To Write a Wrong

by Robin Caroll

  His face contorted into a grimace. “You need to go.”

  He hadn’t been mistaken on the stand. It was deliberate. “Why would you lie on the stand? Did the prosecutor bully you?”

  Cam Thayer pushed her out of the conference room with a hard shove. “It’s time for you to go.”

  “Who told you to identify Armand Wilson? Don’t you care that your testimony—your lie—sent an innocent man to prison? Away from his family?”

  “Go.” Cam shoved her into the main area of the pawnshop, then shut the door to the hall of offices.

  “But, you can’t—”

  “Lady, you should leave.” The kid at the counter pointed at the door. “If he has to come back out here, it won’t be good for you.”

  Riley looked around. There were no patrons in the shop anymore. Just the kid. And Cam Thayer behind the shut door.

  Maybe she should leave.

  “Thank you.” She nodded at the kid and spun on her heel.

  She’d done exactly what she’d told Hayden she wouldn’t—she flat-out accused Cam Thayer of lying . . . of perjuring himself on the witness stand.

  Riley rushed toward her car, glancing over her shoulder. She stumbled on the loose gravel in the parking lot and had to sprawl against the hood of her car. Cam Thayer could be on her heels.

  Straightening, she jerked around to stare at the shop’s door once more before rounding to the driver’s door.

  She moved around the front bumper, glancing to the shop again. No sign of either the kid or Cam. She let out a sigh. She dug in her purse for her keys, wrapped her hand around them, and then withdrew them. Riley took the four steps to the door and froze.

  Her heart kinked. She dropped the keys. Her lungs refused to move air in and out.

  Ice filled her veins, yet a bead of sweat popped on her upper lip. She swallowed against a dry mouth.

  And locked stares with Simon Lancaster.

  “It’s layered well, I’ll give him that.” Rafe sat in front of the computer monitor, his fingers pounding on the keyboard.

  Hayden paced the West Baton Rouge Parish sheriff’s office space. Deputy Ingram hovered behind Rafe, alternating between looking over Rafe’s shoulder and glaring in the direction of the interview room.

  The parish building manager hadn’t yet ordered the air conditioner on for the day. The sweat trickled down Hayden’s spine.

  Rafe’s cell rang, making all three men lurch. He grabbed it. “Baxter.” His fingers tapped on the keys. “Yeah, but that’s not working.” More typing. Clicking with the mouse. “No, I don’t see it. That’s not the screen I’m looking at.”

  Ingram ran a hand over his face, then again. Rubbing.

  Hayden wanted to do the same thing. Rafe was logging into the bureau’s database remotely, not with much success. He’d called three people, and none had been able to assist. But he refused to give up.

  “Okay, I’m there. Now what?”

  Tap-tap-tap-tap.

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  Click.

  “I see it.” Rafe pumped his fist in the air. “I’m in. Thanks, Darren.” He set his phone on the desk. “We’re in. Now, let’s see if we can get past his layers.”

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  “Here we go.” Rafe leaned close to the monitor. “Whoever did this money wiring layered well but didn’t go overseas. That’s odd.”

  “What?” Hayden couldn’t keep silent any longer.

  “Well, most of these types know to run their funds through Switzerland and then through the Bahamas. It messes up our tracking.”

  Click. Tap. Tap.

  “Either he’s not real smart in this part of the process, or he’s smarter than we think and he’s giving us a false lead.”

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  “You go to the trouble to hire a hit man, I’m assuming you’re smarter than the average Joe.” Hayden still had a hard time wrapping his thoughts around someone hiring Wilder to kill Riley.

  “We’re about to find out.” Rafe typed, then clicked with the mouse, then typed again. Finally he leaned back in the chair. “Funds originated from an account listed to Oswald Vance.”

  Oswald Vance? Didn’t ring any bells with Hayden, but that didn’t mean anything. He pulled out his notebook and wrote down the name.

