Eternity Falls - Chapter 1 Excerpt

Eternity Falls
Marcher Lord Press (October 1, 2009)


Chapter 1

Los Angeles—2081

Too close.

Horns and screeching tires yelled at him from behind as Rick Macey counter-steered, sliding the silver Lexus sideways before nearly sideswiping a cab. He tuned his neural net to the local traffic satellite, its overhead image minimizing in the corner of his vision as he careened through another intersection in the turbocharged sedan.

Pouring rain turned the city streets into tar-black mirrors. Traffic signals and holographic billboards reflected in a disorientating array of flashing neon and laser light. He forced his eyes to see through it as he neurally shifted gears, plowing through a hazily reflected red light—rain pounding his car top in a snare drum roll.

Artificial adrenalin heightened his senses. He warned slower vehicles with a constant blaring of the horn, weaving restlessly behind them like an Indy car driver waiting for the pace car to pull away. Finally he spotted open roadway ahead on the traffic-sat. He punched the gas, wiper jets barely maintaining visibility as the methanol engine roared and his speed increased.

100…120…130…

No way was he letting the killer get away.

Not this time.

Not when he had the location pinned.

Macey locked his comm onto the police band, scanned the channels for confirmation of the kill. His neural net queued up a series of transmissions and he let them play, his AI ciphering through and discarding the impertinent bits according to his search algorithm. A cacophony of voices relayed their various pieces of information.







<20mm shell extracted from wall forty mete…>




Two miles. That sealed it. It was the Streetwalker Sniper for sure.

The traffic-sat marked his destination looming ahead of him, a building towering a hundred stories into the stormy night sky. Macey downshifted and slid the Lexus to a halt at the entrance of the Liberty Tower Complex. He sprinted through the downpour toward the glass front doors.

A lone security guard sat loafing at a duty desk within but Macey couldn’t wait for a proper entrance request from HQ. He gazed upward at the mammoth citadel as rain peppered his eyes. It was nearly a thousand feet tall, multi-terraced and cylindrical in shape—like some giant wedding cake with a cheese grater exterior of widows mapping its outside. Climbing the thing was out of the question. Besides, there were easier ways to the top.

He took a two-step run up and vaulted himself to a first-story window ledge, clinging to it by his fingertips before hoisting himself the rest of the way with a mild grunt. He was already soaked, his hair dripping and matted, water penetrating his trench coat to his shirt, tie, and slacks beneath. He endured the discomfort as he braced himself within the window ledge for safety and bowed his head in concentration.

He accessed the web through his neural net, searched for the building’s security system through the data window in the corner of his vision. In seconds he found it and used his encryption keys to gain full access.

He sent an interrupt signal to the security system at the same moment his elbow smashed the heavy glass. It shattered like a piece of rock candy but stayed fixed to the laminated backing, clattering onto an office desk in a single sheet. He rolled inside after it and tumbled off the desk, his wet shoes slipping on glass shards and office papers before coming to a stand. He sent a fake all clear signal to the security system right before it registered the breach.

Easy so far.

The internal security system proved even easier. He bypassed it by hacking the device controllers directly. In minutes, he opened the office door, neurally forced the security cameras to scan in the opposite direction as he passed, and hailed an elevator.

As he rode it skyward, Macey drew his Mauser M5 automatic pistol from his shoulder holster, and chambered a round. With luck he’d never use it, but at this stage there was no sense being ill-prepared.

The elevator doors opened with a pleasant bing, and Macey stepped onto the top floor. The schematic in his internal view showed that two flights of stairs lay between the top floor and the roof. He hit the stairwell at a run.

As he climbed he kept close watch on the Sniper’s position on the internal map. Still stationary—was he seeking another target? Macey doubled his speed.

There’d be no more deaths tonight.

Hurricane-like winds and rain beat against the door to the roof as he forced it open. At a hundred stories up the rainstorm screamed in a banshee howl. Solar panels and satellite arrays rattled with each gust, threatening to break loose from their knee-high mountings and ruin the maze pattern they formed on the roof. A massive sat-dish stood between him and the sniper’s position.

He paused to access his remote memory device, retrieving more data on the case. It hadn’t occurred to him until now, but the previous occasions the Streetwalker Sniper had struck boasted similar weather conditions. It made sense. At each crime scene, 20mm rounds had been found—and a 20mm rifle made one heck of a bang. Using a silencer would be out of the question as it would lower the accuracy and muzzle velocity, not to mention be ultimately useless as the round itself was supersonic and would cause a sonic boom. A storm provided the perfect cover for the sniper.

Cover Macey would now take advantage of.

He stalked through the whipping rain, which began to abate, forming a stinging mist as he edged closer to the sniper’s position. His internal mapper showed a red triangle just around the sat-dish. As Macey shuffled around it, a figure came into view, hunched over the side of the roof’s safety wall.

The sniper looked small—under five feet. But Macey didn’t let himself underestimate this guy. He’d proven to be a formidable hacker, having accessed the skyscraper’s roof most likely in the same way he had. He would also certainly have some military training, judging from his skill, and possibly access to other military weaponry he hadn’t yet revealed. On top of that, he was methodical and patient.

The previous rainstorm had taken place over a month ago. The sniper was no raving lunatic on a killing spree. He was an assassin, a rational executioner with a well–thought-out plan of action.

And from the looks of him now that Macey was closer, he was about fourteen years old.

Macey stood for what felt like a minute, gazing at the scrawny white kid decked out in a black jacket, fatigues, army boots, and a baseball cap turned backwards. He stood shouldering a tripod-mounted Barrett 20mm cyber-rifle, leaning on the safety wall. The weapon looked twice his size. His white-knuckled hands clenched the pistol grip and trigger while a wire ran from the base of his neck to the Barrett’s targeting scope.

Macey took a few steps forward to bring himself within earshot. He blinked away the rain, drew his pistol, and raised his voice above the level of the wind: “Let go of that rifle, son.”

The boy jumped, his head turning back to give him a who-the-heck-are-you kind of glare.

“It’s over,” Macey said.

The kid’s lower lip curled into a snarl and he turned back to the scope, tensing for a last shot.

Macey fired a single round from the Mauser. The bullet severed the rifle’s control cable with a spark, sending the sniper into a fit of screams as he clenched the back of his neck.

“Coward!” He yanked what was left of the cable from the head. “You’re supposed to kill me. Don’t you even know that?” He backed against the wall, his young face twisted with all the menace of a high school bully. The stock of the Barrett fell to the floor and dangled from the tripod affixed to the wall.

“Kill you, huh?” Macey kept the Mauser trained on him as he inched closer. “Unlike some I could mention, I don’t make a habit of killing people. Especially not kids, even ones as sick as you. Lie down with your hands behind your head. The cops are on their way.”

He slowly shook his head. “How’d you find me anyway?”

“Your ego.”

“What?”

“Think it takes a genius to figure out a two mile headshot requires a cyber-rifle, smart bullets, and targeting satellite support?”

The kid snorted. “So you hacked the satellite.”

“No, but I knew you would.” Macey stepped around a solar array. “I gotta admit, you were pretty good when you hit the sat. Quick in and out, just long enough to acquire your target and get your shot off, but…” He tapped the neural port on the nape of his neck. “…long enough for me to plant a trace.”

