Crimson Eve

by Brandilyn Collins

  Sounds like someone else I once knew.

  My daughter has emotions that will take years to straighten out. I can only pray she will forgive me for the terrible part I’ve played in all this — and let me help.

  And yes, I do mean pray. Leslie said it well on that most frightening day of my life. “You can stumble around in a dark room or you can turn on the light.” I’m still in that terrifying room. Some days I’d just as soon not get out of bed. But at least I’ve asked God to light my way.

  Hey, with my choices, I figure He can only improve things.

  Leslie found the “perfect” Bible verse for me. Psalm 18:36. “You [that is, God] broaden the path beneath me, so my ankles do not turn.”

  Ha-ha. But I think she’s only half kidding.

  I have so much to tell Brittany-Rebecca. I hope one day she’ll listen. Of course, I shouldn’t have to tell her at all. She should look at my life and her known father’s life — and see the truth. See the tragedies that selfish choices can wreak, the lives they can hurt. See that we don’t live just for ourselves, but what we do can affect so many people. But like most humans (why did God make us so stub-born?), she won’t see this. Why didn’t I see it in my own mother? Why did I fall into the same mistake she did — and at almost the very same age?

  If only I could drill all of this into Brittany-Rebecca’s head. Pour it right in and cover up the hole so it won’t fall out. Ensure she’ll never make a foolish decision.

  Don’t want much, do I.

  So what can I do but come clean and ask her forgiveness. That may take awhile for her to grant. I’m not sure I’ve even forgiven myself. Although Leslie says I’d better, since God has. But it’s so hard to grasp God’s forgiveness when I think of all the horrible problems my lies have caused. Everything that has happened is my fault. All of it. If I hadn’t lied, I could have raised my own daughter. Probably married Scott. Rebecca would never have been stolen from me. Sometimes the sheer weight of these thoughts drives me to my knees.

  When I tell her all this, Brittany-Rebecca will ask me about her biological father. Who is he? I know a teenager’s curiosity. I will tell her the simple facts. He lives in Central Washington and has built his own construction business. He’s divorced, with two children who live with their mother — a son, nine, and a daughter, six.

  What news that will be, to hear she has two half-siblings.

  She will ask, “Does he know he’s my father?”

  Poor, poor Scott. No one deserves to be as jerked around as he has been. Through the breaking news of Bryson Hanley a month ago, he learned the baby I carried did live — but that she wasn’t his. I tried to call him a week after the story broke, but he wouldn’t talk to me. For two weeks I left messages until finally he picked up the phone. Another shock for him — a total about-face. I hadn’t lied to him; I’d lied to Bryson. Rebecca is his daughter.

  “Yes,” I will tell Brittany-Rebecca. “He knows. And he wants so very, very much to meet you when you’re ready.”

  Whether he’ll ever want to see me again is another thing.

  But as with my daughter, I can’t force his forgiveness. I can only choose to live my life from now on in a way that would make them want to forgive.

  God — please help me do that.

  Seventeen years ago I kept a diary. A dark journal of lies and deceit, of a frightened teenager’s hopeless, selfish decisions. Today I start a new one.

  This one will be different. I promise that — for my sake, and my daughter’s. This one, Rebecca, will be a mother’s diary of love for you. Of truthful, honest choices. And ultimately, so help me, God . . . of light and hope.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My thanks once again to Tony Lamanna, school resource officer in Priest Lake, Idaho, who helped me with all issues related to law enforcement. Tony, you’re the best.

  In each of the Kanner Lake books I have blended fiction and reality. And so my gratitude also to the following:

  Thanks to all those fans of the series who have written posts for the Java Joint characters on Scenes and Beans. You can read the real blog at the same address given in this story: www.kannerlake.blogspot.com.

  Hats off, also, to aspiring novelist Stuart Stockton, who has graciously allowed me to feature his science fiction manuscript, Starfire, in all the Kanner Lake books. May the world be able to read Starfire in published form soon. Stuart is also the writer of all the Scenes and Beans posts for S-Man.

  Finally, many, many thanks to Jay Lee and his family, owners of Spokane Chrysler, for allowing me to use their fine business in this story, and to Shawn Bird, the dealership’s manager. And special gratitude to Spokane Chrysler’s star salesman, Brandon, for his willingness to become a part of the action.