  Ingram was already on another computer terminal in the room, pounding away on the keyboard.

  “How do you do a split screen on y’all’s system?” Rafe asked.

  Another deputy hurried across the room and pressed a button for Rafe. Ah, the influence of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  “We have nothing on him here.” Ingram returned to Rafe’s side.

  Rafe tapped the keys, then pointed at the monitor. “Our boy did seven years in the federal country club, courtesy of a drug charge in Denham Springs.” His fingers flew over the keyboard. “He was released five years ago. Had six months of paper.”

  “And after that?” Hayden scrawled notes with his pencil.

  “That’s the interesting thing. He drops off the grid after he gets off parole.” Rafe shook his head. “I mean, totally off the grid. I can’t find a record of a credit card, bank account, driver’s license—nothing.”

  Ingram went back to the other computer terminal. “He couldn’t have just disappeared. He has to be somewhere.”

  Of course he had to be somewhere. Hayden rubbed his chin. But would they find him? If someone wanted to drop off the grid . . .

  “I’m not finding anything in the entire database.” Rafe scratched his head. “This is just crazy. Maybe the person is a genius and led us to this dead end.”

  Maybe. But Hayden had a gut feeling.

  “I found something.” Ingram turned the other monitor around to face Hayden, tapping the screen.

  Rafe stood and joined Hayden. “What?”

  Hayden read from the screen. “Looks like Mr. Oswald Vance filed a motion with the court to have his name changed four years ago.”

  “A convicted felon can’t legally change his name.”

  Hayden’s blood rushed. “You can if the governor of the state grants you a full pardon.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “‘So I will come to put you on trial. I will be quick to testify against sorcerers, adulterers and perjurers, against those who defraud laborers of their wages, who oppress the widows and the fatherless, and deprive the foreigners among you of justice, but do not fear me,’ says the LORD Almighty.”

  MALACHI 3:5

  “Get away from me.” Riley’s heartbeat echoed in her head with a heavy thud.

  Simon Lancaster stepped away from the car. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

  “I don’t care. Go away.” She willed herself to bend down and pick up her keys from the parking lot. Her body went on strike and refused to budge.

  “I just want to talk to you for a minute. It’s important.”

  “I have nothing to say to you.” Finally, her muscles decided to obey. Could have been the threats her brain sent out. She squatted and grabbed her keys, her stare never leaving Simon Lancaster’s face.

  As she stood, anger and grief pushed aside her fear. “Actually, I do have something to say to you.”

  He held out his arms. “Let’s hear it. I know you’re dying to get it off your chest.”

  “I think you’re despicable. You took my parents from me, killed two amazing people. You’re a murderer.” Tears welled in her eyes, clouding her vision, but she didn’t care. She’d come too far to stop now. “I loathe you. I used to stay up at night, lying in bed, imagining slow and painful ways to kill you. And the thoughts made me smile.”

  She sucked in air, surprised she’d said that. She’d never admitted that—not aloud, not even to herself.

&
nbsp; “Are you done?” He took a step closer.

  She backed against the car, weaving her keys between her knuckles like Rafe had taught her.

  “Because I’ll tell you some things I couldn’t share in the parole hearings.”

  Riley didn’t want to listen, but she couldn’t make herself unlock the car and get inside.

  “For years in prison, I didn’t think about your parents, your brother, your sister, or you. All I thought about was how unfair the system was. And how badly I wanted a drink.”

  Was she supposed to feel sorry for him?

  “But then I started going to church, mainly to get out of work. But it all started to make sense to me. I wanted to be clean. I wanted to be forgiven. I wanted God’s love. I gave my life to Jesus and worked to get clean. Really clean. To where I wouldn’t go back to drinking. Ever.”

  Like she could believe him? That he wanted to get sober? More likely, he didn’t have a choice. And he became a Christian? Didn’t 99.9 percent of all prisoners swear they found Jesus in jail because it looked good to parole boards? Sure worked for him.

