Dread Champion

by Brandilyn Collins

  With another stretch Tracey checked the clock on her dresser. Eight fifteen. She had to be at the store at ten. She threw back the covers, grabbed her robe, and padded to the computer, anxious to read the happy responses from her friends.

  Three messages popped up. Tracey smiled expectantly as she tapped the keys.

  Wow, he sounds like a DREAM ! Soraya wrote. When are you going to see him again?

  Any chance Iget, Tracey thought. Surely Milt would call. She’d given him her unlisted phone number.

  Tracey, I’m SO HAPPY for you!! Regina crowed.Wouldn’t it be funny if, after all this time of planning to leave once the trial is over, you stayed right there? Sounds like this guy would be worth it.

  Tracey’s gaze drifted to the bare wall above the computer screen. Regina was right. One evening with Milt and already Tracey didn’t want to think of leaving him behind. She sighed as she tapped on Maria’s post.

  The vehement words shot right through her.

  WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ’ RE DOING ??!!

  He’s a reporter, Tracey! You don’t trust reporters, period, no matter WHAT they tell you! All this guy wants is a story. You’ve fallen into his trap. Ican’t BELIEVE you’ve done this, after all these months of caution. DON’T see him again! Don’t even TALK to him. Believe me, I’m telling you this for your own good!!

  Tracey wilted in her chair, tears springing to her eyes. It wasn’t true. Milt’s face had been so honest, so believable. Stunned disappointment twisted Tracey’s stomach, followed by anger, both at herself and at the email. She should never have told all the details that she had. She should have expected this kind of reaction.Good grief, what was wrong with her? All her dreaming of Milt had downright fried her brain.

  But so what? Tracey railed to herself. So she’d made a stupid mistake and told. Still, this email was entirely undeserved. Tracey tried to imagine a fun life on the beaches of Brazil, with friends and boyfriends. Contrast that with her own pitiful existence.How could anybody deny her this little bit of joy?

  Mouth pressed in a tight line, Tracey banged out a reply.

  Some “friend” you are. How would YOU like to be living MY life? How would you like to be stuck here, testifying at the trial, grieving over your dead mother while everybody watches? If you can’t write me back something nice— DON ’ T WRITE AT ALL !

  As Tracey typed the last sentence, independence surged through her, clear and cold. She reveled in the new sensation, basked in it as if it were the first spring sun after a long, dreary winter. Suddenly she didn’t care about what anybody said, good or bad. All her life she’d been pushed around, doing what she was told. She was sick of being her mousy little self. She was sick, sick, sick of everything. For once in her life she was going to do what she wanted.

  With a furious little smile Tracey clicked the send button.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  After a surprisingly good night’s sleep Chelsea felt better. The first person she sought upon entering the courtroom that morning was the young man she’d seen talking to Milt Waking. He wasn’t there. Was that good or bad?

  Chelsea reminded herself that she did not need to know the answer. She just needed to keep praying. As she watched the attorneys prepare for the day’s proceedings, silently she talked to God.

  Stan Breckshire was wearing a shocking orange tie with his brown suit. He scrabbled through pages of notes at the prosecution table, rubbing his right shoulder and stretching his neck from side to side. Darren Welk whispered with Terrance Clyde, Erica Salvador leaning over to listen.

  The courtroom door opened. Sidney Portensic wheeled in a television set on a tall stand, a VCR on a shelf beneath it. Stan Breck-shire scurried over to help him set it up.

  The courtroom filled quickly. Reporters took their seats, Milt Waking’s eyes gliding across the jury and landing on her. Chelsea did not immediately look away.What was he up to? For once she wished she could talk to him.

  The TV set was ready. Stan eyed it with satisfaction, rubbing the side of his head until his hair stuck out. Chelsea suppressed a smile. Then he returned to his seat, perching like a hawk.

  Court was called to order.

  “Your Honor,” Stan announced, “the prosecution calls Detective Les Kelly. And as part of his testimony, I will be showing the videotape of the defendant’s interview on the morning of Monday, February 18, with Detectives Kelly and Draker.”

