BEYOND JUSTICE Read online

  Its entire body quakes. The demon won't to let go of my neck but isn't able to prevent it. It releases me. I can speak.

  "In the name of Jesus, I command you to leave!"

  With a blood-coagulating shriek, the creature explodes into shards of decaying flesh, which dissolve into crawling maggots.

  Then evaporates.

  I woke up gasping, my face numb, my back wet and cold.

  A dream.

  Had to be the most horrible thing I'd ever experienced. Its foreboding effects lingered like the stench in my nightmare. The sense that I was not alone in the house caused me to shudder. Despite the fireplace which still burned, the room felt cold.

  I pulled the blanket around my shoulders and went to my duffle bag in the hallway. Back on the sofa with my Bible, I sat and read by the light of the fire. A few minutes later I sunk deep into meditation, more at ease and secure as I prayed for Aaron, for guidance regarding Rachel.

  My eyes were still shut when I heard it emanating from the fire. A sizzling sound, a familiar hiss that reminded me of moisture evaporating from burning wood. Only this was a gas burning fireplace and the simulated logs were made of concrete.

  SSSSSSSSSSSSS...

  I peered into the fire expecting to find a crumpled newspaper or piece of wood burning. Nothing. Just the concrete logs.

  SSSSSSSSSSSS....

  Neither loud nor abrupt, it seemed to respond to my movement.

  Sssssssssssss....

  The hissing grew fainter but not a bit less distinct. A tingling sensation ran through my body. Considering the nightmare, which was a bit too real, I should have been freaked out of my mind. But instead, my heart pounded with anticipation.

  Sssssssamuel.

  I knew this voice. It had called me before.

  "I'm here, Lord."

  I clutched the Bible to my chest and rubbed my eyes. Began perceiving images in the fire. Images, impressions of things, wondrous and strange:

  I see myself as a teenager, a college student, even as a married man—many of the sins I'd committed and had long forgotten. The lies, petty theft, cheating on exams, lust, hatred. That homeless panhandler back in New York that I walked straight past on Christmas Eve. Never thought twice about these things before. Now they grieve me, fill me with shame.

  Jesus hangs on the cross, streaks of blood drips line his face. He lifts his swollen eyes to heaven. "Father, forgive..." He looks down and down by his feet, I see myself in my cell back at Salton Sea, kneeling in prayer on the night I accepted Christ as my lord and savior. But I am naked, my body covered in festering sores.

  A pair of radiant angels drape a dirty sackcloth over my head. From above, a drop of the savior's blood falls on my back. The sores evanesce and the sackcloth begins to glow—brilliant and white, like the angels attending me.

  My shame is replaced by indescribable joy.

  "Thank you, Lord."

  Once again I hear the voice. "Samuel."

  "Yes."

  "Behold." I see Him forgiving the very people who have driven a spear into his side, who have scourged him, beaten him, mocked him. And then...

  Another image appears.

  Words. Whose meaning I already understand, yet refuse to acknowledge.

  "Forgive, as you have been forgiven."

  Brent Stringer sits at a table, his hands chained. I am there on the other side of the table. Our heads are bowed, my Bible rests between us. He is weeping, nodding. Repentant.

  "Go to him, Samuel."

  "Lord?" I had never had such a clear vision before, but this could not be. I was appalled.

  "Befriend him."

  "I can't do that, Lord."

  "Forgive."

  I stepped back from the fireplace, wishing this had been another nightmare. I shook my head, trying to clear it. There was absolutely no way I would ever forgive Stringer, much less befriend him.

  "No." My jaws ached from clenching. My hands shook violently. I gripped the Bible as if I could choke the life from it. How could anyone ask this of me? Brent Stringer deserved to burn in Hell, to have his eyes eternally plucked out by ravens, his entrails torn from his belly and gnawed by rats.

  In an urgent whisper, the voice from the fire spoke again—gentle, yet firm. "Forgive us our trespasses..."

