Raven's Song

By Carol Gimbel

Ten years ago Stormy Wade survived a mothers worse nightmare, the loss of her only child.

Stormy, former policewoman and wife of prominent judge Lyle Wade, discovers fourteen-year-old Melody Streeter, the only eye witness to horrific crimes, is targeted by an underworld assassin. The girl sits defenseless in a jail cell. When there appears to be no other course of action, Stormy, determined to save Melody, springs the girl and the pair become the object of a nation-wide manhunt.

Stormy knew her actions would destroy the life she loves, as well as her husbands reputation. But she didnt foresee the complexity of eluding the law with a volatile contentious teen or that a diabolical serial killer would be closing in fast.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jun 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781512729610

Carol Gimbel

Carol Gimbel has been writing in some form most of her adult life. Her weekly cooking column appeared in an Oklahoma City newspaper for eight years. She is a frequent contributor to Guideposts magazine. During her career in radio she wrote countless ads and stories for the news department. It was during an interview with the district attorney on her daily talk show, This, That, and the Other, that the idea for Raven’s Song was born. She resides in Oklahoma City with her husband and two dogs. When she isn’t cooking, she’s usually reading, writing or riding. She’s crazy about horses.

Book preview

Chapter One

Moreover, no man knows when his hour will come.

As fish are caught in a cruel net

or birds taken in snares,

so men are trapped by evil times

that fall unexpectedly upon them.

Ecclesiastes 9:12 NIV

Stormy sensed the gun before she saw the flash of metal. She’d left the police force almost fifteen years ago, but once a cop always a cop. When she turned to look it was gone. Still there was no doubt in her mind. The wired guy in the corner was packing heat.

Oh, man! she grumbled. When I said ‘could this day get any worse,’ it was a rhetorical question, not a challenge.

It had started as a bad hair day and slid downhill, plummeting when she picked up her assignment, a fifteen-year-old with greasy hair. He wore a Metallica shirt emblazoned with a grotesque purple skull. When she’d questioned his choice of courtroom attire, he’d replied, You said to wear something clean. She eyed the stain splashed across the front, hoping it was catsup.

So far this kid seemed to have no redeeming qualities. She had a better chance of getting goat’s milk from a bull elephant than keeping him out of reform school, especially with William Ellsway presiding. The judge had a rep for being particularly tough on boys.

Circling the block four times before finding a parking place and then slogging another two blocks in the heat with the kid complaining all the way had done nothing to alleviate her rotten mood. At least he hadn’t bolted. Too dense to know he’d likely do time and too lazy to run, Stormy supposed.

Most of her charges were innocent children who needed protection from a system that failed them miserably, allowing them to slip through the cracks. This kid, the exception to the rule, caused her to question her sanity in becoming a Court Appointed Special Advocate.

Her Steve Madden sandals were cute, but not great for hiking. She’d just limped through the courtroom’s rear door when she noticed the guy with the gun. She’d been looking for the kid’s attorney but, as she suspected, he was a no-show. She nudged the boy into the second seat of the back row. She shrugged her purse off her shoulder and dropped it along with her briefcase onto the chair beside him and punched 9-1-1 into her cell. Nothing. Drat! She had forgotten to charge it last night. Again.

She looked for help. No guard at the rear door. Two uniformed officers chatted beside the front entrance as if they were on a first date. They wouldn’t have noticed a Boeing 747 landing in the hallway. The courtroom was packed. No chance to reach them in time.

Keep your mouth shut, and your paws out of my things, Stormy ordered, as she moved away from the kid. He grunted without looking up. Pulling a penknife from his pocket he began cleaning his fingernails.

She grabbed the knife and pocketed it. How did you get this past the metal detector? Was there no end to his stupidity? If your I.Q. ever hits fifty you should sell.

Stormy stepped out of her shoes and kicked them under the chair. As she inched along the rear wall she removed her earrings and slipped them into a jacket pocket. Glancing down at the skirt of her navy Chanel suit she groaned. Not good for flying tackles. Should have gone with the taupe pantsuit.

