The shadow that chilled his dawns formed with such clarity he could finally name what had haunted him for so long. The word coalesced in a place where neither the shade nor the name had any place entering, but had gained entry because of him. He stared into the void of his shattered life, and called the shadow by its name.
Death had not entered his world quietly, not the day it had stolen away the two beings he treasured more than life itself. That brilliant sunlit afternoon had been filled with radio music and the kids’ chatter and his wife’s cold argument. He could not recall now what they had been arguing about. Something important, as they almost never fought in front of the children. Probably his drinking. The argument and the cause all belonged to another life, one not yet shattered by death’s hand.
Death entered the car that day with a noise so great it had robbed his world of light and meaning. His soul had died along with his children. Why had his body remained? What was so bad in his former life that he had to be continually punished by his children’s absence?
There within the church the shadow formed more clearly still, gliding upon slippered feet. The shroud it carried wrapped him up so tightly that Marcus felt his hold on the church and the comforting noise slip away until he could scarcely hear anything save the frantic beating of his terrified heart. He sat there, trapped and helpless to do anything save observe the approach of his own eternal night.
His eyes were shut so tight his entire face felt clamped by the effort of keeping out the invader. Yet still it came. Marcus sat bowed over his knees and knew he was defeated. And lost.
Behind his clenched eyelids, Marcus stared into the darkness of his nightly battleground. His nightmare became not just a memory he could run from in the light of day. Here in his one weekly moment of peace, he was trapped within that which was as real as his loss. As real as his sorrow. As real as his own death.
He stood in the upstairs hall of their Raleigh home. The house he had never entered after that day, and yet to which he had been taken almost every night for a year and a half. He stood in the hall, lit by a light so bright it threatened to sear his eyeballs. Or perhaps it merely seemed so bright because the darkness into which he peered was hopelessly empty of light and all else. Yet though he could not see, he could hear, and from the sound he knew he stood in the doorway of his son’s bedroom. From out of the darkness there came the sound of his son singing a soft little song about a bird and a ladybug and a little yellow butterfly. His son had been singing it that day, the day they had driven back from the beach. Singing as his father had driven him into the intersection. Singing as though trying to blot out the sound of his parents arguing. Singing with a voice gentle as summer rain.
Then his son stopped singing, and Marcus felt the remnants of his heart wrenched yet again by the sound of the loveliest voice in the entire universe calling out one tiny word.
“Daddy?”
He had no choice. It did not matter that he knew what was to come. His son called to him. He had to respond.
Marcus entered the doorway.
Instantly there was the same horrible flash to his right, the same moment of looking over to see the truck’s polished metal grille catch the sunlight, and there in its reflection to see the face of approaching death. Then there was the sound of exploding metal and glass, and a scream cut off too quickly—one so high he could never tell if it was his wife or his daughter or his son who had made the sound. Perhaps all three. Or perhaps it was his own heart shrieking as the cords binding his life together were severed all at once.
The dream continued. He was back in the hallway, the blackness mocking him now. And again his son called out to his father. Only this time the little boy was crying and frightened by the nightmare Marcus was powerless to end. He leapt through the doorway again. And again he was struck by the truck, the demon, the carrier of death. The wrenching metal and the exploding glass and the single scream catapulted him back into the hallway.
Only this time it was not the hallway where he stood, helpless and straining as the little voice cried to him once more. Now he was in the aisle of the church, caught within the pain of living a nightmare that did not end, not even when he opened his eyes and saw Deacon Wilbur rushing toward him. The agony wrenched Marcus like a bullet to the heart. He fell to his knees, so numb from inner pain that he did not even feel the dozens of hands there to catch and hold him.
A voice too kind and too caring to ever appear in his nightmare world murmured, “It’s all right, brother, it’s all right. The Lord is here. He knows.”
The sound only intensified his pain. He managed a single breath then, one that felt raked over the coals of eternal regret, one that gave him the power to scream his son’s name. “Jason!”
“Yes, Lord, be here with this suffering man. Call his name, God, let him hear you. Let his heart know your healing.”
Marcus could respond only with the cry of his daughter’s name, his precious “Jessica!”
“Dear Jesus, heal this broken spirit, be the salve to bind his wounds and heal his heart.”
A hand gripped his hair so hard he could not burrow into the ground as he wished. He groaned, and felt as though all the earth groaned with him, crying with him and for him. Marcus wept, and felt a rightness that all those around him wept along, for the pressure of holding back a year and more’s worth of tears was so great that all the world should have cried, and still there would be a surfeit of unshed sorrow.
THIRTY-EIGHT
THE NEXT MORNING Marcus arose still scalded by the public shedding of his mask. It mattered little that the nightmare had been but a whisper that morning, and he had slept until the sun’s first traces were strong and clear over the eastern rooflines. He slipped into his sweats simply because it was his morning routine, though it seemed to him that a window mannequin had more life and would fill the clothes better.
