was in her neck of the woods, not ours.”
That makes two of us, Ralph.
By the time I hung up the phone, my bagel sat on a plate, spread with cream cheese. Jenna leaned against the table like a wary soldier, arms crossed. “All right. What’s going on?”
I eyed my breakfast, biting my lip. The uneasiness in my stomach would not go away. “I don’t know, Jenna. But I have a phone call to make.”
M
urder always made the front-page news. He read the article — twice.
And the voices started in.
The Bible says thou shalt not kill. Thou shalt not kill . . .
He pushed the newspaper away, shoved a bite of eggs into his mouth. Chewed fast and hard.
Thou shalt not kill . . .
No, he did not hear them. He was fine.
Abruptly the voices shut up.
He sniffed, ran a hand under his nose. His gaze strayed across the kitchen and into the backyard. What a place this was. Nobody was going to drag him from it. Ever.
He stared at the article’s first sentence until his eyeballs burned. Yesterday in the 7-Eleven store on Delworth Street, an unidentified man shot and killed . . .
What kind of time was he looking at? It would be first-degree murder. Plus attempted murder on the kid.
Man. You’re talking years in jail.
Better than death, the voices taunted. They find out you killed more than one person, it’s death penalty for sure.
“Shut up!” He rattled his head — hard. No good. Memories of the bodies surfaced.
Pop . . .
Pop . . .
A picture of a corpse. And another. Clothes gone. Screaming at him . . .
Death penalty . . . Murder is a sin.
“Go away!”
He thrust more eggs and bacon into his mouth. Ground them between his teeth, tasting the salty flavor with manic concentration.
They’ll kill you, like you killed us.
“Shut up!” He shoved away from the table, jumped to his feet.
The taunts whiplashed through his head.
He pressed palms to his ears. Paced a circle, humming. “Mm, mm, mm. Can’t hear you!”
You killed us, and they’ll find you. They’ll shove you in a cell. And we’ll laugh, laugh, laugh, ’cause you deserve it, deserve it, deserve it!
“Stop!” He wheeled around, lashed a fist at the air, then stumbled into the counter like a drunken man. Yeah, that’s what he needed — a drink. He flung himself toward a cabinet, yanked out a bottle of gin. Poured some into a glass.
“Cheers!” He guzzled it down. The gin pinched his cheeks, tingle-tangled his throat.
You killed us . . . you killed us . . .
He banged down the glass.
The dirt came next, the dank, biting smell of burial. Pieces of it stuck to his feet like worms. The worms started to crawl — up his heels, over his ankles — their slimy bodies sucking at his skin.
“Ah!” He scrubbed both legs with his hands, but still they crawled.
He fled to the bathroom to scour them off.
In the shower he sucked steam deep into his lungs. Watched the wormy dirt particles nudge across the tile, disappear down the drain.
“Hah, good riddance!”
Droplets splashed and pounded, clearing his head, cleansing his soul.
He turned off the water, braced himself, and listened.
No voices.
He exhaled in relief. His skin glowed red, fresh as he stepped out of the shower, reached for a towel, raised one leg.
Wait, was that dirt on his ankle? How had it stayed there, after all that water?
He cursed, rubbing it away with the towel.
More dirt on the other foot. He gasped, smacked at it two, three times.
When he stepped into a pair of pants, new whispers echoed in his brain. Thou shalt not kill, kill, kill . . . Murder is a sin, sin, sin . . .
Dirt crawled onto his big toe. An ant this time. A big, black dirt ant.
“No!”
He threw off his pants. Ran back to the shower and yanked on the water, shoving his body under it, trying to drown out the voices with the sizzle, hiss, pound.
Where are you going to hide when they know everything you’ve done? When we scream at them that you killed us?
Where are you going to hide . . .
C
helsea Adams huddled on the couch in her family room, frowning at her Bible. The verses ran together in a mindless stream. She couldn’t concentrate on anything but the horrifying picture pulsing in her brain: the dim, claustrophobic room in her vision.
Who were those people?
Where
were they? When would it happen?
The memories taunted her. That earthy, dusty smell. The rasping whisper of some demented man holding two people against their will. One of them was the crouching figure on the floor — a female. And the second captive . . . Through whose eyes had Chelsea viewed the scene? A man? Woman?
After the vision of that room passed, Chelsea had seen a face. She could close her eyes now and see those features clearly in her mind.
She flopped her Bible closed and tossed it on the couch.
God, this is too confusing. Why can’t You tell me everything so I don’t have to guess?
Last night her husband had sensed her terror. One look at her expression when she emerged from the kitchen, and Paul’s face went slack. “What’s wrong?”
“I had another vision.” Tears bit her eyes.
He pulled in a breath. “A bad one?”
“The worst yet.”
He held his arms out to her and she pressed against his chest. Wishing she could hide her fear, wishing she didn’t have to tell him. Before Paul became a Christian, he tried to deny the visions. Now he knew God sent them, but couldn’t understand why his wife had to be the conduit. Why not somebody else for once?
Chelsea stared without seeing at the coffee table.
God, I need Your help. Please lead Annie Kingston to call.
The phone rang and Chelsea jumped. She jerked her head toward the receiver. It rang once more before she picked it up. “Hello?”
“Hi. I’m trying to reach Chelsea Adams. This is Annie Kingston, returning her call.”
Chelsea almost laughed at the timing.
Thank You, God!
She clutched the phone, her heart turning over. “Oh, I’m so glad you called. I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. In fact, I wasn’t sure if you’d call at all.”
