tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-40099176772039766132024-03-14T01:09:15.710-06:00SumballoA Greek word that means to ponder, to discuss, to meet with, to converse. Join me on this spiritual journey as I follow Jesus and his teachings, to understand him and his ways better.Kathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836736433376650097noreply@blogger.comBlogger807125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4009917677203976613.post-60128888014775107122010-12-30T11:52:00.000-07:002010-12-30T11:52:57.165-07:00Who Are The Pharisees? « A Christian Worldview of Fiction<a href="http://rebeccaluellamiller.wordpress.com/2010/12/29/who-are-the-pharisees/">Who Are The Pharisees? « A Christian Worldview of Fiction</a>Kathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836736433376650097noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4009917677203976613.post-76486736431227939142010-12-16T06:44:00.000-07:002010-12-16T06:44:02.047-07:00If Jesus came today<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Kathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836736433376650097noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4009917677203976613.post-52117671055272066342010-10-08T07:04:00.001-06:002010-10-08T07:04:16.221-06:00Psalm 87<span xmlns=''><p>The fountain had been still for too long during the drought but now sparkling cold water flowed in great waves, washing away the dust and despair. A man dipped his hat into the pool, pouring the water over his head and body.<br /></p><p> When the woman came to the fountain, a chill came over the crowd and they stiffly parted ways to let her in. She seemed to ignore the snub, walking to the water and kneeling beside the flowing stream. She plunged her hands into the water and then drank from her cupped hands.<br /></p><p> "What's she doing here?" The words rippled through the crowd. "She doesn't belong here."<br /></p><p> Foreigner. Outsider. Stranger<em>. Sinner.</em><br /> </p><p> "We are here to celebrate the end of the drought!" A deep voice hovered above the crowd and they turned eager eyes to the man standing on the back of the wagon. "We prayed for relief and God heard us. God heard us!" <br /></p><p> The woman slowly rose, now standing at the edge of the crowd. She raised her hands above her head and began to sing, "My joy is in you, Lord. You are my joy and my life."<br /></p><p> At first, others grumbled as she sang, but her voice was pure and clean, flowing out into the people. The words floated like morning mist but began to settle. Faces changed. Worry lines softened and scowls faded.<br /></p><p> Then a man across the way lifted his hat into the air. He linked his voice with the woman's and they sang.<br /></p><p> The words flowed through the crowd and others began to pick up the melody. Soon the crowd was singing, swaying slightly to the rhythm of the song.<br /></p><p> "We are your people," the man on the wagon said loudly. "You are our source of joy and we are your people."<br /></p><p> The drought of the land had ended with the rains but the drought of the hearts had begun to fade as well as the crowd joined together. "My source of joy is in you," was their new song.<br /></p></span>Kathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836736433376650097noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4009917677203976613.post-32394344908743564962010-07-10T20:45:00.000-06:002010-07-10T20:45:29.932-06:00Writing and God's callMy posts here have dwindled in recent months. I've enjoyed writing essays about the journey with Jesus. Although I am not ready to call this blog complete, the light is flickering out.<br />
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However, I have begun a new blog entitled <a href="http://kathybrasby.blogspot.com/">A Writing Adventure,</a> where I am trying to capture some of my random exploration in writing a mystery novel. My focus hasn't changed: to honor God is what I write and I have felt his call to this new field of fiction writing. Please join me at <a href="http://kathybrasby.blogspot.com/">A Writing Adventure. </a>Kathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836736433376650097noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4009917677203976613.post-40866323234840046512010-07-09T07:41:00.000-06:002010-07-09T07:41:01.855-06:00Cuban prisoners releasedCuba will release 52 political prisoners as part of the communist-run Caribbean island's largest release of dissidents since Pope John Paul II visited in 1998, the Cuban Catholic Church said comments monitored by Worthy News Thursday, July 8. Read the entire article<a href="http://www.worthynews.com/8501-news-alert-cuba-to-release-52-dissidents-church-says"> here.</a>Kathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836736433376650097noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4009917677203976613.post-24967344942586449522010-07-05T07:59:00.000-06:002010-07-05T07:59:23.992-06:00Haiti<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Another side to the Haitian disaster, and a reminder of how God is not defeated:</div><br />
<object height="385" width="500"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/v5vEntWb7AI&hl=en_US&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/v5vEntWb7AI&hl=en_US&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="500" height="385"></embed></object>Kathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836736433376650097noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4009917677203976613.post-18670615416049145922010-06-22T11:32:00.001-06:002010-06-22T11:34:58.433-06:00Breaking the lawConvinced that his target was evil and had to be stopped by extraordinary means, our man assembled a plot to assassinate the enemy of the people. This enemy led a passionate group willing to die for their cause, and our man was equally willing to die to stop this enemy.<br /><br />This set-up is not the start of some spy novel but a true story about a Christian man who felt called to murder for a cause.<br /><br />Does it make you uncomfortable that a Christian would initiate such a plan?<br /><br />A few days ago,<a href="http://www.denverpost.com/dontmiss/ci_15301373"> Gary Faulkner</a> of Colorado was arrested in Pakistan on such a mission: he planned to assassinate Osama Bin Laden. We know his brother personally and have followed this story with interest.<br /><br />The question is whether a Christian should concoct a murder. I don't know the answer but I found an interesting historical parallel.<br /><br />My opening paragraph could describe Gary's mission - or another well-know Christian, Dietrich Bonhoeffer. Bonhoeffer was arrested in Germany in 1941 for planning to assassinate Adolf Hitler. Read an excellent article on his life <a href="http://townhall.com/columnists/CalThomas/2010/06/22/bonhoeffer_a_true_believer">here</a>.<br /><br />Bonhoeffer could have stayed quiet but chose to defend the Jews in Germany against Hitler's horrific plans - and died for his commitment.<br /><br />Although I think we have to be careful not to give ourselves permission to break laws will-nilly, as followers of Jesus we follow higher laws. Who knows what we may be called to do - and what sort of commitment we may have to make?Kathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836736433376650097noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4009917677203976613.post-86005929088371245252010-06-21T09:26:00.000-06:002010-06-21T09:26:54.450-06:00Why persecution?<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I've been captivated in recent weeks by Christians throughout the world enduring persecution. Some face imprisonment. Some face death. Simply for their spiritual convictions. </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">My first response has been self-centered: I hope I don't have to go through that. I hope I have the courage to stand firm in the time comes. And I feel guilty because I don't face jail time for teaching a Bible study or attending a worship service.</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I am teaching a class right now where I'm trying to parallel the persecution of the early church with today's persecution. The letter of I Peter is written to persecuted Christians in the first century and I'm trying to find truths that apply today.</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Here's what I'm learning so far: God is magnificent. Life with him is so fulfilling and abundant that he's worth dying for. He's worth sacrificing all for. Remember that old hymn: "I surrender all...."? Well, it encourages me to know that surrendering all for God is fulfilling.</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">When I hear about North Koreans treasuring scraps of the Bible and of Chinese pastors putting themselves back in jail rather than denouncing God, I realize they know God's value. They know who God is. That encourages me.</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I may not face the level of persecution they face (or I may. Who knows?) but I know God is so precious that life with him is better than life here.</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: center;"> <i>For you know that it was not with perishable things such as silver or gold that you were redeemed from the empty way of life handed down to you from your forefathers, <span style="color: windowtext; font-size: x-small; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: super;"></span> but with the precious blood of Christ, a lamb without blemish or defect. </i></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><i>1 Peter 1:18-19 </i></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
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On May 22, they left Iran and arrived safely in another country. Sam and Lin Yeghnazar, founders of Elam Ministries and spiritual parents to Maryam and Marzieh, met them at the airport. "We are most grateful to everyone who prayed for us," said Marzieh. "The prayers of people encouraged and sustained us throughout this ordeal," Maryam said. <br />
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When Sam told them their example had encouraged countless people around the world, they were quick to respond, "We are frail human beings with many weaknesses. The honor and glory go to God who has kept and used us, although we don't know why he has chosen us. All the glory goes to him." (Source: Elam Ministries)Kathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836736433376650097noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4009917677203976613.post-75478035049876241242010-05-31T07:33:00.000-06:002010-05-31T07:33:46.940-06:00Today, Remember<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8e4RZxz5M5Q/RoujlS3pB_I/AAAAAAAAAOQ/mOQRSFIQUJI/s1600/flag-c-sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="285" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8e4RZxz5M5Q/RoujlS3pB_I/AAAAAAAAAOQ/mOQRSFIQUJI/s400/flag-c-sm.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Thank you for your sacrifice.</span></div>Kathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836736433376650097noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4009917677203976613.post-188380350123274992010-05-30T06:00:00.000-06:002010-05-30T06:00:06.188-06:00Your purpose<object height="385" width="640"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/TUS8TanEB4M&color1=0xb1b1b1&color2=0xd0d0d0&hl=en_US&feature=player_embedded&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/TUS8TanEB4M&color1=0xb1b1b1&color2=0xd0d0d0&hl=en_US&feature=player_embedded&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowScriptAccess="always" width="640" height="385"></embed></object>Kathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836736433376650097noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4009917677203976613.post-39692045894425001702010-05-28T16:06:00.003-06:002010-05-28T16:19:52.377-06:00Talent to Treasure by Marcia Washburn<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_8e4RZxz5M5Q/TAA-aQg7UlI/AAAAAAAABLY/4WBpRPUiMFQ/s1600/T2TCover-214x330.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 330px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_8e4RZxz5M5Q/TAA-aQg7UlI/AAAAAAAABLY/4WBpRPUiMFQ/s400/T2TCover-214x330.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476445767713116754" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Among the home-based businesses that can be launched, teaching piano lessons is a simple but effective one for those with the right talents.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">But even those who have excelled at playing the piano and have plenty of music theory training may not be trained in how to run a business.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">There's more to operating a music business than owning a tuned piano and putting your sign on the door.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Marcia Washburn, who combines her musical and teaching talents with a successful music teaching business, has compiled years of experience into her new book, </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: arial;">Talent to Treasure: Building a Profitable Music Teaching Business. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Marcia is a long-time homeschooling mother who, once her five sons were graduated, expanded her music teaching into a fulltime business. She teaches with Christian compassion and expertise, eager to discover her students' style of learning and love for music.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">But Marcia is also an organized business woman and she shares not only teaching hints but business tips in her book. With this book in hand, it's a lot easier to take the step from talented pianist to successful music teacher.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I highly recommend this book for those who would like to begin or enhance a music teaching business.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Visit Marcia's website</span><a style="font-family: arial;" href="http://www.marciawashburn.com/"> here</a><span style="font-family: arial;">.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Her book can also be purchased there. Click</span><a style="font-family: arial;" href="http://www.marciawashburn.com/T2T.html"> here.</a>Kathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836736433376650097noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4009917677203976613.post-41952798829797950082010-05-20T06:00:00.000-06:002010-05-20T06:00:02.058-06:00The Overseer by Conlan Brown<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/SAad94Trj7I/AAAAAAAAArA/Yn05_E4V0fY/s1600-h/wild+card.jpg"></a><a href="http://firstwildcardtours.blogspot.com/"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190009307003588530" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/SAad94Trj7I/AAAAAAAAArA/Yn05_E4V0fY/s200/wild+card.jpg" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; text-align: center;" /></a>It is time for a <span style="color: #990000;"><b><a href="http://firstwildcardtours.blogspot.com/">FIRST Wild Card Tour</a></b></span><b></b> book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! <span style="color: #990000;"><b>Enjoy your free peek into the book!</b></span><br />
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<span style="color: #cc0000;"><i>You never know when I might play a wild card on you!</i></span><br />
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I had the privilege of meeting (briefly) Conlan at a writer's conference last weekend. He has a heart for God and for his craft that is admirable. <i>The Overseer</i> is an action-filled adventure worth reading.<br />
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<div align="center"><b>Today's Wild Card author is: </b></div><br />
<div align="center"><b><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><a href="http://www.conlanbrown.com/">Conlan Brown</a></span></b></div><br />
<div align="center"><b><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 100%;">and the book:</span> </span></b></div><br />
<div align="center"><b><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1599799553">The Overseer (Firstborn (Realms))</a></span></b></div><div align="center">Realms; 1 edition (May 4, 2010)</div>***Special thanks to Anna Coelho Silva | Publicity Coordinator, Book Group | Strang Communications for sending me a review copy.***<br />
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<div align="left"><b><span style="color: #333399; font-size: 130%;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></b></div><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/S_Bj2XyqYYI/AAAAAAAAD_s/L59iXcE0vvI/s1600/Conlan+Brown+-+%280_1%29.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471983333005746562" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/S_Bj2XyqYYI/AAAAAAAAD_s/L59iXcE0vvI/s200/Conlan+Brown+-+%280_1%29.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 134px;" /></a><br />
By the end of his sixteenth year Conlan Brown had completed his first novel, his first stage play, and his first year of college. Brown now holds a Master's degree in Communication and lives on Colorado's Front Range where he is working on his next book. He enjoys video editing, film scores, and developing high octane, thought provoking fiction that turns pages and excites the senses.<br />
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Visit the author's <a href="http://www.conlanbrown.com/">website</a>.<br />
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Product Details:<br />
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List Price: $13.99<br />
Paperback: 296 pages <br />
Publisher: Realms; 1 edition (May 4, 2010) <br />
Language: English <br />
ISBN-10: 1599799553 <br />
ISBN-13: 978-1599799551 <br />
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<span style="color: #cc0000;"><b><span style="font-size: 180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </b></span><br />
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<div style="height: 307px; overflow: auto;">Screams rang out from the rain-soaked street. Feeling the horror rise, Hannah fell to her knees in the pounding deluge, hands touching the ragged edges of the craterlike pothole. <br />
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The impact of the car splashing into the pothole. Thunder. Lightning. Rain. A trunk opening. Three teens. Terrified, screaming, kicking. Eyes begging for help. Hands slapping, punching bloodied mouths. Frightened girls torn from the car—thrown to the wet street. A needle— Bodies going limp. Thrown into another car. Tires shrieking into the stormy night. One man remaining in the street. The tattoo—a dragon. <br />
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Thunder cracked as the images disappeared with the flash. Lifting her head, she looked around, the thick spring storm churning around her. <br />
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The screams. <br />
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Already gone from the world—but the street remembered— and Hannah could still hear them calling out from the past. She was their only hope now—the one person who realized that these girls had been conned and taken. The only person who could follow a trail snaking backward through the past— a trail that had gone cold to the negligent, rain-drenched world. <br />
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Hannah Rice looked to her right and saw the liquor store. That was where he had gone—the man with the dragon tattoo. <br />
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Just through those doors. Hannah breathed in with resolve and walked toward the lights of the liquor store— <br />
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—toward the dragon. <br />
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Hannah pushed the soaked hood of her sweatshirt off her head and looked around. <br />
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She had never been in a liquor store before. The floor was white like a supermarket—but none of the same sweet, homey smells were here. No bread or fruit. Simply rows of metal racks, stocked with a forest of bottles. The sounds of clinking glass and cooler doors opening and closing filled her ears. An older man in a plaid shirt and a wiry blond beard approached the door, looking her up and down out of the corner of his eye. <br />
<br />
<br />
For being in a seedy part of New Jersey, the store was big and fairly clean. Hannah looked around, waiting for someone to realize that she was only twenty and have her sent from the premises in handcuffs and a swirl of red and blue lights. The only looks she received were lecherous at best. She pulled her jean jacket close, pressing the metal buttons into place with little pops that seemed to echo through the cavernous room. <br />
<br />
<br />
“Can I help you find something?” a jockish-looking guy in his midtwenties asked from behind the counter. <br />
<br />
<br />
She shook her head, embarrassed. “No, thank you.” She moved to the far end of the store, looking down the aisles as she walked. <br />
<br />
<br />
No one realized she was too young to be here, or else no one cared. She watched the aisles change as she moved along, shifting from colorful bottles of flavored rum with shirtless cabana boys adorning their labels to the dark glass of the wines. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah wasn’t unfamiliar with alcohol. Half the reason she’d left college was because of her roommate’s drunken binges in which she had brought so many of her friends over to <br />
<br />
party. It reminded Hannah of all the nights she had spent in the dorm lounge, studying subjects she didn’t understand, sleeping on couches she resented being on. It was the next day’s cleanup, inevitably left to Hannah, that had taught her to recognize various forms of alcohol bottles and the hazards of a hungover roommate. <br />
<br />
<br />
Her grandfather had left her enough money to get whatever degree she wanted, wherever she wanted it, but she had chosen a medium-sized state college to start out. The idea had been simple: get her core classes out of the way, and buy herself some time to figure out what she wanted to be when she grew up. After she gave up on college, she moved to New Jersey to be near the Firstborn and enrolled in an online program. Distance learning at her own pace better suited the lifestyle she had grown to accept: following dark trails through back alleys. The ongoing searches for— <br />
<br />
<br />
—the dragon. <br />
<br />
<br />
It was always jarring to see her visions in the flesh. She was a Prima—gifted with hindsight, the ability to see the past. And the past tended to have the good sense to stay in the past and fade away to the naked eye and the observing world. But there he stood inthe middle of the aisle—fifteen feet away—comparing labels on vodka bottles. His arms bare, short black hair wet. A blue short-sleeved T-shirt and green cargo pants. The tattoo <br />
<br />
curled up his arm, its tail resting against the back of his hand, its scaly body coiling around the man’s arm like an anaconda, the dragon’s head poised to strike like a hooded cobra, a forked tongue lashing out from beneath a spray of flame. <br />
<br />
<br />
The man looked up from the bottles, turning his head— toward her . . . <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah dropped back around the corner. A sting of panic nipped at her heart. She waited a moment—her pulse and breath slowing as she pulled herself together. She looked back. <br />
<br />
<br />
Gone. <br />
<br />
<br />
She moved down the aisle to where the man had been and passed, heading to the end of the aisle. She stopped and turned her head, looking for him. <br />
<br />
<br />
Nowhere. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah moved fast, looking down the aisles once again, coming to the end of the rows. She must have lost him somewhere in the— <br />
<br />
<br />
She saw him at the front of the store, at the cash register, the boy behind the counter stuffing a bottle of vodka into a perfectly sized brown paper sack. The man with the tattoo reached into his pocket, pulled out a thick roll of bills, and slid one from beneath the tight hold of the rubber band that encircled them. The boy hit a button on the cash register, and the man with the tattoo turned, walking toward the door. <br />
<br />
<br />
“Hey, Dominik,” the boy called after him, “do you want your change?” <br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik simply waved a dismissive hand and pushed through the front door, back into the rain. <br />
<br />
<br />
Pushing the glass door open, Hannah followed, plunging into the downpour. Her eyes scanned the cars in front of her parked diagonally to the storefront. A set of lights flashed on toward the far right end of the row—a black luxury sedan—the engine humming, the wipers swishing away a wide swath of pooling water as the man in the driver’s seat lifted his eyes— <br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik. <br />
<br />
<br />
His dragon-clad shoulder moved, putting the car into drive. The vehicle slid backward out of its space, through the veil of rain, past the unnatural glow of the liquor store’s neon lights, and then slipped into darkness. <br />
<br />
<br />
Her one lead. The one trail. The only chance to find the girls. And he was getting away. For a split second Hannah did none of her own thinking. Her feet took off, rushing into the night, as the car pulled parallel to the street. The brake lights lit up. The backup lights dimmed. The car began to drive away. <br />
<br />
<br />
Her first thought was to chase after, screaming, shouting, demanding he stop. Her next thought was to memorize his license plate number. Hannah’s eyes squinted into the darkness, but the lights surrounding the license plate were all burnt out. Nothing to see but darkness. <br />
<br />
<br />
The red taillights, glowing like the eyes of the dragon on Dominik’s arm, glared at her through the onslaught of falling droplets. Turning the corner, leaving her in the street—alone. <br />