When he stepped out the front door, he was greeted by soft footfalls and a pair of young and vaguely familiar faces. He walked down the steps and stood there in the quiet light of morning, trying to figure out where he had seen those dark faces before. Then he recalled the groups of teens clustered on several surrounding porches. Previously they had watched him pass, either in the car or on foot, missing nothing, saying less. No signal had ever been given that they even wished to acknowledge his existence as a neighbor, until now.
When he just stood there staring at them, the taller one informed him, “Old Deacon says you ain’t to go runnin’ alone no more.”
He could not help but show his surprise, which resulted in the sprouting of grins. Marcus asked, “You’ve been watching me?”
“And yo’ house,” the younger boy replied.
The taller one, a young man of perhaps eighteen with an Indian’s chiseled features, said, “Why you think you got something to come home to at night, luck of the draw?”
“Trucks pulled up a coupla times and stopped,” the other said. “We just walk over and give ’em the eye. They pulled away fast enough.”
Marcus fished among the mass of sudden questions. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“We told Deacon,” the older one replied. “Deacon says he told the sheriff. Guess they figured you got enough to worry about already.”
Marcus felt a catch in his throat, as if a vestige of the previous day’s sorrow were still hanging around. So he just nodded, and afterward was glad he had, for there in the predawn light he could not have found anything fitting to say.
The old town became filtered by the comfort of not running alone. A heavy autumnal mist had fallen, squeezed from the stars that seemed reluctant to give way to the strengthening day. His footfalls swished along the narrow path leading across the field and toward the bridge, and the sound merged with birdsong and the panting tread of three men. He seemed to find some remarkable way to draw upon their youth and strength, for he had not run so easily in years.
When he finally pulled back in front of the house, the sun was up and caressing the o
ld fired brick with a ruddy dusting of gold. He stared over the front lawn, a field now of prisms and tiny rainbows, and cherished this place anew. He then turned back to his running mates, puffing and grinning at how they had caught him out and joined his private time. Marcus asked, “What are your names?”
“Aaron.”
“Orlando.”
“I’m Marcus, in case anybody was wondering.” He shook their hands in turn, wishing he could think of something to say, seeing in their eyes that they did not expect words. Or need them.
By the time he had showered and dressed, the deputy’s car was pulled up in front. Marcus gripped his briefcase, then set it back down and stepped out to where Darren and the deputy were talking. “Morning, Amos.”
“Marcus.” His eyes showed a glimmer of deep-set humor. “See you’ve met Deacon’s secret service.”
“Darren, I forgot my briefcase. Would you mind getting it for me?” When the tall young man had departed, Marcus went on, “I can’t thank you enough. For everything.”
“I’ve known good folks and bad, Marcus. And the best kind of folks are those who give more than they take.” He touched Marcus for the first time, settling his hand briefly on the lawyer’s shoulder. “You just worry about winning this here case.”
He heard the door slam behind him, and said, “Has Darren told you about his trouble?”
“Didn’t need to.”
“You know he can’t go into police work with a record.”
Amos gave a fraction of a nod. “Been meaning to speak with you about that. Think you can do something to wipe it clean?”
“The adolescent stuff is no problem, his records were sealed by the court when he turned eighteen.” He heard the young man’s approach, and said simply, “As to more recent events, I understand there’s only one that matters.”
“That’s right,” Amos said. “I checked.”
“I could ask,” Marcus said, nodding his thanks as he accepted the briefcase. “But I’m afraid my stock has sunk pretty low when it comes to calling in favors.”
Amos had to grin. “I do believe you might be in for a surprise there.” He said to Darren, “I’ll follow you gents on in today.”
“There’s no need,” Marcus protested.
This time Darren shared the sheriff’s grin. Amos said, “You best prepare yourself for surprise number two.”
He decided there was no need to dispel their good humor with further questions. As Darren slid the Jeep in behind the deputy’s car, Marcus used his mobile to call the Halls. The phone rang so long he feared he had missed them. He was hard put not to smile when Kirsten answered somewhat breathlessly. The morning was so fine in its start he could almost pretend it was excitement over hoping the call was from him. “You did great handling the press.”
“Wait, we were halfway to the car when the phone … ” She took a long breath, then started over in a rush. “The police are here. Two cars. One has been parked here all weekend to keep back the crowd. Another is going to drive us in today. I got another call this morning: ABC wants me to come in for a live debate with someone from the defense team. I don’t want to do it, Marcus.”
“Then don’t.”
“But it might mean some big publicity.”
“As much as we’re getting already,” Marcus replied, “I don’t think one debate will matter much. Don’t do anything you don’t want to. Tell Alma and Austin I said the same applies to them.”
“Yes. All right.” A smaller voice, then, “When can we talk?”
The question was enough to give him the strength to admit one more time, “We’re both carrying more than our share of secrets, Kirsten. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”
“I want,” she said, the words almost musical. “A lot.”
“All right.” He had to stop and swallow. “There’s something I need to ask you, then. The defense’s first witness is a woman named—wait, I have it here.” He opened his briefcase and shuffled the papers. “Stella something.”
