Dread Champion (18 page)

“You signed this?”

He nodded.

“And the adoption was handled by Shawna Welk?”

“Yes.”

She frowned at the document, willing it to divulge its meaning. “Who was the mother?”

“Kristin Bockner.”

Janet mouthed the name silently. She'd never heard it before. “And the baby was born in January.”

“Yes.”

She stared at him, mind dimly turning like an engine that couldn't start. “You'd better tell me your story from the beginning.”

Janet's limbs slackened as she heard his tale.His baby adopted at the last minute. A payment of five thousand dollars to him, and evidently much more to the mother. As Rogelio spoke, Janet fought to keep her face impassive, even as her heart thudded dully against her chest. Dozens of thoughts entangled her mind. How could Shawna have done this?
Why
had she done it? She and Janet had run a successful, reputable agency. They'd placed twelve babies their first year of business, twenty-six the second year.Why would Shawna suddenly pay for a baby?

Janet lay the paper on her lap and gazed out her front window, trying to make sense of it all. If this boy's story were true and this piece of paper were real, what might this do to her reputation? She'd spent the last months building up her own adoption agency after Shawna was killed. How could she prove she'd had nothing to do with such illegal proceedings?

What's more, the timing only made matters worse. Darren Welk was now on trial for Shawna's murder. The jury needed to identify with Shawna, mourn her untimely death, so they would seek punishment for her killer. This was not the time for Shawna's memory to be tainted.

There had to be an explanation for this.

Janet blinked her thoughts back to the young man poised nervously on the edge of her couch, hands fisted against his legs. “Shouldn't those witness lines be filled in?” he ventured. “And the name of the people who adopted the baby?”

Janet lifted her hand from the offending paper. “Rogelio, if what you're telling me is true, there are numerous problems here. Every state has adoption laws that must be followed exactly. A birth couple doesn't have to know the name of the adoptive couple. But one of the laws in California is that a birth mother and father must meet with an LCSW—a licensed clinical social worker—twice. I was the LCSW for the Welk Adoption Agency. Mrs. Shawna Welk was the director, but she was not a trained social worker. That's why she teamed up with me when she opened the agency. The only other way to handle adoptions is to use an attorney.” She paused. “Did you ever see an attorney?”

“No.”His eyes remained fixed on her. Janet saw the hope swirling over his features and winced. “So I was supposed to meet with you twice?” he pressed.

“Yes. And when you signed this document, I and two witnesses were to be present.”

He gripped his hands. “So the adoption wasn't legal.”

She inhaled deeply, wrestling with the answer. “This piece of paper is not legal. But I'll need to check the file and see if other papers make it so.”

“But how could there be any other papers? I didn't sign anything else, and I never—”

Janet held up a palm. “I hear you. But I'll have to see the file.”

He pressed his lips together and glanced away, clearly upset that she wouldn't simply accept his word. “How long will that take?”

“A couple of days. The file is at social services in Sacramento. All the files from the agency were sent there when it was closed.”

“Sacramento? How will you get it?”

“I know people in the social services office. I had to deal with them quite a bit in sending all the Welk agency files to them. I can call someone tomorrow and ask her to look at the file, just tell me what's there. Then if necessary she can send me copies of documents.”

“Okay.” He straightened his shoulders. “I'll come back tomorrow evening and see what you found out.”

“No, call my office.” She scooted forward in her chair. “You have to understand, this is after my work hours.”

Rogelio rose as she did. His lanky frame was a good six inches taller. “I can't; I work all day at gardening. Unless I call you during my lunch hour. That means you'd have to find something out in the morning.”He gazed down at her, resolve in his expression.

“I'll try, but I have lots of other work to do.” Janet hoped her words sounded more firm than her legs felt as she walked him into the hall. There had to be a way out of this. As she pulled open the door, for sheer argument's sake she asked, “Rogelio, if you work all day, who would raise your baby?”

