Other Books by Brandilyn Collins
Kanner Lake Series
1| Violet Dawn
2| Coral Moon
3| Crimson Eve
4| Amber Morn
Hidden Faces Series
1| Brink of Death
2| Stain of Guilt
3| Dead of Night
4| Web of Lies
Bradleyville Series
1| Cast a Road Before Me
2| Color the Sidewalk for Me
3| Capture the Wind for Me
Chelsea Adams Series
1| Eyes of Elisha
2| Dread Champion
BRANDILYN COLLINS
best selling author
book four
Web of Lies
hidden faces series
The devil . . . was a murderer from the beginning,
not holding to the truth, for there is no truth in him.
When he lies, he speaks his native language,
for he is a liar and the father of lies.
JOHN 8:44
ZONDERVAN
WEB OF LIES
Copyright © 2005 by Brandilyn Collins
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Zondervan.
ePub Edition January 2009 ISBN: 978-0-310-54319-0
Requests for information should be addressed to:
Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Collins, Brandilyn.
Web of lies / Brandilyn Collins.
p. cm. — (Hidden faces series ; bk. 4)
ISBN-13: 978-0-310-25106-4
1. Police artists — Fiction. 2. Women artists — Fiction. I. Title.
PS3553.O4747815W43 2006
813'. — dc22
2005021093
* * *
Published in association with Browne & Miller Literary Associates LLC, 410 South Michigan Ave., Suite 460, Chicago, IL 60605.
All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible: New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.
The website addresses recommended throughout this book are offered as a resource to you. These websites are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement on the part of Zondervan, nor do we vouch for their content for the life of this book.
* * *
08 09 10 11 12 13 14 24 23 22 21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5
For my pals
Deb Raney and Robin Lee Hatcher.
Heh-heh.
Now you have to read it.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgments
A Note to My Readers
Prologue
Thursday, September 22
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Friday, September 23
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Saturday, September 24
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Sunday, September 25 – Monday, September 26
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Saturday, October 22
Epilogue
Read an excerpt from Dark Pursuit
About the Publisher
Share Your Thoughts
Acknowledgments
My deep gratitude, as always, to members of the Zondervan fiction team, who make my books so much better. And to Niwana Briggs, who has critiqued just about all of my manuscripts.
Citizens of Redding, thanks again for letting me “borrow” your city for this series. As with the other Hidden Faces books, I have fictionalized much about your area, including Annie’s neighborhood of Grove Landing, some roads, plus the buildings and certain procedures of the Redding Police and Shasta County Sheriff’s Departments.
Karen T. Taylor, the nationally known forensic artist mentioned in this story, is a real person. You will see Annie employ Taylor’s recognized method for two-dimensional facial reconstruction from the skull. This method, as well as the study of skeletal remains to determine gender, height, race, etc., requires precision and often long hours of work. While Web of Lies includes overviews of these tasks, I have had to sacrifice some details in order to keep my story moving. In the end, this is a work of fiction, not a textbook. For an excellent text detailing two-dimensional reconstruction, plus all facets of forensic art, please see Karen T. Taylor’s book, Forensic Art and Illustration, or visit her website at www.karenttaylor.com.
A Note to My Readers
“When are you going to write another Chelsea Adams book?” This is a question I have heard countless times.
My first two suspense novels, Eyes of Elisha and Dread Champion, featured Chelsea Adams, a Christian woman to whom God speaks through visions. In both of these stories, the visions God gives Chelsea about murder and malice send her on labyrinthine journeys that she would not have chosen, but that God wants her to make for the sake of justice.
Fans of this Hidden Faces series have often added the same question in their letters: “When will we see Chelsea Adams again?”
And so the idea for Web of Lies was born.
There were some challenging hurdles along the way, however. The two series were written in very different formats, not the least of which involved character perspective. Annie’s stories in Hidden Faces have been in first person. Chelsea’s stories were not. As a result, Web of Lies evolved as a blend of both the characters and the varying points of view from these
two series.
By the way, a note for those who haven’t read Eyes of Elisha and Dread Champion: you’ll find no spoilers for those stories within this book.
And now — off we go on another roller coaster ride. As always, strap yourself in, hold tight, and
don’t forget to breathe . . .