A crowd had gathered near the double doors at the rear, unaware that they blocked the path of people trying to get in and oblivious to the armed guy beside them. She edged up feigning interest in their conversation until she stood behind a man with breasts—or a woman with a beard. Normally she would have been curious; today she was just grateful for the cover of a hefty back.

Although the gunman was sweating like a 400-pound opera singer under a spotlight, he hadn’t removed his trench-coat. The wrinkled coat failed to make a Frank Sinatra fashion statement. He needed a shave but the military haircut saved him from looking homeless.

She put him at forty. Middle-aged, tan pants and the coat, medium brown hair, medium height, medium build, medium everything. He’d be hard to ID in a lineup. Except for the grimace. The guy’s face contorted with the effort of containing rage, desperation, pain, or whatever else chewed on him. A nerve jerked along his jaw as he mumbled to himself. He’d probably suffered some kind of trauma recently; loss of home, job, or a loved one. Grief—loss of dreams—could do strange things to people. And make them do strange things.

Stormy was certain of one thing. He was an amateur. Too tightly wound to be a cold-blooded professional killer. He was more dangerous and unpredictable. His eyes, wide and wild, searched the courtroom for his target.

The doors opened and His Honor William J. Ellsway swept in.

All rise, the bailiff intoned. Court is now is session with the Honorable Judge William Ellsway presiding. People shuffled to their feet.

Every muscle in the gunman’s body tensed like a coiled rattler. His eyes narrowed following the judge to his bench.

Bingo, Stormy whispered.

The massive bench rose eight feet from the ridiculously expensive marble floor. Stormy had always thought both were a waste of taxpayer’s money and served as a pretentious monument to Ellsway’s vanity. When perched behind it even a little weasel such as Barney Fife look-alike Judge Ellsway cut an imposing figure.

Ellsway swelled in stature, well aware he had the attention of everyone in the room, especially those whose future hinged on the decisions he alone would make today. Few things are more dangerous than a peon with power, Stormy thought, except maybe that guy in the far corner. She inched closer.

Ellsway made a big production of settling himself and arranging his robe, milking the drama of his entrance as long as possible.

Guess I’m not the only one who can’t stand the jerk. She closed in on the armed guy.

Her personal grudge against Ellsway wasn’t one-sided. The judge had launched a vendetta against Stormy and her husband, Lyle Wade, when Lyle had been appointed District Judge—an appointment which Ellsway thought he had in the bag. Although that happened years ago, Ellsway still seethed that a younger man with less experience had bested him.

As people settled back into their seats Trench-coat left his spot beneath the unfinished portrait of George Washington and began moving forward.

Stormy fell in behind him. Her concern that she might be noticed was unfounded. The guy had Ellsway in his crosshairs. He stopped at the second row and inched his way toward the center of the row. Her eyes glued to him, Stormy hugged the third row. Pushing past those seated, she stumbled over and stepped on feet. No time for apologies.

The gunman found a spot he liked and stopped.

Stormy followed suit. She needed a higher vantage point. Without taking her eyes off the shooter she stepped up on the chair behind her ignoring the oversized woman occupying it.

What do you think you’re doing? the woman yelped. Step on me again and I’ll cram that foot down your throat.

I’m a little busy here …. Stormy spared a quick glance behind her. The woman would have made a fine Steelers linebacker. An over-sized head rested on shoulders three feet wide with no visible neck. Her eyes—glittery slits—were lost in the folds of her cheeks.

Ellsway, distracted by orange-clad prisoners ambling into the courtroom, failed to notice Stormy’s balancing act. Until now. Satisfied that the prisoners were in place Ellsway’s gaze swept the room and locked on Stormy. Her left foot was planted on the edge of one chair. The other foot pressed into a leg the size of a large ham. In a desperate effort to stay upright her hands grabbed air.

Mrs. Wade, Ellsway barked, squinting through tiny glasses that bobbed on his nose like a jockey on a skittish thoroughbred, "what are you doing?"

Pulling the weapon from his pocket, the gunman whirled around to face Stormy. She stared down the barrel of the gun and inhaled sharply. A Glock. Well, of course. One shot from that and she wouldn’t be appearing on Dancing with the Stars anytime soon. That metal detector must be totally fried. While that thought registered, the gunman changed his mind and swung back to confront the judge. Planting his feet he took aim holding the gun with both hands.

