BEYOND JUSTICE Page 20

  Her lover's IM box flashed impatiently. Getting lonely here.

  Just a sec. I'm going to read your email, but gotta clear out some SPAM.

  A tiny portion of her conscience bothered her, like a pebble in a shoe. But she pressed the delete key anyway, and sent Mack's email, attachments and all, into the trash folder.

  The next few minutes were spent with a hand over her mouth, suppressing laughter. This was the dirtiest, funniest limerick her lover had ever written, the craziest variation on "There once was a man from Nantucket..."

  It put her in such a light-hearted mood that she decided to undelete Mack's email and take a quick peek at it. For the most part, in law enforcement techno-babble it said, "blah-blah-blah." She opened the attachments and gave the information a cursory glance.

  Anita's attention was divided between her cyberlover and her half-hearted reading of the documents from Mack—apparently compiled by that wet-behind-the-ears defense attorney, Rachel Cheng.

  But gradually, her attention shifted to the reports, the data. The smile on her face faded, she began neglecting her IM window. As if on the furry legs of a tarantula, dread crept up her back and nested in her hair. A shiver coursed through her blood. Jolted her.

  It was the realization, the collision of worlds—madness, desperation and reality. She kept glancing back and forth between the report and the IM window.

  Anita gasped aloud.

  She leapt out of bed, still naked.

  Her laptop thumped onto the carpet, the IM window flashing, beeping incessantly. She picked up the laptop like a dead rat and dropped it on her bed.

  He was still typing. What's wrong?

  It was the screen names, her cyber-lover's and the one in the report.

  Too close to be a coincidence.

  MrFoXxX.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Not far from Sharp, where Rachel lay in critical condition, a prayer vigil went on at Children's Hospital in Aaron's room. Samantha and Alan led prayers and singing around the boy. His grandparents, Oscar and Maggie were also present, holding his hand, stroking his hair. Dave wanted to be there, but he had been away for the entire month on a relief mission to the Honduras.

  Alan noticed that Aaron's breathing had become shallow, his complexion like the sheets in which he lay. A secondary infection had filled his lungs with fluids. He wasn't responding to fever reducers either. In his weakened state, there was just no way for him to fight it. The doctors had already told Oscar and Maggie to start making preparations.

  For the past two hours, he and Samantha prayed for Aaron while their daughter Elizabeth reclined in a stroller, asleep and oblivious. Also present was Jerry, who laid a little bag of pistachios on Aaron's pillow.

  Alan left several messages on Rachel's voicemail, but was too involved to notice anything was wrong. The entire Bible study group was determined to stay by Aaron's bedside until the end.

  At 11:00 PM Oscar and Maggie got up, kissed their grandson and said their tearful good-byes. They thanked Alan, Samantha and the group for their kindness and told them it would be okay if they all decided to go home.

  But they didn't. They wouldn't.

  By midnight, Jerry had fallen asleep in a green vinyl chair. He hadn't eaten any of the pistachios he'd brought. Samantha took Elizabeth home and Alan remained, the only one still praying.

  After he read the Twenty-Third Psalm to Aaron, he realized that Rachel hadn't shown, hadn't even called. He decided to try her at home one more time. After two rings, her answering machine picked up. He tried her cell phone, expecting her voicemail. But to his surprise, the call connected.

  "Hello?"

  "I'm sorry," Alan said, "I must have the wrong number."

  "Wait! Alan? It's me, Richard Mackey."

  "Mack? Thought you sounded familiar. What are you doing answering Rachel's—?"

  "She's been in an accident."

  It hit him like a cinder block. "Is she okay?"

  Mack went on to explain what had happened and where she was being treated. Rachel had suffered a concussion and the doctors were reluctant to say much else.

  "I can't leave just now," Alan said. "You know about the Hudson boy, don't you?"

  "Yeah, well. They're not sure Rachel's going to make it through the night either."

  After hanging up, Alan prayed some more. He'd promised to stay until the very end, Sam would have wanted that. But Rachel was a sister to him. He'd never forgive himself if he didn't at least go to see her. Hopefully, he'd be back in time. Running his hand through Aaron's hair, he said, "I'm sorry, but I have to go."