  “All right, Mr. Breckshire.”

  Detective Kelly took the oath in a reedy voice, his wiry frame held perfectly straight. Stan Breckshire asked him a few questions regarding the detectives’ interview with the defendant, then quickly moved to the video. The judge fiddled with the chain of her glasses as the prosecutor started the VCR. Sidney turned down the courthouse lights. The television flipped on and Darren Welk’s face filled the screen.

  His expression leaped from the television like some feral animal caught in headlights. Chelsea’s stomach immediately constricted. The onlookers sucked in a collective breath. Fear and defensiveness hardened Welk’s eyes. The deep lines around his mouth and forehead pulled taut, then slackened, pulled taut, slackened, as if his conscience and his survival instinct wrestled for control. His hands spread stiffly on the table, then slid together, clasping with a desperately feigned casualness that made his fingertips tremble.

  This, thought Chelsea, was a man with something to hide.

  Detective Draker read him his rights.“I watch those crime shows, too,”Welk joked. The words seemed to splatter the air around him. His thick chest rose as he dragged in a breath and pressed back against his chair.

  He didn’t deny hitting his wife.He didn’t deny that the blood on the blouse came from a cut in her head.He remembered details such as Shawna Welk taking off the blouse and Tracey Wilagher kicking him awake later. Yet he claimed to remember nothing in between. According to Darren Welk, his wife had probably run off with a boyfriend, somehow managing her complete disappearance from an out-of-the-way beach in the middle of the night.

  Chelsea’s eyes slid to Darren Welk, who sat stiff-backed at the defense table, fingers tightly laced. One thumb pressed into the other hand,wrinkling his sun-leathered skin.He eyed himself on the television screen as if he were his own worst enemy.

  Yes, Chelsea thought, you are.

  She glanced at Brett.He too sat stiffly. So like his father.His face was pale.

  “Are you aware, Mr.Welk,” the detective onscreen said, leaning forward, “that both you and I have referred to Mrs.Welk in the past tense?”

  Darren Welk’s reaction pulsed from the television through the courtroom.His face hardened like frozen soil. “When did I do that? I’d have no reason.”

  “Your wife washed her blouse because she didn’t like messes?”

  On camera Darren Welk’s expression slackened, then worked to reassemble itself. Chelsea shot another glance at the defendant. He pulled his eyes away from the television and locked a firm-mouthed gaze onto the courtroom floor.

  “Where’s my dad?” a muffled voice from the video demanded off camera.“I want to see him right now! I want to talk to the detectives!”

  The onscreen Darren Welk pressed back in his chair, eyes wide. “No!” He shot out a hand and grabbed the surprised detective’s wrist. “You’re not talking to my son. You’ve got your man.” He stabbed his chest with a finger. “Leave Brett out of this.”

  The detective eyed him coldly.He picked the man’s hand off his wrist as if it were a giant spider. “We’ve got our man?” He lowered his chin, staring at Welk. “Is that a confession, Mr.Welk?”

  Darren Welk’s mouth opened, then snapped shut. His gaze narrowed, darkened, his shoulders straightening. Suddenly he slammed a fist into the table. “I want to see a lawyer!”

  His face froze on the screen, mouth in a snarl and teeth bared, eyebrows jammed together. Next to Chelsea, Gloria sucked in an audible breath. No one in the courtroom moved, all staring at the anger, the hatred, in that face. Chelsea’s eyes moved back an
d forth between Darren Welk and his son. Brett sat in utter stillness, as if one move would make him explode.What was it? Chelsea’s mind scurried for an answer. Everything about Darren Welk reeked of guilt. But Brett. Something about Brett …

  With a funereal air Stan Breckshire approached the television. He studied the frozen face onscreen, then trailed his eyes to Darren Welk, pulling the stares of everyone in the courtroom with him. Welk flushed, averted his eyes to his grasped fingers. Suspicion, cloying and rancid, steeped the jury box.

  “Your Honor,” Stan Breckshire pronounced, the words dripping with meaning, “I have no more questions.”