“My grandmother will help.” Contrition laced his voice. “She wanted to care for the baby all along.Kristin had said she could, and she was so excited. It was all she had to look forward to after my mom died. But then Kristin said she could give me all this money…” He averted his eyes, a tangible cloud of guilt descending over him.When he turned back to Janet, lines etched his forehead.“I have to get the baby back for my grandmother. She cries every day.”

Janet's palm grew damp against the door handle. She understood the importance of extended family in Hispanic culture. It was an emphasis she found sorely lacking in so many white American families. She imagined her own grief if her daughter were to snatch a baby from her grandmotherly arms in such a way. Then she thought of the adoptive parents of Rogelio's baby. Talk about snatching a baby out of a mother's arms. If this adoption truly were illegal, Janet would find herself in the midst of a battle to take a seven-month-old child away from the only parents she had ever known.

“And Kristin? Would she be a part of the baby's life at all?”

Pain crossed Rogelio's face.He traced a fingertip down the wood paneling of her door, considering his answer. “I want us to be a family.” His eyes cut to Janet, as if his own words surprised him. His mouth opened again, then closed abruptly.

Making no comment, Janet ushered him out to the porch. She watched Rogelio move down her sidewalk with lean agility, then fled into the house. Closing the door, she sagged against it, exhaustion trailing unknown fears down her limbs. “Shawna,” she moaned, “what have you done?”

EIGHTEEN

“Hi, Dad,” Brett mouthed.

Through the glass in the visitors' room, his father smiled ruefully. They both picked up their phones.

“How's the ranch?” Darren Welk asked.

Brett focused on his dad's large, powerful hands. Some things never changed.How often had they discussed the same thing at their own kitchen table? Seemed as if most of his life their relationship had been played out in details about the ranch. Fields, crops, transplants, harvesting, packaging.When would they ever learn to
talk?

“Things are going okay; I called Rudy just before I came here. Field six is almost done with harvesting.We got those holes patched in the irrigation in field four. The only main problem now is that Rudy heard Chef Mate's messing with their prices again.”

Darren Welk's fist hit the table in frustration. “How many times do we have to put up with this? Delgadia's nothing but a cheat!”

Enrico Delgadia was the owner of Chef Mate, the most successful prepackaging company in Salinas. As crops were harvested, they were immediately sent to Chef Mate for packaging and shipping to stores in the form of ready-to-eat salads and vegetables. Delgadia wasn't a convicted felon but it wasn't for lack of trying. He'd been charged with numerous illegal activities over the past few years— money laundering, tax evasion, price fixing—and had somehow managed to weasel out of them every time. Brett agreed with his dad; you couldn't trust Delgadia. All the same, Chef Mate was the packaging company with the highest efficiency and best distribution, so like many other Salinas ranchers, the Welks put up with its owner.

“Don't get all riled up yet; Rudy's not through talking things over with him.”

Darren's face was hard. “You tell Rudy not to agree to anything until he gets through to me.”

“Yeah, okay, Dad; you know he'll call you.”

Darren gripped the telephone.“How's a man supposed to run a ranch from jail, huh? What do they want to do,
break
me?”

Brett's throat tightened. Silently he watched his father, feeling the familiar kaleidoscope of emotions in his gut. Fear, loneliness, bitterness, guilt. Sometimes he thought the ambivalence would crush him.How to love a father, want to reach out to him, while images of one night's crime crawled like roaches through your mind? If only they could talk about it. Sometimes Brett was hit by the inanity of it all—both of them knowing bits of the truth but saying nothing.

“Never mind,” his father growled, “I've got other things to think about now.”He raked fingers through his hair.“I could have strangled that Tracey today. Skinny little money-grubbing—”

“Dad, stop.You don't do yourself any favors by looking angry all the time.”

“I'm
not
angry all the time! I've sat like stone in that courtroom for two days now, not showing one emotion on my face! Don't you tell me what to do, boy.”

Brett flopped back in his chair and regarded his father in utter weariness. His throat clenched once more. Amazing, this sudden weakness within himself. He hadn't cried since he was a kid. His father had taught him that crying was for sissies.

And he wasn't about to cry now.

“I gotta go, Dad,” Brett said quietly.

