Dread Champion (2 page)
Goose bumps popped down Victor's arms. His neck warmed with sweat. A man with money to spare for gardeners planting a bush at 4:20 a.m. was odd enough, but it was more than that. Something about the man's posture seemed depressed, heavy. Victor's thoughts tangled, almost as if a disjointed consciousness from the figure flowed into his own.He forced himself to gaze, pay attention, record. One of the man's feet was turned in slightly.Was that a shifting of weight or a half stagger?
Crunch.
The man threw his weight behind the shovel, his shadow dancing.
Hiss.
He swung his arms, dirt sliding.He did not raise his head; his shoulders curved inward, neck bent.
Victor stepped back and twigs crackled beneath his boot. The man's head pulled up and hung there, adrift. Spiders crawled down Victor's spine. He froze, willing the night to blanket him. Seconds ticked by. Finally the head lowered. Digging resumed.
Crunch. Hiss.
Victor Mendoza let out his breath and faded into darkness, creeping around ancient gravestones.He could not shake his uneasiness. When morning dawned hours later, his back muscles still twitched. As he crawled into a warm bed at 8:30 a.m., his workday over, the
crunch hiss
still reverberated in his head.
Two days later Victor heard the news. Darren Welk's fancy wife was missing.
H
ARSH LIGHT SPILLED FROM
the naked bulb, lancing Darren Welk's eyes. He winced.
“Sorry to bring you in here, but this holding cell's the quietest place at the moment,”Detective Draker said, motioning for his partner to take a seat. “We had a little altercation in here a few days ago. Haven't gotten around to replacing the fixture yet.”Draker settled his bulky frame in a chair opposite Darren.His thinning blond hair was clipped short, a matching mustache bristling under an oversized nose.
“No problem.”The words sounded hollow to Darren's ears.What hadn't been a problem the last two and a half days? He grasped for his last ounce of energy, willing his face and body into placidity while every muscle tensed, every fiber hummed. He could swear noises were louder. The creak of the door shutting, of clothes rustling, resounded in his ears. And the expressions! Every glance between Draker and his partner twanged with meaning. Could they see the truth in his eyes? In the twitch of his hands, the exaggerated rise and fall of his chest? Darren spread his fingers upon the table, then brought them together, fearing they looked too stiff.He could barely control his breathing. He was on the edge and the chasm ran deep.
“Can we get you some coffee?” Draker indicated his own cup. It looked black, bitter, like Darren's soul. His stomach turned over.
“No thanks.”
Draker's partner, Les Kelly, dragged a chair to the table, on Darren's right.He leaned forward, lacing his fingers on top of the worn wood, his narrow shoulders military straight.Kelly wasn't a tall man but his presence screamed authority. Darren glanced distractedly at the man's hands, wondering at his own. At what they'd done.
“What's happening with my house?” He forced the words to be chopped, forceful, like those of the Darren Welk he used to know.
The
Darren Welk of Salinas Valley, who could fill an employee with fear with a mere glance.
Draker cleared his throat in a brief staccato. “Don't worry, your house will be fine.”
Darren met the man's eyes. They were brown and deep-set, unfathomable. “Which means ⦠”
The Monterey County sheriff 's detective shrugged. “Look, I'm sure we can get this all cleared up quickly. That's why we brought you down here. But before we can talk, I just need to tell you that you have the right to remain silent.Any statement you make may be used against you in a court of law. ⦔
Darren stared at the detective's wide face, his skin pebbling. He could hardly believe what was happening. “I watch those crime shows, too,” he managed when Draker finished. He tried to laugh but it sounded more like a choke.He inhaled deeply, forced himself to lean back in his chair.
Draker's lips curved at his little joke. A knowing smile, Darren thought. He pressed his heels against the floor, resisting the urge to check Kelly's reaction. Shifty eyes he didn't need.
“Okay,”Draker said. “We need you to tell us about the blouse.”
Darren closed his eyes. The white blouse with gold buttons. Long-sleeved, expensive silk. She'd worn it out to dinner before they ended up on the beach.When Draker had pulled it from beneath the newly planted bush, clods of dirt clung to it like bugs. Darren had nearly retched at the sight. Brett had hovered nearby, his face turning pasty white, chest heaving with ragged breaths.
