Beyond Justice (28 page)

Terror.

"What the hell?"  he stammered, as a flash of light lit his face.  If his eyes opened any wider, they would have popped out of his head.  He was staring past me.  I looked over my shoulder expecting to see Possum, but he was still snoring in his bunk.  Butch rubbed his eyes and backed away until he bumped into the railing.  He turned, still gawking into my cell, and stumbled down the tier, cussing himself.

The sudden appearance of my shadow on the ground drew my attention.  Not possible.  I turned around and found the light source.  It was coming from my bed.

Jenn's Bible.

I blinked repeatedly, rubbed my eyes.  Still shining.  The light filled my cell and warmth radiated with its beams.  Why wasn't Possum waking up?

I was drawn like a moth to a fire.  By the time I got to the Bible, its warm brilliance enveloped me completely.  I reached forward and to this day, I could swear, I felt someone take my hand and lead it to the pages.

I took hold of the book.  Then there came what felt like a great wind rushing through the cell.  It whirled around inside for a while then blew outside, taking the light with it.  My face felt as if it had been baking in the sun for hours, but it didn't hurt.  When finally I could see again, I found that I had opened my Bible.  A random page, I thought.  But when I looked down and read the passage, I felt—rather, I knew it was anything but random.

It was the account of a Roman centurion whose servant was deathly ill.  The centurion, not wanting to leave his beloved servant's side, sent a message to Jesus, begging him to heal the servant.  When Jesus said that he would come to the house, the messengers were instructed to say,

…say the word, and my servant will be healed."

When Jesus heard this, he was amazed at him, and turning to the crowd following him, he said, "I tell you, I have not found such great faith even in Israel."  Then the men who had been sent returned to the house and found the servant well.

A sense of inevitability, of reassurance overwhelmed me, as if God had spoken directly to me.  I wanted to wake Possum and tell him, but he'd probably think I was crazy.  Two years ago, I'd probably agree.  But I wasn't.   I knew what was happening.  After all I'd seen, I finally got it.  My pathetic attempt at prayer which started off as a tiny seed had now grown into a tree of faith.

Without another thought, I turned to a page in the back of the Bible which Jenn had written in notes.  Next to that was a printed page.  The Sinner's Prayer.  I'd been eyeing that page for months and it finally seemed appropriate for me to say it, now that I truly meant it.

"Lord, I come to you in prayer asking for the forgiveness.  I confess with my mouth and believe with my heart that Jesus is your Son, and that he died on the cross that I might be forgiven and have eternal life in the kingdom of heaven.  Father, I believe that Jesus rose from the dead and I ask you right now to come in to my life and be my personal Lord and Savior.  I repent of my sins and will worship you all the days of my life.  Because your word is truth, I confess  that I am born again and cleansed by the blood of Christ.  In Jesus name, Amen."

  At that moment, not only could I see my life, my past, all the wrong I'd done, I could feel its weight, lifted from my heart and mind.   And joy.  Joy unlike I had ever experienced overflowed.  Just like dear old Lorraine used to tell me: Not the absence of pain, but the presence of the Almighty. 

Clutching the Bible to my chest, I kept repeating that blessed phrase over and over in my mind.  Rachel's word of knowledge, the promise:

It's going to be fine.

I almost forgot to pray for that miracle Aaron needed.  But a miracle is exactly what happened next.

Chapter Forty-Nine

"Sam," came the whisper.   I got up and turned around.  Dim light silhouetted Sonja Grace as she gestured for me to come to the bars.  "Hurry!"

"What is it?" I asked.

"What happened to Lieutenant Hurley?"

"Butch?"

"Never seen him run so fast."

"Something spooked him," I said, peering down the tier.

She shook her head and spoke even softer.  "Listen, you gotta trust me okay?"

"I already do."

To my amazement, Sonja proceeded to unlock and open my door.  From a small duffle bag, she tossed over some clothing.  "Change into these."

"Oh, no way," I said.  She stood there guarding the door as I stripped to my boxers and put on a C.O.'s uniform.

"Come on, come on.  Two minutes and Murphy gets back from the John.  He sees you in that and we're both dead."

As soon as I stepped out into the tier, she slid the door gently and locked it.  None of the other inmates woke up or said anything, which struck me as odd.  "Okay, Sonja, where are we going?"

"To make sure you don't live a life of regret."

Chapter Fifty

Mack had never driven slower than 70 on the freeway.  Crawling at 25 was like pulling teeth with a pair of rusty pliers.  Must be construction or an accident.  With each car that zoomed by, opposite him on the northbound 163, he grew more and more impatient.  "Come on, already!" 

Rachel would have called, he kept thinking.  Something was really wrong.

Two miles past Clairemont Mesa, Mack saw the flashing red and blues of a police car, pulled over to the left shoulder of the freeway.  He slowed down and his heart turned cold at the sight of the twisted wreckage.  Rachel's Toyota, its frame crumpled like a beer can, had flipped over onto the driver's side.

After he identified himself, they waved him over to the accident scene.  He leaned down to look through the rear window.  "Where is she?"  Mack demanded, marching right up to the young CHP officer.

"I'm sorry sir, EMTs took her ten minutes ago."

"How'd she look?"

He shook his head.

"Where'd they go?"

"Sharp Memorial."

A minute later, Mack was back in his car, flagrantly ignoring speed limits.

Chapter Fifty-One

Anita Pearson's idea of a hot date was chatting online.  People in "carbon space" were way too complicated and unpredictable.  The internet was a lot safer.  Carbon-space men were all genetically predisposed to lying, cheating, or screwing up and/or around.