People nearby saw the gun and screamed. The woman chose that moment to shove Stormy off her lap, throwing her forward. Off-balance and with no time to collect herself, Stormy fell onto the shooter’s back as the gun fired. The explosion was deafening. The momentum of her fall propelled her and the shooter across the first row. As he went down he got off another shot in Ellsway’s direction. With a thud they landed on the floor. The third shot hit the floor and bounced who knows where. Stormy had no idea if anyone was hit and no time to look. She grabbed the assailant’s left wrist with both hands and slammed it onto the floor. The gun popped from his grasp and slid out of reach.

Grab the gun! Stormy shouted in the direction of a uniform. She was relieved to see that it wasn’t Jim, the ancient bailiff usually positioned there. This guy could be helpful.

She pulled the gunman’s arm behind him. Be still, she cautioned. It’s been awhile since I’ve used this hold. I’m supposed to do it without breaking bones but sometimes I forget.

The courtroom erupted into a scene from Titanic. Screaming people stampeded over each other in an effort to escape. Even above the ringing in her ears from the gunshots Stormy heard the woman behind her squealing like a butchered hog.

The shooter tried to jerk away. Stormy checked him with a deft move. In a conversational tone, as though inquiring if he‘d like sugar in his tea, she said, I told you, I’m no good at this. I’m really quite embarrassed.

Within seconds the bailiff was at her side. He handed the gun to a deputy. I should be doing this, he said pulling cuffs from his belt.

Stormy caught his eye. The heat in her expression would blister paint. Ya think?

He raised his palms in surrender. But you seem to have things under control.

She caught the cuffs he tossed to her and snapped them onto the shooter’s wrists.

Stormy scrambled to her feet and examined her ripped skirt and skinned knee. Where’s Jim? she asked. Not that I’m sorry to see you—whoever you are. She glanced around to see if any bullets connected. Ellsway seemed fine. She had mixed feelings about that.

Jim went to see about his mother.

His mother? There’s a living being older than Jim? Good grief. I have to find out what vitamins she takes.

They’re doing wonders with taxidermy these days. He hauled the gunman to his feet and pushed him toward the deputies who had finally materialized from the crowd. About time, he grumbled. Glad you boys could make it.

Order! Order in this court! Ellsway bellowed, banging his gavel.

Stormy feared for the gavel’s safety. The incessant banging was having little effect. People shoving their way out the double doors at the back were blocked by the media rushing in. Her client was probably gone, along with her laptop and purse, and Ellsway had yet to notice the bullet lodged in the wall inches from his right ear.

The hand she extended to the bailiff shook a bit. The reality of what had just happened was settling in. I’m Stormy Wade. Thanks for your help.

You’re Judge Wade’s wife. He gave her a quick appraising glance. I heard you were a spitfire. I’m C.J. Cole. My friends call me Cole.

I guess I qualify as a friend, after today, Stormy said. Spitfire? Is that what they’re calling me these days? She rubbed a sweaty palm against her skirt. Could be worse.

I’d say so. Cole watched guards lead the would-be assassin from the courtroom.

Ellsway leaned precariously over the edge of the bench. What’s going on?

Stormy turned to look at him. Good grief. Justice really is blind.

Evidently. Cole pointed to her knee. You’re bleeding.

Yeah. I’m not too graceful. Wish I’d paid more attention in ballet class.

I hope you don’t mind me saying you don’t look like the ballet type.

Mom kept trying to turn me into a girl. I was raised with boys.

I guess she had her work cut out for her. Is she the one who named you Stormy?

Stormy shook her head. My daddy is a pastor. He began calling me Stormy when I failed to outgrow the terrible two’s. The name on my birth certificate is Paula Jo."

Cole raised an eyebrow. You’re a preacher’s kid?

Yeah.

That must have been interesting. Pastors live in gold-fish bowls.

And parishioners feel they have an obligation to point out every shortcoming in his family. I kept them busy.