  “And when I did, I had to face what I’d done. I have to look at myself in the mirror each and every day and know I’m responsible for two people’s deaths. That because of my addiction, they’re dead.”

  “How dreadful for you.”

  “I don’t blame you for not believing me. That’s okay. I understand.”

  “Oh, thank you so much for understanding why I can’t stand the sight of you. I was worried I would have to explain.”

  He nodded. “I deserve your hatred.”

  Her hand shook and her shoulder throbbed. “Don’t you dare stand there and pretend you care. You don’t have that right.” The tears nearly blocked her vision, but she kept on. It was as if she needed to purge it all from her system.

  Her anger. Her hatred. Her pain.

  “You should still be in jail, rotting away.”

  “Would that make you happy? Help you deal with the grief I caused?”

  “Yes.” She snapped at him before she weighed her decision.

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so. I think you’ve gotten in the habit of blaming me for everything. I don’t think it matters where I am.”

  “Who cares what you think?” But she couldn’t argue with him. She didn’t care where he was, and she did blame him for her parents’ deaths.

  “You care. Because deep down inside, you know that no matter what happens to me, it doesn’t change the fact that your parents are gone and I took them from you. Plain and simple, that’s the fact.”

  Tears escaped, trailing down her face. “What do you want? Why are you here?”

  “I came to warn you.” He took a step closer.

  She pushed the button on the key-chain remote. The doors unlocked with a click.

  He froze. “No, not like that.” He stepped back again. “I received a text, from a number I didn’t recognize.”

  “And?” She just wanted him to say whatever he needed, then leave. She needed to be alone.

  “Someone tried to get me to kill you.”

  Riley stared at him, shock stealing her voice.

  “Like I said, I didn’t recognize the number. I reported it to my parole officer a couple of hours ago, just like I’m supposed to, and he said he would call the proper authorities, but I wanted to tell you.”

  “Why? Why would you care? You did what you’re obligated to do.”

  “Because whoever is behind this is serious. Deadly serious.”

  She gestured to her sling. “Obviously.” And then it occurred to her. “When did the text come through?”

  “Now you’re getting it.” He pulled out his cell phone and handed it to her.

  She scrolled through his text in-box and found the text.

  emimin8 riley baxter get 1 mil in cash will snd instructions whn u reply

  Riley checked the date and time stamp. This morning, 9:11. She checked the number. Local area code. She didn’t recognize it, but that didn’t say much. “Let me write this down.”

  She opened the car door and tossed her purse onto the seat, then dug out a pen and scrap of paper. She copied down the text exactly and wrote down the number. With trembling hands, she passed the phone back to him, careful to avoid touching him.

  “This person knew enough to think I’d accept his offer. And he tracked down my cell, which I just got Friday night.”

  “Why didn’t you take him up on it? A million in cash is a lot of money.”

  Simon smiled. “It’s not worth it. I’ve learned that the hard way.” He pocketed his phone. “You take care.” He turned away, then stopped and turned back to her. “For whatever it’s worth, I am really sorry. From my heart. If I could go back and do things differently, I would. I can’t, so all I can say is I’m sorry.”

  And then he was gone.

  Riley slipped into the car and shut the door. Locked it. Started the car and let the engine idle. Her hands trembled. Nausea turned her stomach inside out. Bile burned the back of her throat. She felt a strong urge to retch. Coughed. Swallowed.

  She couldn’t get sick here.

  Putting the gear in Drive, Riley sped away. Tears choked her. It was all too much. Just too much. She pressed the gas pedal harder as she got on the interstate heading back to Hopewell.

  All she wanted to do was find Hayden and get to him. Let him wrap his arms around her, keeping her safe and secure.

  What did that mean?

  She shook her head and drove faster. Had the parole officer called Hayden? Rafe? Neither had phoned to check on her. What was up with that?