  "NO!" With a tempestuous grunt I hurled the Bible at the voice at the fireplice, shattering the wine glass. Crimson brandy bled darkly onto the hearth, onto the wood floor. I stormed out of the living room without even looking back. What kind of insane dreams and visions were these anyway?

  I leaned back against the wall, sank to the floor and buried my face in my knees. "Why, God? Why!"

  No voice this time.

  Only the sound of crackling flames.

  And a growing rumble.

  Before my eyes, shadows danced on the wall. Then came the acrid fumes. I leapt to my feet and stuck my head back into the living room. The top of the hearth, the rug beneath it, ablaze. I ran over and tried to stamp it out. But the glowing embers flew up and the fire ran down the rug and under the curtains. Within seconds, everything that seemed it could catch fire did.

  The entire house would go up in flames.

  Chapter Ninety-One

  A long, hot shower, herbal tea and vegging with truTV while lying down on the sofa would ordinarily have done the trick. But tonight Rachel just couldn't rest her mind. Her feelings for Sam had simmered for almost three years. Now everything moved at frightening pace. At least it was mutual.

  Sam had been a widower for as long as she'd known him. Still, it felt like she was in love with a married man. Could he ever love her the way he'd loved Jenn?

  Don't be pathetic, Ray.

  She took a sip of tea and despised her insecurity. The television announcer's voice droned on about an unsolved homicide. Rachel yawned and clicked it off with the remote. She'd had enough of murder cases. Time for bed.

  Running her fingers through her long, ebony hair, Rachel stood in front of her dresser mirror and noticed that her blouse had been open a button lower than usual, revealing a subtle glimpse of cleavage. Not exactly buxom, but what she had was actually quite pretty.

  Cute, even.

  She blinked in surprise. Plenty of women dressed this way. But she never went out of the house like this. Had it become undone when she and Sam started pawing each other? Had she subconsciously left it that way?

  What must he think of me? And at the same time, she almost hoped he'd noticed. You're crazy, Ray. Staying chaste for some thirty years could make a person that way. She meant to be a pure woman. But she was a woman nonetheless. Best guard against temptation and focus on Aaron's case. And helping Sam readjust to society.

  Rachel shed her clothes, sat at her dresser in a white satin robe and brushed her hair. That look on Sam's face when he thought they were going to die in a car accident—all for a fleeting moment of passion. It made her smile, nearly made her laugh out loud. A few tiny lines gathered at the outset of her eyes. Laugh lines? No. She hadn't truly laughed for most of her adult life. Though she certainly had it in her.

  Just ask Joey.

  The smile withered. Lord, how she missed her big brother, the pranks they used to pull, like hiding Poh-Poh's dentures, dropping water balloons on that crabby, old Russian lady from their fourth floor apartment in Chicago.

  All those years, Joey had always been there for her, always helped her. If only she'd been able to do that for him before he got his throat slashed while doing life at Cook County. For a crime he did not commit.

  When she finally got herself under the covers, she realized just how exhausted she'd been. Sam's exoneration wasn't just a relief, but a victory, both personal and professional. His reciprocation of affection was both comforting and validating.

  For the first time in years she could now breathe easily. God had not forgotten the suffering of the falsely accused. Finally, she could afford herself the luxury of a relationship.

  Don't mess this up.

 
; She turned over on her side and slipped her hands under her pillow. The clock radio read 2:30. It took long enough, but she might finally be able to sleep now. She didn't even realize that her eyelids had fallen shut until she was jolted by the cell phone buzzing on her nightstand.

  Not bothering to look at the caller ID she answered. "Sam?"

  Chapter Ninety-Two

  After three extra hours at the station, Lieutenant Jim O'Brien was finally heading home. One of the advantages he enjoyed over his married buddies was putting in all the overtime he wanted without worrying about an irate spouse or clamoring kids. He came and went as he liked. Almost made being single and forty-five bearable.

  Still, it would've been nice to come home to loving arms, a hot meal, and stories about his incredibly smart and talented kids—the way his married buddies did every night. Jim came home to Millie, a fat orange tabby who barely opened one eye when he stepped into his condo. Unless, of course, she was hungry.

