BEYOND JUSTICE

by Joshua Graham

  "So that ticked D'Amati off."

  "You have no idea. But Tony? He don't get mad, he gets even. Two days after I told the D.A. what he could do with himself, I come into my office and noticed that Father Phil's door is open. He always kept it shut in the morning to pray. I walk down the hall to his office and smell it. He's lying there on the floor face down in a puddle. Someone shot him six times, once in the head, five times in the back."

  "Oh come on, they couldn't put it on you just like that."

  "Don't be naive. It happened to you, didn't it? Or so you say."

  "But you were a man of God. Priests don't murder other priests."

  "Most priests ain't former mobsters either," he said with a dry smirk. "Look. You got law enforcement and the D.A. hungry for a conviction, add to that Tony D'Amati working together with them. Planted evidence, bought witnesses. They could prove Mother Teresa a chester if they wanted to."

  "Chester?"

  "Prison lingo for child molester. How long you been here anyway?"

  My head was hurting. I rubbed my jaw. "So that's it?"

  "What. Not good enough for you? I was convicted of first degree murder. I guess my past career and my very outspoken words against the sexual abuse by Priests didn't help me much when it came time for the trial."

  I sat silent. The sound of inmates shouting out in the yard came through the door.

  "I was already struggling with God because of how he let my mother die of AIDS, ten years back. A needle. You believe that? Frikkin' druggie's needle."

  "Man, that's—"

  "She was a nurse, dammit! She helped the sick, faithful to God till the end. And this was how He rewarded her? How could I go on serving a God like that? And when I was convicted of killing Father Phil? Forget about it! I was done with Him."

  Still processing it all, I said, "I'm really sorry."

  "I don't need your pity."

  "You don't need anything, do you?"

  "I need..." he paused and stared at the stained glass image of Christ kneeling at a rock and praying. "I need to get the hell out of here. No way I'm going to sit around, rotting in this hole, waiting to be executed for a crime I didn't commit."

  "You got a plan?"

  "I always got plans. They're just waiting to be executed."

  "No pun intended, I'm sure."

  "Shut up. First chance I get, I'm out of here. And anyone getting in my way is going to wish they hadn't."

  "For what it's worth, I feel your pain."

  "Whatever." He stood up, stretched his arms up and let out a Moose call of a yawn.

  "Look Bishop, you've had a long history with God. Me, I just started and now I have all these questions. Can't you put your anger aside for a bit and help me out a bit? I mean, there's got to be a reason he gave me that vision of your mother."

  He turned and glowered for a moment, then stared at the wooden cross again. He wasn't going to talk to me. He'd already said more to me than he probably had to anyone else here at Salton. After a while, I figured he was done with me. "Thanks for your time." I got up to leave.

  But Bishop grabbed my shoulder, and forced me back down into my seat.

  "All right. You got questions? Ask."

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  All things considered, the amount of pain Rachel felt seemed reasonable. She thanked God quietly. The doctors and nurses hadn't yet explained the extent of her injuries. One thing they were sure of: it was a miracle that she had survived. And Rachel knew a bit about miracles. Though grateful, she was not quite as astounded as her physicians.

  When she tried to sit up, a sharp pain stabbed her side. She yelped. Was that a broken rib? Whatever it was, it reminded her that she had nearly been killed. The memories flashed back. The speeding headlights, the spine-whipping collision, the Corolla spinning out of control.

  It wasn't an accident. She had a good idea who might have wanted her dead, too. But how did he know? Though she and Mack hadn't yet connected an actual name with the virtual killer with the Huli-boy screenname, it was just a matter of time. And the killer must've been aware of it.

  Rachel's stomach vociferously protested the neglect. She strained to reach the remote control that would lift her back and head up. As her torso bent, needles shot down from her spine to her toes. Out of sheer reflex, she pulled her foot up.

  At least I can still move it.

  "You're a very, very lucky lady," someone said, as he entered the room.

  Rachel gasped.

