“Well then.” Leslie bounced to her feet. “Let’s go grace Java Joint with our presence. No use wasting all this beauty and tal-ent on your apartment.” She grabbed Paige’s wrists and pulled her up. “They’re waiting for you to come say hi.”
“You mean you told them I was coming?”
Leslie’s hand fluttered. “Oh, good grief, so what? I wanted to make sure the regulars would be there in this cold weather. And it’s the last Saturday morning you can go. After this weekend you’ll be back working on Saturdays.”
Sarah Wray could have demanded Paige come back to work immediately after the trial, but she had wanted to give Paige the weekend to “get her head back together.” Leslie was right — today was the day.
“Okay, okay.” Paige fetched her coat and gloves from the closet.
“Besides,” — Leslie slipped her jacket back on, a mischievous expression stealing over her face — “you deserve that free drink Bailey’s promised you. Shoot, with all the people tramping through this town to cover your story in the past seven months, she’s never had more business.”
Paige gave her a weary look. “Nice to know my infamy helped somebody out.”
They stepped from the apartment into the hall. Paige made sure to lock the door.
Outside Leslie tucked her arm through Paige’s as they crunched through the snow to Java Joint, their breath puffing tandem streams in the cold air. “I really like your hair longer,” she remarked. “And the brown’s such a nice shade.”
“Yeah.” Paige wanted to say more but was too embarrassed. She’d never liked the dyed black very much. And never before had she worn her hair that short. Now that she at least didn’t have to worry about the past chasing her, it felt good to return to her natural color.
They reached Java Joint. Paige hadn’t set foot inside the café since that day last July, when she was paranoid of every glance. Through the windows she could see the cheery walls and Bailey behind the counter. Three tables had occupants. Tourists for the ski season? Paige peered at the four counter seats. All taken. The locals were waiting. She drew a deep breath.
Leslie opened the door and they stepped inside, warm inviting air wafting around their cheeks. “Hey, folks!” Leslie called. Every head in the place turned. Paige cringed. A chorus of greetings sounded from the three men and one woman in their counter stools. Paige recognized Pastor Hank.
“Well, there you are.” Bailey stepped away from her machine, placing the backs of her hands on her hips. Her face held that ever-sweet friendliness. Remorse twinged through Paige. She shouldn’t have held Bailey at arm’s length these past few months. Every time the woman had stopped into Simple Pleasures to invite her for a free coffee drink, Paige had put her off.Now Bailey was smiling as if she’d never been rebuffed. “Come on in and get a hot drink.”
She and Leslie stopped to shrug out of their coats and gloves. Leslie dropped them on an empty table, then nudged Paige toward the counter. Pastor Hank slipped off his stool. “Sit here, Paige. I’ve been parked too long anyway.”
She managed a smile as she took the seat. “Thanks.”
Momentary silence. They all looked at her as if wondering what to say, the atmosphere shimmying with her self-consciousness.
Leslie moved behind Paige, hands falling on her shoulders. “I think you may have met some of these other folks a while back.” She pointed to the attractive black-haired woman on the far end, clad in a maroon turtleneck and slacks. “That’s Carla. In real estate. She’s the listing agent for the Edna San property, all three million dollars’ worth of it.”
Carla raised her cup with a grin. “And I can’t wait to sell it to the right person. Cheers, Paige.”
“Hi.” Paige gave her a little smile.
“This here’s Jake, sitting next to you.” Leslie tapped her fingers on the dingy baseball cap of a sixtyish man with a thin face and buggy eyes. He touched a hand to the brim of his hat. “And on the other side of you” — Leslie pointed to the gray-whiskered man on Paige’s left — “is Wilbur.”
“Watch out, Paige; he bites.” Carla aimed a warning glance down the counter.
“Who asked you?” Wilbur shot a mean look back at her.
Leslie sighed. “Don’t mind them, Paige; neither one has an ounce of manners.”
“Hey, Ted.” Bailey focused on a table near the wall, where a dark-haired man frowned at his laptop, lips silently moving. At Bailey’s call his head jerked up and he gazed around blankly. Bailey crooked her fingers at him. “Come out of Sauria for a minute and join us.” She turned to Paige. “Ted used to be in logging, but he suffered a bad leg break and couldn’t continue. He’s going to be Kanner Lake’s famous science fiction writer.”
Ted pulled in a slow breath. His eyes roamed before landing on Paige, and recognition filtered across his face. “Oh yeah. Right.” He pushed out of his chair and limped over. “Hello there, Paige.” He nodded to her, unsmiling, yet Paige sensed an unassuming acceptance. As if she had no salacious history, no baggage. As if she were a normal newcomer to town. Just . . . Paige Williams.
Warmth flushed through her body. She smiled in gratitude.“Hi.”
As their eyes held, a realization struck deep within Paige, unfolding like a blossom in time-lapse photography. Pastor Hank was right. She’d been released. God was offering her a second chance in life. What a fool she’d be not to grasp His hand — and accept it.
“So.” Bailey pressed her palms on the Formica. “What’ll you have, girls? It’s on the house.”
