Jeff Johnston looked completely and totally unremarkable. Average height, average weight. His hair was a shade that was in that fuzzy area between blond and brown, kept neatly at average length. Today he wore a suit that was an unremarkable cut and made of a fabric that could be gray or a silvery green depending on the light. Appearances, however, were deceiving. Within the first five minutes of meeting Jeff I knew that there was a worldclass mind hiding behind the ordinary camouflage. Thank God.
“Sheriff Beall. I’m going to need a moment to talk to my client in private.”
The elevator doors whooshed open. The sheriff held the door for me to precede him. “The district court clerk has a private office. I’m sure she’ll let you use it. We’ll take Ms. Reilly there.”
“Right. I’ll see you there.”
The doors closed, and I wondered what, exactly, was up. He’d told me in our last meeting not to worry about today’s appearance. This was just the preliminary hearing and nothing much was going to happen. They’d read the charges. He’d enter his appearance as my counsel and I’d enter my plea. Bail would be set. But something was definitely up. Because when he’d come up to us I’d felt outward a little with my mind. What I’d found was profound disquiet, confusion, and worry.
The crowd was thicker on the second floor. People were crowding their way into and out of the courtroom. Attorneys, briefcases in hand, had pulled their clients aside to hold urgently whispered conversations. Sheriff Beall took the lead. I stayed close at his heels with the deputy walking right behind, close enough, in fact, that he actually stepped on my heels a couple of times when I had to stop abruptly. It took a few minutes of concerted effort and polite apologies before we were able to reach the door to the district court clerk’s office. Sheriff Beall tapped briskly on the frosted glass window before turning the brass door handle and leading me in. The office wasn’t large, but it was tidy, and a study in contrasts. The old metal secretarial desk and mismatched file cabinets shared space comfortably with a state-of-the-art copier and a top-of-the-line computer system. There was no air conditioning, just a huge old ceiling fan that moved the air just enough to stir the papers that seemed to be stacked on every flat surface.
Jeff had beaten us up here, and was sitting, waiting in one of the slat-backed oak visitor chairs that lined the wall with the windows.
There were two doors: the one we’d come through, and the one to the judge’s chambers. Without prompting Sheriff Beall nodded to Jeff and led the deputy back into the hallway to stand guard.
As soon as the door was safely closed, I took the chair next to my attorney. Looking him in the eye, I asked,
“What’s up?”
“We have a situation. I’m honestly not sure what to make of it.” He shook his head. “In a way it’s good news.”
“What is it?”
“I was just speaking to the prosecutor. They’ve decided not to pursue the charges at this time.”
I felt this huge grin form on my face. “That’s great!”
“Yes…and no.”
“Jeff, they’re dropping the charges. I’m free to go.”
“Kate, they’ve decided not to pursue the charges now. They’re going to continue their investigation. If they don’t prosecute, and you’re not found innocent they can refile at any time. There’s no statute of limitations on murder. This could be hanging over you for the rest of your life.”
“So, what? You’re saying I should force them to prosecute? What if I lost?”
He ran his hand through his hair, ruining the effect of the perfect haircut. “I know. You don’t want to take that kind of a chance. It would be stupid. But right now you’ve got your witnesses. Everything is fresh in their minds, the evidence is fresh. You have a lot of public support—Father Raphael was very popular in the community. We could mount an excellent case for self-defense with a good chance of winning. Giving them more time to prepare is only going to be to your disadvantage.”
It made sense the way he explained it. But oh God, I didn’t want to go through another trial. Just the civil trial over the mess at St. Elizabeth’s had been a huge strain on me, physically, emotionally, and financially. I didn’t even want to think about what a real murder trial would do.
“And really, it’s moot. I made some calls as soon as I found out, got the opinion of a professor of mine who’s a retired appellate judge. We can’t make them prosecute. It’s their call.”
“But you’re worried about it.”
He ran his hand through his hair again. Apparently it was a nervous gesture. “Yes, I am. This really could bite you in the butt down the road—particularly if you ever get in trouble again.”
I looked out the window for a moment, at the clear, intense blue of the morning sky. I wanted out of here. I wanted the charges dropped. “Sufficient unto the day” and all that. I turned to Jeff. Giving him a smile to show my appreciation for his efforts I said, “I understand what you’re saying, and believe me I’m grateful. But I want this over with.”