The frown lines in Darren Welk's face flattened. He rubbed his forehead. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Can't stand to be in here for long.”

Brett made no comment.

“What're you gonna do the rest of the evening?”

He shrugged. “I don't know. Get something to eat.Watch some TV in the hotel room. Try to sleep.”

His father snorted.“You make it sound not much better than life in here.Don't be so down in the mouth, Brett; at least you're a free man.”

This was freedom?

Three hours later Brett sprawled on the hard mattress of his hotel bed, eyes fixed mindlessly on the television. The dregs of fast-food burritos lay heavily in his stomach. His whole body seemed weighted, his head thick. Disjointed scenes filtered through his head. His parents together, so long ago.Working alongside his dad on the ranch. The nightmare of his life ever since February. The trial.

Kerra.

Her face wafted into his thoughts like the scent of spring rain. Those blue eyes against smooth, tanned skin, the lines of her jaw. Brett smiled to himself. She had a way of tilting her head to look at him sideways when she talked.And when he talked, she listened, her gaze fixed on him with concern and … something else. Compassion. Understanding.

Selfishly Brett hoped that old lady latched on to Kerra's aunt again tomorrow.Maybe Kerra would go to lunch with him again.

C
HELSEA AND
K
ERRA DUG
into shrimp appetizers at their outside table in Sausalito, overlooking the bay. The evening had remained warm. Sailboats lazily floated near Angel Island and around Alcatraz.

“Kerra,” Chelsea ventured, “may I ask how you're doing spiritually? The last time we talked about it …well, you didn't want to talk about it.”

Kerra ran her thumb and fingers up and down her water glass. “Sure, you can ask. That's pretty much why I came here in the first place.Well, that and to rest. I had my hopes up, probably more than I should have, that somehow I'd go back home and be able to face life. Like this would be a clean break for me, you know?” Her eyes drifted to the bay. “Guess that's a lot to expect.”

Prayers for wisdom sifted through Chelsea's mind. Answers for another's grief usually sounded so trite.“I don't know if there is such a thing as a clean break after what you've been through. But I do know that God can heal, as long as you'll let him. He can use time, other people, and circumstances. I'm just not sure how open you are to him right now.”

Chelsea was well aware that a streak of stubborn independence ran through Kerra. It had often played itself out in the form of rebelliousness before she'd become a Christian.With non-Christian parents, Kerra had never had any sort of spiritual training until Chelsea had begun talking to her about Jesus. Chelsea had only been a Christian for two years herself, and when she'd made the decision to follow Christ, her priorities had changed significantly. Excitement about her newfound faith had bubbled into most of her conversations, and when they'd talked on the phone, Kerra obviously had been captivated with what she'd had to say. After a few months Chelsea had prayed with her over the phone to accept Christ. Kerra's excitement had equaled Chelsea's.Until two months later when Dave was killed.

“I'm open to anything that's going to make life worth living again.” Kerra's tone was etched with weariness. She eased a lock of blond hair behind her ear and stared at her plate. “I'm tired of the why questions. I just want to move on. It's been over a year, for goodness' sake.” She raised her blue eyes to Chelsea. “You know what I want?” she asked almost defiantly. “I want to love again.”

The words hung over their table. For no reason at all Chelsea pictured Kerra talking to Brett Welk, her beautiful young face full of compassion. Chelsea tried to sweep the thought aside, but it clung to the corners of her mind like a cobweb out of reach. For the first time she realized the depth of her niece's vulnerability.

Kerra's face veiled as if she couldn't believe she'd uttered such heresy. She looked away. Chelsea's lips curved sadly. “Of course you do, Kerra. Of course you do.”

Their entrees arrived. Chelsea wanted to continue the conversation without pushing. Instead of focusing on Kerra, she talked about the many times that God had come through for her in the last two years—even when she'd stared helplessly into the eyes of a killer. “One thing God taught me during those times, Kerra,”Chelsea said. “He taught me that he's always with me, no matter what happens. His purpose
will
be accomplished. As the Bible says, he's our dread champion. He's a whole lot bigger than the circumstances here on earth.”