  Be sure to read book four in the Kanner Lake series, Amber Morn.

  ONE

  Any man going on this mission wasn’t coming back.

  Cluttered kitchen, cluttered head. Kent Wicksell could hardly think straight. It wasn’t supposed to start like this. Dread anticipation pumped through his veins as he faced off with his son. Vigilante Brad, gunning to take on the world. At twenty-nine, he thought he knew more than anybody.

  Kent’s voice seethed. “For the fifteenth time — you’re staying home. We ain’t leaving your mother alone.”

  They’d been arguing for the past ten minutes. Brad stood his ground, face like granite. His cool blue eyes stabbed Kent. “I ain’t staying here.” His voice remained low and steady. Brad was always a man in control. “I watched over T.J. since he was born, and I ain’t stopping now.”

  Kent surged forward two steps, finger punching the air. “I’m telling you no! I won’t let you — ”

  Mary caught his arm. “Stop, Kent! Let him go.”

  He turned to her, jaw loosening. She stared back, a terrible, grim determination pressing her lips. Kent’s knees went weak.

  No, no, no.

  Where had that look on her face come from? Just last night they’d agreed — again — that Brad could never be a part of this. “You’d let him go?” Accusation heated Kent’s face. “You’d trade one son for another?”

  She held his gaze until her chin trembled. “It’s for T.J.,” she whispered. And she started to cry.

  Kent should have known. He and his brother, Mitch, had been making plans for weeks. Brad had listened, silent, approving. Had even gone on their scouting missions with them. They’d been on Main Street in Kanner Lake three times, watching traffic, watching people. Noting the police station just two blocks up from Java Joint coffee shop. Last Saturday the three of them sauntered into the café and ordered coffee and pastries. They sat at a table, eyes roaming, taking in the big front windows, the layout and size of the place. Kent and Mitch took turns walking down the back hall in search of the bathroom. They’d catalogued the rooms off the hall — a small office, a storage area. The rear door with no glass, a lock and deadbolt.

  But Brad going with them — never. He could not bear to think of Mary facing this day alone.

  Pacing the kitchen, desperation clawing his heart, Kent argued and argued. But the clock ticked, and they had to leave. He and Mitch slid into their lightweight jackets with multiple large pockets. Brad snatched up one of his own and stalked out the front door. Straight to the truck he strode and climbed inside. He slid over to the middle.

  Kent watched him through a dirty window in the living room. Mitch went on outside.

  Mary’s sobs filtered from the kitchen. Kent turned back to hold her. They stood there, hearts beating against each other’s chests. He pulled back, looked into her worn face. She’d aged years in the last seven months, wrinkles deepened, crow’s feet at her dulled eyes. She raised her gaze to his and nodded firmly. “Go, Kent. Do what you have to do.”

  He flexed his jaw and stared deep into her soul. “It’ll work, Mary, I promise. And it won’t take long — a few hours maybe. It’ll work.”

  She managed a weak smile.

  Kent broke away and strode
to the front door. He would not look back.

  On the porch, he and Mitch exchanged a look. Mitch seemed doubly nervous, as if he hadn’t been anxious enough before. Not even away from the house yet, and things were already turning on them.

  Brad sat in the truck, staring straight ahead, arms crossed. Immovable.

  Kent got behind the wheel and started arguing all over again. Brad wouldn’t budge. Mitch stood on the sidewalk, fidgeting. “Come on, Kent, we’re behind schedule. We got to go.”

  Kent kept talking. Brad refused to get out.

  “Forget this, he’s in.” Mitch climbed into the seat and slammed the door, sealing Brad’s place in the middle. “He’s a third, Kent. It’ll be easier with three.”

  Betrayed.

  A curse spat from Kent. He leaned forward and glared at his younger brother. Mitch had always let him call the shots. Now listen to the man, attacking Kent’s leadership — and in front of Brad. “Easy enough for you to throw his life away, since he ain’t your son.”

  Mitch returned a sizzling stare. “If I didn’t care about your boys, I wouldn’t be in this truck right now.”

  The words hit home. Kent’s anger melted back into fear for Brad. He looked at his firstborn. “Listen to me. Stay here.”