She had many male IM buddies who worshipped her.  They'd fallen in love with her avatar, that little square photo which presumably depicts the person behind the IP packets.  It was in fact her picture, a full body shot of her in a bikini, but her face pixilated by Photoshop.  She enjoyed the cyber attention- and the power trip.  They were virtually eating out of the palm of her hands, among other places.

And there was the sex.

Cybersex was way underrated.  It was cleaner, it was safer, and she was always in control.  And while she had her pick of men to "cyber" with, just for fun on lonely nights like tonight, one man had distinguished himself.  He was her favorite.

As a lover, he was gentle, but passionate.  And with him, it was so much more than sex.  He was her soul mate.  And she his.  No one knew her like this.

"You had me at LOL," she would say, or type, rather.  But the truth was, they'd fallen in love gradually, over the years.  He was a prince.  First came the birthday emails, then over time, flowers on their online-anniversary.  And recently, the thing that sent her heart soaring like nothing else, that made her feel completely feminine—his poetry.

On every conceivable occasion, he wrote her poems and emailed them, singing her praises, extolling her innermost qualities which no one else knew about.  She was his lady and he, her troubadour.   Far better than any relationship she'd ever had with a carbon-space man. 

He never forgot the little things, was always truthful and completely vulnerable towards her.  And talk about considerate.  Once, she locked herself out of her apartment.  She texted him and—despite the fact that he lived in Omaha, Nebraska—he called for a locksmith, who showed up within minutes.

Once and only once, had he brought up the idea of marriage.  But as soon as she started to show her hesitation, he backed off quickly.  She might actually have found him to be the perfect mate, if not for her intense distrust of men.  But that was soon to change.  Anita could feel it.

For now, they both contented themselves with the status quo.  It worked for her and tonight, after one of their best sessions ever, she was basking in the glow of his affection.

With her blanket draped over her bare thighs, she typed and giggled, tingling with the afterglow.  He had made her feel loved, cherished, and completely sexy.

An email alert chimed.  Anticipating a little tidbit from her lover, Anita clicked on her inbox.  Was it a poem?  A sonnet?  A limerick?  Sure enough, there was a message from him.  But directly under that, there was another message that had been sent two hours ago.  It was that email from Richard Mackey, that retired cop who turned P.I.  She selected Mack's message and put her finger on the delete key.  No way she'd let him spoil a perfect night. 

Her lover's IM box flashed impatiently.
Getting lonely here.

Just a sec.  I'm going to read your email, but gotta clear out some SPAM.

A tiny portion of her conscience bothered her, like a pebble in a shoe.  But she pressed the delete key anyway, and sent Mack's email, attachments and all, into the trash folder.

The next few minutes were spent with a hand over her mouth, suppressing laughter.  This was the dirtiest, funniest limerick her lover had ever written, the craziest variation on "There once was a man from Nantucket..."

It put her in such a light-hearted mood that she decided to undelete Mack's email and take a quick peek at it.  For the most part, in law enforcement techno-babble it said, "blah-blah-blah."  She opened the attachments and gave the information a cursory glance.

Anita's attention was divided between her cyberlover and her half-hearted reading of the documents from Mack—apparently compiled by that wet-behind-the-ears defense attorney, Rachel Cheng.

But gradually, her attention shifted to the reports, the data.  The smile on her face faded, she began neglecting her IM window.   As if on the furry legs of a tarantula, dread crept up her back and nested in her hair.   A shiver coursed through her blood.  Jolted her. 

It was the realization, the collision of worlds—madness, desperation and reality.  She kept glancing back and forth between the report and the IM window.

Anita gasped aloud. 

She leapt out of bed, still naked. 

Her laptop thumped onto the carpet, the IM window flashing, beeping incessantly.  She picked up the laptop like a dead rat and dropped it on her bed.

He was still typing. 
What's wrong?

It was the screen names, her cyber-lover's and the one in the report.

Too close to be a coincidence.

MrFoXxX.

Chapter Fifty-Two

Not far from Sharp, where Rachel lay in critical condition, a prayer vigil went on at Children's Hospital in Aaron's room.  Samantha and Alan led prayers and singing around the boy.  His grandparents, Oscar and Maggie were also present, holding his hand, stroking his hair.  Dave wanted to be there, but he had been away for the entire month on a relief mission to the Honduras.

Alan noticed that Aaron's breathing had become shallow, his complexion like the sheets in which he lay.  A secondary infection had filled his lungs with fluids.  He wasn't responding to fever reducers either.   In his weakened state, there was just no way for him to fight it.  The doctors had already told Oscar and Maggie to start making preparations.

For the past two hours, he and Samantha prayed for Aaron while their daughter Elizabeth reclined in a stroller, asleep and oblivious.  Also present was Jerry, who laid a little bag of pistachios on Aaron's pillow.

Alan left several messages on Rachel's voicemail, but was too involved to notice anything was wrong.  The entire Bible study group was determined to stay by Aaron's bedside until the end.

At 11:00 PM Oscar and Maggie got up, kissed their grandson and said their tearful good-byes.  They thanked Alan, Samantha and the group for their kindness and told them it would be okay if they all decided to go home.

But they didn't.  They wouldn't.

By midnight, Jerry had fallen asleep in a green vinyl chair.  He hadn't eaten any of the pistachios he'd brought.  Samantha took Elizabeth home and Alan remained, the only one still praying.

After he read the Twenty-Third Psalm to Aaron, he realized that Rachel hadn't shown, hadn't even called.  He decided to try her at home one more time.  After two rings, her answering machine picked up.  He tried her cell phone, expecting her voicemail.   But to his surprise, the call connected.

"Hello?"

"I'm sorry," Alan said, "I must have the wrong number."

"Wait!  Alan?  It's me, Richard Mackey."

"Mack?  Thought you sounded familiar.  What are you doing answering Rachel's—?"