Justifiable Means

by Terri Blackstock

  Quietly, they started down the long hall to the door of their cellblock.

  It was midmorning when one of the officers came to get her. “Put your stuff up,” she said. “You have a visit from your lawyer.”

  “Lynda?” she asked, turning off her iron and taking off her apron. “Why?”

  “Do I look like I know all the answers?” the woman barked. “She’s waitin’ in room B.”

  Sweeping her bangs back from her perspiring forehead, Melissa followed the officer out.

  But it wasn’t just Lynda who waited for her. It was Larry, too.

  Her face lit up, and when he reached for her, she threw her arms around him.

  “I missed you last night,” she whispered.

  “I missed you, too,” he said. “But you know I wouldn’t have skipped if I didn’t have to, don’t you? You knew that, didn’t you?”

  She let him go, and he saw from the look on her face that she hadn’t had that faith at all.

  “Melissa, something happened last night. Something really important. And Lynda agreed to get you out for an attorney’s conference today so I could talk to you. She pulled a few strings to get me in.”

  Melissa gave Lynda a half-smile. “Thanks, Lynda.” She realized then that she had no makeup on and was damp with perspiration. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she felt like a frump. But before she could apologize for her appearance, she saw the bruised cut on Larry’s jaw.

  “What’s this?” she asked, touching his face gently. “Were you injured?”

  “Melissa, Edward Pendergrast is dead.”

  She stared at him. “What do you mean, he’s dead?”

  “We were able to catch him trying to rape a woman—”

  She caught her breath. “That one you told me about?”

  “Yes. She cooperated with us, and we had everything we needed on him. I wanted to get him in jail, make him rot there. But things took a turn . . . and now . . .”

  Lynda stood up. “There was a struggle over a gun, and—”

  “And I shot him,” Larry said.

  She could see that they weren’t easy words for Larry to utter.

  “He’s really dead?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Larry said. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”

  She threw her arms around his neck, holding him for dear life. Together, they began to weep.

  “I prayed he’d get caught and convicted,” Melissa whispered. “Sometimes I didn’t think God was going to answer.”

  “He did,” Larry whispered. “He was caught and convicted. It just wasn’t our court he was judged in.”

  “He’s really gone,” she whispered, awestruck. “When I get out, I don’t have to be afraid.”

  “He’s really gone.”

  Lynda smiled. “I’ve sent a plea to the governor, Melissa, as well as the judge who sentenced you. I’ve asked them to pardon you, or at least consider reducing your sentence to probation, given the circumstances surrounding Pendergrast’s death. Now that the story’s going to be all over the news, I think we may be able to get something done.”

  Melissa considered that for a moment. “When?”

  “I don’t know. It might be a few days. Maybe even a couple of weeks. But I’m doing all I can.”

  “Good,” Melissa said, letting go of Larry. “I need a couple of weeks, at least.”

  Larry shot Lynda a look, and they both looked at Melissa as if she’d lost her mind. “For what?”

  She wiped her eyes and smiled, the first genuine smile Larry had seen on her in a long time. “I’m not here by accident,” she said. “God needed me here. We’ve got this Bible study going . . . and some of the people I was terrified of . . . they’re coming now, and they’re listening. If you get me out, I’m coming back as often as I can, to keep the group going.”

  Lynda’s eyes grew tearful as she began to smile. “That’s one of the most amazing things I’ve ever heard.”

  Dismissing that, Melissa looked at Larry again and wiped the tears on her face. “The girl—is she all right?”

  “She was pretty shaken up last night,” Larry admitted.

  “Can I see her when I get out?” she asked.

  “I’m sure it can be arranged. Until then, you could write her a letter. I’d take it to her.”

  “All right,” Melissa said. “I want to thank her. For myself . . . and for Sandy.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Karen Anderson sat in her apartment the next day, curled up in her favorite chair with a blanket over her that covered the scrapes and bruises on her legs. The ones on her arms and face were more apparent . . . but it was the ones on her heart that she worried most about.

  She had spent the first night in the hospital on a sedative, and though she knew that Pendergrast was dead, she’d been afraid to come home. Her mother had threatened to sue the police department for involving her in such a dangerous situation, and Karen hadn’t known whether to support the suit or discourage it. Finally, she had forced herself to return to the apartment where he’d watched her, and try to get on with her life.

  She had almost refused to let Larry in when he’d shown up at her door, but when he told her that he had something to give her from his girlfriend who was in jail, she had reluctantly opened the door. She’d had little to say to him, and he had left quickly, but not before telling her that she was his idea of a true hero, a gift sent from God, and that he would do anything he could to help her heal from her trauma.

  Now that he was gone, she opened the manila envelope and emptied out the contents. There was a letter there, and several pictures of a beautiful woman, with blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Beneath the snapshots was a smaller envelope.

  She unfolded the letter first and began to read.

  Dear Karen,

  I started this letter several times, trying to find the right words, but there just aren’t any. How can I tell you how much it means to me that you would risk your life to save the lives of so many potential victims? How can I explain the closure I feel at knowing that he won’t be waiting when I get out of here? How can I describe my gratitude to you?