“Gladding. Stella Gladding.”
“You know her?”
“We’ve never met, no. But Gloria talked about her.”
“Okay, I need to know why the defense called her.”
Kirsten’s voice returned to the flat monotone of earlier days, but she did not flinch from the task. Marcus took notes through much of the journey, his mind strategizing as she talked. When she fell silent, he asked, “That all?”
“I think so. Is it bad?”
“The truth is, maybe. But as long as we know in advance, we can prepare.”
“Marcus,” she sighed, “when can we talk? I don’t mean like this. I mean, really.”
His heart replied first, with a fleeting image of what he was certain the coming week would hold. “It may need to wait until this is over.” What he did not add was: If you still want to after what you’re about to witness.
THEY ARRIVED to find the federal courthouse under siege. Police roadblocks held back a packed placard-hoisting mob, the signs so jumbled together Marcus gathered one blurred impression of Tibet and fashion and children and China and trade and missionaries and human rights and several missing activists with Asian names. Amos put on his flashers and the police moved the barricade and waved them through. A dark-windowed limo was pulled up in the fire lane. Then he could see no more, for the press surged forward. Marcus emerged from the Jeep to camera flashes and klieg lights.
Jim Bell was there to usher him inside. The questions were a torrent of verbal rain, striking him from every side. He allowed the retired patrolman to burrow forward, saying nothing, astonished by it all.
Charlie Hayes awaited him just inside the doors. “You hear the news this morning?”
Marcus shook his head, stared out at the mayhem, struggled to accept what he had caused.
“The Chinese government issued a formal statement condemning the United States government for what they call a petty attempt at trade terrorism.” When Marcus did not respond, the older man led him toward the elevator. Jim Bell continued to dog their footsteps. Charlie said, “Looks like you won yourself some publicity, son.”
He waited until the doors shut to reply, “Let’s just hope it works.”
“If this don’t, well … ”
Marcus did not allow the unspoken to hang for long. “We need to talk strategy. I want you to handle this first witness.”
Charlie turned away from the tumult. “Trouble?”
“Probably.”
“ALL RISE.”
Judge Nicols swept in with the majesty of one born to wear royal robes. She seated herself and made a noble pretense of ignoring the packed hall by issuing her customary greeting to the jury. “Good morning. How is everyone?”
The foreman, a retired machinist with the reddened neck and face and arms of a dedicated outdoorsman said, “Good, Your Honor.”
“Any particular reason I should know about?” She let the smile slip away as she turned to where Logan stood by the defense table. “Yes?”
“Your Honor, I have the pleasure of presenting General Zhao Ren-Fan.”
Marcus turned with the rest of the packed hall. The man was stocky and not aging well. His face was pocked, his body chunky and sagging. Not even the finely cut dark suit could hide the general’s hard battle against approaching winter. Zhao turned to meet Marcus’ stare, and his face clenched up slightly around eyes black as Arctic night. No light was emitted from those eyes. No light, no hope, no message at all.
Even so, the dark eyes flickered once, then turned away. When Marcus swiveled back in his seat, he caught sight of the look shared by Alma and Austin Hall as together they glared at their daughter’s nemesis.
The judge did not need to speak to silence the crowd. One sweeping glare sufficed. Nicols turned her attention back to Logan. The defense attorney continued, “The Chinese government wishes to state formally that they have nothing whatsoever to do with either this trial or this gentleman’s presence. He is here
of his own volition, at the behest of the China Trade Council. The council vehemently objects to this entire trial, Your Honor, and wishes to go on record that this is an extremely volatile matter, one that should be left to the federal government. We so move on their behalf.”
“Your motion is noted and denied.”
“Very well. In that case, Your Honor, the defense wishes to open its case with my postponed opening statement.”
“Very well.” Judge Nicols turned to the jury and explained, “As you may recall, the defense chose not to give an opening statement. I told you at the time that they might do this later, probably before calling their first witness.” She turned back to Logan. “You may proceed.”
Logan walked to the corner by the judge’s entrance and picked up the portable podium. He carried it to the center point between the plaintiff’s table and the witness stand, about twelve feet from the jury box. He leaned against it, and launched straight in. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, what we have here is a case within a case. Things have become infinitely more complicated, and your job is now much more difficult. But what you mustn’t do, under any circumstances, is lose sight of where the burden of proof lies.”
Logan Kendall was a consummate actor. The courtroom was the only stage he would ever see, the only one he desired. Nothing could be done about his boxer’s face or his inborn aggressiveness. But he used them to his advantage, and had polished all to a hard shine. His hair was as perfect as his tan and his suit and his manicure. His tie was a two-hundred-dollar Brioni, his shoes hand-tailored calfskin. In an instant he could switch from hard and feisty to warm and welcoming. When he turned on his considerable Irish charm, a mere few moments in front of the jury was enough for them to want to believe him. They knew it was an act, but as with all fine performances, they really didn’t care.
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