  Brad kept a stubborn focus through the windshield. “I told you I’m going. You need me.”

  Kent pressed back in his seat. Wild thoughts flew around in his head. Like maybe they should call the whole thing off. Go back and try talking to the lawyers again.

  Yeah, right. The talking hadn’t worked. And it never would.

  “Dad, you got to help me!” T.J., crying like a baby.

  “It’ll work, Mary. I promise …”

  Kent took a long, labored breath — and started the engine.

  His mouth twisted. Those people in Java Joint. They would pay for this.

  As they drove away he pictured Mary’s face. What she’d just sacrificed for T.J. If Kent thought about that too hard right now, he’d go crazy.

  He pressed the accelerator, on the watch for cops. They had to make up for lost time.

  His mind turned to logistics. What should Brad do during the attack? He and Mitch had broken down their tasks into parts, planned every move. Each second counted. Now it all had to be refigured.

  Kent mulled it over. It was true, what Mitch said. Three men would make it easier. Now he and Mitch could hold the hostages at bay while Brad performed the busy work. Safer that way. Brad’s fingers could prove just a little too trigger-happy in those first few minutes. Kent didn’t want to loose any more hostages than necessary at the beginning. Hostages were bargaining chips.

  With everything clear in his mind, Kent told the other two the revised plans. They agreed without argument. That was something for Brad.

  Kent was back in charge.

  They drove on in simmering silence. Every mile turned up the heat.

  Kanner Lake approached. Mitch jiggled his leg against the floor. Kent wanted to lean over and slap it still. Adrenaline and fear slammed around in his veins too, but he’d just as soon deny it. Seeing that nervous leg broke him out in sweat.

  “There ya go.” Mitch bounced a fist against his window as they passed the city limits sign. “And after all that, only ten minutes late.”

  The truck’s digital clock read 7:55.

  Soon they passed Main Street — their target. Kent glanced up the road as they drove by. Quiet, as expected. A bunch of cars parked around Java Joint, on the right side and near the top of the second block. Java Joint — the café known across the country, thanks to its Scenes and Beans blog. Kent’s lip curled. Java Joint would never see another a day like this one.

  At Lakeshore, Kent turned left. Almost to ground zero. Brad’s folded arms tightened and Mitch’s leg bounced higher. On their right at the top of Kanner Lake rose the new hotel under construction, the one that had sparked such debate among residents the previous year. In three months, Kent had heard, it was supposed to be done. At the moment the site was quiet.

  Good.

  Two streets up, Kent turned left again on Second Street and pulled over to the curb. Cut the engine.

  Tension ran like electricity through the cab. They all inhaled at the same time. Mitch and Brad looked to Kent.

  He gave a firm nod. “Let’s do it.”

  Mitch reached into the glove box for the guns.

  Brink of Death

  Brandilyn Collins

  The noises, faint, fleeting, whispered into her consciousness like wraiths in the night.

  Twelve-year-old Erin Willit opened her eyes to darkness lit only by the dim green night-light 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

  Pick up a copy today at your favorite bookstore!

  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 knowif 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

  Pick up a copy today at your favorite bookstore!

  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 . . . He’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

  Pick up a copy today at your favorite bookstore!

  Web of Lies

  Brandilyn Collins

  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.

  Black dots crowded her sight. She dropped a plate, heard it crack against the porcelain sink. Her fingers fumbled for the faucet. The hiss of water ceased.

  God, I don’t want this. Please!

  After witnessing a shooting at a convenience store, forensic artist Annie Kingston must draw a composite of the suspect. But before she can begin, she hears that Chelsea Adams wants to meet with her — now. Chelsea Adams — the woman who made national headlines with her visions of murder. And this vision is by far the most chilling.

  Chelsea and Annie soon find themselves snared in a terrifying battle against time, greed, and a deadly opponent. If they tell the police, will their story be believed? With the web of lies thickening, and lives ultimately at stake, who will know enough to stop the evil?

  Softcover: 0-310-25106-0

  Pick up a copy today at your favorite bookstore!

  Eyes of Elisha

  Brandilyn Collins

  The murder was ugly.

  The killer was sure no one saw him.

  Someone did.