Ramona Richards » books

Murder in Progress

admin — Fri, 09 Sep 2011 19:20:37 +0000

Lindsey Presley stared at the blond man confronting Deputy Jeff Gage, her every nerve suddenly on edge. Reaching behind her, Lindsey double-checked that the front door to her restaurant remained firmly locked. She hugged the night deposit bag tighter. She prayed she was wrong. After all, the young man didn’t look that different from other young people in the area. Clean shaven, short hair, t-shirt, jeans. Barely more than a kid. Average. Normal. Except for that vintage orange 1968 Pontiac GTO that waited behind him. Its front door stood open, waiting. Its motor idled with the distinctive rumble of a pampered muscle car. Lindsey blinked hard, distracted as the kid shook his left hand out to one side, as if trying to fling a bug from it. His right hand remained hidden behind his hip. Go back inside. This isn’t right. A street-wise instinct honed in her childhood urged Lindsey to flee behind closed doors. There a kitchen bristled with knives she could use for defense. But that instinct fought with her reluctance to leave the sheriff’s deputy who stood between her and the young man. Jeff had sworn to protect her on the nightly deposit runs to the bank and had done exactly that. During those short rides to the bank, they’d become casual friends. She didn’t want to abandon him. She wouldn’t. Friends don’t do that. And the guy still hasn’t done anything wrong. Logic told her to wait; her gut told her to run. Jeff, who had been waiting for her at the foot of the front steps, also seemed to sense something odd about the way the young man had slid the GTO into the parking lot after closing time. He stood with his back stiff, feet apart and firmly planted, his hand on his gun. On guard and wary. The man’s left hand shook harder, and Lindsey’s muscles tensed. Now, she thought. It’s going to happen now. What do I do? Trip the alarm. The thought startled her, but she immediately knew it was the right thing to do. Turning, she thrust her key in the lock, twisted it, and cracked open the door. If she didn’t close it or enter the code inside within thirty seconds, the alarm would sound. “Sir, you need to leave.” Jeff’s firm command echoed over the empty parking lot. Lindsey pivoted around to watch them. “The restaurant is closed.” The man shook his head, now holding his left hand high and smiling broadly. “I understand. I understand. I just need directions. I drove all the way from . . . from Chicago. Trying to find a girl I met online. Just a girl.” He stepped forward, as if to go around Jeff. Jeff blocked his path. He glanced warily up at the kid’s left hand. “Where are you going?” The blond never responded. Instead, he swung his right arm around from behind his back. The stun gun he held ground into Jeff’s chest. With a stark cry of pain, Jeff dropped to the asphalt, his body twisting in spastic seizures. “No!” Lindsey screamed. She dashed down the steps toward them, throwing the money bag at the man. “Take it!” She lunged toward Jeff. She never reached him. Fire shot through her skull as the man grabbed her by the hair, yanking her backward. He punched her in the solar plexus. Lindsey’s breath stopped and spots danced in front of her eyes as she collapsed. Her assailant slung her over the hood of the GTO, cursing under his breath as the alarm blared through the night, the sirens radiating off every wall in the neighborhood. Lindsey fought for air as he yanked her arms behind her. Plastic ties cut deep into her skin as he secured her wrists. Finally drawing a raspy gasp, Lindsey tried to scream again, but a sharp blow to her ribs cut it off as she curled in agony. He snapped her ankles together, wrapping the ties around them. He tossed her over one shoulder, her small frame no burden at all to him. He bent to scoop up the money, then kicked Jeff twice as he passed the struggling deputy. Once in the side, then his boot struck the back of Jeff’s skull with a sickening crack. Jeff went limp. Lindsey found more breath. “No!” She bucked against the man, but he ignored her, shoving her unceremoniously into the back seat of the GTO. “Scream away, Darlin’. No one will hear you over this baby.” The blond got in and gunned the engine. The fine-tuned rumble exploded into a roar that split the night air. The orange car spit loose gravel and smoke bellowed from beneath its tires as it spun out of the parking lot less than five minutes after it had pulled in. Lindsey pushed herself around, still fighting to breathe normally, regularly. Not an easy task—pain throbbed through her ribs and head. She struggled against her bonds, without success. Sweat coated her back and legs where they pressed against the vinyl backseat of the car. The fury and adrenaline that seared through her made Lindsey’s mind spin. Her muscles trembled, but terror and pain kept her sane and focused as the last few minutes played over and over in her head. Lord, how do I get out of this? Help me. Lindsey twisted until she could see her attacker over the low, split front seat of the GTO. His pasty face glowed in the glare of oncoming headlights, and rivulets of water dripped out of the man’s hair and trailed down his cheeks and neck. He’s sweating! Despite the open front windows and light chill of the early fall night, the blond’s hair remained plastered to his scalp. He fidgeted, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and squirming in his seat. He pulled a slip of paper from his shirt pocket to check it, mumbling directions to himself. Over the roar of the engine, Lindsey barely caught the words, “Must be ten twenty-three. Go slow. Careful. Left after three miles.” He shoved the paper back in his pocket. He let up on the gas, and the car slowed. He’s going to turn. Leave the main road. Lindsey knew the road he planned to take. It ran deep into an almost impenetrable woodland. In that second’s realization, Lindsey knew she was about to die. No! Her mind screamed the word, and in pure desperation, a rough idea formed in her mind. He’ll be focused on the turn, the other cars. An insane idea. As Lindsey slowly shifted her body into position, more words reached her ears, words repeated over and over. “Must be ten twenty-three. Must be ten twenty-three.” Lindsey frowned, then blinked the words away. She must get ready, no matter how crazy it seemed. You can do this. You can do this! Pushing over on her back, she ignored the agony in her hands as she braced her shoulders against the middle of the seat and cautiously drew her knees up to her chest. Her short, petite frame let her curl into a tight ball, and Lindsey had never felt so grateful for being so short—or for taking that Pilates class her sister had insisted on. Still mumbling the numbers, the blond braked the car suddenly, shouting at an oncoming vehicle to get out of the way. As he stamped on the accelerator again, heading the car into the left turn, Lindsey shrieked with all her might. Startled, the man’s head snapped around to glare at her, just as she kicked both legs with as much strength as she had, thrusting her thick-soled, restaurant-durable shoes directly at his face. His scream matched hers as blood shot from his crushed nose. He jerked, twisting the wheel to the right, veering the car out of the turn and straight toward the corner where the two roads met. He never had a chance to touch the brakes as the orange GTO crashed through the guard rail and soared into the air. The engine howled as the tires left the road. Lindsey felt weightless, her body floating above the seat as the car arced into the ravine. Then the car plowed into the rock and dirt, landing grill down with a deafening sound of sheared metal and shattering glass. Lindsey plunged forward over the seat. Searing pain sliced through her as her shins hit the blond’s head, which slammed forward into the steering wheel with a sickening crack. She crashed into the windshield, then the dash, as the car thudded over on its right side. It slid another few yards before the weight of the engine pulled it upright again. Lindsey’s head thudded into the dash a second time, and the darkness of unconsciousness consumed her. * * * Jeff groaned as consciousness returned. Rocks and dirt bit into his cheek, and he tried to raise his head, which throbbed with a deep, unrelenting pain. Lindsey! Oh, dear God, what did he do to Lindsey? The silent air around him deepened his sense of panic. What happened to the alarms? He heard the crunch of hard soles on gravel and tried to push up, only to have a foot land in the middle of his back, shoving him back to the ground. With quick, efficient moves, the man plucked Jeff’s handcuffs off his belt and secured the deputy’s hands behind him. “Relax, boy. She’ll be dead before you can get to your feet.” Jeff clawed through his memory, trying to recognize the rough voice, but nothing popped. His brain felt as fried as his muscles. But Lindsey couldn’t be dead. She couldn’t. “No.” His voice croaked. The man bent closer but deftly stayed out of Jeff’s line of sight. “Oh, yes. You’re worthless, boy. If that woman were still alive, she’d hate you for abandoning her. Sheriff Taylor should fire you. And he will by the time we get through with you. We’ll be watching and waiting for the next chance to make you fail.” Jeff spit gravel out of his mouth and tried to speak. Then he heard the ominous buzz just before the spears of pain hit his shoulder. Lightning shots of current sheared through him again, and Jeff screamed in rage and agony. * * * Nothing smells like a wrecked car. Lindsey had been in more than one accident, and the smells always lingered in her memory. Hot oil, burnt rubber, gasoline, and stressed metal. Acidic smoke burned her nose. It had startled Lindsey to consciousness, but now she just wanted away from it. She tried to move, but a low moan escaped her instead, as each and every inch of her body felt battered and bruised. It was an old feeling, deep from within her childhood, and she pushed it away, mentally going over her body to survey her injuries. The coppery taste in her mouth and swollen cheek and lips meant a blow to the face, and the slick and sticky liquid coating her hands told her that the plastic ties had cut deep into her skin. Her right shoulder felt twisted. One ankle throbbed with an excruciating ache, but nothing felt broken. But worse than her injuries, Lindsey stared, face-to-face, at her attacker. Her small, limp frame had crumpled and wedged itself in the passenger floorboard. Unbelted, the blond man had toppled from behind the wheel when the car went up on its right side. He’d smashed head first into the passenger side window, then slid down in the seat as the car settled back on four wheels. Even unconscious and bleeding from two major head wounds, he felt menacing. Who are you? Ghostly pale, his round face still had a babyish quality to it, like a teenager. She’d never seen him before, and from Jeff’s reaction back at the restaurant, he hadn’t recognized him either. And Lindsey felt pretty certain that Deputy Jeff Gage knew just about everyone in Bell County. Jeff. Her thoughts flashed back to the restaurant, to the sight of Jeff lying unmoving on the ground. “Please, Lord,” she whispered. “Let him be OK.” In that moment, Lindsey realized she really wanted Jeff here, to see him, to know he was all right. For him to tell her everything would be OK. “Please. Get us out of this.” Out. I have to get out. Lindsey tried to move, to straighten out her legs, but she almost screamed from pain that shot through her muscles and joints. She gave up, taking comfort in the sound of someone scrambling around in the brush outside the car. “We’re here!” she called out. “Please help us!” A blinding light hit her face, and Lindsey grimaced, trying to turn away. “Hey!” “You’re supposed to be dead.” Lindsey stilled. “Who are you?” A gloved hand reached in through the passenger window and fumbled around the boy’s body. “Is he dead?” Fear seized Lindsey now, freezing her tongue. And old memory shot through her, one from her childhood. A voice that had made her stop in her tracks, unable to speak. Words so similar, Lindsey wondered if she were hallucinating. You’re supposed to be dead. Is she dead? She. Not he. Lindsey blinked hard, trying to clear the fog in her mind. Everything felt mixed up, the past and present like paint colors running together. Why can’t I remember! “No matter.” The hand kept pulling at the boy’s close until it found the shirt pocket. “If he’s not, he will be soon. I’ll see to it. Stupid . . . deserves to die for wrecking this car. What a waste. Beautiful machine.” Fingers clawed into the pocket, plucking the piece of paper from it. “And for not completing his job with you.” The street-savvy kid that still lived deep inside Lindsey reacted instinctively, and she twisted hard, shoving herself deeper beneath the dash. She screamed just as the light swung, smashing into the spot her head had been. The light shattered and went out. Sirens split the night air, and the man cursed under his breath, backing away from the car. “We’re not done with you. We’re around every corner.” As he crashed away through the brush, Lindsey sobbed. Who are you?