“No, Dadâ”
Darren steeled himself, the panic in his son's voice still echoing in his mind. “Shawna cut her head.”
“After you hit her, right?”
Darren gave him a hard look. He could feel Les Kelly watching him intently. “I told you, I'd never hit her before. She just got me mad, that was all. And I was drunk. I didn't even hit her that hard. But she stumbled and fell.Her forehead hit a piece of metal or something in the sand. She got up right away. It wasn't a very big cut, but you know how a head can bleed.”
“Right. So the blood got on her blouse?”
“Look at what you've done! How dare you!” Her scream of rage echoed through his alcohol-laden brain. “Hit me again and I'll have you in jail!”
Darren vaguely remembered her fumbling with the buttons. “Yeah. That's when she took it off.”
“Right there on the beach?”
Darren shrugged. “It was one o'clock in the morning. Nobody else was around. The Browards had already left. Shawna saw she was getting blood on it and took it down to the water to wash it. She didn't like messes; you can ask anyone that.”
The detective stared at him. “Why didn't she have a jacket?” Draker asked. “Even for an unseasonably warm night, this is still February.”
“She got hot sitting near the fire and took it off. I guess Tracey brought it home.”
Draker nodded knowingly and Darren's heart skipped a beat. Shawna's daughter had been spouting her mouth in the past two days to anybody who'd listen.
“So.When did the Browards leave?”
“I don't know exactly. I told you, I was drunk.” Darren caught Les Kelly's slow blink. So the man was weary of hearing that, was he? Too bad; it happened to be true.
“Mr.Welk”âDraker leaned forwardâ“what did you do when Shawna went to wash the blouse?”
Darren's insides stilled. He forced himself to look Draker in the eye as he tried to remember.
The iciness of the water on his ankles. Shawna whirling on him in a fury. “What are you going to do now, Mr. Do-Anything-I-Please? Drown me?” His utter disgust with her, the fire in his belly, his fist pulled backâ¦
“I was
drunk.
I passed out on the sand by the fire. Next thing I knew, Tracey was kicking me awake, screaming that her mother was gone.”
“You don't remember anything?”
“No.”
Draker surveyed him unblinkingly. “Where do you think your wife is, Mr.Welk?”
Darren's gaze raked the ceiling. “How should I know? Probably ran off with some boyfriend. She had 'em all along, you know.”
“Mm.” The detective rubbed his chin. “She was a very pretty woman.”
Words formed on Darren's tongue but he made no comment. A moment passed while the two men surveyed each other.
Les Kelly shifted in his chair.“You saying she just ran off into the dark without her blouse?”
“I told you she had a jacket.”
“You said Tracey brought the jacket home.”
“Well, who knows? Maybe she didn't.Why don't you ask her?”
“We did,” Kelly said. “She brought it home.”
“Don't you think,” Draker pressed, “that if your wife was going to run off, she'd at least have put the blouse back on?”
Darren's nerves tingled.“Look, I don't know, okay? I don't know! The blouse was wet and cold and still had blood on it. She wouldn't have wanted to put it back on.”
“Okay, Mr.Welk.”Draker held up a hand. “All right. But I'm still curious.Why did you bring the blouse home and bury it?”
Darren's brain scrambled for an answer. A thought, a meaning, some memory that made sense. “Look,” he said slowly, “I know it sounds crazy. I brought the blouse home, thinking I'd get it cleaned. Thinking that when Shawna showed up, she'd be happy to see I'd taken care of it. I figured it would smooth things over, you know. But by the time I got home, I was mad all over again.Mad that she'd taken off. And I had that one bush in the backyard that the gardeners hadn't yet planted, and I thought,
I'll show her. I'll stick that blouse where she won't ever find it. Serves her right.”
Les Kelly spread his hands, palms up.“Why didn't you tell us this when we first asked you?”
“I was ⦠embarrassed. Sounds like such a juvenile thing to do.”
Draker massaged his bottom lip with a forefinger. “Your wife is missing, and you lie to detectives because you're embarrassed?”
His words hung in the claustrophobic air. Darren couldn't respond.
“Perhaps we should talk to your son again,” Draker suggested casually. “Maybe he'll remember some things you don't.”
