Like the chicken-and-the-egg question, I guess it all comes down to the question we Christians continually have to ask ourselves. Which came first, the righteous heart or the good works? Do good works give us a righteous heart, or does our righteous heart lead us to do good works? Which would God rather see?
I know the answer, and most of you do, as well. God doesn’t ask for a scoresheet or a legalistic report card. He’s already done all the work to save us. He sent his Son to die on the cross for all of our sins and to demonstrate our inheritance in his Resurrection. All he asks is that we give him our hearts. All of our hearts.
So many times I’ve run myself ragged trying to do things that I believe are pleasing to God, only to realize sometime later that I’ve neglected my prayer life and my Bible study—in fact, I’ve left God out of it entirely. “Was it really for me you fasted?” God asked. Interesting question. And a painful one, as well.
And God sits quietly, watching and shaking his head, wondering when we will learn.
Thank God that he doesn’t wash his hands of us. Thank God that he asks those probing, painful questions that remind us what is important. Thank God that he never stops teaching us.
May our hearts be so pure, so full of his righteousness, so Christlike, that our good deeds burst forth as acts of worship, rather than sacrifice.
And may God never stop working on me.
God bless you all,
Terri Blackstock
Presumption
of Guilt
This book is lovingly dedicated
to the Nazarene
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I can’t end this series without thanking the people who have shared my vision for it since the beginning. I’d like to thank my agent, Greg Johnson, for believing in what I was doing and sharing my enthusiasm. And I’d like to thank my Zondervan friends who have worked tirelessly beside me: Dave Lambert, the best editor I’ve ever worked with (and I’ve worked with plenty); Lori Walburg, the second best editor I’ve ever worked with; Sue Brower, who believed in the books enough to go to great lengths to get them into the hands of readers; and all of the others at Zondervan who have been such a pleasure to work with.
Thanks, also, to Bob Anderson from the attorney general’s office in my state, for answering important law questions for me.
And thanks to you, all of the readers who have followed this series to the very end. You’ve been God’s way of telling me over and over that this is where I’m supposed to be!
CHAPTER ONE
The Buick had been tailing Beth Wright for miles. She had first noticed it weaving in and out of traffic too closely behind her on the Courtney-Campbell Causeway, the driver making no attempt to hide the fact that he was after her. Now, nearing St. Clair, they had left most of the traffic behind, but he was still there. She pressed the accelerator harder, checking her rearview mirror.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out who it was. She had known that, if word got out that she was doing the story on the St. Clair Children’s Home, Bill Brandon would come after her. What he would do once he caught her was open to speculation, but she didn’t want to find out.
The Buick sped up and switched lanes, cutting in front of a motorcycle, forcing it to swerve, and then pulled up beside her, as if trying to run her off the road. He must have found out somehow that she had interviewed his sister, and he didn’t like it. Marlene had warned her that he wouldn’t take it well, but Beth hadn’t needed warning.
The Buick swerved sharply to the right, almost hitting Beth’s car, and she caught her breath and rammed her right foot to the floor. Her car burst forward, leaving the Buick behind. If he ran her off the road, he would kill her. If he was desperate enough to chase her down on a state highway with other drivers watching, then he was desperate enough to commit murder.
Her hand trembled as she reached for her cellular phone. It had fallen to the floor, so she bent forward, groping for it. The Buick jolted her rear bumper, and she swerved onto the shoulder. Grabbing the wheel, she pulled it quickly back into the right lane. The few other cars on the highway had begun pulling off the roadway to let her car and the Buick go by, probably alarmed by the Buick’s erratic driving. Maybe someone had already called this in to the police.
She reached again into the darkness in front of the passenger seat for the phone, and this time her hand touched it. She picked it up and dialed 911 with her thumb.
“911, may I help you?”
“There’s someone after me!” she cried. “He’s trying to kill me!”
“What’s your address?”
“No! I’m in my car! He’s following me. We’re on Highway 19 between St. Petersburg and St. Clair. I just passed the Ship’s End restaurant. Please hurry!”
“What is he driving, ma’am?”
“A dark Buick—I’m not sure of the color.”
He bumped the rear corner of her bumper again, and she screamed as her car veered to the shoulder. “He’s ramming my car! Please, have you sent someone?”
“Yes,” the dispatcher said. “We have a car on its way—”
But while the woman was still talking, Beth punched the “end” button, cutting her off, so she could pay attention to Bill Brandon’s Buick. The stretch of road between St. Petersburg and St. Clair wasn’t as busy as the others they’d been on. If there was a patrol car in the area, he’d spot them immediately—but if not, she might be dead before they showed up. To her right, she could see the beach, the turbulent waves smashing against the sand. If he stopped her, he could easily make her disappear in the Gulf Coast—and he wouldn’t think twice about it. She looked in her rearview mirror. There was a car’s distance between them now, but he was gaining. No other cars were in sight behind them. Where were the police?
Nick, she thought. I have to call Nick. He was expecting her to come straight to his house, to let him know what she’d found out from Marlene. But with this maniac following her, she might never get there. She’d better tell him what she’d learned—just in case.