Book Review: Waxing Poetic about Peace

Ramona — Wed, 20 Jan 2010 07:02:55 +0000

Welcome to my book review space – every other Wednesday I plan to post my thoughts on a book I’ve read. These may or may not take the form of a “real” review: summary followed by skilled evaluation.

Sometimes I may just “wax poetic” because a book moves my heart, whether or not it’s a “great” book. We all have our guilty pleasures, and the overall quality may not matter as much as how much I fall in love with the hero or think the heroine could be a good friend. After all, I’m always going to cheer when Lynryd Skynryd breaks into “Sweet Home Alabama” (my home state) and melt whenever Han Solo comes flying out of the sun.

I’m just a softie.

If you’d like to suggest a book, I’m open, but I’m not going to be soliciting new releases. I only have 24 slots a year, and I want to feature books I love. Mostly new books, yes, and mostly inspirational fiction, but occasionally, I’ll indulge in a book of the heart. As a result, I want to start this with a book recommended by someone I respect a great deal, agent Sandra Bishop.

In a recent post on Chip MacGregor’s blog, Sandra made this comment: “And as much as I love Steinbeck, Leif Enger’s Peace Like a River replaced Tortilla Flats as my all-time favorite novel.”

Until that moment, I’d never heard of Mr. Enger’s book.

