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  Face impassive, Hannah continued to preside objectively.

  “What time did you let Mr. Hill inside the sanctuary?”

  “At five-fifty-four.”

  “At what time did you next unlock the door that night?”

  “Just before midnight.”

  “And you’re absolutely certain that no one, specifically Mr. Hill, left the sanctuary before then?”

  “I’m positive.”

  Keith, expensively dressed from his silk tie to the tips of his shiny black wing tips, requested that an order of service be admitted as evidence.

  It was recorded. And then the attorney approached his witness.

  “Do you recognize this?”

  “I do.”

  “Please tell the court what it is.”

  “The program for this year’s combined service.”

  “And what is the date printed at the top?”

  Bobby Donahue leaned forward to read it, as though he didn’t already know the answer.

  “March 9, 2008.”

  Slowly approaching the jury, Keith gave each of them a chance to read more than just the date on the program he held out for them to see. There followed a listing of well-known Christian songs that were slotted to be sung. Scriptures to be read.

  A sermon to be heard.

  “Tell me, Mr. Donahue, do you log the attendance at these church gatherings?”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “And did you that day?”

  “Of course.”

  Keith pulled out another exhibit. Had it admitted. When asked, Ms. Gilbert didn’t object, but she looked as though she wished she could.

  “Is this that log?” Keith held a black, leather-bound book open to a page halfway through.

  “Yes.”

  “And what is the last name on the entry?”

  Again Donahue leaned forward. “Kenny Hill.”

  “Were you present when Mr. Hill signed this register?”

  “Yes.”

  “How can you be certain?”

  “Because I offer it personally to every member to sign.”

  “Doesn’t that take a long time?”

  “Not really. I stand at the door and the brethren sign in before entering the sanctuary. I greet each and every member upon arrival. I make it a point to be accessible to everyone.”

  Or did he make it a point to keep everyone firmly under his domination?

  Donahue lifted one shoulder slightly. And Hannah shivered. “In Kenny’s case, I remember distinctly because he came late. He signed in alone. On a break.”

  Another piece of evidence was admitted. A small envelope. The kind many churches distributed to their members for offerings. This one was signed and dated by Kenny Hill. And then a cancelled check, dated the same day with the same signature was produced.

  It had a Monday, March 10th bank stamp on it. All the evidence was circumstantial. When Julie crossed, she’d be able to point out the possibilities of forgery, money dropped off before or after the church service. But if she left the shadow of a doubt in the mind of even one juror, Hill would go free. That was the risk she took when she slapped a capital charge on the case. It was the only charge that required the jury to be convinced beyond the shadow of doubt.

  Any other charge would have carried only reasonable doubt stipulations.

  The prosecutor knew that. She’d been confident. Hannah wasn’t as confident. And maybe Julie wasn’t either, now, judging by the look on her face. Hill was going to walk. He’d brutally murdered a young man who’d done nothing more than make love with a girl who loved him back. Cortes had spent the last six hours of his life being tortured in ways a human being shouldn’t even know about.

  And Hill was going to walk free, out into the streets to act again.

  “Mr. Donahue, did you see the defendant speaking with anyone that night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  Donahue mentioned a couple of other names from the witness list Keith had submitted at the pretrial conference.

  “I have no further questions, Your Honor.”

  Julie Gilbert did her job well—the car accident notwithstanding. But then maybe she’d remember to confim the accident without a written reminder. She could bring the information up later if it helped her case. Or maybe she’d already heard this part of the testimony during her own interview with the witness. Maybe she’d already confirmed it.

  And maybe Hannah needed to quit worrying and stick to doing her job. She was no longer a prosecutor.

  No longer charged with bringing the bad guys down, but rather, with protecting the rights of everyone who entered her courtroom—victims and defendants alike.

