"But... she's alive," I said. "I saw her."
Jeff looked at me, confused. "You did?"
"At the cabin. You didn't?"
"There was the nurse's aide and a lady with a walker—looked like she had a stroke. Couldn't seem to talk. That's her?"
"That's Sara." I looked Rankin in the eye. "Not totally lost, huh, Pastor?"
He hung his head.
Instead of saying, "You make me sick," like I wanted to, I opted for, "I need some aspirin."
As I left I heard Jeff move on to questions about Noreen's death. I didn't need to relive those events right now, so I was glad to be gone.
DeShay, who'd been watching through the two-way mirror, had water and aspirin waiting when I came out. "I thought you might need this. You took a good crack to the head tonight, I hear."
"Thanks, DeShay." I gulped down the pills and water. "Now can someone take me home?"
26
Once I was sitting on my couch with Diva in my lap, I ate my way through a pint of Cherry Garcia ice cream while reflecting on all that had happened in so short a time. The truth Will and I sought when he and his family came to me for answers turned out to be far messier than we could have ever imagined. Although I wanted to say mission accomplished, I decided the word "mission" might be forever banned from my vocabulary. Besides, two innocent people were still imprisoned. Sara Rankin was in jail just like Lawrence, a prison without bars, but no less horrible.
I checked my watch. Past midnight. Will wasn't due back from camp until the day after tomorrow, and I didn't want to wake his parents. But Burl? He was a cop, used to late calls. He'd want to know what had gone down tonight, and I was too wired to sleep. I spent the first fifteen minutes of the call summarizing tonight's drama.
"Verna Mae did this to herself," Burl said when I was done. " 'Course if she went and got another kid like she tried to do, we'd never know they got the wrong guy up in Huntsville."
"I didn't know she tried to get another baby," I said.
"Neither did I until today. I've been asking questions around town since the day you and I met, trying to figure out what I missed back then. Found a woman who once worked with Jasper, and she told me he got pissed off royal because they paid some huge private adoption fee a year after the kid was left on their doorstep and Verna Mae backed out of the deal at the last minute."
"Maybe she originally took money from the Rankins so she could get another baby. Then, when she got cold feet, she fixated on Will."
"Makes sense. I sure hope Lawrence Washington will be freed."
"What do you mean? We know what happened that night. He's innocent."
"You got the preacher's confession, but you better hope Byron Thompson pulls through and tells the truth."
"We have his gun, Burl. We know the same weapon was used to kill both Amanda Mason and Verna Mae."
"Pray the gun B.J. used tonight was the right gun. Then your friend Jeff will have something to take to a judge. Tough to get out of jail in Texas, Abby. Even if you're as innocent as a fresh-laid egg."
"They have to let him out," I said. But I knew he was right. I could recall more than one case where the courts dragged their feet for nearly a year, even after DNA proved the men weren't rapists.
"That's why hard evidence, carefully collected and preserved, is so important," he said.
"You've taught me a lot about evidence on this case. Frustrated the hell out of me a few times, though. I can tell you this, when Lawrence walks out of jail, I want to give him that blanket. Think you could hand it over then?"
He laughed. "Sure."
We chatted a few more minutes about Lucinda and his boys before I hung up. I was almost tired, until I saw what I looked like after I faced the bathroom mirror. What a wake-up call. I had streaks of dried blood down my neck that had stained my collar, and my lip was still swollen from the storage unit fire. I looked like I'd been in a bar fight.
I began to carefully separate strands of hair looking for the cut, but the blood had clumped and hardened, and I was afraid to probe more for fear of making my head bleed again. This was a job for Kate. In the morning.
Jeff called me early, seven a.m. to be exact, and gave me an update. Olive had been taken into custody for questioning, and after an evaluation by a Health and Human Services caseworker, Sara had been sent to the hospital. If Olive cooperated, she might not be charged as an accessory to murder. Ironically, all three hospitalized people—Thaddeus, Sara and B.J.—were in the same place, though Jeff told me B.J. would be moved to the jail infirmary when his condition improved. If he'd confessed to anything, Jeff hadn't heard. He advised me to call Mark Whitley, a defense lawyer, as soon as Whitley's office opened. Lawrence would need counsel to help get him out of prison.