I had no idea what I was missing. I finished it a few weeks ago, and I barely waited for this post to gush about it. Not only is this a book of the heart; it’s a work of enduring quality that’s sure to entrance readers for generations to come.

The storyline is deceptively simple. Set in Minnesota during the early 1960s, the story follows its 11-year-old asthmatic narrator, Reuben Land, through a coming of age story that grows from the choices his family makes: mostly his eccentric, highly spiritual father’s decision to give up medicine for the life of a small-town school janitor and his older brother’s choice to take revenge on the town bullies then flee town.

Yeah, not my kind of tale. I never would have picked it up on my own. Good thing I value Sandra’s opinion.

Reading Peace Like a River is akin to diving into a wondrous world of unforgettable imagery, characters that imbed themselves skin and nail into your soul, and a tale that will make you believe in miracles all over again. I didn’t want it to stop, but Mr. Enger draws it to such a real, inevitable, and satisfying conclusion that I released it with a sigh. It’s a glorious reminder that “Christian worldview” isn’t a category. It’s a way of life; a way of telling your story that has as much to do with the author as the characters that emerge from the tale.

And it’s a first novel.

I share Sandra’s high opinion of the book (obviously), although I can honestly say it didn’t usurp the #1 book in my head. That place was grabbed when I was only 14 and never relinquished. Someday, I may talk about that one. For now, I can only offer up a book that will live long in the memory of anyone who slips between its covers.

Peace Like a River
Leif Enger
Paperback: Atlantic Monthly Press
ISBN-13: 978-0802139252
$13.95

A Moment with God for Single Parents

admin — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 19:07:33 +0000

This handy collection contains 58 prayers that address common life experiences and concerns of single parents. Each contemporary prayer is accompanied by Scripture, making the book appropriate for use in personal or group devotions.

Chicken Soup for the Caregiver’s Soul

admin — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 18:49:33 +0000

(from An Act of Desperation) Within the space of four hours, I had been told that my daughter would die within two days, and I had received notice that a dear friend had been killed that morning. It was too much. I literally collapsed. When Phyllis, my daughter’s nurse, arrived a short time later, she found me sitting on the floor next to Rachel’s bed, unable to move. After making sure Rachel was comfortable, she sat down on the floor with me and persuaded me to talk. She listened as my tears poured out, along with the news. Phyllis, who has been Rachel’s caregiver for the past four years, has a special bond with my child. Even though Rachel cannot speak, she and Phyllis have developed their own way of communicating – even fighting. Her devotion to Rachel goes above and beyond, and Phyllis has become part of our family. As a single mother, I’m very dependent on Phyllis’s help with Rachel, and I knew losing her was going to hit Phyllis hard as well. As my tears dried, we talked about what to do next, and decided that the most important thing was to make Rachel as comfortable as possible. We gave her something for pain, hooked her up to her oxygen tank, then turned her on her side, even though it was not her favorite position. Rachel could no longer cough, so we just wanted to make sure that any fluids from her nose and throat wouldn’t choke her. Phyllis stood over the bed for a few moments, stroking her, then started looking around the room. “What do you need?” I asked. She stood still for a moment, then said, “Food.” Phyllis is strong woman, who works part time on a tobacco farm. She’s led a tough life, and it has made her both loving and practical. I was surprised, but she pushed me toward the door. “I have an idea,” she said, “and you need to get out of the house. Take a break, go get some fast food for us. The next few days aren’t going to be easy. Go.” I was still not functioning on all burners, so I went, letting the sun wash over me as I drove the three blocks to a restaurant. I ordered the take out and went home, my mind still very much on my friend, her family, and what I was about to face with Rachel. Then I walked in my front door, to find that my living room had been transformed. Phyllis had rolled up her sleeves, a sure sign that a lot of action was about to take place. She’d pushed the furniture out of the center of the room and had turned one of my straight-backed chairs upside down in the middle. Padding it with a comforter and cushions left over from the last adjustments to Rachel’s wheelchair, she’d created a steep A-frame support, with the back legs of the chair forming the peak. Rachel was lying face down across the frame, her hips braced between the legs of the chair and her head pointed toward the floor at a sharp angle. She looked up at me and grunted. “What’s going on?” I asked. Phyllis was in the process of starting our cool-air mister. “She can’t cough. So I thought that maybe gravity could give us a little help making her comfortable. It’s probably not medically advisable, but what exactly do we have to lose?” I walked over and looked down at my daughter. Her face and chest were on a towel, which was already showing signs of dampness. “How long can she stay like this?” Phyllis plugged in the mister, then started dragging Rachel’s aerosol machine over toward the chair. “We probably shouldn’t leave her for more than 30 minutes at a time. I thought we’d do her albuterol treatment here, then chest percussion. If we can suction some of that crap out of her, it might help her sleep.” I unwrapped the food as I watched Phyllis go to work on Rachel, not just with the professionalism of a nurse but the love of a caregiver – and a friend. The next three days became a blur….

Secrets of Confidence

admin — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 18:48:33 +0000

(Introduction)

Every woman alive has felt hesitant and nervous at some point. We worry intensely about a variety of things from our families to our jobs, and while it is human nature to want to succeed, achieve, and triumph over obstacles, we live in a culture that tells us we should be able to do this out of our own talents and abilities. So when we fail, when we can’t move forward on our own efforts, we feel defeated and hopeless. The devotions in this book are designed to show women that the true source of confidence lies only with God. While our own strength will fail us, He never will. When terror overwhelms us, He is there, letting us know that He is greater than anything the world can throw at us. There is an old hymn that tells us: I sing because I’m happy, I sing because I’m free. His eye is on the sparrow, And I know He watches me. The God who sees every sparrow, the God who sent His Son to die for us, will give us hope and confidence to face anything.