<br />
<br />
“Lord,” she stammered to herself. She could feel her panic rise at not knowing what to do. But now was not the time to focus on problems or obstacles. Now was not the time to feel or do. Now was the time to clear her mind. To be. To be what she had been called to— <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah turned her attention to the end of the block, where she had parked her car. That was where she needed to get. To think past the problem and to move effortlessly with the solution. <br />
<br />
<br />
Wet and cold, she thrust her hand into her pocket, reaching for her car keys. Suddenly she was at the car door, her hand holding the key, the key in the door. The old door to the station wagon groaned as she pulled it open and climbed in. She turned the key, and the engine sputtered. <br />
<br />
<br />
“Not now,” she whimpered, pushing down on the pedal, feeding the engine gas. A moment of whirring, then— <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The engine went dead. She’d flooded it. The old jalopy did it all the time, but this was the worst possible— <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah stopped. Gathered herself. She had to get past the <br />
<br />
Chapter 1 <br />
<br />
<br />
creams rang out from the rain-soaked street. <br />
<br />
Feeling the horror rise, Hannah fell to her knees in the <br />
<br />
pounding deluge, hands touching the ragged edges of the <br />
<br />
craterlike pothole. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The impact of the car splashing into the pothole. <br />
<br />
Thunder. Lightning. Rain. <br />
<br />
A trunk opening. <br />
<br />
Three teens. Terrified, screaming, kicking. <br />
<br />
Eyes begging for help. <br />
<br />
Hands slapping, punching bloodied mouths. <br />
<br />
Frightened girls torn from the car—thrown to the wet street. <br />
<br />
A needle— <br />
<br />
Bodies going limp. <br />
<br />
Thrown into another car. <br />
<br />
Tires shrieking into the stormy night. <br />
<br />
One man remaining in the street. <br />
<br />
The tattoo—a dragon. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Thunder cracked as the images disappeared with the flash. <br />
<br />
Lifting her head, she looked around, the thick spring storm <br />
<br />
churning around her. <br />
<br />
<br />
The screams. <br />
<br />
<br />
Already gone from the world—but the street remembered— <br />
<br />
and Hannah could still hear them calling out from the past. <br />
<br />
She was their only hope now—the one person who realized <br />
<br />
that these girls had been conned and taken. The only person <br />
<br />
who could follow a trail snaking backward through the past— <br />
<br />
a trail that had gone cold to the negligent, rain-drenched <br />
<br />
world. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah Rice looked to her right and saw the liquor store. <br />
<br />
That was where he had gone—the man with the dragon tattoo. <br />
<br />
<br />
1 <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The Overseer <br />
<br />
<br />
Just through those doors. Hannah breathed in with resolve and <br />
<br />
walked toward the lights of the liquor store— <br />
<br />
<br />
—toward the dragon. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah pushed the soaked hood of her sweatshirt off her head <br />
<br />
and looked around. <br />
<br />
<br />
She had never been in a liquor store before. The floor was <br />
<br />
white like a supermarket—but none of the same sweet, homey <br />
<br />
smells were here. No bread or fruit. Simply rows of metal racks, <br />
<br />
stocked with a forest of bottles. The sounds of clinking glass <br />
<br />
and cooler doors opening and closing filled her ears. An older <br />
<br />
man in a plaid shirt and a wiry blond beard approached the <br />
<br />
door, looking her up and down out of the corner of his eye. <br />
<br />
<br />
For being in a seedy part of New Jersey, the store was big <br />
<br />
and fairly clean. Hannah looked around, waiting for someone <br />
<br />
to realize that she was only twenty and have her sent from the <br />
<br />
premises in handcuffs and a swirl of red and blue lights. The <br />
<br />
only looks she received were lecherous at best. She pulled her <br />
<br />
jean jacket close, pressing the metal buttons into place with <br />
<br />
little pops that seemed to echo through the cavernous room. <br />
<br />
<br />
“Can I help you find something?” a jockish-looking guy in <br />
<br />
his midtwenties asked from behind the counter. <br />
<br />
<br />
She shook her head, embarrassed. “No, thank you.” She moved <br />
<br />
to the far end of the store, looking down the aisles as she walked. <br />
<br />
<br />
No one realized she was too young to be here, or else no one <br />
<br />
cared. She watched the aisles change as she moved along, shifting <br />
<br />
from colorful bottles of flavored rum with shirtless cabana boys <br />
<br />
adorning their labels to the dark glass of the wines. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah wasn’t unfamiliar with alcohol. Half the reason <br />
<br />
she’d left college was because of her roommate’s drunken <br />
<br />
binges in which she had brought so many of her friends over to <br />
<br />
party. It reminded Hannah of all the nights she had spent in the <br />
<br />
dorm lounge, studying subjects she didn’t understand, sleeping <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
on couches she resented being on. It was the next day’s cleanup, <br />
<br />
inevitably left to Hannah, that had taught her to recognize <br />
<br />
various forms of alcohol bottles and the hazards of a hungover <br />
<br />
roommate. <br />
<br />
<br />
Her grandfather had left her enough money to get whatever <br />
<br />
degree she wanted, wherever she wanted it, but she had chosen a <br />
<br />
medium-sized state college to start out. The idea had been simple: <br />
<br />
get her core classes out of the way, and buy herself some time to <br />
<br />
figure out what she wanted to be when she grew up. After she gave <br />
<br />
up on college, she moved to New Jersey to be near the Firstborn <br />
<br />
and enrolled in an online program. Distance learning at her own <br />
<br />
pace better suited the lifestyle she had grown to accept: following <br />
<br />
dark trails through back alleys. The ongoing searches for— <br />
<br />
<br />
—the dragon. <br />
<br />
<br />
It was always jarring to see her visions in the flesh. She was <br />
<br />
a Prima—gifted with hindsight, the ability to see the past. And <br />
<br />
the past tended to have the good sense to stay in the past and <br />
<br />
fade away to the naked eye and the observing world. But there he <br />
<br />
stood in the middle of the aisle—fifteen feet away—comparing <br />
<br />
labels on vodka bottles. His arms bare, short black hair wet. <br />
<br />
A blue short-sleeved T-shirt and green cargo pants. The tattoo <br />
<br />
curled up his arm, its tail resting against the back of his hand, <br />
<br />
its scaly body coiling around the man’s arm like an anaconda, <br />
<br />
the dragon’s head poised to strike like a hooded cobra, a forked <br />
<br />
tongue lashing out from beneath a spray of flame. <br />
<br />
<br />
The man looked up from the bottles, turning his head— <br />
<br />
toward her . . . <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah dropped back around the corner. A sting of panic <br />
<br />
nipped at her heart. She waited a moment—her pulse and breath <br />
<br />
slowing as she pulled herself together. She looked back. <br />
<br />
<br />
Gone. <br />
<br />
<br />
She moved down the aisle to where the man had been and <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
passed, heading to the end of the aisle. She stopped and turned <br />
<br />
<br />
her head, looking for him. <br />
<br />
<br />
Nowhere. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah moved fast, looking down the aisles once again, <br />
<br />
coming to the end of the rows. She must have lost him somewhere <br />
<br />
in the— <br />
<br />
<br />
She saw him at the front of the store, at the cash register, the <br />
<br />
boy behind the counter stuffing a bottle of vodka into a perfectly <br />
<br />
sized brown paper sack. The man with the tattoo reached into <br />
<br />
his pocket, pulled out a thick roll of bills, and slid one from <br />
<br />
beneath the tight hold of the rubber band that encircled them. <br />
<br />
The boy hit a button on the cash register, and the man with the <br />
<br />
tattoo turned, walking toward the door. <br />
<br />
<br />
“Hey, Dominik,” the boy called after him, “do you want your <br />
<br />
change?” <br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik simply waved a dismissive hand and pushed <br />
<br />
through the front door, back into the rain. <br />
<br />
<br />
Pushing the glass door open, Hannah followed, plunging <br />
<br />
into the downpour. Her eyes scanned the cars in front of her <br />
<br />
parked diagonally to the storefront. A set of lights flashed on <br />
<br />
toward the far right end of the row—a black luxury sedan—the <br />
<br />
engine humming, the wipers swishing away a wide swath of <br />
<br />
pooling water as the man in the driver’s seat lifted his eyes— <br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik. <br />
<br />
<br />
His dragon-clad shoulder moved, putting the car into drive. <br />
<br />
The vehicle slid backward out of its space, through the veil of <br />
<br />
rain, past the unnatural glow of the liquor store’s neon lights, <br />
<br />
and then slipped into darkness. <br />
<br />
<br />
Her one lead. <br />
<br />
<br />
The one trail. <br />
<br />
<br />
The only chance to find the girls. <br />
<br />
<br />
And he was getting away. <br />
<br />
<br />
For a split second Hannah did none of her own thinking. Her <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
feet took off, rushing into the night, as the car pulled parallel <br />
<br />
to the street. The brake lights lit up. The backup lights dimmed. <br />
<br />
The car began to drive away. <br />
<br />
<br />
Her first thought was to chase after, screaming, shouting, <br />
<br />
demanding he stop. Her next thought was to memorize his <br />
<br />
license plate number. Hannah’s eyes squinted into the darkness, <br />
<br />
but the lights surrounding the license plate were all burnt <br />
<br />
out. Nothing to see but darkness. <br />
<br />
<br />
The red taillights, glowing like the eyes of the dragon on <br />
<br />
Dominik’s arm, glared at her through the onslaught of falling <br />
<br />
droplets. Turning the corner, leaving her in the street—alone. <br />
<br />
<br />
“Lord,” she stammered to herself. She could feel her panic <br />
<br />
rise at not knowing what to do. But now was not the time to <br />
<br />
focus on problems or obstacles. Now was not the time to feel or <br />
<br />
do. Now was the time to clear her mind. To be. To be what she <br />
<br />
had been called to— <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah turned her attention to the end of the block, where <br />
<br />
she had parked her car. That was where she needed to get. To <br />
<br />
think past the problem and to move effortlessly with the solution. <br />
<br />
<br />
Wet and cold, she thrust her hand into her pocket, reaching <br />
<br />
for her car keys. Suddenly she was at the car door, her hand <br />
<br />
holding the key, the key in the door. The old door to the station <br />
<br />
wagon groaned as she pulled it open and climbed in. She turned <br />
<br />
the key, and the engine sputtered. <br />
<br />
<br />
“Not now,” she whimpered, pushing down on the pedal, <br />
<br />
feeding the engine gas. A moment of whirring, then— <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The engine went dead. She’d flooded it. The old jalopy did it <br />
<br />
all the time, but this was the worst possible— <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah stopped. Gathered herself. She had to get past the <br />
<br />
moment. She had to find her strength—a strength that could <br />
<br />
only come from God. <br />
<br />
<br />
She took a long, deliberate draw of air, letting it fill her lungs <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
in a cool cloud that expanded inside her chest. Somewhere in <br />
<br />
the distant reaches of her mind she felt her body act, working <br />
<br />
with the world around her—neither rushed nor distracted—to <br />
<br />
bring the car to life. <br />
<br />
<br />
She turned the key again. The engine growling, she fed it gas. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah’s foot came down in a steady push, feeding the car, <br />
<br />
and she took off into the night— <br />
<br />
<br />
—chasing after him. <br />
<br />
<br />
Her car sped to the end of the block—a stop sign ahead. <br />
<br />
<br />
Her attention snapped to the right—the direction Dominik <br />
<br />
had gone. <br />
<br />
<br />
Nothing. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah rolled into the street, peering through the rain—and <br />
<br />
then she felt where he had been. She was on the trail again. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The wipers sloshed, thumping beads of water away from the <br />
<br />
glass. <br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik yawned. It was getting late, and he was getting <br />
<br />
tired of work. He’d stayed sober as long as the new girls were at <br />
<br />
the storage house, but now that they were being moved, he was <br />
<br />
ready to drink again. <br />
<br />
<br />
He eyed the jostling bottle of vodka in the passenger seat, <br />
<br />
ready for the familiar burn of alcohol in his chest. Dominik <br />
<br />
missed Russian vodka—the stuff that had been cheaper than <br />
<br />
water during the cold war. He was hardly a connoisseur, but he <br />
<br />
knew that American vodka tasted different to him. He was told <br />
<br />
that good vodka had neither taste nor smell. But who cared? <br />
<br />
Just so long as it kept him warm—a lesson he had learned in <br />
<br />
prison twenty years ago. <br />
<br />
<br />
He thought about the girls and how much money they would <br />
<br />
bring. Altogether, maybe three thousand dollars in Ukraine. <br />
<br />
Here? More. But it wasn’t enough. Dominik wanted a line of <br />
<br />
cocaine—the stuff he’d gotten used to as a teenager when the<br />
<br />
iron curtain fell. But for now, vodka would have to do. <br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik reached out, steering with his forearm. He held the <br />
<br />
neck of the bottle in one hand and twisted the cap with the <br />
<br />
other. <br />
<br />
<br />
He took a slug. The same amount would have sent most <br />
<br />
Americans into a hacking fit. Dominik didn’t flinch as the <br />
<br />
stinging liquid seared his throat, filling him with a glowing <br />
<br />
sense of well-being. He felt good. Safe. But not overly safe. He <br />
<br />
looked in the rearview mirror, double-checking for cops. <br />
<br />
<br />
A single set of lights behind him, moving in quickly. Much <br />
<br />
too quickly. He screwed the cap back on the bottle, stuffing it <br />
<br />
in the armrest. <br />
<br />
<br />
Thoughts of a cop watching him throw back a mouthful of <br />
<br />
hard liquor as he passed by filled Dominik’s head. Was he being <br />
<br />
followed? <br />
<br />
<br />
There was an alley ahead. He signaled left. The car behind <br />
<br />
him signaled a left-hand turn as well. Dominik cranked the <br />
<br />
wheel hard right, and a spray of filthy water splashed up against <br />
<br />
the windows of his car as he hit the accelerator and raced down <br />
<br />
an alleyway. His eyes shot upward, toward the rearview mirror. <br />
<br />
The car behind him screeched past the turn, then slammed its <br />
<br />
brakes, laying rubber and a wake of erupting rainwater. The <br />
<br />
car pulled into reverse, pulling perpendicular to the alley for a <br />
<br />
moment, its silhouette fully revealed. <br />
<br />
<br />
A beige station wagon? <br />
<br />
<br />
The following car’s front end nosed toward the alley. The <br />
<br />
headlights, which had been shrinking with distance, stabilized <br />
<br />
in size, then began to grow. <br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik didn’t signal; he simply grabbed the wheel and <br />
<br />
yanked to the left. Water crashed against the passenger window <br />
<br />
as the car fishtailed, his foot pressing hard into the gas—jetting <br />
<br />
down a dark street. <br />
<br />
<br />
He nearly spun in his seat to look back. This was insane. His<br />
<br />
heart was racing. His face red and sweaty. Who was this person <br />
<br />
following him? In a station wagon? Not the police. Someone <br />
<br />
trying to steal their latest shipment? It simply didn’t make sense. <br />
<br />
But whoever they were, they weren’t trained in following people <br />
<br />
with subtlety. And in the rain, he’d lost them for sure. <br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik took another turn, just to be safe. Then another. <br />
<br />
<br />
He took a deep breath and relaxed, pulling onto a familiar <br />
<br />
street. Whoever they were, he’d lost them. <br />
<br />
<br />
His eyes lifted again, just out of paranoia, certain he wouldn’t <br />
<br />
see anything except . . . <br />
<br />
<br />
A beige station wagon? <br />
<br />
<br />
This had to be dealt with. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah watched Dominik’s car through the swishing of wiper <br />
<br />
blades as his sedan took a slow, ambling turn to the right, pulling <br />
<br />
into another alleyway. She followed him into the darkness of the <br />
<br />
alley. The front end of her car slammed down hard then rebounded <br />
<br />
from the chasm-like pothole her front tire had dropped into. <br />
<br />
<br />
She couldn’t see a thing in this darkness except the red taillights <br />
<br />
up ahead and— <br />
<br />
<br />
Brake lights. <br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik’s car stopped suddenly fifty yards ahead. The <br />
<br />
driver’s side door flew open, and a burly figure dashed away <br />
<br />
from the car—the door hanging open. Hannah stopped her car, <br />
<br />
leaving the distance unfilled. <br />
<br />
<br />
What was he doing? She sat in her car. Waiting. <br />
<br />
<br />
It was like the stories of road rage she heard, where one driver <br />
<br />
would get out to confront another—only to have someone get <br />
<br />
shot in the middle of the street. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah peered into the darkness, gripping her steering <br />
<br />
wheel. She closed her eyes, trying to reach out— <br />
<br />
<br />
There was nothing to feel. Not here anyway. <br />
<br />
<br />
She bit her lip, considered for a moment, then turned off her <br />
<br />
car, taking her keys. She wanted her keys—that was certain. <br />
<br />
<br />
Fear would have been the natural response, but envy filled <br />
<br />
her mind. Envy for the Domani and the Ora, people like Devin <br />
<br />
Bathurst and John Temple, who could see the present and the <br />
<br />
future. Others had told her not to envy the other orders and <br />
<br />
their gifts, that she had been given exactly what she was meant <br />
<br />
to have and that she had to make the best of it. But she missed <br />
<br />
the proactive way that John and Devin could use to approach <br />
<br />
the uncertainty of the world. The Prima were a stabilizing <br />
<br />
force—a means of keeping everyone grounded and remembering <br />
<br />
the truths that proactive working so often forgot. But <br />
<br />
none of that changed the fact that she was in the moment now, <br />
<br />
groping in the blind spots of her gift. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah opened the car door and stepped into the rain, looking <br />
<br />
around. He wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Hannah walked toward <br />
<br />
the car ahead, the interior lights illuminating the leather interior. <br />
<br />
<br />
She stopped, listening for any sound she could hear—only the <br />
<br />
thumping rain. Another set of steps closer. She stared into the <br />
<br />
vacant interior, looking for a person who simply wasn’t there, <br />
<br />
and her eyes wandered to the center partition, hanging slightly <br />
<br />
ajar. It had been where he’d stored his— <br />
<br />
<br />
Vodka. <br />
<br />
<br />
A thick, heavy bottle, pulled from its cubby. <br />
<br />
<br />
Gripped by the neck like a club. <br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik, slipping into the darkness, waiting for his moment <br />
<br />
to . . . <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah spun as Dominik ejected himself from his hiding <br />
<br />
place in the dark, bottle in hand, raised over his head. <br />
<br />
<br />
She thought fast, throwing herself into the car’s open door. <br />
<br />
The bottle came down on the roof of the car and blasted apart in <br />
<br />
a shower of shards and cascading liquor. She threw herself at the <br />
<br />
passenger’s door, scrambling for the handle. She looked back. <br />
<br />
<br />
He was behind her, hurling his body through the same open <br />
<br />
door she had come through, grasping the steering wheel with <br />
<br />
his left hand for support, clutching the razor-sharp remains of <br />
<br />
a pungent vodka bottle in his right. <br />
<br />
<br />
The survival instinct kicked in; the self-defense classes triggered <br />
<br />
her response. <br />
<br />
<br />
She lashed out with her leg like a battering ram, her heel <br />
<br />
smashing into Dominik’s clavicle, just below the throat. He <br />
<br />
made a pinched hacking sound as his body hurled to the side, <br />
<br />
slamming into the dashboard. A hiking boot would have been <br />
<br />
ideal, but a kick of any kind could be fatal, even in her tennis <br />
<br />
shoes, if she meant it, held nothing back, and lashed out with <br />
<br />
the vicious intention to cause serious trauma. <br />
<br />
<br />
She kicked again and again—his head snapped back like a <br />
<br />
melon as her foot connected with his face. Her hands searched <br />
<br />
frantically for the door handle she’d lost track of in the furious <br />
<br />
exchange—fingertips catching on the outline, hand grasping. <br />
<br />
Dominik was recovering. Covering his face with his left hand, he <br />
<br />
reached out with the razorlike bottle with the other, like a shield. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah flung her body into the door as she pulled the handle. <br />
<br />
She felt her body tumble to the hard, wet pavement beyond. She <br />
<br />
looked back in time to see Dominik coming down at her, bottle <br />
<br />
in hand. She kicked his descending arm away, and the bottle <br />
<br />
exploded against the ground. Dominik reached for her body, <br />
<br />
trying to hold her down. She felt the car keys, still in her hand, <br />
<br />
clutched them like a dagger, and came down hard on Dominik’s <br />
<br />
arm. He winced, recoiling. She lashed out for his face, searching <br />
<br />
for his neck. <br />
<br />
<br />
He threw himself back against the car, evading Hannah’s <br />
<br />
swinging attack, then stood. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah pushed herself away, trying to keep her distance. <br />
<br />
<br />
And then he ran. <br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik rushed toward the end of the alley, water spattering <br />
<br />
against his face and arms. <br />
<br />
<br />
Who was this woman? This girl? She’d followed him. Knew <br />
<br />
where he was going and what he was doing. She had to know <br />
<br />
about his business. She wasn’t FBI. Police? Maybe. <br />
<br />
<br />
No. That wasn’t likely. She was too young for either. She was <br />
<br />
obviously trained in following people—but not with subtlety. <br />
<br />
Her mistakes were too glaring—too inexperienced. <br />
<br />
<br />
Surveillance for someone else was his only thought. Someone <br />
<br />
who wanted to rip off their shipment. It happened all the time <br />
<br />
with drug trafficking. Why not in this business too? <br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik made a sharp right, ducking into a trashy, overgrown <br />
<br />
backyard, shoving past a metal trash can. He had to fix <br />
<br />
this or it was going to cost him his head. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah tore after Dominik. <br />
<br />
<br />
Her one lead. Her only chance of finding these girls. She <br />
<br />
couldn’t let him get away. <br />
<br />
<br />
She turned the corner fast, running through someone’s backyard, <br />
<br />
chasing after as fast as she could, Dominik’s form merely <br />
<br />
a dark blotch against the impossible conditions of night and <br />
<br />
drizzle. <br />
<br />
<br />
He was ahead, crossing another yard, leaping a short <br />
<br />
chain-link fence. Hannah pushed herself, gaining slightly. She <br />
<br />
approached the fence, hands stinging as the cold, rain-soaked <br />
<br />
metal ripped at her bare hands. She hurtled the fence and <br />
<br />
continued her pursuit. <br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik rushed across the street, dodging between parked <br />
<br />
cars, knocking over a boxy plastic trash can, sending garbage <br />
<br />
spilling. Hannah dodged to the left, losing time from the <br />
<br />
circuitous route, but it was less than she would have lost from <br />
<br />
fighting the obstacle she’d been presented with. <br />
<br />
<br />
Her feet splashed through puddles as she forced herself <br />
<br />
forward, chasing as fast as she could. From yard to yard, across <br />