  Bobby Donahue didn’t leave the stand for another hour and a half. And not until after it was established that the church registry could have been forged. The check dropped off anytime that day. But Bobby Donahue was absolutely positive he wasn’t mistaken about Hill’s presence in church at the time of the murder. He assured the court that he could produce more than 200 other witnesses to the same.

  Before the afternoon was over, Hannah could pretty much read her jury.

  The defense had managed to establish a shadow of doubt. The state was going to lose.

  Society was going to lose. And there wasn’t a damn thing Hannah could do about it.

  Kenny Hill gave her a barely discernible smile. Hannah felt it clear to the bone. And shuddered.

  Was her name already on a retribution list?

  2

  B rian missed the Sun News interview. In fact, he forgot all about it until he saw Hannah’s number flash on the screen of his cell phone at six o’clock that evening. As always when he was at work, the phone was on silent. Glancing at the blinking light on the corner of his desk, wishing he could answer the call and escape into friendships and gentler topics, he focused, instead, on the middle-aged couple across from him.

  “As far as I can tell from this preliminary test, it’s in the early stages,” he told Felicia Summers’s parents, sliding a box of tissues toward the petite, slightly graying woman sitting there clasping her husband’s hand.

  Lou Summers, a technician at a local helicopter manufacturer, didn’t make the kind of money that would support the care his toddler was going to need, but he had insurance benefits that would cover it just fine—unlike many of the guardians of Brian’s young patients.

  “Is she going to die?” Lou asked.

  It was the question he’d been dreading. A question no one was ever prepared for.

  “Possibly,” he said, his gaze direct as he met first Lou’s and then Mary’s worried scrutiny. “But maybe not,” he added, speaking with a calm that hid the churning in his stomach. “We caught it early. If we can get her into remission, she has a good chance. So, next week I’m sending you to the best pediatric oncologist in the state, Jim Freeman. He’ll take excellent care of Felicia. She’s going to love him. And so will you….”

  Contrary to his usual practice, Brian didn’t return any calls on the drive home. The world could wait until morning. So could the thoughts trying to worm their way into his consciousness. Losing himself in the noise blaring from his car stereo, the old Eagles hit “Take It Easy,” Brian sped along the freeway. The music reminded him of earlier days, easier times. He made it through the first song on the greatest hits CD without allowing his thoughts to take over. Soared through the next one, swerving his sleek, high-performance car in and out of traffic as though he was eighteen instead of thirty-eight. And then the speakers screamed, He was a hardheaded man…

  Brian slowed down. He’d been there. Done that.

  She was terminally pretty.

  Terminal. There was that word again.

  Back in college, he’d figured life in the fast lane meant having the money to travel to exotic places, to eat out several times a week, frequenting all the finest restaurants. Having season tickets to Broadway Across America at Gammage Auditorium and the Phoenix Symphony and being recognized in
all of Phoenix’s and some of Vegas’s and L.A.’s most elite clubs.

  He’d figured the fast lane was about money. And, like his father before him, he’d intended to have a lot of it.

  Tonight, the fast lane meant a way to get home more quickly. It meant knowing that a little girl might have to cram a whole life into five or six years.

  It meant living every moment because it might be your last.

  It meant drinking to escape the sounds of shrieking metal, of Cara’s voice crying out. Of sirens. And his own wail of pain.

  When “Lyin’ Eyes” came on he thought of all the women he’d known in the ten years since Cara’s death—experienced women like the one in the song escaping her rich old husband with hands as cold as ice to visit the cheatin’ side of town and the lover with fiery eyes. He hadn’t sought out married women, though he hadn’t paid that much attention to marital status, either. He’d gone strictly for mutual pleasure, mutual escape. No strings attached.

  He used to imagine it was Cara’s body he was sinking into. Never once, since his beautiful wife had died in his arms at the side of the road, due to the recklessness of a teenage illegal immigrant, had he made love to a woman with only that woman on his mind. The woman, as soon as he undressed her, became nameless. A fact that didn’t endear him to anyone—particularly himself.