Judge Ellsway continued to bang his gavel. Order in the court, he bellowed. I will have order in this court!

Good luck with that, Stormy said, amused by his frustration.

She was suddenly mobbed by media. Television news crews were setting up lights and cameras. The reporters, shoving microphones in her face, weren’t sure what had happened but knew the action centered around Stormy.

Mrs. Wade, what is going on? Ellsway demanded.

Nearly blinded by flashing lights, Stormy squinted up at him. I just saved your pompous posterior—Your Honor.

Chapter Two

Lyle Wade pulled his attention from the television screen back to his wife. He’d watched Stormy rearranging food for the last twenty minutes and she was not a picky eater. As his grandmother used to say, Stormy could out-eat a field hand. Granny had always admired a girl with a healthy appetite.

You aren’t eating much, he said, finally stating the obvious.

Not hungry, I guess. I’m still wired and my hip hurts. I think I pulled a muscle.

I’m not surprised. He refilled her wine glass. You need a long hot bath. I’ll fill the tub for you.

Not just yet. I’d rather be here with you. She smiled. That smile never failed to make his heart skip a beat. Tonight, by candlelight, Stormy looked even more beautiful than she had at their wedding twenty-three years ago. Lyle’s attention returned to the television in time to see Stormy surrounded by reporters, recounting the shortcomings of William Ellsway. He brought the sound back up.

….Well, obviously, some village is missing its idiot…..

You just had to say that with a TV camera in your face?

I couldn’t see the camera—or anything else, for that matter. She leaned back and sipped her wine. Why was the media even there?

The mayor’s son was arrested again for drunk driving last night.

Is he ever going to get his act together?

It was a rhetorical question. Her attention had already reverted to the TV.

The announcer was saying, We caught up with Wade’s husband, District Judge Lyle Wade, and asked if his wife’s heroic efforts surprised him.

Heroic efforts? Stormy grinned.

That’s my girl.

The picture cut away from the perky blond anchorwoman to Lyle who was leaning back in his office chair, hands clasped behind his head.

Wow, they certainly had to chase you down, Stormy hooted. That must have been exhausting.

Lyle made a face. I’d been out. They followed me back into my office. The truth was when the story broke he had been at the television station recording a PSA. He saw some of the uncut footage before the film crew pieced it together. He’d heard everything she’d said about Ellsway. So had they. Thank goodness they cut the worse stuff. He shook his head. That girl’s mouth was going to get them both in trouble someday. He would talk to her about that, but not tonight. Tonight he was just glad she was still alive.

Shush, Stormy waved a hand in his direction, I want to hear what this guy thinks about his wife’s heroic efforts.

No. I’m not surprised by anything that girl does, Lyle said to the camera. I’ve known her all her life. She’s the little sister of one of my best friends. She’s tagged after us since she could walk. She could outrun, and outfight any of us. It was embarrassing. The only thing that surprises me is the shooter wasn’t carried out on a stretcher.

Good answer, Stormy said. Spoken like a long-winded judge.

Lyle faked a frown.

The TV reporter chuckled. Can she still do all that?

Don’t know. I tread softly, just in case. He added, I’m proud of her.

So, the reporter asked, You married your childhood sweetheart?

Had to. She cornered me. My girlfriends were scared of her. Lyle winked. You’ve seen her in action.

You dated wimps. Stormy clicked the screen into silence.

Has Ellsway thanked you for saving his life?

No. When he finally realized what happened, he shook so hard his teeth chattered. His wife sent flowers to my office though. Stormy wrinkled her nose. How does she stand him?

I’m not sure she does. I hear they’re having marital problems.

Probably religious differences. Stormy yawned. He thinks he’s God and she doesn’t.

Lyle noticed the dark circles under her eyes. Take off tomorrow and recuperate.

Gold hoops glowed in the candlelight when she shook her head. Can’t. But I have an easy day tomorrow. Trojan isn’t scheduled back in court until Thursday.

Trojan? I thought that goofy kid’s name was Mervin.

He likes to be called Trojan.

Why?

He saw it on a dispenser in the men’s restroom and thought it sounded cool.

Lyle almost choked. Shame his father didn’t use one.