<br />
another street, low-hanging branches snapping at her face. A <br />
<br />
tall wooden fence, knotted and old. Dominik clambered over <br />
<br />
the fence. Hannah followed, charging toward the obstacle, <br />
<br />
hands digging in as she made her way to the top—throwing <br />
<br />
her body over the other side. Her feet connected with something <br />
<br />
she didn’t expect—a trash can—and she lost her balance, <br />
<br />
hitting the grassy lawn with a painful lurch. <br />
<br />
<br />
She looked up. Dominik was already making his way over the <br />
<br />
far fence at the other end of the yard. Hannah leapt to her feet. <br />
<br />
<br />
The back door to the home opened, and a young boy—maybe <br />
<br />
ten—watched her rush at the fence. <br />
<br />
<br />
“Mom! There’s someone in the backyard!” <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah ignored the boy, throwing herself at the next fence, <br />
<br />
pulling herself into place with her arms, tossing a leg over the <br />
<br />
fence, hitting the ground with a splash on the other side. She <br />
<br />
pushed herself up from the muddy puddle, covered in dirt, and <br />
<br />
gave chase once more as Dominik turned a corner. She came to <br />
<br />
the gate in the fence. Locked. Hannah slammed her shoulder <br />
<br />
into the gate, sending it flying open, propelling her into the <br />
<br />
front yard. <br />
<br />
<br />
Rain covered her face, and she wiped the thick drops from <br />
<br />
her eyes. Her head turned hurriedly, side to side. He was <br />
<br />
nowhere to be seen. <br />
<br />
<br />
What had happened? How had she lost him? He must have <br />
<br />
taken a different turn. <br />
<br />
<br />
She walked into the street, looking around in all directions. <br />
<br />
<br />
This couldn’t be happening. She couldn’t let this happen. The <br />
<br />
girls were too young—thirteen at most. She couldn’t let this <br />
<br />
happen to them. She couldn’t let them disappear into the night. <br />
<br />
Hannah pushed her hands through her soaked hair, trying <br />
<br />
to think. She needed to know where he had gone. <br />
<br />
<br />
A set of headlights rolled toward her, a sharp honk on the <br />
<br />
horn, and she stepped out of the car’s way, the vehicle rolling <br />
<br />
lazily past. <br />
<br />
<br />
The world was going on as usual. She was failing her charge, <br />
<br />
and the world didn’t even know enough to care. <br />
<br />
<br />
She needed to pick up the trail again. She needed to see the <br />
<br />
past. A vision of where he had gone. She needed a magic wand <br />
<br />
to wave, to bring her the sight she needed. <br />
<br />
<br />
But it didn’t work like that. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah looked up at the rainy sky. “God?” she beseeched. “I <br />
<br />
can’t do this. I can’t find them. I need You and Your sovereign <br />
<br />
power and...” <br />
<br />
<br />
No. She scolded herself. It’s like people to go to God, thinking <br />
<br />
they had something to say—yammering to an almighty God <br />
<br />
who formed the world from the palm of His hand. How like her <br />
<br />
to think that florid prayers somehow pleased God. <br />
<br />
<br />
No, it was not her place to talk. It was her place as a creation <br />
<br />
of God to do something else . . . <br />
<br />
<br />
“Listen,” she whispered to herself. <br />
<br />
<br />
She closed her eyes and listened to the rain, her thoughts <br />
<br />
filled with her calling and mission. <br />
<br />
<br />
No. She scolded herself again. Listening wasn’t done only <br />
<br />
with the ears but also with the mind and the heart. <br />
<br />
<br />
She cleared her mind. Focused on her breathing. Focused on <br />
<br />
God. <br />
<br />
<br />
The rain thundered in her ears, every droplet exploding <br />
<br />
against every surface of metal, asphalt, and grass. Each sound <br />
<br />
blurred into the other in a cacophony of white noise. <br />
<br />
<br />
Listen, she said to herself in her mind. <br />
<br />
<br />
The drops faded toward the background, only a thumping <br />
<br />
rhythm of a select few drops tapping out an erratic beat. Bit by <br />
<br />
bit the rhythm thinned, only a few proud beats pounding out a <br />
<br />
pedantic march. <br />
<br />
<br />
Listen, she said to herself again, her body relaxing. <br />
<br />
A single droplet of rain made a tiny plinking impact. <br />
<br />
Then silence. The world without time. Where she wasn’t <br />
<br />
<br />
hurried or forced into action. <br />
<br />
Listen, she thought again. And then she heard. <br />
<br />
Dominik’s shoes thudding against the path . . . <br />
<br />
Leading away . . . <br />
<br />
His ragged breath wheezing— <br />
<br />
Removing him from the scene. <br />
<br />
The cries of the girls reverberating in his mind— <br />
<br />
Remembering the thud of blows. <br />
<br />
The ringing slaps to tender faces— <br />
<br />
The sobs pounding into his brain. <br />
<br />
The house that he had been working from. <br />
<br />
Creaking from the strain. <br />
<br />
The place he was returning to. <br />
<br />
<br />
Thunder rocked the air as Hannah’s eyes opened, lifting to <br />
<br />
the house in front of her. A sigh of anguish escaped her lips. <br />
<br />
<br />
There. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah quietly grasped the doorknob and felt the door swing <br />
<br />
lazily inward, left ajar by someone before her. Stepping into <br />
<br />
the house as quietly as possible, she paused. If he was in the <br />
<br />
house still, she didn’t want him to know. Not yet. There would <br />
<br />
be a moment soon, when she had something to report, that she <br />
<br />
would need to call the police to finish this. But visions of the <br />
<br />
past weren’t evidence enough. She needed to find the girls. To <br />
<br />
know for certain they were here before she did something that <br />
<br />
might spook Dominik. <br />
<br />
<br />
She moved into the living room. Shoddy furniture bulleted <br />
<br />
with holes. An ashtray on the coffee table filled to the brim with <br />
<br />
dark ash and cigarette butts. The whole place reeked of stale <br />
<br />
smoke. Magazines littered the remaining surface of the coffee <br />
<br />
table—like a doctor’s waiting room. <br />
<br />
<br />
Men, sitting in the living room—each waiting their turn. <br />
<br />
<br />
A quick thump reverberated through her chest. These had <br />
<br />
been different girls, before the ones Hannah was looking for. <br />
<br />
Older—Russian? It wasn’t any easier to consider. <br />
<br />
<br />
Her stomach churned, and she stepped into the next room— <br />
<br />
the kitchen. No signs of cooking or supplies. No one lived here. <br />
<br />
At least no one ate here. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah looked at the table—a sprawling forest of vials, <br />
<br />
needles, alcohol, and soda bottles. She picked up a container of <br />
<br />
medicine, reading the label. <br />
<br />
<br />
Flunitrazepam. Whatever that was. <br />
<br />
<br />
There was a smacking sound, and Hannah turned. The back <br />
<br />
door hung open, the screen door slapping loudly in the rainy <br />
<br />
wind. <br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik exiting out the back. <br />
<br />
<br />
She thought about following him—but this was what she was <br />
<br />
looking for. This was where they’d brought the girls—she could <br />
<br />
feel it. If she was going to find the girls, she was going to have to <br />
<br />
do it here. <br />
<br />
<br />
There was a set of stairs near the hallway, leading up. It felt <br />
<br />
right, like this was the way they had taken the girls. <br />
<br />
<br />
The girls, Hannah thought. She didn’t even know their <br />
<br />
names. But that wasn’t how this worked. She wasn’t called out <br />
<br />
of personal obligation. She was called to help them because it <br />
<br />
was her purpose. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah reached the top of the stairs, looking around. There <br />
<br />
was a set of three bedrooms lining the hallway. She stepped <br />
<br />
toward one with the door ajar. The door pushed aside easily, <br />
<br />
revealing a virtually empty room. <br />
<br />
<br />
An old mattress lay in the middle of the room, filthy blankets <br />
<br />
thrown across it in twisting heaps. <br />
<br />
<br />
And suddenly Hannah saw the horrible truth of what had <br />
<br />
been happening here. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik kicked open the door to the shed, scowling into the <br />
<br />
darkness as the spring rain shower assaulted the tin roof in a <br />
<br />
reverberating frenzy. He shoved the lawn mower to the side, <br />
<br />
ripping a canvas tarp away from a stack of tools. The cold canvas <br />
<br />
twisted with a kind of whiplash as its soggy corners tried to <br />
<br />
double over onto the shell of hard cloth that had molded itself <br />
<br />
to the stack of tools. <br />
<br />
<br />
A toolbox scattered with a rough toss, and it hit the floor <br />
<br />
somewhere to the right with a raucous clatter. He kicked a bag <br />
<br />
of screws out of the way, and the contents went spilling in a <br />
<br />
deluge of tinkling barbs. <br />
<br />
<br />
There. <br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik grabbed the gas can by the handle and gave it a <br />
<br />
forceful jiggle. Half a can’s worth of gasoline sloshed inside the <br />
<br />
container, undulating on a swishing axis that caused the whole <br />
<br />
can to swing in a wide arc. <br />
<br />
<br />
It was enough to do the job. To get rid of as much evidence <br />
<br />
as he could before whoever that girl was could find her way <br />
<br />
back here. Dominik hated the place anyway, all the time he’d <br />
<br />
spent there minding the shop while the others stayed in the big <br />
<br />
house across town. He wouldn’t miss it. <br />
<br />
<br />
It would be obvious that it was arson. The investigators might <br />
<br />
even find some of the things they had been hiding, but with luck <br />
<br />
they’d be out of the state by the time anything was found—and <br />
<br />
the merchandise would be out of the country by then. And it <br />
<br />
wouldn’t be traced back to them. They’d made sure the lease <br />
<br />
wasn’t in any of their names. <br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik reached into his pocket, found the metal object, <br />
<br />
removed it from his pocket, and flicked the cap open. His thumb <br />
<br />
spun on the back of the lighter, checking to see if there was <br />
<br />
enough fuel. <br />
<br />
<br />
A tiny flame leapt upward, then was dashed out by the snapping <br />
<br />
of the cap back over it. He walked back toward the house in <br />
<br />
the rain. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah backed away from the bedroom door, stumbled into the <br />
<br />
wall, and slid to the floor. Her body shook as she ran her hands <br />
<br />
over her head, trying to blot it all out of her head. So many girls <br />
<br />
had been brought through here. So much pain. And suffering. <br />
<br />
And hopelessness. So many monsters lurking in the shadows. <br />
<br />
<br />
The walls remembered what had happened here—and they <br />
<br />
were closing in. <br />
<br />
<br />
“O God,” she stammered in agonized prayer, mind freewheeling <br />
<br />
with the torment of it all. <br />
<br />
<br />
And she felt something else: another calling— <br />
<br />
<br />
She looked up at the ceiling and saw the wide hatch leading <br />
<br />
to the attic. A padlock dangled open at the end of a swinging <br />
<br />
latch that had been left undone. <br />
<br />
<br />
She reached upward, and the trapdoor snapped downward as <br />
<br />
she grabbed at the string, tugging, the ladder sliding downward <br />
<br />
with a gentle pull. Hannah stepped onto the bottom rung and <br />
<br />
moved upward, compelled by purpose but delayed by dread. <br />
<br />
<br />
She lifted her head into the attic. The floor was covered in <br />
<br />
brown carpet; drenched in dust that made her cough. Hannah <br />
<br />
lifted herself into the darkness. Tiny fingers of light glowed <br />
<br />
through the slits between the boards covering the one tiny <br />
<br />
window at the far end. The hatch below her swung gently <br />
<br />
upward, pulled back into position by creaking springs. <br />
<br />
<br />
Her hands groped for a moment as she stood, hunched in <br />
<br />
the low space. A dangling string brushed her fingertips, and she <br />
<br />
tugged. The lightbulb snapped on from an overhead fixture, and <br />
<br />
she looked around. <br />
<br />
<br />
She thought she might never start breathing again. <br />
<br />
<br />
Both sides of the attic were lined with bunk beds, chicken <br />
<br />
wire surrounding them in tightly fastened grids that filled in the <br />
<br />
gaps between small metal struts. Hinged doors with padlocks <br />
<br />
locked every set of beds, making each its own tiny prison. <br />
<br />
<br />
Lurid underwear hung from hooks and littered the floor. <br />
<br />
Dirty clothes were piled in the corner. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah walked to one of the beds, its door hanging open, <br />
<br />
and looked in. Sitting on yellowed sheets was a ratty stuffed <br />
<br />
bear with one eye missing. She picked up the bear and looked <br />
<br />
it over as a hot tear ran down Hannah’s face as she saw the face <br />
<br />
of the girl who had clung to this bear— <br />
<br />
<br />
Maybe fourteen years old. <br />
<br />
<br />
The bear fell from her hands and hit the floor. <br />
<br />
<br />
Whoever these people were—she would stop them. <br />
<br />
<br />
Wherever the girls were that they had taken—she would find <br />
<br />
them. <br />
<br />
<br />
Then she heard something. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Petroleum-scented splashes of gasoline washed across the walls <br />
<br />
and tables as Dominik slung the can in all directions. He set <br />
<br />
the can down for a moment and rummaged under the sink for <br />
<br />
a trash bag. Quickly he swept the drugs off the table into the <br />
<br />
plastic and pulled the tethers shut with a swift yank. He set the <br />
<br />
bag near the door, stuffed his cell phone between his shoulder <br />
<br />
and ear, and reached for the gas can again. <br />
<br />
<br />
“Hello?” a female voice said in Dominik’s native language. <br />
<br />
<br />
“Do you know who she is?” Dominik replied in the same <br />
<br />
language as he soaked the curtains in gasoline. <br />
<br />
<br />
“Who?” <br />
<br />
<br />
“The girl that followed me. She knew where I was and where <br />
<br />
I was going.” <br />
<br />
<br />
“What are you talking about?” <br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik sloshed more gasoline onto the living room carpet, <br />
<br />
sending a splash across the back of a ratty recliner. “Some <br />
<br />
girl—midtwenties maybe. She found me in the liquor store. She <br />
<br />
followed me. Chased me back to the house.” <br />
<br />
<br />
“You ran away from a girl?” <br />
<br />
<br />
“Shut up, Misha.” He grunted. “She came out of nowhere. <br />
<br />
She knew where I was and where I was going. She must have <br />
<br />
been watching us for days.” He moved up the stairs, spilling a <br />
<br />
trail of gas. <br />
<br />
<br />
“What are you going to do about it?” <br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik let the last drops trickle from the can, dousing <br />
<br />
a pile of sheets in the bedroom, then tossed the can into the <br />
<br />
corner. “I’m closing down the storefront.” <br />
<br />
<br />
“Use the gas can in the shed. Burn it down.” <br />
<br />
<br />
“I’ve already started.” <br />
<br />
<br />
“Good. Get going, and get out of there.” There was a click, <br />
<br />
and the line went dead. <br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik felt the lighter in his pocket as he moved toward <br />
<br />
the stairs, then stopped. A creaking in the ceiling from the attic <br />
<br />
above. He looked at the trapdoor in the ceiling, slightly ajar. <br />
<br />
Another creak and the distinct sound of footsteps overhead. <br />
<br />
<br />
He eyed the padlock dangling from the hatch—an overt <br />
<br />
violation of fire code if he wasn’t mistaken—but the reasons for <br />
<br />
that seemed more useful than ever. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah took another step back. <br />
<br />
<br />
Someone was in the house. <br />
<br />
<br />
They were down there, but there was no way to know for certain <br />
<br />
if they’d heard her. She wanted to get away from the hatch—away <br />
<br />
from the center of the noise she’d heard. There had been the sound <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
of someone talking. It wasn’t English. Russian maybe. <br />
<br />
<br />
She herself had been kidnapped just over a year before. <br />
<br />
Nothing as hideous as this—but it had still left its mark on <br />
<br />
her—a lingering fear, almost a dread, hung over her like a <br />
<br />
cloud. She’d chosen to face it head-on, to walk straight into the <br />
<br />
blackness alone. Now she feared it would engulf her. <br />
<br />
<br />
There was a clattering sound near the far wall and a funny <br />
<br />
smell. <br />
<br />
<br />
She took another step back. <br />
<br />
<br />
Footsteps moved toward the hatch—then stopped just below. <br />
<br />
What were they doing down there? <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah turned, looking at the boarded window. Was it a <br />
<br />
way out? Maybe she could tear the boards away. The hinges on <br />
<br />
the hatch squeaked with a minute adjustment. <br />
<br />
<br />
Were they coming up here? To grab her? To kill her? <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah forced herself to stop it. To let go of the questions. <br />
<br />
To silence her mind. Her life really could be in danger, but this <br />
<br />
time she could choose to do something. To take control. She was <br />
<br />
not tied up or caged, and she would not let fear paralyze her. She <br />
<br />
could act. <br />
<br />
<br />
Then she heard it. <br />
<br />
<br />
A click. <br />
<br />
<br />
She thought of the window. A moment of quiet, then footfalls <br />
<br />
moving down the stairs. They were leaving. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah moved to the hatch, putting a hand on the thick wood. <br />
<br />
It didn’t budge. She shoved. It wouldn’t move. She stomped. <br />
<br />
<br />
She was trapped. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik heard a loud thump strike the attic entrance. They’d <br />
<br />
figured out that it was locked. There was another thump. They’d <br />
<br />
specifically reinforced the hatch to keep the girls from knocking <br />
<br />
it open if they ever had the guts to try. The padlock would hold, <br />
<br />
and the thick bolts would stay in place. <br />
<br />
<br />
He kicked the back door open and stood in the threshold. <br />
<br />
<br />
The lighter came open with a snap. <br />
<br />
<br />
His thumb rolled across the wheel, and a thin blade of flame <br />
<br />
conjured itself up from the metal casing. He shielded the tiny <br />
<br />
flame for a moment, then tossed it into a puddle of gasoline. <br />
<br />
<br />
There was a split second where nothing happened—Dominik <br />
<br />
froze, worried that the puddle had drowned the fire. Then it <br />
<br />
spread in a violent blossom, devouring the surrounding air with <br />
<br />
an audible howl. The house caught ablaze in a matter of seconds, <br />
<br />
fire consuming up the stairs. <br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik pulled on a jacket he’d taken from one of the closets <br />
<br />
and zipped it as he walked away. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah knew something wasn’t right. <br />
<br />
<br />
She couldn’t have explained how, but something had changed. <br />
<br />
The smell—the pungent aroma that had been rising from below— <br />
<br />
suddenly seemed to vanish, replaced by something else. <br />
<br />
<br />
Then she recognized the smell that had been. And her eyes went <br />
<br />
wide as she realized what the new smell was that had replaced it. <br />
<br />
<br />
Greenish smoke slithered up from the cracks around the <br />
<br />
attic hatch. The smell was foreign—not like campfire smoke <br />
<br />
with its earthen richness, but the putrid scent of melting plastic <br />
<br />
and burning synthetics. <br />
<br />
<br />
Then the floor started to get warm. <br />
<br />
<br />
Fire travels up, she thought. Heat rises. Smoke rises. There <br />
<br />
was nowhere further up to go. She was at the tip of the spear. <br />
<br />
<br />
She turned to the window, tugging at the boards that covered <br />
<br />
it—the rain smacking down just beyond. <br />
<br />
<br />
The amount of smoke doubled in seconds, filling the attic <br />
<br />
with an acrid cloud. No fire yet. Just smoke. Her eyes stung, <br />
<br />
pinpricks stabbing at her tear ducts. Hot tears slid involuntarily <br />
<br />
down her warming face. It was all happening so fast. It <br />
<br />
reminded her of the fire safety videos she’d seen in elementary <br />
<br />
school, depicting how a cigarette in a trash can could send a <br />
<br />
house into an unrecoverable blaze in less than two minutes. <br />
<br />
<br />
Arson could work so much faster. <br />
<br />
<br />
She hacked and coughed, fingers digging into the boards, <br />
<br />
pulling at the wood. She lifted her foot, giving a solid kick that <br />
<br />
split the boards, crushing the glass beyond. Hannah grabbed <br />
<br />
the loose pieces and pulled them free, revealing the window. <br />
<br />
<br />
Street light poured in through the rapidly thickening smoke. <br />
<br />
Rain tapped at the spiderwebbed glass. The whole window was <br />
<br />
little more than a slit. Less than six inches. She would never fit. <br />
<br />
It had been boarded up purely to keep light out. <br />
<br />
<br />
Her lungs seized, fighting to keep out the dark haze. Her <br />
<br />
body convulsed with a violent cough. Heat permeated her. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah coughed once more, then lifted her leg, jamming <br />
<br />
her heel into the tiny window, sending beads of glass splashing <br />
<br />
outward. It wasn’t big enough for her to get out, but it was big <br />
<br />
enough to let a little air in. <br />
<br />
<br />
She shoved her face to the opening and pulled in a lungful of <br />
<br />
the chilled air beyond. Then she pulled the jacket off her back <br />
<br />
and put it to her mouth. She crouched down, moved back into <br />
<br />
the prisonlike room, and searched for the trapdoor. Found it. <br />
<br />
Her hands worked at the latch, pulled. Nothing. There had to be <br />
<br />
some way to get out. <br />
<br />
<br />
The blurring of her vision worsened, tears and smoke clawing <br />
<br />
at her eyes. <br />
<br />
<br />
She coughed. Her body felt heavy and unwieldy. She tried to <br />
<br />
adjust her body with her right arm, but all the strength seemed <br />
<br />
to be slipping out of her. Fighting hurt so much. Moving sapped <br />
<br />
her energy. The searing floor suddenly seemed welcoming. <br />
<br />
Her body started to relax, curling into a ball. The unrelenting <br />
<br />
stinging in her eyes suddenly seemed unbearable. <br />
<br />
<br />
Her eyelids shut. <br />
<br />
<br />
The attic suddenly seemed far away. Her mind slipped into silence. The kind of silence she could try so hard to cultivate in <br />
<br />
times of trouble now seemed so easy. Everything that seemed to <br />
<br />
worry faded, and rather than doing she was simply . . . <br />
<br />
<br />
Being. <br />
<br />
<br />
She could feel the past again. <br />
<br />
<br />
Before it had been such a horrible place. When others had <br />
<br />
lived here. When family pictures and Christmas ornaments <br />
<br />
had been stored here in cardboard boxes. And then the old <br />
<br />
occupants moved out and others moved in—the ones who had <br />
<br />
perverted this place to be something else. Rolling carpet over <br />
<br />
the plywood, not bothering to nail it to the rafters. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah’s eyes snapped open, and she stumbled toward the <br />
<br />
window for a life-saving breath of cool air. Then she dropped to <br />
<br />
the floor and grasped at the carpet, pulling the shaggy covering <br />
<br />
loose. She reached for the floor, pulling at the boards, only to <br />
<br />
realize that she was standing on the edge. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah moved and gave another pull—the heat was overwhelming. <br />
<br />
The plywood pulled away, clattering to the side as she <br />
<br />
tossed it. <br />
<br />
<br />
Rafters—a few feet apart—partitioned themselves between <br />
<br />
sections of pink insulation. It looked like cotton candy, she <br />
<br />
thought. <br />
<br />
<br />
Her hesitation lasted only a second, and then she jumped, <br />
<br />
feet first toward insulation. <br />
<br />
<br />
The world seemed to freeze. <br />
<br />
<br />
Then her body crashed through the billowy pink insulation, <br />
<br />
smashing through the thin layer of sheet rock, and she felt herself <br />
<br />
hurtling through the gray smoke toward the carpet one floor <br />
<br />
below. <br />
<br />
<br />
She landed with a thud, losing her balance as her body <br />
<br />
slammed into the wall. <br />
<br />
<br />
The heat enveloped her, blasting at her like a furnace, smoke <br />
<br />
stabbing at her eyes. Hannah looked up and saw the window <br />
