Dark Justice

by Brandilyn Collins

  “What for?”

  “He’ll probably want to get our names and phone number, since we were the first witnesses.”

  The firemen headed for their truck. The reporter and her cameraman made a beeline for us, microphone in her hand. “Ma’am, did you see the accident?”

  I cringed and shook my head.

  “Wait now.” The deputy hustled toward them, his hands up. “I need to talk to these folks first.”

  “But if we could just ask—”

  “You’ll have to wait.”

  Mom looked on with round eyes. “Are we gonna be on television?”

  I shuddered at the thought of such attention. “Not if I can help it.”

  The deputy had a few more words with the reporter, then headed our way. The camera followed him. I turned my back to it, shuffling Mom around with me.

  “Remember,” Mom whispered. “Don’t tell.”

  “Well, I imagine it’s okay to tell law enforcement.”

  “No, it isn’t!” Her voice rose with immediate indignation. She grasped my hands. “We promised. We promised Morton!”

  “I know, but—”

  “Don’t you dare say anything!” Her expression hardened, a precursor to her episodes. My heart stilled. One of my mother’s screaming meltdowns and a rolling TV camera would be a terrible mix.

  “Tell me you won’t, Hannah. Tell me you won’t!” She shook a boney finger at me.

  “Okay, Mom, okay.” I grabbed her finger and lowered it. Anything to keep this from escalating.

  Since she’d come to live with me, that was how I’d learned to live my life.

  The deputy came around to stand in front of us. He had broad shoulders, a big neck. Mom shot me a hard look, but said no more. The deputy eyed her. How much had he heard?

  He held his beefy hand out to me. “Good afternoon. I’m Deputy Harcroft from the Sheriff’s Department Coastside Patrol. I understand you were first on the scene. You called 911?”

  “Yes.” Mom spoke before I could. “My daughter ran to help. His name is Morton. Like the salt.”

  Deputy Harcroft’s gaze lingered on Mom’s face, as if assessing her. Then he turned back to me. “Where were you headed when you saw the accident?”

  “San Carlos. Where we live.”

  “San Carlos? Where were you coming from?”

  “The Ritz Carlton.”

  “Why didn’t you take Highway 92?”

  What was this? “I decided to take a more rural drive.”

  “It was lovely,” Mom said. “Until we saw poor Morton.”

  Harcroft gazed at her again.

  He pulled a small notebook and pen from his shirt pocket. “I need to take your information, if you don’t mind. Your names, what you saw. Won’t take long.”

  Tiredness surged through me, and the chilled air scraped my skin. Where had the warmth of the day gone? “Sure. I do hope it’s quick. I’d like to get my mother home as soon as possible.”

  “No problem.”

  Mom shook her head at me. “I’m fine, Hannah.”

  “Do you want to wait in the car, Mom? I can start the engine and turn up the heat.”

  “Nothing doing.” She gave me a look that said she had to stay here and keep an eye on me.

  The deputy asked our names, address, and phone numbers for home and my work. Then took down the license plate of my car. He wanted to know what we had witnessed. Did we see the crash? Any idea how it happened? I told him what we knew, which wasn’t much. Mom remained quiet. But every now and then she pinched my arm as a reminder—don’t tell.

  The deputy frowned, his eyes shifting to Morton’s overturned car. My gaze followed. Not until that moment did it strike me—how strange, this accident. The car was on the side of the road we’d been driving yet was pointed in the opposite direction. Had he been going toward Highway 1 instead of away from it? And why had he wrecked in the first place? I saw no skid marks, nothing that would make him swerve. He hadn’t sounded drunk. Hadn’t smelled drunk. What had happened here?

  An uneasy feeling slow-rolled through my limbs.

  “Don’t tell anyone . . . Be careful.”

  The deputy refocused on me. “Anything Morton told you that we should know? Maybe the name of a family member we can contact?”

  “No!” Mom spoke the word with vehemence. The deputy’s eyebrows rose. He looked to me, as if for an explanation.

