Dread Champion (12 page)

Tracey stumbled up the stairs toward the master bedroom, words of relieved accusation coiled and ready to spring from her tongue. But the room was empty. Tracey banged through the door of the guest room, her own bedroom, then to every bathroom, all to no avail. Finally she fell against the wall and wept until she sank to the floor. Brett emerged from his room, clad only in pajama bottoms, demanding to know what was happening. The story hiccupped from Tracey's mouth. Brett's eyes grew wide, his face pasty.

And then Darren Welk appeared, heavy-lidded and swaying, miraculously having managed to drive himself home. Tracey accosted him once more while Darren denied any knowledge of her mother's fate. Brett scurried downstairs and returned about ten minutes later, visibly shaken. He towered over Tracey, shoving a finger in her face.

“Shut up!” he demanded. “Shut up and I'll help you. But we have to think.”

He forcibly pushed his father into the master bedroom. “You're going to bed,” Tracey heard him say. “I'll handle this.”

Tracey slumped against the wall of the hallway, unable to move, her mind a whirlwind of terrorizing visions. As she waited for Brett to return, her body grew numb. Amazingly, then she grew sleepy. All the emotions, all the expending of energy, had gotten the best of her. A milky stupor puddled in her brain, oozing thickly through her arteries.
She wiped her forehead, and her hand came away wet with sweat.

Brett emerged from the master bedroom, breathing hard.

“Is he—”

“I've put him in bed. I'm not sure he'll stay.” He surveyed her. “You need to go to bed, too. You look awful.”

“Ican't.” She fought to rouse herself. “Ihave to find Mom.He's done something to her—”

“He hasn't done anything. I'll figure this out. You sleep awhile.”

“We should call the police.”

Brett winced. “They couldn't do anything yet anyway. She's barely been gone any time at all. Go to bed. I'll drive back to the beach.Maybe she's shown up by now.”

Tracey had no reason to trust his words. There was no love lost between them. Brett had openly resented her and her mom since the day they'd moved in. But at that moment a look of compassion flitted across his face. The look in itself was frightening, for Tracey could only imagine the reasons behind it. But she simply could do no more. She wasn't even sure she could drag herself to bed. She held out a reluctant, heavy arm. Brett pulled her up. She closed the door of her room and fell onto her bed.

When she awoke, the clock read 9:30 a.m. The doors to Brett's room and the master bedroom were closed. She eased open the door to the master bedroom and saw Darren Welk sprawled and snoring. Her mother wasn't with him. Doggedly, unwilling to face the truth, Tracey looked for her mother in the wing of the house where the adoption agency offices were located, then drove back to Breaker Beach. By the time she arrived home, Brett was up. It was around noon. He said he'd driven to the beach after she went to bed but had found nothing. Nor had there been any phone calls from her mother. That's when she called the police. They referred her to the Monterey County sheriff 's department, which had jurisdiction over Breaker Beach.…

M
ILT
W
AKING WROTE FURIOUSLY.
Breckshire had done a masterful job in extracting Tracey's story, despite the defense's attempts to squelch it.Milt could visualize everything she had said.

Stan Breckshire looked as if he'd been through the wringer. His tie hung askew, his hair sticking out from constantly raking his hands through it. He leaned against the prosecution table, fingers nervously drumming the wood.

“Miss Wilagher.” He pushed off from the table, and his thumb began rubbing his fingertips with anticipation. “I'm sorry for the question, but I have to ask it. Is there any chance your mother may have just chosen to disappear? And leave you?”

Tracey shook her head, tears welling in her eyes.“No.
Never.
We were very close. She'd never leave me. And besides that, she had the adoption agency. She would not choose to walk away from that.” Tracey's forehead crinkled and her mouth turned to mush. She inhaled a ragged breath. “I miss her very much.” The last word turned high-pitched. Tracey covered her face.Milt barely heard the muffled, “I'm sorry.”

“That's quite all right; take your time.”Breckshire jerked a tissue from a box on the witness stand and waved it before her.“Here.”

“Thank you.”

He waited until she had gathered herself.“Miss Wilagher, before I let you go, I need to ask you one more thing. I know it's a sensitive subject but it can't be helped. Did your mom leave a will?”