Paige blinked away from Ted, refocusing her mind. She ordered a biggie mocha, and Leslie, a nonfat biggie latte. Bailey turned with a grin to make the drinks.
To her left Paige felt Wilbur’s eyes burning a hole right through her. She glanced over to find the old man openly staring. Hadn’t he done the same thing last July? She forced herself to look him in the eye . . . and a second moment of truth gripped her: There was no need to be anxious about this man, or any of the others. This was just Wilbur. He was probably like this to everybody. So he didn’t hide his curiosity; at least there was no pretense about him. The tightness in Paige’s chest loosened further.
Wilbur pulled the sides of his mouth down and looked her over good. Then bobbed his scruffy chin with satisfaction.“You’re one gutsy gal. I like that in a woman.”
Paige searched for an appropriate response. “Well, um.
Thank you.”
Something akin to pride flickered across the old man’s features. “I’m a pretty tough ol’ bird myself.” He moved his hands to the bottom of his thick wool shirt and — to Paige’s dismay —started to pull it up.
The others groaned. Carla choked, “Oh, Wilbur, please. She’ll never come back.”
Wilbur paid them no heed. He wagged his head and the shirt rose further, exposing a rotund belly and white-haired chest.“So, Paige Williams. Whadya think of my scar?”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I owe a few folks some mighty big thanks for helping me with this story:
Tony Lamanna, Spirit Lake, Idaho, chief of police, in law enforcement since 1969, answered many questions, and most important, read the manuscript to catch my errors regarding police procedure. He was wonderfully, unselfishly helpful. If you find a mistake in this area, mea culpa. (Or perhaps I fictionalized with intention.)
Gary Johnston, lieutenant with the Bonner County Sheriff’s Department, also answered questions regarding some rather strange law enforcement scenarios — with a straight face.
Sherry Ramsey, writer for the Priest River Times, led me to Tony and Gary in the first place and offered information about a small-town newspaper.
Terry and Marilyn Cooper, owners of the real Simple Pleasures, at 221 Sherman Avenue in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, allowed me to feature their beautiful store. All the merchandise mentioned in this story is sold at Simple Pleasures. Visit their website at www.simplepleasures-cda.com.
A few of my blog readers, affectionately called BGs, suggested quirks for the vari
ous characters that hang out at Java Joint. They are: Lynette Sowell, Ron Estrada, Evelyn Ray, Grady Houger, C.J. Darlington, Kelly Klepfer, Sherry Stewart, and Dineen Miller.Special thanks to BG Stuart Stockton for allowing me to use his science fiction novel Starfire for S-Man. All of S-Man’s characters, his Saurian world, and the Saurian language are straight from Stuart’s manuscript (still seeking a publisher as this book goes to press).
To one and all, thank you from the bottom of my heart.
PROLOGUE
Kill tonight — or die.
The words burned. Through his retinas, into his brain, back, back, to the innermost center of neurons and synapses. There they bubbled and frothed like hot acid, eating away at his soul.
Only a crazy person would follow their command.
He slapped both hands to his ears, cradled his head. Pushed in, squeezing, until the pressure battled the pain inside. His eyes screwed shut, mind pleading for the horrific message to be gone when they reopened. He hung there, cut off from the outer world, attention snagging on the life sounds of his body. The whoosh of breath, the beat of his heart.
Their words boiled.
The pressure grew too great to bear. He pulled his hands away, let them fall to his sides. The kitchen spun. He edged to a chair and dropped into it. Bent forward and pulled in air until the dizziness passed. Clutching hope, he turned his gaze once again to the table.
The note still lay upon the unfolded Kanner Lake Times newspaper, each horrific word against the backdrop of a coral crescent moon.
How did they get in here?
His shoulders slumped. What a stupid question. As if they lacked stealth, as if mere walls and locked entrances could keep them out. He’d been down the hall in the bedroom watching TV, door wide open, yet had heard nothing. Hadn’t even sensed their presence as he pushed off the bed and walked with blithe ignorance to the kitchen for some water.
A chill blew over his feet.
His eyes bugged, then slowly scanned the room. Over white refrigerator and oak cabinets, wiped down counters and empty sink. To the threshold of the kitchen, leading into the hallway. There his gaze lingered as the chill worked his way up to his ankles. It had to be coming from the front of the house. His skin oozed sweat, sticky fear spinning down over him like the web of a monstrous spider. Trembling, he pulled himself out of the chair. For a moment he clung to the smooth table edge, ensuring his balance. Then slowly, heart beating in his throat, he forced himself across the floor, around the corner, through the hall and toward the front door.
It hung open a few inches.
They were taunting him.
Slowly he approached, hands up and fingers spread, as if pushing through phantoms. Sounds of the night outside wafted upon the frigid air — the rustle of breeze through tree limbs, distant car tires singing against pavement. He reached the door, peered around it into blackness, knowing he was a fool to seek sign of them. The air smelled crisp, tanged with the purity of pine trees. The last vestiges of snow dusted his porch, bearing the tracks of his footprints alone.
He closed the door and locked it. As if that would do any good. Shivering, he sagged against the wall, sickened defeat puddling in his chest. How naive he’d been to think they would leave him in peace.