  For a moment I hesitated. Shouldn’t I tell the deputy everything, regardless of my mother’s reaction? My sense of civilian duty said yes. The memory of Morton’s eyes cried no. He’d trusted us, total strangers. He’d warned us. What could drive a man to such desperation?

  I tried to smile at the deputy. “My mother’s pretty upset about the whole thing.” I gave him a meaningful look, patting Mom’s arm.

  He gazed at her again. “I understand. But I need to make sure you’ve told me everything.” The deputy locked eyes with me.

  He had heard something.

  “We told you everything.” Mom glared at him.

  For a drawn-out second the deputy and I faced off. My neck tingled. I didn’t like the feel of any of this. Including the news camera aimed at my back.

  I swallowed. “She’s right. We have.”

  Harcroft’s eyes lingered on me. Then he looked at his notes. “Okay. I have what I need for now. Appreciate your cooperation. If anything comes up I’ll contact you.”

  Relief snagged my breath. “All right. Thank you.”

  “What happens to Morton now?” Mom asked. The wind tugged at her hat. She clamped a hand on top of it.

  The deputy offered her a tiny smile. “Maybe if you call Coastside Hospital tonight they’ll be able to tell you something.”

  Would the hospital do that, since we weren’t family? But the deputy seemed to be trying to reassure Mom, and for that I was grateful. My unease loosened a little.

  I lowered my voice. “Is that reporter still behind us?”

  His gaze flicked beyond my shoulder. “Yeah.”

  “We don’t want to be on camera. We just want to get out of here.”

  “That’s fine, you don’t have to talk to her. You’re free to go.”

  “Thanks.” I took Mom’s arm.

  She was still shivering but didn’t complain. We headed toward my car—and heard sudden huffing behind us. “Ma’am!”

  I turned to see the reporter awkward-jogging in her high heels, cameraman at her side. My hand flew up, my words fast and tinged with panic. “I don’t want to talk.”

  The reporter closed the distance between us. Mom’s eyes bounced from me to the reporter, uncertainty in her face. “Come on, Mom.” I nudged her on.

  “Look.” The reporter caught up to my side. “Here’s my card. Amanda Crossland. If you have something later you can call me.”

  I waved the card away. “No, thanks.”

  Amanda fell back, and I urged Mom to the car. She allowed me to open her door and help her inside. I fastened her seat belt.

  As I started the engine I glanced out my window. The deputy was watching me. I gave him a quick wave. He nodded back.

  I pulled out onto Tunitas Creek Road and headed back toward Highway 1. No more adventuresome drives toward Skyline for me. I just wanted to get home. The trip would take less than thirty minutes.

  As we drove off I could feel the deputy’s gaze watching my car. Did he wonder why I wasn’t continuing on the rural road?

  Mom was silent. I couldn’t stop reliving the scene. Morton’s desperate eyes. His words and gripping hands. The deputy’s steady gaze. Why had I lied to him? So what if Mom would have gotten upset. I’d lied to law enforcement.

  How was Morton right now? Were the paramedics stabilizing him?

  Oh, Lord, please help him make it. I’d call the hospital tonight.
Beg someone to tell me how he was doing.

  Mom sighed. “‘The Lord is near the brokenhearted. He saves those crushed in spirit.’”

  I glanced at her. Despite the memory loss, Mom could still quote many Bible verses. And she clung to them, even if most of the time she could no longer tell you what book they were from. “Are you brokenhearted?”

  “I’m sad. For Morton.”

  “Yes. I’m sad too.”

  We turned off Highway 1 onto 92, leaving Half Moon Bay. Passing nurseries and winding into the hills separating the coast from the Bay Area. Soon eucalyptus trees lined the road, their peeled bark an eerie blend of gray and white. Mom drew in a deep breath through her nose. “Smell that? Vicks VapoRub.”

  She’d said the same thing when we passed the trees two days ago. “Yup.”

  “I used to rub it on your chest when you had a cold. When you were a little girl.”

  “I remember.”

  Mom sighed. “A daughter’s a very important thing.”