“That’s just the point. It won’t be. Not really. Not ever. Can you live with that?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not really.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to.”
We rose at the same time. His cell phone rang. I left him to take the call and do whatever else he needed to before the case was called and went to join my escorts and take my place in the courtroom.
I’d been in courtrooms before. This one wasn’t quite as nice as the one in Denver. The paneling was cheaper, the seats old-fashioned wood, but it was set up the same way. At the front of the room was the judge’s bench, the court reporter’s box, and the witness stand. To the left was a jury box with a dozen wooden chairs that looked as though they’d qualify as antiques and would be wretchedly uncomfortable. Which would, I suppose, keep the jurors from dozing off during the proceedings. Against the right wall, not far from where the court reporter would sit, there was an enclosure that was just a little bit bigger than the jury box. Instead of chairs, it had three old-fashioned church pews. This was the area for the prisoners. Sheriff Beall led me up the center aisle, past the rows of spectator seating. He pushed open the hinged gate that separated the spectator portion of the courtroom from the “business” area and held it open for me. I started toward the prisoner’s box, but he stopped me with a light grip on my arm. He nodded toward the defendant’s table. “Go sit over there. You’re first on the docket.”
“Thanks.”
I walked over to take my seat, my skin crawling from the sensation of being watched. I wished my attorney was here; wished Tom or my brothers were with me. I turned in my seat, scanning the crowd, but there was no sign of them.
I shouldn’t have worried. Seconds later they walked in the back doors with my attorney. Making their way to the front of the courtroom, they took seats directly behind me on the opposite side of the railing, seats that some kind soul had been saving for them.
Jeff took the seat next to me, set his briefcase on the table in front of us, and popped it open. He drew out a threering binder, a yellow pad, and a pair of pencils. He puttered around getting things organized to his satisfaction while I squirmed in my seat, wishing to hell this was over with.
I didn’t have to wait long. The bailiff closed the door, walked to the front of the courtroom and announced, “All rise. This court is now in session. The Honorable Judge William Woodin presiding.”
We rose.
“In the matter of the People of the State of Colorado versus Mary Kathleen Reilly. Is the defendant present?”
Jeff stood and nodded with deference. “Yes, sir.”
“And the people?”
“Your honor,” The prosecutor stood up. He was a small man, probably not much over five feet and nearly as broad as he was tall. He was almost completely bald, his scalp pink and shining in the overhead lights and the thick glasses he wore magnified a pair of watery blue eyes. His lips seemed to be set in a perpetually thin line of disapproval. “The people would like to defer prosecution at this time and move to dismiss this case without prejudice.”
Without prejudice is apparently lawyerese for, we want to be able to change our minds later. The judge looked down his nose at the prosecutor, his expression unhappy. “Would counsel for both sides please approach the bench?”
The lawyers went up to stand right in front of the judge, who switched off his microphone. For nearly five minutes Jeff and the prosecutor whispered intently at each other and made fierce gestures with their hands. Finally the judge whispered something that made the two of them subside. Waving them back to their respective seats, he hit the switch to turn back on the microphone.
“It is fully in the discretion of the district attorney to choose to prosecute, or not prosecute, a case at any time. Thus, I am left with no choice but to dismiss this case without prejudice. The defendant is to be released from custody upon completion of the proper paperwork by the sheriff’s department.”
There was enough of an uproar in the courtroom that he wound up pounding the gavel a few times and calling for order. Meanwhile, Sheriff Beall and the bailiff had come up to escort me out. For better or worse, this part was over. For the time being I didn’t have to worry about lawyers and court. Which just left the Thrall. Then again, that was more than enough.
14
« ^ »
It was a nightmare. A part of me knew it. In real life, real time, my body was asleep in the back of Joe’s SUV with my head on Tom’s lap. We were driving back from Murphysboro and Bryan was alive. He had scars covering his neck and a haunted look that even the city limit sign in the rearview mirror couldn’t erase. But he was alive. The overwhelming stress of the past few days had exhausted me completely. Let Joe and Bryan drive. I was out. But the dream felt so incredibly real.
