Dread Champion (25 page)

“Sure.”

She pulled a small glass pan covered with foil out of the oven and set it on the stove.

Kristin's face flashed before Rogelio. He tried to picture her in this kitchen, Roselita in her arms, talking with Mama Yolanda. But he could not. Those two were from such different worlds. Even if he could bring Roselita home,why should he think Kristin would want to be a part of their lives? And what about Mama Yolanda? Would his grandmother be able to forgive Kristin for what she'd done? Rogelio's gaze fell to the floor. Suddenly the odds against accomplishing all his heart's desires seemed overwhelming.

He wandered to the table. “Want me to read to you about the trial?”

She waved an arthritic hand. “It makes no difference now; I'll see a paper at Consuelo's.”

They had barely finished eating when Consuelo arrived. Roge-lio shooed Mama Yolanda out the door, glad to see her going somewhere. He washed the dishes, the unusual silence hovering about his shoulders.What would he be doing if a baby were with him? How did you leave a small child alone long enough to wash a dish? He wasn't even sure what babies could do at seven months. Did they just lie there? Could they crawl? Walk? Did they talk?

What did he know about being a father?

Rogelio's hands slowed under the running water. For a moment he almost hoped Janet Cline would refuse to help him. Then he could let this foolish thought go. Thank God he hadn't told Mama Yolanda. He still could change his mind.

But could he leave his daughter in the home of a man who was potentially violent? Could he stand to let Kristin, the mother of his baby, go?

Firmly Rogelio turned off the water and placed the dishes on the counter. They could air-dry. He had a call to make.

He looked up Janet Cline's number and dialed it on the handset of the cordless phone, pacing the kitchen as her line rang.“It's Roge-lio,” he said when she answered. “Are you going to help me?”

She sighed. “Yes, I'll help you.”Her words sounded flat, weary. “I don't see that I have a choice.”

Rogelio's eyes closed.He didn't know whether to feel relieved or scared. “What do we do?”

“One thing first.”Her tone told him she had practiced the words. “I want to wait until the trial is over.”

“Why? What does the trial have to do with me?”

“Nothing. But if I go to the authorities about this now, because of all the media coverage of the trial, the word is sure to get out.And even though this has nothing to do with Shawna's murder, I'm afraid somehow it would complicate things. I want Darren Welk found guilty, you understand?”

Rogelio's lips tightened.“How long is the trial supposed to take?”

“Only about another week, I think.”

“I can't wait that long.”

“Yes, you can! One week, Rogelio. Long enough to see that man found guilty.”

“Why should I do it?” Rogelio's voice rose. “Why should I care? Mama Yolanda's waited long enough as it is.”

“Hear me: I will
not
help you this week,” Janet shot back.“I won't have Shawna's reputation sullied at the very time she's supposed to be given justice!”

Rogelio grabbed the countertop, fingertips whitening. He hunched over to rest his forehead against a cabinet. He could hear Janet breathing into the phone.“I don't need you, you know,” he said tightly. “I can just go to the police right now, tonight.”

“Don't do it, Rogelio. The first thing they'd do is haul in your girlfriend to find out what she knows.”

“That's going to happen anyway.” His stomach churned. How Kristin would hate him.

“You don't understand how this works; I won't be going to the police. This is a matter for social services and the courts. Even once we get started, the process will take time.”

“Now you want more time!”Rogelio hit the cabinet with his fist. “How long is all this going to take?”

“I don't know.Weeks.Months. I haven't exactly done this before.”

Fear flushed through Rogelio's veins. “But in the meantime that man could hide Roselita, couldn't he? What will he do if he knows we're trying to take her away?”

“Rogelio.” Janet spoke slowly, as if talking to a child.“He will hire the best lawyers.He will fight this all the way. It will drag through the courts.And knowing this man, it will most likely get very, very ugly. He'll find out whatever he can about you and Kristin. And he'll use the fact that you accepted money for your baby.He'll try to convince the judge that you and your grandmother wouldn't be fit parents. You're too young and she's too old. Is she an American citizen?”

“Yes. She and my grandfather became citizens soon after they were married.”

“How about education; did she finish high school?”

“No.”