<br />
at the far end of the hall. She pulled her jacket tight against <br />
<br />
her face and rushed forward, trying to stay low. Moments later <br />
<br />
she was at the window, the glass fogged over with a greasy <br />
<br />
black smear from the heat and smoke. Then she saw the gas <br />
<br />
can, tossed at the floor below it, fire clinging to the outside wall <br />
<br />
where gas dribbled down. <br />
<br />
<br />
A kick could break the glass—but glass shards would slice <br />
<br />
her leg to unrecognizable ribbons if she tried. She took a smoky <br />
<br />
breath and reached for the can with her jacket, grabbing the <br />
<br />
handle. Her body swung, then released the metal container. <br />
<br />
<br />
The smoke-fogged glass exploded outward and skittered <br />
<br />
across the sloping roof that covered the back porch. <br />
<br />
<br />
She threw herself through the window—arms and legs catching <br />
<br />
on the fragile teeth of glass that remained, her body landing on <br />
<br />
glass shards that pricked her skin. She rolled uncontrollably <br />
<br />
down the roof, then slammed into the soggy grass below. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah looked up at the blazing house—bleeding, burned, <br />
<br />
and weak. <br />
<br />
<br />
Her eyes fluttered shut, only to open again after several <br />
<br />
minutes, and she found herself on the other end of the yard, <br />
<br />
farther from the flames. She was looking up at a man with long <br />
<br />
dark hair, in a black coat. Rain rolled off him as he said something <br />
<br />
to her. His lips moved, but she didn’t hear anything. <br />
<br />
<br />
And then the world faded to black. only come from God. She took a long, deliberate draw of air, letting it fill her lungs in a cool cloud that expanded inside her chest. Somewhere in the distant reaches of her mind she felt her body act, working with the world around her—neither rushed nor distracted—to bring the car to life. <br />
<br />
<br />
She turned the key again. The engine growling, she fed it gas. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah’s foot came down in a steady push, feeding the car, and she took off into the night— <br />
<br />
<br />
—chasing after him. <br />
<br />
<br />
Her car sped to the end of the block—a stop sign ahead. <br />
<br />
<br />
Her attention snapped to the right—the direction Dominik had gone. <br />
<br />
<br />
Nothing. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah rolled into the street, peering through the rain—and then she felt where he had been. She was on the trail again. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The wipers sloshed, thumping beads of water away from the glass. Dominik yawned. It was getting late, and he was getting tired of work. He’d stayed sober as long as the new girls were at the storage house, but now that they were being moved, he was <br />
<br />
ready to drink again. <br />
<br />
<br />
He eyed the jostling bottle of vodka in the passenger seat, ready for the familiar burn of alcohol in his chest. Dominik missed Russian vodka—the stuff that had been cheaper than water during the cold war. He was hardly a connoisseur, but he knew that American vodka tasted different to him. He was told that good vodka had neither taste nor smell. But who cared? Just so long as it kept him warm—a lesson he had learned in prison twenty years ago. <br />
<br />
<br />
He thought about the girls and how much money they would bring. Altogether, maybe three thousand dollars in Ukraine. Here? More. But it wasn’t enough. Dominik wanted a line of cocaine—the stuff he’d gotten used to as a teenager when theiron curtain fell. But for now, vodka would have to do. <br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik reached out, steering with his forearm. He held the neck of the bottle in one hand and twisted the cap with the other. <br />
<br />
<br />
He took a slug. The same amount would have sent most Americans into a hacking fit. Dominik didn’t flinch as the stinging liquid seared his throat, filling him with a glowing <br />
<br />
sense of well-being. He felt good. Safe. But not overly safe. He looked in the rearview mirror, double-checking for cops. <br />
<br />
<br />
A single set of lights behind him, moving in quickly. Much too quickly. He screwed the cap back on the bottle, stuffing it in the armrest. <br />
<br />
<br />
Thoughts of a cop watching him throw back a mouthful of hard liquor as he passed by filled Dominik’s head. Was he being followed? <br />
<br />
<br />
There was an alley ahead. He signaled left. The car behind him signaled a left-hand turn as well. Dominik cranked the wheel hard right, and a spray of filthy water splashed up against the windows of his car as he hit the accelerator and raced down an alleyway. His eyes shot upward, toward the rearview mirror. The car behind him screeched past the turn, then slammed its brakes, laying rubber and a wake of erupting rainwater. The car pulled into reverse, pulling perpendicular to the alley for a moment, its silhouette fully revealed. <br />
<br />
<br />
A beige station wagon? <br />
<br />
<br />
The following car’s front end nosed toward the alley. The headlights, which had been shrinking with distance, stabilized in size, then began to grow. <br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik didn’t signal; he simply grabbed the wheel and yanked to the left. Water crashed against the passenger window as the car fishtailed, his foot pressing hard into the gas—jetting down a dark street. <br />
<br />
<br />
He nearly spun in his seat to look back. This was insane. His heart was racing. His face red and sweaty. Who was this person following him? In a station wagon? Not the police. Someone trying to steal their latest shipment? It simply didn’t make sense. But whoever they were, they weren’t trained in following people with subtlety. And in the rain, he’d lost them for sure. <br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik took another turn, just to be safe. Then another. <br />
<br />
<br />
He took a deep breath and relaxed, pulling onto a familiar street. Whoever they were, he’d lost them. <br />
<br />
<br />
His eyes lifted again, just out of paranoia, certain he wouldn’t see anything except . . . <br />
<br />
<br />
A beige station wagon? <br />
<br />
<br />
This had to be dealt with. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah watched Dominik’s car through the swishing of wiper blades as his sedan took a slow, ambling turn to the right, pulling into another alleyway. She followed him into the darkness of the alley. The front end of her car slammed down hard then rebounded from the chasm-like pothole her front tire had dropped into. <br />
<br />
<br />
She couldn’t see a thing in this darkness except the red taillights up ahead and— <br />
<br />
<br />
Brake lights. <br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik’s car stopped suddenly fifty yards ahead. The driver’s side door flew open, and a burly figure dashed away from the car—the door hanging open. Hannah stopped her car, leaving the distance unfilled. <br />
<br />
<br />
What was he doing? She sat in her car. Waiting. <br />
<br />
<br />
It was like the stories of road rage she heard, where one driver would get out to confront another—only to have someone get shot in the middle of the street. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah peered into the darkness, gripping her steering wheel. She closed her eyes, trying to reach out— <br />
<br />
<br />
There was nothing to feel. Not here anyway. <br />
<br />
<br />
She bit her lip, considered for a moment, then turned off her car, taking her keys. She wanted her keys—that was certain. <br />
<br />
<br />
Fear would have been the natural response, but envy filled her mind. Envy for the Domani and the Ora, people like Devin Bathurst and John Temple, who could see the present and the future. Others had told her not to envy the other orders and their gifts, that she had been given exactly what she was meant to have and that she had to make the best of it. But she missed the proactive way that John and Devin could use to approach the uncertainty of the world. The Prima were a stabilizing force—a means of keeping everyone grounded and remembering the truths that proactive working so often forgot. But none of that changed the fact that she was in the moment now, groping in the blind spots of her gift. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah opened the car door and stepped into the rain, looking around. He wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Hannah walked toward the car ahead, the interior lights illuminating the leather interior. <br />
<br />
<br />
She stopped, listening for any sound she could hear—only the thumping rain. Another set of steps closer. She stared into the vacant interior, looking for a person who simply wasn’t there, and her eyes wandered to the center partition, hanging slightly ajar. It had been where he’d stored his— <br />
<br />
<br />
Vodka. <br />
<br />
<br />
A thick, heavy bottle, pulled from its cubby. <br />
<br />
<br />
Gripped by the neck like a club. <br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik, slipping into the darkness, waiting for his moment to . . . <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah spun as Dominik ejected himself from his hiding place in the dark, bottle in hand, raised over his head. <br />
<br />
<br />
She thought fast, throwing herself into the car’s open door. The bottle came down on the roof of the car and blasted apart in a shower of shards and cascading liquor. She threw herself at the passenger’s door, scrambling for the handle. She looked back. <br />
<br />
<br />
He was behind her, hurling his body through the same open door she had come through, grasping the steering wheel with his left hand for support, clutching the razor-sharp remains of a pungent vodka bottle in his right. <br />
<br />
<br />
The survival instinct kicked in; the self-defense classes triggered her response. <br />
<br />
<br />
She lashed out with her leg like a battering ram, her heel smashing into Dominik’s clavicle, just below the throat. He made a pinched hacking sound as his body hurled to the side, slamming into the dashboard. A hiking boot would have been ideal, but a kick of any kind could be fatal, even in her tennis shoes, if she meant it, held nothing back, and lashed out with the vicious intention to cause serious trauma. <br />
<br />
<br />
She kicked again and again—his head snapped back like a melon as her foot connected with his face. Her hands searched frantically for the door handle she’d lost track of in the furious exchange—fingertips catching on the outline, hand grasping. Dominik was recovering. Covering his face with his left hand, he reached out with the razorlike bottle with the other, like a shield. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah flung her body into the door as she pulled the handle. She felt her body tumble to the hard, wet pavement beyond. She looked back in time to see Dominik coming down at her, bottle in hand. She kicked his descending arm away, and the bottle exploded against the ground. Dominik reached for her body, trying to hold her down. She felt the car keys, still in her hand, clutched them like a dagger, and came down hard on Dominik’s arm. He winced, recoiling. She lashed out for his face, searching for his neck. <br />
<br />
<br />
He threw himself back against the car, evading Hannah’s swinging attack, then stood. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah pushed herself away, trying to keep her distance. <br />
<br />
<br />
And then he ran. <br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik rushed toward the end of the alley, water spattering against his face and arms. <br />
<br />
<br />
Who was this woman? This girl? She’d followed him. Knew where he was going and what he was doing. She had to know about his business. She wasn’t FBI. Police? Maybe. <br />
<br />
<br />
No. That wasn’t likely. She was too young for either. She was obviously trained in following people—but not with subtlety. Her mistakes were too glaring—too inexperienced. <br />
<br />
<br />
Surveillance for someone else was his only thought. Someone who wanted to rip off their shipment. It happened all the time with drug trafficking. Why not in this business too? <br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik made a sharp right, ducking into a trashy, overgrown backyard, shoving past a metal trash can. He had to fix this or it was going to cost him his head. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah tore after Dominik. <br />
<br />
<br />
Her one lead. Her only chance of finding these girls. She couldn’t let him get away. <br />
<br />
<br />
She turned the corner fast, running through someone’s backyard, chasing after as fast as she could, Dominik’s form merely a dark blotch against the impossible conditions of night and drizzle. <br />
<br />
<br />
He was ahead, crossing another yard, leaping a short chain-link fence. Hannah pushed herself, gaining slightly. She approached the fence, hands stinging as the cold, rain-soaked metal ripped at her bare hands. She hurtled the fence and continued her pursuit. <br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik rushed across the street, dodging between parked cars, knocking over a boxy plastic trash can, sending garbage spilling. Hannah dodged to the left, losing time from the circuitous route, but it was less than she would have lost from fighting the obstacle she’d been presented with. <br />
<br />
<br />
Her feet splashed through puddles as she forced herself forward, chasing as fast as she could. From yard to yard, across another street, low-hanging branches snapping at her face. A tall wooden fence, knotted and old. Dominik clambered over the fence. Hannah followed, charging toward the obstacle, hands digging in as she made her way to the top—throwing her body over the other side. Her feet connected with something she didn’t expect—a trash can—and she lost her balance, hitting the grassy lawn with a painful lurch. <br />
<br />
<br />
She looked up. Dominik was already making his way over the far fence at the other end of the yard. Hannah leapt to her feet. <br />
<br />
<br />
The back door to the home opened, and a young boy—maybe ten—watched her rush at the fence. <br />
<br />
<br />
“Mom! There’s someone in the backyard!” <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah ignored the boy, throwing herself at the next fence, pulling herself into place with her arms, tossing a leg over the fence, hitting the ground with a splash on the other side. She pushed herself up from the muddy puddle, covered in dirt, and gave chase once more as Dominik turned a corner. She came to the gate in the fence. Locked. Hannah slammed her shoulder into the gate, sending it flying open, propelling her into the front yard. <br />
<br />
<br />
Rain covered her face, and she wiped the thick drops from her eyes. Her head turned hurriedly, side to side. He was nowhere to be seen. <br />
<br />
<br />
What had happened? How had she lost him? He must have taken a different turn. <br />
<br />
<br />
She walked into the street, looking around in all directions. <br />
<br />
<br />
This couldn’t be happening. She couldn’t let this happen. The girls were too young—thirteen at most. She couldn’t let this happen to them. She couldn’t let them disappear into the night. Hannah pushed her hands through her soaked hair, trying to think. She needed to know where he had gone. <br />
<br />
<br />
A set of headlights rolled toward her, a sharp honk on the horn, and she stepped out of the car’s way, the vehicle rolling lazily past. <br />
<br />
<br />
The world was going on as usual. She was failing her charge, and the world didn’t even know enough to care. <br />
<br />
<br />
She needed to pick up the trail again. She needed to see the past. A vision of where he had gone. She needed a magic wand to wave, to bring her the sight she needed. <br />
<br />
<br />
But it didn’t work like that. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah looked up at the rainy sky. “God?” she beseeched. “I can’t do this. I can’t find them. I need You and Your sovereign power and...” <br />
<br />
<br />
No. She scolded herself. It’s like people to go to God, thinking they had something to say—yammering to an almighty God who formed the world from the palm of His hand. How like her to think that florid prayers somehow pleased God. <br />
<br />
<br />
No, it was not her place to talk. It was her place as a creation of God to do something else . . . <br />
<br />
<br />
“Listen,” she whispered to herself. <br />
<br />
<br />
She closed her eyes and listened to the rain, her thoughts filled with her calling and mission. <br />
<br />
<br />
No. She scolded herself again. Listening wasn’t done only with the ears but also with the mind and the heart. <br />
<br />
<br />
She cleared her mind. Focused on her breathing. Focused on God. <br />
<br />
<br />
The rain thundered in her ears, every droplet exploding against every surface of metal, asphalt, and grass. Each sound blurred into the other in a cacophony of white noise. <br />
<br />
<br />
Listen, she said to herself in her mind. <br />
<br />
<br />
The drops faded toward the background, only a thumping rhythm of a select few drops tapping out an erratic beat. Bit by bit the rhythm thinned, only a few proud beats pounding out a pedantic march. <br />
<br />
<br />
Listen, she said to herself again, her body relaxing. A single droplet of rain made a tiny plinking impact. Then silence. The world without time. Where she wasn’t hurried or forced into action. Listen, she thought again. And then she heard. Dominik’s shoes thudding against the path . . . Leading away . . .His ragged breath wheezing— Removing him from the scene. The cries of the girls reverberating in his mind— Remembering the thud of blows. The ringing slaps to tender faces— The sobs pounding into his brain. The house that he had been working from. Creaking from the strain. The place he was returning to. <br />
<br />
<br />
Thunder rocked the air as Hannah’s eyes opened, lifting to the house in front of her. A sigh of anguish escaped her lips. <br />
<br />
<br />
There. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah quietly grasped the doorknob and felt the door swing lazily inward, left ajar by someone before her. Stepping into the house as quietly as possible, she paused. If he was in the house still, she didn’t want him to know. Not yet. There would be a moment soon, when she had something to report, that she would need to call the police to finish this. But visions of the past weren’t evidence enough. She needed to find the girls. To know for certain they were here before she did something that might spook Dominik. <br />
<br />
<br />
She moved into the living room. Shoddy furniture bulleted with holes. An ashtray on the coffee table filled to the brim with dark ash and cigarette butts. The whole place reeked of stale smoke. Magazines littered the remaining surface of the coffee table—like a doctor’s waiting room. <br />
<br />
<br />
Men, sitting in the living room—each waiting their turn. <br />
<br />
<br />
A quick thump reverberated through her chest. These had been different girls, before the ones Hannah was looking for. Older—Russian? It wasn’t any easier to consider. <br />
<br />
<br />
Her stomach churned, and she stepped into the next room— the kitchen. No signs of cooking or supplies. No one lived here. At least no one ate here. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah looked at the table—a sprawling forest of vials, needles, alcohol, and soda bottles. She picked up a container of medicine, reading the label. <br />
<br />
<br />
Flunitrazepam. Whatever that was. <br />
<br />
<br />
There was a smacking sound, and Hannah turned. The back door hung open, the screen door slapping loudly in the rainy wind. <br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik exiting out the back. <br />
<br />
<br />
She thought about following him—but this was what she was looking for. This was where they’d brought the girls—she could feel it. If she was going to find the girls, she was going to have to do it here. <br />
<br />
<br />
There was a set of stairs near the hallway, leading up. It felt right, like this was the way they had taken the girls. <br />
<br />
<br />
The girls, Hannah thought. She didn’t even know their names. But that wasn’t how this worked. She wasn’t called out of personal obligation. She was called to help them because it was her purpose. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah reached the top of the stairs, looking around. There was a set of three bedrooms lining the hallway. She stepped toward one with the door ajar. The door pushed aside easily, revealing a virtually empty room. <br />
<br />
<br />
An old mattress lay in the middle of the room, filthy blankets thrown across it in twisting heaps. <br />
<br />
<br />
And suddenly Hannah saw the horrible truth of what had been happening here. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik kicked open the door to the shed, scowling into the darkness as the spring rain shower assaulted the tin roof in a reverberating frenzy. He shoved the lawn mower to the side, ripping a canvas tarp away from a stack of tools. The cold canvas twisted with a kind of whiplash as its soggy corners tried to double over onto the shell of hard cloth that had molded itself to the stack of tools. <br />
<br />
<br />
A toolbox scattered with a rough toss, and it hit the floor somewhere to the right with a raucous clatter. He kicked a bag of screws out of the way, and the contents went spilling in a deluge of tinkling barbs. <br />
<br />
<br />
There. <br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik grabbed the gas can by the handle and gave it a forceful jiggle. Half a can’s worth of gasoline sloshed inside the container, undulating on a swishing axis that caused the whole can to swing in a wide arc. <br />
<br />
<br />
It was enough to do the job. To get rid of as much evidence as he could before whoever that girl was could find her way back here. Dominik hated the place anyway, all the time he’d spent there minding the shop while the others stayed in the big house across town. He wouldn’t miss it. <br />
<br />
<br />
It would be obvious that it was arson. The investigators might even find some of the things they had been hiding, but with luck they’d be out of the state by the time anything was found—and the merchandise would be out of the country by then. And it wouldn’t be traced back to them. They’d made sure the lease wasn’t in any of their names. <br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik reached into his pocket, found the metal object, removed it from his pocket, and flicked the cap open. His thumb spun on the back of the lighter, checking to see if there was enough fuel. <br />
<br />
<br />
A tiny flame leapt upward, then was dashed out by the snapping of the cap back over it. He walked back toward the house in the rain. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah backed away from the bedroom door, stumbled into the wall, and slid to the floor. Her body shook as she ran her hands over her head, trying to blot it all out of her head. So many girls had been brought through here. So much pain. And suffering. And hopelessness. So many monsters lurking in the shadows. <br />
<br />
<br />
The walls remembered what had happened here—and they were closing in. <br />
<br />
<br />
“O God,” she stammered in agonized prayer, mind freewheeling with the torment of it all. <br />
<br />
<br />
And she felt something else: another calling— <br />
<br />
<br />
She looked up at the ceiling and saw the wide hatch leading to the attic. A padlock dangled open at the end of a swinging latch that had been left undone. <br />
<br />
<br />
She reached upward, and the trapdoor snapped downward as she grabbed at the string, tugging, the ladder sliding downward with a gentle pull. Hannah stepped onto the bottom rung and moved upward, compelled by purpose but delayed by dread. <br />
<br />
<br />
She lifted her head into the attic. The floor was covered in brown carpet; drenched in dust that made her cough. Hannah lifted herself into the darkness. Tiny fingers of light glowed through the slits between the boards covering the one tiny window at the far end. The hatch below her swung gently upward, pulled back into position by creaking springs. <br />
<br />
<br />
Her hands groped for a moment as she stood, hunched in the low space. A dangling string brushed her fingertips, and she tugged. The lightbulb snapped on from an overhead fixture, and she looked around. <br />
<br />
<br />
She thought she might never start breathing again. <br />
<br />
<br />
Both sides of the attic were lined with bunk beds, chicken wire surrounding them in tightly fastened grids that filled in the gaps between small metal struts. Hinged doors with padlocks locked every set of beds, making each its own tiny prison. <br />
<br />
<br />
Lurid underwear hung from hooks and littered the floor. Dirty clothes were piled in the corner. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah walked to one of the beds, its door hanging open, and looked in. Sitting on yellowed sheets was a ratty stuffed bear with one eye missing. She picked up the bear and looked it over as a hot tear ran down Hannah’s face as she saw the face of the girl who had clung to this bear— <br />
<br />
<br />
Maybe fourteen years old. <br />
<br />
<br />
The bear fell from her hands and hit the floor. <br />
<br />
<br />
Whoever these people were—she would stop them. <br />
<br />
<br />
Wherever the girls were that they had taken—she would find them. <br />
<br />
<br />
Then she heard something. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Petroleum-scented splashes of gasoline washed across the walls and tables as Dominik slung the can in all directions. He set the can down for a moment and rummaged under the sink for a trash bag. Quickly he swept the drugs off the table into the plastic and pulled the tethers shut with a swift yank. He set the bag near the door, stuffed his cell phone between his shoulder and ear, and reached for the gas can again. <br />
