Dread Champion Read online

  Other books by Brandilyn Collins

  Kanner Lake Series

  1 Violet Dawn

  Hidden Faces Series

  1 Brink of Death

  2 Stain of Guilt

  3Dead of Night

  4Web of Lies

  Bradleyville Series

  1 Cast a Road Before Me

  2 Color the Sidewalk for Me

  3 Capture the Wind for Me

  Chelsea Adams Series

  1 Eyes of Elisha

  2 Dread Champion

  ZONDERVAN

  Dread Champion

  Copyright © 2002 by Brandilyn Collins

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Zondervan.

  ePub Edition July 2009 ISBN: 978-0-310-85844-7

  Requests for information should be addressed to:

  Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Collins, Brandilyn.

  Dread champion / Brandilyn Collins.

  p. cm.

  ISBN-10: 0-310-23827-7

  ISBN-13: 978-0-310-23827-0

  1. Trials (Murder)—Fiction. 2. California—Fiction. 3. Jury—Fiction I. Title.

  PS3553.O4747815 D74 2002

  813’.6—dc21

  2002008291

  * * *

  All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the New American Standard Bible. Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977 by The Lockman Foundation.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Interior design by Susan Ambs

  For Ryan Matthew Collins.

  This is my version

  of a single white rose.

  For me the word of the LORD has resulted in reproach and derision all day long. … I have heard the whispering of many … watching for my fall, say: “Perhaps he will be deceived, so that we may prevail against him and take our revenge on him.” But the LORD is with me like a dread champion; therefore my persecutors will stumble and not prevail.

  JEREMIAH 20:8, 10–11 NASB

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  PREFACE AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  PART 1: TROUBLE

  MONDAY, AUGUST 5

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  PART 2: DECEIT

  TUESDAY, AUGUST 6

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 7

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 8

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  FRIDAY, AUGUST 9

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 10

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  MONDAY, AUGUST 12

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  TUESDAY, AUGUST 13

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 14

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  PART 3: PURPOSE

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 15

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FRIDAY, AUGUST 16

  FORTY-NINE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY-ONE

  FIFTY-TWO

  FIFTY-THREE

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 17

  FIFTY-FOUR

  FIFTY-FIVE

  FIFTY-SIX

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  FIFTY-NINE

  SIXTY

  SIXTY-ONE

  SIXTY TWO

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

  SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS

  PREFACE AND

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many people generously gave of their time as I wrote this book. I’d like to thank these professionals for granting me interviews on myriad subjects: Gery Sterling, D.D.S., good-naturedly answered some rather strange questions about teeth. Lynne Jacobs, executive director of Adopt International in Redwood City, took time out of her busy schedule to talk both about the procedures of adoption and about her personal passion for her work. Charles Robinson, assistant administrator for San Mateo County’s Private Defender Program, went over many details of how a defense attorney would handle a case such as the one presented in this story. And James Wade, San Mateo County deputy district attorney, gave me the prosecutorial side of things. Redwood City police officer Todd Hurst outlined the various jobs of law enforcement professionals in regard to missing persons and murder cases.

  These folks know their stuff. If you find errors within these pages, mea culpa.

  A special thanks to my wonderful friend Jacqueline Clark, who drove around Salinas and nearby beaches with me, helping me note exact driving times and details. Jacqueline also critiqued the manuscript, along with my respected writer colleagues Niwana Briggs and Randy Ingermanson.

  As always, special thanks to my agents, Jane Jordan Browne and Scott Mendel of Multimedia Product Development, and her team. And of course my utmost gratitude to my editor,Dave Lambert, and all the terrific folks at Zondervan. They are heaven-sent.

  Most of all, God, omnipotent and full of mercy, saw me through the worst days of writing this book, when I thought I had no more to give. May he be glorified by this story about his ultimate power and grace.

  And now a word of explanation about the locations within these events.As with Eyes of Elisha, the first book in this series, I have begun with real places, at some point jumping off into the chasm of fiction. Breaker Beach is fictional but all surrounding beaches are real. Latitude and longitude and information about currents and tides are based on nearby Moss Landing Beach. The general areas of Salinas are true to life, as are some of the streets mentioned. And the exact location of Darren Welk’s house is real, although that rich plot of earth is certainly not owned by the “Salad King.” As for the hardworking ranchers of Salinas and surrounding areas in Monterey County, they are indeed larger than life.We have them to thank for most of the vegetables and salads on our dinner tables. In fact, it is true that ranchers in Salinas are credited with creating the readymade, bagged salads in today’s grocery stores. However, my character Darren Welk, who is given the credit in Dread Champion, is in no way based upon any real rancher in Salinas. Nor is the character Enrico Delg
adia based upon any real person. Of course the San Mateo County Courthouse in Redwood City does exist. People familiar with it will recognize most of the description.Occasionally I have made some changes, adding a door or bench as the story required. Finally, Channel Seven (ABC affiliate) is a respected source for news in the California Bay Area. But they do not employ a Milt Waking, nor is the character of Milt based on any Channel Seven reporter.