Tracey held the tissue to her nose. “Yes.”

“Did she leave anything of value to you?”

“Yes.”

“Please tell us what that was.”

With trembling chin, Tracey related the gut-wrenching day on which she'd met with Randy Atworth, her mother's attorney, to hear the reading of Shawna Welk's will. Even though Shawna's body had not been found, once Darren Welk had been arrested for her murder and the forensic evidence pointed to her death, Mr.Atworth had deemed it appropriate that the will be read. Tracey had been amazed to learn that her mother carried a two-million-dollar life insurance policy, payable in full to her. At the time that the policy had been instated—four years ago—the will ordered that if the money were paid out while Tracey was still a minor, it would be held in trust until she was eighteen. Tracey had turned twenty a month ago.

“Have you now received that money?”

Tracey shrugged.“No.”

“Why is that?”

She looked at her lap. “The insurance company can't issue the money without a death warrant.And without a … a body, evidently a death warrant can't be issued for many years.”

“Unless one thing happens, is that correct?”

She nodded, her jaw working. “A death warrant can be issued by the judge as soon as the murderer is convicted. I guess”—her voice grew bitter—“my mom's not dead until a court says she's dead.” She swallowed hard. “Tell that to my heart.”

Breckshire managed to still his entire body while he and the courtroom watched Tracey cry. “Do you care about the money?” he asked quietly.

Another shrug. “I care about it so I can get out of Salinas and try to start a new life.”

“Where are you living right now?”

“In a little apartment. I moved out of Darren Welk's house long ago. I … I couldn't stand to stay there.”

Breckshire nodded. “Where do you get the income to pay for your apartment?”

Tracey sniffed. “When Mom's adoption agency closed, I lost my job. Now I'm working full-time at Halding's Dress Shop, but it's barely enough to live on my own. I did get some money through the sale of the agency's equipment and furniture, and that's helped. But I don't have enough money to leave Salinas. Besides, I felt like I should stay until I saw justice done for my mother.”

“Two million dollars is a lot of money.Where will you go?”

“Far away from Salinas, I can tell you that.” Tracey looked at Breckshire almost defiantly. “I just want to go someplace where I can try to forget. Someplace so different that there's nothing there to remind me of these past few months.” Fresh tears pooled in her eyes.

The prosecutor rubbed the back of his head. “Thank you, Miss Wilagher. I'm sorry I had to ask all these questions.” He threw an accusing look toward the defense table, as if it were their fault. Then turned to Judge Chanson. “Your Honor, I'm through.”

“All right then.” Judge Chanson checked the clock. “Let's take a fifteen-minute break before we begin cross-examination.”

Milt slid his pen into his pocket. Two million dollars for a mother.Wow. Quite a recompense.He stood thinking, plans for his television report churning merrily through his head.He'd use Dot-tie's rendering of Tracey on the stand. Dottie was the better of the two courtroom artists present.He figured she'd caught the girl crying. Milt absentmindedly patted his hair. He could already hear his voice-over.
“The grief-stricken daughter of Shawna Welk broke down on the stand today as… ”

Ah yes. This was going to be a good day.And cross-examination hadn't even begun.

TWELVE

“Oh, Chelsea,” sang a birdlike voice.

Chelsea turned as the small hand patted her back. Seventy-year-old Irene Bracken beamed a smile that spoke of secrets and anticipation, brown eyes twinkling behind their thick glasses. “It's so
interesting,
isn't it.”

Chelsea's eyes flicked across the deliberation room. Becka— known as B. B.—was filling a small paper cup at the water station, barking a deep-throated laugh over some comment Sylvia Caster had made. Sylvia looked to be in her late fifties, a rather hefty woman with short dark hair and no makeup. Latonia, a black woman about Chelsea's age, stood talking to an elderly and stooped Hispanic man named Victor Chavarria. Latonia's perfectly arched eyebrows lifted as she spoke, her red-nailed fingers laced and held at the waist of her navy business suit.None of these jurors was paying any attention to Chelsea and Irene. But Tak had no doubt heard Irene's remark. He sat at the long table looking over his notes, yet something about the tilt of his head told Chelsea he was all judgmental ears. Tak was the juror she'd seen yesterday morning in the hallway.When she'd later introduced herself to him, he'd been cold as ice.