  There aren’t words to do it, Karen, so I decided to send you pictures. Meet Sandy, my sister . . . at her graduation, and her wedding . . . with me, and with our parents. Losing her caused pain so deep in us that we thought it would never go away. But what you did has helped to relieve that pain so much.

  Thank you, Karen, and if you feel up to it when I get out, I’d love to meet you and shake the hand of the brave woman who helped me wake up from my nightmare.

  God bless you,

  Melissa

  Karen wiped her eyes and looked at the pictures again. The beautiful, happy eyes of the woman who had killed herself smiled out at her. In comparison, what had happened to Karen seemed mild.

  She picked up the smaller envelope, and opened it. It was another stack of pictures, but this time, a note from Larry was stuck to the top of the stack.

  Karen,

  I thought you might like to see the two women we know Pendergrast killed, and some of the other women whose lives you may have saved. Some of these were pictures we recovered from Pendergrast’s apartment.

  Larry

  She saw the two women on top, the one who’d washed up on the beach, and the one he had buried. She flipped further through them and saw the random snapshots of women who didn’t know they were being photographed. Women coming out of their homes, getting out of their cars, coming out of stores . . .

  She leaned her head back on the chair and looked up at the ceiling for a moment. What she’d done was a good thing. Maybe it hadn’t been so terrible, after all. It could have been so much worse. For her. For all of them.

  The telephone rang, but she didn’t move. The machine picked it up, and she kept looking through the pictures as her voice played its message. It beeped, and a voice said, “Miss Anderson, this is Chip Logan with the St. Clair News. We’d like to do a feature story on you for our paper
. . .”

  She smiled softly then, but didn’t pick up. She wasn’t ready for that just yet. But maybe later, she thought. Maybe soon.

  This hero stuff was just going to take a little time to sink in.

  EPILOGUE

  After the phone call from the governor the following week, and the 20/20 interview with Melissa about the Pendergrast case, Judge L. B. Summerfield, who’d sentenced Melissa, agreed to release her on probation.

  She had a final Bible study with her group that morning, including Chloe, who had begun to read her Bible each day so she could “argue” intelligently with the others in the circle. Melissa promised them she would be coming back with Doug to worship on Sunday mornings, and that she’d start work immediately to get permission to continue meeting with the Bible study group as part of her personal prison ministry.

  Before she left her cell, she sat down on the bunk next to Chloe. “You know something, Chloe?” she asked.

  Chloe grunted.

  “For most of the time that I’ve been in here, I’ve considered you my personal angel, sent by God. Did you even realize you were being used by God?”

  “Me? God ain’t never used me.”

  “He did, Chloe. Before I came in here, my lawyer, who’s also a good friend, gave me a verse of Scripture that meant a lot to me. It said that God would protect me. And it was so true. God protected me through you. Thank you . . . for being there.”

  Chloe smiled one of her rare smiles. “So you think God was really usin’ me?”

  “I sure do.”

  She chuckled slightly. “I’ll be. Didn’t even know God knew I was here.”

  “He does.”

  “Thank ya, Melissa.”

  “Are you going to keep coming to the Bible studies, even if you’re not having to protect me?”

  Chloe shrugged. “Might.”

  Melissa stood up and looked around the cell. “Would you like to keep all these books?”

  Chloe’s eyes widened. “I never been much of a reader. But I have been a little interested. Maybe I will read ’em.”

  “All right. They’re yours. And I’m going to visit you Saturday and bring you some groceries. How’s that sound? I’ll bring you a box of Snickers.”

  Chloe laughed. “Girl, you’re a saint.”

  She leaned over and kissed Chloe on the cheek, and the woman looked embarrassed. “Thanks, Chloe. For everything.”

  Then, quietly, she left the cell for the last time.

  Red was lurking in the hallway, leaning against the wall. “I knew you wouldn’t be here long. What did you do? Flap those blonde locks in the judge’s face? Promise him somethin’?”

  Melissa just looked at her. “You know what happened, Jean. You saw it on the news just like everyone else.”

  “Yeah, but I know what goes on behind the scenes.”

  “And you know me.” She extended her hand to the bitter woman, but Red only slid her hands into her jumpsuit pockets and started to walk away. “I’m coming back,” Melissa said to her back. “For the Bible studies.”

  “Right. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  Melissa smiled. “You’ve got a deal.” She watched until Red had gone back into her cell, then left cellblock C for the final time.

  Larry was waiting for her at the warden’s office. She ran into his arms, laughing and crying. “Am I really free?”

  “Completely,” he whispered against her ear, holding her as if she could be snatched from him at any time. “Free to do anything you want,” he whispered. “Free to go back to the life you had before. Or free to go in a new direction.”

  “I didn’t have much of a life before,” she said, looking up at him. “For the last three years, everything has revolved around my obsession to get Pendergrast.”

  “Then it’s time for you to start over,” he whispered. He handed her the bouquet of roses he’d laid on the table, and as she buried her face in them, he added, “And maybe that new beginning could include me.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes soft with anticipation. “What do you mean, Larry?”

  “I mean that I love you,” he whispered. “And I want you to be my wife.”