Even before Kate arrived, I'd decided I needed her assistance with more than just my head wound. I wanted her to go with me to visit Sara Rankin. When Kate arrived with salves and ointments in a little makeup bag, I put in my request. She made some calls and rearranged her schedule to make time this morning.
While my sister carefully washed blood out of my hair, I provided a more detailed, but still modified, version of what happened last night. She didn't need to know how close I'd come to getting myself killed. By the time I was finished with my summary, I discovered I liked the version I told her, the one where I was in complete control from the minute I was taken from that log cabin—playing B.J. for the fool he was.
If Kate didn't believe me, she never let on. She carefully treated the cut once she was done with shampooing and said I'd have a scar, but she didn't think I needed stitches. No problem. One more scar for my collection.
I dressed in lightweight jeans and a yellow camp shirt, not as attractive as Kate's pale blue linen shirt and matching slacks, but comfortable. I was a little sore after the head butting and tackling I'd done last night, but surprisingly not tired.
We left for the hospital with Kate at the wheel. She had to drive, since my car was in police impound. Kate's office is in the Medical Center, and she was the better choice to find the ever-elusive parking place anyway.
We got lucky and found a space on the third floor of the hospital garage, then made our way through throngs of visitors and medical personnel and took the elevator to the neurology floor, where Sara Rankin had been admitted for evaluation. When we arrived at her doorway, a slew of white coats surrounded her bed—doctors' rounds going on, I assumed. We couldn't even see Sara, there were so many of them.
An older black woman with mottled gray hair looked down at a clipboard and said, "This patient is unusual, suffered a toxemia of pregnancy neurological event, most certainly a stroke, nearly twenty years ago. What's rare is that she may have never had an evaluation or follow-up care. From what her longtime caretaker reported to the police, the patient was in a coma for several months post delivery, has been aphasic and was never rehabbed. We'll be transferring her to a rehabilitation facility after our evaluation is complete. Moving on, ladies and gentlemen..."
The woman looked up from her clipboard as the interns and residents began to file past us. "You family?" she asked.
"Um, no. But I was hired by family to find this woman." My eyes were on Sara. She wore one of those awful, hang-off-your-shoulders gowns, and though she was now thirty-five years old, she looked like a terrified child. Her walker was in a corner, far from her reach.
Sara stared at me. Her slack jaw and weakened facial muscles couldn't hide the perceptiveness I saw in those eyes.
"Oh," the doctor said. "You're the detective. A police sergeant called and told me you'd be coming. She may not be able to communicate well, but she understands everything you say. Talk to her. She could use some friends."
The woman then hustled after her pack of interns.
Kate was already at the bedside. She picked up one of Sara's hands and said, "I'm Dr. Rose, a clinical psychologist. Can my sister and I talk to you, tell you why you've been brought here?"
Sara looked at Kate with
questioning eyes, then at me.
"Remember me? You saw me through the window last night. I'm Abby."
Sara nodded slowly. A yes.
Kate, still holding onto Sara's hand, dragged over a nearby chair using her foot. She sat down. "Things have happened over the years, Sara. Things you probably know nothing about. My sister knows all of it, though, and we want to tell you what she's learned. Some of what you hear may be very difficult. I'm here to support you through that. If you're not ready, let us know somehow."
She made a sound then, a combination groan-grunt, almost like she was in pain. She lifted her free hand with effort. Though her hand was limp, I knew she was pointing at me. And then came her first words, slurred but understandable. "You. Tell."
"That's why I came," I said with a smile, pulling over a plastic chair to sit next to Kate. "Do you remember Lawrence?"
Sara rolled her head left away from us, squeezed her eyes shut for a second. Then she used her hand to make an L and rested the fingers against her heart.
