Dread Champion (32 page)

“Oh, Tracey.” He urged her close again and let her cry. This girl was really on the edge. Tired and lonely, dying for some gentleness and a sympathetic ear.His gut stirred with excitement.He talked to her softly. Consoled her. Told her all the things he knew she needed to hear.

After some time she quieted, breathing irregularly in his arms. Milt felt her still. “Please,” he said, “just explain things to me. So I can put this to rest.As long as you can do that, I promise you on my life that I'll never say a word to anyone.”

She sat up, searching his face. “I don't know how I can believe you.”

“You can. Just convince me it has nothing to do with your mother's death.”

Her eyes closed in pain. “It doesn't.”

“All right.”He smiled at her, urging her on.

Tracey took a deep breath and focused on her lap. She seemed to gather herself, as if for a fatal leap. “Delgadia's wife couldn't have a baby. They'd tried for years. He came to my mom, saying they'd finally decided to adopt. His wife wanted kids so badly, she was about to have a nervous breakdown. Delgadia expected the moon. Mom said Enrico was used to throwing his weight around and getting his way. Apparently, he is Hispanic and his wife is white. A fair, green-eyed blond, my mom said. He insisted on a baby that would have that same mix so it wouldn't look obviously adopted. And he wanted it now. He said he'd pay lots. At first Mom told him to take a hike; she wasn't about to do anything illegal. But then …”

Tracey looked up at Milt. He took her hand and held it. She grasped onto him tightly.

“You'd have to understand how it was between Mom and Darren. He made the money and controlled every penny.Mom wanted more money to expand the agency, and he wasn't about to give it. Probably too busy spending it on his other women,” she added bitterly.“ Meanwhile Delgadia kept pushing her. And then she discovered a baby about to be born to parents of the same mixed race. Their coloring was perfect. She decided to do it. ‘Just this once,' she told me. But then things started to go wrong. She got the birth mother to agree easily after offering her money. But the birth father was another matter. Plus Mom realized her business partner would never go for it. Still, once she'd told Delgadia she had a baby for him, she didn't dare back out. She made me forge Janet's name and sign as a witness on the father's relinquishment form—when I wasn't.” Tracey inhaled raggedly. “And that's the whole story.”

Milt rubbed her hand.“Did you ever meet Delgadia yourself? Or the real father and mother of the baby?”

“Only the mother. I watched her sign her paper.”

“It must be so hard for you, knowing all this.”

Tracey's mouth pulled. “Everything's hard for me. You don't know how much I miss my mom. You don't know how much I'd give if none of this had ever happened. I hate what's happened to my life. I
hate
it!” She melted against him and he hugged her. She held on to his shoulder, her breath warm against the base of his neck. “So.” Her voice trembled. “That's why Delgadia never would have killed my mom. There was no reason why she'd ever tell what happened as long as she was alive. But a murder would just stir up questions. Which it did.” She swallowed. “Then it landed on my head to keep everything quiet. I promised Delgadia I'd never say a word.” Vehemence hardened her tone. “I don't want anything to stand in the way of Darren Welk getting what he deserves!”

“No, you're right.”Milt's mind raced for any unanswered questions. “I don't, either.”He massaged her back with his palm. “Delga-dia should be shot for making your mom do this.How much did he pay for the baby?”

Tracey hesitated. “I don't know.”

“Your mom didn't tell you?”

“No.”

Milt pondered that. “What happened to the money?”

She raised her head. “I don't know that either. I don't even know if she'd been paid yet. She was killed so soon after …”

Her words faded.Weariness etched her face. Milt gazed at her, thinking how young she looked. Good grief, she was only twenty. Barely more than half his age.

He'd gotten what he wanted. He knew he really should go.

Tracey raised her eyes to his.Her look was forlorn.Vulnerable. It pulled at him. Before he knew it, his mouth was lowering toward hers. Her eyes closed.

He kissed her firmly and long, her heart scudding against his chest. She hung on to him like a drowning child clinging to a rock.

All part of his job, he rationalized as he got into his car ten minutes later, a satisfied smile on his face.He reached for his cell phone to call Rogelio.