She punched out his number and waited as it rang. “Come on, Nick,” she whispered.
The answering machine picked up. “Hello, you have reached the home of Nick Hutchins . . .”
The Buick bumped her again, and tears sprang to her eyes. She punched off the phone and tried to think. Where are you, Nick? You’re supposed to be waiting for me!
A message, she thought. He must have left a message. Maybe he’d called to tell her to meet him somewhere else instead. Her hand trembled, making it difficult, but she managed to punch out her own number, then waited for her machine to answer so that she could punch in her code and get her messages.
“Hello?”
It was the voice of a boy.
Startled, she asked, “Who is this?”
There was a long pause. “Who do you want?”
She turned on her bright lights, looking for a road, any road, that she could turn down in hopes of losing him. “I thought I was calling my own house,” she said.
“You must have the wrong number.”
Confused, she punched the “end” button, and followed the road’s curve along the edge of the beach. The Buick did the same, right on her bumper. Where were the police? And what number had she just dialed? She punched “recall” and saw the digital readout. It was her number. So who had answered the phone at her house?
Her car jolted again, and she saw the Buick in the lane next to her. He was trying to force her off the road now. She had to get help—he would kill her if she didn’t lose him.
She pressed “redial” and checked the number on her readout. She had dialed right the first time. She pressed “send” and waited as her own number rang again. This time, it rang on and on. The machine, which normally picked up on the fourth ring, never answered.
What’s going on?
The car edged over, pushing her toward a drop-off. She looked in her rearview mirror and saw that no one was behind her. No witnesses, no one to notice if he sen
t her tumbling over a seawall.
She saw a road sign up ahead, and quickly breathed a prayer. Then, waiting for just the right moment, she slammed on her brakes until she was behind the Buick and screeched into a left turn, skidding around the corner onto a side street. She stomped on the accelerator and made another turn, and another, until she was completely out of his reach, hidden by trees.
She eased up on the accelerator only slightly, checking her rearview mirror every few seconds. It was more than fifteen minutes before she was certain that she had lost him; only then did she feel that she could safely try to make it home—hoping he hadn’t figured out where that was yet. She had intentionally rented the little house out in the woods because it would be hard for unwelcome guests to find. So far, she’d kept herself insulated from him, but now she knew that interviewing Marlene had been a mistake. Bill Brandon was too smart and too suspicious not to keep close tabs on the sister who had once worked with him. He must have found out about the interview somehow, and followed Beth from Marlene’s house.
So maybe he still didn’t know where she lived. Maybe her little house in the woods was still a safe haven.
CHAPTER TWO
The car phone in the Buick rang, and Bill Brandon snatched it up. “Yeah, what is it?”
“Bill, it’s me.” The boy’s voice was shaky and frightened.
“What are you doing?” the man asked. “Where T are you?”
“Still in her house,” the boy said in a half-whisper. “But I can’t find any of the papers or any tapes. I’ve looked everywhere.”
Bill cursed. “Does she have a desk? A file cabinet? Did you check her computer?”
“Yes. I looked in all those places, and I couldn’t find anything on the computer. She has millions of directories, and I don’t know what to look for.”
“Well, keep trying. And hurry. You don’t have much more time.”
“Are you still following her?”
“No, I lost her.”
There was a pause again. “She just called here.”
“She what? What do you mean she called?” Bill’s face darkened as he held the phone to his ear, taking it in. He heard the sirens, and quickly pulled off the road, cut his lights, and stopped behind a rickety-looking body shop.
“She called. I picked up the phone ’cause you told me you were gonna call and warn me when she was coming home. I thought it was you.”
“You idiot! What did she say?”
“I made like she called the wrong number. She called back, and I just let it ring.”
“Well, you’d better get out of there, you fool! She’s on her way home!”
“I thought you were gonna stop her!”
“I didn’t,” he snapped. He saw the reflections of blue lights flashing against the trees and junk cars surrounding the body shop. He wiped his sweating temple as the lights continued on up the road. “You blew it already, kid. Next time I’ll find someone else who can do the job without botching it up.”
“But Bill, I tried—”
“That’s not good enough!” Bill shouted. “I’ll deal with you when we get home! Now, get out of there!”
“Where will I go?” the boy asked in a voice on the verge of tears.
“Go to the Fraser Gas Station on Banton Street. I’ll pick you up.”
“But that’s five miles away, Bill! Will you wait for me?”
“I told you I’d pick you up, didn’t I? Now don’t let anyone see you. If anybody does, you don’t say a word, you understand me? You don’t know anything.”
“Okay, Bill.”
Bill slammed the phone down and cursed again as he pulled out of his hiding place and headed for the gas station.
CHAPTER THREE
As he hung up the phone, ten-year-old Jimmy Westin heard tires on the gravel outside the house. Headlights swept through the windows of the darkened house, and the small red-haired boy froze, wondering which of the side doors she would come in, which door he could safely leave through. The little cocker spaniel at his feet yelped up at him, wanting to play. He shouldn’t have given it so much attention when he’d first come in, but he’d never had a dog of his own, and he hadn’t expected to find it here. Bill hadn’t said anything about it.