  ___________________

  What I wouldn't give, at that moment, to run up to Alan and give him a bear hug, thank him for being such a faithful friend. Instead, from behind a curtain by the room's other door, I watched him say good-bye to Aaron and leave. I couldn't risk making Alan an accessory, if I got caught.

  I glanced up at the wall clock. Five minutes was all Sonja could afford, or she'd be late for her second shift back at Salton. She sat waiting for me in her midnight blue Mustang, parked by the Hospital's service entrance. The plan was to return as quietly as we had left.

  When the coast seemed clear, I went over to my son. For a moment, my legs wouldn't move. I didn't realize that I'd stopped breathing until my lungs forced me to.

  "Aaron?" I whispered. A shadow passed by the window of the door that Alan had left through. Immediately, I pulled the curtain around Aaron's bed.

  He lay there, with tubes in his windpipe. The mechanical beeps and hissing sounds indicating the artificial rhythm of his assisted breathing. I couldn't help myself from crying.

  It had been about two years since I last saw him. It now felt like twenty. I put my hand on his head, bent down and kissed his face. "My boy. My sweet, boy." How could such joy intertwine so intricately with such sorrow?

  I fell to my knees. Having just given my life to God, there was no better opportunity than now to bring my supplications to Him. Placing my hand on Aaron's forehead, I prayed, "God, please. Don't let Aaron die. He's just a little boy, never hurt anyone. You have the power to heal him. Just say the word, Lord. Just say the word and he'll be healed."

  I waited for something. A lightning bolt, writing on the wall, anything to show me God was listening. Nothing. Just a quiet recollection of Rachel reciting, "It's going to be fine."

  "Lord, I know you were pleased with the faith of that Centurion, so I'm going to go out on a limb here. Just heal him. I promise I'll do whatever you want me to, from now on. Whatever it takes—"

  The door opened, jolting me out of my prayer. "Who drew this curtain?" said a male voice. Without even a chance to kiss my son good-bye, I dashed over to the other side of the room, towards the second exit door.

  "Hey!" shouted the orderly, as I darted out the door. I vaguely heard him calling for security as I flew down the stairs. At the bottom of the steps stood the back exit door, which led to the back alley where Sonja awaited. The boom-boom-boom of my frantic feet alerted a security guard who had just entered through it.

  Back up the stairs I went before he got a good look at me.

  One level up, I found an exit and ran down the hall, passing rooms full of sleeping patients. In my haste, I nearly tripped over an IV drip stand. I found an empty corridor and ducked inside, plastering my back against the wall. Chest heaving, I stuck my head out just enough to get a look at the clock above the receptionist's desk. I was to meet Sonja in two minutes. But I couldn't have her face criminal charges on my account, though that is exactly what she'd risked from the moment she helped me get out.

  Certain that I'd been seen in my CDC Corrections Officer uniform, I shed the beige shirt and brown hat. Now wearing a blue T-shirt and green pants, I walked out into the open, looking like I was supposed to be there.

  "Evening ma'am," I said to the receptionist, who never lifted her eyes from the computer.

  "Hi there."

  With the service exit blocked, I would have to exit
through the main entrance and sneak around to the back. I hit the down button and waited for the elevator doors to open. The LED arrows indicated that one of the cars was going up, the other down. Sweat rolled into the corner of my eye and stung. I stood as close to the elevator as possible.

  DING!

  Wrong car. The up elevator door slid open. Subtly, I turned my back so that I faced the down elevator, which for some reason, was taking its sweet time in arriving.

  The people exiting the up elevator came out and stopped talking.

  Where was my elevator?

  "Excuse me," one of them said. From the corner of my eye, I could see that he was with the Sheriff's department.

  Pretending to have a headache, I held my hand over my eyes and groaned, "Yeah?" I turned to face them with half of my face covered.

  "We got a report of an unauthorized person in—" What? Why did he stop? "Sir, you okay?"

  "I'm fine. Migraine." Where's that stupid elevator?