  And as his surround-sound system crooned about coming to his senses, Brian grabbed his cell phone and dialed. There might not be a lifetime to get on with it.

  “Cynthia?” he asked as his call was answered on the first ring.

  “Hey! What’s up?” Cynthia’s enthusiasm took away some of the chill he felt even in the hundred-degree September heat.

  “Not much,” he said, then added, “How about bringing the little guy over for a dip in the pool?”

  “Sure! I’d love to. Joseph? It’s Brian! You want to go swimming?”

  The polite “yes, please” he heard in the background brought a smile to his face. There’d been a tinge of excitement in the four-year-old’s tone. What a difference from the solemn, completely silent child Brian had first met at the free clinic almost a year before.

  That first day, when he’d seen Cynthia there at the free clinic, chewing the nails on one hand while she rubbed her sick son’s back with the other, Brian had just wanted to help ease the burden of worry. But it wasn’t long before he’d had to pass Joseph’s professional care on to one of his trusted associates because he was seeing Cynthia as much more than his patient’s mother.

  She’d been struggling financially since losing her uninsured ex-husband in a car accident the previous year and even before he’d started dating her Brian had hired her to replace the bookkeeper who’d just quit. He suggested that she go into his office in the evenings so he could watch Joseph for her and save her the cost of a sitter.

  She’d readily agreed and had been keeping his books balanced to the penny ever since. Cynthia was smart. Caring. And vulnerable. She was the first woman he’d dated more than twice since Cara’s death.

  “Cyn? Bring nightclothes, too.” Brian’s voice softened on that last request.

  “You got it.” The response was more eager than he deserved, and just what he needed.

  It was time to move on.

  Hannah was not having a good day. Though she’d parked in her reserved, covered spot, right next to another judges-only covered spot, her two-year-old gold Lexus GS—originally bought for child safety but now appreciated for the luxury it afforded after a stressful day on the bench—had a key scratch marring its perfect paint job. Running from the driver’s-side mirror to the back bumper, it wasn’t a little scratch. And it wasn’t superficial. She could see down to the metal.

  It happened. Everyone knew where the judges parked. And in spite of security, every once in a while one of their cars was egged. Or had its tires deflated. Two of her peers had found threatening notes during Hannah’s years on the bench. A half-dozen or so times there’d been reports of cards left on windshields by zealous reporters. Once she’d heard about a letter taped to a door; it was from a relative of a young woman about to be sentenced. She should have expected her turn to come.

  Just not today.

  Not when she’d had Kenny Hill and Bobby Donahue in her courtroom. Of course, she’d also spent the morning with more than fifty family members and friends of other alleged lawbreakers as well, on pretrial motions, pleas and arraignments. Any number of them could have been pissed at her.

  Or maybe some local high school gang had made keying a judge’s car a requirement of new-member initiation. Hannah didn’t automatically assume that Kenny Hill or any of his “church” brethren was behind the vandalism. But she couldn’t assure herself that they weren’t.

  After fifteen minutes with security, waiting while pictures were taken and listening to the older sheriff’s deputy drone on, Hannah felt a little better. She still had the ugly scratch that meant a day in the shop, a loaner that would probably smell and the loss of her insurance deductible, but apparently there’d been several other keyings in the area that were thought to be gang related. It was going to cost her. But she hadn’t been specifically targeted.

  A fitting ending to the day.

  Too bad she’d already agreed to meet William for dinner. As fond as she was of her former law-school classmate and fellow judge, she’d rather go straight home, turn up the air-conditioning, run a hot bath in her Whirlpool tub, then have a good soak and a cry.

  He knew her name. As he felt the pressure building, felt his climax coming, Brian kept his eyes open, focusing on the woman lying next to him, moving her hips in tandem with his. Eyes closed, her mouth slightly open as she moaned, Cynthia Applegate was a beautiful woman.