Confidence in Action

Abigail When Abigail saw David, she quickly got off her donkey and bowed down before David with her face to the ground. She fell at his feet and said: “My lord, let the blame be on me alone. Please let your servant speak to you; hear what your servant has to say. 1 Samuel 25:23-24 NIV How many women have the confidence to believe they could stop an army? Abigail of Maon, married to Nabal, lived in a culture in which women had little social or legal power. Her own talents would have been focused on her home, not the court or the battlefield. Yet, while Abigail would have been seen as little more than the wife of a fool by her society, she was far from powerless. Scripture describes her as intelligent and beautiful, and even her husband’s servants relied on her wisdom when Nabal put the household at risk with his foolish pride. The reason was that Abigail had a secret weapon: God. Faced with the news than an angry king was leading an equally enraged army toward her home, she didn’t hesitate. Trusting in God’s protection--and in her belief that David was indeed a man after God’s own heart--she confronted the king and begged him to hear her. She appealed to his own belief in God’s mercy and judgment, and she asked him to let God deal with Nabal. Abigail had the intelligence and wisdom to know what to do, but her confidence to put her knowledge into action had only one source--the same source every believing woman can draw on. Standing on a mountain path, with only food-laden donkeys at her back, Abigail was at the complete mercy of David’s rage. He could have killed her without question and gone on to slaughter her family and servants. As he most likely would have had she not had the courage to intervene. Her belief in God, however, gave her the confidence to stand up in front of four hundred men and declare that letting God lead was a better path to follow. The result must have astonished the king’s men. David listened to this humble woman, overwhelmed by her confidence and wisdom. His rage vanished; he called her blessed. After Nabal died, David further rewarded her by making Abigail his wife. No matter what our gifts and talents, they are made even more powerful when put into action under God’s guidance. Trusting Him, believing in His power within us, gives all believers the confidence to take action.

Courage to Endure

For examples of patience in suffering, dear brothers and sisters, look at the prophets who spoke in the name of the Lord. We give great honor to those who endure under suffering. Job is an example of a man who endured patiently. From his experience we see how the Lord's plan finally ended in good, for he is full of tenderness and mercy. James 5:10-11 NLT From a very early age, Shelley Hendrix felt a call to share the Lord with those around her. She realized that her true value comes from a deep and abiding relationship with Christ, and the love with which God had filled her heart made her ache to help others, especially women and young girls, understand how their worth is centered in Him. Shelley’s path toward this goal, however, has not been an easy one. The trials that she experienced--that most of us experience sooner or later--shook her to the core. In her own words, she explains how the agonies of life threatened to shake her confidence in God and her own ministry, and how the words of James helped her look to the Bible for guidance--and role models. “In my calling to be a woman of God, I often find myself struggling with the painful events that the Lord, in His goodness, allows to come into my life. There is so much temptation in those times to lose confidence in God and to turn to my own resources to make life unfold in a way that would be more pleasant for me. There are so many different forms of suffering in the life of a believer. “Through the painful events in my life—divorce, miscarriages, relationship struggles and simply living in a sin-cursed world—I have been able to maintain confidence in the Lord and in His working in my life as a result of the truths of who He is and who He says I am as His daughter. And because I am His child, all of His resources are available to me. “He is good and He does good (Psalm 119:68). I can trust in Him confidently because of His good character. And, looking back at Job and the other prophets, and even those believers whose names are not found in the pages of Scripture, I can see in their lives ‘the Lord’s plan finally ended in good,’ and take as truth for myself, that He has an end intended for my struggles and pain as well—that in my life He is ‘full of tenderness and mercy.’ “How could I not trust Him?”

Confidence from Encouraging Others

You yourself have done this plenty of times, spoken words that clarify, encouraged those who were about to quit. Your words have put stumbling people on their feet, put fresh hope in people about to collapse. Job 4:3-4 MSG “I don’t think I can do this.” Elaine sat in the car, refusing to get out. I struggled with what to say, saying a little prayer for guidance. “What are you afraid of?” She shrugged. “I’m not sure it’s fear. More like the embarrassment that makes you clean the house before the maid comes.” She paused. “I feel like I should lose weight before joining a gym.” I almost laughed. Elaine had struggled with her weight for years, and here we were, about to go into a gym for the first time in more than twenty years. Elaine, however, now faced her fear of humiliation, in her words, “of being an old fat lady in front of all those young, hard bodies and skinny girls.” It seemed trivial to both of us, given the much larger issues in our lives. But Elaine’s fear was real, and it threatened to be crippling, preventing her from making a much-needed change in her life. She needed encouragement; I wanted to offer to her the same help she’d so often given me in the past. It was then that this passage from Job came to mind, when Eliphaz reminds Job that he had so often encouraged his friends in the past, when their doubts had led them away from God. His words had helped them stay on the right path. “Do you remember,” I asked Elaine, “telling me over and over that I’m beautiful in the eyes of God, no matter what people here think?” She cut her eyes toward me. She didn’t want to hear this. I grinned. “Your advice has always helped me, when I had problems thinking straight, especially about God. You are one of the most confident women I know, about everything but this. You told me that confidence lies in God. Yes?” Reluctantly, Elaine nodded. “So why is it you think He’ll support you with your hardest tasks, but not give you the confidence to do something as simple as walking into a gym?” We sat in the dark for a long time, as Elaine stared out over the parking lot clustered with cars. “I guess,” she said finally, “if he can help David and Job through their darkest times, he can help me face a few skinny girls.” We got out, thankful that God could give us the confidence to tackle any task, no matter how big . . . or small.

Heavenly Humor for the Woman’s Soul

admin — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 18:47:30 +0000

Need a good laugh? Who doesn’t? Find mirth and spiritual refreshment in Heavenly Humor for the Woman’s Soul, a devotional drawn from well-known and up-and-coming humorists. Seventy-five readings tackle the real-life joys, trials, and embarrassments of women-giving each a hilarious twist. And every reading points you to the heavenly Father who knows all about you-and loves you completely.