“Nice one.” The kid flicked what was left of the control cable from his hand like a cigarette butt. “Guess you think you’re smart, then. Bet you think you’re righteous too. Bet you think it’s your righteousness that keeps you from killing like I do.”

“I don’t know what you’re—”

“You just fear death more than God.”

Crazy little punk. “Just get on your knees.”

“I killed those whores in God’s name.” He tugged at his jacket. “Gave them a chance to repent, but they didn’t listen. So I sent them to the judgment—before they can drag any more souls to hell with them with their tempting lusts.”

“How can a kid even think like that?” Macey stepped toward him more forcefully as the kid kept tugging at his jacket. Was he hiding something underneath? “Just shut up and hit the floor. I won’t kill you but I will shoot you if I have to. And you’ve seen I’m a pretty good shot.”

“Go ahead,” the boy said and his jacket flew open. It flapped in the wind, revealing a crucifix dangling from a leather strap about his neck. His torso was packed with what looked like plastic explosives. Perfect. And in his hand he held a trigger, already depressed, a dead man switch.

Macey backed away, lowering his Mauser and raising his free hand. “Calm down, kid. No one else has to die today.”

“You do,” he said with a piercing stare, “and so do I.” He looked behind Macey toward the door to the staircase. “I thought there’d be more of you when it finally came to it, but if it’s just one cop then that’s the way God wants it.” He leaned his elbows against the wall as if it were a bar and he in a club, the trigger still in hand. “I’ll give you the same chance I gave those whores. Will you repent before you die, pig?”

“Why are you doing this?” The kid had gained the upper hand, but there were ways to change that. Subtle ways. “What do you hope to accomplish by all this?”

“Look at you.” He smirked, shook his head. “Still so afraid to die, aren’t you?”

Keep talking, kid, just a few seconds more. “I guess you’ve got me all figured out.”

“I know where I’m going, man, do you?” The sniper taunted him with a wave of his crucifix. “This is your last chance, little piggy. Repent before God or burn forever in Hell.”

Bingo.

“Repent, huh?” Macey holstered the Mauser and strode forward, seized the boy’s wrist. “I’ll show you repent.”

The kid staggered backward, eyes wide, mouth ajar as he sank to the rooftop. His arm shook spastically as he tried to let go of the trigger, his jaw grinding like a vice.

“What is thish?” he said between clenched teeth.

“You’re paralyzed.” Macey studied the crude detonation device about the boy’s waist and quickly disarmed it. “I hacked your neural net while you were busy running your mouth. Don’t worry, I just froze your gross motor control. I’ll release it as soon as I get a proper cyber-lock plugged into your neural jack.”

The kid laughed—as much as he could laugh with a clenched jaw anyway. “You are ferry good.” His laughter faded, and despair contorted his features until he sobbed gutturally in jerky breaths. “Preez jush kill me… I don’t womma liff in dis world no more.”

“And just what do you know about living?” He grabbed the crucifix about his neck and showed it to him. “Only this and your hate?”

The boy didn’t respond, just kept on crying.

Macey rose with a deep exhale. Kids killing hookers in the name of God. Could it get any worse?

Probably.

The rain had died almost completely now but the wind still gusted. The police units he had called would be arriving shortly, but he wasn’t in the mood for the lengthy explanations they would want from him if they found him here.

“The cops are coming for you. You won’t wander off, will you?” He turned from the temporarily paralyzed boy and headed toward the stairwell. “Oh, and just so you know, since you seem to believe in all that stuff…repentance alone won’t bring you salvation.”

What The Bayou Saw - Chapter 1

What The Bayou Saw
Kregel Publications (March 24, 2009)

Prologue
Hold the Wind, Hold the Wind, Hold the Wind, don’t let it blow.
—Negro spiritual, “Hold the Wind”

August 26, 2005, Normal, Illinois

“I’m meteorologist Kim Boudreaux.” Clad in a dark suit, the petite woman smiled big for her television audience. “Katrina’s track has changed.” She pointed to a mass of ominous-looking clouds that threatened to engulf the screen. “She’s no longer headed for Mobile but is on course for the Crescent City.”

Sally Stevens checked her cell phone, then paced in front of the television, as if that would make her brother Robert pick up the phone. She needed to talk to him, needed to know that he’d gotten her nieces and her sister-in-law out of the death trap that New Orleans suddenly had become. Needed to have him assure her, with his balmy Southern drawl, that he and his National Guardsmen were going to be okay.

A slender hand pointed to what must be a fortune’s worth of satellite and radar imagery. “As you can see, Katrina’s moving toward the mouth of the Mississippi, toward the levees . . .” The meteorologist buzzed on, seemingly high on news of this climactic wonder.

Every word seeped from the television screen, crept across the Stevens’s den, and crawled up Sally’s spine. Louisiana had once been her home. Her heritage. What would this hurricane do to the Southern state that she still loved?

A glance at her watch told Sally to get moving. Instead, she once again punched in Robert’s number. If she could just hear his voice, she’d know how to pray later as she stood in her classroom pretending to be passionate about her lecture on the history of American music, pretending to act like it was another ordinary afternoon in Normal, Illinois, while this mother of a storm wreaked wrath and vengeance upon her brother. Her home.

“. . . the next twenty-four hours are crucial . . .” The camera zoomed in for a close-up, focusing on a perfect oval face that, for just a moment, seemed to stiffen, as if a personal levee was about to be breached. “I’m not supposed to say this.” Urgency laced the forecaster’s voice “But I’m telling you. Leave. This is a killer.” The pulsating weather image seemed to confirm her report, a mass of scarlet and violet whirling about an ominous-looking eye. Growing like a cancer. Moving in for the kill . . .

Talk turned to evacuation, log-jammed roads, but Sally barely listened. Years flew away as she studied Ms. Boudreaux’s flawless mocha complexion, the tilt of her chin. The determination of this woman to save her city, or at least its people. So like the determination of Ella, that first friend, who’d taken off for New Orleans. It was as if the lockbox of Sally’s memories had somehow sprung open. Ella, that friend who’d saved her. Ella. And her brother Willie, if he’d gotten out of the pen. Were they digging in, evacuating—

A classical song Sally’s kids had downloaded onto her phone poured from the tiny speaker as the device vibrated in her palm.

“God, let it be—” She glanced at the readout. 504 area code. New Orleans. Robert. Her fingers suddenly clumsy, she struggled to flip open the phone.

Static greeted her.

“Robert? Bobby?” She was shouting, but she didn’t care. “Are you there? Are you—”

“Ssss—got them out.”

He’s out there somewhere, right in the elements, from the sound of it. “Where are you?” Sally cried. “Robert, what’s going on?” Sally pressed the phone against her ear until it hurt. All this technology, yet she could barely hear him, could barely—

The whooshing stopped. So did Robert’s voice. Sally stared at the readout. Ten seconds she’d had with him. Ten seconds to gauge the climate of a city. A city that might still claim as a resident that once-best friend. Sally whispered a prayer as she grabbed her briefcase and headed to class.
***
August 29, 2005, New Orleans, Louisiana
“It’s no use! The generator’s flooded!” A single battery-operated hallway light revealed the faint outline of Dr. Powers, the thin, impeccably groomed physician whom Ella Ward had worked with for a decade. “Ella? Ella?” He groped against the hospital’s second floor wall, his hands and arms made ghoulish by the shadowy dark. “Are you there? Ella? We’ve got to get them out of here! Now.”