I was standing in a cemetery. It was one of the new, modern ones where the landscaping is all perfectly designed and groomed, the roads are paved with actual drains and curbs, and discrete rectangles of marble or granite set on the ground serve as headstones. It was a pleasant, late summer evening. The sun was setting behind the mountains in the west, and I could hear crickets chirping. A murder of crows perched in a nearby tree. Their bright black eyes stared at me unsettlingly. I shuddered, forcing my attention back to the ground in front of me. The polished granite tombstone read Dylan Shea, and had dates of birth and death, but instead of a grave there was an empty hole in the ground, dug in the shape of a coffin. The earth was rich, black, and moist, the scent of it thick in the still air.
A harsh caw, and the crows took flight. My head jerked to the left and I was suddenly in a laboratory that didn’t exist anymore, standing in front of Miles MacDougal.
“Have you followed my advice?”
“What advice? What am I supposed to be doing?”
“You really don’t know, do you?” It was Dylan’s voice, thick with scorn, coming from behind me. I whirled around to see him standing in the hallway. In some ways he looked as he always had, the same handsome features and dark curls. But the expression on his face—that was different. I’d loved Dylan, but he’d always been weak, diffident, and it showed in his posture. The man facing me now was neither of those things. He stood with supreme confidence, his hand absently stroking the fur of a huge, brindled werewolf that leaned in against his leg. “Not the brightest crayon in the box, are you, Katydid? Strong as an ox and almost as clever.”
I took a step forward, and the wolf didn’t like it. It crouched, as if to spring, a rippling growl rolling from its throat to fill the hallway. Its lips pulled back, and I expected to see the same fearsome teeth that Tom, Rob, and the other wolves I’ve known had. The teeth were there. But there was something else there as well: fangs—vampire fangs.
“I loved you once. We could’ve been together. But you chose the wrong side; chose him. You shouldn’t have done that, Katydid.”
Dylan’s eyes blazed with an eerie light, his features distorted from the intensity of his rage. I could hear the faintest of lisps, glimpse the hint of fangs behind those perfect lips.
I opened my mouth to respond, to say… something, anything.
“Kate, wake up.”
The dream shattered. I gasped and blinked as I was thrust too suddenly back into reality. I tried to focus on Tom staring down at me. It took a minute.
“You were having a nightmare.”
“Yeah.” I used the back of my hand to wipe my mouth as I shoved myself upright. Apparently I’d been drooling. How embarrassing.
“Want to talk about it?”
“Maybe.” I was blinking, my mind still a little foggy around the edges. I looked out the car window. We were just passing the natural food store on Colorado Boulevard. Just a few more blocks until we turned left into Joe’s subdivision. “We’re almost there.”
“Yeah,” Joe answered. “You were out for almost the whole trip.”
“I’m not surprised. I haven’t slept very well the past couple of days.”
Bryan stiffened as if I’d slapped him. It surprised me because I hadn’t meant anything by it. It was just the flat truth.
“I’m sorry, okay?” His voice was resentful. “I know it was my fault. I screwed up.”
I sighed. I so didn’t want to do this. I’m not exactly known for my way with words. I’m not good at dealing with my own angst, let alone other people’s. But there you go. Family is family—and mine more than most.
“Bryan, stop it. Just stop.” I sounded tired, and I hadn’t even come close to keeping the frustration from my voice.
“You did what you had to do. I know that. I don’t blame you.”
He turned in his seat, his blue eyes locking me in a gaze of almost painful intensity over the leather headrest. “But I failed, and it got a good man killed, and put you in jail.” His voice shook with anger and shame. “For nothing.”
I looked at Tom. He gave me a tiny shrug, which meant he didn’t have any more idea what to say than I did. Joe was staring straight out at the road. Great. Why is it girls get all the “fun” jobs? All right, I’m being sexist. But in my family at least, it seemed to be true.
“Not for nothing.” I put some heat in my voice, let a tiny hint of my own anger and frustration show through. I hate self-pity and my baby brother was wallowing in it. “Mike sent you for information. You got some. Maybe not as much as he wanted, but you did get results. Tom tells me that you learned that the vampires aren’t bringing the recovering zombies and coma victims all the way back, that you faxed Mike proof of it.”