Blood Defense - [9]

In my dream, I’m plunging the carving knife into his chest again and again and again, grunting with each blow until my clothes, my face, and my arms are covered in blood. I stand back to let him fall, the handle of the knife slick and wet in my hand. But he doesn’t fall. He smiles. That sick leer of a smile that always made my insides freeze. I’m paralyzed for a moment, but then the hot rage surges through me again, and I lunge forward to slash his throat with a swift backhand motion. Blood gushes from his neck. But he’s still smiling. Frustrated, furious, I sob as I bury the knife in his stomach. Once, twice, three times, heaving with the effort of each thrust. Finally, I yank out the knife and stand back. Still he doesn’t fall. Exhausted, gulping for air, I raise the knife again, but suddenly, I can’t reach him. He’s a giant. I stare up at him, terrified. Then, in one swift motion, he grabs my arms, lifts me up, and pins me against the wall. His hands feel like steel clamps. I fight to break free, my heels kicking against the wall. As I twist my head back and forth, I feel a blast of hot, fetid air. His mouth opens wide-a huge, cavernous black hole-and I feel the darkness begin to engulf me. Trapped, terrified, I scream and scream, but all that comes out is a pathetic little whisper.

I woke up to the choked gurgle of my own voice, my heart pounding, my throat raw. I rolled over on my back still gasping for air. I used to believe the dreams would go away over time, once the memory of the living nightmare faded. But it’s been years now, and the dreams still come almost every night. The only thing that ever changes is the weapon. I’ve used a gun, a piano wire, a machete-even an ax. Doesn’t matter. It always ends the same way, with his hands clamped around my arms, and me, paralyzed, terrified… doomed.

Now, I curled up and shivered under the covers. My favorite sleeping T-shirt, the one with a smiling Janis Joplin, was soaked with sweat. I looked at the soft glow of sunlight that peeked through the gap in the curtains of my bedroom window-a reassuring slice of reality that reminded me that the monster was out of my life. I might not be able to get to him, but he couldn’t-wouldn’t dare-try to get to me. Except in my dreams.

I stumbled out of bed the next morning, tired and groggy. I had a headache that felt like someone had pounded a spike through my forehead. It took three cups of coffee to get my brain clear. By the time I left for the office, it was nine thirty. I hate being late.

I ran downstairs, jumped into my car, and jammed the key into the ignition. Beulah slowly groaned to life. Dealing with her on days like this made me want to scream. I needed to fly-or at least make it from zero to sixty in less than five minutes. But that just wasn’t Beulah’s way. I was turning onto Beverly Glen Boulevard to head over the canyon when Michelle called. “You almost here?”

“Almost,” I lied.

“Just left home, huh?” Michelle knows me way too well. “Good. Because you need to get downtown. Your jury came back.”

It’d been three days since the jury had gone out on Harold Ringer’s case. It wasn’t the longest I’d ever had a jury stay out, but it was close. “Sure took their time.”

“Yeah. And I hope they hammered your guy. That scum-sucking pig. No offense.”

“None taken. My guess is you’ll get your wish.”

It’d taken hours of coaching to make Ringer come off halfway decent on the witness stand. “Okay, I’m heading to court.”

Happy at the prospect of not having to see him again after today, I dialed up a Steely Dan album on my phone and sang along to “Don’t Take Me Alive.” When I got to court, I saw that the victim, Aidan Mandy, was sitting in the audience with a victim-witness counselor from the DA’s office. He looked frail, vulnerable, his skinny frame hunched over with his hands clasped in his lap. It hurt to look at him. I signaled to Jimmy, the bailiff, to let me into the holding tank.

Ringer was pacing in his cell. His square face, normally ruddy, was pale, and I noticed a film of sweat on his forehead. As I approached the cell, I saw that his hands were shaking and he was swallowing hard, his breath coming in shallow gulps. Prison was going to be a rough ride for him, and he knew it. He moved up and gripped the bars. “What do you think?”

Now that I was closer, his body odor, sharp and rancid, made me turn my head. I shrugged. “You never know with a jury. But we did all we could-”

The bailiff poked his head in. “Wrap it up. Judge says we’re ready to roll.”

Five minutes later, Ringer was seated next to me at counsel table as the judge called for the jury. I watched their faces as they came out. The foreman glanced at me, then hurriedly looked away. A bad sign. I studied the judge’s expression as he checked the verdict forms, but he was stone-faced. He handed the folder to the clerk and said, “Will the defendant please rise?”

I stood and helped Ringer up. He was shaking so badly now, I could hear the chains on his ankles rattling.

The clerk read the verdict in a quavering voice. “We, the jury in the above-entitled cause, find the defendant, Harold Ringer… not guilty.”