Screams, howling winds, and debris crashing against boarded-up windows swirled into a hellish cacophony that tore at Ella’s heart. What were the three of them, she, Willie, and the doctor—no. Willie didn’t count. What were the two of them going to do for sixty-three patients writhing in excrement, gasping for breath, thousands of dollars of ventilators and BiPAPs rendered powerless? Dying, minute by minute, second by second?

Just to keep from falling down, Ella dug her fingernails into a wall sweaty with humidity. She opened her mouth to answer, but no words came out. At Dr. Powers’s side, she’d watched an aortic artery explode, a patient gurgle in his own blood . . . “The scalpel, Ms. Ward?” he’d said. “Suction, please.” With ice-blue cool, Dr. Powers had plucked life out of mangled messes and never even raised his voice. Now his screams pierced Ella’s ears, and her hopes. Even with one of New Orleans’ best surgeons at her side, the prognosis of surviving this storm was dim. There was nothing for Ella to do but close her eyes and beg. “Oh God. Please Spirit. Please Lord Jesus, please.”

Dr. Powers clutched at the sleeve of Ella’s cotton scrub. “Where’s Willie?”

The doctor’s touch and the mention of her brother brought Ella around. Still, she could barely speak for the quivering of her lip. “Where . . . do you think a junkie would be?”

“The . . . pharmacy?”

Even though Dr. Powers most likely couldn’t see her nod, Ella went through the motion. Twenty-four hours ago, she’d decided she and Willie would come here together. Yet even in her worst nightmare, she hadn’t really believed that they’d die here together.

“Someone, anyone, let me outta here!” It was Mrs. Smith, in Room 215.

“Hold the wind, Lord!” Mr. Lunsford, who’d thought he’d die of cancer.

Ella gritted her teeth. One by one, the patients were seeing the storm’s demonic fingers etching out a death sentence, and screaming their response.

“We’ve got to do something.”

Dr. Powers’s words sent a shiver through Ella. Had he read her mind? Or had she babbled without even knowing it? She clamped her hands over her ears. Lord! I’m goin’ crazy! Help me, Lord!

“What’s happenin’, Lawd? Oh, Lawd Jesus!”

“Sweet Jesus! Where are you?”

What had acted as a twisted tonic to incite the patients to a new level of chaos? Was it the howls of the winds, the thuds and crashes against the windows, the doors, the very roof of this place?

“Jesus, oh Jesus!”

Every moan, every scream, knifed into Ella like a scalpel. Nursing school hadn’t trained her for this. Nearly thirty years working at understaffed facilities hadn’t trained her for this. Nothing had trained her for this. With taut fingers, she pulled the doctor close, then shoved him to his knees and knelt by him, her hands flush against the wall. “We gotta pray,” she said.

A Prisoner of Versaille - Chapter 1

A Prisoner of Versaille
Thomas Nelson (September 1, 2009)

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Fit To Be Tied - Prologue and Chapter 1

Fit to Be Tied
Zondervan (November 1, 2009)


Prologue



Dunacombe Manor, England
March 1916

“Your father is waiting in the library, my lord.”

“Thank you, Chadworth.” Head pounding from the previous night’s enjoyments, Sherwood Reginald Wakeley Statham, the youngest son of the Duke of Dunacombe, shrugged out of his coat and handed it to the butler, followed by his hat and gloves. “Is Mother with him?”

“No, sir. I believe her grace has taken to her bed.”

Sherwood flinched. That didn’t bode well for this meeting. His mother had acted as a buffer between him and his father’s anger since he was a boy. “Is she ill? Maybe I should go up to see her first.”

Chadworth lifted his eyebrows but said nothing. He didn’t have to. Sherwood knew he was expected in the library immediately, not fifteen or thirty minutes from now. The duke hated to be kept waiting, especially by Sherwood, the son who disappointed him at every turn.

“I’ll go straight in.” Might as well receive whatever dressing down his father wanted to mete out.

“Very good, my lord.”

Sherwood followed the long hallway to the library, accompanied by the sound of his uneven gait—a sharp click upon the tiled floor followed by a soft slide. He hated it. Hated even more how the walk down this hallway for a meeting with his father never failed to make him feel ten years old again. Not a good feeling for a man of thirty years.

He caught a glimpse of himself as he passed a large, ornate mirror and was immediately sorry. The ragged scar on his face blazed a bright red against his pale skin. Dark circles ringed his eyes, evidence of the many nights he’d gone without sleep, instead drinking and gambling till morning.

When he entered the library, he found the duke standing near the windows that overlooked the extensive gardens of Dunacombe Manor, hands clasped behind his back.

“Good morning, sir,” Sherwood announced himself.

His father turned and gave him a dour look. “So . . . you’re here at last.”

“I came as soon as I received your message.”

“Hmm.” The duke walked to a nearby chair and sat, then waited for Sherwood to do the same. “I have come to a decision about this . . . this latest escapade of yours.”

This latest escapade. The duke had obviously learned of his involvement with Lady Langley. The scandalous divorcée, twelve years his senior, had a reputation for enticing wealthy young men. Sherwood had been only too willing to become one of her conquests.

“I am sending you to America, Sherwood.”

“America?”

“I trust you remember Morgan McKinley. He and his mother stayed with us for a number of months about seven years ago. Yes, well . . . I have arranged with Mr. McKinley to find you employment and a place to live.”

So this wasn’t a sudden decision that had come about solely because of Lady Langley. This had been in the planning stages long enough for letters to pass back and forth between the duke and Morgan McKinley. Even before he’d made Lady Langley’s acquaintance.

“How long am I to stay in America, sir?”

“You will remain there a year. You will put your life in order, my boy. You will work for the money you spend and learn the value of it. I am done covering your gambling debts and paying for the liquor you and your wastrel friends consume. If you refuse to go, I will turn you out. Do you understand me, Sherwood? If you do not abide by my terms, you will no longer be welcome at Dunacombe Manor nor will I make good on your debts. You will not see your mother or me again.”

Sherwood didn’t give his father an argument. He hadn’t the energy to protest—not with his head pounding as it was now. At least in America he wouldn’t have to see more former school chums leave to fight in the war. Nor be required to attend another funeral when they returned in a box. And perhaps, on the other side of the ocean, the nightmares would stop. Maybe he would be able to sleep again without drinking himself into a stupor first.

“When is it I’m to leave, sir?”

The duke’s eyes widened. It was obvious he hadn’t expected Sherwood’s quick acquiescence. But he hid his surprise a moment later with a brusque response. “You will sail from Liverpool on Monday.”

Sherwood stood. “I’ll be ready. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I shall see Mother. I understand she’s unwell.”

“See that you don’t upset her.” And with that, he rose and walked to the window, his back once more turned toward his son.

CHAPTER 1

Bethlehem Springs, Idaho
April 1916

Cleopatra Arlington studied the horses in the corral. This bunch of mustangs had been captured off the range in the southwest corner of the state. Wild didn’t begin to describe the look in their eyes. They were wary, some scared, a few mean, and none of them wanted to be where they were now, walled in by fences.

“But I reckon we’ll make saddle horses out of you yet.”

Cleo wasn’t known as the best wrangler within two hundred miles for nothing. She’d learned a thing or two about wild horses over the years. For that matter, she knew a thing or two about all kinds of wild things, having a tendency to be a bit wild herself. At least according to how society viewed her.

