BEYOND JUSTICE Page 19

  "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 lea
ve.

  "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.

  Terror.

  "What the hell?" he stammered, as a flash of light lit his face. If his eyes opened any wider, they would have popped out of his head. He was staring past me. I looked over my shoulder expecting to see Possum, but he was still snoring in his bunk. Butch rubbed his eyes and backed away until he bumped into the railing. He turned, still gawking into my cell, and stumbled down the tier, cussing himself.

  The sudden appearance of my shadow on the ground drew my attention. Not possible. I turned around and found the light source. It was coming from my bed.

  Jenn's Bible.

  I blinked repeatedly, rubbed my eyes. Still shining. The light filled my cell and warmth radiated with its beams. Why wasn't Possum waking up?

  I was drawn like a moth to a fire. By the time I got to the Bible, its warm brilliance enveloped me completely. I reached forward and to this day, I could swear, I felt someone take my hand and lead it to the pages.

  I took hold of the book. Then there came what felt like a great wind rushing through the cell. It whirled around inside for a while then blew outside, taking the light with it. My face felt as if it had been baking in the sun for hours, but it didn't hurt. When finally I could see again, I found that I had opened my Bible. A random page, I thought. But when I looked down and read the passage, I felt—rather, I knew it was anything but random.

  It was the account of a Roman centurion whose servant was deathly ill. The centurion, not wanting to leave his beloved servant's side, sent a message to Jesus, begging him to heal the servant. When Jesus said that he would come to the house, the messengers were instructed to say,

  …say the word, and my servant will be healed."

  When Jesus heard this, he was amazed at him, and turning to the crowd following him, he said, "I tell you, I have not found such great faith even in Israel." Then the men who had been sent returned to the house and found the servant well.

  A sense of inevitability, of reassurance overwhelmed me, as if God had spoken directly to me. I wanted to wake Possum and tell him, but he'd probably think I was crazy. Two years ago, I'd probably agree. But I wasn't. I knew what was happening. After all I'd seen, I finally got it. My pathetic attempt at prayer which started off as a tiny seed had now grown into a tree of faith.

  Without another thought, I turned to a page in the back of the Bible which Jenn had written in notes. Next to that was a printed page. The Sinner's Prayer. I'd been eyeing that page for months and it finally seemed appropriate for me to say it, now that I truly meant it.

  "Lord, I come to you in prayer asking for the forgiveness. I confess with my mouth and believe with my heart that Jesus is your Son, and that he died on the cross that I might be forgiven and have eternal life in the kingdom of heaven. Father, I believe that Jesus rose from the dead and I ask you right now to come in to my life and be my personal Lord and Savior. I repent of my sins and will worship you all the days of my life. Because your word is truth, I confess that I am born again and cleansed by the blood of Christ. In Jesus name, Amen."

  At that moment, not only could I see my life, my past, all the wrong I'd done, I could feel its weight, lifted from my heart and mind. And joy. Joy unlike I had ever experienced overflowed. Just like dear old Lorraine used to tell me: Not the absence of pain, but the presence of the Almighty.

  Clutching the Bible to my chest, I kept repeating that blessed phrase over and over in my mind. Rachel's word of knowledge, the promise:

  It's going to be fine.

  I almost forgot to pray for that miracle Aaron needed. But a miracle is exactly what happened next.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  "Sam," came the whisper. I got up and turned around. Dim light silhouetted Sonja Grace as she gestured for me to come to the bars. "Hurry!"

  "What is it?" I asked.

  "What happened to Lieutenant Hurley?"

  "Butch?"

  "Never seen him run so fast."

  "Something spooked him," I said, peering down the tier.

  She shook her head and spoke even softer. "Listen, you gotta trust me okay?"

  "I already do."

  To my amazement, Sonja proceeded to unlock and open my door. From a small duffle bag, she tossed over some clothing. "Change into these."

