Dread Champion

by Brandilyn Collins

  Milt pulled the computer back toward him. “This last article is particularly interesting.He’d been charged with running some kind of illegal gambling scheme, and the cops had a witness. Just before Delgadia was due in court, the witness ‘disappeared.’ Doesn’t sound like the kind of guy you’d want to mess with.”

  Rogelio drew in a breath. “What happened?”

  Milt read further.“They had to let him go. It mentions him walking away from the courthouse with his wife and newly adopted daughter.”

  “Roselita!” Rogelio moaned. He slumped back in his chair. He could not bear to think of his baby with such a man.

  Milt eyed him. “Roselita?”

  Oh no. Rogelio pressed his lips together.

  The reporter continued staring. Rogelio could practically hear the wheels turning in his head. “Is Roselita the wife or the baby?”

  “Baby.” The word was barely audible.

  “I see.” Milt thought a moment. “Any chance,” he said slowly, “she’s your biological daughter?”

  Rogelio couldn’t hide the truth from his face.

  Milt fell silent.“What’s the connection to the trial?” he asked after a moment. “Was the adoption through Shawna Welk’s agency?”

  This guy was too smart. For a brash moment Rogelio considered walking out of the restaurant without looking back. But then— what?

  “Yeah.”

  “When was it?”

  “Seven months ago.”

  “Just before she was killed.” Milt tapped his computer. “Why would an agency let someone like this guy adopt a baby?”

  Rogelio gazed distractedly out the window. A Corvette rolled down the street, windows open, music blaring. Even in the restaurant he could feel the bass in his chest.

  He thought of Janet’s warning of a long, hard court battle. Of all the twisted accusations a man like Delgadia might throw out to win the fight. A fight in the courts was one thing; a fight with a man who apparently made people disappear was something else. Rogelio felt way in over his head. It wasn’t just his safety. He had Kristin and Mama Yolanda to worry about.

  Maybe he should forget the whole thing.

  But how could he, knowing that his daughter would be raised by this ruthless man?

  “Iknow a lot of people.” The reporter’s words ran through his head.

  “It wasn’t legal,” he said quietly.

  “The adoption wasn’t legal? Why?”

  Rogelio sank fingers into the arm of his chair.What should he do? If he told his story to some reporter, would Kristin ever forgive him?

  “Look, it’s getting late.”Milt sounded impatient.“You have something to tell me, you’d better do it now; I need to be back in court in fifteen minutes.”

  Rogelio felt as if he were jumping off an ocean cliff. He steeled himself. “Okay then. I’ll tell you,” he said. “But I … I want something in return.You have to promise that you won’t tell anybody else until we agree what to do.”

  “Deal.”

  “It won’t be in the news.”

  “Yes. Okay.”

  Solemnly Rogelio extended his hand over the table.Milt looked surprised, then shook it.When he tried to pull away, Rogelio held on firmly. “A man’s word is his life.”He gave Milt a piercing look. “If his word is no good, he is worth nothing.”

  The reporter held his gaze. “Agreed.”

  Rogelio’s fingers slid away.Milt flexed his shoulders, adjusted his suit coat. “So go ahead.”

  Rogelio told him.

  By the time he was through,Milt looked as if he’d been hit by lightning. His eyes cruised over the table as if searching for where to begin.

  “Do you realize what this means?” he said, gaping.“The defense would kill for this information. It would blow this case wide open.”

  All Rogelio could think of were his own problems.He gave Milt a blank look.

  “It would bring a whole other person into the case,” Milt explained rapidly.“A person with a real motive to want Shawna Welk dead.After all, dead people tell no tales.What’s more,Delgadia’s history suggests he’s capable of knocking somebody off when it suits him.”

  The words streaked through Rogelio like wildfire.How could he not have realized? In that instant he understood the strength of Mama Yolanda’s tie to the trial. No wonder God was calling her to pray. For a moment Rogelio marveled at that, amazed at what God had chosen to do, amazed that he would bother at all. Then worries crowded back into his head.

  “I don’t care about the trial.” He pointed at Milt. “I told you so you could help me get Roselita back.”