House of Secrets

admin — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 16:27:32 +0000

“Ray, I did not kill Pastor David.” June Presley Eaton tried to swallow her fear as well as the lump of grief in her throat. Her upraised hands trembled, and she felt the phone clutched in her left hand slip. I have to maintain control. June lifted both hands a bit higher and forced her voice lower. “I found him. I wanted to help.” Please, Lord, let him believe me. It was a desperate prayer, and June fought a tightening sense of panic. She had a dead pastor lying at her feet and, she was pretty certain, the county sheriff and his deputies at her back, guns drawn. Without turning, June wagged the cordless phone in her hand. From it, the flattened and tinny screeches of the Bell County dispatcher bounced off the kitchen walls of the Victorian parsonage. “June Presley Eaton! Is that you? Don’t tell me you decided to upset Pastor Gallagher right before his big event! Someone already heard the fight and called us and Ray is on his way right now, and--” June snapped the off button with her thumb. “I just got here, Ray. I wasn’t the one fighting with him. There are footprints leading farther into the house. See them? And when I got here I could still hear someone back there.” The lump in her throat had eased, but the fear still bore into her, tensing every muscle in her lower back and sending a shudder up her spine. Please, Lord. No response came from the sheriff, however, and in the silence that followed, June knew that all of Ray’s instincts had kicked into gear. His brown eyes scanning the room, he’d assess the scene in front of him with that precise, military-trained way he had of observing everything quickly before making a judgment. He would calmly evaluate the crime scene while she stood over a dead body, covered in blood, hands raised, cops clustered at her back with their guns pointing at her. June knew only the phone in her hand kept her from looking like a suspect. She closed her eyes, praying that Ray would see the same thing she had as she’d approached the broad back porch of the White Hills Gospel Immanuel Chapel’s parsonage. Bloody footprints leading away from the door and out into the yard. That had been her cue to fly into the house, calling David Gallagher’s name. June had entered the kitchen, moving fast, and her sneaker-clad feet had hit the red pool gathering around David’s body before she could stop. She’d skidded and fallen forward, hitting the floor with a painful thud, her hands splashing down on either side of the butcher knife protruding from David’s side. Once June stopped screaming, she’d scrambled to her feet and lunged for the phone, barely having time to enter 9-1-1 before the screen door had banged open, and Ray’s command to “Freeze!” had brought everything to a standstill. In the silence, a fly buzzed around her blood-coated right hand. Trying to look over her shoulder, June struggled to speak in a quieter tone. Control. Stay in control. “Please, Ray. I’m a witness, not a suspect.” She took another deep breath, trying to sound much more dignified than she felt. “And please close that door. You’re letting the flies into the house.” No one moved. Then, after a few seconds that felt like at least a decade, Ray spoke, his baritone voice even and thoroughly professional. “Rivers. Gage. Clear the house.” Silently, two of Ray’s deputies moved past June and the pastor’s body into the main areas of the grand old Victorian. Over the next few minutes, their calls of “Clear!” echoed through the rooms. “Can I at least put my arms down?” “Why are you here, June?” “I came to confront David about what he’d said--” She broke off, suddenly realizing how suspicious that sounded. “About what?” Ray’s tone grew more agitated as he holstered his gun, stepped over David’s legs, and moved in front of her. “What did you need to confront him about?” June straightened her back and took the holstered gun for a sign she could lower her arms. “What he said yesterday morning from the pulpit.” The tension in Ray’s voice revealed his impatience. “About what?” “Hunter Bridges.” Silence reigned in the room again as Ray simply waited, eyes dark and demanding. June’s hands suddenly fluttered at her side, and she looked around for a place to put the phone, her words picking up speed. “Hunter Bridges is a canker sore on the face of this town and you know it. I don’t care how much David wants to see him in the state senate.” With no flat surface close enough, the phone grew heavy and awkward in her hand, and a wicked pain snapped through her head, making her grimace. “David’s implied before that I support Hunter, and I’ve politely asked him not to. He did it again yesterday morning, in front of the whole church, and I knew ‘polite’ just wasn’t going to cut it anymore.” “So you were here to yell at him. You were mad.” “Well, yes! Hunter’s awful, and I won’t have my name and his mixed up together.” She threw up a hand in front of her, then stopped, taking a deep breath to calm herself. “But I was too late. When I got here, I saw the bloody footprints on the porch, I ran in. I slipped . . .” She paused, pointing down at the floor. “I fell.” “Is that why you’re covered in his blood?” She nodded. Ray’s gaze on her held an intensity that aggravated her growing sense of panic. “But you didn’t kill him.” June’s knees began trembling, and she fought the urge to throw the phone at him. He’s doing his job. He has to push you. Don’t lose it! “No, I did not kill him. David and I have been disagreeing about Hunter Bridges for weeks. We’ve debated politics over coffee, over lunch. He wouldn’t give up trying to convince me. He just knew Hunter had great things ahead of him. I think Hunter should be locked in his law office and kept away from sharp objects.” She shook her head and pointed at a stack of political flyers lying on the kitchen counter. “I don’t know why David suddenly wanted to be politically active. He never had before. I thought he followed JR’s philosophy on keeping politics out of the church. But that’s his business. Then he started in on me to support Hunter because, for some unfathomable reason, he thinks people in this county still listen to me. I’d warned him that if he didn’t stop mixing my name with Hunter’s I was going to take out a full page ad in the paper explaining exactly what I thought of Hunter Bridges, his politics, and his mother. David thought I was stubborn, and I thought him politically naïve. That may be grounds for an argument but not murder.” “Wasn’t David hosting a political dinner tomorrow night?” “Yes, and he invited me. But I told him I’d rather chew glass than mingle politely and talk politics. You know I don’t like mixing politics with religion anymore than JR did.” The pain spiked under her scalp, and June pressed her palm to her forehead, trying to push the headache away. Her whole body seemed to quiver now, and she felt as awkward as a teenager at a new school. Even her voice held a tremor, and tears abruptly stung her eyes. “You know how hard JR worked to keep politics out of the church.” Ray’s low voice turned gentle. “Yes. Everyone knows.” June took a deep ragged breath and closed her eyes, trying to stave off the tears. Of course, everyone knows. David, why didn’t you follow his guidance? After three years, what changed? June tried to push away a sudden flood of memories of JR, from their wedding day in a tiny mountain chapel to the instant a heart attack took him from her—and the entire congregation. “Come back to me, June.” Ray’s voice, so low that it seemed to merely vibrate in his throat, urged June back from her memories. “Don’t retreat from this. Stay in control.” Ray’s soft bass tones resonated in an almost comforting way. “There’s a dead man at your feet, June. You’ve been trembling like a leaf since I walked in and you’re about to have the worst adrenaline headache of your life, if you don’t already. But you have to hang on to it, girl. We’ll get through this. I’ll get you through it.”