  The fragile joy and hope in her eyes slowly faded. “What will your friends say? I’m an ex-con. You’re a cop.”

  “They’ll say, ‘Congratulations, Larry. She’s the prettiest ex-con we’ve ever seen.’”

  A soft smile broke through her turmoil. “No, really. What on earth will you tell them?”

  He thought for a moment, then framed her face with his hands and looked into her eyes. “I’ll tell them that when God shows me a treasure, I’m going to take it every time.”

  She wiped her tears and stared up at him with soft eyes that seemed so innocent, but she’d experienced more than she’d ever wanted to. Larry was a gift from God, something she hadn’t earned, but she wouldn’t refuse, either.

  Throwing her arms around him, she said, “Of course I’ll marry you!”

  He whisked her up in his arms then, holding her in a crushing hug. Melissa laughed out loud, and he joined her, and they each realized what a new, magical lilting sound the mingling of their joy produced. It sounded like grace.

  And Melissa knew why they called it amazing.

  AFTER WORD

  I often think my life is much like that of a mouse in a maze. There’s a plan and a path which is perfect for me, and it’s not so hard to find. But I can convince myself that I have a better way—a shortcut, or a more interesting route to where I’m going. Sometimes, I even think the destination I choose is better than what has been ordained for me.

  I picture God standing above that maze, urging me to take the turns and twists he’s planned for me, luring me this way and that, showing me open doors and nudging me past the closed ones … but so often I ignore him and go in my own direction. Sometimes I kick down the doors that would keep me out of trouble, and I forge headfirst into what lies behind them. Those are the times when God groans and slaps his forehead in frustration. But then—always—he says, “I can still work with this,” and moves to Plan B, C, or D, making another path for me. It might be less wonderful, because of my own careless choices, and it might be less useful to him, but he doesn’t give up. He continues to work with me and guide me away from the dead ends in my life, and he opens the doors that will lead me to what he wants me to have. I have never strayed so far that he couldn’t guide me back.

  That’s grace. That’s the grace of a father who loved me—a poor, ignorant, rebellious, vagabond mouse—enough to send his Son to die so that I could get out of that maze once and for all. With my eyes on the cross, I don’t have to bump into walls and turn in circles and backtrack through the corridors of my life. All I have to do is follow him. And trust.

  Abundant life? You bet it is.

  That’s why they call that grace amazing.

  Terri Blackstock

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Terri Blackstock is an award-winning novelist who has written for several major publishers including HarperCollins, Dell, Harlequin, and Silhouette. Published under two pseudonyms, her books have sold over 5 million copies worldwide.

  With her success in secular publishing at its peak, Blackstock had what she calls “a spiritual awakening.” A Christian since the age of fourteen, she realized she had not been using her gift as God intended. It was at that point that she recommitted her life to Christ, gave up her secular career, and made the decision to write only books that would point her readers to him.

  “I wanted to be able to tell the truth in my stories,” she said, “and not just be politically correct. It doesn’t matter how many readers I have if I can’t tell them what I know about the roots of their problems and the solutions that have literally saved my own life.”

  Her books are about flawed Christians in crisis and God’s provisions for their mistakes and wrong choices. She claims to be extremely qualified to write such books, since she’s had years of personal experience.


  A native of nowhere, since she was raised in the Air Force, Blackstock makes Mississippi her home. She and her husband are the parents of three children—a blended family which she considers one more of God’s provisions.

  Ulterior Motives

  Enjoy this preview from the third book

  in the Sun Coast Chronicles Series.

  CHAPTER ONE

  He had never killed before, but it hadn’t been as difficult as he’d imagined. It was a simple thing, really. The element of surprise, along with the right weapon and the adrenaline pumping through him in amazing jolts, had made it all happen rather quickly. There had been no noise, no hopeless pleading for mercy. He hadn’t even had to look in his friend’s eyes as he’d pulled the trigger.

  With one foot on either side of the body, he bent down and probed his victim’s pockets with his gloved hands. Loose change spilled out onto the floor, along with a set of keys. He took the keys and stepped away from the body, leaving it where it had dropped.

  Hurrying up the stairs of the elegant art gallery—the walls accented with paintings from known and unknown artists—he reached the office. The door was locked, and he fumbled for the right key and opened it. The pungent scent of paint dominated the small studio, along with the smell of mineral oil. Canvases lay propped against the wall in varying stages of progress; in the back corner sat several framed paintings waiting to be exhibited downstairs and possibly sold. Some old, cracked, and damaged paintings by well-known artists sat in stretchers awaiting restoration so that they could be sold at European auctions for thousands of dollars.

  But none of these things were what interested him.

  On the other side of the studio was another door, and he unlocked it and went in. It was the office from which Dubose, who now lay dead on the floor of the gallery, had conducted his business with important clients, and as always, it was immaculate and tasteful, with antique Chippendale chairs in the corners and a Louis XIV desk at the center of the room, a throne-like leather chair behind it. On the polished desk sat a small banker’s lamp, a desk diary, a Rolodex, and a calculator. Behind it, on the lavish credenza, was an eight-volume set of the Dictionary of Painters and Sculptors, widely known in art circles as the definitive resource on lost and stolen art across the world.