  “But this is perfect.”Milt pushed his computer aside and leaned toward Rogelio.“If the defense were to hear this information, they’d immediately subpoena Delgadia and Janet Cline, plus all the adoption papers. They’d requestion Tracey. If they could prove she went along with this, her testimony would be in tatters.And she’s the prosecution’s main witness.”

  “So?”

  “So.”Milt shook his head, as if astounded at Rogelio’s ignorance. “Reporters watching the case would be all over your story. They’d be all over Delgadia. Everything would be out in the open, and he’d be watched like a hawk. Which means he couldn’t pull anything underhanded.”

  “It didn’t seem to stop him before,” Rogelio commented.

  “That was different. It was probably some sleazy witness with his own criminal history. Someone who could have been done in by lots of people. Delgadia could get away with it. But everyone would be watching out for you. Plus the adoption papers will prove you’re telling the truth.”

  “What about Kristin? I don’t want reporters bothering her, calling her a baby seller.” Rogelio’s gut churned.What had he done?

  “It’s all in the spin, Rogelio,”Milt declared. “The defense would make Delgadia out to be a murder suspect, never mind that he was miles away from the beach that night. He’d be the bad guy. He already is.When I break the story, I’ll tell how you and Kristin were lied to, taken advantage of. Just two young kids trying to do the best for their daughter. Besides, you were honorable enough to come forward with what you’ve discovered. The public would eat it up. They’d be outraged at Delgadia and Shawna Welk.Do you see?”Milt shook his head.“Delgadia wouldn’t have time to form a plan against you. He’d be too busy defending himself!”

  Rogelio stared at the floor, heart beating in his ears.He couldn’t believe this was happening. “When would you report the story?”

  Milt tapped two fingers together, frowning. “First I would need to get all the facts from you and verify them.” His eyes fixed in the distance as he thought. Finally he nodded.“Okay.”He pulled out his notebook, then his pen. “Let’s go over all the information. Then we can talk strategy. I’ve got some ideas. …”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Dozens of eyes seemed to shoot lasers through Kerra as she and Brett resumed their seats after lunch. It was all thanks to the sound bite–hungry media, Kerra thought with a grimace. She and Brett had quickly become an official item, another fascination to ogle and whisper about as the trial unfolded.

  Well, so what? She was with Brett. Let the people talk all they wanted.

  Kerra had barely floated back to the ground after her two days in Salinas. One vignette after another still shimmered through her head. Sight-seeing with him in Carmel. A picnic dinner at the beach Saturday night, followed by a barefoot walk through the sand as the setting sun gleamed orange red over gentle waves. A drive through the ranch on Sunday, Brett pointing out the different crops. Brett had needed to spend some time with his foreman, catching up on the overall business of the ranch. Kerra had been prewarned and had taken a book along to read. But she never opened it. All she could do, as she lolled on the couch in the spacious family room, was think of Brett, relive her moments with Brett, feel Brett. Those two days were like a jewel suspended in time, worries of the trial temporarily pushed aside.

  Reality had hit during the drive back to the Bay Area. When
Kerra had slid into her bed in Aunt Chelsea’s house Sunday night, she’d felt uniquely alone.Not the gut-wrenching aloneness that had claimed her ever since Dave’s death but the aching desire of a heart newly awakened and trembling.

  Kerra found the crowd at the courthouse that morning both unnerving and fortifying, if that made any sense. She didn’t like the glances, the whispers, the reporters sidling up to her with questions she refused to answer.And now the cameras were filming her as well as Brett. But in an odd way, all those troubling ingredients pushed her closer to him. They’d been thrown into the same roiling stew pot, and all the stirring in the world would not keep her from him.

  The jury filed in. Of their own accord Kerra’s eyes fastened on Aunt Chelsea.Her aunt smiled and raised her eyebrows. The loving expression sent darts into Kerra’s chest. She knew she was causing her aunt worry. If only Aunt Chelsea could realize that she felt better and more alive than she had in a long time.

