Beyond Justice (33 page)

He signaled right and eased his way towards the slow lane.  Lightened his foot off the accelerator.  And then something he didn't expect happened.  Was this a good thing?

The CHP pulled around and zoomed ahead, siren still wailing.  Away.  Aha!  After the speeding Benz!  Pity.  Nailing a cop would have been a fantastic addition to his repertoire.  

Didn't matter though.  Things were still falling apart.  Still too many loose ends.  Not the least of which, one of the most dangerous challenges of all.  Something he'd have to deal with by proxy again.  Sure, it wasn't as fulfilling as rolling up your sleeves and getting your own hands dirty, but it was the only way.  Severing this loose end would have to wait until tomorrow.

Anita Pearson's day off.

Chapter Sixty-Four

Jim O'Brien and another uniformed deputy, whose name escaped Anita, took positions with her behind doorframes and sofas.  The plain clothes had just radioed: Suspect on the way.  ETA, one minute.  This S.O.B. was a slimy manipulator, a master at deception and evasion. 
Kitsume
.

And Anita had been playing out her sexual fantasies over the internet with him all this time.  Bile oozed up in her throat.  She felt the play in her trigger. 
Come on you bastard.  Give me justification
.

This would go down real quick.  Always did.  Anita thought about what she might say to him.  Pushed it aside.  Did the growing
thump-thump-thumps
betray the freak's approaching footfalls or her pounding heart?  She jiggled the trigger again, seeing just how close she could get without actually pulling it.  Bad habit. 
Focus!

The serial killer's apartment lay at the end of a hallway.  Sergeant Murphy waited out of sight, around the corner and ready to intercept.  Finally, the freak arrived at the door.  Keys jangled.  The lock clicked and the door creaked open.

His next step would determine the response.  In a sudden flurry, the suspect yanked the keys and dashed back down the hallway.

"Go!" Anita shouted.  A split second later, Murphy began shouting.  The suspect turned around and rushed back.  Anita and O'Brien stood ready to intercept him as soon as he turned the corner.

Then she saw him.  The very first time she'd ever seen him in the flesh.  After a split second, Anita cocked the hammer of her gun.  Aiming for his head, she squinted. 
Come on, slimeball, show me a weapon
.  Their eyes met.  A look of surprise on his countenance gave way to an expression too difficult to read.  Slowly, he opened his palms and held them in the air.  The corners of his mouth crept upwards. "So nice to finally meet you, darlin'."

Anita braced her back against the wall, struggling to keep her hands from shaking.  "Lieutenant?" she whispered to O'Brien through gritted teeth.  O'Brien nodded and stepped forward, his gun trained on the bastard's face.  Murphy now stood behind the suspect with his gun aimed.

"Hands on your head!" Anita shouted, unable to conceal the slight tremor.

He complied and winked.  "I've always dreamed of meeting you...in carbon space."

One at a time, Murphy grabbed his wrists and cuffed them behind his back.  When they secured him, Anita flew back into the apartment and went straight to the kitchen sink.  Wretching violently, her stomach clenched so hard it felt like someone had reached in and tied her innards into a knot.  Between heaves, just before she collapsed, Anita heard Lieutenant O'Brien Mirandizing the perp.

"
Brent Stringer, you are under arrest for multiple counts of cyber-fraud and the murder of..."

Chapter Sixty-Five

Rachel seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth.  Each day, out in the yard, I left urgent voicemails.  It took several days for me to hear from anyone outside.  It was Alan who told me of Brent Stringer's arrest.

The award-winning columnist and best-selling novelist had been charged with multiple murders.  To say I found it ironic would be a gross understatement, considering the vitriol he'd published against me before my conviction. 

It made for a media circus, despite the fact that the D.A.'s office and the Police Department were so tight-lipped.  To think, I actually shook hands with Stringer, had him in my home for an interview.

I was shocked to learn that Rachel was recovering from a lethal injection of Potassium.  Lethal injection.  Wasn't that my fate?  I realized that I was spending as much time thinking and praying for her recovery as I had been for Aaron.

"Look, Silk.  I don't mean to be rude or nothin'," Possum said leaning against our cell door, "but you need to go out and get some fresh air.  All this time in here can't be good for you."

"I was going to spend some time in prayer," I said, yawning and stretching.

"Yeah, whatever.  But remember, there's a time for everything.  Ain't that from the good book?  Thou shalt go and smelleth the freakin' roses?"

I jumped down from my bunk, put on my blue CDC shirt, and patted his shoulder.  Before I could say anything, he said, "And that's another thing that you keep doing.  It's weirding me out."

"What?" I said, and removed my hand.

"Not that."

"What?"

"That."  He pointed at my face. 

I felt my cheeks.

"You keep smiling.  What's up with that, anyway?  Look like an idiot walking around like that." He put on his cap and shook his head.  "Nobody smiles in Salton.  Except those fruit loops down in PSU, maybe.  But they're so pumped with drugs...what's your excuse?"

"Honestly?  I hadn't noticed."

"You wouldn't.  Probably this new religion kick."

I put my arm around Possum's shoulders again.  "Come on, man.  Just hear me out for once—"

"No way.  I ain't gonna become a brainwashed, brain-dead smiley face on legs.  Me?  I like my dangerous look."  He pulled away, scowled and gritted his teeth at me.  Not quite the fierce look he was going for.  The more I tried to hold in a laugh, the more I sputtered.

"Oh sure, yuck it up!   Easy for you, mister six-foot, muscle guy.  Guys like me have to make up for our size with ferocity."  Baring his fangs again, he looked about as scary as a Chihuahua.  I started to laugh.  Couldn't help myself.

"Oh, thanks a lot!"

"Come on, Poss.  Get your leash, let's go for a walk."