Field Of Danger

admin — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 14:07:34 +0000

Chapter One When the shotgun went off, April Presley dropped her thermos and screamed. Hearing her own scream scared her almost as much as the man with the gun did, and April clamped both hands over her mouth as she watched her next door neighbor, Levon Rivers, crumple in the middle of his newly plowed section of the field. Levon and his killer were almost 50 yards away, but even at that distance, April could see the blossom of red on Levon’s chest and a cold brace of fear flooded through her. Then another screech burst around her tightly clamped hands as the killer swung around to face her, his face a blurry mask of rage. Without hesitation, he lifted the gun and fired again. April ran. And the morning had started out so peacefully. As usual, April had spent her morning half on business and half on enjoying the luscious garden of flowers, herbs and vegetables behind her cottage. Since moving to the tiny town of Caralinda, Tennessee, April had found solace and a kind of spiritual comfort in her gardening. Levon, whose cornfield ran right up to the edge of April’s yard, had given her tips that had turned the wimpy cluster of plants into a thriving garden that filled the morning air with the scent of roses, lavender, sage, fuchsia, rosemary, and a whole forest of day lilies. In turn, April brought Levon a thermos of cold lemonade, every day that he worked in the field. She would hear his tractor or truck thumping down the field road that ran alongside her house. Around ten in the morning, she’d wend her way through his cornfield to wherever he worked. Lemonade in the mornings was her token of thanks, and delivering it was usually much more of a joy than a chore. Yet, today, she had barely stepped from between the dense rows of stalks when the shot rang out, her gesture of friendship suddenly putting her in the line of fire. April fled, grateful for high summer and a corn patch thick enough to hide her, grateful that she had walked this field enough with Levon to keep her footing among the dry ruts and clumps of earth. She knew how to keep her head low and her arms out to push away the sharp, green blades that slapped around her as she ran. She was especially grateful that a shotgun had a limited range. All these things stumped the killer, and April could hear his bellows of pain as he tried to run through the corn, then heard the blast that did little but rain shotgun pellets harmlessly over the field. Finally, April stopped, holding her sides and trying to catch her breath. She had outrun him, hidden. She could still hear him stomping about, raging through the corn, the noise growing closer, then moving away. He bellowed obscenities and demanded she show herself. She could stay hidden a long time in Levon’s expansive field, especially if he kept making a racket, but April knew if someone didn’t come, he’d continue to search. And eventually find her. April’s knees buckled, and she dropped to the ground. Adrenaline and fear fogged her mind and made her arms and legs tremble uncontrollably. She needed to rest, make a plan. Calm down, girl. She might be able to outwait him. Maybe. Lord, I need your help. Guide me out of this. Show me what I need to do. She drew her knees to her chest and hugged them to her, trying to still her quivering limbs. Otherwise . . . if no one else saw . . . how would she get out of the field without the killer seeing her? And had he seen her well enough to know who she was? These questions echoed in her mind as the hot air around her dried and caked the sweat on her skin. Her muscle tremors quieted, but her mind still swirled out of control, pushing her close to panic. She fought to sit still, to focus. Normally the smell of the ripening corn and tangy scent of the leaves refreshed her. Today, they were oppressive. The hard-packed earth absorbed the sun while the dense rows of corn blocked most of the wind, so April felt as if she were sitting in an oven. Her stomach growled, and she swallowed hard, wishing she’d held on to the thermos. What do I do now? The killer’s calls lessened, but she could still hear him, his words now muffled by the plants and the stifling air of midday. April closed her eyes, trying to plan. Her home and Levon’s bordered a field road south of these acres of corn, but the shooter still prowled between her and those points of safety. To the east lay the open field where the shooting had occurred, and west of her a narrow country road wandered through the landscape. The open land of both of those directions could easily put her into direct contact or line of sight with the killer, with no place to hide. Not a good idea. North? April opened her eyes. Now that direction held a glimmer of hope. Just beyond the cornfield . . . . Soft footsteps padded in the dirt behind her, and April spun around, her heart almost stopping with fear. An old woman stood there, her long white hair held down by a wide-brimmed straw hat and her finger pressed to her lips, indicating that April should remain silent. Beside her, a white German shepherd stood, head held low and pressed against the woman’s hip. Gulping air in relief, April nodded, and the woman motioned for her to follow her. Moving slowly, the three of them headed north, and April’s hope bloomed, as she now knew exactly who she followed. Everyone in Caralinda called Lucretia Stockard “Aunt Suke.” April hadn’t been able to find out why yet, and she’d never been introduced to the woman. And, at this moment, she cared very little about the odd nickname. She followed Aunt Suke’s careful, silent footsteps as they moved slowly north toward the edge of the field. At the end of the row, Aunt Suke paused and turned her head, listening. The dog stood still, head tilted to watch Aunt Suke, waiting for her command. The angry shouts had stopped, but they could still hear the sound of corn stalks being slashed aside not too far away and rapidly coming closer. Aunt Suke took one step forward, looked left and right, then motioned for April to come up next to her. They were standing at the edge of Aunt Suke’s backyard. The soft expanse of dark green grass led right to the back of the brick antebellum Stockard mansion, broken up by beds of flowers, a lofty canopy of ancient trees, and a small vegetable garden to the right of the house. At the back of the house and close to an broad porch that towered to the full three-story height of the house, slanted double doors leading to a root cellar stood open. Their white slats gleamed in the summer sun, making the doors look like a sea gull’s wings. Aunt Suke pointed at the root cellar and said one word. “Run.” April fled toward the safety of the 170-year-old house, even though the yard felt as if it were the size of a football field. As the three neared the doors, she heard a rage-filled roar echo over the field. He’d seen them, and even as Aunt Suke shoved her hard down the stone steps into the basement and slammed the doors, April knew the planks of wood wouldn’t hold against the shotgun. With a movement made familiar by years of living in the giant home, Aunt Suke slid a wooden bar through the handles of the cellar doors, and swung around, eyes bright with command. “Polly!” Her voice snapped the word out in a harsh whisper. “Upstairs! And stay!” April watched as the white shepherd turned toward a set of steps to the left of the doors and trotted upward. Aunt Suke then motion her toward the basement wall to the right, where a thick wooden door was padlocked shut. Aunt Suke snatched a set of keys out of her pocket and had the lock open in seconds, pushing April ahead of her into a pitch dark room. The older woman pulled the door shut, just as the first blast of the shotgun thundered against the cellar doors. * * * Daniel Rivers refused to believe what he’d heard over the radio. The county dispatcher who took the 911 call apparently did believe it, however, and her usually dispassionate voice shook with despair as she alerted the units. Daniel, who had been watching for speeders near Bell County High School, stared at the radio a moment. This has to be a prank. Or he’d not heard it right. Why would be there be a shooting at Dad’s? He picked up the radio mike. “Unit A12. Base, repeat the call.” Silence followed, then his cell phone rang. He checked the number. It was the station, and his fingers trembled a bit when he answered. “Rivers.” Janet Williams had been a dispatcher for the Bell County sheriff’s department for almost forty years, and her nasal, drawling voice normally was as steady as a low river on a hot day. Now the voice that had schooled many a rookie on the ways of Bell County shook with shock. “Daniel, the 911 call came from Aunt Suke. She claims someone shot Levon and is trying to shoot April Presley.” Ice formed in Daniel’s gut. “That old woman is crazy.” “I know. The sheriff is on his way though, to check it out.” Daniel reached to start the engine on his patrol cruiser. “I am, too. Thanks, Janet.” “Be careful, baby.” “You know I will.” Daniel dropped the phone and gravel spun as he slid the car into a U-turn and headed for his father’s farm. He hit the siren, which screamed as the cruiser responded like a thoroughbred on the home stretch. Daniel pushed it hard through the curves of roads he’d driven since he was fifteen. He didn’t want to think about what Janet had said. It had to be wrong. Everyone knew Aunt Suke was at least two bushels shy of a full load. Even the quilts she made, with designs that made the church ladies whisper behind their hands, emphasized that she had an odd view of the world. She had spent too much time watching the town from those upstairs windows, spent too much time alone in that old house. Suke Stockard was crazy. She was wrong. She had to be wrong. “Please, Lord,” Daniel whispered under his breath. “Please let her be wrong.”