<br />
<br />
“Hello?” a female voice said in Dominik’s native language. <br />
<br />
<br />
“Do you know who she is?” Dominik replied in the same language as he soaked the curtains in gasoline. <br />
<br />
<br />
“Who?” <br />
<br />
<br />
“The girl that followed me. She knew where I was and where I was going.” <br />
<br />
<br />
“What are you talking about?” <br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik sloshed more gasoline onto the living room carpet, sending a splash across the back of a ratty recliner. “Some girl—midtwenties maybe. She found me in the liquor store. She followed me. Chased me back to the house.” <br />
<br />
<br />
“You ran away from a girl?” <br />
<br />
<br />
“Shut up, Misha.” He grunted. “She came out of nowhere. She knew where I was and where I was going. She must have been watching us for days.” He moved up the stairs, spilling a trail of gas. <br />
<br />
<br />
“What are you going to do about it?” <br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik let the last drops trickle from the can, dousing a pile of sheets in the bedroom, then tossed the can into the corner. “I’m closing down the storefront.” <br />
<br />
<br />
“Use the gas can in the shed. Burn it down.” <br />
<br />
<br />
“I’ve already started.” <br />
<br />
<br />
“Good. Get going, and get out of there.” There was a click, and the line went dead. <br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik felt the lighter in his pocket as he moved toward the stairs, then stopped. A creaking in the ceiling from the attic above. He looked at the trapdoor in the ceiling, slightly ajar. <br />
<br />
Another creak and the distinct sound of footsteps overhead. <br />
<br />
<br />
He eyed the padlock dangling from the hatch—an overt violation of fire code if he wasn’t mistaken—but the reasons for that seemed more useful than ever. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah took another step back. <br />
<br />
<br />
Someone was in the house. <br />
<br />
<br />
They were down there, but there was no way to know for certain if they’d heard her. She wanted to get away from the hatch—away from the center of the noise she’d heard. There had been the sound of someone talking. It wasn’t English. Russian maybe. <br />
<br />
<br />
She herself had been kidnapped just over a year before. Nothing as hideous as this—but it had still left its mark on her—a lingering fear, almost a dread, hung over her like a cloud. She’d chosen to face it head-on, to walk straight into the blackness alone. Now she feared it would engulf her. <br />
<br />
<br />
There was a clattering sound near the far wall and a funny smell. <br />
<br />
<br />
She took another step back. <br />
<br />
<br />
Footsteps moved toward the hatch—then stopped just below. What were they doing down there? <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah turned, looking at the boarded window. Was it a way out? Maybe she could tear the boards away. The hinges on the hatch squeaked with a minute adjustment. <br />
<br />
<br />
Were they coming up here? To grab her? To kill her? <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah forced herself to stop it. To let go of the questions. To silence her mind. Her life really could be in danger, but this time she could choose to do something. To take control. She was not tied up or caged, and she would not let fear paralyze her. She could act. <br />
<br />
<br />
Then she heard it. <br />
<br />
<br />
A click. <br />
<br />
<br />
She thought of the window. A moment of quiet, then footfalls moving down the stairs. They were leaving. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah moved to the hatch, putting a hand on the thick wood. It didn’t budge. She shoved. It wouldn’t move. She stomped. <br />
<br />
<br />
She was trapped. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik heard a loud thump strike the attic entrance. They’d figured out that it was locked. There was another thump. They’d specifically reinforced the hatch to keep the girls from knocking it open if they ever had the guts to try. The padlock would hold, and the thick bolts would stay in place. <br />
<br />
<br />
He kicked the back door open and stood in the threshold. <br />
<br />
<br />
The lighter came open with a snap. <br />
<br />
<br />
His thumb rolled across the wheel, and a thin blade of flame conjured itself up from the metal casing. He shielded the tiny flame for a moment, then tossed it into a puddle of gasoline. <br />
<br />
<br />
There was a split second where nothing happened—Dominik froze, worried that the puddle had drowned the fire. Then it spread in a violent blossom, devouring the surrounding air with an audible howl. The house caught ablaze in a matter of seconds, fire consuming up the stairs. <br />
<br />
<br />
Dominik pulled on a jacket he’d taken from one of the closets and zipped it as he walked away. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah knew something wasn’t right. <br />
<br />
<br />
She couldn’t have explained how, but something had changed. The smell—the pungent aroma that had been rising from below— suddenly seemed to vanish, replaced by something else. <br />
<br />
<br />
Then she recognized the smell that had been. And her eyes went wide as she realized what the new smell was that had replaced it. <br />
<br />
<br />
Greenish smoke slithered up from the cracks around the attic hatch. The smell was foreign—not like campfire smoke with its earthen richness, but the putrid scent ofmelting plastic and burning synthetics. <br />
<br />
<br />
Then the floor started to get warm. <br />
<br />
<br />
Fire travels up, she thought. Heat rises. Smoke rises. There was nowhere further up to go. She was at the tip of the spear. <br />
<br />
<br />
She turned to the window, tugging at the boards that covered it—the rain smacking down just beyond. <br />
<br />
<br />
The amount of smoke doubled in seconds, filling the attic with an acrid cloud. No fire yet. Just smoke. Her eyes stung, <br />
<br />
pinpricks stabbing at her tear ducts. Hot tears slid involuntarily down her warming face. It was all happening so fast. It reminded her of the fire safety videos she’d seen in elementary school, depicting how a cigarette in a trash can could send a house into an unrecoverable blaze in less than two minutes. <br />
<br />
<br />
Arson could work so much faster. <br />
<br />
<br />
She hacked and coughed, fingers digging into the boards, pulling at the wood. She lifted her foot, giving a solid kick that split the boards, crushing the glass beyond. Hannah grabbed the loose pieces and pulled them free, revealing the window. <br />
<br />
<br />
Street light poured in through the rapidly thickening smoke. Rain tapped at the spiderwebbed glass. The whole window was little more than a slit. Less than six inches. She would never fit. It had been boarded up purely to keep light out. <br />
<br />
<br />
Her lungs seized, fighting to keep out the dark haze. Her <br />
<br />
body convulsed with a violent cough. Heat permeated her. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah coughed once more, then lifted her leg, jamming her heel into the tiny window, sending beads of glass splashing outward. It wasn’t big enough for her to get out, but it was big enough to let a little air in. <br />
<br />
<br />
She shoved her face to the opening and pulled in a lungful of the chilled air beyond. Then she pulled the jacket off her back and put it to her mouth. She crouched down, moved back into the prisonlike room, and searched for the trapdoor. Found it. Her hands worked at the latch, pulled. Nothing. There had to be some way to get out. <br />
<br />
<br />
The blurring of her vision worsened, tears and smoke clawing at her eyes. <br />
<br />
<br />
She coughed. Her body felt heavy and unwieldy. She tried to adjust her body with her right arm, but all the strength seemed to be slipping out of her. Fighting hurt so much. Moving sapped her energy. The searing floor suddenly seemed welcoming. Her body started to relax, curling into a ball. The unrelenting stinging in her eyes suddenly seemed unbearable. <br />
<br />
<br />
Her eyelids shut. <br />
<br />
<br />
The attic suddenly seemed far away. Her mind slipped into silence. The kind of silenceshe could try so hard to cultivate in times of trouble now seemed so easy. Everything that seemed to worry faded, and rather than doing she was simply . . . <br />
<br />
<br />
Being. <br />
<br />
<br />
She could feel the past again. <br />
<br />
<br />
Before it had been such a horrible place. When others had lived here. When family pictures and Christmas ornaments had been stored here in cardboard boxes. And then the old occupants moved out and others moved in—the ones who had perverted this place to be something else. Rolling carpet over the plywood, not bothering to nail it to the rafters. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah’s eyes snapped open, and she stumbled toward the window for a life-saving breath of cool air. Then she dropped to the floor and grasped at the carpet, pulling the shaggy covering loose. She reached for the floor, pulling at the boards, only to realize that she was standing on the edge. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah moved and gave another pull—the heat was overwhelming. The plywood pulled away, clattering to the side as she tossed it. <br />
<br />
<br />
Rafters—a few feet apart—partitioned themselves between sections of pink insulation. It looked like cotton candy, she thought. <br />
<br />
<br />
Her hesitation lasted only a second, and then she jumped, feet first toward insulation. <br />
<br />
<br />
The world seemed to freeze. <br />
<br />
<br />
Then her body crashed through the billowy pink insulation, smashing through the thin layer of sheet rock, and she felt herself hurtling through the gray smoke toward the carpet one floor below. <br />
<br />
<br />
She landed with a thud, losing her balance as her body slammed into the wall. <br />
<br />
<br />
The heat enveloped her, blasting at her like a furnace, smoke stabbing at her eyes. Hannah looked up and saw the window at the far end of the hall. She pulled her jacket tight against her face and rushed forward, trying to stay low. Moments later she was at the window, the glass fogged over with a greasy black smear from the heat and smoke. Then she saw the gas can, tossed at the floor below it, fire clinging to the outside wall <br />
<br />
where gas dribbled down. <br />
<br />
<br />
A kick could break the glass—but glass shards would slice her leg to unrecognizable ribbons if she tried. She took a smoky breath and reached for the can with her jacket, grabbing the handle. Her body swung, then released the metal container. <br />
<br />
<br />
The smoke-fogged glass exploded outward and skittered across the sloping roof that covered the back porch. <br />
<br />
<br />
She threw herself through the window—arms and legs catching on the fragile teeth of glass that remained, her body landing on glass shards that pricked her skin. She rolled uncontrollably down the roof, then slammed into the soggy grass below. <br />
<br />
<br />
Hannah looked up at the blazing house—bleeding, burned, and weak. <br />
<br />
<br />
Her eyes fluttered shut, only to open again after several minutes, and she found herself on the other end of the yard, farther from the flames. She was looking up at a man with long <br />
<br />
dark hair, in a black coat. Rain rolled off him as he said something to her. His lips moved, but she didn’t hear anything. <br />
<br />
<br />
And then the world faded to black. </div>Kathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836736433376650097noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4009917677203976613.post-22761669921755908442010-05-18T06:00:00.000-06:002010-05-18T06:00:03.467-06:00Darlington Woods by Mike Dellosso<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/SAad94Trj7I/AAAAAAAAArA/Yn05_E4V0fY/s1600-h/wild+card.jpg"></a><a href="http://firstwildcardtours.blogspot.com/"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190009307003588530" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/SAad94Trj7I/AAAAAAAAArA/Yn05_E4V0fY/s200/wild+card.jpg" border="0" /></a>It is time for a <span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);"><strong><a href="http://firstwildcardtours.blogspot.com/">FIRST Wild Card Tour</a></strong></span><strong></strong> book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! <span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);"><strong>Enjoy your free peek into the book!</strong></span><br /><br /><span style="color:#cc0000;"><em>You never know when I might play a wild card on you!</em></span><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>Today's Wild Card author is: </strong><br /></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);font-size:180%;" ><a href="http://www.mikedellosso.com/">Mike Dellosso</a></span></strong><br /></div><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);font-size:180%;" ><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >and the book:</span> </span></strong><br /></p><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);font-size:180%;" ><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1599799189">Darlington Woods</a></span></strong><br /></p><p align="center">Realms; 1 edition (May 4, 2010)<br /></p>***Special thanks to Anna Coelho Silva | Publicity Coordinator, Book Group | Strang Communications for sending me a review copy.***<br /><br /><div align="left"><strong><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);font-size:130%;" ><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong></div><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/S-9v-bMTitI/AAAAAAAAD-8/IWNxe3kEys4/s1600/mike1.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 171px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/S-9v-bMTitI/AAAAAAAAD-8/IWNxe3kEys4/s200/mike1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471715190520384210" border="0" /></a>Born in Baltimore, Maryland, Mike now lives in Hanover, Pennsylvania, with his wife, Jen, and their three daughters. He is a regular columnist for AVirtuousWoman.org, was a newspaper correspondent/columnist for over three years, has published several articles for The Candle of Prayer inspirational booklets, and has edited and contributed to numerous Christian-themed Web sites and e-newsletters. Mike is a member of the American Christian Fiction Writers association, the Christian Fiction Blog Alliance, the Relief Writer’s Network, and FaithWriters, and plans to join International Thriller Writers once published. He received his BA degree in sports exercise and medicine from Messiah College and his MBS degree in theology from Master’s Graduate School of Divinity.<br /><br />Visit the author's <a href="http://www.mikedellosso.com/">website</a>.<br /><br /><object height="344" width="400"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/pvaRGqt0EuM&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/pvaRGqt0EuM&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="400"></embed></object><br /><br />Product Details:<br /><br />List Price: $13.99<br />Paperback: 281 pages<br />Publisher: Realms; 1 edition (May 4, 2010)<br />Language: English<br />ISBN-10: 1599799189<br />ISBN-13: 978-1599799186<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong><br /></span><br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/S-9wE2ZAbiI/AAAAAAAAD_E/XiSWJA609UQ/s1600/Darlington_Woods_Cover.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/S-9wE2ZAbiI/AAAAAAAAD_E/XiSWJA609UQ/s200/Darlington_Woods_Cover.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471715300900630050" border="0" /></a><div style="overflow: auto; height: 307px;">Present day <br /><br /><br /><br />As he pressed his beat-up Ford down an uneven stretch of asphalt, Rob Shields had death on his mind. His own. The void within him had grown to colossal proportions, opening its gaping black maw and swallowing any hope or happiness he once had. Lost forever. No chance of return. Death welcomed him, enticed him, drew him in with its easy ways and comfortable charm. <br /><br /><br /><br />Oh, he knew he would never do it. Taking his own life had a certain appeal to it, held a certain freedom that his bleak outlook on life longed for, but it took a much braver— or dumber—man than he to actually pull it off. But still he wanted, maybe needed, to pretend he was as serious as murder. And that meant it was time to see the house. If he was to fantasize about putting an end to his journey, he at least wanted to see the place that had promised a better life. Just one visit, one look, would satisfy him. <br /><br /><br />He glanced over at the empty passenger seat then into the rearview mirror at the vacant spot in the backseat. Kelly would be jabbering about what beautiful country this was. <br /><br /><br />“Look at the wildflowers. Oh, I love wildflowers.” <br /><br /><br />And little Jimmy would be singing away to his MP3 player, getting the lyrics all wrong. <br /><br /><br />Man, he missed them. <br /><br /><br />A familiar sadness overcame him, and he once again thought of his own death. He couldn’t bear to live without them any longer . . . <br /><br /><br />Life had become a great burden, an endless source of sadness. Every day was lived in despair. Unhappiness and discontent had become his bedfellows. He would see the<br /><br />house, allow himself one evening of pleasant dreams about what could have been, then return to Massachusetts to live out the rest of his life in isolated misery. And in his mind,<br /><br />that in itself was a form of suicide. A living death. <br /><br /><br />Rob depressed the accelerator, and the odometer needle climbed nearer to seventy. On the horizon, heat devils performed an arrhythmic dance, and the sun-scorched<br /><br />blacktop appeared to be glossed with mercury. The road cut through pastureland like a hardened artery. To his right, a handful of horses stood motionless, their noses to the ground. To his left, the land stretched out like a green sea, undulating slowly to an even tempo. <br /><br /><br />Mayfield had to be no more than an hour away, but the fuel<br /><br />gauge said he needed gas now. Up ahead, an elderly man in a ball cap was on both knees working his garden. Rob slowed the car and stopped beside him. The older gent turned his body slowly, revealing a patch over one eye. <br /><br /><br />Rob leaned across the center console and spoke loudly. “Where’s the nearest gas station?” <br /><br /><br />The old man cupped one hand around his ear and raised his eyebrows. <br /><br /><br />Rob said it louder. “Where’s the nearest gas station?” <br /><br /><br />The man nodded in the direction Rob had been traveling. “’Bout a mile down the road. Shell station on the left.” <br /><br /><br />“Thanks,” Rob said, and he pulled away. In the rearview mirror he could see the man watch him for a moment then return to his garden. <br /><br /><br />Exactly one mile down the road Rob steered into a cracked-asphalt lot and up to an old-style analog gas pump, the kind with the rotating numbers. He didn’t even know those kind still existed. The station had seen better days. From the sun-bleached Shell sign to the grime-coated plate-glass window of the little convenience store to the scarred and faded blacktop, everything spoke of neglect. This was one outpost time had forgotten. <br /><br /><br />Rob got out of the car and noticed the handwritten sign on the pump: Pre-pay inside. Management. <br /><br /><br />Walking across the lot, he could feel the day’s heat radiating through the soles of his shoes. A little bell chimed when he opened the door. A thin, fair-skinned man with shoulder-length hair nodded at him from behind the counter. <br /><br /><br />“Thirty in gas,” Rob said, reaching for his wallet. <br /><br /><br />The clerk punched some buttons on the register and said, “Thirty.” <br /><br /><br />Rob paid him. “How far to Mayfield?” <br /><br /><br />The clerk looked up. “Where?” <br /><br /><br />“Mayfield.” <br /><br /><br />After a quick shrug, “Fifty, sixty miles.” He looked like he wanted to say more, so Rob waited. “Not much in Mayfield.” <br /><br /><br />“A house,” Rob said. <br /><br /><br />“Your house?” <br /><br /><br />“Should have been.” Then he turned and left. The bell chimed again on his way out. <br /><br /><br />At the pump, Rob unscrewed the fuel cap and inserted the nozzle. Jimmy always loved to squeeze the trigger. <br /><br /><br />“Can I pull the trigger, Daddy?” <br /><br /><br />That’s what he called it, a trigger. He’d pretend the nozzle was a cowboy gun. Thoughts of his son flooded Rob’s mind, and he did nothing to stop them. Now was a time for remembering, for soaking up every good feeling and every fond image left to enjoy. <br /><br /><br />When the rolling numbers hit seventeen dollars, a quick movement caught Rob’s attention. He jerked his head up and toward the side of the store where a stand of shrubs sat quiet and motionless. Then he heard it, a muffled giggle, and his breath caught in his throat. He knew that giggle. Knew it like the sound of his own voice. The movement was there again. An image ran from the shrubs to the rear of the store and out of sight. The nozzle snapped off and fell to the ground with a solid clunk. Rob knew that run too, the shortened stride, the slightly exaggerated pumping of the arms. He could feel his heart thudding all the way down to his fingertips. <br /><br /><br />It was Jimmy. His little buddy. <br /><br /><br /><br />Crossing the lot in large walking strides at first, then a run, Rob rounded the building fully expecting to find his son, Jimmy, red-faced with brown hair matted to his forehead,<br /><br />waiting in a crouch to scare him. <br /><br /><br />“I got you, Daddy!” <br /><br /><br />Instead, all he found were a few rusted-out fifty-gallon drums, a stack of dry-rotted tires, and a haphazard pile of rebar. His breathing rate had quickened from the short sprint, and beads of sweat now popped out on his forehead and upper lip. He wiped them away with the sleeve of his T-shirt. <br /><br /><br />He walked the length of the building, scanning the field of<br /><br />knee-high grass behind it. “Jimmy?” <br /><br /><br />But no answer came. Not even a rustle of grass. And no giggle. <br /><br /><br />“Jimmy,” Rob said in a normal volume, more to himself than the phantom of his son that had haunted him now for going on two months. The visions—the psychologist called<br /><br />them hallucinations—had come frequently at first, sometimes as much as once a day, then grew more sporadic. Until now, he hadn’t had one for over two weeks. At first,<br /><br />Rob was convinced there was a purpose to them, a meaning. Maybe they even meant Jimmy was still alive, waiting for his daddy to find him and rescue him. Maybe. The psychologist disagreed. Rob thought he was a quack and stopped attending the weekly sessions. <br /><br /><br />Scolding himself for once again allowing his frazzled imagination to dupe him, Rob returned to his car like a man taking his final stroll down the long corridor to the electric<br /><br />chair. The sun’s heat now seemed more intense, and his shirt clung to his back and chest. <br /><br /><br />He picked the nozzle up from the ground and balanced it in his hand. <br /><br /><br />“Can I pull the trigger, Daddy?” <br /><br /><br />Every time he pumped gas he’d think of Jimmy. It was one of those little things that would haunt him the rest of his life. But it was a haunting he welcomed. After squeezing out the rest of his thirty bucks, Rob returned the nozzle to the pump, opened the car door, and was hit by a breath of heat. <br /><br /><br />Sitting in his car was like hanging out in an oven, but Rob did not turn the ignition. The air outside was still and the heat sweltering. Sweat seeped from his pores, wetting the front of his shirt. He thought of the image of his son and that familiar gait and noticed his hands were trembling. Tears formed in his eyes, blurring his vision. <br /><br /><br />“Jimmy.” He said the name again, as if it were some holy word that could cross the span of the finite and infinite and bring his little boy back. He wanted to hold him, bury his<br /><br />face in Jimmy’s hair, and draw in the smell of sweat and cookies. <br /><br /><br />“I like how you smell, Daddy. You smell like a daddy.” <br /><br /><br />Wiping the tears from his eyes, Rob started the car, pulled away from the pump, and headed east toward Mayfield. <br /><br /><br />As he drove, the empty seats beside and behind him burned like hot coals. As much as he tried, he could not dismiss the memory of Kelly reaching over and placing a graceful hand on his thigh, her hair rippling in the wind, a smile stretched across her face. Nor could he stop glancing in the rearview mirror, half hoping to see Jimmy bouncing against the back of the seat. <br /><br /><br />Rob slapped at the steering wheel. He knew he was going mad, that the solitude of the last three months had nearly driven him over the edge and blurred the line between reality and fantasy. And he was obsessing again. He had to think of something else, so he turned his mind to the house his great-aunt Wilda had left him. He’d never seen the place, had never even met Wilda. But when he found out he was the sole heir to the house, his mother raved about how much Kelly and Jimmy would love the place. That was six months ago. <br /><br /><br />Before his world got flipped on its head and everything went to pot. <br /><br /><br />Before he went insane and entertained thoughts of death. The boy and his mommy walk back to the car to clean his hands. He’s been working on a candy apple for some time, and it’s creating quite the mess. Daddy told them he’d meet them at the lemonade stand. Lemonade is great for a warm day, he said. The grass in the parking area is brown and ground into the dry dirt from everyone walking and driving on it. His mommy is holding his clean hand and singing a Sunday school song about Joshua and the battle of Jericho. The boy is still thinking about the eagle the man behind the table was holding. He never knew eagles were so big. And when it looked at him, it seemed to see right past his skin and into his insides. They had other things at the stand too—an owl with big yellow eyes, a couple different kinds of snakes, and an aquarium full of toads—but the eagle was his favorite. He wondered what it would be like to be able to fly like an eagle, way up in the sky where no one could bother you, seeing the whole world at once. <br /><br /><br />“Here we are,” Mommy says. Their car looks extra clean because Daddy washed it just before they left. The black paint looks like a dark mirror and makes him look funny, like one of those curvy mirrors at the carnival. <br /><br /><br />Mommy opens the trunk and leans over into it, looking for the napkins. It reminds him of a poem about a crocodile with a toothache. He wishes he could remember all the words. Something about the crocodile opening so wide and the dentist climbing inside, then SNAP! Mommy always claps her hands real hard at that part, and it always makes him jump. <br /><br /><br />A man comes up behind Mommy. He’s wearing dirty old blue jeans and a tight black T-shirt. His face is big and round, and there are a lot of little scars on his cheeks. His eyes are placed real close together and pushed back into his head. With his shaggy hair and large face, the boy thinks he looks like a head of cabbage. <br /><br /><br />“Excuse me,” the man says. He reaches out to touch Mommy’s hip then looks at the boy. <br /><br /><br />Mommy jumps and stands up fast. She turns around and looks at the man, crossing her arms in front of her. She seems nervous. “Yes?” <br /><br /><br />Cabbage Head looks nervous too. He pushes his hand through his hair, and the boy notices the sweat on his forehead. It makes his hair wet where it comes out of the skin. “It’s your husband—” <br /><br /><br />Now Mommy looks scared. “Wha–what’s wrong?” Her voice shakes. <br /><br /><br />“I need you to come with me.” He looks at the boy with those deep eyes then back at Mommy. “The boy can stay here at the car. We’ll only be a minute.” <br /><br /><br />Mommy bites her lower lip and looks around. She kneels beside the boy. She looks real scared and is breathing fast. Her hands are shaking, and she’s still biting her lower lip. “Stay here, OK? Don’t leave the car. I’ll be right back. Don’t leave the car.” <br /><br /><br />She hugs the boy then kisses him on the cheek. Opening the back door of the car, she motions for the boy to get in. “Remember, stay here. