#
Anna’s store sat on the edge of town. As Sam neared, he saw flashing lights and slowed. Then a sheriff’s deputy stepped onto the road and signaled for him to stop. Sam’s heart thumped. Anna’s store sat around the corner, concealed from his view.
“What’s the commotion?” he asked.
“Stay in your truck,” the deputy said.
Sam’s eyes wandered to the deputy’s car where he saw two teenagers staring at him from the back seat—their green faces flush from the afternoon sun. Then one of them seemed to recognize Sam’s brand and a wicked smile lit up his face. Images of a trashed trailer and smashed music box surged through Sam’s mind.
He had to know if Anna was alright.
He gripped the steering wheel and clenched his teeth waiting for his chance. When the deputy looked away, he eased up on the clutch and edged forward.
“Hey! Get back!” the deputy shouted.
Sam strained to see around the corner.
“Stop!” The deputy warned, reaching for his sidearm.
Sam pushed the clutch and his truck rumbled to a stop. But he could see now. The windows in Anna’s store were busted out. “Go home bitch!” was painted on the side. Out front, a man stood amid the cars and the red and yellow lights. He seemed to be snapping pictures of the field across the road. Sam looked closer. Then he saw a lone figure in a bright red dress swaying beneath a tree, dangling over a patch of yellow flowers.
Acid burned his throat and he vomited. Puke splashed onto the music box beside him. He grabbed it, fumbling. “Hush Little Baby” began playing. He tried to wipe it clean. It slipped, crashed to the floor, fell silent.
He stared, stunned.
The deputy called out from beside his truck and ordered him to get out. But the man’s voice seemed distant and foreign. Sam sat up and looked at the kids in the back of the police car.
Then those boys sneered.
#
A familiar perfume tickled Sam's nose, and he opened his eyes. “Where's Anna?”
His voice cracked, sounding high pitched and weak. A bright light made him squint.
“Anna Harper's dead. You're in recovery.”
“No,” he whispered. His head began spinning, and he brought his hand to his temple. His skin felt smooth and strange, and his fingers seemed small. Something was odd, but his thoughts returned to Anna. She'd never hurt anybody. She just wanted a future for their family. He'd kill the boys who did this.
“Relax. Your memory will come back in a few minutes.”
Memory? That's right. He'd already taken care of them boys. He'd rammed his truck into the car. Their screams reverberated in his head.
He looked at the man for the first time, and noticed his black and gold uniform. An image of a winged woman was sewn onto the sleeves. “Those boys dead?” he asked. Why did his voice sound so strange?
“Your name is Grace Robbins.”
“You're nuts.” They were messing with his head, trying to trick him.
“It’s true,” the man said. “You are Mrs. Grace Robbins.”
He laughed. He sure wasn't anybody's Misses. He was Anna's Mister. Mr. Sam Harper. Couldn't they come up with a better lie than that? The name sounded familiar, though.
What was that perfume?
It was his. He sat up, eyes wide. His husband bought it for him on their anniversary. Husband? He grabbed his chest and looked down. He had breasts. He looked at his hand, and saw a woman's green arm and manicured fingernails. They were painted purple.
No.
His leg ached.
“You are juror number eight in the capital murder case against Mr. Sam Harper. You've just completed the defendant's profile.”
“No, I am Sam Harper.”
“Relax, it'll make sense in a moment.”
Images flashed through her mind. She saw herself reading the summons from the courthouse. She saw her husband kissing her goodbye before she entered the jury chamber. She remembered lying on a table, and she remembered someone placing a mask over her face. It was true. She was Grace Robbins, a middle-aged woman—a green faced local.
But she couldn't shake the dream world. Inside, she was a young half-breed bent on revenge. She felt her cheek where her brand should have been, and felt smooth skin. Anger and grief overwhelmed her. How could she live without Anna?
Wait. That made no sense. She needed to control her thoughts. No. She needed justice. But she'd already delivered justice—or Sam had. She looked at the bailiff, narrowing her eyes. Sam had done his part. Now she'd do hers.
“When do I get to acquit?”
“Whoa, hang on.”
“When?” she demanded.
“You've still got to do the victim's profile.”
She shook her head. “No way.” She wasn't getting into the head of one of those monsters.
“I'm sorry,” he said. “It's always hard switching profiles.” He motioned toward two other bailiffs, and they came and grabbed her arms, forcing her back onto the table. “It's best to do it quick, and get it out of the way.”
She shook her head. “No…”
“It's for the best.” Like before, a man brought a mask over her face, and the room went black.
###
About the Author
Brent Meranda lives in Cincinnati with his wife and two children. He writes software by day and fiction by night. His non-fiction articles have appeared in The Plain Truth, Christian Odyssey, and Control Engineering. He’s also a certified teacher of relationship skills with Equipping Ministries International, and is a member of the pastoral leadership team at Christ Community Church.
Original Justice Page 3