  "Hey, you CDC or something?"

  "I, uh..."

  "You're out of uniform," he said. I wondered if Sherlock here noticed I was sweating like a hog before an ax and a tree stump.

  "Yeah, well..." Sherlock's partner whispered something to him. The next thing I knew, he grabbed my wrist and pulled my hand away from my face.

  "Let me get a look at you," he said.

  Just then my elevator dinged, the doors slid open. "There he goes!" I shouted, pointing over their shoulders. In the second it took for them to turn their heads, I jumped back into the elevator, hit the close button and shoved him back as forcefully as I could. Sherlock lost his balance and fell on top of Watson, his much smaller partner. Before they could pick themselves up the doors began to slide shut.

  However, Sherlock reached his arm between the doors to stop them from closing. "Stop!" The doors jammed, beeped, and slid open.

  I grabbed his arm with two hands, and this time, with my foot I heaved Sherlock with enough force to send him back even further than the first time.

  But he held onto my wrists and pulled me out of the elevator.

  "Get off of me!" I shouted and swung myself around him. Watson got behind Sherlock just as I pried his hands off, hooked my foot under his legs and rammed him with my shoulder. They both grunted and fell back into the elevator, just as the doors slid shut.

  As I ran down the hall and turned the corner to another staircase, I heard the elevator ding once more. Sherlock and his partner were speaking on their walkie-talkies, giving my description. "No, didn't get a good look," he said. "I think he's headed for the south stairwell. No, wait, maybe its..."

  I shut the door quietly and padded down the east staircase, which led to the first floor by the Trauma Care Center entrance. A quick glance down the hall revealed a pair of officers standing outside the doors.

  What was I thinking coming here?

  Just then, a flurry of activity crowded the entrance doors. An EMS team rushed in with an injured girl. Talk about deja vu. Doctors and nurses rushed to the door, crowded around the girl coming in on a gurney.

  Just two yards before me, in a chair, rested a doctor's lab coat. Before anyone saw me, I ran over, slipped it on and rushed to join the team.

  The entire chorus went on reporting the patient's status, what measures they'd taken. I stood close enough to learn that the girl had been in a car accident, her parents died in the crash.

  The two police officers looked my way and approached. Had they gotten Sherlock's description and did they recognize me? Before either of them opened their mouths, I said, "Thank goodness you're here. Security's alerted us of an unauthorized visitor, last seen on the third floor."

  "Yeah," the officer said. "Anyone here seen him?"

  I pointed to the staircase I'd just come down. "I think he might have gone through that stairwell. If you hurry—"

  "Thanks Doc."

  I walked casually out the doors and turned another corner. Letting out a huge breath, I thanked God for helping me not get caught. When I reached the back lot, my heart sank.

  Sonja's Mustang was gone.

  What was I supposed to do, turn myself in? Begin a new career as The Fugitive?

  "Pssst!"

  I swung around, but didn't see anyone.

  "Sam! Back here!" Behind the trunk of a Palm tree, Sonja waved me over. She hadn't abandoned me.

  "You're nuts!" I said, as I walked over to her. "How are we ever going to—"

  Before I could say another word, she slapped my face really hard.

  "You bastard!"

  "What?"

  "My sister! How could you sleep with my sister!" Immediately, I realized what she was doing and went along with it.

  A security guard shone a flashlight on us and called out. "You two!"

  Obscuring my face behind her head, Sonja, said, "Sir, you a cop? 'cause if you are, I want you to arrest this pig! For sleeping around with every woman in San Diego," she glared at me, "and her sister!"

  "Get outta here before I do call the cops!"

  "Come on, honey" I said, "Let's go."

  "Don't you ever call me that again!" She marched back to into the thick of the trees. My back still facing the security guard, I went after her. "Wait, sweetheart!" Just behind us, on the street, her Mustang waited under a yellow street lamp.

  "We gotta get back, now." She unlocked the doors and got in.

  "Yeah." I too stepped inside, rubbing my face.

  "Sorry about that. Did you get to see him?" Sonja asked.

