William Bernhardt - Murder One

“Keri, when we put on our case—”

“Which is what exactly? Do we even have a case?” Her words came out in broken gasps. “I’ve told you this before, Ben—I can’t testify. I just can’t do it.”

“You don’t necessarily have to …”

“You say that, but who else can deny all those awful things they said in court today? Who else can tell them what really happened?”

“We don’t have to answer this question yet,” Ben said, knowing that would not be much comfort. “When the prosecution rests, we’ll see where we are then.”

“Oh, Ben. I’m so scared. So so scared. I need—I need —”

A moment later, their lips were locked in a passionate, intense kiss. Ben pulled her close to him, swallowing her up, embracing her in every way possible. Keri’s lips broke away from his, then began kissing him everywhere, on his neck, his forehead, his ear. Ben’s hands slipped under her halter top. She began fumbling with the buttons on his shirt.

They fell back against his desk, knocking off reams of paper. “I need you,” she said breathlessly. “I need you so much.”

“We can’t do this,” Ben said, but his voice wasn’t convincing, not even to himself.

“Please,” she whispered, pulling him closer.

“No.” Ben broke away, bracing himself against a chair. “We can’t do this.”

“But why ?”

“You know why. It isn’t right. Not now. Not till the trial is over.”

“But, Ben,” she cried, “if you knew how I feel—”

“I feel the same way, Keri. But we can’t.” He walked away from her, to the opposite side of the room, an effort which required more strength than anything he’d ever done in his life. “Keri—I’ll see you in court tomorrow morning.”

“Is this your way of dismissing me?”

“I think it’s best. You know how important this trial is. To you, more than anyone. I have to keep a clear head.”

She pushed off the desk, rearranging her scant clothing. “You’re right. I don’t know what came over me. I just lost control.” She laughed bitterly. “Maybe what LaBelle says about me is true.”

“Don’t say that. Not even in jest. You’re a beautiful person, Keri. I can’t imagine how you’ve survived all that you’ve been through. And when this trial is over—well, things will be different. But for now, we have to focus on the trial. The trial, and nothing but the trial.”

“I know. I’ll go.” She finished pulling herself together and started toward the door. Before she left, though, she quietly crossed the room and planted her lips softly on Ben’s cheek.

“I love you,” she whispered.

34

KIRK WAS CROUCHED IN an alleyway beside a Dumpster, his forehead pressed against his knees. He was not having a pleasant evening. Too many inescapable truths hounded his brain. There was no hope for him, he realized now. The priest had been right. God knew what Kirk had done. He would always know. Somehow, Kirk had fooled himself into thinking he could erase his crimes, eliminate all the traces, but now he realized that had been a child’s fantasy. No amount of pain or self-inflicted misery could ever alter the truth.

He was damned, pure and simple.

He saw something glistening at the other end of the alley. Winking at him. Something translucent and … sharp.

A broken bottle, if he wasn’t mistaken. A green-tinted jagged edge, just waiting for someone to come close enough for it to do some permanent damage.

The idea formed in Kirk’s brain with such immediate clarity that he wondered why it hadn’t occurred to him before. Enough with these halfway gestures—picking fights and mutilating his body. One swift stroke across the jugular with that bottle and he would be out of his misery permanently.

Unless the priest was right. Unless there really was a God, and he really did punish those who committed sins. Like suicide. The unforgivable sin, that was what his Sunday school teacher used to call it. Unforgivable—because you were dead before you had a chance to ask.

But to be free of this torment, released …

Kirk was distracted by the sound of footsteps at the other end of the alley. Clicking footsteps, light and even.

Stiletto heels, as it turned out.

“Jeez Lou- ise . You really are a mess.”

Kirk peered upward through hooded lids. She was a black woman decked out in a tight white dress cut practically down to the nipple, blowsy hair, and the legs of a sixteen-year-old. Not that she was much older than that.

A prostitute. Had to be.

“So anyway,” the woman continued, “my girlfriend, she says, ‘Girlfriend, don’t you be goin’ over to see that boy. He a mess.’ And I says, ‘Well, I don’t see much goin’ on out here.’ And she says, ‘Girlfriend, I don’t care how slow things are on The Stroll. That boy be trouble.’ ”

“What do you want?” Kirk’s voice was harsh and raspy.

She smiled, a broad smile that might have been called toothy but for the fact that so many of her teeth were missing. “Why, honey, ain’t you figured that out yet? I got the cure for what ails you.”

He lowered his head. “Go away.”

“Forgive me for bein’ crass, but I am a little concerned about the money thing. See, my girlfriend, she says, ‘Girlfriend, he don’t look like he got two pennies to rub together.’ But I say to her, I say, ‘Girlfriend, don’t you be jumpin’ to no conclusions there. The boy’s down in the dumps, sure. He’s had some bad knocks. But that don’t mean he’s poor.’ ” She took a baby step closer. “Does it?”

Kirk reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a big wad of money, including several hundreds. “Now will you leave me alone?”

Far from causing her to leave him alone, the display of wealth had precisely the opposite effect “Why lookee there. Boy, you got all kinds of money on you!” She gave him a sideways leering grin. “I think we can do business, handsome.”

“I want you to leave me alone.”

“Now don’t you go all unsociable on me. I got the cure, remember? I’m eager and willin’ to please. And I’m very flexible. If you know what I mean.”

“You can’t help me.”

“Now you don’t know that till you’ve given me a try.”

“Look—”

“Maybe I should properly introduce myself. My name’s Chantelle. I’m a professional, know what I mean? Very experienced.” She ran a long black nail slowly down the curve of her hip. “And I think I could do you a world of good.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Look, baby, I ain’t no priest—”

“Lucky for you.”

“—but I can see you got troubles. Somebody done you wrong, right? I don’t know exactly who it was. Maybe yo’ mama done you wrong. Maybe it was your wife, your girlfriend. Your mistress. Your fiancée, even. I don’t know. But I know this. Whoever it was, I can make it better.”

“No one can make it better. Not even God.”

“Well, I got to be honest with you. I don’t know much about God. But it’s just possible I’ve got a few tricks in my bag He don’t have.”

Kirk turned his head up, teeth clenched. “Leave me alone!”

When she saw his face, Chantelle’s eyes went wide. “Honey! What happened to you?” She bent down and cradled his head in her hands. “You look like someone done you but good.”

Kirk almost laughed. “Wait’ll you see my chest.”

“Honey, you need someone to be good to you. Someone to make the hurt stop hurtin’.” She pulled him closer and pressed his head against her breasts. “I’ll take good care of you, sweet thing. Promise I will.”

The heat of her body warmed him. He felt the chain reaction it sent cascading through his body. And he panicked.