  To quote the character of Geoffrey Chaucer when he was caught fictionalizing in AKnight’s Tale, “I am a writer. I give the truth—scope.”

  So allow me some scope and come on, get in. Let’s go for a ride.…

  PROLOGUE

  After twenty years of midnights among the dead, Victor Mendoza didn’t spook easily.

  The graveyard shift at the graveyard. His superstitious mother had shaken her head when he first took the job. Victor didn’t care. You want to talk fear, he’d told her, fear was the night he was four years old, clinging to his papa’s bony back as they scuttled like rats across the U.S. border.

  “But the dead,” she’d said.

  “They don’t scare me half as bad as the living.”

  Brothers Memorial Cemetery was oddly shaped at its rear, one corner crooking like an arthritic finger around the edge of Darren Welk’s sprawling backyard. A single line of ancient gravestones formed that finger, an incongruous add-on years before the Salinas Valley sprang to life with ranches and crops. Victor didn’t typically patrol the crook; no need to.Whoever once tended those graves had long passed on. His job was to protect the graves of those whose loved ones still visited Brothers Memorial—folks whose money greened the cemetery and surrounding valley. Rich folks like Darren Welk, whose parents were buried on the eastern hill.

  But that night something caught Victor Mendoza’s eye, and he ventured in for a look.

  Chilly air wafted around Victor’s face as he stealthily drew near the edge of the crook, his breath puffing in a fog. A crescent moon slung itself against a hazy sky, stingy with its light.He hunched, fists curling and uncurling, about three feet from the rusty barbed wire fence running the perimeter of the cemetery.His eyes widened as he realized what had caught his attention. A shadow. Grotesquely tall and skinny—a warped silhouette spilling across the entire driveway leading into the Welks’ garage. The aberration moved in steady rhythm, spindly arms stretching, pulling back, stretching, pulling back.Victor stopped breathing and tilted his head, listening.A vague sound rolled toward him, then sharpened into pattern.Crunch, hiss. Crunch, hiss. In beat with the shadow’s movement. Slowly Victor’s eyes followed the shadow’s extremities to its bent shoulders, along its narrow torso, down a stick-figure leg. There it connected with a stocky man on the far side of the driveway, feet wide apart, shovel in his hands, digging. He extended his muscular arms, and the skinny silhouette arms slid across cement. Crunch. The shovel connected with ground.He arced the shovel back and to the side, shadow arms mocking.Hiss. Dirt and tiny rocks flowed off onto a growing pile.A large potted bush, similar to others already planted alongside the driveway, sat a few feet away.Victor’s eyes fell on a blazing lantern on the ground behind the man—the cause of his shadow. The light illuminated the man’s trousers, haloing his back, fading into an umbra behind his head. But Victor Mendoza saw just enough of the features to recognize him. Anyone in the valley would know this man.

  Goose bumps popped down Victor’s arms. His neck warmed with sweat. A man with money to spare for gardeners planting a bush at 4:20 a.m. was odd enough, but it was more than that. Something about the man’s posture seemed depressed, heavy. Victor’s thoughts tangled, almost as if a disjointed consciousness from the figure flowed into his own.He forced himself to gaze, pay attention, record. One of the man’s feet was turned in slightly.Was that a shifting of weight or a half stagger? Crunch. The man threw his weight behind the shovel, his shadow dancing. Hiss. He swung his arms, dirt sliding.He did not raise his head; his shoulders curved inward, neck bent.

  Victor stepped back and twigs crackled beneath his boot. The man’s head pulled up and hung there, adrift. Spiders crawled down Victor’s spine. He froze, willing the night to blanket him. Seconds ticked by. Finally the head lowered. Digging resumed.

  Crunch. Hiss.

  Victor Mendoza let out his breath and faded into darkness, creeping around ancient gravestones.He could not shake his uneasiness. When morning dawned hours later, his back muscles still twitched. As he crawled into a warm bed at 8:30 a.m., his workday over, the crunch hiss still reverberated in his head.

  Two days later Victor heard the news. Darren Welk’s fancy wife was missing.

  HARSH LIGHT SPILLED FROM the naked bulb, lancing Darren Welk’s eyes. He winced.

  “Sorry to bring you in here, but this holding cell’s the quietest place at the moment,”Detective Draker said, motioning for his partner to take a seat. “We had a little altercation in here a few days ago. Haven’t gotten around to replacing the fixture yet.”Draker settled his bulky frame in a chair opposite Darren.His thinning blond hair was clipped short, a matching mustache bristling under an oversized nose.