“No!” His response was too quick, and Darren tried to lighten his tone. “What would a twenty-two-year-old know?”
“Well.”Draker eased back in his chair, folding his arms.“Doesn't matter. We'll know more when our folks finish searching your house.”
Apprehension pinged across Darren's shoulders.He sat very still.
“You did ask about that.”Draker raised his eyebrows. “Sorry, we should have answered your question sooner.While you waited in our car to come down here, I froze your house.Meaning it's now under our control; no one comes in or goes out without our okay.We'll have a search warrant in a few hours. Then the criminalist will go over every square inch of your place, right down to the shower drains. Of course, that's only part of the investigation. They'll also search your car and rope off the beach where you were that night. They'll look for anything unusual that could point to where your wife could have gone. Anything washed up on shore, things like that.”
Darren's thoughts spun.
Tracey slapping himâ“What have you done to my mom?!” Stumbling across the beach, holding his aching head. Blood drops on the sand.
Draker was staring at him. So was Kelly.He could feel their gazes snake through his head. “Something washed up on shore?” he feigned. “Just because Shawna's missing?”
The detective's smile chilled. “Are you aware, Mr.Welk,” he said slowly, “that both you and I have referred to Mrs.Welk in the past tense?”
“When did I do that?” Darren challenged. “I'd have no reason.”
“Your wife washed her blouse because she
didn't
like messes?”
Darren's body drained cold.And in that worst possible moment, Brett's voice, tight with anxiety, filtered through the battered door.
Do not be far from me,
for trouble is near
and there is no one to help.
Psalm 22:11
Stan Breckshire's right shoulder throbbed. The pain crept up his neck to the base of his skull and all the way down to his fingers. Great.His pinched nerve was cheerleading another touchdown, and the game hadn't even begun. Rah, rah, pretrial stress; let's give Stan another mess!
In the prosecutor's seat behind the counsel table, Stan held his arm out from his side, rotating it at the elbow. Then rubbed the pressure point in his neck.Not even through with jury selection yet, and just look at him. Today's panel of potential jurors had been the lousiest he'd ever seen, and apparently the worst was yet to come in the search for the second and final alternate.
The courtroom door opened behind Stan. He resisted the urge to look back, although both defense attorneys did so. With such pleasant faces, he might add. Stan worked to keep his own expression as pleasant as possible. He was well aware of the twelve jury members and first alternate already seated in the jury box, watching the attorneys'moves with morbid curiosity.
“Come on in, folks,” Judge Carol Chanson greeted the last two stragglers as a bailiff led them in.“I know it's been a long day for you. If you'll have a seat at the end of the first row in the jury box, I'll explain how we might need you.”
Stan's eyes darted to the two people taking their seats. One very impatient-looking man. And a knockout of a woman in her mid-thirties. Shoulder-length, cinnamon-colored hair and matching eyes. Clear skin and a trim figure, well fitted into an expensive-looking green silk shirt and off-white, belted pants. She fairly oozed grace and intelligence. Stan's heart sank.
Chelsea Adams looked even worse than he'd imagined.
Quickly he shuffled papers before him. Anything to keep from staring at her. He wondered if T. C., as he privately called lead defense attorney Terrance Clyde, or his sidekick, Erica Salvador, had any hint of who this woman was. As fate would have it, the defense shared the same sinking boat with Stanâthey'd used the last of their preemptory challenges allotted for alternates. Stan almost smirked. Nice little irony to their demanding a change of venue. Monterey County had its share of eccentrics, but it would have had to work mighty hard to spit out a sample the likes of this woman.
Knowing T. C., he'd probably used one of the minions on his fat payroll to run a check on the names of summoned people as soon as the attorneys received their lists that morning. All by his lonesome, Stan had wheedled help from a gum-snapping secretary in the district attorney's office.With rolling eyes, she'd finally agreed to check his list against the criminal clerk's records, finding out which people had previously served on a jury. But of course that's not how he'd heard the stuff on Chelsea Adams. Rather it was the I-know-something-you-don't-know look on the face of some deputy D.A. he'd run into during break just fifteen minutes ago. Someone in county records had noticed an infamous name on the list and had said something to her coworker, who'd said something to someone else, who'd run into said deputy D.A. during lunch hour.