All part of his job.

TUESDAY, AUGUST 13

THIRTY-SIX

Tracey's eyes blinked open to her blue gray walls. In the past few months she'd thought them dreary and ugly, a perfect complement to her life. But this morning the sun shone through the curtains, playing patterns of light and fascination. Had it ever done that before?

She stretched, exultance playing over her body, overcoming the fatigue. She'd barely slept all night. Over and over she'd remembered Milt's gentle comforting, his sympathetic eyes. Time and again she'd relived the moment when his lips met hers. Seven months of living her nightmare, of drawing further and further into herself like a lost, lone waif, and in the space of one hour things had changed. Finally someone had an inkling of her pain. Finally someone knew the truth—that months ago, even when she still had her mother, Tracey was being used. And he
cared.

So what if he was a reporter.He was a man first. A man who was attracted to her, who had kissed her in a way that made her burst out of her entrapment like a butterfly from a cocoon. He hadn't come for a story. He'd come to set things straight in his own mind. And he'd fulfilled his promise. Nothing about the baby had been on the late-evening news.

After Milt left her apartment, Tracey had floated toward her computer like a balloon on a breeze. She couldn't wait to tell her story to her email friends. For once she could share not misery but wild happiness. Her fingers flew over the keys as she poured out her heart to Soraya and Kim and Regina. Of course she did not tell them everything. No mention of the baby or the information Milt had been checking. Only that he'd shown up at her door after seeing her testify. By the time she wrote Maria, her exuberance had gotten the best of her, splashing across the screen in exclamation points and capital letters. She even admitted that Milt had been checking a certain story and that under the circumstances she'd had no choice but to tell him the truth. But he'd PROMISED not to use it and he HADN'T.And after all she'd been forced to endure, after all these horrible months, wasn't Maria HAPPY for her!!!??

With another stretch Tracey checked the clock on her dresser. Eight fifteen. She had to be at the store at ten. She threw back the covers, grabbed her robe, and padded to the computer, anxious to read the happy responses from her friends.

Three messages popped up. Tracey smiled expectantly as she tapped the keys.

Wow, he sounds like a DREAM !
Soraya wrote.
When are you going to see him again?

Any chance Iget,
Tracey thought. Surely Milt would call. She'd given him her unlisted phone number.

Tracey, I'm SO HAPPY for you!!
Regina crowed.
Wouldn't it be funny if, after all this time of planning to leave once the trial is over, you stayed right there? Sounds like this guy would be worth it.

Tracey's gaze drifted to the bare wall above the computer screen. Regina was right. One evening with Milt and already Tracey didn't want to think of leaving him behind. She sighed as she tapped on Maria's post.

The vehement words shot right through her.

W
HAT DO YOU THINK YOU ' RE DOING
??!!

He's a reporter, Tracey! You don't trust reporters, period, no matter WHAT they tell you! All this guy wants is a story. You've fallen into his trap. Ican't BELIEVE you've done this, after all these months of caution. DON'T see him again! Don't even TALK to him. Believe me, I'm telling you this for your own good!!

Tracey wilted in her chair, tears springing to her eyes. It wasn't true. Milt's face had been so honest, so believable. Stunned disappointment twisted Tracey's stomach, followed by anger, both at herself and at the email. She should never have told all the details that she had. She should have expected this kind of reaction.Good grief, what was wrong with her? All her dreaming of Milt had downright fried her brain.

But so what? Tracey railed to herself. So she'd made a stupid mistake and told. Still, this email was entirely undeserved. Tracey tried to imagine a fun life on the beaches of Brazil, with friends and boyfriends. Contrast that with her own pitiful existence.How could
anybody
deny her this little bit of joy?

Mouth pressed in a tight line, Tracey banged out a reply.

Some “friend” you are. How would YOU like to be living MY life? How would you like to be stuck here, testifying at the trial, grieving over your dead mother while everybody watches? If you can't write me back something nice— DON ' T WRITE AT ALL !

