Beyond Justice (27 page)

Chapter Forty-Six

That very day, while I lay in my bunk with a cold towel on my bruised jaw, the evening edition of the
San Diego Union Tribune
reported two items of morbid interest.  First, another man had been charged with the rape and murder of his wife and daughter.  This third murder happened in Poway. 

But it was the next report that truly stunned me.  An email had been sent to one of the staff writers at the paper.  The sender identified himself by a cryptic, mythological name.  The text from the email read:

Dear editor,

That your journal likens the recent wave of brilliantly executed dramas to a psychological pandemic is offensive.
   
With each of the recent sublimations, resulting in the spiritual transcendence of mothers and their daughters, I have manifested my glory.
 
You seek swift punishment and of course, you convict as I direct: the fathers, the husbands.  I have stood silent about that for my own reasons.  But I will no longer permit my glory to be misdirected.

My chosen subjects, I mold for my pleasure.  I am incarnate in the lives of my favored creatures as I beatify them.  For all intents and purposes, I am God.  But that you may conceive of me in your feeble mortal minds, you may call me by a more conventional name.

Kitsune

When Rachel read the article, she felt a disturbing sense of convergence.  She called Mack immediately.

"Are you certain?"  Mack said.

"It's worth a look." Rachel was already putting on her Nikes, still reading the paper on her coffee table.  The glass top reflected the sickle moon through the window of her studio apartment.  "Something about that name,
Kitsune
, sounded familiar, so I Googled it.  It's the name of a mythical Japanese fox."

"That's interesting but—"

"And that screen name that had contacted Sam," Rachel said, with the phone clamped between her ear and shoulder, as she wrestled her running shoes on.  "That was someone called Huliboy."

"You've got a point somewhere in all this, I hope?"

"
Huli!
" She said nearly falling forward as her foot popped into the shoe.  "It's Chinese for fox.  That much I knew.  There are tons of Chinese legends about shape-shifting fox spirits called
Huli Jing.
"

"All right, hold on.  You got two Asian fox tags, so what?"

"Three screen names, because Walker told Sam that the person who said he was God and told him to kill the girls at Coyote Creek used a screen name too:  Dr.Hu, spelled H-U."

"Right,
three
people with fox—"

"No, Mack.  Don't you see?  When you fill in the blanks it all makes sense."

"Ray, I'm just not follow—"

"One killer, three different screen names. Walker's cellmate claimed to have heard him say that God told him to kill those girls at Coyote Creek Middle School.  And then later, "god," who had been sending him post cards in jail, commanded him to kill himself."

"Where's Walker now?"

"Dead!"

"What?" Mack exclaimed.  "He actually did it?"

"I'm on my way to see Sam's boy.  But first, let's meet at your office.  Do you still have Sam's personal laptop?"

"They botched the warrant, remember?"

"Great, we'll look through his IM logs.  I'm emailing you a .zip file with evidence we can take to the police.  Don't go anywhere, I'll meet you in fifteen minutes."

As she drove her '82 Corolla out of the carport, Rachel hadn't the slightest idea that her laptop, still connected to the internet, was running a hidden piece of spyware which she had unwittingly downloaded upon opening an email link for an e-card greeting.  The executable was less than 500 kilobytes, but by harnessing components of the computer's operating system, it tracked every keystroke, every visited webpage, every search engine query.  It even tapped into her computer's webcam and microphone, and transmitted her conversations along with other personal movement, and sent it back to its creator—
Kitsune
.

Chapter Forty-Seven

"Can you even entertain the possibility that you might be wrong?"  Mack said to Detective Anita Pearson, on the phone.  She had been that scary officer who arrested Hudson and pushed the legal boundaries to the limit in doing so.  Despite her good looks—if you went for the goth-girl type, that is—she must have had Freon for blood.

"Let it go," she said.  "The case is closed, the perp is exactly where he deserves to be."

"One:  I believe Hudson was framed."  And that he'd been the target of some bizarre prejudice, based on the way Pearson went after him—as if he, and all other accused rapist/murderers were responsible for her own personal pain.  Mack held his tongue on that one.

"DNA doesn't lie.  You've been off the force too long, old friend."

"And two:  I think we're onto something."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm forwarding you something Rachel Cheng put together.  Keep an open mind.  Check your inbox."  As Mack explained the new information about Walker and his divine chat sessions, he glanced down at his watch.   Fifteen minutes since Rachel's call.

Should've been here ten minutes ago. 

Anita's diatribe went on and on about why the criminal justice system worked, and how slimy defense attorneys only got in the way.  But Mack was distracted.  Rachel was now half an hour late.  She was never late for anything.  If she said five minutes, it meant be ready in three.  Anita's words became a blur while Mack's eyes jumped back and forth from his watch, to the door, to the window looking out at his driveway.  "I'm going to have to call you back," he said and hung up on her, mid-sentence.

He held down the 6 key on his cell phone until it started dialing.  He drummed his fingertips on the top of his mahogany secretary.  "Come on, come on."

"You've reached the voicemail of Rachel Cheng, please leave a—" Mack swore, punched the END button, and went straight for the coat closet, keys in hand.

___________________

The best thing about driving after 8:00 PM on the 163 was that Rachel could do an easy seventy-five, as long as there were no CHP's hiding beneath the underpasses.  What she didn't like so much was the fact that there were so few road lamps.  She hated driving in the dark.