  Terrance Clyde cross-examined.When defense was through, Stan pushed out of his chair with an air of finality and leaned across the table on spread fingers. “The prosecution rests,” he announced.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Sweat trickled between Rogelio’s shoulder blades as he weeded in the hot sun, his fingers automatically moving, mind far away.

  Tomorrow evening Milt planned to air his story. The reporter had gotten a lot of information from Tracey, but there were still a few loose ends, he’d said. He needed this evening to try to put it all together. Exactly how Milt had gotten Tracey to talk remained a mystery. Rogelio wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  Mama Yolanda still knew nothing. Rogelio had first wanted to hear from Milt. But he couldn’t put off telling her any longer. He’d have to talk to her tonight. Kristin too. His heart skipped beats over that thought. All he could do was hope and pray for the words to make Kristin understand. Surely she would feel differently once she heard all he’d learned about the man who was raising their daughter. Surely all this would work out. Somehow.

  God, he prayed silently, fingers grasping and pulling, don’t forget our bargain.

  “YOU CAN SEE THE guilt in every move of Darren Welk’s body,” Lynn Trudy declared to reporters as they gathered in the hall after lunch. “That videotape says it all.”

  Milt Waking watched Bill film happily away. The guy’s tongue was practically hanging out of his mouth. Milt slithered a gaze to Lynn and shuddered. Today her pants were spangled with glitter, her too-tight knit shirt a hot pink. Not a good combination with her long purple nails, which continually scuttled through the air like crabs as she spoke. She’d apparently rinsed her spiky hair over the weekend, its new hue a deep red. Milt wondered about a woman who’d think of changing hair color in the midst of her sister’s murder trial.

  “Ms. Trudy, what’s your latest thought on the phantom caller?” a reporter asked.

  She turned to him, eyes flashing. “My thought is, why in the world haven’t they caught who did it?” She glared at the reporter as if it were his fault. “It’s obviously someone who wants Darren Welk found innocent, even when he most assuredly is not. How many people like that do you see attending this trial?” She cast a meaningful look across the hallway at Brett Welk’s back. The reporters’ eyes followed hers.

  “Are you suggesting his son is behind the calls?” Pens dangled with anticipation.

  “I will say no more.” Lynn Trudy’s plucked eyebrows rose.“Look at the facts before you. They speak for themselves.”

  Milt hung back, viewing the scene. Same old questions day after day. Oh, the questions he’d soon be asking this woman. Ms. Trudy, did you know your sister sold a baby to aman of highly questionable repute? Did you know that your niece was involved?

  He couldn’t wait to see the look on her face.

  STAN BRECKSHIRE REPRESSED a smirk as he listened to the first two witnesses for the defense. Past boyfriends of the deceased. This second one, all muscles and tan and hair, looked a good fifteen years younger than Shawna Welk.What a slut she’d been.

  Ol’ T. C. and smarty-pants Erica were certainly dragging the trenches. They had so little of a defense to present. The most they could do was try to poke holes in his case, and Stan knew they’d managed to do little of that. So Shawna Welk had gone through a slew of boyfriends? Her husband had cheated on her, hadn’t he? Stan could see the argument coming. If she’d been with these men, she’d probably been with more and perhaps had run off with one of them. Stan’s comeback for his closing argument already ran through his head. So she’d run off with a supposed boyfriend, had she? Who was he? How come no one knew of him? Why was no man missing, as Shawna was?

  Stan tapped the prosecution table. He wondered what other shenanigans T. C. would try to pull. He remembered the infamous story of a former murder case sans body. The defense attorney, in his closing remarks, had dramatically declared to the court that the “deceased” was not dead at all and would in fact enter through the courtroom doors in the next moment. All heads had turned expectantly toward the entrance. Of course, the dead woman did not enter the courtroom. But the defense attorney had made his point.Any of the jurors who’d looked, he emphasized, could not vote guilty, for they’d harbored just that much doubt.