Unexpected tears sprung to my eyes. Kate's tears were already slipping down her cheeks.
"You know he's in prison?" I said.
She nodded.
"And that he's innocent?"
Another nod, stronger this time.
"We'll get him out. We have proof now, but it may take time," I said.
She closed her eyes, hit her finger-made L against her chest several times.
"There's more," I said. "Do you remember your baby?"
She looked at me again. It was Sara's turn for tears now. As they ran down her thin, tired face, she worked hard to speak and finally said, "Dead."
"No," I replied, way too loud for hospital pros to like. "He's not dead."
She stared at me, eyes wide, while Kate grabbed a tissue and wiped Sara's cheeks.
"He's not. He wants to meet you," I said.
Sara began to shake her head, and Kate clutched her hand tighter, saying, "It's true. It's real."
Sara struggled again to speak, each word, it seemed, like climbing a mountain. "Look... at... me."
Kate said, "Are you saying you don't want him to see you like this?"
Sara nodded.
"He's a special young man," I said. "And he's the reason we found you. I promise, he wouldn't care if your head was screwed on backwards."
One side of Sara's mouth turned up in a smile. This time she answered by making a fist, and with effort turned her thumb to the ceiling.
Kate had already advised me not to mention Noreen's death or Pastor Rankin's arrest, so we were grateful when an aide interrupted us to take Sara for a CAT scan. We told her we would be back and left.
Next stop was Thaddeus, and I was relieved to find him in far better shape than when I'd last seen him.
He was sitting in his wheelchair by the window, the roses I'd sent on the bedside stand. "Going home soon, Abby," he said. "Few more stable days is all I need. But you got my heart racing bringing in a woman as good-looking as your friend here."
"Thaddeus Washington, my sister, Kate Rose," I said.
"Figures you two would be related," he said with a smile.
Kate went over and shook his hand. "I've heard wonderful things about you, Mr. Washington."
"Everybody calls me Thaddeus." He looked at me, his expression now serious. "Lawrence ever gonna speak to me again, Abby?"
"How about on the outside? I'm hoping we have what we need to set him free," I said with a grin.
"Did I hear right?" came a voice from the door. It was Joelle, carrying a big bottle of Evian and a box of sugar-free chocolate-chip cookies.
"You heard right," I answered. "I'm meeting with a defense lawyer when I leave here. He'll get things rolling. The sooner we're on this, the sooner he'll be out."
After I introduced Kate and Joelle, Thaddeus said, "Was it something Lawrence told you that helped him?"
"He told me about Will's mother and headed me in the right direction." I didn't want to be too specific. Thaddeus may act strong, but I'd learned my lesson about stress and his blood sugar fluctuations.
"About time that son of mine came to his senses," Thaddeus said.
"Joelle helped, too," I said, looking at her. "One of those wrongs Frank worried so much about will soon be righted."
She placed the cookies and water on Thaddeus's bed, walked over and wrapped her arms around me. "Thank you, Abby. Thank you so much."
We visited a little longer, and after we left the hospital, Kate drove me to police impound to pick up my car. She had afternoon patients to see, so we said good-bye and I headed for Mark Whitley's law office on Houston's southwest side. Mark had helped me on another case a few months ago, but this was far more complicated.
Defense attorneys as successful as Mark make big bucks, and he'd poured plenty of that money into his office, a stand-alone redbrick building off the Southwest Freeway. I noticed his Porsche parked in his marked spot, and when he came out to greet me, he could have been walking on some fashion runway in Paris.
"Nice," I said, nodding appreciatively at his navy suit with wide lapels and pinstripes.
He smiled. "Like it? Neil Barrett."
"I should have known," I said, pretending I knew who Neil Barrett was. Dark-haired, young and very good-looking, Mark seemed to have it all, including brains.
Once we were settled in his office, me with my Diet Coke and Mark with his Perrier, I spent the next half hour explaining the case and how I needed his help getting Lawrence Washington out of jail ASAP.