“Does she speak much English?”

Rogelio hesitated. “No.”

Silence.

“He will tear you and your grandmother apart in court.” Janet's words had softened. “Are you willing to put her through that?”

Rogelio fell into a kitchen chair. Put a hand over his eyes. How naive he'd been. How stupid. To think he could get Roselita back quietly, just surprise Mama Yolanda one day and place the baby in her arms. Now he would have to tell her. She would be willing to fight, of that he was sure. She'd certainly fought through hardships before. But what if they did everything they could and still lost? How much more would she grieve?

Surely they wouldn't lose. They were in the right.

Rogelio straightened. “We will do what we have to do to get our baby.” Janet started to speak but he cut her off. “I will wait until after the trial on one condition. Tell me the name of the man who adopted her.”

“No, Rogelio. I don't want you contacting him on your own. That's the worst thing you could do.”

“I won't bother him; I told you I'd wait.”

“Then why do you want to know?”

Anger surged through him. He gripped the phone. “Why shouldn't I want to know? He's got my baby!”

They argued and argued but Rogelio would not budge. Finally, reluctantly, Janet told him the name. He did not recognize it.

“Okay,” he said wearily.“I will call you as soon as the trial is over.”

Rogelio hit the off button and the line disconnected. Plastic clicked against wood as he rested the handset on the table. He sat unmoving for a long time, hand still on the telephone, imagining what he was going to tell Kristin. A child's playful shout outside blinked him back to the present.He shifted in his chair, and his eyes fell on the folded newspaper at the edge of the table.He reached for it, flipped it open. The article was front-page news.

Jury Sequestered in Welk Trial

Rogelio drew back his head in surprise. Swiftly he read the story. Read it a second time.

He folded the paper and picked it up, as if weighing its worth. Thoughts began to form in his mind like swirling mist. One little sentence to certain key people, and look at all the commotion it had caused. The result had been immediate and sure. Rogelio unfolded the paper again and gazed at the article. The key to his own problem lay here. If he could just come up with a plan.

He lay the newspaper down, absently thumbing its edges, and stared out the kitchen window, thinking.

T
HE PHONE RANG SHRILLY
in the silent hotel room. Chelsea jumped. Pushing aside her dinner plate, she reached for it across the small table.“Hello?”

“Hi, darlin'; how are you?”

Warm sweetness filled her at the sound of the voice. She gripped the receiver. “Oh, Paul, it's so good to hear you.”

“Kerra called and told me what happened.What terrible timing for her visit.”

“She called? When? Just now?”

“No, it was yesterday.Why, what's wrong?”

Chelsea could have kicked herself. She did not want to tell Paul what was happening with Kerra. What could he do? Besides, he wasn't happy with her for being on the jury in the first place. She didn't want to admit that he was right. That because of her, Kerra was falling in with the wrong person, someone who would only lead her further away from God.

Not that Paul would understand that part.

“Nothing's wrong,” she said. “I just haven't heard from her tonight, that's all.”

“I don't understand why she's staying. She was rather vague about her reasons when I asked.”

“You know Kerra.”Chelsea worked to keep her tone light. “She's going to do what she's going to do.” She fiddled with the phone cord. “So how's everything going there?”

Paul talked for about five minutes, telling her how well the office and fledgling projects were coming together. Chelsea closed her eyes and listened to the music of his words. If only he were sitting in their family room at home.With their boys. They were all so far away. And she felt so alone.

She hung up the phone, not knowing whether she felt better or worse. Restlessly she walked about the room, then flung herself on the bed.

Suddenly black spots began to crowd the sides of her sight. The room dimmed. Chelsea focused on the flowers on the bedspread, frowning. The spots ate inward. The flowers dissolved.

She sucked in air. God was sending her another vision.

Oh, Lord, give me wisdom.

Her eyes pressed shut. The vision undulated into view.A man in a leather chair, smoking, staring with dark, narrowed eyes.Manipulation and greed etched his face, in the lines around his mouth, on his forehead.He took a long drag from the cigarette, held the smoke in his lungs, then exhaled slowly, evenly. A scar jagged between his thumb and forefinger.