The sound of an approaching automobile drew her around. Was it— It couldn’t be. But it was! Coming up the road was her twin sister, Gwen, and her brother-in-law, Morgan McKinley. The couple must have returned to Bethlehem Springs a day ahead of schedule.

Cleo whipped off her battered Stetson as she strode toward the house, grinning her welcome, arriving at the porch steps about a minute before the Ford Touring Car rolled to a stop and the engine went silent.

“Well, look at you!” Cleo said when her sister disembarked from the automobile. “Those are big city duds if ever I’ve seen any.”

That was one thing folks could count on. As sure as Cleo Arlington could be found in trousers and boots seven days a week — saving for two or three hours on Sunday mornings — Gwen McKinley would always look like she’d stepped right off the page of some fashion magazine.

In response, Gwen turned full circle, displaying the dark mauve dress and matching hat to their full advantage.

“I take it that means you did lots of shopping while in New York City.” Cleo gave Gwen a warm embrace. “We’ve missed you around here.”

“I’ve missed you too. Oh, Cleo. I wish you’d come with us. We had the best time.”

“I don’t imagine Morgan feels the same, the two of you married only eight months. You didn’t need me tagging along. You already had Mother for half of the trip.”

A rosy hue flooded Gwen’s cheeks as her gaze shifted to Morgan. The love in her eyes both delighted and saddened Cleo. Delighted because she was glad to see her fraternal twin so happy. Saddened because she was beginning to doubt she would ever find the same kind of happiness. Last year she’d fallen hard for a cowboy named Tyler King and had thought he was falling for her, too, but he hadn’t turned out to be the man she’d thought him. Did someone exist who could love Cleo as she was and not want her to become a more conventional female? She hoped so. She surely hoped so.

“Is Griff around?” Morgan asked after giving Cleo a hug.

“Yeah.” She tipped her head toward the house. “Dad’s inside, going through his ledgers. You know how he likes to have the accounts balanced right down to the last penny.”
Morgan glanced at his wife. “I’ll go in and talk to him while you two catch up.”

Gwen nodded as she hooked arms with Cleo. “Let’s sit on the porch. It’s too beautiful a day to go inside. I’ve missed the mountains so much. Our trip was fun and seeing Grandfather and Grandmother was wonderful, but it’s good to be home at last.”

Once they were seated, Cleo asked, “How was Mother when you left her?”

Her sister gave a slight shrug. “Mother’s always the same.” That was Gwen’s polite way of saying their mother thought of herself first and others second.

Cleo set her hat on her knee and traced the brim with her fingertip. “Mother stayed in Bethlehem Springs so long, I started to believe she might stay here for good. I think Dad was hoping she would too.”

“But if she’d stayed, Cleo—if she’d come to live with him as his wife after so many years apart—would either of them been happy? I don’t think so. Not until she lets God change her heart.”

“I reckon you’re right there.”

Gwen leaned forward on her chair. “But I’m certain she’ll come for another visit before the year is out. By November or December, I imagine.”

“So soon? I can’t think why she would. Look at all the years that went by before she came this time.”

“I’m sure of it.” Gwen smiled and lowered her voice to a whisper. “She’ll want to see her first grandchild.”

Cleo opened her mouth to exclaim, but Gwen silenced her with an index finger to the lips and a shake of her head.

“Not a word, Cleo. I’m not sure yet. I haven’t told Morgan, and I shouldn’t have told you before him.”

“Land o’ Goshen!” Cleo’s voice quivered with excitement. “How am I to keep such a secret, Gwennie? I’ll like to burst wide open with the news.”

“I don’t know how, but please do.”

Cleo glanced toward the door, then back at her sister. “What will you do if you’re pregnant? About your duties as mayor, I mean. Is there going to be another special election?”

“No. I’ll complete my term in office. That will only be for a year after the baby arrives. We shall manage somehow. Then I’ll happily retire from public service. At least for a time.”

“If that don’t beat all.”

One Fine Season - Excerpt of Chapter 1

One Fine Season
AuthorHouse (November 25, 2008)


Chapter 1

Pete O’Brien’s piercing blue eyes peered over the top edge of the newspaper he held, closely watching the slender, young woman move toward him. Sitting in the Saint Claire College library, the six-foot-two inch tall senior had grabbed the sports section after finishing a math assignment, but now focused his attention on a much more attractive figure. “She really is the most athletic, stunning girl I’ve ever seen,” Pete thought to himself. As Haven Jensen approached, she brushed back her long, brunette hair and smiled widely. “Hey handsome,” she said in a soft voice, leaning down to give Pete a gentle kiss. “Ready for the big game today?”

“Wouldn’t miss it. I’m waiting for Danny to finish class so we can head over to the locker room and get into uniform. How about you? You’re certainly looking inspirational.”

Haven grinned. “I hope so, since I plan to watch my two favorite baseball players in the world win a championship. It seems the entire school is buzzing with excitement, and I wanted to wish you good luck.”

Pete stood up, took his girlfriend of seven years in his powerful arms, and kissed her. “I already am lucky,” he whispered.

“Mmmmm. Now what is it again that you have to do this afternoon?” Haven laughed, and ran her fingers through Pete’s sandy blond hair. “Now be good and hit the girl of your dreams a home run today.”

“Are you giving me orders again?” Pete asked with a wink. “You know if you keep kissing me this way in public, people will think you actually like me — imagine what that will do to your reputation.”

“Let the masses think what they want,” Haven replied, pretending defiance. “Only this girl knows the real man beneath that goofy exterior.” She kissed him one more time, and with a wave of her hand, was off.

“By the way, I’ll be the one rooting loudest for Danny and you, so try not to forget about me in the next few hours,” she said over her shoulder. “With soooo many adoring fans, I know it’s difficult at times to keep track of us all.”

Pete blew his love a kiss, packed up his books, and headed out. Danny Grace met him just as he reached the double glass door entry to the library.

“Hey, Smooth,” Pete said. “Good timing, as always. Think we can take the league title?”
“Definitely. I just hope everyone is focused, and the guys wear their hitting shoes today.”
“Good idea. But with two sweet-swinging stars like us on the team, I think it’s a lock,” Pete said behind a knowing smirk. “Hey, seriously, you and me, Danny. Let’s get it done. I want to make today extra special.”

A few hours later, Haven sat on the warm, lush grass, shading her eyes from the bright sun with one hand as she watched the game unfold before her. Pete often described Haven as the ultimate dream girl, a rare jewel that men and women alike could not take their eyes off of when they first saw the 22-year-old co-ed. Standing five feet ten inches tall, she looked like a magazine cover waiting to happen. Even strangers would offer how much she reminded them of a young Elizabeth Taylor, with her mesmerizing eyes and flawless complexion. Haven seemed to take it all in stride, certainly with far less vanity than most girls blessed with exceptional good looks. Even though she often told Pete and Danny that outer beauty was common ¬— and finding someone who was worth knowing and spending time with because of their inner beauty was what really made them special — Haven made it no secret she was grateful for her eye-catching exterior.

“Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate beautiful packaging as much as the next girl,” she once told them. “But I also understand I was dealt a lucky hand, at least for the most part. My mom made it clear that I only have her, my dad, and God to thank for good genetics, and that anyone who depends on their looks to get them through life is heading for a rude awakening.”