Annie Kingston’s laugh was nervous. “Well, Ms. Adams, I have to admit I was rather curious.”
“Oh, please call me Chelsea.”
“Okay. And I’m Annie.”
An awkward pause followed.
“I was in the courtroom, you know,” Annie ventured. “For those two cases. As an artist.”
Those two cases.
No explanation was needed. “I know. I recognized your face the first time I saw you on the news. Then those magazine features mentioned that you’d been in Redwood City. And of course I’ve heard about you numerous times since.” Chelsea paused. She shouldn’t have said all that. Maybe Annie didn’t like making the news any more than she did. “Anyway, thank you so much for calling back. I’ve been praying that you would.” She stopped. “I . . . that is, the most recent stories I read about you mentioned your faith. I understand you’re a Christian?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, good.” Chelsea hesitated. Here came the hard part.
Lord, give me the right words.
“Look, when this kind of thing happens — and fortunately it’s not often — it isn’t easy for me. I never know how a person’s going to respond. But I want you to know I’m clear on one thing. God impressed upon me very strongly to call you.”
Silence. Chelsea held her breath.
“Okay.”
The word came slowly, wrapped in wariness. “I hear the caution in your voice, Annie, and I don’t blame you. I mean, you and I are both — how shall I say it? — known for finding ourselves in the midst of trouble. I can understand why receiving a phone call from me might be rather . . . startling.”
Tension crept across Chelsea’s shoulders. Was she being too candid?
“I just might startle
you
,” Annie replied. “Fact is, I had a dream about you last night.”
Chelsea blinked. “About
me
?”
“Well, not really about you. But about the Salad King trial — and that story can’t be told without your part in it. I dreamed about Tracey Wilagher’s testimony, just like it happened. I woke up feeling strange and unsettled. Heavy with premonition. So when I heard you wanted to talk to me . . .”
“Oh, thank You, God.” Chelsea closed her eyes, relief flooding her chest. “Isn’t that just like Him — merciful enough to give us both a confirmation. Your dream certainly wasn’t a coincidence.”
“You
don’t think so?”
“Not at all. See, last night was . . . memorable for me too. God sent me a vision. I have to admit it was terrifying. Then when it faded, I saw a face. Clearly. A few hours later I felt the strong impression that I was to meet with you, tell you everything. Describe the face so you could draw it.”
Silence again. Chelsea could imagine Annie’s thoughts —
How do I end this phone call in a hurry?
The woman had been through a lot in the last few years. Why should she allow herself to become tangled in Chelsea’s problems?
God, if this is right, please help her hear.
Chelsea waited. Still no answer. “Annie?”
“Yes. I’m . . . listening.”
Chelsea sighed. “You didn’t like what I just said, did you? You’re thinking, ‘Keep me out of this.’ ” She laughed self-consciously. “I know how obnoxious I must sound. Plus you’re busy, and I have no right to demand your time. I don’t expect you to answer right now. Maybe the best thing to do is just let you pray about it. You can call me back . . . maybe tonight?”
Annie cleared her throat. “I’m not sure. First of all, I couldn’t complete a composite by hearing a description over the phone. I’d have to show it to the person. There’s usually a give-and-take as the drawing is refined.”
“I know. I would need to come see you.” Chelsea winced. How demanding she must sound. “Believe me, I know I’m asking a lot — ”
“Are you still in the Bay Area? That’s almost four hours away.”
“Yes, I am. And it’s hard for me to leave. I have two boys in high school. But tomorrow’s Saturday, so I could take the day to drive up and see you. I mean,
if
you’re available. Which is a lot to expect with such little notice, I know.”
Chelsea’s words faded. What more to say? She pictured herself in Annie’s shoes — hearing a perfect stranger claim her huge request was some message from God.
“Chelsea, thank you for calling. I really appreciate your trust in me. I do need time to think and pray about this, okay? It’s just that we had a murder here yesterday, and I’m already needed to work on that case.”
Oh no, another murder in Redding? Chelsea closed her eyes. “I’m so sorry to hear that. I understand you’ll be busy. Plus you have family, and tomorrow’s supposed to be a day off. So . . . I’ll just wait to hear from you.”
“Okay. I’ll get back to you by tonight.”
“Thank you, Annie. Very much.”
Chelsea hung up and pressed back against the couch, wrung out.
Well, that didn’t go very well.
The day stretched before her, oppressive and foreboding. If only she could clear the horrible memories from her head. Now she’d done all she could, and there was nothing to do but wait. God could send messages, but He would not force anyone to act against their will.
Lord, what am I going to do if I never hear from Annie Kingston again?
O
ne o’clock. My mind ran along dual tracks as I pulled into the parking lot of Shasta Regional Medical Center. For the sake of Toby Brown and Mike Winger, I needed to concentrate on the task at hand. But I couldn’t shake Chelsea Adams’s call from my mind. For some masochistic reason I’d stuck her phone number in my purse, and now it practically burned a hole through the leather.
After Chelsea’s phone call, Jenna pounced me with questions. I kept nothing from her, but I cringed upon relating the “God-told-me-to-call-you” part. As a loving sister, Jenna tries not to denigrate my increasingly vocal faith, but she certainly hasn’t embraced it either.
“Annie, that’s crazy.” She frowned. “How can anybody say ‘God told me’ when they don’t hear a thing? And how are you supposed to respond to that? She’s really put you on the spot.”