Nausea and dread rose in Chelsea's stomach. It was the same man as before.

He turned his head toward her. Pierced her with his steel-cold eyes. Chelsea's heart tumbled over itself. The man turned back to the cigarette. Its curling smoke burned Chelsea's throat.

God, show me who this is.

His face shimmered, dissolved.

Once again blackness.

Chelsea's fingers slipped to the bedspread, balling the fabric against her palms.Her heart slowed with reluctance.After some time she opened her eyes. She lifted her gaze, saw only the hotel room.

She let out a deep breath, calming herself, reminding herself about what God had revealed to her last night. She was his servant. She'd been placed on the jury for a purpose. God was sending her these visions not to scare her but that his will might be accomplished.

Chelsea closed her eyes again and fervently began to pray.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Warm air flicked strands of Kerra's hair about her face. She laid her head back against the seat of Brett's convertible BMW, reveling in the sensation of wind and late-afternoon sun. Tree-dotted, rolling hills and groves of eucalyptus trees whizzed by. The terrain, so different from that of Kansas, the pulse of her emotions, and Brett's solid presence behind the wheel—all swirled together to bathe Kerra in tingling anticipation.

Brett glanced at her, smiling. “What do you think?”

“It's beautiful!”

Soon the hills surrendered to plowed, rich fields and molded themselves against the distant horizon. Fog blanketed them to the west. Kerra saw migrant workers leaving the fields to board white buses. Irrigation systems lay in rows across the fields,with pipes sticking up about every fifteen feet. The crops were so many different colors and heights. Kerra couldn't begin to imagine what they all were.

Brett took a Salinas exit off the freeway, staying on the outskirts of town. Five minutes later they rolled up to the Welks' large home of white wood and green shutters.

“Welcome to my place,” Brett said, pride in his voice.

Kerra climbed out of the car, gazing openmouthed at the vast fields surrounding them, the fog-covered hills in the distance. Something inside her stirred, something both ancient and new. The land, the air, the sky, seeped into her pores, filling her with lightness,with life. Brett moved beside her and she looked at him, tongue-tied.

“I can tell you like it.”

She nodded.

His mouth curved. Surprise flicked across his face, as if he couldn't quite believe she was with him. He raised his hand, traced a knuckle down her jaw. “I'm so glad you came.”

She lay fingertips on his arm and squeezed. “Me too.”

“Come on. I'll show you inside.”

The house boasted a tiled, two-story entryway and a curved staircase. Brett led her through the spacious kitchen, the dining, living, and family rooms, all designed in shades of blue and cream. Kerra trailed her hand on the polished wood banister as they climbed the stairs. Five bedroom suites. And only one of them occupied. Kerra followed Brett into his room, heart clenching at the thought of his living in this huge house all by himself. His room was carpeted in plush navy. Kerra's eyes roved over a bookcase with numerous baseball trophies, a large desk scattered with papers.

“Sorry it's messy.” Brett pulled up the cover on his unmade bed. “Would have fixed it up if I'd known you were coming.”

She rolled her eyes as if to say, “How could either of us have guessed this?” Her gaze moved to Brett's dresser and landed on a photo of a dark-haired woman. She walked over to it slowly, picked it up. The woman had deep-set brown eyes and a kind mouth, lips turned up at the corners. “Your mom?”

“Yeah.”

Kerra regarded the photo with reverence.“She's beautiful, Brett.” Kerra raised her eyes to his. A tangible understanding flowed between then, connecting them. They both knew the depths of loss. Kerra could feel his loneliness in the pit of her being.

Carefully she replaced the picture.

They stood unmoving, awkwardly silent. For a fleeting moment the enormity of her choices stunned Kerra. First, that she'd adamantly refused to stay away from Brett during court just because the media were watching. “They already know, don't they?” she'd huffed to Brett when he suggested it. Second, that she'd accepted Brett's invitation for the weekend. A small voice had whispered that she hardly knew the man, that her aunt Chelsea, and probably God, would disapprove. But she'd whisked the voice aside with a toss of her head. Maybe God
did
approve. Maybe he'd brought her and Brett together. After all her grief, after all of his, didn't they both deserve some tenderness?