  “All rise.” The bailiff ’s voice boomed through the courtroom. Judge Chanson settled into her chair and donned her glasses. Kerra cast a look at Brett. He reached over and squeezed her knee.

  Dr. Gaston, definitely the nerdiest-looking man Kerra had ever seen, resumed his stance beside the easel and charts, pointer in hand. Stan Breckshire fussed with his notes at the prosecution table before skidding back his chair.

  “All right, Dr. Gaston,” the prosecutor said, scratching his jaw, “let’s continue where we left off.”

  For the next hour Dr. Gaston’s thin voice wafted over the courtroom as he displayed one depiction after another of current directions and speed off Breaker Beach. He also talked of wind speed, of how a body would float rather than sink and so was even more susceptible to being pushed out to sea. The testimony weighted the courtroom with its import. According to Dr. Gaston, the body of Shawna Welk would have been carried out to open ocean “unless some other presence in the water, such as a shark, interrupted the process.”

  Stan Breckshire paced as he questioned, snatching up his notes and throwing them back on the table, his forehead creased in concentration.

  “Now.”He halted abruptly, fingers drumming his chin.“Can you tell us about the tides on the night of February fifteenth and in the early-morning hours of February sixteenth?”

  “Certainly.”Dr. Gaston flipped a page on his chart.“Latitude and longitude for Breaker Beach are as follows: 36.8017 degrees north, 121.7900 degrees west. On the night of Friday, February fifteenth, the moon was at what we call the waxing crescent. This is the bare sliver we see as the moon begins a new cycle that will end in a full moon. High tide at Breaker Beach occurred at 1:02 a.m. on February sixteenth. The tide was at 4.20 feet. Low tide occurred at 6:45 a.m. and was at 1.88 feet.”

  “Okay. So in five hours and forty-three minutes, the tide receded …”—Stan Breckshire’s lips moved silently; Kerra quickly calculated—“about two and one-third feet.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Which means, if you do the math, that in the space of an hour and a half, the tide would have receded approximately seven inches, is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And when the tide recedes, what is the condition of the sand that was previously covered by water?”

  “Well,”Dr. Gaston said, pursing his lips, “it’s smooth and packed. And wet.”

  “Yes, naturally.” Stan Breckshire glanced at the jury, many of whom were taking notes.

  Seven inches of wet sand. In that instant Kerra’s mathematical brain put it all together. Tracey Wilagher’s testimony of seeing half a footprint in the wet sand, the rest of it smudged away. The smudged part was where the water level would have been when Shawna left the print. The time of high tide, the time Tracey said she’d been at the beach—it all fit.

  As the prosecutor continued his questions, a stillness settled in Kerra’ stomach until she practically hummed with it. She fiddled with her pant leg; her neck tensed until it ached. She couldn’t help boring a hole with her eyes into Darren Welk’s one-quarter profile as he sat at the defense table. As always, he was still as stone, except for those flexing hands.

  The strength in those hands.

  Ever since the first day of trial, Kerra’s mind had been filled with so many things. Her loss of Dave, her disappointment in Aunt Chelsea’s being a juror, the initial fascination with the bustling and intriguing courtroom scene. Then Brett. She’d wondered about Darren Welk’s guilt or innocence, had even on some rational level decided that he was guilty. But she’d held that knowledge away from her heart. The more her being had sung with the thrill of Brett, the more she’d cringed from that knowledge. Now it hit her full in the face.

  Darren Welk had killed his wife on Breaker Beach.Her body had washed out to sea.

  Kerra was falling in love with the son of a murderer.

  WOULD THIS DAY’S TESTIMONYnever end? The words dragged on and on for Brett, implications of the details sagging him in his chair.He surveyed the jury. Even with all the analysis and math, they seemed completely attentive. Tracey and Lonnie had enthralled them with personal, emotional stories. But these details were the facts, cold and clear, the evidence of tides and currents and inches of wet sand adding to the blood analyses, the tooth X-rays. His dad’s claim of vague, drunken memories had been irreparably tossed aside, trampled underfoot by the weight of science.

  Brett could hardly bear it.He was going to have to do something drastic to save his dad. He needed his father to come home.