  My thoughts flicked to Emily. “You’re right about that.”

  Mom made a satisfied noise in her throat. “That’s why we have to find Morton’s daughter for him.”

  Oh, boy. One more reason I should have come clean with the deputy. At least I’d have been able to assure Mom they would handle finding Morton’s daughter.

  “We’ll start tomorrow.” Mom’s head bobbed up and down.

  “I have to work tomorrow.”

  She waved dismissive fingers in the air. “Tell the doctor you’re busy.”

  “Don’t tell.” Morton’s plea drummed in my head. “Be careful.”

  If I’d had any idea what those words would mean to me, to my mother and daughter, I’d have fled California without looking back.

  Chapter 2

  SPECIAL HOUSE SELECT COMMITTEE INVESTIGATION INTO FREENOW TERRORIST ACTIVITY OF FEBRUARY 25, 2013

  SEPTEMBER 16, 2013

  TRANSCRIPT

  Representative ELKIN MORSE (Chairman, Homeland Security Committee): Seven months ago, tragic and terrifying events pushed this country to the brink of destruction. Since that fateful day of February 25, 2013, every American citizen has had to fight his way back to recovery. Haunting questions remain. Will it happen again? How do we regain our sense of safety? Or should we try to regain it at all? It is a hard balance—between vigilance against evil, and trusting in our own resources and the God who has sustained us.

  Now, after all the media stories and preliminary investigations, this committee embarks on a difficult journey—that of trying to separate fact from fiction. As we begin, I feel both anticipation and great sadness. Anticipation for what we can learn and better implement into our national security policies (a task that looms crucial). Yet sadness about the events that occurred, so many of them unnecessary and avoidable. Private citizens were put at risk. Lives were lost. Innocence was stolen.

  I pray our investigation yields the truth. But that can only be accomplished if every witness who testifies will speak nothing but the truth.

  We begin with the testimony of Sergeant Charles Wade . . .

  Chapter 3

  By the time we reached our two-bedroom house at 738 Powell Street in San Carlos, it was after 2:00. I pulled our small suitcase from the trunk of my car and followed Mom through the garage side door into our laundry area.

  “Ah, home.” She walked into the kitchen and spread her hands.

  “Glad to be back?” Mom had lived with me for two months, and she’d raised a real ruckus about moving out of her house in San Mateo. She’d insisted she could remain on her own. But she would never be on her own again.

  “Yes, it’s nice.” Her hat sat askew on her head, and she straightened it. “But the hotel was wonderful too. Thank you for taking me.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Will we go again?”

  “Sure, sometime.” But not very soon. Even though it was off-season at the Ritz Carlton, which sat right on the ocean, I’d had to save for the weekend over a number of months. It had been worth it, though, to see Mom’s face as she watched the waves.

  I helped Mom out of her coat, took mine off, and hung them both in the closet. As I wheeled our suitcase to my bedroom to unpack, the phone rang. Mom picked it up. “Oh, hello, Emily!” She paused. “Yes, we had a wonderful time. Except on the way home we saw a man in an accident, and your mom tried to help. And then the fire truck came, and the paramedics, and the sheriff, and news people. They took the man to the hospital. Morton’s his name. He was so nice but very, very upset. We have to find his daughter for him.”

  Silence. I flung the suitcase on my bed and headed back toward the kitchen, imagining Emily’s nonplussed response.

  “She’s in Raleigh. North Carolina.” Mom’s hat sat on the counter. She was rubbing her temple. “We don’t know her name.”

  “Can I talk to her, Mom?” I held my hand out for the phone.

  Mom pursed her lips. “Here’s your mother. Now don’t upset her, she’s had a difficult afternoon.”

  I took the phone. “Hi, Em.” Mom picked up her hat and wandered into her bedroom.

  “What is Grand talking about?” Concern edged my daughter’s voice.

  “Believe it or not, most of it’s true.” I told Emily the whole story.