  "Sorry, I didn't mean to alarm you. I'm Doctor Reynolds." He was a good-looking—though somewhat geeky— man in his mid-thirties. His black, horn-rimmed glasses were so thick it nearly obscured his face. His mustache was equally thick, so much so that it looked like it had been stuck on with spirit gum.

  "I don't believe in luck, Doctor."

  "Me neither. I believe in science."

  Not about to debate, she smiled and asked, "How's it looking?"

  "Vitals are good." He flipped a few pages on the clipboard and nodded. "We're still waiting for some tests, but I think you're going to be just fine." Regarding her with the friendliest smile, he seemed like someone Rachel might like to get to know better. "But I can see you're in a bit of pain."

  "It's not so bad," she said.

  "Oh, but we're here to make you more comfortable." Taking hold of the IV drip, he said, "It's obvious this stuff isn't working. Those nurses. If you don't come in yourself and watch over their shoulders."

  "Thanks, really. But I'm okay."

  "Nonsense. This is the wrong stuff anyway. It's not going to kill you, but it sure isn't doing anything for your..." he smiled and gazed right into her eyes, "...your discomfort." Without giving her a chance to protest, he removed the transparent pouch and dropped it on the floor with a slap. "Oops. Don't worry, I'll get that." He proceeded to insert a large syringe into the drip line.

  "What's that?"

  He slowly pressed the plunger and the clear fluid began to travel through the tube. "There. You'll be feeling it in no time."

  "But I—"

  "Shhh."

  The blood in her veins ignited with pain so intense that she opened her mouth to scream. The doctor slapped his hand over her mouth and held her down.

  "It's easier if you keep quiet." Rachel couldn't tell how much time had elapsed. A sharp pain radiated from her chest out to her hands, her feet. Her chest felt as if it were being crushed in a vise. Her eyes went wide. She struggled to draw a breath. Nothing.

  The entire room blurred into a bloodshot lattice.

  Then it all went away.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Of the three emotions burning in Anita's heart—humiliation, anger, and sadness—one towered far above the rest. Anger.

  Anger at her cyberlover, who led her to believe that he was not just another lying, cheating, sonofabitch. Anger that he made her believe he really loved her for who she was. Anger, most of all, at herself. I should have known. She slammed the steering wheel and let out a furious shout, as she drove down Broadway to the place where she'd fix all of this. Uniformed officers followed in black and white squad cars.

  There was hell to pay. With Judy's help, and admittedly Rachel Cheng's and Mack's as well, they were hot on the trail of a person who was not only suspect in multiple counts of identity theft and credit card fraud, but also tied into the Walker and Hudson cases, and who knew how many others? How exactly he was connected had yet to be seen, but forensics traced a boat load of cybercrimes to this dirt bag. She had her search warrant and arrest warrant. Probable cause was in the bag.

  Despite his gun, pointed and ready, Lieutenant O'Brien seemed nervous when they got to the door, which gave way with ease when he kicked it open. The old apartments in Hillcrest were the easiest to break down. After a minute of shouting, identifying themselves, and calling for the suspect, they found the apartment empty. Anita immediately began her search for evidence. She found it. And so much more.

  Five laptop computers, all run
ning with live internet connections. All seized. She went to a tall file cabinet. "Bingo!"

  O'Brien stepped over. "What've you got?"

  "Everything."

  "So it's him. I can't believe it."

  Anita bent down and opened the bottom file cabinet. Each folder was arranged alphabetically. Her stomach turned as she read the labeled tabs, each alphabetized with names, each one more familiar than the last.

  One particular folder caught her eye. She covered her mouth. When she looked at the contents, she gasped.

  "Oh my god."

  Chapter Sixty

  I had been in prison for two years now and by all counts, should have been long dead. Rapists and chesters don't stand a chance in Gen Pop. Something was definitely going on.

  "Trust me," Bishop said, "I'm not pulling any strings for you. Hell, I would have killed you myself, you were so annoying."