Chelsea looked back to Irene and saw the truth in her eyes. Irene had read the morning paper. How many of the other jurors knew what the media were saying?

“We'd better talk about something else, okay?”

Tak's head remained bent over his notes. He turned a page.

“Oh yes, of course.” Irene's hand fluttered. “I know we shouldn't talk about the trial.Well, let me tell you what happened last night. Have you ever seen that television program … ”

Chelsea only half-listened to Irene's chatter. Break would be over soon, and she wanted to sneak a peek into the lobby, make sure Kerra was all right. She didn't know how to cut Irene short. She stole a look at the round-faced clock on the wall.

Irene stopped in midsentence. “Oh dear, am I keeping you from something?”

“There's just a small matter I wanted to take care of before break is over.” She touched Irene's arm.“Would it be all right if you told me the rest of the story later?”

“Of course, of course.” Irene's face was pure radiance.“You go on now.Maybe I could join you for lunch again today.”

Chelsea hesitated.Kerra would not be happy. Still, Irene was such a sweet woman.How could anyone say no to her? “Sure. Love to have you.”

She hurried through the passageway that led to the main hall and opened the door. Cautiously she stuck her head out. She spotted Kerra almost immediately, near one of the long benches in the middle. Kerra was talking to a young man, the one Chelsea had noticed sitting by himself in the courtroom. The one who looked, in both build and facial features, like a young Darren Welk.

A pang of apprehension struck Chelsea. Could this be the defendant's son? She watched them talking for a moment. Kerra's expression was guarded, one hand absently fiddling with the purse slung over her shoulder. The young man stood stiffly, muscular arms dangling with discomfort, as if they wished for a task. Kerra said something and the young man raised his chin in a nod. They exchanged more words.

Chelsea closed the door and leaned against the wall. She shouldn't have let Kerra come. Her niece was so vulnerable. She didn't need to get mixed up with people who most likely were carrying their own emotional baggage.

Reluctantly Chelsea returned to the jury room.

“Well, there you are.” Sidney Portensic, the bailiff, who easily weighed three hundred pounds, shook his meaty head at her in mock reprimand. “Thought we were going to have to start court without you.”

Chelsea hitched her shoulders. “Oh, sorry.”

“That's all right,ma'am, that's all right. Just get yourself in line now; time to hear more e-vi-dence.”He rolled out the last word as if it were honey on his tongue. Sidney stood back and counted heads silently, a thick finger poking the air.“All right, all the ducks are in a row. Follow me, ladies and gentlemen.”With a good-natured crook of a finger over his shoulder, he led his jury members into the courtroom.

K
ERRA SHOT
B
RETT A TIGHT
smile as they took their seats in the courtroom. Her heart went out to him.Not that he'd said much, but hearing his name was enough. Brett Welk, the son of a man accused of killing his wife.What kind of nightmare would that be? Kerra wondered where Brett's real mother was. Even if the woman hated her ex-husband, she should be here to support her son. Kerra also wondered if Brett thought his father was guilty.

She watched as the jury filed in.Aunt Chelsea glanced at her with a concerned expression. Kerra gave her an encouraging smile.

The courtroom quickly filled.Milling reporters scurried back to their chairs, pulling out notebooks. The woman with the spiked blue black hair trudged to her seat with a scowl. Down front two artists, a man and a woman, reassembled their drawing pads on their laps. As Kerra had left the courthouse yesterday, she'd seen their drawings of the attorneys, judge, and defendant taped to the walls so television news crews could film them. “I have to admit,” she'd told her aunt as they headed up Highway 101 toward San Francisco, “this trial stuff is kind of interesting.”

Aunt Chelsea had raised her eyebrows. “Can't wait to hear what your parents say.You come visit me to relax and I take you to a murder trial.”

“Actually,” Kerra had replied, “I came here to get my mind off things.” She'd looked out the window, turning her head to watch a set of black, round buildings sporting the name Oracle glide by. “And this has managed to work. At least for now.”