  "I did."

  "Say good-bye?"

  "Yeah," I lied.

  "At least you got to say good-bye." Sonja started the engine and drove to the freeway. Back to Salton.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Driving down the I-8, Sonja and I quietly watched a new day rise up over the Eastern horizon. She managed to return me to my cell without incident. The guards barely lifted their heads as she marched me back to my cell, once again shackled and dressed in my prison clothes. No one even bothered to look twice. For the next few days, she kept a reasonable distance, just in case.

  That morning, as the sun stretched up over the hills, inexplicable peace flooded my mind. Regardless of Aaron's fate, I had joy—the kind that Lorraine always spoke of. I became aware of the fact that something was now missing. Something that had hung over my life from the day Aaron was born and followed me around like a prowling lion since he was an infant.

  Fear.

  Fear that had compelled me to pad over to his room in the middle of the night when I didn't hear him breathing over the baby monitor. Fear that brought my ear down to his face to check if he was still breathing. Fear that he might run off into the street and get hit by a car. All gone.

  I had every intention of keeping my newfound faith to myself, but I must not have been doing such a great job of it. During breakfast, the other inmates gave me odd stares. "What's with the smile?" Possum even asked.

  I couldn't wait till rec time, when I'd get on the pay phone and call Rachel about Aaron. Something told me he'd make it. I had no logical basis for this, and perhaps my faith was just a way of coping, but a huge burden had indeed been lifted.

  Standing in the line to return my breakfast tray, I found myself behind Bishop, of all people. I wanted to tell him that I had taken his advice and prayed. I wanted to talk to him about my experiences. Better judgment and the desire to live prevailed.

  I took a step forward. A sudden twinge in my head stopped me. In my mind, I saw an image of Bishop.

  He leans over a sickly, middle-aged woman lying in bed, holding her hand. Weeping. A flash of light and now he is lying in his prison cell bunk, holding his head and in anguish.

  The image clung to my mind with talons of recognition. I dropped my tray and faltered. The half full bowl of cereal and milk hit the floor and splattered on the back of Bishop's pants.

  "Hey!"

  Great. "Sorry, man." I bent down and gathered up the mess and set it on a table with an uninten
tional bang. And a splash. Several droplets of milk dotted Luther's crinkled nose.

  "Mutha—!"

  "Gotta go."

  Though two very dangerous, very perturbed inmates had me in their crosshairs now, I was too disturbed by the vision to care. Halfway down the hall I stopped, pressed my back up against the wall. "Okay" I whispered to God. "What are you doing?"

  Eventually, the anxiety ebbed. I took a deep breath and set my eyes on the pay phone. Now, more than ever, I needed to speak with Rachel, let her know about what had happened. With most of the inmates still at breakfast, the line was short.

  The morning sun blared down from a blue and cloudless sky. The back of my neck and arms felt like baked pork rinds. A Mexican guy chattered incessantly on the phone, holding up the line. If there had been a couple of Riechers or Blacks behind him, he wouldn't have been taking his time like this.

  Finally, the line began to move. The next calls were quick. In about five minutes, there was only one person in front of me. He slammed the receiver down when he got an answering machine.

  I had Rachel's cell phone number memorized and anticipated a great report from her. I could just about hear the buoyancy in her voice telling me of Aaron's amazing recovery. But just as I lifted the handset, someone grasped my wrist, forcing me to drop it.

  Bishop glared at me, his grip unrelenting. My arm was about to snap like a twig.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Having spent the entire night at the computer forensics lab with Judy Prine, the lead cybercrime investigator, Anita saw no point in trying to sleep. Might as well put her shocking discovery to use. The implications for Sam Hudson's innocence didn't matter as much as the fact that she, herself had been violated. How could I have been so stupid?

  "You sure about this?" Judy asked. "More than seventy screen names with some variation on Fox, Huli and DrHu, have crossed your ISP alone."

  Anita stared down into an empty mug on the table top on which she perched. Five cups and eight trips to the ladies room in the past four hours, and they hadn't made any progress. "What about Hudson's ISP or Walker's?"