  "So why didn't you?"

  Our eyes locked. Then something remarkable happened. Bishop smiled. "Those boys who tried to shank you during the riot? I heard that Butch's got them so pumped full of meds they can hardly talk."

  "Yeah, but you know, before they were put in PSU, something weird happened."

  His right eyebrow arched slightly.

  "Just when they were about to do me in, they looked up—behind me, I think—got this look of fear in their eyes and ran." Bishop took out his shiv again and started picking under his fingernails with it. "And it happened again last night, with Butch," I said.

  "Butch too, eh?"

  "You think it's related?"

  "You've heard the rumor, haven't you?" Bishop said, biting off part of his index fingernail then spitting it out. "Ah, those punks were probably on crack."

  "What rumor?"

  "You see, it didn't make any sense. Not until today, anyway."

  Had I the strength or chutzpah, I would have grabbed his collar and shook the answer out of him. But I still retained a certain fondness for breathing. Instead, I turned my palms up and looked harder at him. "Well?"

  "Rumor has it they'd seen two huge figures, must have been about seven feet tall, their clothes were bright white and shone so bright that it hurt their eyes. And they also said that these figures brandished huge swords that blazed with fire."

  "Really?" I chuckled. But you don't often see two hardened criminals running scared from the same hallucination.

  "That's the rumor, anyway." Bishop started using the tip of his shiv as a toothpick again. "So what happened with Butch?"

  I winced at the site of blood lining his gums and said, "Last night, while he was taunting me in my cell, he acted the same way. Looked like he saw death itself and ran away."

  "Well, I'll be."

  "You think he saw the same thing those Nazis saw?"

  He shrugged. "Anything's possible. But if you ask me, and I'm not real certain, I think they were angels."

  "Whoa, now hold on. I thought you didn't believe in God, much less angels."

  Bishop pointed the shiv into my face, accentuating every word with a jab, half an inch from my nose. "I said I was done with Him, not that I didn't believe."

  "Why the change of heart?"

  "I didn't say I've changed anything. I'm just thinking."

  "About?"

  "It's definitely supernatural. Look, Hudson, you a believer or not?"

  I thought about that for a moment. "Yeah. I guess I am."

  "Well, what you've experienced was the attendance of angels, sent to protect you. And your visions? You did tell me things that you couldn't possibly know otherwise. That's called a word of knowledge."

  I stood up, started pacing around the altar, chin in hand, holding my elbow. "All I did was say a desperate prayer for my son last night and—"

  "And how is he?"

  "He made it. He's going to live." Bishop took a deep breath then let a silent "wow" float out of his mouth. It was slamming me hard now. The recognition, the awareness. "I've also had some other experiences looking at verses in my wife's old Bible. Sometimes the words just leap out at me, addressing the very issues I face. Too relevant to be a coincidence."

  Bishop rested his head in his hand. Then he stood up again and fixed his eyes upon the wooden cross. Didn't say a word.

  "You think I'm nuts," I said.

  "No. I believe you."

  "Why?"

  "Years ago—before I got screwed so badly by D'Amati and the D.A.—" he clenched his fist and shook it at the cross, "—the same kind of things happened to me. Turned me from a life of crime to the priesthood."

  Chapter Sixty-One

  On the way back to Rachel's room, Mack ran into the nurse again and spilled coffee on her sleeve. "I'm such a klutz."

  "It's okay," she said wiping her arm. "Is she resting now?"

  "Doubt it. Dr. Reynolds just went to look at her charts just as I—"

  "Doctor Reynolds?"

  "Yeah. You know, Caucasian, 30-ish, thick glasses, slim, about 5 foot 10?"

  She just blinked. Mack's pulse kicked up a couple of notches.

  "You do have a Doctor Reynolds working here, don't you?

  "Yeah, but he's like 5'6 and chubby. And he's black."

  The white styrofoam cup fell to the ground along with the bagels and donuts. "Get security up there, now!" Mack sprinted down the corridor and cursed himself.