As Tracey typed the last sentence, independence surged through her, clear and cold. She reveled in the new sensation, basked in it as if it were the first spring sun after a long, dreary winter. Suddenly she didn't care about what
anybody
said, good or bad. All her life she'd been pushed around, doing what she was told. She was sick of being her mousy little self. She was sick, sick, sick of
everything.
For once in her life she was going to do what
she
wanted.

With a furious little smile Tracey clicked the send button.

THIRTY-SEVEN

After a surprisingly good night's sleep Chelsea felt better. The first person she sought upon entering the courtroom that morning was the young man she'd seen talking to Milt Waking. He wasn't there. Was that good or bad?

Chelsea reminded herself that she did not need to know the answer. She just needed to keep praying. As she watched the attorneys prepare for the day's proceedings, silently she talked to God.

Stan Breckshire was wearing a shocking orange tie with his brown suit. He scrabbled through pages of notes at the prosecution table, rubbing his right shoulder and stretching his neck from side to side. Darren Welk whispered with Terrance Clyde, Erica Salvador leaning over to listen.

The courtroom door opened. Sidney Portensic wheeled in a television set on a tall stand, a VCR on a shelf beneath it. Stan Breck-shire scurried over to help him set it up.

The courtroom filled quickly. Reporters took their seats, Milt Waking's eyes gliding across the jury and landing on her. Chelsea did not immediately look away.What was he up to? For once she wished she could talk to him.

The TV set was ready. Stan eyed it with satisfaction, rubbing the side of his head until his hair stuck out. Chelsea suppressed a smile. Then he returned to his seat, perching like a hawk.

Court was called to order.

“Your Honor,” Stan announced, “the prosecution calls Detective Les Kelly. And as part of his testimony, I will be showing the videotape of the defendant's interview on the morning of Monday, February 18, with Detectives Kelly and Draker.”

“All right, Mr. Breckshire.”

Detective Kelly took the oath in a reedy voice, his wiry frame held perfectly straight. Stan Breckshire asked him a few questions regarding the detectives' interview with the defendant, then quickly moved to the video. The judge fiddled with the chain of her glasses as the prosecutor started the VCR. Sidney turned down the courthouse lights. The television flipped on and Darren Welk's face filled the screen.

His expression leaped from the television like some feral animal caught in headlights. Chelsea's stomach immediately constricted. The onlookers sucked in a collective breath. Fear and defensiveness hardened Welk's eyes. The deep lines around his mouth and forehead pulled taut, then slackened, pulled taut, slackened, as if his conscience and his survival instinct wrestled for control. His hands spread stiffly on the table, then slid together, clasping with a desperately feigned casualness that made his fingertips tremble.

This, thought Chelsea, was a man with something to hide.

Detective Draker read him his rights.“I watch those crime shows, too,”Welk joked. The words seemed to splatter the air around him. His thick chest rose as he dragged in a breath and pressed back against his chair.

He didn't deny hitting his wife.He didn't deny that the blood on the blouse came from a cut in her head.He remembered details such as Shawna Welk taking off the blouse and Tracey Wilagher kicking him awake later. Yet he claimed to remember nothing in between. According to Darren Welk, his wife had probably run off with a boyfriend, somehow managing her complete disappearance from an out-of-the-way beach in the middle of the night.

Chelsea's eyes slid to Darren Welk, who sat stiff-backed at the defense table, fingers tightly laced. One thumb pressed into the other hand,wrinkling his sun-leathered skin.He eyed himself on the television screen as if he were his own worst enemy.

Yes,
Chelsea thought,
you are.

She glanced at Brett.He too sat stiffly. So like his father.His face was pale.

“Are you aware, Mr.Welk,” the detective onscreen said, leaning forward, “that both you and I have referred to Mrs.Welk in the past tense?”

Darren Welk's reaction pulsed from the television through the courtroom.His face hardened like frozen soil. “When did I do that? I'd have no reason.”

“Your wife washed her blouse because she
didn't
like messes?”

On camera Darren Welk's expression slackened, then worked to reassemble itself. Chelsea shot another glance at the defendant. He pulled his eyes away from the television and locked a firm-mouthed gaze onto the courtroom floor.