___________________

Because the line for the pay phone was longer than usual, I decided to wait at the concrete table while Possum did his Meerkat sentinel routine.  Every now and then, he turned his head back to reported suspicious activity. 

Man's got to have a hobby.

Just for kicks, I pulled out that new Brent Stringer novel that had been sitting at the bottom of my pile of junk.  I couldn't believe this guy was the
Kitsume
Serial Killer, as well as
Huli-boy
, the Instant Message user who manipulated Leonard Walker.  For that matter, he'd manipulated the entire state of California when he wrote his diatribes on me, and on Matt Kingsley.  Thanks to Stringer, we'd been convicted in the press long before the gavel came down.

  Nevertheless, I found myself curious about the kind of novels this guy wrote.  How could Jenn have been such a fan of his?  Turns out, Stringer's book was quite good, a page-turning thriller that you'd expect from Patterson or Koontz.  His characters were completely believable and you'd lose yourself in the story if you didn't watch the clock.

I had just gotten to a chapter in which a murder was to take place.  The murder of a mother and her daughter.  Dread wrapped around me like a python.  I had to put the book down. 

"Yo, silk!" Possum called out, craning his neck at the Fourth Reichers on the opposite side of B-Yard.  "Rumor has it you're some kind of psychic."

"Yeah, rumors."  I tossed the Stringer book into a puddle.

"So, you're a mind reader."  Possum bent down and picked up the novel and eyed me.  "What?"

"Not in the mood."

Possum shrugged and brushed some mud off the novel.  He remained quiet.  But not long enough.  "Hey, if you are psychic, I wanna ask you something."

I let out a slow breath.  The brilliance of the midday sun was starting to hurt my eyes.  I put my head down on the cold concrete table and muttered through my arms.

"All right, shoot."

He walked over and sat across me and spoke
sotto voce
. "Yeah, well.  I've been having this recurring dream, see?  In it, I'm this bird—can't say if I'm a pigeon, a crow or an eagle—"

"How about a Dodo?"

"Cute.  Anyways, I'm flying in the air.  Suddenly I'm in a cage.  I hit the bars and fall.  Someone's rattling the cage like crazy.  Feels like I'm going to die, it's so violent.  Out of the blue, the door swings wide open.  It's my only chance.  I fly to the door.  But just as I'm about to clear it, someone slams it shut on my wing.  Hurts so bad, like it's going to snap my arm—I mean wing—right off.  Then I wake up in a cold sweat."

"So that's why." For several days now, I had noticed him waking up with a gasp.  But he never looked like he wanted to talk about it, so I never bothered to ask.

"Sounds crazy, I know.  I never told you because, I don't know, you might have told someone and I would've ended up in PSU.  But since you found this religion crap and got all peaceful-like, I figured I was good.  I mean, they'd put you in there before me, for sure, right?"

I gave him a shove.  "You had a question?"

"Yeah.  Sorry.  I was just kidding, you know that PSU crap."

"Right."

"Okay, well.  Seeing that you got this psychic hotline stuff going on—"

"I'm not a—"

"Just let me finish, okay?"

"Fine." I said, ready to leave Possum to his own devices.

"I was just wondering." Possum twitched his nose.  "Could this dream be a message from, I don't know, God?"

"What, am I an expert now?  I just became a Christian last week."

"Yeah but you've been getting pretty chummy with Bishop since."

"We only had that one talk, once in the chapel."  After which Bishop withdrew and barely spoke a word to me again.  Whenever I'd approached him, he'd just walk away.  As if the very sight of me made him uncomfortable.

"Do me a favor, Silk.  Okay?  Think about my dream.  I dunno, pray about it.  I gotta know what it means."

I actually sat there, head throbbing, trying to see if anything would appear in my mind.  What did I know?  I still had trouble believing those visions I had were real. "Sorry, man.  I'm not getting anything.

"Eh.  Maybe it was just a dream.  It don't mean nothing.  Except maybe I'm going nuts."

"I know a place you can go for that," I said, with a grin.

"Oh, a psychic
and
a comedian, eh?"

The phone was available now.  "Hey, catch you later, okay?"  I got up and jogged over before anyone else could beat me to it.

This time, when I called Rachel's cell phone, she actually picked up.  Painkillers dulled her speech, but she expressed joy at my recent conversion, which she'd learned of through Pastor Dave.

When we spoke of Brent Stringer, however, her tone became grave. "He's sicker than anyone could have imagined," she said.

"How do you mean?"

"He's the creep who ran me off the road, the one who tried to kill me in the hospital."

"I can't believe it.   Are you all right?" I asked.

"I guess."

"I mean,
really
.  Are you all right?"

She sighed.  "I don't know.  No one's ever tried to kill me before."

"Rachel, I'm so sorry.  I don't know what I'd do if—" 

"I'm alive."

"Thank God."  I looked out to the mountains that reached up into the sky.  They could all come tumbling down, for all I cared.  With Aaron constantly teetering at the brink, if God had allowed Rachel to die, I might have to reconsider my faith.

"There's more, Sam."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"You sure you're up to this?"

"I'm calling collect, it's your dime."

"Okay.  Now, they haven't announced this publicly yet, because the investigation is ongoing.  But Stringer was responsible for much more than initially believed.  Something much closer." 

Wasn't the fact that he had claimed responsibility for the recent murders enough?  He had somehow gotten into the heads of these businessmen to murder their wives and daughters.

"I know.  Walker was just the tip of the iceberg," I said.

"No, it's worse."

"Worse?"

"He's claiming responsibility for the Matt Kingsley murders."

The receiver nearly dropped out of my trembling hand. "No way.  He couldn't have gotten into Kingsley's mind like that."