Both boys couldn’t help but admire such a poised, levelheaded approach to life despite the gifts heaven had bestowed upon Haven, one of the many reasons they thought the world of her. A superb all-around athlete, Haven decided at age 14 to focus her efforts on volleyball. It paid off with a full college scholarship. But she also possessed a keen mind and wanted to become a veterinarian with an understanding of natural medicine. As a child, she had witnessed her two beloved dogs, Sparky and Mickey, both die at relatively young ages from blood and lung conditions. The heartbroken young girl vowed to one day make a difference in finding ways to prevent fatal animal diseases and save their owners the profound grief she had felt. In fact, volunteer work at a local humane society while in high school made her even more certain of her future career path.

“Hey, quit making Danny and me look bad with all this volunteering,” Pete had teased during their junior year in high school. “Now I suppose we’ll be expected to follow your example by working at summer youth baseball camps.”

“But you get paid for helping out at those camps.”

“I know, sweetie. Ain’t it great? Live and learn.”

Haven gave Pete one of those looks, and he couldn’t help but laugh.

“Hey, you know if you ever need help with one of your animal projects, I’m here for you. Your wish is my command. With you at the shelter, the phrase ‘lucky dog’ now has a whole new meaning.”

True to her word, Haven had been accepted by several schools of veterinary medicine, and now waited to see which pro baseball team drafted Pete before choosing where to begin the September term. No one could argue that a successful medical career did not hold great appeal for the talented young woman. But Haven valued family, marriage, and the blessings of one day becoming a loving, caring mother above all, and kept the dream of a happy life with Pete close to her heart.

At the moment, however, the game was foremost on her mind. A well-pitched Division I contest, the Saint Claire College Mavericks led 2¬–1 in the top of the ninth inning, courtesy of Pete’s solo home run blast in the second and Danny’s RBI double three frames later. But with one out, rival Portland mounted a last gasp rally, hitting back-to-back singles to place runners on first and third. Murmurs of doubt spread through the partisan crowd. Haven focused her gaze on Pete’s tall, lean figure in center field, watching as he set himself for the next pitch. He always looked so confident to her, so prepared, so ready for anything. She smiled, happy at the thought that such a magnificent man was all hers.

Both runners crept cautiously off their respective bases as the Saint Claire pitcher stared in for the sign, intent on protecting the single-run cushion. Calm and deliberate, he moved into the stretch, checked the runners, and fired a high fastball to home plate. The hitter swung and made solid contact with the pitch, lining a shot toward the left-center field alley. Many of the estimated two thousand spectators jumped to their feet, thinking the ball would be good for at least a double to drive in two runs and erase the Saint Claire lead.

With the crack of the bat, Pete broke to his right, striding with the grace and effortless speed of a gazelle across the manicured grass. At the last moment, he leapt high, snagged the ball in the webbing of his glove, and landed hard on his left leg. The crowd gasped in disbelief, then screamed its approval — Pete had made an impossible catch look almost routine. He took another two steps to regain his balance, planted his right foot, and gunned a long throw to the plate in one fluid motion. Urged by the frantic shouts of the base coach, the Portland runner at third tagged up and sprinted down the line with all the intensity he could muster. The ball arrived on the fly a half second before the sliding player, and the Mavericks catcher made a nice sweeping tag to record the final out.

Students, professors, parents, and other fans cheered wildly, while some poured onto the field to congratulate the players and coaches. Saint Claire had won the game and league championship on a sensational double play executed by its star center fielder. The host of scouts who witnessed the game knew well that only a handful of professional players could have made that throw. With the major league baseball draft fast approaching in June, Pete’s outstanding performance guaranteed he would remain a hot prospect among a number of big league clubs.

As soon as the game ended, Danny had tossed his glove high in the air at shortstop and rushed to Pete, yelling war whoops as he ran. They hugged, and Danny screamed, “Shahhht-gun — what a throw! Cooperstown might as well open a new wing right now. That was incredible.”

“Me? What about you? If it hadn’t been for your winning RBI, this game might never have ended! We did it, Smooth, we’re the champs.”

Both players long ago had decided reaching the major leagues defined their ultimate career goal. Measuring six feet tall with a slender yet muscular build, clear green eyes, and wavy, dark blond hair, Danny was a solid, hardworking player, a combination of dependable defense, skill, desire, and dedication. Scouts projected him as a decent major league middle infielder or utility player, perhaps even a .300 hitter with the right coaching in “The Show.” But Pete possessed greatness. Teams coveted his ability. Talent evaluators regarded him as a highly gifted, five-tool player who hit for a high average with power, ran extremely well, sported an exceptional throwing arm, and was next to flawless in the field — the type of commodity who would fill stadium seats. In fact, Pete reminded nearly everyone who saw him play of Joe DiMaggio, the fluid way he moved while tracking down fly balls and running the bases. He seemed to glide across the field, like a fast sailboat streaming atop the wave crests.

Pete had been drafted at the end of his junior year at Saint Claire. He decided to finish his education — and stay with Haven and Danny ¬— instead of signing for a $200,000 bonus. Determined to prove he’d made the right choice, Pete compiled a sensational senior year that made teams even hungrier to ink a deal. By comparison, while Danny might have a nice career as a pro, Pete was considered “can’t-miss.”

That evening, scores of students gathered at an off-campus fraternity house to celebrate the victory. During the party, Pete motioned to Danny and they walked outside to the back yard.

“Danny, I’ve got some important news. I’m asking Haven to marry me next weekend, and I wanted you to be the first to know.”

Danny’s face lit up as he grabbed Pete and gave him a big hug. “I’m happy for both of you — I was wondering what was taking you so long.”

“I suppose we both always wished she had been born twins, huh?” Pete said wistfully.

Danny rolled his eyes in mock disgust. “Oh sure, and I’d get the good looking, but mean and bossy one — you know, like the time on ‘Star Trek’ when Captain Kirk was separated into good and evil,” he laughed. “No, I think one Haven is enough for people to catch a glimpse of true perfection.”

Pete pulled Danny close and gave him a kiss on the forehead. “Thank you, Smooth. I love you buddy. You’re the best. Which, of course, goes without saying that I want you as my best man for the wedding.”

“Hmmm, let me check my calendar to see if I’m free,” Danny said with a mischievous smile. “Hey, I’d be honored. This is amazing — now we have two incredible events to celebrate. You were right — this really is an extra special night!”

***

Pete and Danny first met in second grade. What started out as best pals grew over the years into a brotherhood marked by fierce loyalty and respect for one another. An only child, Danny considered Pete an unquestioned family member and closest ally, someone he could always rely on no matter what. With four older sisters, Pete told his dad early on he believed God had sent Danny to rescue him from the crush of dolls, smelly perfumes, teen magazines, and other “girl stuff” that inundated the O’Briens’s Catholic household.

Having a constant, rock-solid companion also helped fill the huge vacuum in Danny’s life created when his father, a marine captain, died fighting overseas. The young boy was only 6-years old at the time.

Danny held warm memories of his dad. Strong, proud, and a true family man who lived his Christian values, the bold, distinguished officer with the strong jaw and quick smile spent as much time with his young son as possible. A huge baseball fan, Tom Grace would toss a little blue ball back and forth with Danny for as long as the boy’s attention would allow. But Danny’s favorite activity centered on riding his father’s shoulders, then being tossed into the air, only to land softly in his dad’s waiting arms. He also relished sitting in his father’s lap, listening to magical stories of courage and honor that always had happy endings.