Prologue
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!
But this one was strong; no stopping it now. Chelsea’s legs jellied. She stumbled across the kitchen and collapsed into a chair.
The room went black. Chelsea gripped the edge of her seat with palsied hands — and waited . . .
First, an overwhelming sense of evil. It rolled over her, terrifying, oppressive. Crushing her lungs as though she’d been shoved into a black, airless cave. She struggled to breathe.
Far away through the darkness, a vague image began to shimmer. The kitchen chair fell from beneath her. Chelsea tumbled into the vision.
She landed . . . somewhere, with a jarring thud.
Chelsea blinked. Found herself staring at a dirty oval window filtering dim light into a small room.
Where am I?
Awareness grew. She sensed herself in someone’s body, seeing the room through that person’s eyes. Someone imprisoned, shell-shocked, and trembling. She felt bare feet against cold concrete. The place smelled dusty, close. Claustrophobic. The walls closed in. Panic seized Chelsea.
I have to get out, I have to get —
Wait. What was that, on the floor?
A barely visible figure. Hunched, with head down.
A sudden noise on Chelsea’s left. Her nerves flared. She heard a male voice, scratching out whispers. Vile explanations, deathly threats too horrible to imagine. She cringed at the words, heart flinging itself against her ribs. Let me out, let me out, let me out . . .
A click, and red light filtered into the grayness. Slowly Chelsea’s eyes adjusted.
The terror of the room froze her blood.
Thursday, September 22
Chapter 1
Our nightmare started with a mundane errand.
I was driving my SUV away from the Redding Municipal Airport, my sister in the passenger seat. She aimed a heavy sigh out the window. “I miss my airplane already.”
I shook my head. “Jenna, your precious airplane isn’t parked that far away from the house. Small price to pay for a few weeks, wouldn’t you say? Just think how much you’ll like the longer runway at Grove Landing.”
“We don’t need a longer runway.” She couldn’t hide the pout in her voice. “It’s our neighbors with their fancy twin engines who just had to have more space.”
So that was it. I threw her a glance, a sage smile crooking my mouth.
“What?” Jenna’s velvet brown eyes glowered at me.
I affected a shrug. “Nothing.”
“Don’t tell me nothing. I know that look on your face.”
Wow, she was in a mood today. “You’re just jealous of those neighbors. You want a bigger plane.”
“I do not.”
“Uh-huh.” Private pilots are a strange breed, never satisfied. They always want the next electronics system, the latest turbocharged engine. Whatever’s better and bigger. Especially bigger.
Jenna huffed and folded her arms. We drove in silence.
“What’s with you anyway?” I turned north, headed for Foothill High School to pick up my daughter, Kelly, and her best friend, Erin. School would be letting out in about five minutes. “You’ve been out of sorts all morning.”
Air seeped from Jenna’s throat. “Yeah, well, I have a reason. I’m mad at Eric.”
“Oh.” Trouble in paradise. “What happened?”
“He was a jerk last night. When it comes right down to it, all men are jerks.” She frowned and turned away.
At one time I would have agreed with her, but no more. Not since Dave and I had started dating — if you could call our painfully slow process that. At any rate, Dave Willit was not a jerk. My voice softened. “Tell me about it.”
“We need milk.”
“Huh?”
Jenna pointed at a 7-Eleven ahead on the right. “Stop there so we can buy some milk. We’re out.”
My sister is seven years younger than I but bosses me like a nagging mother. The trait only worsens when she’s upset. I’ve learned to roll with it. “Okay.”
I slowed the SUV and turned into the small 7-Eleven parking lot, pulling up next to the walkway leading into the store. Three other cars filled spaces around us, two on our left, on the other side of the entrance walk, and one immediately to our right. Switching off the engine, I turned to Jenna. Her beautiful, heart-shaped face looked pinched. “First tell me what happened.”
She focused ahead at the store. “We sort of argued.”
“I gathered that. And?”
She turned to me, words spilling. “He went out with someone else! Which I suppose is his right, because we’re not dating exclusively. But he lied to me about it, told me he wasn’t seeing anyone but me. When I caught him in his little fib, he tried to squirm out of it by telling a bigger lie . . .”
