24

NEITHER GRAY NOR BRIAN thought I should go to Topeka. Boone was vehemently opposed. In fact, we ended up arguing about it into the night, when the three of us were way too tired to speak seriously—about anything.

In my heart, however, I had a hunch this would be my last opportunity to meet Karen in person for quite some time. I was already in hot water. And if this trip would turn up the heat more, then so be it.

The next morning in the back of a white limo on the way to Miami International, I phoned Mary to give her an update on the police interrogation and to tell her of my plans to visit Karen. I also asked about Olivia, whose condition remained the same.

I could tell Mary was surprised by my attitude that morning. She probably expected me to be in a deep state of depression over the circumstances in which I now found myself. However, there had been an evil about Endora so subtle, yet so eerily real and powerful…I must confess, I was relieved she was gone.

I felt as if my life was beginning all over again.

Certainly, I was concerned about the future, about the very real possibility of going to prison. Boone had made it sound as if he was surprised I wasn’t locked up already. But something was different that day. A peace had settled over me. It penetrated my soul and surpassed understanding.

When I told Mary I had finally surrendered my life to God, I thought she had literally passed out. The phone went silent for a long time. Then I heard her sobbing. She said she would call me later, when she could talk.

Meanwhile, I had a mission to accomplish—in about the next twelve hours.

The DeathStroke jet provided a beautiful view of the shiny lakes and flat farmlands of Kansas before it touched down at Forbes Field midday. I decided to rent a car, grab a bite, and run an errand before trying to locate Karen’s new residence at 1585 Primrose Lane.

Amid brochures for the “World-Famous” Topeka Zoo, the Kansas Museum of History, Gage Park, and other local attractions, I found a Topeka street map in the lobby of the rental car company. Soon, I pulled away from Forbes Field in a dark green Chevy Lumina and headed straight into town on Topeka Boulevard.

For a state capital, Topeka seemed fairly small, probably around 150,000 people. It had that familiar Midwestern feel, with many traditional, low-rise government-style buildings and slightly dated architecture.

I stopped at a cozy local café to study my map over a cup of soup and a sandwich, then I ducked into a shop next door to pick up a surprise for Karen.

Back in the Lumina, I cracked the windows, because the skies were sunny and the fall air was crisp and refreshing. After driving across the peaceful Kansas River, it was another twenty minutes or so before I spotted Karen’s street and found my heart beating a mile a minute. I checked myself in the rearview mirror and made the left-hand turn on Primrose Lane.

The houses along the wide, tree-lined street were mostly older, two-story traditionals with rocking-chair front porches. They were midsized homes and quite close together. The huge trees and small, well-manicured front lawns made it look like a wonderful, peaceful place to live. Uneven, cracking sidewalks ran down both sides of the leaf-filled street.

Karen’s house appeared freshly painted in white, with glossy black shutters. Some kind of pretty white, yellow, and orange flowers filled the area in front of the house along the sidewalk that led to the front porch; I thought they were chrysanthemums. The door to the separate, single-car garage out back was down, and my heart sank when I realized she might be at work or church or wherever she went during the day.

I held her gift delicately behind my back and rang the doorbell anyway, nervously looking around at the porch swing, rocking chairs, and wicker furniture. After several more rings, I walked around back to peer in the garage. It was indeed empty.

Bummer.

Backing the Lumina out of the double concrete driveway, I eased it along the opposite side of the street and stopped to glance back at Karen’s house. Sitting there for a few moments, a brilliant idea came to me.

I jotted down a note to Karen and ran it to her mailbox, placing it with the rest of her mail. Then I resumed my position in the car and, with the windows down and the seat tilted back, closed my eyes and waited.

The sound of the street getting busier as the workday ended roused me a bit, but I was still snoozing when I heard a car pull up. Raising my seat but staying low, I watched the white Honda Accord come to a stop in Karen’s driveway. As the driver side door slowly opened, I found myself completely mesmerized to finally see Karen and have the chance to meet her in person.

I must have gulped aloud when I saw the lady who now unfolded out of the little white car. She was about five foot seven, with long, shiny blond hair, wearing a dark blue skirt, matching jacket, white blouse, and dark high heels. The spring in her step and the cheerful way she carried herself confirmed this was the Karen I had come to see.

News flash from Topeka: Karen Bayliss is gorgeous!

Why had I envisioned her so much younger? All this time I pictured myself coming to meet a college-age student. But why? She had told me not long ago she was twenty-seven. It had just never registered until that moment, in front of her home.

Okay, Lester, keep your mind on the business at hand…

Juggling a stack of folders, a briefcase, and a coffee mug, she made her way to the side of the house where she keyed her way in. Although tempted to run up to the front door and ring the bell again, I stuck to my plan and remained slouched in the rental car, waiting for her to get the mail.

The next half hour felt more like three hours. But finally I saw movement in the front room downstairs, and then the heavy front porch door unstuck and opened wide. Karen wore blue jean overalls, a red sweatshirt, moccasins, and a wide, white hair band that pulled the bulk of her light hair back so you could see her bright face.

She bounced down the front steps, waved to two boys riding past on their bikes, then—of all things—she stopped to talk with an elderly lady watering her flowers in the lawn next door.

The suspense was too much.

After another grueling ten minutes, she said good-bye and finally made her way across the street to the black mailbox. I was several houses down and tilted way back in my seat so she wouldn’t see me. She gathered the thick stack of mail, looked both ways, and crossed back over the street toward her house, sorting through the mail on her way.