Stormy shook her head. Hard to believe the sperm that made that kid beat out a million others. But at least he didn’t steal my purse and laptop.

You take your blessings where you can find them, I guess. Lyle rose and pulled Stormy to her feet. Come on, let’s get you a bath and put you to bed.

* * * *

Lyle woke with a start when Stormy screamed. She was sitting upright in bed, eyes wide, arms outstretched, hands grasping for something only she could see. Raven! she screamed, No! Baby Girl, come back!

Wake up, honey, Lyle crooned, you’re okay.

No, Stormy wailed, No …. She burst into sobs and buried her face in Lyle’s chest.

I’ve got you, Lyle whispered, It’s all over. It’s just a dream. He held her close and rocked her until her sobs subsided into sniffles.

She pulled away and looked up at him. It was so real.

Raven is gone, Babe.

Gone, she whispered. I know. Her eyes wild, desperate, glittered in the dark.

Come on, lay down. Go back to sleep.

She allowed him to ease her back down beside him.

Rage swelled in Lyle’s chest. Although he had the power to mete out life-changing decisions in his courtroom, he had been powerless to protect his wife from the situation which blindsided them both that day so long ago. One thing he knew for sure. Time does not heal all wounds.

Chapter Three

William Ellsway glared at the phone as if it were at fault for not ringing. When it finally did, the sound startled him in the late-night stillness. He dove for it, scattering piles of papers on his desk which drifted to the floor like Mt. St Helens—act two.

Hello. Mac? Ellsway cringed at the weakness he heard in his own voice. He sounded like a scared third grader. Self-loathing coursed through him. Talking to Mac always had that effect on him. He had to get a grip.

Yeah. What’s so urgent that it can’t wait till morning?

I want out.

Oh. That again.

I was almost killed today.

The voice on the other end made a scoffing noise.

Seriously, Ellsway said. Some guy just walked in off the street and tried to shoot me—in my own courtroom.

Pretty brazen. Who?

Name is Lancaster. I can’t imagine what he would have against me… .

Lancaster? As in Sarah Lancaster? I would think you would remember sweet little Sarah." His laugh was a low rumble.

Sarah? Of course. But….

If he’s Sarah’s father, he has plenty against you.

Uh, yeah, but I thought she had no family.

None of the girls you send me are supposed to have family. Come on, Willie Boy. I count on you to do your job. I don’t want girls that someone comes looking for.

Ellsway rubbed a sweaty palm on his pants leg. He hated Mac’s condescending tone even more than being called Willie Boy.

This operation is too big to let you trip up on some detail you overlooked.

Ellsway mopped the sweat on his forehead with his sleeve. Yeah, Mac, I know but if this guy is related to Sarah and he came after me, we’re in a lot of trouble here. He knows—something.

The silence was so venomous Ellsway could feel it in the back of his throat. He gulped.

There’s no room on my team for screw-ups, Bill.

Ellsway ran his tongue over dry lips. This is getting too close. I have family.

Yes, I know. How old is your daughter now? Is she photogenic?

Ellsway choked. You’ll never get your filthy hands on her!

Mac chuckled. Go to bed, Willie Boy. It’s late.

Listen, Mac, I’m telling you, you’ve got to get me out of this. If I go down, I’m taking you with me. If Lancaster nails me, I’m….

Excuse me? Mac’s voice lowered to a purr. I don’t like threats, Willie Boy. They make me real nervous.

No, no. Ellsway licked his lips. Of course not. But you’ve got to help me.

I don’t have to do anything.

Please.

That didn’t sound very convincing. You can do better than that.

Please, Mac, Ellsway said in a more placating tone.

That’s better. I’ll take care of Mr. Lancaster. Can you get Henri into the jail?

Henri? Yes, of course. Can you survive without your shadow?

I have other bodyguards, Mac said. They just don’t have Henri’s many talents. He’s, uh, a very gifted assassin.

His looks alone would scare someone to death. Ellsway took a deep breath. He began to feel a bit better. Have him come to the alley door. What time should I expect him?

Chapter Four

Because she’d hardly slept, Stormy had difficulty waking