  “Ah, Cynthia,” he said, emptying himself into her. “Yes.” He felt her answering tremors as she came, pulses of release that contracted around him, completing an intense moment.

  She sighed. And smiled. Opening her eyes.

  “I love you,” she said. It wasn’t the first time.

  Pressure built again—less pleasurable this time.

  “It’s okay,” she continued, lifting a finger to his lips as he tried to speak. “You don’t have to say anything. I don’t expect anything from you. I just wanted you to know.”

  He should speak anyway. She deserved more than the long kiss he gave her, so Brian caressed her in the way he knew she liked, bringing her to a second orgasm. It wasn’t enough. But it was a start. More than he’d been able to give any other woman.

  And during the aftermath, as he lay with her, there was none of the usual letdown, and not as much of the guilt. As always, an image of Cara’s face after they’d made love appeared in his mind. Her features were hazy. Quickly replaced by another sight. His wife’s face smeared with blood. His and her own.

  And then the sounds replayed themselves. Her cries as she tried to free herself from the wreckage.

  And the young man’s words as he stood outside their smashed vehicle. “Won’t do no good for them to deport me. I’ll come back.”

  The words were in his native tongue. But Brian had spoken Spanish fluently since college.

  “Let me out!” It took him a second to realize it wasn’t his panicked, dying wife he was hearing.

  Cynthia was already out of bed.

  “Let me out!” Panic filled the childish voice. “Let me out!”

  By that third call Brian was halfway down the hall to the spare bedroom where Joseph Applegate slept when he and his mother spent the night—something that had only happened on weekends. Occasionally.

  “He’s at it again.” Cynthia’s voice also held a bit of panic as Brian caught up to her. She stood back as Brian raced to the boy, grabbing him off the chair by the window where Joseph was pulling at the blinds and pounding on the glass.

  “No!” he screamed, kicking and punching, as Brian wrapped his hands around the youngster’s waist, removing him from immediate danger. “No!”

  “You’re all right now, Jose
ph.” Brian spoke in quiet, reassuring tones, holding on to him until, spent, the boy fell limp in his arms. He handed Joseph to Cynthia.

  “Shh, baby, it’s okay.” Cynthia’s voice was calmer now that she was with her son, holding him. Now that he was safely away from the window. Clothed in the robe she’d pulled on as she’d run from Brian’s room, she held Joseph to her, speaking softly but firmly.

  Joseph snuggled his face into his mother’s chest, breathed a ragged sigh and settled back to sleep.

  “He’s soaked,” Cynthia whispered, rocking the boy as though he weighed nothing. Once his breathing was even, she quickly laid him on the bed, changing his soiled disposable undergarment with the ease of practice. She’d been handling the boy’s sleepwalking episodes far longer than Brian had.

  Brian gave the small head a professional caress. The toddler was cool to the touch. “He’ll probably sleep fine now until morning.”

  “And as usual he won’t remember anything, so we still won’t have any idea what’s causing this.” She sounded tired, resigned, but worried. At Brian’s recommendation she’d taken Joseph to Dr. Roberta Browning, one of Arizona’s best pediatric psychiatrists; Brian had already run every medical test he could think of, and found nothing to explain Joseph’s symptoms.

  There was no sign of internal organ illness. No sign of physical or sexual abuse.

  If the lack of answers frustrated Brian, it had to be excruciating for his mother.

  “Something must have happened when he was with his father.” He repeated what he’d told her before—the same thing Roberta had said. It wasn’t much of an explanation.

  It was all they had. “It’s odd that he doesn’t mention the father he saw regularly,” Roberta had told Brian. Though Joseph’s parents had been divorced since he was a baby, Donald Applegate had had regular visitations until his death.

  Brian had asked Cynthia about it. Other than the fact that her ex-husband had had another lover while married to her, she’d said nothing negative about her son’s father. It was obvious, at least to Brian, that she still carried feelings for the man whose life had been cut short.