She turned on her radio to see if there was any news on the so-called
Kitsune
.  In his publicized email to the
Tribune
, the writing was so bad she couldn't help but shake her head when she thought of it.  She pictured a nerdy, pimply teenager, sending the email from a Public Library terminal, trying to conjure up the image of a mustache-twirling villain.  Why they even bothered publishing it was beyond her.  But what if this was indeed who she'd suspected?

She turned the dial some more and smirked at her makeshift clothes hanger antenna.   All she got was static.  "Come on!" she said, slapping the dashboard.  For about two seconds, a couple of measures of a Murray Nissan dealership commercial played. 

Sappy jingles.

Then a news reporter came on. "In today's news, The
San Diego Union Tribune
published a cryptic email sent by someone who calls himself
Kitsune
..."

Rachel groaned.  "Come on now, just hold on for another sixty seconds."

  "The email implies that the sender is somehow involved, if not responsible for the latest wave of domestic murders and rapes in San Diego.  Officials have been reluctant to comment, but are saying that—-"

Static
.

She banged on the dashboard.  "Come on, you piece of junk!"  The stupid radio never failed to cut out just before something important.  She growled and hit the dashboard a couple more times.  

Through the rear view mirror she saw a pair of headlights.  The car had been following at a fairly close distance.  Had been there for a while now, despite the fact that all lanes around her were clear.

Before she could react, the headlights behind her swelled and then vanished behind her bumpers.  Her pursuer's car rammed into hers sending it spinning towards the shoulder, tires screeching.   Rachel let out a shriek.

At seventy miles-per-hour, the slightest turn easily becomes a deadly swerve.  She slammed the breaks and instantly regretted it.  The car spun out of control into the dark.  Lightning streaks of headlights from the opposite side of the freeway flashed before her eyes.  Then the ever growing splash of a white concrete shoulder barrier filled the windshield.  She was going to die. 

She squeezed her eyes shut.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Because Butch had somehow managed to slip me under the radar and throw me out of protective custody and into Gen-Pop, there were times that I wondered if I'd survive long enough to my see my own execution.  And yet there I was, still alive.  I almost forgot that my days were numbered, forgot that a death sentence hung over my head.  Like my son, Aaron, only he was sentenced by a different judge.

So many people I knew and loved were gone.  And now, as if my sorrow was not complete enough, Aaron.  As I lay in my cell, staring at the paint peeling off the ceiling, cold tears streamed down the side of my face and wet my ears.  The realization that my son now faced death, and for all I knew might already be dead in that hospital room, was sobering.

I tried not to let my quivering wake Possum, but I couldn't help but sit up, fold my hands, and whisper in desperation.  "God, if you're there, if you are what you're supposed to be, then help my son.  He's only six, never hurt anyone.  You just can't let him die."   I wiped my face.  "And if you really are there, then don't you think you should have prevented this in the first place?"  Pausing to considere the possibility that I might actually be talking to
The
Almighty, I decided that perhaps a little humility was in order.  "I won't ask for anything else.  If it's your plan to have me die for crimes I didn't commit, then so be it.  Just let Aaron live."

"Oh, so you're praying now?" A voice whispered, mocking me.

I sat up and turned to the sound. "Butch!"

"Miss me?"

"Go away." I turned around and lay back down. 

"I heard about your son.  What a shame."

At that moment, approaching footfalls stirred his attention.  He squinted down the tier into the gloom.  "Who's there?"

"Lieutenant Hurley?  That you?"  It was Sonja.

"That's right," he replied.  "What are you doing here, Sergeant?"

"My rounds, sir." 

Please stay.  Anything, just get Butch out of my sight.

"I'm busy here, Gracie," Butch growled.  "Go on break, I'll let you know when I'm done."

"Yessir," she said.  The sound of her footsteps made a heart-sinking diminuendo.

When the exit door slammed, Butch spat out his toothpick.  It made a soggy sound when it hit the ground.  He then inserted the first new toothpick I'd ever seen him with.

"What do you want?"

"Oh nothing," he said and chewed on his new toothpick.  "Just wanted to see how you were doing."

"Still alive.  Sorry to disappoint."

"Yeah, well.  I don't know what you did to freak my boys out like that—"

"I didn't do anything."  I said, and lay back down, hoping he'd get bored and leave.

"Anyway,' Butch said.  "I just came to let you know that if by the off-chance you was thinking of trying to talk to anyone about my business up in the SHU, don't bother.  But hey, if you'd like to, go right on ahead.  Be my guest.  I can have you join your buddies in PSU.  Hell, maybe the drugs'll mellow you out so much you won't have to feel the pain of knowing your little boy is gonna croak all by his little lonesome."  He started laughing.  Despite my best efforts to block his very existence, I found it impossible to ignore the taunting.

"You done?" I said.

"Why don't you go ahead and say your little prayers?  It's the sweetest lil' thang."  I thought of calling for a guard, but remembered that Butch outranked them all. "Come on," he said.  "Go ahead and pray if it makes you feel better."

"Would you please leave?"

"Probably screwed the little tyke too, didn't you?"

That was it.  I leapt down from my bunk and rushed him.  And though there was plenty of steel between us, he flinched with surprise as I slammed my hands on the bars.   Possum grunted and snorted, but remained asleep.

Then for a brief moment, I saw something I'd never yet seen in Butch's eyes.