That was my cue to move out.

Quickly, I eased out of the car and nudged the door shut. Next, I quietly assumed my position, leaning casually with my behind against the hood of the car, cradling the gift gently in front of me.

Holding several pieces of mail in her teeth and flipping through the remaining stack in her hand, Karen made her way up the steps to the porch, opened the screen door, and went back inside, closing the big wooden door slightly with her foot.

I waited, my heart thumping.

About three minutes later, I saw a reflection in the front window. She was looking out, I thought, directly at me. Slowly, the silhouette disappeared. It was another minute or so before the curtain in the other front room moved slightly. She must have read the note I left:

Dear Miss Bayliss:

I was here with a special delivery for you today, but you were not home. If you will kindly look across the street, however, you will notice that I was able to leave the delivery with that kind man you see leaning against the green car.

Along with the dozen white roses he is holding, he sends special thanks to you for your many years of prayer and devotion. By the way, Miss Bayliss, since you seem to know so much about roses and their colors—do you know what the white rose means?

Sincerely,

The Delivery Man

Ever so slowly, the heavy front door opened. She must have been in shock or scared or something, because Karen didn’t come out right away. Instead, she just stood there, still well inside the house, peering out at me. I could only smile and nod my head as if to say, “It’s true…yes…somehow it’s true!”

Finally, she eased the screen door open and crept out onto the front porch, never taking her eyes off me. She still held the note in her right hand as she walked to the top of the steps.

“The white rose means purity,” she yelled across the street.

“That’s right,” I yelled back, enjoying this immensely.

After a pause, she walked down two steps and stopped. “What does the yellow rose mean?”

“I know that one from Kansas City—it’s friendship!”

By now the elderly lady next door was standing in two inches of water, paying no attention whatsoever to her garden.

Karen reached the bottom of the steps and stopped again.

“What does the red rose mean?” she asked quieter now, somewhat hesitant.

“To you and me, it will always mean…the love of Jesus.”

After the words sank in, Karen fell to her knees, buried her head in her arms on the sidewalk, and started to sob. Her heart went out to the Lord in thanks and amazement and praise.

I hurried across the street, up the short drive, and knelt beside her. She started to stand and I helped her.

“Thank you, Karen Bayliss.” I held her at the elbows, tears streaming down my face.

She looked up into my eyes, as if to confirm it was me. We nodded yes to each other amid the blurry tears, then we hugged and wept aloud, rejoicing.

Although he was vain and obnoxious, Frank Dooley was good at what he did. And that was bad for me.

Very bad.

In his cross-examination of Dr. Cary Golde, Dooley for the most part dismantled the excellent case Brian had built in my favor, which implied that I could well have been hypnotized when Endora Crystal’s murder took place.

Dooley’s destruction centered on the fact that Golde could produce no hard evidence—no formal case history—in which someone had been cleared of murder charges based on the fact that they were hypnotized when the crime was committed.

In other words, we would be setting a precedent if we won our case based on that theory.

Looking as sharp toward the end of the day as he had at the beginning, Dooley paced back and forth directly in front of Golde, who had lost his smile and his enthusiasm.

“We have exactly zero factual cases to substantiate your theories about minds being ‘hypnotized’ and ‘manipulated’ to murder,” Dooley said sarcastically. “We have exactly zero proof that Endora Crystal’s murder was the result of some ‘New Age metaphysical’ scam. This is a smoke screen, plain and simple. Why are we getting a smoke screen from Brian Boone? Because he and his client, Everett Lester, haven’t a leg on which to stand.”

Boone stood. “Your Honor, may I ask, is this Mr. Dooley’s closing argument? Because, if it is, he’s begun too early.”

“Quit pontificating, Mr. Dooley.”

“All right, all right; we’ll get back to Dr. Golde.” He approached the fatigued doctor. “What percentage of reputable hypnotherapists believe the way you do in things like criminal hypnotherapy? In other words, hypnotism that leads to criminal activity?”

“A small percentage.”

“How small?”

“Quite small.”

“How small, Dr. Golde? Be specific.”

“Maybe 5 percent.”

I tried to hide my feelings of defeat.

“Isn’t it true, Dr. Golde, that a majority of reputable hypnotherapists—virtually all of them—would say that what you have presented to this court is outright fallacy?”

Boone stood up. “Leading the witness.”

Sprockett overruled.

“They haven’t seen what I’ve seen,” said the frustrated doctor.

“Let me put this in the form of a question to appease Mr. Boone.” Dooley tucked in his shirt beneath his jacket and glanced at our table. “How would most every single professional hypnotherapist—besides you—react if he or she were told that a person under hypnosis is a slave who will automatically do whatever he or she is instructed to do by the hypnotist?”

“It’s not that simple,” said Golde.

“Answer the question, Doctor,” said the pit bull.

“Most would not agree.”

“Isn’t it true they would passionately disagree?”

“Yes, but…”

“This witness—his character and premise—tells us a little bit about Mr. Boone and Mr. Lester and how very desperate they’ve become. Where did they find Dr. Golde, underneath some—”

“That’s enough!” Boone stood and slammed his pen down on the table. “He’s harassing and argumentative.”

“That is enough, Mr. Dooley,” Sprockett said.

“That is enough,” Dooley mumbled as he walked toward his seat. “I can’t believe we’ve even had to broach this.”

As Dooley looked at Boone and me as he sat, I realized how much he hated me. It was in his eyes. Just like Endora. Just like Zaney. He wanted me out of commission.