  Driving down Camino del Gato in the wee hours of the morning, any sound out of the ordinary, an occasional car or truck passing, crickets chirping in the crisp breeze, felt like a disturbance in the force.

  So when a Rancho Carmelita fire engine raced ahead of him on the single lane road, honked so loud it nearly scared the crap out of him, Jim pulled over to the shoulder, slapped the magnetic flashing beacon on his roof and tailed them.

  ___________________

  The curtains caught fire as if they'd been doused in high octane gasoline. Out of sheer instinct, I ran to the kitchen and opened the cabinets beneath the sink, where we used to keep a fire extinguisher.

  Used to.

  For a moment, I considered filling a bucket with water, but I realized that I would probably run into the same problem: used to have a bucket. I ran back only to find that the fire had now spread to the adjacent curtain. Gradual, but not slow enough.

  The curtain on the left fell to the ground and sent glowing ashes into the air. I grabbed my duffle bag and bolted out the front door. Out in the middle of the cul de sac, I called 911 on my cell. After that, I gave Rachel a quick call. She'd be right over. I'd have gone to Dave's next door, but he was out of town.

  Flames leaped into the night air. Smoke spewed out of my front door. The alarm mounted to the outside of my house began to ring. I stood outside in the middle of the street and watched my living room burn. Lights came on in the surrounding houses. Faces peeked out from behind curtains and vertical blinds.

  Within minutes, the fire department arrived. If you've never seen these guys get their gear setup and attack a burning house fire, you don't know the meaning of efficient. To my surprise, Jim O'Brien showed up and came to my side. "First night back and already you're causing trouble?"

  I couldn't speak, just shook my head.

  He began to ask me questions which, not surprising, were meant to determine if any foul play was involved. Finally, I said, "To the best of my knowledge, my own stupidity caused it."

  The fire fighters worked quickly, yet remained calm and methodical. Some initial motion within but not a lot of noise. Fifteen minutes and they were wrapping things up. It was over. One of them came over, removed his mask and said, "Damnedest thing I've ever seen."

  "How bad?" I asked.

  "Well, the room had no doors, you know? Opens to the hallway and the dining room, which opens to the butler's pantry, which opens to the kitchen. Should've spread all over the house. But it acted like a compartment fire. Amazing."

  The fire engine pulled out of the cul de sac and flashed its beacon without sounding its siren. The entire neighborhood was awake anyway, gawking at the scene. Some from their open doors and some from their windows. Welcome back, Sam.

  "The rest of the house is fine," Jim said. "Don't do any cooking tonight, okay?" I nodded my appreciation. He got back in his car and drove off just as Rachel pulled into the driveway.

  "Oh, Sam," she said, pulling her jacket tighter around her shoulders. "You all right?" Rachel shivered.

  "Been better." I put my arm around her and held her close.

  The tattered remains of the living room curtains hung like dead leaves in the windows. I would not mention the dreams or the voices. She'd think I was insane. And cliché. Who was I anyway, Moses? Instead of a burning bush, God spoke to me in a burning fireplace? Right. Was it even God? What about that devilish nightmare?

  "Rachel, could I spend the night at your place?"

  "My place?"

  "I'll stay on the sofa."

  She looked back at the house. "What happened in there?"

  "I was careless, threw something in the fireplace."

  "You look like you've seen a—"

  "So, can I?" She hesitated for a moment. I understood her pause. But hormones be damned, I was so shaken, they wouldn't be a problem tonight. "Please, Rachel. I can't spend my first night here."

  "Of course." She put her had behind my neck and pulled my face down to her lips. I thanked her and went back to lock the door.

  "Don't worry," I said as I climbed into her car. "I'll be a perfect gentleman."

  She inserted the key, started the engine and grinned.

  "It's not you I'm worried about."

  Chapter Ninety-Three

  Except for my rude snoring that kept Rachel awake most of the night, I had indeed been a perfect gentleman. So she said. She was going to a deposition downtown and dropped me off at my house on the way. As she left, she blew me a kiss.