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back for you soon.” She closes the door, blows him a kiss, and leaves with Cabbage Head. The boy watches as they walk away and disappear behind a trailer. <br /><br /><br />It doesn’t take long for it to get too hot to stay in the car. He opens the door and slides out, staying low to the ground so no one will see him. He leans against the car, but the black metal is too hot. So he sits Indian-style on the ground next to the back tire and picks at the grass. He wonders what could be wrong with Daddy. Did he have a heart attack or get cancer? Mr. Davies next door got cancer last year and died. This scares the boy. Maybe Daddy’s just lost and the man needs Mommy to help find him. He thinks about the man and his deep eyes. They were like the eagle’s eyes. Something about them didn’t look right, though. The boy feels like if he looked at them long enough he’d see things that would give him nightmares for a very long time. And they would see things in him too. <br /><br /><br />It seems like a long time of sitting by the tire and picking at brown grass before the boy hears footsteps coming, the sound of dry grass crunching like stale potato chips. He stands and looks around, hoping it’s Mommy. But Cabbage Head is coming toward him, alone. Where’s Mommy? Is she with Daddy, and the man is coming to take him to them? <br /><br /><br />Cabbage Head comes close. He’s sweating even worse now, and his hair looks like it has been messed up. He offers the boy his hand, a big meaty thing that looks like a bear’s paw. “C’mon, son. You must come with me.” <br /><br /><br />“Where’s my mom?” the boy asks. He notices his own voice is shaking. <br /><br /><br />“She’s fine. She wants me to bring you to her.” <br /><br /><br />The boy can tell the man is lying. He wants to run away but is afraid he’ll never find Mommy or Daddy on his own. “Where is she?” <br /><br /><br />Cabbage Head closes his hand and opens it again. His wide palm is all shiny with sweat. “Come. She’s waiting for you.” <br /><br /><br />There’s no way the boy is going to hold the man’s hand. He turns to run but the man catches him by the arm. “Oh, no, you don’t. You’re coming with me.” <br /><br /><br />The boy tries to holler, but the man’s sweaty hand is over his mouth, pressing so hard it hurts. The boy has never known what it is like to be so scared. He’s sure Cabbage Head is going to kill him, or worse, keep him alive but never allow him to see his mommy or daddy again. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Kathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836736433376650097noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4009917677203976613.post-11208736468536716472010-05-16T06:36:00.000-06:002010-05-16T06:36:36.388-06:00Pastor arrestedOn April 16, an armed rebel group kidnapped a Baptist pastor from his home in a remote village in Bangladesh. The group, called terrorist activists by locals, ransacked the pastor's church, throwing Bibles on the floor, seizing a mobile phone and taking the pastor to their leader's home, according to VOM contacts. <br />
The pastor was allegedly beaten and taken to a Buddhist temple where he was told to deny his faith in Christ and believe and obey Buddha. Later that day, two Christian men were taken by the rebels to the Buddhist temple and released when they agreed to the rebels' demands. The men are now in hiding to avoid further problems. <br />
The pastor remains inside the Buddhist temple where he is allowed to move about freely, but he is constantly surrounded by monks who are instructing him in their rituals and teachings.<br />
The villagers were told they would be shot dead if they involved the police. <br />
<h4>Please Pray!</h4>Pray for God's grace and protection over this pastor and the Christian men who are in hiding. Pray that they will not be moved from their faith in Jesus Christ. Pray that the monks and the members of the rebel group will come to a saving knowledge of Jesus Christ.<br />
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(Information from <a href="http://www.persecution.com/">Voice of the Martyrs</a>)Kathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836736433376650097noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4009917677203976613.post-86466086621787437052010-05-12T06:40:00.000-06:002010-05-12T06:40:00.152-06:00Chosen Ones by Alister McGrath<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/SAad94Trj7I/AAAAAAAAArA/Yn05_E4V0fY/s1600-h/wild+card.jpg"></a><a href="http://firstwildcardtours.blogspot.com/"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190009307003588530" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/SAad94Trj7I/AAAAAAAAArA/Yn05_E4V0fY/s200/wild+card.jpg" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; text-align: center;" /></a>It is time for a <span style="color: #990000;"><b><a href="http://firstwildcardtours.blogspot.com/">FIRST Wild Card Tour</a></b></span><b></b> book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! <span style="color: #990000;"><b>Enjoy your free peek into the book!</b></span><br />
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<span style="color: #cc0000;"><i>You never know when I might play a wild card on you!</i></span><br />
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When my son was in the 9-12 year old age range of this book, he had a hard time finding interesting stories. He wanted adventure, intrigue, battles. And I wanted a story that gave him characters with values of truth, honor, perseverance. Here's a book that fills that need. I appreciated the values blended into the story - not layered and labeled on the top - but part of a thrilling adventure.<br />
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<div align="center"><b>Today's Wild Card author is: </b></div><br />
<div align="center"><b><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><a href="http://users.ox.ac.uk/%7Emcgrath/">Alister McGrath</a></span></b></div><br />
<div align="center"><b><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 100%;">and the book:</span> </span></b></div><br />
<div align="center"><b><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0310718120">Chosen Ones (Aedyn Chronicles, The)</a></span></b></div><div align="center">Zondervan (April 13, 2010) </div>***Special thanks to ***Special thanks to Pam Mettler of ZonderKidz for sending me a review copy.***<br />
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<div align="left"><b><span style="color: #333399; font-size: 130%;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></b></div><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/S-e8vV1BPZI/AAAAAAAAD9k/E4KrT3eB1AM/s1600/Alister+McGrath.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5469547793964154258" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/S-e8vV1BPZI/AAAAAAAAD9k/E4KrT3eB1AM/s200/Alister+McGrath.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 195px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 142px;" /></a><br />
Alister E. McGrath is one of the most respected Christian theologians of this century. Born in Belfast, Northern Ireland, Dr. McGrath currently serves as Professor of Theology, Ministry and Education, and Head of the Centre for Theology, Religion and Culture at King's College, London. <br />
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Visit the author's <a href="http://users.ox.ac.uk/%7Emcgrath/">website</a>.<br />
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Product Details:<br />
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List Price: $14.99<br />
Reading level: Ages 9-12<br />
Hardcover: 208 pages <br />
Publisher: Zondervan (April 13, 2010) <br />
Language: English <br />
ISBN-10: 0310718120 <br />
ISBN-13: 978-0310718123 <br />
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<span style="color: #cc0000;"><b><span style="font-size: 180%;">TO BROWSE THE BOOK, CLICK ON THE BUTTON BELOW:</span> </b></span><br />
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<a href="http://zndr.vn/aLpoE1">Chosen Ones (The Aedyn Chronicles)</a>Kathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836736433376650097noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4009917677203976613.post-73207254442109883452010-04-27T12:19:00.001-06:002010-04-27T12:19:54.105-06:00Which state?<span xmlns=''><p><span style='font-family:Arial'>We're studying elements of writing good fiction together. My teens and I want to write stories that make an impact and so we read this example today regarding interior monologue:<br /></span></p><p style='margin-left: 36pt'><span style='font-family:Arial'><em>Monroe settled into one of the plastic chairs outside the examining room and flipped through a magazine.<br /></em></span></p><p style='margin-left: 36pt'><span style='font-family:Arial'><em>Who was he kidding? He knew he couldn't read anything in the state he was in. Still, better to look at the pictures in the ads than to stare at the other patients….<br /></em></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Arial'>I turned to my young writers. "So do you see how the viewpoint switched from description to Monroe's thoughts?"<br/>"I don't get why he couldn't read." That was Timothy, who was laying on the recliner with a puppy nestled against his neck.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Arial'>"He couldn't read in the state he was in," I said.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Arial'>"Well, what state was he in?"<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Arial'>"It's hard to tell. Maybe he's sick or maybe he's injured."<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Arial'>"OH!! I thought it meant a state like Colorado."<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Arial'>Then his sister jumped in. "Yeah, it's illegal to read in some states. Like California. 'No reading for you or you'll want a different system.'"<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Arial'>That was the end of our discussion on interior monologue for the day.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Arial'><br /> </span> </p></span>Kathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836736433376650097noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4009917677203976613.post-34226528389533284772010-04-23T06:25:00.001-06:002010-04-23T06:25:20.529-06:00Unchanged<span xmlns=''><p><span style='font-family:Arial; font-size:14pt'>"We are challenged these days, but not changed; convicted, but not converted. We hear, but do not; and thereby we deceive ourselves."<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Arial'>-Vance Hafner</span></p></span>Kathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836736433376650097noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4009917677203976613.post-3955828313445244052010-04-21T06:00:00.000-06:002010-04-21T06:00:02.874-06:00<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/SAad94Trj7I/AAAAAAAAArA/Yn05_E4V0fY/s1600-h/wild+card.jpg"></a><a href="http://firstwildcardtours.blogspot.com/"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190009307003588530" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/SAad94Trj7I/AAAAAAAAArA/Yn05_E4V0fY/s200/wild+card.jpg" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; text-align: center;" /></a>It is time for a <span style="color: #990000;"><b><a href="http://firstwildcardtours.blogspot.com/">FIRST Wild Card Tour</a></b></span><b></b> book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! <span style="color: #990000;"><b>Enjoy your free peek into the book!</b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><i>You never know when I might play a wild card on you!</i></span><br />
<br />
For a leisurely, yet intriguing, stroll into medieval England, this book fills the book. You'll feel like you're walking the streets with our hero, trying to sort through the clues of mysteries while meeting an assortment of interesting people. I enjoyed this book.<br />
<br />
<div align="center"><b>Today's Wild Card author is: </b></div><br />
<div align="center"><b><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><a href="http://melstarr.net/">Mel Starr</a></span></b></div><br />
<div align="center"><b><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 100%;">and the book:</span> </span></b></div><br />
<div align="center"><b><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1854249541">A Corpse at St. Andrew’s Chapel</a></span></b></div><div align="center">Monarch Books (February 19, 2010) </div>***Special thanks to Cat Hoort - Trade Marketing Manager - Kregel Publications for sending me a review copy.***<br />
<br />
<div align="left"><b><span style="color: #333399; font-size: 130%;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></b></div><br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/S8vnQ97JfrI/AAAAAAAAD30/66hvceC72WI/s1600/Starr,_Mel.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461713251803430578" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/S8vnQ97JfrI/AAAAAAAAD30/66hvceC72WI/s200/Starr,_Mel.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 150px;" /></a><br />
<br />
Melvin R. Starr has spent many years teaching history, and has studied medieval surgery and medieval English. He lives in Michigan. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Visit the author's <a href="http://melstarr.net/">website</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
Product Details:<br />
<br />
List Price: $14.99<br />
Paperback: 304 pages <br />
Publisher: Monarch Books (February 19, 2010) <br />
Language: English <br />
ISBN-10: 1854249541 <br />
ISBN-13: 978-1854249548 <br />
<br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><b><span style="font-size: 180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </b></span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/S8vnJ73QXzI/AAAAAAAAD3s/oWL35MSCl7c/s1600/a+corpse+at+st+andrews+chapel.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461713130991148850" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/S8vnJ73QXzI/AAAAAAAAD3s/oWL35MSCl7c/s200/a+corpse+at+st+andrews+chapel.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 128px;" /></a><br />
<div style="height: 307px; overflow: auto;"> I awoke at dawn the ninth day of April, 1365. Unlike French Malmsey, the day did not improve with age.<br />
<br />
There have been many days I awoke at dawn but remembered not the circumstances three weeks hence. I remember this day not because of when I awoke, but why, and what I was compelled to do after. Odd, is it not, how one extraordinary event will burn even the mundane surrounding it into a man’s memory.<br />
<br />
I have seen other memorable days in my twenty-five years. I recall the day my brother Henry died of plague. I was a child, but I remember well Father Aymer administering extreme unction. Father Aymer wore a spice bag about his neck to protect him from the malady. It did not, and he also succumbed within a fortnight. I can see the pouch yet, in my mind’s eye, swinging from the priest’s neck on a hempen cord as he bent over my stricken brother.<br />
<br />
I remember clearly the day in 1361 when William of Garstang died. William and I and two others shared a room on St. Michael’s Street, Oxford, while we studied at Baliol College. I comforted William as the returning plague covered his body with erupting buboes. For my small service he gave me, with his last breaths, his three books. One of these volumes was, Surgery, by Henry de Mondeville. How William came by this clumes I know not. But I see now in this gift the hand of God, for I read de Mondeville’s work and changed my vocation. <br />
<br />
Was it then God’s will that William die a miserable death so that I might find God’s vision for my life? This I cannot accept, for I saw William’s body covered with oozing pustules. I will not believe such a death is God’s choice for any man. Here I must admit a disagreement with Master Wyclif, who believes that all is foreordained. But out of evil God may draw good, as I believe He did when he introduced me to the practice of surgery. Perhaps the good I have done with my skills balances the torment William suffered in his death. But not for William.<br />
<br />
I remember well the day I met Lord Gilbert Talbot. I stitched him up after his leg was opened by a kick from a groom’s horse on Oxford High Street. This needlework opened my life to service to Lord Gilbert and the townsmen of Bampton, and brought me also the post of bailiff on Lord Gilbert’s manor at Bampton.<br />
<br />
Other days return to my mind with less pleasure. I will not soon forget Christmas Day, 1363, and the feast that day at Lord Gilbert’s Goodrich Castle hall. I had traveled there from Bampton to attend Lord Gilbert’s sister, the Lady Joan. The fair Joan had broken a wrist in a fall from a horse. I was summoned to set the break. It was foolish of me to think I might win this lady, but love has hoped more foolishness than that. A few days before Christmas a guest, Sir Thomas de Burgh, arrived at Goodrich. Lord Gilbert invited him knowing well he might be a thief. Indeed, he stole Lady Joan’s heart. Between the second and third removes of the Christmas feast he stood and for all in the hall to see offered Lady Joan a clove-studded pear. She took the fruit and with a smile delicately drew a clove from the pear with her teeth. They married in September, a few days before Michealmas, last year. <br />
<br />
But I digress. <br />
<br />
<br />
I awoke at dawn to thumping on my chamber door. I blinked sleep from my eyes, crawled from my bed, and stumbled to the door. I opened it as William the porter was about to rap on it again.<br />
<br />
“It’s Alan . . . . the beadle. He’s found.”<br />
<br />
Alan had left his home to seek those who would violate curfew two days earlier. He never returned. His young wife came to me in alarm the morning of the next day. I sent John Holcutt, the reeve, to gather a party of searchers, but they found no trace of the man. John was not pleased to lose a day of work from six men. Plowing of fallow fields was not yet finished. Before I retired Wednesday evening John sought me out and begged not to resume the search next day. I agreed. If Alan could not be found with the entire town aware of his absence another day of poking into haymows and barns seemed likely also to be fruitless. It was not necessary.<br />
<br />
“Has he come home?” I asked..<br />
<br />
“Nay. An’ not likely to, but on a hurdle.”<br />
<br />
“He’s dead?”<br />
<br />
“Aye.”<br />
<br />
“Where was he found?”<br />
<br />
“Aside t’way near to St. Andrew’s Chapel.”<br />
<br />
It was no wonder the searchers had not found him. St. Andrew’s Chapel was near half a mile to the east. What, I wondered, drew him away from the town on his duties?<br />
<br />
“Hubert Shillside has been told. He would have you accompany him to the place.”<br />
<br />
“Send word I will see him straightaway.”<br />
<br />
I suppose I was suspicious already that this death was not natural. I believe it to be a character flaw if a man be too mistrustful. But there are occasions in my professions – surgery and bailiff – when it is good to doubt a first impression. Alan was not yet thirty years old. He had a half-yardland of Lord Gilbert Talbot and was so well thought of that despite his youth Lord Gilbert’s tenants had at hallmote chosen him beadle these three years. He worked diligently, and bragged all winter that his four acres of oats had brought him nearly five bushels for every bushel of seed. A remarkable accomplishment, for his land was no better than any other surrounding Bampton. This success brought also some envy, I think, and perhaps there were wives who contrasted his achievement to the work of their husbands. But this, I thought, was no reason to kill a man.<br />
<br />
I suppose a man may have enemies which even his friends know not of. I did consider Alan a friend, as did most others of the town. On my walk from Bampton Castle to Hubert Shillside’s shop and house on Church View Street I persuaded myself that this must be a natural death. Of course, when a corpse is found in open country, the hue and cry must be raised even if the body be stiff and cold. So Hubert, the town coroner, and I, bailiff and surgeon, must do our work.<br />
<br />
Alan was found but a few minutes from the town. Down Rosemary Lane to the High Street, then left on Bushey Row to the path to St. Andrew’s Chapel. We saw – Hubert and I, and John Holcutt, who came also – where the body lay while we were yet far off. As we passed the last house on the lane east from Bampton to the chapel we saw a group of men standing in the track at a place where last year’s fallow was being plowed for spring planting. They saw us approach, and stepped back respectfully as we reached them. <br />
<br />
A hedgerow had grown up among rocks between the lane and the field. New leaves of pale green decorated stalks of nettles, thistles, and wild roses. Had the foliage matured for another fortnight Alan might have gone undiscovered. But two plowmen, getting an early start on their day’s labor, found the corpse as they turned the oxen at the end of their first furrow. It had been barely light enough to see the white foot protruding from the hedgerow. The plowman who goaded the team saw it as he prodded the lead beasts to turn them.<br />
<br />
Alan’s body was invisible from the road, but by pushing back nettles and thorns – carefully – we could see him curled as if asleep amongst the brambles. I directed two onlookers to retrieve the body. Rank has its privileges. Better they be nettle-stung than we. A few minutes later Alan the beadle lay stretched out on the path.<br />
<br />
Laying in the open, on the road, the beadle did not seem so at peace as in the hedgerow. Deep scratches lacerated his face, hands, and forearms. His clothes were torn, and a great wound bloodied his neck where flesh had been torn away. The coroner bent to examine this injury more closely.<br />
<br />
“Some beast has done this, I think,” he muttered as he stood. “See how his surcoat is torn at the arms, as if he tried to defend himself from fangs. <br />
<br />
I knelt on the opposite side of the corpse to view in my turn the wound which took the life of Alan the beadle. It seemed as Hubert Shillside said. Puncture wounds spread across neck and arms, and rips on surcoat and flesh indicated where claws and fangs had made their mark. I sent the reeve back to the Bampton Castle for a horse on which to transport Alan back to the town and to his wife. The others who stood in the path began to drift away. The plowmen who found him returned to their team. Soon only the coroner and I remained to guard the corpse. It needed guarding. Already a vulture floated high above the path.<br />
<br />
I could not put my unease into words, so spoke nothing of my suspicion to Shillside. But I was not satisfied that some wild beast had done this thing. I believe the coroner was apprehensive of his explanation as well, for it was he who broke the silence.<br />
<br />
“There have been no wolves hereabouts in my lifetime,” he mused, “nor wild dogs, I think.”<br />
<br />
“I have heard,” I replied, “Lord Gilbert speak of wolves near Goodrich. And Pembroke. Those castles are near to the Forest of Dean and the Welsh mountains. But even there in such wild country they are seldom seen.”<br />
<br />
Shillside was silent again as we studied the body at our feet. My eyes wandered to the path where Alan lay. When I did not find what I sought I walked a few paces toward the town, then reversed my path and inspected the track in the direction of St. Andrew’s Chapel. My search was fruitless.<br />