The Taking of Carly Bradford

admin — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 14:05:46 +0000

Chapter One

“Drop the shoes!” “No! Get away from me!” Dee Kelley screamed the five words, the sound tearing at her throat the way the trees around her tore at her body. Her face stung as a branch lashed her cheeks and forehead. The trees around her, the tips of their limbs vividly green with shiny new leaves, turned into a harsh field of obstacles as she fled, their boughs tugging at her clothes while their roots made every step uncertain. Dee risked a glance behind her, and she stumbled, going went down sideways, her hip thudding into a patch of bright purple flowers in the undergrowth. A shriek burst from her lips as she twisted, fighting back to her feet, her right fist still desperately clinging to a pair of bright white children’s sandals. “Drop the shoes!” The rough voice sounded closer than before, almost at her back, and Dee could hear the running footsteps, the sounds of boots smashing into the soft, spring ground that had dogged her for almost half a mile. A musty, sweet blended aroma of damp leaves and squashed flowers circled around her head as Dee demanded her exhausted body to rise off the woodland floor again. “Get up! Get up!” This third fall had compounded the scrapes and bruises of the previous two. The winding and uneven path that traversed the two and a half miles from her writer’s retreat cabin and the small, historic town of Mercer, New Hampshire, was familiar to her, but now she was far off the path, into the dense forest, running, gasping for air, hurting. “What were you thinking?” Her hoarse words sounded flat as she struggled to her feet and ran, trying to ignore the voice behind her. But she knew the answer as she grasped her aching side. She had been thinking that these white sandals could mean the difference between life and death. She just never dreamed it might be her own. * * * Tyler Madison picked up the picture of eight-year-old Carly Bradford that had remained propped against his desk calendar for the past three months. He examined yet again the delicate features and shining smile. Tyler thought all little girls were beautiful, but Carly’s infectious grin and loving warmth drew everyone to her. Yet she remained completely and totally eight years old. Innocent and full of wonder. So he’d kept the picture there since that rain-soaked day when the petite princess had vanished to remind him of what really mattered. As if he could ever forget. An early spring rain had barely ended when Carly had dashed from her home wearing only a blue gingham dress, white sandals, and a yellow poncho to chase her puppy into the woods behind her home. The puppy had come home alone. Tyler and his small force had exhausted all their resources on the foot-by-foot search of the area, to no avail. Carly had simply vanished, leaving behind no evidence of either accident or kidnapping. He released a deep sigh, put the photo back on his calendar and pushed away from his desk. He recognized that finding Carly had become his obsession, but he didn’t want to give up hope. It was not his nature to do so. After three months, however . . . He stood, pacing his small office. He searched the web everyday for clues, but today, he’d finished early. There was just nothing there. Three months! Everything had gone cold. The scant evidence, the interest of the community . . . even the press had been reluctant to keep her picture in their papers and on the websites unless something new turned up. The frustration of it gnawed at him, and Tyler knew he had messed it up. What else explained it? Children didn’t just disappear! They ran away, had accidents, were taken by relatives or strangers, but they didn’t just vanish. Tyler stopped. OK, I have to focus on something else. Some other case or . . . something. Jogging with his dog sometimes worked. Sometimes friends helped. He looked at the clock that hung next to his office window. Only ten o’clock, so he didn’t even have the distraction of lunch with Dee and the other folks at the Federal Café. He grabbed his hat and checked his pocket for his keys. Maybe a drive would clear his mind, although he doubted it. Somehow Tyler knew that the taking of Carly Bradford would haunt the rest of his life. * * * Dee smelled blood in among the musky scents of earth and newly sprouted trees, and she knew it was her own. Her face burned from the scratches and the salt of her sweat highlighted each wound with a sharp ache. Still, she pushed. She had to get to Mercer, had to find Tyler Madison. These shoes! She glanced at her fist briefly, her knuckles as white as the leather straps she clutched. “Drop the sandals!” Dee cried out, realizing the voice came from in front of her now, and she dodged to the left. She knew the road had to be just up ahead. Her mind grasped for a sliver of hope as she saw a break in the trees, there, farther into the woods, just to the left. Dee scrambled forward, reaching out for the next tree, then the next, her running shoes sinking deeper into the moist, moss-covered ground. “Stupid woman! Drop them!” The voice felt as if it were right behind her. Dee could see the road now, the black pavement cutting through the forest like an ebony river. Safety. She had to get to . . . A hand snagged the shoes, pulling her arm back and spinning her around. “No!” Dee jerked them toward her, wrenching the sandals free from her pursuer. The figure behind her lost momentum with the action and stepped backward, grabbing wildly at a tree for balance. Dee got only a quick glimpse of the slender figure, face hidden behind a cap pulled low and a cloud of short dark hair, the frame indistinct in black sweat suit at least a size too big. “You took Carly!” Dee screamed, her fear turning into a mother’s rage. “Why would you do that?” There was a quick shake of the head, then Dee’s pursuer froze as a car whooshed by on the road up the bank behind Dee, as if for the first time realizing how close they were to traffic. Dee took advantage of the hesitation and turned, scrambling upward, her left hand digging into the dirt for traction. A hand clutched at her leg, but Dee jerked away, kicking backwards. Her foot connected with flesh, and a sharp “oomph” echoed around her. But the action cost Dee her balance and she stumbled hard into a tree. She braced herself, then pushed away to go around it. A branch hit her full in the face, as if it had been held back and released. A sharp pain shot through her nose, and Dee went down with a scream, one hand covering her face. Her eyes and cheeks stung as if she’d been slapped, and a hot stickiness covered her fingers. There was another jerk on the sandals, and this time Dee screamed, an insane fury filling her. “No!” She swung her fist into a hard right cross, and the assailant went down, rolling back down the embankment. Dee couldn’t open her eyes wide enough to see anything. She screamed again as she fought her way toward the road, staggering on the rocky ground. How could she be such an idiot? She knew she needed help. Just as she reached the pavement, unexpected drops of blood and sweat dripped from her brow into her left eye, blinding her. Dee tripped over the rough edge of the asphalt, right into the path of an oncoming car.