My peripheral vision caught frantic movement in the rearview mirror. I blinked, focused on it.
“. . . and I am so sick of men who can’t tell the truth. You’d think for once . . .”
Someone sprinted across the street toward the store. A young man. Caucasian. Shoulder-length blond hair.
“. . . I’m just not going to put up with it . . .”
Wait. Another young man behind him, chasing.
With a gun.
My mouth opened but no sound came. I threw out my right hand, gripped Jenna’s arm.
She stopped midsentence. “What — ”
I whipped my head around. The first young man hit the curb, flew over it into the 7-Eleven parking lot. He raced toward our car, the second man barreling behind him.
“Get down!” I grabbed behind Jenna’s neck, pulled her low across the console, and pressed on top of her. My eyes squeezed shut. Footsteps pounded past my window —
Thud!
A body slammed into the door of the building. I raised my head a few inches, peeked through the windshield. The 7-Eleven door smacked open, the man streaking through it into the store. He veered left, aiming for the checkout counter. His pursuer thumped past us, hit the door as it was closing and flung it wide. The first man reached the counter and dove over it. The store clerk shouted, jumped out of the way. Somebody screamed. In seconds the pursuer rammed into the counter, flattened himself upon it. Up came the gun.
Bam. Bam, bam. Bam.
“What’s happening?” Jenna squirmed under me. I held her down.
The shooter pushed off the counter, twisted toward the door. He’d have to run right by our car . . . and this time he might notice us. I pressed my head back down, air pooling in my throat.
Jesus, protect us.
The door slammed open. My heart slammed with it.
God, please . . .
Footsteps pounded toward our car . . .
And past us.
A wail from inside the store rent the air.
I counted to ten.
Cautiously I raised my head, glanced through the rear window. The shooter was racing across the street toward an alley. Soon he would be out of sight.
The whole thing couldn’t have taken more than sixty seconds.
Jenna heaved herself off the console, forcing me up. Strands of her thick auburn hair were stuck to her lips. “What happened? What happened? Where’s my gun?”
My sister carries a two-inch barrel Chief Special in her purse, identical to the one in mi
ne. But it was too late. Screams staccatoed from the store. A woman staggered outside, yelling, “Call the police!” Jenna and I shoved our doors open and jumped out. I reached the woman first, gripping both shoulders to steady her.
“Are you hurt?”
She shook her head, sobbing. “But a man in there, and a boy . . .” She turned wide, shocked eyes toward the store.
Jenna ran back to the car, grabbed her purse and snatched out her cell phone. I eased the woman down on the curb, then rushed into the building.
A teenage girl stood near the checkout, knuckles pressed to her mouth. I hurried around the counter. A man knelt beside the young clerk, now sprawled upon the floor, his face white. Blood oozed from his right thigh. Beside him lay the crumpled body of the young man who’d been chased. That man’s face was turned away from me, his hair matted red. The left side of his head had been blown away. Oh, dear God. Two bullets had plunged into his back. He wasn’t moving.
The clerk moaned.
“Just stay still; we’ll call for help.” The kneeling customer reached into his pocket and withdrew a cell phone.
“My sister’s already called.” My words sounded hiccupped, ragged. I moved around the customer and clerk toward the still form. Bile rose in my throat. I leaned down to look at the face, trembling in fear of what I would see. Please, Lord, please — I sucked in a breath. Nearly gagged. One cheek and an eye were gone. Obliterated. I steadied myself, swallowed hard. Felt for a pulse in his neck. Nothing. Checked for breath. None.
Numbly I straightened.
“How are they?” Jenna’s voice, firm, controlled, came from above me and across the counter. Both her handbag and mine hung over one arm, a cell phone at her ear. My fast-thinking sister. Even in the chaos, she’d thought about securing our purses — and the guns inside.
I shook my head. “This one’s gone.”
The teenage girl rattled out a wail. The woman who’d staggered outside appeared behind Jenna, face flushed. My sister spoke the news into her phone, then looked to the young clerk. “Second man down, white, maybe nineteen years old. He’s been shot in the thigh. He’s conscious.” She paused. “Yeah, I’ll stay on the line. How far away are they?” She looked to me. “Police car will be here in two minutes. Ambulance in five.”
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