<br />
Hubert watched my movements with growing interest. “What do you seek?” He finally asked. It was clear to him I looked for something in the road. <br />
<br />
“Tracks. If an animal did this there should be some sign, I think. The mud is soft.”<br />
<br />
“Perhaps,” the coroner replied. “But we and many others have stood about near an hour. Any marks a beast might have made have surely been trampled underfoot.”<br />
<br />
I agreed that might be. But another thought also troubled me. “There should be much blood,” I said, “but I see little.”<br />
<br />
“Why so?” Shillside asked.<br />
<br />
“When a man’s neck is torn as Alan’s is there is much blood lost. It is the cause of death. Do you see much blood hereabouts?”<br />
<br />
“Perhaps the ground absorbed it?”<br />
<br />
“Perhaps . . . . let us look in the hedgerow, where we found him.”<br />
<br />
We did, carefully prying the nettles apart. The foliage was depressed where Alan lay, but only a trace of blood could be seen on the occasional new leaf or rock or blade of grass.<br />
<br />
“There is blood here,” I announced, “but not much. Not enough.”<br />
<br />
“Enough for what?” the coroner asked with furrowed brow.<br />
<br />
“Enough that the loss of blood would kill a man.”<br />
<br />
Shillside was silent for a moment. “Your words trouble me,” he said finally. “If this wound,” he looked to Alan’s neck, “did not kill him, what did?”<br />
<br />
“T’is a puzzle,” I agreed.<br />
<br />
“And see how we found him amongst the nettles. Perhaps he dragged himself there to escape the beasts, if more than one set upon him.” <br />
<br />
“Or perhaps the animal dragged him there,” I added. But I did not believe this for reasons I could not explain.<br />
<br />
It was the coroner’s turn to cast his eyes about. “His staff,” Shillside mused, “I wonder where it might be?”<br />
<br />
I remembered the staff. Whenever the beadle went out of an evening to watch and warn he carried with him a yew pole taller than himself and thick as a man’s forearm. I spoke to him of this weapon once. A whack from it, he said, would convince the most unruly drunk to leave the streets and seek his bed.<br />
<br />
“He was proud of that cudgel,” Hubert remarked as we combed the hedgerow in search of it. “He carved an ‘A’ on it so all would know t’was his.”<br />
<br />
“I didn’t know he could write.”<br />
<br />
“Oh . . . . he could not,” Shillside explained. “Father Thomas showed him the mark and Alan inscribed it. Right proud of it, he was.”<br />
<br />
We found the staff far off the path, where some waste land verged on to a wood just behind St. Andrew’s Chapel. It lay thirty paces or more from the place where Alan’s body had lain in the hedgerow.<br />
<br />
“How did it come to be here?” Shillside asked. As if I would know. He examined the club; “there is his mark . . . . see.” He pointed to the “A” inscribed with some artistry into the tough wood.<br />
<br />
As the coroner held the staff before me I inspected it closely and was troubled. Shillside saw my frown.<br />
<br />
“What perplexes you, Hugh?”<br />
<br />
“The staff is unmarked. Were I carrying such a weapon and a wolf set upon me I would flail it about to defend myself; perhaps hold it before me so the beast caught it in his teeth rather than my arm.”<br />
<br />
Shillside peered at the pole and turned it to view all sides. Its surface was smooth and unmarred. “Perhaps,” he said thoughtfully, “Alan swung it at the beast and lost his grip. See how polished smooth it is . . . . and it flew from his grasp to land here.”<br />
<br />
“That might be how it was,” I agreed, for I had no better explanation.<br />
<br />
As we returned to the path we saw the reeve approach with Bruce, the old horse who saw me about the countryside when I found it necessary to travel. He would be a calm and dignified platform on which to transport a corpse.<br />
<br />
We bent to lift Alan to Bruce’s back, John at the feet and Shillside and me at the shoulders. As we swung him up Alan’s head fell back. So much of his neck was shredded that it provided little support. I reached out a hand to steady the head and felt a thing which made my hackles rise.<br />
<br />
“Wait,” I said, rather sharply, for my companions started and gazed in wonder at me. “Set him back on the road.”<br />
<br />
I turned the beadle’s head and felt the place on the skull which had startled me. There was a soft lump on the skull, just behind Alan’s right ear. This swelling was invisible for the thick shock of hair which covered it. I spread the thatch and inspected Alan’s scalp, then showed my discovery to reeve and coroner.<br />
<br />
John Holcutt was silent, but Shillside, after running his fingers across the swelling looked at me and asked, “How could a wolf do this?”</div>Kathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836736433376650097noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4009917677203976613.post-11447728451290156562010-04-20T06:41:00.001-06:002010-04-20T06:41:03.026-06:00Remember when<span xmlns=''><p><br /> </p><p>"Men more frequently require to be reminded than informed."Samuel Johnson, prolific writer and lecturer, wrote that over 300 years ago. It's still true.<br /></p><p><br /> </p><p>You see the same idea throughout the Bible as well. In the Old Testament, the feasts and festivals came about to remind the people of pivotal events in their history. Patriarchs built altars so that others would ask and the tales repeated.<br /></p><p><br /> </p><p>Why? People forget.<br /></p><p><br /> </p><p>Moses, in his final speech to the people of Israel before they entered the Promised Land, reminded them to care for those who couldn't care for themselves. Why? "The Lord your God redeemed you."<br /></p><p><br /> </p><p>Although the Israelites had been slaves in Egypt, unable to care for themselves, God had set them free. God wanted them to give as they had been given. They had been given a free gift but they tended to forget. <br /></p><p><br /> </p><p>And we do, too.<br /></p><p><br /> </p><p>Peter wrote that "I will always remind you of these things, even though you know them and are firmly established in the truth you now have." (2 Peter 1:12)<br /></p><p><br /> </p><p>What we know, we still forget. We need remembrances. And they can be found in the simplest places: church services, fellowship with believers, Bible studies, conferences, retreats. I knew a woman once who cut her hair to celebrate God's hand in her life. Another planted a tree.<br /></p><p><br /> </p><p>All to remember. What will you do today to remember?<br /></p><p><br /> </p><p> <br /> </p><p><br /> </p><p><br /> </p><p><br /> </p></span>Kathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836736433376650097noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4009917677203976613.post-47026877847712130232010-04-12T08:00:00.001-06:002010-04-12T08:00:04.949-06:00The Secret Holocaust Diaries<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/SAad94Trj7I/AAAAAAAAArA/Yn05_E4V0fY/s1600-h/wild+card.jpg"></a><a href="http://firstwildcardtours.blogspot.com/"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190009307003588530" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/SAad94Trj7I/AAAAAAAAArA/Yn05_E4V0fY/s200/wild+card.jpg" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; text-align: center;" /></a>It is time for a <span style="color: #990000;"><b><a href="http://firstwildcardtours.blogspot.com/">FIRST Wild Card Tour</a></b></span><b></b> book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! <span style="color: #990000;"><b>Enjoy your free peek into the book!</b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><i>You never know when I might play a wild card on you!</i></span><br />
<br />
This is a valuable and interesting addition to the historical reports about the Holocaust. The editors did a nice job explaining without changing Nonna Bannister's report. If you're interesting in this time period - and about the Holocaust (and we cannot forget the lessons learned there) - this is an important resource.<br />
<br />
<div align="center"><b>Today's Wild Card author is: </b></div><br />
<div align="center"><b><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><a href="http://www.secretholocaustdiaries.com/">Nonna Bannister</a></span></b></div><br />
<div align="center"><b><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 100%;">and the book:</span> </span></b></div><br />
<div align="center"><b><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1414325479">The Secret Holocaust Diaries: The Untold Story of Nonna Bannister</a></span></b></div><div align="center">Tyndale House Publishers (March 4, 2010) </div>***Special thanks to Vicky Lynch of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. for sending me a review copy.***<br />
<br />
<div align="left"><b><span style="color: #333399; font-size: 130%;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></b></div><br />
<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/S8AZpV0wkdI/AAAAAAAAD2Q/PvIwIGajrig/s1600/Nonna+Bannister.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5458390946396803538" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/S8AZpV0wkdI/AAAAAAAAD2Q/PvIwIGajrig/s200/Nonna+Bannister.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 166px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 115px;" /></a>Nonna Bannister was a young girl when World War II broke into her happy life. She went from an idyllic early-twentieth-century Russian childhood, full of love and comforts, to the life of a prisoner working in labor camps—though she was not a Jew—eventually bereft of her entire family. But she survived the war armed with the faith in God her grandmother taught her and a readiness to start a new life. She immigrated to America, married, and started a family, keeping her past secret from everyone. Though she had carried from Germany the scraps of a diary and various photographs and other memorabilia, she kept it all hidden and would only take it out, years later, to translate and expand her writings. After decades of marriage, Nonna finally shared her secret with her husband . . . and now he is sharing it with the world. Nonna died on August 15, 2004.<br />
<br />
Visit the author's <a href="http://www.secretholocaustdiaries.com/">website</a>.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Product Details:<br />
<br />
List Price: $14.99<br />
Paperback: 336 pages <br />
Publisher: Tyndale House Publishers (March 4, 2010) <br />
Language: English <br />
ISBN-10: 1414325479 <br />
ISBN-13: 978-1414325477 <br />
<br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><b><span style="font-size: 180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </b></span><br />
<br />
<iframe frameborder="0" height="600" scrolling="no" src="http://books.google.com/books?id=SKJX27yU8i8C&lpg=PP1&pg=PP1&output=embed" style="border: 0px none;" width="400"></iframe>Kathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836736433376650097noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4009917677203976613.post-36257258893052498002010-04-10T07:17:00.001-06:002010-04-10T07:17:00.796-06:00Start Here by Alex and Brett Harris<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/SAad94Trj7I/AAAAAAAAArA/Yn05_E4V0fY/s1600-h/wild+card.jpg"></a><a href="http://firstwildcardtours.blogspot.com/"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190009307003588530" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/SAad94Trj7I/AAAAAAAAArA/Yn05_E4V0fY/s200/wild+card.jpg" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; text-align: center;" /></a>It is time for a <span style="color: #990000;"><strong><a href="http://firstwildcardtours.blogspot.com/">FIRST Wild Card Tour</a></strong></span><strong></strong> book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! <span style="color: #990000;"><strong>Enjoy your free peek into the book!</strong></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><em>You never know when I might play a wild card on you!</em></span><br />
<p>With two teenagers in my house, I am always looking for fresh resources to encourage them in their walk. The Harris brothers provide youthful encouragement to go beyond for the Lord. This book is a practical companion to their first and I recommend this resource. Teamed with <em>Do Hard Things</em> this book is a valuable tool as we disciple our young people. </p><br />
<div align="center"><strong>Today's Wild Card authors are: </strong></div><br />
<div align="center"><strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><a href="http://www.therebelution.com/">Alex and Brett Harris</a></span></strong></div><br />
<div align="center"><strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 100%;">and the book:</span> </span></strong></div><br />
<div align="center"><strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1601422709">Start Here</a></span></strong></div><div align="center">Multnomah Books; 1 edition (March 16, 2010) </div>***Special thanks to Staci Carmichael of WaterBrook Multnomah Publishing Group for sending me a review copy.***<br />
<br />
<div align="left"><strong><span style="color: #333399; font-size: 130%;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">ABOUT THE AUTHORS:</span> </span></strong></div><br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/S71EpKgmzEI/AAAAAAAAD2A/ZrDX8Ht1XGY/s1600/harris.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457593797429349442" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/S71EpKgmzEI/AAAAAAAAD2A/ZrDX8Ht1XGY/s200/harris.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 166px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 116px;" /></a>Alex and Brett Harris are the coauthors of the best-selling book Do Hard Things, which they wrote when they were eighteen. Today, the twins speak regularly to audiences of thousands on The Rebelution Tour, maintain a large online community through their blog, TheRebelution.com, and have been featured on CNN, MSNBC, NPR, and in the New York Times. Raised in Portland, Oregon, the brothers currently attend Patrick Henry College in Virginia.<br />
<br />
Visit the authors' <a href="http://www.therebelution.com/">website</a>.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Product Details:<br />
<br />
List Price: $12.99<br />
Paperback: 176 pages <br />
Publisher: Multnomah Books; 1 edition (March 16, 2010) <br />
Language: English <br />
ISBN-10: 1601422709 <br />
ISBN-13: 978-1601422705 <br />
<br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><strong><span style="font-size: 180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong></span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/S71EwQGMpoI/AAAAAAAAD2I/FbpiOX-ZjFc/s1600/start+here.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457593919188280962" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/S71EwQGMpoI/AAAAAAAAD2I/FbpiOX-ZjFc/s200/start+here.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 200px;" /></a><div style="height: 307px; overflow: auto;">YOU ARE HERE<br />
<br />
Opening the door to your own rebelution <br />
<br />
<br />
Simple ideas and unbelievable dreams. First steps and great miracles. Ordinary teenagers and a God who still uses young people to accomplish His big plans.<br />
<br />
That’s what our first book, Do Hard Things, is all about. Do Hard Things shows how young people can take hold of a more exciting option for their teen years than what society suggests. We wrote the book to counter the Myth of Adolescence, which says the teen years are a time to goof off and have fun before “real life” starts. We invited our peers to choose to do hard things for the glory of God and, in the process, turn the world’s idea of what teens are capable of upside down.<br />
<br />
We were nineteen when we wrote Do Hard Things, twin brothers who wanted to follow God’s call and challenge our generation. We’re twenty-one now and sophomores in college. We still dream big dreams, still want to follow God completely, and still believe just as strongly that God wants to use our generation to change the world. (And, as you might have guessed, we’re still twin brothers.)<br />
<br />
Whether or not you’ve read Do Hard Things (we’d recommend it—but, of course, we’re a little biased), this companion book continues the Do Hard Things message and piles on stories, practical suggestions, and detailed how-tos. You can use it either on your own or in a group setting, depending on your situation.<br />
<br />
In other words, Do Hard Things marked the beginning of a movement. Start Here is your personal field guide to jumping in and getting involved. <br />
<br />
<br />
The Rebelution Movement<br />
<br />
The concept of doing hard things actually started as a blog we created when we were sixteen. We called it The Rebelution—a combination of rebellion and revolution to create a whole new word with a whole new meaning. We defined rebelution as “a teenage rebellion against low expectations.” (By the way, the blog still exists. Check it out at TheRebelution.com.)<br />
<br />
Since Do Hard Things came out, the Rebelution movement has exploded. In the past year, rebelutionary teens have raised tens of thousands of dollars to bring the gospel to and dig wells in Africa, won prestigious film festivals, fought human trafficking in the United States and around the world, and made it on the cover of ESPN The Magazine. Around the world, young people are moving out of their comfort zones—whether that means standing for Christ in a hostile classroom, raising money to build a dormitory for orphans in China, or mending relationships with parents or younger siblings.<br />
<br />
Maybe you’re part of the Rebelution already, or maybe you just want to find out more. Maybe you’re asking one of the questions we get most frequently from readers: “Where do I start?”<br />
<br />
This book is about taking the next step. It includes ideas from us and dozens of other young people on topics like:<br />
<br />
• How to stand up for what you believe<br />
<br />
• Strategies for overcoming stage fright, fund-raising fright, and phone-calling fright (hint: it gets easier as you go!)<br />
<br />
• Ways to get going when you feel stuck and keep going when you feel discouraged<br />
<br />
• How to understand God’s will and glorify Him through your efforts<br />
<br />
• God-honoring ways to think, feel, and act after you’ve completed a big project <br />
<br />
<br />
In short, this is a handbook full of practical steps and real-life stories to encourage and equip you on your journey of doing hard things. We want you to feel as if you’re at one of our conferences, or in a small group of people talking about doing hard things—which you may be!<br />
<br />
All the questions in the pages that follow come from people just like you, collected on our website and through personal conversations. We’ll do our best to answer them with stories and insights from our own lives. We’re traveling alongside you in this adventure—and we want to share with you what God has been teaching us these past few years.<br />
<br />
But just like Do Hard Things, this book isn’t about us. It’s about the incredible, seemingly impossible things God is doing in our generation. That’s why in Start Here you’ll find dozens of true stories from rebelutionaries who are making a difference in their homes, at their schools, and around the world. We love sharing other young people’s stories because they challenge us as well—and remind us that we’re not alone. We also love the way real-life stories provide a glimpse of the diverse ways God wants to use each of us to do hard things for Him.<br />
<br />
Toward the end of the book, we’ll be sharing the stories of two rebelutionaries in particular: Ana Zimmerman and John Moore. As you’ll see, Ana and John took on very different hard things, each with the purpose of glorifying God and helping others.<br />
<br />
At the age of fifteen, Ana raised more than six thousand dollars and organized an event called Love the Least in her hometown. The event introduced her community to the work of Abort73, an organization that exists to show the injustice of abortion.<br />
<br />
With a group of fellow teens, John Moore wrote, produced, and directed his own feature film at the age of nineteen—and went on to win the $101,000 grand prize at the San Antonio Independent Christian Film Festival.<br />
<br />
John and Ana faced many of the same hurdles and questions you’re encountering. Their stories provide an in-depth look at the beginning, middle, and end of the “do hard things” process. We think you’ll be encouraged and inspired. <br />
<br />
<br />
Pursuing Faithfulness, Not Success<br />
<br />
As thousands of young people around the world are discovering, doing hard things is the most satisfying, thrilling way to live some of the best years of our lives.<br />
<br />
So where do you start? As you’ll find in the pages that follow, the answer is: right where you are. Being a rebelutionary means committing to doing even ordinary things extraordinarily well.<br />
<br />
As each of us is faithful in that, God will be faithful to prepare us for whatever calling He has for us.<br />
<br />
For some of us, that calling will be big in the world’s eyes, and for some of us it will be small. Whether it is big or small, God will be glorified—and the world will be changed by a generation that gives up seeking worldly success to pursue a life of faithfulness.<br />
<br />
That’s when the ordinary becomes extraordinary. And that’s what this book is about.<br />
<br />
Ready to start?<br />
</div>Kathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836736433376650097noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4009917677203976613.post-65003926174320376452010-04-09T07:06:00.001-06:002010-04-09T07:06:00.372-06:00Deadly Disclosures by Julie Cave<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/SAad94Trj7I/AAAAAAAAArA/Yn05_E4V0fY/s1600-h/wild+card.jpg"></a><a href="http://firstwildcardtours.blogspot.com/"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190009307003588530" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/SAad94Trj7I/AAAAAAAAArA/Yn05_E4V0fY/s200/wild+card.jpg" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; text-align: center;" /></a>It is time for a <span style="color: #990000;"><strong><a href="http://firstwildcardtours.blogspot.com/">FIRST Wild Card Tour</a></strong></span><strong></strong> book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! <span style="color: #990000;"><strong>Enjoy your free peek into the book!</strong></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><em>You never know when I might play a wild card on you!</em></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="center"><strong>Today's Wild Card author is: </strong></div><br />
<div align="center"><strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><a href="http://www.juliecave.com/">Julie Cave</a></span></strong></div><br />
<div align="center"><strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 100%;">and the book:</span> </span></strong></div><br />
<div align="center"><strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0890515840">Deadly Disclosures </a></span></strong></div><div align="center">New Leaf Publishing Group/Master Books (February 15, 2010)</div>***Special thanks to Stacey Drake of New Leaf Press for sending me a review copy.***<br />
<br />
<div align="left"><strong><span style="color: #333399; font-size: 130%;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong></div><br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/S7v6bfvIepI/AAAAAAAAD1w/4GZiCa8o0JM/s1600/julie.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457230723772086930" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/S7v6bfvIepI/AAAAAAAAD1w/4GZiCa8o0JM/s200/julie.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 185px;" /></a><br />
Julie first heard a creation science speaker at her church when she was just 15, igniting her interest in creation science and sparking an enthusiasm for defending the Bible’s account of creation. She has obtained a degree in health science, and is currently completing a degree in law. Julie is married with one daughter and lives on the east coast of Australia.<br />
<br />
<br />
Visit the author's <a href="http://www.juliecave.com/">website</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
Product Details:<br />
<br />
List Price: $9.99<br />
Paperback: 288 pages <br />
Publisher: New Leaf Publishing Group/Master Books (February 15, 2010) <br />
Language: English <br />
ISBN-10: 0890515840 <br />
ISBN-13: 978-0890515846 <br />
<br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><strong><span style="font-size: 180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong></span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/S7v67osp0AI/AAAAAAAAD14/X9jl1J87NWw/s1600/DeadlyDisclosures-cover-229x300.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457231275933421570" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/S7v67osp0AI/AAAAAAAAD14/X9jl1J87NWw/s200/DeadlyDisclosures-cover-229x300.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 153px;" /></a><div style="height: 307px; overflow: auto;">Thomas Whitfield climbed out of the Lincoln Towncar and stood in the snappy, early morning fall air, breathing deeply. The temperature had fallen a few more degrees overnight, signaling that winter was truly on its way.<br />
<br />
Thomas glanced up and down the wide street. There was nobody around at this early hour, and he took a moment to drink in the sights of his beloved city. The graceful willows, their branches arching over the street, were turning gold and red and, in the gentle yellow morning light, threw off highlights like burnished copper. This street was like many others in the center of DC — wide and tree-lined, with magnificent government buildings standing one after the other. That was another thing that Thomas found so delicious about this city — so much of it hinted at the enormous wealth and prosperity of the country, and yet only a few streets behind these world-famous landmarks, the seedier side of American poverty flourished. It was a city of contradictions, Thomas thought.<br />