  “Wow.” Emily fell silent, as if taking it all in. She wasn’t speechless very often. “And you didn’t tell the sheriff’s deputy what the man said?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Because . . . I don’t know. Your grandmother, mostly.”

  “Mom, don’t you think they need to know?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know. It’s just . . .” How to explain? As much as Emily loved her grandmother, she didn’t live with the woman. In fact, she lived five hours away in Santa Barbara. She couldn’t know what it was like to try to keep peace at all costs—because it could so easily be broken. Besides, Morton had been so insistent. So desperate. The look on his face still rent my heart.

  “Thing is, Em, he didn’t give us enough information to mean anything. By now they know more about him than we do. They have his driver’s license and address. They’ll be calling his family members. Maybe he’ll be able to speak to his family. They can help him deal with Raleigh.”

  Even as the words left my mouth, something inside me twisted. Morton had asked me to do this. I’d said I would.

  Well, that was ridiculous. I’d done what I could to help him. Now he was in the hands of the doctors.

  “Yeah, I guess,” Emily said. “So you gonna watch the news tonight? See what you can find out?”

  “Yes. And hopefully not see myself on TV.”

  “That wouldn’t kill you, Mom.”

  I shivered. “It might.”

  The proverbial fifteen minutes of fame—that was for other people. I just wanted to live my life quietly. Go to work, and keep close to my mother and daughter. I’d lost my husband, Jeff, to brain cancer two years before. As soon as he died, Mom had started going downhill. Now I needed to take care of her.

  There lay the irony. My life had been anything but quiet in the past few years.

  In Mom’s bedroom, music kicked on.

  “Uh-oh.” Emily laughed. “I hear Lady Gaga.”

  Mom’s favorite. I sighed. “For the millionth time.” I crossed the kitchen and into the hallway to close Mom’s door. She was already swaying to the beat, one arm across her chest and the other held up and waving in the air. Her eyes were closed. She’d danced like that at Mallory’s in San Mateo every Friday and Saturday night for three years—a white-haired old woman in the middle of twenty- and thirty-year-olds. The regulars at the club got to know her so well, when she was sick and missed a night they’d call to check up on her. Then Mom started getting lost while driving. Her license had to be taken away, and she c
ame to live with me.

  Every once in awhile I took her to the club and let her stay awhile and dance. She was thrilled to go. I’d emerge with a terrible headache. But it was wonderful to see how happy everyone was to see her.

  I retreated back into the kitchen. “How are you?” My beautiful golden-haired, blue-eyed daughter had dated a man for two years and thought they were on the way to marriage. Just two months ago she learned he was cheating on her and broke things off.

  “Okay. Just taking it a day at a time, you know?”

  “Yeah. I know.” I had to do the same thing when I lost Jeff. “And how’s your job?” Emily worked in a marketing firm. Most of her projects involved creating, editing, and posting advertising videos online.

  “Fine. Still working on that big project. If I can dazzle our clients, it’ll earn me some great commission money.”

  “Of course you’ll dazzle them. You’re a wizard with that stuff.” Not to mention Emily was aggressive. My daughter went after what she wanted.

  “You’re biased.”

  “You’re right.”

  The music pounded. I rubbed my temple. How did my mother stand that noise?

  “Tell me what you find out, okay?” Emily said. “About that man.”

  “Okay.”

  We hung up. I returned to my bedroom to unpack, my entire body begging for quiet. Not a chance.

  At least the music and dancing keep my mother occupied.

  I slid the empty suitcase into my closet—and remembered my cell phone. I’d left it in my coat pocket. At the front closet I patted the pocket of my coat, then realized it was the wrong side. I reached for the other pocket.

  Wait.

  Had I felt something in the bottom of that left pocket?

  I frowned. Reached inside. My fingers brushed something small and hard. I drew it out.

  A flash drive.

  I stared at it. Turned it over. Where had it come from? I didn’t own a flash drive like this.

  Was it Emily’s? Maybe last time she came home she wore this coat. Had she meant to show me some video she’d designed, then forgotten about it?

  Emily wouldn’t be caught dead in this coat.