  Terrance Clyde cross-examined Dr. Gaston at length, but his answers did little to quell Brett’s anxiety. Then, to make matters worse, the prosecutor called an expert on sharks. Eric Vanderling, who looked no older than thirty, was from the Pelagic Shark Research Foundation in Santa Cruz. Brett groaned inwardly at what he knew would follow.

  Vanderling talked about the three kinds of sharks that attacked people the most—tigers, bulls, and great whites. The great whites had attacked humans more times than had the other two types of sharks put together. Although shark attacks were extremely rare, the California coast around Monterey County, where Breaker Beach was located, seemed a prime spot. Great whites, the most lethal to humans, swam in the cooler waters off the California coast. They were known to eat seals voraciously in the Red Triangle—a hundred-mile area reaching from Bodega Bay to Santa Cruz.

  On February 10, five days before Shawna Welk disappeared, a great white shark had attacked a man about a mile off Zmudowski State Beach.

  Brett could feel Kerra’s tension. Numerous times she shifted in her seat.When Vanderling showed enlarged photos of a great white’s open mouth, she gasped quietly.

  “Here we have an actual great white shark’s tooth.” Vanderling held it up as if it were treasure. “The tooth is about one and three-quarters inches long and razor sharp.”

  Carefully, milking the moment for all it was worth, Stan Breck-shire held out his palm for the tooth, then eased over to the first juror, who stoically accepted it. The jurors passed it grimly, some of them gingerly touching fingers to the tip.

  “Does the shark have similar upper and lower teeth?”Breckshire prompted. Brett clenched his jaw. Hadn’t the point been made?

  “Yes, it does.” Vanderling pointed again to his photo. “In fact, a great white shark has multiple rows of teeth. If it happens to lose one, another moves forward to replace it.”

  “What about the power of the bite? Has it ever been measured?”

  “It’s very powerful. A great white can exert pressure of two thousand pounds per square inch.”

  Stan shook his head in horror. “Two thousand pounds as sharp as knives.”

  “Yes.”

  Brett stole a look at Kerra, then allowed his gaze to cruise the courtroom. Everyone was so horrifically fascinated. Shark’s teeth formed a human’s worst nightmare—being eaten alive.

  At least Shawna had already been dead.

  Or so he chose to believe.

  He shuddered. Kerra flicked him a look of
concern. Thankfully, the prosecutor was finally through with his questions.

  Erica Salvador rose from her seat like a diminutive general come to calm the troops. She clicked her way around the table toward the jury box and thrust out a hand for the tooth. Juror number twelve obediently dropped it into her palm.

  “Thank you.” She swiveled to the court reporter’s desk and tossed the tooth upon it. Then turned to face the witness with a deprecating stare.

  “Mr. Vanderling, what were those statistics that you mentioned before the prosecutor’s little sideshow? The one about how rare shark attacks are?”

  Vanderling straightened with the expression of a chastised child. “Well, like I said, last year was an unusually high year for attacks. Ninety-four were reported.”

  “And in the year 2000?”

  “Seventy-nine.”

  “And in 1999?”

  Vanderling furrowed his eyebrows. “Fifty-eight.”

  “How about 1998?”

  “Fifty-four.”

  “I see. And this is worldwide?

  “Yes.”

  “Would a person have just as much, if not more, chance of being struck by lightning?”

  “Yes.”

  “Or dying by some freak accident?”

  “Yes.”

  “How about being eaten by a bear?”

  “Well, not in the ocean.”

  A nervous titter ran through the courtroom. Erica did not appear amused.

  “Mr. Vanderling, is it not true that research indicates that these extremely rare attacks are in fact mistakes on the part of the shark?”

  “That’s what seems to be the case. Sharks are not out to get humans. They are wonderfully designed creatures who live in a habitat that humans like to enter. Sometimes we get in their way. As for the great white,we think the sharks mistake humans for seals, which are their favorite source of food.”

  “And do tell us, sir,what the great white shark does when he realizes his mistake?”

  “They tend to spit out whatever they’ve bitten off.”

  “In other words, they don’t eat an entire person.”