<br />
His gaze fell finally to the building right in front of him — the main complex of the Smithsonian Institution. Enormous stone pillars flanked the entryway into a marble lobby, and behind that were laid out the evidence of mankind’s brilliance. Everything about the institution was testament to the scientific and anthropological advances of man over the pages of history — the inventions, the discoveries, the deductions, the sheer radiance of a human being’s intelligence at its finest.<br />
<br />
Thomas Whitfield had always been immensely proud of this place, and everything it showcased. He had boasted about it, defended it, nourished it, and protected it, the way a proud father would his prodigious child.<br />
<br />
He was the secretary of the Smithsonian, after all, and he felt a strange kind of paternal relationship with the buildings and their contents.<br />
<br />
He stood for a moment longer, a slender whippet of a man dressed immaculately, with highly polished shoes gleaming, thinning dark hair cut short, and a gray cashmere scarf to ward off the cold. Then he purposefully strode down the path and into the main building, scarf fluttering behind him.<br />
<br />
To the malevolent eyes watching him through high-powered binoculars down the street in a non-descript Chevy, he presented a painfully easy target.<br />
<br />
Thomas settled in his large office with the door shut, turned on the computer, and shut his eyes briefly as he contemplated what he would do next. The course of events he had planned for this day would change everything, and the impact would be felt right up to the president himself. Courage, Thomas, he told himself silently. What you are about to do is the right thing to do.<br />
<br />
He began to type, slowly and decisively, feeling within himself a great sense of conviction and purpose. He was so lost in concentration that he was startled by the door suddenly swinging open.<br />
<br />
“What are . . . ?” he exclaimed, almost jumping off his seat. Then he recognized his visitor and he glanced at his watch.<br />
<br />
“What are you doing here?” Thomas asked. “It’s a little early for you, isn’t it?”<br />
<br />
“I wanted to be sure I caught you,” his visitor replied, moving closer to the desk. “Without any interruptions.”<br />
<br />
“I see. What can I do for you then?” Thomas asked, trying to hide his irritation. He hadn’t wanted to be interrupted during this most important task.<br />
<br />
“What are you working on?” the unannounced guest asked, ignoring him and moving around the side of the desk and trying to look at Thomas’s computer screen.<br />
<br />
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Thomas answered with a falsely airy tone. “It’s just a family project. Nothing to do with work. Is there something I can help you with?”<br />
<br />
Thomas was suddenly aware that his visitor was standing close by him. He felt uncomfortable, and tried to roll his chair away to maintain some space.<br />
<br />
“You see,” his visitor said in a quiet voice, “there are people out there who don’t agree with you. They think the project you are working on could be very dangerous. In fact, I believe they have already tried to warn you about continuing with this project.”<br />
<br />
Thomas now felt distinctly uncomfortable and a little afraid. He decided to assert his authority. “Listen here,” he said, in a voice that betrayed his anxiety. “What I am working on is none of your business. The subject is certainly not up for discussion with somebody like you. I suggest you leave my office immediately.”<br />
<br />
The visitor managed to fuse sorrow and menace into his words as he said, “I’m afraid I can’t do that. You will have to come with me.”<br />
<br />
Thomas retorted, “I’m not going anywhere with you. In fact, I. . . .” He broke off abruptly as he saw the small handgun in the visitor’s hand, pointing directly at him. There was no sorrow or pity on his face — only menace.<br />
<br />
“Do I need to force you to come with me?” the visitor wondered, his tone like flint.<br />
<br />
Thomas leapt to his feet, his eyes darting about wildly. He needed to get out of here, to try to get away from this situation that had so rapidly gotten out of hand. A hand shot out and grabbed Thomas by the collar with surprising strength. Thomas was shocked as he strained to get away from the man, who was intently staring at the computer screen.<br />
<br />
“You traitor!” Thomas spat. “I should’ve known you were nothing more than a trained monkey!”<br />
<br />
The visitor chuckled heartily. “That’s ironic, Thomas.”<br />
<br />
The visitor, much younger and stronger than Thomas, began to drag him out of the room. Thomas was determined not to go down without a fight, and drove his heel backward into the visitor’s shin. There was a yelp of pain, but the unrelenting grip did not lessen around Thomas’s arm. Instead, a thick arm curled around Thomas’s throat and squeezed, applying pressure to the carotid artery. It took only a few seconds for Thomas to fall limply into the arms of his abductor as the blood supply to his brain was cut off.<br />
<br />
That was the last anyone saw of the secretary of the Smithsonian Institute.<br />
<br />
• • • •<br />
<br />
Dinah Harris woke with a scream dying in her throat, the sheets twisted hopelessly around her legs. Her nightgown was damp with panicked sweat, her heart galloping like a runaway horse. She stared, blinking, at the pale dawn light streaming through the window, while the shadowy vestiges of her nightmare slithered from her memory.<br />
<br />
As she lay in bed, joining the waking world from sleep, the familiar blanket of depression settled over her, dark and heavy as the Atlantic winter. The dread she felt at facing another day was almost palpable in the small bedroom. Dinah glanced across at her alarm clock, where the flashing numbers showed 6 a.m.<br />
<br />
She threw aside the sheets and stumbled into the tiny bathroom, where she purposefully avoided looking at herself in the mirror. She was only in her mid-thirties and had once been relatively attractive. Certainly not beautiful, but with what her first boyfriend had once told her — a pleasant face and athletic body. Now her eyes were always underscored by dark bags, her skin pale and paper-thin, and the weight fell off her in slow degrees without ceasing. She dressed in her trademark dark pants suit, pulled her black hair from her face in a severe ponytail, and washed her face.<br />
<br />
She made strong coffee and sat in the kitchen as she drank the bitter liquid. The dining alcove was still stacked with moving cartons, filled with books and music that she couldn’t face opening. The gray light of morning lent no color to the apartment, which suited Dinah just fine. Her world didn’t contain color anymore.<br />
<br />
Though traffic often seemed at a standstill in the mornings, Dinah always arrived early to the J. Edgar Hoover building. She turned directly to the teaching wing, avoiding the eye contact and morning greetings of many she knew in the building. She knew what they whispered about during after-work drinks and at the water cooler. Her fall from grace would go down as one of the most spectacular in FBI history.<br />
<br />
So she kept up the ice-cool veneer until she arrived at her desk, checking her e-mails and teaching schedule for the week.<br />
<br />
She didn’t look up as an imposing shadow fell across her desk.<br />
<br />
“Special Agent Harris, how are you?” boomed the voice of her former colleague, David Ferguson. He was a big man, six-four and two hundred pounds, with a loud, booming voice and a penchant for pork rinds. He stood above her, his hand resting easily on the holstered gun at his hip; the twin of a gun Dinah no longer wore but kept underneath her pillow.<br />
<br />
“Ferguson,” she replied. “Fine, how are you?”<br />
<br />
“Feel like a coffee?” he asked.<br />
<br />
“Don’t you have a killer to catch?” Dinah asked, dryly.<br />
<br />
He waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, they can wait. Come on.”<br />
<br />
He took her to a tiny Italian café a block away from the FBI headquarters. While they ordered, Dinah wondered at his ulterior motive for bringing her here. It certainly isn’t for my sparkling wit and charm, she thought. Rumor had it that the freshman criminology classes were afraid of her.<br />
<br />
“So I’m just wondering if I could get your opinion on something,” Ferguson began, tentatively testing the water.<br />
<br />
She scowled at him. “You know I don’t get involved in cases.”<br />
<br />
He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, calm down, Harris. I just want your opinion. I know you’ve given up your real talents to teach some snotty freshmen.”<br />
<br />
His comment stung her, but she narrowed her eyes at him and pretended she hadn’t even noticed. “So get on with it already.”<br />
<br />
“I don’t remember you always being this prickly,” complained Ferguson, draining his macchiato. “Anyway. What would you say if I told you the secretary of the Smithsonian Institution had gone missing?”<br />
<br />
“Missing?” Dinah raised her eyebrows and slurped her latte. “In what context?”<br />
<br />
“As in, turned up for work at six this morning and disappeared off the face of the earth shortly thereafter.”<br />
<br />
“How do you know he turned up for work at six?” Dinah asked.<br />
<br />
“Security cameras have him arriving in the lobby and heading for his office. After that, who knows?”<br />
<br />
“So he’s an adult, maybe he took a trip to get away from work stress or his wife has been giving him grief or his kid is in trouble.” Dinah frowned. “Why are we even involved at this early stage?”<br />
<br />
Ferguson paused. “It’s due mostly to his rather prestigious position. It wouldn’t do for the secretary of the Smithsonian to simply disappear. Congress is rather anxious.”<br />
<br />
Dinah knew of political influence that ran high in this city but didn’t press the issue. “Is there evidence of homicide?”<br />
<br />
“Not really, although I haven’t been to his office yet.” Ferguson made it sound like a confession, and he looked at her sheepishly.<br />
<br />
Dinah stared at him. “What do you really want, Ferguson?”<br />
<br />
He gathered up his courage. “I need you to work this case with me, Harris.”<br />
<br />
Dinah opened her mouth to respond indignantly, but Ferguson held up his hand and continued with a rush. “You know I’m not good with sensitive cases. I. . . .”<br />
<br />
“Or complex ones,” interjected Dinah, bad-temperedly.<br />
<br />
“I’m operating on a hunch that this is a bad case, that it involves people in the White House.” Ferguson must have needed her very badly to allow her comment to go unheeded.<br />
<br />
“Well, I’m sorry, but I have a heavy teaching workload,” she said. “So I’ll have to limit my involvement to opinions only.”<br />
<br />
Ferguson didn’t say anything but looked even guiltier.<br />
<br />
“What have you done?” Dinah demanded.<br />
<br />
“I may have cleared your schedule so you could work with me.” Ferguson examined his fingernails with great concentration.<br />
<br />
Dinah waited for a beat. “I see. You’ve spoken to my superiors?”<br />
<br />
He nodded. “They’ve agreed to lend you to me for as long as the case takes.”<br />
<br />
Dinah stood abruptly. “Thanks for the coffee.” She walked angrily from the café.<br />
<br />
Ferguson stared at her as she walked off, then slapped down some crumpled notes and heaved his bulk out of the chair. “Where are you going?” Ferguson asked, struggling to keep up with her.<br />
<br />
She wheeled around and glared directly at him. “Who do you think you are? Do you think I’m lesser than you so you can sneak around behind my back?”<br />
<br />
“Dinah, we really need you back in the field. You were — are — brilliant.” Ferguson spoke softly, hoping to calm her down.<br />
<br />
“My field days are behind me, with very good reason,” snapped Dinah. I can’t see a dead body anymore. I can’t feel desire to catch the person who did it. I just want to lie down beside the body and feel the same endless peace of sleep.<br />
<br />
“Please, I’m begging you. I need you back,” Ferguson said. Then it hit her. Dinah realized that this situation was very serious. Ferguson was the last person on the planet to beg anybody.<br />
<br />
“I don’t really have a choice, do I?” she said dully. She knew that this case could break her.<br />
<br />
Ferguson didn’t reply, and his answer was in his silence.<br />
<br />
• • • •<br />
<br />
The Smithsonian Institution was bustling with tourists and school kids as if nothing had gone wrong. Dinah and David strode into the main lobby, trying unsuccessfully to look casual. When they flashed their badges discreetly, they were allowed into the inner sanctum, where Thomas Whitfield’s personal assistant was fielding phone calls.<br />
<br />
The secretary was young and pretty, with thick, dark hair waving gracefully to her shoulders, startlingly blue eyes, and a creamy olive complexion. Her only downfall was the thick eye makeup, applied to make her eyes stand out but which had the effect of making her look like a scared raccoon. “I’m afraid Mr. Whitfield simply cannot be interrupted at present,” she snapped into the phone. “I’ll have him call you back if you’d leave a message.”<br />
<br />
She glanced up and saw the two agents standing at her desk. She gave them a wave to acknowledge their presence, repeated the details of the caller, scribbled furiously, and then hung up.<br />
<br />
“Good morning,” she said, jumping to her feet. “If you caught the end of that conversation, you’ll know that Mr. Whitfield is in an extremely important meeting and. . . .”<br />
<br />
“Save it,” interrupted Dinah, showing the secretary her badge. The young woman blushed. “We’re here to investigate the disappearance of Mr. Whitfield. What is your name?”<br />
<br />
The secretary sat down hard, looking relieved. “I’m Lara Southall. I’m so worried about Mr. Whitfield.”<br />
<br />
Ferguson flashed his partner a frown and took charge. “I’m Special Agent David Ferguson and this is Special Agent Dinah Harris. You’ll have to excuse her; she’s been out of the field for some time and has forgotten how to relate to people.”<br />
<br />
Dinah opened her mouth to reply with outrage, but Ferguson continued, “Can you tell us about this morning?”<br />
<br />
Lara Southall regarded Dinah with a mixture of amusement and fear, which Dinah filed away for future reference. “I got to work at eight o’clock as usual,” she replied. “Mr. Whitfield always arrives before me. I usually turn on my computer, get settled, and then get us both a coffee. When I opened his office door to give him the coffee, the room was empty.” As the girl spoke, she tapped perfectly manicured fingernails together absently. Dinah hated manicured fingernails: they reminded her of her distinctly unattractive, chewed-to-the-quick fingertips.<br />
<br />
“Mr. Whitfield was due to give a presentation at eleven o’clock,” Lara continued. “So I didn’t really start worrying until about ten-thirty. He hates to be late, and he had to come back to get his presentation and make it uptown in less than half an hour. At eleven, I started to make some calls.”<br />
<br />
“Has he ever been absent from the office before?” Ferguson asked.<br />
<br />
“Sure, he often has meetings or goes out into the museum to talk to visitors. The thing is, I always know what he’s doing. That’s part of my job. He never goes anywhere during the day without letting me know.”<br />
<br />
“So you started making calls at eleven. Who did you call?” Dinah asked impatiently.<br />
<br />
Lara ticked off her fingers as she remembered. “I called his cell phone, and I called the other museums. I thought maybe he’d just forgotten to tell me he had a meeting. Nobody had seen him and his cell just rang out. So I called his home. His wife told me he’d left for work at about five-thirty and she hadn’t seen him since. Then I called some of the senior executives. I thought they might’ve had an emergency. But nobody had seen him.”<br />
<br />
“Did the people you called — his wife, the executives — seem concerned about his whereabouts?” Ferguson asked.<br />
<br />
“Yes, they did. It’s so unusual for Mr. Whitfield to act this way that everyone I spoke to was concerned. I think his wife is actually here somewhere at the moment.”<br />
<br />
“So then you called the police?” Dinah said.<br />
<br />
“No, one of the directors came over to look at the security tapes. She specifically told me not to call anyone until she’d viewed the footage. I thought that Mr. Whitfield might’ve had an accident on the way to work. Mrs. Whitfield was calling the hospitals when Ms. Biscelli — the director — came back from security.”<br />
<br />
“What did the tapes show?” Dinah asked.<br />
<br />
“They showed him arriving at six-thirty or so. That’s all I know.”<br />
<br />
“Did any of the tapes show him leaving?”<br />
<br />
“Not as far as I know.”<br />
<br />
“Right. So what then?”<br />
<br />
“I called the police.”<br />
<br />
Ferguson nodded. “What did they tell you?”<br />
<br />
“Basically they won’t do anything until he’s been missing 24 hours.” Lara stopped clicking her nails together and started twisting her hair with one finger. “So I told Ms. Biscelli, and she wasn’t happy with that. I think she must’ve pulled some strings, because here you are.”<br />
<br />
Dinah and Ferguson both raised their eyebrows at her in confusion.<br />
<br />
“The FBI,” explained Lara. “You guys wouldn’t normally get involved, would you?” She may have been a very pretty secretary, but Lara Southall was an intelligent girl. She’d asked the very question Dinah had been mulling over all morning.<br />
<br />
“We’re going to look in his office,” Ferguson said, ignoring the question. He handed her his card. “Please call me if you think of anything else that might be helpful.”<br />
<br />
She nodded and picked up the ringing phone. “No,” she said, sounding very weary. “Mr. Whitfield is in a meeting at the moment and can’t be disturbed.”<br />
<br />
• • • •<br />
<br />
Ferguson opened the door to the office while Dinah waited to get the log-on details for Thomas Whitfield’s computer. Dinah stood in the doorway, looking into the impressive room, and felt the thrill of the chase wash over her like a wave. It had been a long time since she had felt anything.<br />
<br />
The office was furnished with heavy cedar furniture that consisted of a large desk, a leather-bound chair, a couch, and two armchairs grouped around a glass-topped coffee table and one entire wall of built-in bookcases. The floor was covered with thick burgundy carpet, and the drapes at the picture window were also burgundy. The walls contained portraits of several great scientists and inventors — Dinah recognized Charles Darwin, Thomas Edison, and the Wright Brothers — as well as photos of the secretary with the president, the queen of England, and other dignitaries. The room itself was clean and uncluttered, likely symbolic of the man himself, Dinah thought.<br />
<br />
Ferguson was moving around the room, muttering to himself, as was his habit. Dinah had forgotten how intensely annoying she found this habit. She preferred silence so that she could concentrate.<br />
<br />
Having received the log-on details from Lara, Dinah strode to the desk and pulled on her latex gloves. The top of the desk was shiny and would be a great medium to obtain fingerprints. She was careful not to allow herself to touch the desktop while she turned on the laptop.<br />
<br />
“By the way, Harris,” Ferguson said from the wall of bookcases, “I forgot to mention that if something has happened to Mr. Whitfield, the media scrutiny is likely to be intense.”<br />
<br />
Dinah scowled at the screen of the laptop. She hated the media, and it was a long-term grudge she held from the last case she’d been involved in. “You can handle it,” she said. “I want nothing to do with those vultures.”<br />
<br />
Ferguson glanced over at her. “Of course I’ll handle it. But I can’t guarantee that they’ll leave you alone.”<br />
<br />
Dinah tapped her foot against the leg of the desk impatiently as the laptop struggled to come to life. “Sticks and stones, Ferguson,” she said tightly. “Words can never hurt me.”<br />
<br />
She could see that Ferguson didn’t buy the lie, but he’d decided to let it go. He at least knew not to push too far.<br />
<br />
“This whole office is giving me a weird vibe,” he said after a moment. “It’s too . . . organized.”<br />
<br />
Dinah logged onto the laptop. “I’m listening.”<br />
<br />
“Look at the desk,” Ferguson mused. “No files or paperwork. Not even a pen or a Post-It note. No diary.”<br />
<br />
“Maybe he’s just really neat,” Dinah said, opening Outlook on the laptop.<br />
<br />
Ferguson went back to his muttering as he continued drifting around the room. Dinah frowned as she clicked through the folders in Outlook. Then she opened the other programs on the computer and looked through the folders there.<br />
<br />
“That’s odd,” she commented at last. Ferguson looked up and came over to her.<br />
<br />
She clicked through the inbox, sent items, and calendar of the e-mail program. There were no entries in any of them. “They’re completely clean,” she said. “The calendar is the strangest. You’d think the secretary of the Smithsonian Institution would have at least a couple of meetings a week.”<br />
<br />
“Maybe he uses a paper diary,” suggested Ferguson.<br />
<br />
“Certainly a possibility,” agreed Dinah. “But couple the empty calendar with the fact that he’s neither received nor sent an e-mail from this computer and something isn’t right.”<br />
<br />
Ferguson opened the desk drawers and started looking through them.<br />
<br />
“Also,” added Dinah, “there is not one single saved document in any other program — no letters, articles, presentations, anything. The entire computer is as if it’s never been used.”<br />
<br />
Ferguson sat back on his heels. “You think someone has wiped his computer?”<br />
<br />
“Well, the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question is: did Thomas Whitfield wipe his own computer before disappearing or did someone else wipe his computer before abducting him?” Dinah began to shut down the programs. “After all, there is no evidence to suggest that he has been abducted. There’s no sign of a struggle in here or blood stains, is there?”<br />
<br />
Ferguson shook his head. “No, there isn’t. But there is something off about this office. Nobody, least of all a man in his position, can get through a working day without sending an e-mail or doing paperwork of some kind.” He gestured at the desk drawers. “There’s absolutely nothing in them.”<br />
<br />
“I agree,” Dinah said. She closed the laptop and picked it up. “I’m going to have the lab look at the hard drive. What else?”<br />
<br />
“I’ll call in crime scene to lift some fingerprints and check for blood.” Ferguson paused, thinking. “I’d like to talk to Ms. Biscelli, and I’d like to talk to his wife.”<br />
<br />
Dinah nodded. “If Mr. Whitfield has been abducted, what do you suppose is the motive?”<br />
<br />
Ferguson considered. “I don’t know. Money? Fame? Half the time I think these loonies go around killing people just so they can get their name in the news.”<br />
<br />
Dinah stared at him. “Do you think Thomas Whitfield is dead?”<br />
<br />
He shrugged. “Right now, Harris, I know nine-tenths of absolutely nothing. Let’s talk to Ms. Biscelli. Maybe she’ll know what happened and we can solve this case before dinner time and I’ll get a decent night’s sleep.”<br />
<br />
Flippancy, Dinah remembered, was just Ferguson’s way of dealing with the intensity of this job and the horror they’d witnessed over the years.</div>Kathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836736433376650097noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4009917677203976613.post-72043392901991871022010-04-07T06:50:00.001-06:002010-04-07T06:50:16.062-06:00Rain water<span xmlns=''><p>Outside my window, a farmer sliced open his field with plow and disk, preparing the ground for seed. This seems no place to grow crops. We average 12 inches of rain a year in this high desert of Colorado.<br /></p><p>Yet, because of the magic of irrigation, corn and wheat abound. During the heat of July, the corn soaks in the sun's rays – necessary to produce rapid growth – while drinking in cool water flooding the field.<br /></p><p>It reminds me a little of the situation in ancient Egypt, when the Israelites served as slaves for 400 years. As Moses reminded his people in Deuteronomy, the land of Egypt was watered by irrigation from the Nile River.<br /></p><p>But, he cautioned, "the land that you are about to enter to occupy is not like the land of Egypt, from which you have come, where you sow your seed and irrigate by foot like a vegetable garden" (Deut 11:1)<br /></p><p>The new land wasn't that way. These people were used to doing what was needed to get their food. But in this new land, they would have to depend on rain from the sky. <br /></p><p>Moses put it differently. They were going to "a land that the Lord your God looks after." (Deut 11:12a)<br /></p><p>I've lived in areas where farmers depended on rain only for their crops. Now I live in a place where they can use irrigation.<br /></p><p>It's easy to depend on lakes and canal systems and wells when you use irrigation. It's easy to depend on your own resources and inventiveness.<br /></p><p>God took his people to a place where they were dependent on his hand. <br /></p><p>The Israelites had learned the religion and ways of Egypt after living there for 400 years. Now, God was teaching them his ways. And what better way than taking them into a land where the harvest depended on rain from God?<br /></p><p>Sometimes we, too, prefer the irrigation system because we depend on ourselves. But when God takes us to places where we are dependent on his hand, we walk into that land that God looks after.<br /></p><p><em>"The eyes of the Lord your God are always on it, from the beginning of the year to the end of the year." (Deut 11:12)</em></p></span>Kathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836736433376650097noreply@blogger.com0