  “No problem.”The words sounded hollow to Darren’s ears.What hadn’t been a problem the last two and a half days? He grasped for his last ounce of energy, willing his face and body into placidity while every muscle tensed, every fiber hummed. He could swear noises were louder. The creak of the door shutting, of clothes rustling, resounded in his ears. And the expressions! Every glance between Draker and his partner twanged with meaning. Could they see the truth in his eyes? In the twitch of his hands, the exaggerated rise and fall of his chest? Darren spread his fingers upon the table, then brought them together, fearing they looked too stiff.He could barely control his breathing. He was on the edge and the chasm ran deep.

  “Can we get you some coffee?” Draker indicated his own cup. It looked black, bitter, like Darren’s soul. His stomach turned over.

  “No thanks.”

  Draker’s partner, Les Kelly, dragged a chair to the table, on Darren’s right.He leaned forward, lacing his fingers on top of the worn wood, his narrow shoulders military straight.Kelly wasn’t a tall man but his presence screamed authority. Darren glanced distractedly at the man’s hands, wondering at his own. At what they’d done.

  “What’s happening with my house?” He forced the words to be chopped, forceful, like those of the Darren Welk he used to know. The Darren Welk of Salinas Valley, who could fill an employee with fear with a mere glance.

  Draker cleared his throat in a brief staccato. “Don’t worry, your house will be fine.”

  Darren met the man’s eyes. They were brown and deep-set, unfathomable. “Which means … ”

  The Monterey County sheriff ’s detective shrugged. “Look, I’m sure we can get this all cleared up quickly. That’s why we brought you down here. But before we can talk, I just need to tell you that you have the right to remain silent.Any statement you make may be used against you in a court of law. …”

  Darren stared at the detective’s wide face, his skin pebbling. He could hardly believe what was happening. “I watch those crime shows, too,” he managed when Draker finished. He tried to laugh but it sounded more like a choke.He inhaled deeply, forced himself to lean back in his chair.

  Draker’s lips curved at his little joke. A knowing smile, Darren thought. He pressed his heels against the floor, resisting the urge to check Kelly’s reaction. Shifty eyes he didn’t need.

  “Okay,”Draker said. “We need you to tell us about the blouse.”

  Darren closed his eyes. The white blouse with gold buttons. Long-sleeved, expensive silk. She’d worn it out to dinner before they ended up on the beach.When Draker had pulled it from beneath the newly planted bush, clods of dirt clung to it like bugs. Darren had nearly retched at the sight. Brett had hovered nearby, his face turning pasty white, chest heaving with ragged breaths. “No, Dad—”

  Darren steeled himself, the panic in his son’s voice still echoing in his mind. “Shawna cut he
r head.”

  “After you hit her, right?”

  Darren gave him a hard look. He could feel Les Kelly watching him intently. “I told you, I’d never hit her before. She just got me mad, that was all. And I was drunk. I didn’t even hit her that hard. But she stumbled and fell.Her forehead hit a piece of metal or something in the sand. She got up right away. It wasn’t a very big cut, but you know how a head can bleed.”

  “Right. So the blood got on her blouse?”

  “Look at what you’ve done! How dare you!” Her scream of rage echoed through his alcohol-laden brain. “Hit me again and I’ll have you in jail!”

  Darren vaguely remembered her fumbling with the buttons. “Yeah. That’s when she took it off.”

  “Right there on the beach?”

  Darren shrugged. “It was one o’clock in the morning. Nobody else was around. The Browards had already left. Shawna saw she was getting blood on it and took it down to the water to wash it. She didn’t like messes; you can ask anyone that.”

  The detective stared at him. “Why didn’t she have a jacket?” Draker asked. “Even for an unseasonably warm night, this is still February.”

  “She got hot sitting near the fire and took it off. I guess Tracey brought it home.”

  Draker nodded knowingly and Darren’s heart skipped a beat. Shawna’s daughter had been spouting her mouth in the past two days to anybody who’d listen.

  “So.When did the Browards leave?”

  “I don’t know exactly. I told you, I was drunk.” Darren caught Les Kelly’s slow blink. So the man was weary of hearing that, was he? Too bad; it happened to be true.

  “Mr.Welk”—Draker leaned forward—“what did you do when Shawna went to wash the blouse?”

  Darren’s insides stilled. He forced himself to look Draker in the eye as he tried to remember.

  The iciness of the water on his ankles. Shawna whirling on him in a fury. “What are you going to do now, Mr. Do-Anything-I-Please? Drown me?” His utter disgust with her, the fire in his belly, his fist pulled back…