Danny loved learning from his dad. He would always remember the day this bigger-than-life hero showed him the Grace family crest of arms. Descended from a Norman knight, the Irish clan ventured to the shores of North America decades before the Great Potato Famine of the 1840s.

Like so many of their countrymen and women, they found opportunity and freedom in this new home, and Captain Grace captivated Danny with a long-ago tale of adventure and bravery. At the end of the story, he translated the French-language motto on the coat of arms placed above a red and gold lion rearing on its back legs.

“It says, ‘On Grace, Depend.’ I hope you’ll always remember those words and try to live by them, son. Be someone your family can depend on to do the right thing, and be a true friend to the end. And remember, receiving grace means being in God’s favor and love, something you can also depend on. If you have faith in yourself and God, and never give up even when it’s hard not to, you’ll always make your mother and me proud. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“Yes, I think so,” the little boy replied. “I’ll be a hero like you.”

Tom Grace laughed. “Good boy, son. Now let’s go see what wonderful magic your mom is performing in the kitchen. You know, Danny, we’re both very lucky to have her.”
“I know, Dad. Mommy tells me the same thing about you all the time. I like being so lucky.”

But those untroubled times ended on a gray morning in late winter. Danny recalled with vivid starkness how his mother collapsed on the floor, sobbing, the day the dark news breached their door. His father had been killed in action while serving the country he loved, the victim of a cowardly enemy who used women and children as human shields. While doing his best to avoid harming the noncombatants, Captain Grace had been betrayed by his own compassion. As he braved a barrage of bullets to rescue a little boy about Danny’s age who lay bleeding in the street, an explosive device attached to the child by one of the fleeing fighters detonated. The medics could do nothing to save the brave solider. Though he didn’t understand the events thousands of miles from his safe, secure home, Danny knew his world had changed for all time.

Through Little League baseball games and high school playoffs, Danny missed the opportunity to have his dad’s support, offering encouragement or some little reminder only a caring coach could provide. But life never granted the elder Grace the chance to teach his son the skills and finer nuances of the game. Even on Danny’s most successful days, the hurt lingered of not being able to share his triumphs with the man who loved him most in the world.

On his high school graduation day from St. John’s Academy, Danny’s mother handed him one final gift she had wrapped with care in red, white, and blue paper the night before.

“This is from someone who loved you very, very much,” she said.

Danny read the words on the card. It was from his dad. He looked at his mom’s face and saw her eyes were moist. Danny tore away the wrapping to find a beautiful hand-carved wooden box. He lifted the lid. It contained the Silver Star awarded to his father for bravery in combat, a special, gold-plated pin of the family crest, a small, framed photo of Captain Grace in full dress uniform, and a handwritten note. Danny unfolded the paper and read the words his father had penned in blue ink years before:

To my beloved boy,
Always remember that I am with you and part of you, no matter
how many miles separate us. All my love, Dad

From that day forward, Danny wore the little pin under the bill of his baseball cap each time he took the field, never wanting to go into battle without his dad beside him.

A Slow Burn - Chapter 1

A Slow Burn
Zondervan (October 1, 2009)

Chapter 1

Defiance, Texas, 1977

Worry had its way with Emory, enticing her to stay up late after her night shift, hoping against hope that her missing daughter, Daisy, would walk through the front door laughing
and shouting and singing all at once. It made for groggy, sleep- sloppy mornings, where the only promise of coherence was a cup of joe followed by a tepid shower. Under the spray Emory shook hands with her tears, let them slip down her face, run down her chin and mingle with lukewarm creeks of shower water, racing in lines down her skin into the rusty drain circled by soap suds at her feet. Even then she listened. Turned off the nozzle three times when she thought she heard a noise.

But Daisy hadn’t barged through the front door for two months now. Her unmade bed stayed that way, waiting for Daisy’s warm thirteen-year old body, bronzed from too much Texas sun, to collapse into it. Emory, dripping wet, stood in Daisy’s doorway this morning — haunted it, really — and memorized the wrinkle of the sheets. Towel clutched around her as if the day gave a chill, she took five barefooted steps into her daughter’s room, dropped the towel, and curled naked on Daisy’s bed.

She didn’t weep; that was for the shower. She didn’t even pray. Preachers handled that. Every Defiance preacher prayed up a storm, she’d heard, but even their multitudes of prayers did
nothing to undo Daisy’s disappearance. Prayer didn’t amount to much. No leads discovered. No kidnapper nabbed. No one but Daisy’s dad under suspicion, and he was nowhere to be found. Pray? No, she moaned instead, a guttural anguish she pushed through her lungs, vibrating Daisy’s bed. Two months without her only child, and all she could do was groan, hug her knees, and smell Daisy on the sheets, hoping this whole ordeal was a cruel nightmare and when she woke up, Daisy’d be standing over her, a sharp-witted look in her eyes and a sassy, “Mama, you’re naked. Get yourself some clothes.”

Daisy’d only found her near naked once. Or was it more? On the day Daisy went missing, Emory lay on the living-room floor half-nude and strung out. Emory remembered the shame, how it felt hot, simmering her face. She had noticed her attire: just a bra and panties, no real clothes in sight to cover herself, her body displayed like abstract art on the canvas of a hardwood floor.

“Mama,” Daisy said, “I’m tired of taking care of you, you hear me?” Though Daisy’s voice scolded, she grabbed a favorite quilt, the one she camouflaged their old couch with because she hated that ugly thing, and pulled it over cold toes, knees, belly, shoulders, and neck. “There, Mama. There. You sleep. I’m going to see Jed, okay? I’ll be back for dinner.”

Emory murmured a hung-over okay. She pulled the quilt around herself, closed her eyes, and slept away the afternoon, while Daisy played with her friend Jed Pepper, then disappeared into the Defiance dust under his neglectful care.

She stood, thirty years old but feeling arthritic all the same. She wrapped the towel around her and headed to her room, where a floor full of dirty clothes made up her wardrobe.

A knock startled her. Three stark raps against an aging door. “Just a minute,” she hollered. She pulled on a ripped pair of Levis and a gauzy shirt. Emory caught her gaze in the full-length mirror; gaunt eyes stared back, the eyes of a bitter old woman.

Three more raps.

Halfway between her room and the front door, she knew.

She knew.

Emory stood in front of the door, the passageway Daisy was supposed to skip through, and tried to settle herself, but her heart hammered her ribcage. She took a deep breath, letting out a whisper of a moan. She opened the door. It creaked on its hinges as it opened onto her covered front porch.

Officer Spellman stood at her door, patrol hat in hands.

“Ma’am.” He cocked his head, his eyes moist.

“No.” She backed away two steps. Then again, “No.”

“We found Daisy.” He hesitated. “Actually, it was Jed Pepper who found her — in a clearing.”

“No.” Emory’s gut wrenched sideways; her cold hands began to sweat.

“We’ve taken the body to Tyler. I need you to come with me to identify her.”

Emory wilted into the doorframe, not caring a bit if it held her up or gave way and let her crash to the floor. Daisy. Her Daisy. Laughing, singing, skipping Daisy.

A body.

Nothing more.

T he journey to Tyler in the back of a police car took ten years, or maybe ten minutes. She couldn’t be sure. But she felt her body aging in the seat, the wrinkles forming around her frown, her eyes deteriorating in the light of this terrible day. She’d be an old woman by the time she reached Tyler. An old, childless woman.