Mark leaned back in his black leather chair. "Last time all I had to do was intimidate a small-town police force for you, but this, Abby? Texans take their guilty convictions very seriously."
"But he's innocent," I said.
"You think that matters?" he said, eyebrows raised.
"Wait a minute. We have evidence and—"
"I'm not saying I can't get him out. I will. But we're talking three months at the least. More likely a year."
"He has to stay there a year? I don't get it. Can we try for a pardon from the governor or—"
"Innocence pardons are considered only on unanimous recommendation of an applicant's three trial officials—the sentencing judge, the district attorney and the police involved in the arrest. Then we'll need unanimous agreement from the Board of Pardon and Paroles. Can you see there might be a lengthy delay?"
I sighed and leaned back against the cushioned client chair. Damn. After my last meeting with Lawrence, I was pretty sure he'd be thrilled to know Sara was alive, happy to know I'd told the truth about his son. But he'd never let them inside that prison to visit. He wouldn't want them to see him in that place.
I looked at Mark. "Is there anything you can do to speed this up? Because the one surviving arresting officer, Randall Dugan, will never cooperate. You'll have a major barrier right off the bat."
"I don't know, Abby. This will require some intense effort starting the minute you walk out the door. I got some favors out there, a couple D.A.'s who might listen. Maybe I can work a miracle, get him out in less than three months."
"Do whatever you have to. Spare no expense. This is on my personal tab, not my client's," I said.
"We'll talk money another day," he said.
A few minutes later, I was back in the Camry. Funny how I'd never paid much attention to how long it had taken innocent men to get out of Huntsville after the Houston crime lab debacle in 2004. But it was all very real now. On my way home, I was feeling down and trying to hide it when I called Will's house and his mother answered.
"This is Abby," I said.
"Abby. How are you?"
"Pretty good," I said.
"Any news?"
"Big news. I've found Will's mother and his father. I don't know how to get in touch with Will, though."
"He'll be home the day after tomorrow—but this is wonderful. You found them in less than two weeks. What about the poor lady who died? Was her murder connected to your search for Will's birth parents
?"
"I'm afraid so."
"Is that why you don't sound very happy?" she asked.
"Things are just... complicated. Let me begin at the beginning."
Again I had to tell a long story, which only reinforced what Mark had made clear. The happy ending might not be so happy after all. A year or more could pass before Lawrence walked out of Huntsville Prison to see his son, his father and the woman who, even though he thought she was dead, he had protected for nineteen years.
27
Jeff came home close to eight that evening, tired but in a great mood. Wish mine could have matched. He'd brought French dip sandwiches and herb pasta salad from La Madeleine, and we ate at the counter. Despite the great food, I was still glum when I told him about my visit with Mark.
"I needed Mark's reality check about as much as Aunt Caroline needs a face-lift," I said.
"Yeah, I've talked to Mark today," Jeff said. "He wanted to know exactly how much evidence HPD has to exonerate Lawrence. He's on this. He'll get it done."
"In about a year. But no use whining," I said. "Guess we both did our jobs. I only wish they'd hand me a key to his cell and I could let him out myself."
"You should be proud. I know I'm proud of you," Jeff said.
"I couldn't have done it without your help. Daddy always said success is the result of backbone, not wishbone, and you're the one with the backbone."
"You're the strongest woman I've ever met, Abby. Now put away the wishbone for Lawrence. You've done all you can." He took out a fresh pack of Big Red and stared at it for a second. "We got any beer? I could use one while I tell you what Olive had to say."
"Sure. I'm well stocked with staples. Beer, wine, Diet Coke and frozen pizza."
He smiled and returned the gum to his pocket.
I grabbed a couple Shiner Bocks from the fridge, saying, "I nearly forgot about Olive. I'm anxious to hear that lady's excuse for keeping Sara a virtual prisoner."
We went to the living room—or as I like to call it, the loving room—and sat on either end of the couch. Jeff took off his shoes and we faced each other, assuming our favorite position, legs outstretched and intertwined.
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