  How very cunning. Except for one thing. The jurors had noticed that only one person in the courtroom had not turned to look toward the door—the defendant.

  Verdict: guilty.

  Stan smiled to himself. It just didn’t pay to get too cute.

  He slid a look at his jury. Clay and Henry were dutifully taking notes. Other jury members took notes, too. Funny how Chelsea Adams had all of a sudden decided to join them. But these two men seemed in control, influential. One of these would be his foreman. And he had ’em both; he’d bet on it.

  Young Mr. Macho left the stand. T. C. called his third witness. Another boyfriend. Stan drummed fingers against his leg.Ho hum.

  KERRA SQUEEZED BRETT’S HAND in empathy as Barry “Buddy” Hottsteter assumed the witness chair with a tinge of defiance. He looked about six foot two, with black hair in a ponytail and a leathered face.Not a man Kerra would want to meet in a dark alley. How Brett must feel, seeing this parade of his stepmother’s “other men.” Kerra stole a look at the back of Darren Welk’s head, wondering what he was thinking. Did he even care? He, the husband who’d apparently had a string of women?

  He leaned over and whispered in Terrance Clyde’s ear. The attorney whispered back. Erica Salvador rose to question Buddy, her ever present high heels clicking. Buddy watched her approach with a mixture of wariness and superiority—Ican handle you,Miss Lawyer.

  “Mr.Hottsteter.” Erica stopped in front of him, hands clasped at her waist. “Good afternoon. I understand you’re not too happy about being here, is that true?”

  “You could say that.”

  “And why would that be?”

  He gave her a look. “I don’t like talking about my affairs in public.”

  “Hm.”The corner of Erica’s mouth turned up slightly. “Interesting use of words. Let’s talk about your ‘affair’ with Shawna Welk. When did it begin?”

  “Three months before she was killed.”

  Erica’s face hardened at the word. “And did it continue right up to the time she disappeared?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did you manage to meet with her during these three months?”

  “In my apartment in Salinas.”

  “You live alone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Was this during the day or evening?”

  Buddy Hottsteter shrugged. “Both.Whenever we could.”

  “I see.” Erica shot Darren Welk a glance of empathy. Kerra noticed Brett’s hand twitch.

  “Where were you on the night of February fifteenth, Mr. Hottsteter?”

  He assumed a bored look. “Like I told the detectives, I was in my apartment, asleep.”

  “Anyone who can confirm that?”

  “No.”His eyes narrowed.

  Erica folded her arms.“Isn’t it true that three nights before Shawna Welk disappeared, a neighbor of yours heard you two fighting in your apartment and called to ask you to keep your voices down?”

  Buddy glared at her.Wild hope flared in Kerra’s chest. Her lips parted as she looked to Brett in surprise. His face remained impassive.
She sent a piercing look toward the jury, Aunt Chelsea.

  “It wasn’t much of an argument.”

  “Really?” Erica walked with determination to the defense table and picked up her notes.Her finger slid halfway down the top page, then stopped.“Your neighbor, a Mr.Allen Foxmeyer, did not call you and say”—she consulted the notes—“‘You are shouting so loud,my pictures on the wall are rattling’?”

  Buddy flicked his eyes.“He’s an old man; he’s easily rattled.”

  Erica tapped a nail against the papers. “What were you arguing about?”

  “Can’t remember.”

  The defense attorney sighed. She read her notes again. “According to the police report,Mr. Foxmeyer said he heard you shout, ‘I’m not rich enough to leave your husband for, is that it?’ True, Mr. Hottsteter?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Erica tossed the papers on the defense table. “You sure? I could always call Mr. Foxmeyer to testify. And do remember you’re under oath.”

  Buddy’s mouth worked, the expression on his face venom.

  “Can you remember?”

  “Fine. I said it.”

  “You wanted Shawna to leave her husband?”

  “Yeah. So what?”

  “And you were angry when she wouldn’t?”

  No answer.

  “Mr. Hottsteter?”

  “Yes, okay? I was mad. It passed.”

  “When did it pass?”

  “When Darren Welk killed her!”