But hadn’t he seen this coming? All the events that had occurred in the last few months . . .
Minutes ticked by, the death shroud of reality settling over his being.
Shoulders drawn in, he made his way back to the kitchen and his inevitable fate. Each footstep drew him away from the life he’d built, reasoning and confidence seeping from him like blood from a slow but fatal wound. His conscience pulsed with repugnance at what he must do. His inward ear sought that rhythm, desperate to embrace its beat. But it proved too faint amid the drumming terror of the consequences of disobedience.
Unyielding, the message sat on his table, beckoning like an executioner to the noose. Was it only a half hour — and a lifetime — ago when it hadn’t been there? He fell once more into the chair, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. His reluctant gaze landed upon the words, and nausea roiled anew. No misunderstanding their directives. He knew they had a chess score to settle. Who else would they choose as their pawn?
He pushed back against the chair, arms crossed and hugging himself, the way he used to do as a boy. Dully, he stared at the window, seeing only his own pitiable reflection. For a long time his form transfixed him, blinking back first in fright, then with the slowly evolving expression of self preservation.
He need only pursue this one piece of business, and his debt would be paid. Surely, then, they would leave him alone.
For another hour . . . two, he sat, willing his queasiness to fade as he brought his mind into focus. How to do what he must do? He considered details, possible repercussions. Laid stealthy plans.
By the time he rose shortly before midnight, he felt nothing but the desperate pull of his perfection-demanding task.
Gathering the necessary items, shrugging on a coat, he slipped out into the cold and soulless night.
Brink of Death
Brandilyn Collins
The noises, faint, fleeting, whispered into her consciousness like wraiths passing in the night.
Twelve-year-old Erin Willit opened her eyes to darkness lit only by the dim green nightlight near her closet door and the faint glow of a street lamp through her front window. She felt her forehead wrinkle, the fingers of one hand curl as she tried to discern what had awakened her.
Something was not right . . .
Annie Kingston moves to Grove Landing for safety and quiet — and comes face to face with evil.
When neighbor Lisa Willet is killed by an intruder in her home, Sheriff’s detectives are left with little evidence. Lisa’s daughter, Erin, saw the killer, but she’s too traumatized to give a description. The detectives grow desperate.
Because of her background in art, Annie is asked to question Erin and draw a composite. But Annie knows little about forensic art or the sensitive interview process. A nonbeliever, she finds herself begging God for help. What if her lack of experience leads Erin astray? The detectives could end up searching for a face that doesn’t exist.
Leaving the real killer free to stalk the neighborhood . . .
Softcover: 0-310-25103-6
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Stain of Guilt
Brandilyn Collins
As I drew, the house felt eerie in its silence. . . . A strange sense stole over me, as though Bland and I were two actors on stage, our movements spotlighted, black emptiness between us. But that darkness grew smaller as the space between us shrank. I did not know if this sense was due to my immersion in Bland’s face and mind and world, or to my fear of his threatening presence.
Or both . . .
The nerves between my shoulder blades began to tingle.
Help me, God. Please.
For twenty years, a killer has eluded capture for a brutal double murder. Now, forensic artist Annie Kingston has agreed to draw the updated face of Bill Bland for the popular television show American Fugitive.
To do so, Annie must immerse herself in Bland’s traits and personality. A single habitual expression could alter the way his face has aged. But as she descends into his criminal mind and world, someone is determined to stop her. At any cost. Annie’s one hope is to complete the drawing and pray it leads authorities to Bland — before Bland can get to her.
Softcover: 0-310-25104-4
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Dead of Night
Brandilyn Collins
All words fell away. I pushed myself off the path, noticing for the first time the signs of earlier passage—the matted earth, broken twigs. And I knew. My mouth turned cottony.
I licked my lips, took three halting steps. My maddening, visual brain churned out pictures of colorless faces on a cold slab—Debbie Lille, victim number one; Wanda Deminger, number three . . . H
e’d been here. Dragged this one right where I now stumbled. I’d entered a crime scene, and I could not bear to see what lay at the end. . . .
This is a story about evil.
This is a story about God’s power.
A string of murders terrorizes citizens in the Redding, California, area. The serial killer is cunning, stealthy. Masked by day, unmasked by night. Forensic artist Annie Kingston discovers the sixth body practically in her own backyard. Is the location a taunt aimed at her?
One by one, Annie must draw the unknown victims for identification. Dread mounts. Who will be taken next? Under a crushing oppression, Annie and other Christians are driven to pray for God’s intervention as they’ve never prayed before.
With page-turning intensity, Dead of Night dares to pry open the mind of evil. Twisted actions can wreak havoc on earth, but the source of wickedness lies beyond this world. Annie learns where the real battle takes place — and that a Christian’s authority through prayer is the ultimate, unyielding weapon.
Softcover: 0-310-25105-2
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Web of Lies
Brandilyn Collins,Bestselling Author of Brink of Death
She was washing dishes when her world began to blur.
Chelsea Adams hitched in a breath, her skin pebbling. She knew the dreaded sign all too well. God was pushing a vision into her consciousness.
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