“We’re here,” Officer Spellman said. He opened the car door for her. Opened the door to the hospital too.

A gentleman even in the face of death, she thought.

They wound through the hospital’s underbelly, down stark cor-
ridors. Heels — hers and his — clicked a cadence she’d never forget, one that would accompany her nightmares from here on out.

Another door opened.

Then another.

She filled out forms. In triplicate. Answered questions no mama should ever have to answer. Officer Spellman sat in an antiseptic chair, hat in hands, eyes to the floor.

A man in a white coat said, “Right this way, Mrs. Chance.”

“It’s Ms.” Emory didn’t look up.

“My mistake,” he said. “We won’t know her exact time of death until the autopsy’s done. I’d wait on ordering the grave- stone just yet, until we pinpoint it.”

“Gravestone,” she croaked to the sterile air.

“She’s right in here.” The nameless man opened another door.

Emory felt her heartbeat in her neck; put her hand there, as if to calm it back down to its proper rhythm. In front of a pale green wall was a gurney with a white sheet stretched over a body. Her little girl.

The last time Daisy’d had a sheet over her head, Halloween did its haunting. Though past trick-or-treating age, she’d in- sisted on being a ghost, taking young Sissy Pepper around their Defiance neighborhood. “To protect her,” she said.

“And what kind of ghost can protect a little girl?” Emory had asked.

“My kind.” She tugged at the sheet pulled taut over her head. Two phantom eyes darkened with black-tinted Crisco looked through two crudely cut holes in the nearly white sheet. Around Daisy’s neck Emory tied a ratty string, giving her head a jack-o- lantern look — just like the picture in Family Circle’s Halloween issue. Daisy flapped her arms, sheet billowing in stark contrast to the porch’s night. “I can even scare away the boogie man.”

The man pulled back the sheet to the body’s chest, but Emory wouldn’t look. Not yet. She turned away, pretending interest in the wall color. She inhaled. Swallowed bile. Shook her head as if that would keep the tears away somehow. She turned. Grabbed her stomach. Smelled death. Then saw her, open eyes to sunken eyes.

Daisy.

Her blonde hair browned by clods of dirt. Emory wanted to comb them away, give her hair a good brushing, though she’d never bothered when Daisy was alive. Daisy’s eyes, closed lids
over caved-in sockets, emanated death. Her mouth turned un- characteristically down, a frown etched into Daisy’s face for eternity.

“Ma’am? Is this your daughter?”

She looked at the man. “She was.”

“I’ll slip out. Give you a few moments.”

Emory watched Daisy. But Daisy didn’t move. Didn’t sing. Didn’t holler. Didn’t run. Didn’t scat. Didn’t pick the dirt out of her hair. She lay there. That was all.

Emory stepped closer.

Dark marks circled Daisy’s neck — the same place that cord circled her ghost costume. Was she choked? Were her last breaths stolen from her by hands too strong?

“Daisy, it’s Mama. Your mama.” She suspended her hand inches above Daisy’s pale shoulder, afraid to touch it. “Who did this to you, baby?”

Daisy didn’t tell.

Emory knew who bore part of the blame, felt it way down inside. If Daisy’s eyes were open, they’d look right into Emory’s soul, spotlighting guilt, the guilt she kept pushing down with the same ferocity she tamed her nausea.

She touched Daisy’s shoulder. So cold. So hard. So unlike Daisy.

Yet so much like herself it made Emory shudder.

eye of the god - Prologue & Chapter 1

eye of the god
Abingdon Press (October 1, 2009)


Prologue

Golconda, India, 1653
Jean-Baptiste Tavernier winced as the soldier chopped off the man’s hand. The thief shrieked and dropped to the ground, clutching the bloodied stump to his chest.

Tavernier turned aside with a grimace and ordered the litter bearers beneath him to move faster. Four slaves, dark from the sun, jostled between the crowded stalls of Golconda’s hectic bazaar and away from the public spectacle. The agonized screams faded as they pressed farther into the crowd. Dense heat settled over the marketplace, and Tavernier wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. Pungent smells assaulted his senses: sweat and urine, spiced curry and sweet chutney, burning incense and rotting vegetables. His litter bumped and rocked through the hustle and bustle of shoppers and merchants haggling over prices. Red and gold bridal wear and precious gold glittered in the stalls. Elephants carried the elite through the narrow streets while dirty children chased each other with sticks.

Tavernier looked across the sea of dark-skinned faces toward an embroidered tent in the midst of the bazaar guarded by two soldiers wearing the white turban and golden sash of the sultan’s army. At his approach the guards stepped aside and pulled back the elaborate flaps.

Tavernier glanced at the heavy wooden chest near his feet and stepped from the litter. “Guard that with your life,” he ordered the soldiers as he entered the tent.

Large, colorful cushions and intricately woven Oriental rugs covered the dirt floor. Mir Jumla, Golconda’s prime minister, lounged on an orange and peacock-blue silk pillow. The heavy brow, black eyes, and prominent nose of the Persian-born general contradicted his Oriental adornment.

Mir stood and greeted Tavernier in the traditional Indian way, with palms together, hands raised in front of his face, and head bowed. “Vanakkam,” he said.

Tavernier lowered his head and returned the greeting.

Mir motioned for him to sit, and they settled onto the cushions.

“Good to see you, Prime Minister,” Tavernier said.

Mir grinned, “Jean-Baptiste Tavernier. Punctual as always.”

“You said it was important?”

Around Mir’s neck hung a buckskin pouch, which he untied and placed in Tavernier’s hand, “I could lose my head for this.”

“Come, come Mir, we both know the sultan would much prefer to chop off your hands and leave you to beg for food like a common slave.”

“My hands it will be then if the sultan ever learns that escaped his grasp.”

Tavernier opened the pouch and emptied the contents into his hand. His eyes widened and the corners of his mouth twitched as he suppressed a grin. In his palm rested the largest blue diamond he had ever seen. He turned it over, running his fingers along the irregular surface.

“This is a great deal more than ten carats. It was my understanding that any diamond over ten carats found in the Kollur mines went directly to the sultan.”

Mir Jumla nodded and pushed back into the cushions. In one hand he fingered a gold coin with his long fingers. “That is the edict. But I never said this stone came from the mines.”

“Since when did you start dealing in stolen gems?”

Mir Jumla thrust out his lower jaw. “You don’t want it then?”

“Of course I do. I am just curious why a man so loyal to the sultan is selling diamonds right out from under his nose.”

“Loyalty, like most things, has a price.” Mir grinned.

Tavernier smiled. “Indeed.” He held up the diamond, letting the light filter through. “Net et d’un beau violet,” he whispered in his native French.

Mir tilted his head to one side.

Tavernier repeated in Indian, “A clear and beautiful violet.”

“Yes. It is flawless.”

Tavernier balanced the stone in his hand for a moment. “One hundred carats, or close to it, I would wager.”

“One hundred twelve.”

“Excellent. And the price?”

“Two-hundred twenty-thousand livres.”

“A little steep.”

“We both know you will not find another such diamond for sale in Golconda. They all sit in the sultan’s treasury.”

“Fair enough.” Tavernier shrugged. “But you still have not told me how you came by this stone.”