  She couldn’t help remembering how joyful she’d been on the drive to the pawnshop. Enjoying the weather and life in general. Now she was scared and . . . and what?

  Riley exited at Hopewell. She passed the visitor’s center where she and Hayden had enjoyed their picnic. Where her heart had slipped away to Hayden. The tears fell openly and freely, until she couldn’t see. Once she turned down Bayonnette, she couldn’t control her sobbing any longer. She pulled onto the shoulder, put the car in Park, and rested her forehead on the steering wheel.

  She didn’t know how long she sat there, bawling like a baby, but when spent, she lifted her head and saw the remnants of yellow crime-scene tape fluttering in the wind. This was where she’d been shot.

  Perfect.

  She turned off the engine and stepped from the car. She walked alongside the shoulder, keeping her footing from landing her in the ditch. The faint tape outline of where she’d fallen had faded on the road.

  It wasn’t fair.

  “Why, God? Why?”

  The birds chirped in the trees, paying her no attention.

  “Come on, God. Tell me, why did You let my parents die? Why did You let Simon Lancaster out? Why did You let me get shot?” Every muscle in her body tensed as she continued to yell at the sky.

  “What did I do that was so wrong? Why are You punishing me? What?”

  She spun around, her head heavy and her heart thumping. And just when she thought she had no more tears left, her eyes filled again.

  “I know I need to forgive Simon. I know I can’t. Lord, please . . . help me.” She sat on the side of the shoulder, tears streaming down her face again. “Why, God?” Her voice hitched. “I don’t understand. This hurts. So much. It’s so hard.”

  Do not mortals have hard service on earth?

  Riley stopped crying, wiped her face, and whipped around. She saw no one. “Who’s there?”

  For hardship does not spring from the soil, nor does trouble sprout from the ground.

  Now she was hearing voices? She pushed to her feet. Maybe someone was playing a trick on her. But strangely enough, the words sounded familiar.

  All
the days of my hard service I will wait for my renewal to come.

  She steadied herself as she walked back to the car. She got behind the wheel and started the engine.

  As she drove toward Ardy’s, it dawned on her why the words were so familiar . . . it was Scripture. From the book of Job.

  Promising that while life on earth was hard, often unbearable, renewal of spirit and eternal life was yet to come.

  “We need to see the governor. Now.” Rafe flashed his badge at the security desk in the capitol building. “It’s urgent.”

  The guard lifted the receiver and spoke quietly.

  Hayden’s mind raced. The pardon was four years ago, right after the governor took office. Why would he pardon someone so early in his term? Most pardons, if any were granted, were executed when the governor was about to vacate office. It didn’t make sense.

  “Someone will be with you in just a moment.” The guard spoke to Rafe, but his gaze included Hayden and Deputy Ingram.

  Even with a federal badge, the capitol cops, as Hayden’s team referred to those with political security detail, worked on their own time. Within five minutes a man appeared. “Agent?”

  The three men turned to the suited aide. “I’m Mitchell Rogers, Governor Eason’s assistant. The governor is a busy man. I’m afraid he’s unable to visit with you today. If you’ll just—”

  Rafe pulled his badge, as did Ingram and Hayden. Rafe put his right at the end of Rogers’s nose. “See this?”

  The nervous aide nodded.

  “This badge is issued by the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Do you know who we are?”

  The man nodded.

  “Then I’m positive you won’t ask any more questions but will take us to see the governor, right?”

  Rogers nodded. “F-follow me, please.” He led them down a hallway, then another, then a turn, then . . . Hayden had no idea where they were. Somewhere deep in the bowels of the Louisiana capitol building.

  “Here.” Rogers opened a door to a sitting area with plush couches and throw pillows. Two coffee tables separated the seating offerings. “The governor will be with you in a moment.”

  Hayden sat on the end of a couch. Rafe sat on the opposite end, leaving the adjacent couch for Deputy Ingram.