  When they arrived on Rachel's floor, alarms were sounding, nurses and doctors scrambled.

  "Rachel!" Mack shouted as he swung open the door. "Oh no." The nurse hit the intercom button and shouted, "We need a doctor, now!"

  Alone, laying flat on her back, Rachel's eyes were opened wide and fixed to the ceiling. A nurse felt Rachel's neck. She swore. "No pulse."

  The nurse began performing CPR and speaking a mile a minute into the intercom, something about a Code Blue. "I don't care!" she said into the intercom. "Send them down stat! She's coding!"

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  It took about three hours, but the doctors finally stabilized her. Rachel had gone into cardiac arrest, the result of acute Potassium toxicity. Had Mack arrived a few minutes later, it would have been too late. She was in worse shape than before.

  Mack ran a gentle hand over her hair while a ventilator assisted her unconscious breathing. If there had been any doubt before, it was all gone. The crash on the freeway was no accident. Now this. "I'm sorry, Ray."

  He would have gone to see Detective Pearson right away, but he was the only person who saw the man impersonating Dr. Reynolds. A statement and description was required and he was going to give it to the police in five minutes.

  Three attempts to contact Pearson resulted in two urgent voicemails. Mack hadn't studied Rachel's notes extensively prior to emailing them to the detective, but he had a strong suspicion the person they'd fingered was the same one who'd been trying to kill Rachel.

  Time to speak with the police. Mack kissed Rachel on the forehead and left. Upon exiting, he inspected the badge and ID of the uniformed officer posted outside of Rachel's room. Satisfied, he thanked the officer and went to give his statement.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Things were falling apart quicker than he could have imagined. He could only hope that the doctors wouldn't get to Rachel Cheng in time. Or that the Potassium Chloride he'd pumped into her blood was concentrated enough. If enough time elapsed, they'd be hard-pressed to determine the cause of death, because once the body expires, the cells would begin to rupture, releasing their own stores of potassium, making it impossible to distinguish it from that which he'd injected. If only he could have stayed around long enough to watch her die. That far-off gaze, the gasping, the final breaths. Exquisite. He licked his lips. Would have been sumptuous!

  But the little Asian lawyer had been resourceful. Walker contributed too, that retard. He slammed his fist on the steering wheel, ignoring the CHP that just passed him. No one should have been able to connect the dots so quickly! He'd been doing this for years and his system was fool-proof, always afforded him the
luxury of leaving those masterful clues with his victims' bodies. For without drawing them with clues, how would he know if his adversaries were worthy? More important, where would the authenticity be? True artists always left their signatures. Was it a subconscious desire to get caught or a dangerous way of ensuring credit where it was due? Probably both.

  Traffic was clear and he was keeping with the flow. Not like that punk that just cut him off in that black Benz. He didn't realize he was doing 80 on the I-805. Until another CHP on a motorcycle flashed his lights in the rearview.

  Interesting. Perhaps he could outrun this guy. Or just smash him up so bad that he'd never live to tell. Hardly anyone around to witness it.

  The beige uniform closed in. Don't hesitate. His foot never let off the accelerator. The siren began to wail. In a way, this excited him. Never before had he killed someone that could actually arrest him, blow the cover off his entire career. Or blow his head off, for that matter.

  The officer trailed just one car's distance behind him now. Best to catch him off-guard, pull over to the shoulder, lure him in, then slam the breaks. The thought of mangled flesh, splintered bones and, blood—mmm, yes, blood— it made his scalp tingle. Of course, it would make a huge mess, but it wasn't his car anyway. The owner of this hot-wired vehicle would have to answer for the damage. And the blood.

  He signaled right and eased his way towards the slow lane. Lightened his foot off the accelerator. And then something he didn't expect happened. Was this a good thing?

  The CHP pulled around and zoomed ahead, siren still wailing. Away. Aha! After the speeding Benz! Pity. Nailing a cop would have been a fantastic addition to his repertoire.