Mir hesitated a moment as he studied the coin in his hand. “I would not give that much concern. The last person to own this was made of stone and sat in a Hindu temple on the banks of the Godavari River. A slave named Raj, starving and half-mad, brought it to me three weeks ago, claiming he had chiseled it from the forehead of an idol named Rama Sita.” Mir cast a sideways glance at Tavernier. “Cursed, Raj said. The idol cursed the diamond and all who would come to own it.”

“And where is this Raj now?”

“In the bazaar. I believe my soldiers just relieved him of a hand.”

“That was your doing?”

“I paid him a fair price for the stone three weeks ago, but he came back this morning for more. When I refused, he tried to steal this.” Mir held up the coin.

Tavernier laughed. “A convenient story, my friend.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Weaving a tale of theft and vengeance is an old jeweler’s trick to induce interest in the buyer. One I have used myself, as a matter of fact.”

Mir gave a curt nod. “May it be on your head. I am glad to sell it and be done.”

“At such a price, I am sure you are. But as far as my head goes, I intend for it to stay in place.”

“The curse does not bother you?”

“I don’t believe in curses, Mir. Besides, we both know they increase the value of trinkets such as this.”

“Then we have only the matter of payment to attend.” Tavernier rose and fetched his treasure chest from the litter. Returning, he set it on the rug before Mir and opened the lock with a small golden key. When he pulled back the lid, hundreds of gold coins spilled onto the carpet before them. Tavernier counted the purchase price before the prime minister, who eyed the gold with hunger. Only a few dozen coins remained in the chest when he was done.

Tavernier slid the great blue diamond back inside the buckskin pouch and tied it around his neck. “Should you stumble across the other eye you will, of course, let me know?”

“Of course,” said Mir with great satisfaction. “And thank you once again for your business.”

The men gave each other a polite nod, and Tavernier stepped from the tent. Within seconds his litter disappeared amidst the writhing mass of vendors, peasants, and hanging goods.

Chapter 1

Carnival, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil—Present Day
Abb y Mitchell stared through the window at the feverish display of dancing outside. She placed her palm on the warm plaster wall of the Chacara do Ceu Museum and felt the pounding Samba music pulse against her fingers. She observed the frenzied celebration from within the safety of the museum’s main gallery. An old mansion, turned resting place for some of the world’s most renowned art, the museum was a pleasant combination of low ceilings, cream-colored walls, and quiet elegance.

Her cell phone buzzed, and she took a deep breath before answering. “Good morning , Director Heaton.”

“It’s not all that good, Dr. Mitchell. We have a bit of an issue.” His voice was raspy, the ravages of age and cigarettes.

She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder. “What’s going on?”

“The Collectors. They’ve taken two Van Goghs.”

Abby closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the window. “Where?”

“Amsterdam.”

“How?”

“We’re not exactly sure. Investigators are baffled. The paintings just disappeared in the middle of the night.”

“Prints?”

“None.”

“Of course not. In ten years they’ve never left a print. Or a clue for that matter.”

“Abby,” his voice prodded on the other line. “You know what this means.”

She nodded, staring at her reflection in the window. “They can’t get their hands on the Dali. And we know they want it.”

“You know what you have to do.”

A weak smile spread across her face. “Let’s just hope I can.”

“Call me when you’re done,” he said, and then hung up the phone.

A handful of tourists wandered the gallery, trying to study the timeless wonders on its plaster walls, but distracted by Carnival just a few feet away.

Lost in her thoughts, Abby paid no attention to the approaching footsteps until she felt a polite tap on her shoulder. She turned to find a woman, in her late fifties, wearing a white linen suit and a gracious smile.

“Dr. Mitchell, I presume?” she said with a distinct Brazilian accent.

Abby held out her hand. “Indeed. And you must be Director Santos?”

“Please, call me Ana.” Though aging quite gracefully, it was obvious Ana Santos had been a sight to behold in her prime.

“Sorry to keep you,” she smiled. “With all the tourists in town, I have been running behind all week. But things should calm down now that Carnival is almost underway.”

“No trouble at all. I’ve been enjoying your remarkable collection.”

Ana stretched out an arm and motioned Abby to follow. They turned their backs to the window and made their way through the gallery toward a series of priceless surrealist paintings. One in particular caught Abby’s attention, and she leaned forward, appreciation evident on her face.

“Now, Dr. Mitchell, you said there was an urgent matter we needed to discuss. I assume more than Carnival brings you to Brazil?”

“I’m afraid so.” She ran a finger over the nameplate which read Two Balconies, Salvador Dali.
Ana beamed. “Fantastic, isn’t it?”

Abby nodded.

“Two Balconies is the only Salvador Dali painting on display in Latin America. It is one of the Chacara do Ceu’s most prized exhibits.”

Abby tapped her lips in contemplation. “I don’t doubt that.”

“Beautiful ring,” Ana said, glancing at Abby’s finger.

“Thank you. It was a gift.”

She grinned mischievously. “He must love you very much.”

“You would think so.”

Ana smiled sadly and changed the subject. “So what is your concern?”

“I’m worried about this painting.”

“Two Balconies? What do you mean? I thought you felt it would be a spectacular addition to your exhibit next year.”

“I do,” Abby assured her. “My concern is not with the painting itself, but with its safety. I have reason to believe it may be in danger of theft.”

Ana relaxed a little and laughed. “I can assure you, meu caro, we have strict security measures in place. All of our paintings are bolted to the wall and connected to hairtrigger alarms. If a painting is moved even a fraction of an inch, the alarm sets off our security system. In addition we have state-of-the-art video surveillance and round-the clock armed guards.”

“I wasn’t suggesting your security system is sub par, merely that we have gotten word there may be parties interested in this particular Salvador Dali painting.”

Ana flashed a charming smile. “Do you mind me asking your source?”

“I’ve received notice from the art theft division at Interpol. There are rumblings of an illicit interest in Dali and this painting in particular. I thought it prudent to warn you, considering your partnership with the Smithsonian.”

“Why is the International Criminal Police Organization interested in Two Balconies?”

“There has been a rash of thefts recently, and Interpol contacted me with a warning.”

“I appreciate your concern, Dr. Mitchell, but I feel confident we have taken the appropriate measures to protect our facility.”

Abby sighed. “All right. But know you have our full resources at your disposal should you need them.”

“Thank you, Dr. Mitchell. I will certainly take that into consideration.” Ana glanced back at the painting and asked, “I assume the Smithsonian is still planning to include Two Balconies in next year’s exhibit?”

“Absolutely. Preliminary preparations are underway for its transport and security.”

Ana beamed. “We would be delighted to accommodate you in any way. I will, of course, have to accompany the painting to Washington.”

“Of course.”

Both women turned back to the window as a loud burst of cheering and music erupted from the throng outside. Viktor Leite, the mayor, was barely audible over the din. Flanked on both sides by voluptuous women dressed in revealing Carnival garb, he screamed into the microphone so he could be heard over the pounding drums.

“Let the festivities begin!”

At his command the massive parade, seventy-thousand people strong, erupted in applause and began to snake through the streets.

“You will be staying for Carnival?” Ana asked.

“I’m afraid not. Duty calls me back to Washington.”

“I thought this was a working vacation?”

“More work than vacation, I’m afraid.”

“Surely the Smithsonian wouldn’t object to you staying an extra day or two?”

Abby sighed. “My flight leaves at noon tomorrow.” Ana opened her mouth to argue her case but was jolted into stunned silence by the thunderous sound of a gunshot. Abby and Ana spun around to find two armed men standing at the museum entrance.