“Shhh,” he whispered, trying to quiet it. “I have to go.”
He heard the car door slam in front of the house. Her keys rattled in the door.
Now it was too late to go out any of the doors. He would have to hide. He looked around frantically, then dashed up the stairs, leaving the fat, young puppy yelping after him. Halfway up, he looked back and saw it struggling to climb the first step. He left it behind, and hurried up to the woman’s loft office, where he’d searched for the papers and tapes Bill wanted. There was a door there, next to a closet. He opened it.
It was a floored walk-in attic. He slipped in and closed the door quietly, just as he heard the door downstairs closing behind her. Instantly, he was surrounded by darkness, thicker darkness than that downstairs. Downstairs, there had been a night-light over the stove, and a small lamp she had left on. In here, the darkness was opaque, smothering . . .
He trembled as he shrugged off the black backpack he wore, unzipped it, and pulled out his flashlight. The beam revealed boxes against the walls—tall ones, short ones, empty ones, packed ones. Across the floor was a window. Perfect. He could get out that way. He walked softly, trying to make it to the window, but the floor creaked beneath him. He froze, afraid to take another step. What if she heard? What if he got caught? What would they do with him?
He was sweating, and his breath came harder. All of the heat of Florida seemed contained in this attic, locked in with no escape, just like him.
He stood there, motionless, listening. He could hear her downstairs, doors closing, footsteps moving across the floor. Was she looking for him? Had she figured out that the voice on the phone wasn’t a wrong number? What if the puppy somehow led her to him?
He shone the beam around him again, looking for a hiding place, and he saw lots of them. Places where mice, too, could hide. Spiders. Snakes, even. There was no telling what could be in an attic in such an old house.
He eyed the window again, and tried taking another step. It didn’t creak. Taking a deep breath, he tiptoed across the floor, walking as lightly, as quietly as he could, until he reached the window. He unlocked it and tried to slide it up, but it was stuck. With all his might he tugged, but it didn’t budge.
For a panicked moment, he thought of breaking the glass and making a run for it, but it was a long way down. By the time he figured out a way to get to the ground without breaking both legs, she would have the whole police force surrounding the place.
He was stuck here. Stuck until she went to sleep. Then, if he was very careful, and the floor didn’t creak, and the dog didn’t bark, maybe he could get out. Bill would be furious that he hadn’t made it to the gas station on time, and Jimmy would probably have to make it all the way back to the children’s home on foot—unless he could get to a phone and call for someone to come get him. He reached into his empty pocket, wishing he had a quarter. Maybe the lady who lived here had one lying around somewhere. Maybe he could find it before he left.
Maybe.
He wondered what Bill would do to him for messing this up. Quickly, he shifted his thoughts. He couldn’t dwell on that. He had to go back, and that was that. Lisa would bear the brunt of his punishment if he didn’t. He couldn’t let that happen.
He heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and quickly dove behind a box in the corner. He held his breath and listened. Her footsteps moved across the office floor; she was going to her desk. He realized that he had forgotten to turn the answering machine back on. How could he be so stupid?
He should have worn gloves. Could they trace the fingerprints of ten-year-old boys? And once they found him, would they put him in jail or send him to the detention center? Did they really have that room with the black walls and only a slit that they slid bread thr
ough—the room Bill had warned him about? Is that where they would keep him locked up until he was old enough for prison?
He closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. He could hear her out there, doing something in her office, moving around. He heard her saying something to the puppy, heard the little animal yelp and scratch on the floor. Would the dog lead her to him?
“Please don’t let her find me,” he whispered. “Please . . .”
CHAPTER FOUR
Nick Hutchins stuffed the duffel bag full of the clothes the two frightened little boys—six and eight years old—would need, and wished they didn’t have to listen to the string of expletives flying from the foul mouth of their drug-dealer father, who stood handcuffed in the corner of the living room. His wife, also involved in the family business, screamed over his curses that they couldn’t take her children away. Tony Danks and Larry Millsaps, the cops who had called Nick to come take the children into state custody, ignored her pleas and continued recording the evidence they’d compiled. There was enough crack cocaine in the house to ruin the lives of everyone in St. Clair.
It wasn’t an unusual event, but Nick had never gotten used to it. He zipped up the bag and went back into the living room where the two boys sat huddled together.
“My daddy didn’t do anything!” the older child cried. “Neither did my mom. Why don’t you just leave us alone?”
“Please don’t take my kids!” their mother cried. “I didn’t know nothing about what he was doing. He did it behind my back! Please!”
Nick glanced hopefully at Larry. If there was some way they could avoid arresting the mother tonight, then he could spare the children the trauma of being taken from their home, at least temporarily. But Larry shook his head.
“We caught her dealing on videotape,” Larry said. “And with all the stuff we found in the back room, there’s no way she didn’t know what was going on.”