  "Oh, no way," I said. She stood there guarding the door as I stripped to my boxers and put on a C.O.'s uniform.

  "Come on, come on. Two minutes and Murphy gets back from the John. He sees you in that and we're both dead."

  As soon as I stepped out into the tier, she slid the door gently and locked it. None of the other inmates woke up or said anything, which struck me as odd. "Okay, Sonja, where are we going?"

  "To make sure you don't live a life of regret."

  Chapter Fifty

  Mack had never driven slower than 70 on the freeway. Crawling at 25 was like pulling teeth with a pair of rusty pliers. Must be construction or an accident. With each car that zoomed by, opposite him on the northbound 163, he grew more and more impatient. "Come on, already!"

  Rachel would have called, he kept thinking. Something was really wrong.

  Two miles past Clairemont Mesa, Mack saw the flashing red and blues of a police car, pulled over to the left shoulder of the freeway. He slowed down and his heart turned cold at the sight of the twisted wreckage. Rachel's Toyota, its frame crumpled like a beer can, had flipped over onto the driver's side.

  After he identified himself, they waved him over to the accident scene. He leaned down to look through the rear window. "Where is she?" Mack demanded, marching right up to the young CHP officer.

  "I'm sorry sir, EMTs took her ten minutes ago."

  "How'd she look?"

  He shook his head.

  "Where'd they go?"

  "Sharp Memorial."

  A minute later, Mack was back in his car, flagrantly ignoring speed limits.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Anita Pearson's idea of a hot date was chatting online. People in "carbon space" were way too complicated and unpredictable. The internet was a lot safer. Carbon-space men were all genetically predisposed to lying, cheating, or screwing up and/or around.

  She had many male IM buddies who worshipped her. They'd fallen in love with her avatar, that little square photo which presumably depicts the person behind the IP packets. It was in fact her picture, a full body shot of her in a bikini, but her face pixilated by Photoshop. She enjoyed the cyber attention- and the power trip. They were virtually eating out of the palm of her hands, among other places.

  And there was the sex.

  Cybersex was way underrated. It was cleaner, it was safer, and she was always in control. And while she had her pick of men to "cyber" with, just for fun on lonely nights like tonight, one man had distinguished himself. He was her favorite.

  As a lover, he was gentle, but passionate. And with him, it was so
much more than sex. He was her soul mate. And she his. No one knew her like this.

  "You had me at LOL," she would say, or type, rather. But the truth was, they'd fallen in love gradually, over the years. He was a prince. First came the birthday emails, then over time, flowers on their online-anniversary. And recently, the thing that sent her heart soaring like nothing else, that made her feel completely feminine—his poetry.

  On every conceivable occasion, he wrote her poems and emailed them, singing her praises, extolling her innermost qualities which no one else knew about. She was his lady and he, her troubadour. Far better than any relationship she'd ever had with a carbon-space man.

  He never forgot the little things, was always truthful and completely vulnerable towards her. And talk about considerate. Once, she locked herself out of her apartment. She texted him and—despite the fact that he lived in Omaha, Nebraska—he called for a locksmith, who showed up within minutes.

  Once and only once, had he brought up the idea of marriage. But as soon as she started to show her hesitation, he backed off quickly. She might actually have found him to be the perfect mate, if not for her intense distrust of men. But that was soon to change. Anita could feel it.

  For now, they both contented themselves with the status quo. It worked for her and tonight, after one of their best sessions ever, she was basking in the glow of his affection.

  With her blanket draped over her bare thighs, she typed and giggled, tingling with the afterglow. He had made her feel loved, cherished, and completely sexy.

  An email alert chimed. Anticipating a little tidbit from her lover, Anita clicked on her inbox. Was it a poem? A sonnet? A limerick? Sure enough, there was a message from him. But directly under that, there was another message that had been sent two hours ago. It was that email from Richard Mackey, that retired cop who turned P.I. She selected Mack's message and put her finger on the delete key. No way she'd let him spoil a perfect night.