  The first thing I noticed when I stepped into the foyer was the absence of that musty, smoky, post-fire odor. You'd never know anything had happened. One look in the living room corrected that perception.

  Slats of golden sunlight sliced through the air and illuminated the charred remains of the sofa, the rug and curtains. Ash-tainted puddles gathered around the hearth. I brushed a couple of glass shards away with my shoe and crouched down. I thought of the fire from which City on a Hill had just recently recovered. The hate crimes committed against City on a Hill because of their support for me. And I remembered Lorraine, who in effect paid for her belief in me with her life.

  I continued in, scanning the damage. All these years, I had managed not to be angry with God by pretty much ignoring His existence. But last night was too much. Yet, I felt a twinge for reacting so rashly. It was Jenn's Bible, after all, one of her most beloved possessions. And I pitched it into the fire. I'm going to hell.

  Fixed on the ashes within, I wondered if the voice would return if I relit the fireplace. Then I noticed something under the black debris.

  No. It couldn't be.

  I reached in, brushed away the soot and felt its texture under my fingertips.

  Impossible.

  I grasped it firmly and stood. Blew a layer of ashes off and wiped away the rest.

  It was Jenn's Bible. And it had not burned. Practically untouched. I leafed through the pages from Genesis to Revelation. Not one page singed. I had experienced miracles first hand. But this truly astounded me. So much so that in the absence of my mind, the Bible fell from my hands and landed with a heavy thump on the floor. I could still remember that voice calling my name.

  Ssssamuel. If it had really been His voice.

  How could I possibly do what He asked?

  ___________________

  The nightmares hadn't returned. Which was helpful in my getting reacclimated. Nor had I heard any more from that voice which urged me to forgive and befriend Brent Stringer. And this was helpful because in my second week back, I had to testify against him a deposition. Speaking the truth never felt so good.

  Despite that progress, two things plagued me in the days of my custody battle with the State. One: No matter how early I went to bed, no matter how tired I felt, I simply couldn't sleep well. I'd toss and turn all night, fall asleep for a bit, then awaken with my heart racing for no apparent reason. At best, I'd get about three hours total.

  And two: I could not find a job. Been there, done that. During my trial, no one would hire a murder/
rape defendant. But now more than ever, I needed to find gainful employment, as it was the one technicality that the judge used against me. Without financial stability, I had no means of supporting my son, paying his medical expenses.

  The termination of his life support pressed forward as scheduled. Less than seven weeks left. Despite my hope in God's promise, I wondered if my refusing to listen to His voice hindered my prayers for Aaron. Accusatory voices kept whispering, Faithless hypocrite!

  On a Tuesday morning in early November, I opened my eyes and beheld what looked like a dark stain on the wall, up in the corner under the crown molding. Odd. It hadn't rained last night. And even if it had, water stains would take longer to become that dark. A shadow, perhaps.

  I sat up, rubbed my eyes and looked up at the wall again. The sun wasn't coming through that side of the house. It wasn't a shadow. On closer examination, I noticed that this form on the wall had turned deep red. Like blood. Like those three dimensional Magic Eye posters that were so popular in the 90's. But those images didn't move or change shape. This form began to morph with an oozing fluidity. I stumbled back and braced myself on the door frame.

  Samuel.

  That voice. Profound, resonant. The stain took on an unmistakable form. The face of a man, blood dripping from his brow. A crown of thorns. Looking right into my eyes. My soul.

  "Samuel."

  The reply became ensnared within my throat. "I'm...here, Lord." Instead of judgment, I found something unexpected in His eyes. Compassion. For me. If I were anything less than certain, I might have believed that insanity had set in.

  "Samuel, do you believe in me?"

  My legs became gelatinous. "Yes, Lord." I lowered my head. Shut my eyes. I was not afraid.

  "Forgive, even as you have been forgiven."

  "Samuel," He said, again. "Do you love me?"

  Yes.

  And before I could say another word, He said, "Samuel Ian Hudson, do you trust me?" There was so much I wanted to ask, so much I needed to know. But in the time it took to blink, He was gone.