Face of Deceit

admin — Sat, 09 Jan 2010 18:40:42 +0000

Karen took a deep breath and opened her eyes, looking directly into his. “A couple of weeks later, I started having nightmares about being chased. I couldn’t tell who it was, but there was this face.” She tapped the photo again. “This face. And legs. Thick, running legs. Green legs. I woke up in such a panic that I . . .” She swallowed. “I’d never felt a fear like that. I did the first vase in an attempt to get rid of the nightmare. I never expected to sell it--or that it would be the start of dozens of others.” “What about the nightmare?” “It disappeared.” Karen returned the photo to the envelope and put it back in her purse. “I’ve always been able to work out things like that in the art. It’s as if all I have to do is to get it out of my head and into the clay, then things work out.” “Any idea what the dream meant?” She frowned. “You mean, like an interpretation?” “Sure. It’s not as New Agey as it sounds.” He took a deep breath, remembering something he’d heard not long after becoming a Christian. “After all, the Bible is full of dreams and visions, and most meant something significant.” He took her hand. “There are a number of books out there . . . some people think dreams are one way God answers prayers.” Karen stared at him a few minutes, then raised her head a bit. “I’ll have to think about that one.” She nodded. “And I know just who to talk to.” Grinning, she slipped her hand out of his and took his arm as they resumed walking. “In the meantime, let’s get some French toast.” The warmth of her hand against his skin made Mason stand a little taller as they entered downtown Mercer. Laurie, she of the world-famous French toast, operated the Federal Café, a tiny storefront about halfway between the granite city hall at one end of town and the millpond at the other. Laurie served up on plain white plates and bare tables some of the best food Mason had ever eaten, and her two “mission statements” hung near the register: “Good food served simply” and “We trust in God; all others must pay cash.” A lanky blonde with a red face waved at Mason and Karen from the back counter of the restaurant as they helped themselves to seats near the door. Karen barely had time to drape her purse on the back of her chair before Laurie was at their side with a coffee pot and two cups. She touched Karen’s shoulder as she filled the mugs. “Just plain old coffee, but fresh and hot. Tell me you’re having French toast.” Mason took a long sniff of the coffee, and his smile grew lazy and broad. “You know it, pretty lady. Your French toast makes life a little better.” Laurie looked down at him, her eyes bright and flirtatious. “You need to bring your older brothers up here, if they talk like you.” As the heat rose in his cheeks, she laughed. “And especially if they blush like you.” “French toast is not protein.” Mason twisted in his chair at the sound of Tyler’s baritone voice to find the officer standing behind him. “No,” he agreed, “but it’s some mighty fine eating.” “Following us, Mr. Madison?” Karen’s voice teased, but she pulled out the extra chair at the table and motioned for him to sit. He did, removing his hat. “Not yet. We’re out of coffee at the station, so I came over to get some to-go cups.” Tyler shifted in the chair, then focused on Karen. “How are you doing?” She examined her fingernails. “I’m all right. I think.” Mason touched her arm. “Show him the picture.” Karen perked back to life. “Oh!” She dug in her purse, pulling out the envelope and handing Tyler the Polaroid. “Those are the four vases. I sold them originally to a dealer in Boston. The name is on the back of the photo, but they moved recently. I’ll email you the new address.” “Please do. You never know where a clue may pop up.” He held the photo close to his face, studying every detail. “Are they distinctive?” She shook her head. “Not exactly. I do a lot of vases, many of them of a similar design. Each vase is unique, unlike the others in some way, but they are all of the same type.” Tyler rubbed his thumb over the print. “What’s this face on them?” Karen shot a warning glance at Mason and shook her head. “Just one of my trademarks. I do a lot of face vases. They’re my best-selling item.” “Is it always the same face?” “More or less. As I said, my trademark. It’s what people expect on a Karen O’Neill face vase.” Tyler peered at the picture again. “So this isn’t anyone in particular?” Karen shook her head. “No. Like I said, it’s just out of my head.” The young police chief squinted. “Looks familiar though. Are you sure this isn’t based on someone you know?” Karen’s curls trembled and her lips tightened. “Positive.” “Ah.” Tyler looked back at the photo, obviously not completely convinced. “Good job making it look familiar, anyway.” Karen sighed, a touch of relief on her face. “Keep it as long as you need it.” Tyler tucked the picture into his shirt pocket as Laurie brought his four coffees-to-go in a cardboard box. “Sure. I’ll send it over as soon as I have it.” He stood, put his hat on, then handed Laurie a five-dollar bill as he took the box. “Thanks.” Mason swallowed and looked her over carefully. “Karen, how long has Tyler been a cop?” She paused. “Not sure. Since college, I know. We went to high school together, but he’s older and I didn’t really pay attention. Maybe ten years. Why?” “All that time here?” “Yeah, I guess.” He leaned back in his chair. “I know how you feel about the vases and that face, but you need to think about something as well. Tyler’s powers of observation are going to be every bit as skilled as yours, and this is a small town. He’s going to know most people in this area. Has to. It’s his job. Cops I knew back home could tell you family histories for every kid at the local high school, including who their granddaddies ran around with when they were kids.” Karen stared at her plate. “I don’t want to hear this.” “Why? What if he’s right? What if your memory is picking up on someone you really know and plopping it on those vases?” She put down her fork and turned to him. “It can’t be.” “Why not?” She took a deep breath and dropped her voice to the point that he had to lean forward to hear her. “Don’t you understand? That face was chasing me. I was running away because I was terrified. I was running because they were trying to kill me.” Karen leaned back, watching Mason closely, waiting for a response. He took a deep breath, not wanting to say the words that begged to come out. If her dreams were a memory trying to work its way out, they were the logical response, the only response. He swallowed hard, dropping his voice. “So has anyone ever really tried to kill you?” Karen eyes met his, evenly, solidly. “Yes.”