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    Stain of Guilt
    Stain of Guilt
    Stain of Guilt
    Ebook468 pages5 hours

    Stain of Guilt

    By Brandilyn Collins

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    As I drew, the house felt eerie in its silence. . . . A strange sense stole over me, as though Bland and I were two actors on stage, our movements spotlighted, black emptiness between us. But that darkness grew smaller as the space between us shrank. I did not know if this sense was due to my immersion in Bland’s face and mind and world, or to my fear of his threatening presence. Or both . . . The nerves between my shoulder blades began to tingle. Help me, God. Please. For twenty years, a killer has eluded capture for a brutal double murder. Now, forensic artist Annie Kingston has agreed to draw the updated face of Bill Bland for the popular television show American Fugitive. To do so, Annie must immerse herself in Bland’s traits and personality. A single habitual expression could alter the way his face has aged. But as she descends into his criminal mind and world, someone is determined to stop her. At any cost. Annie’s one hope is to complete the drawing and pray it leads authorities to Bland—before Bland can get to her. Brandilyn Collins is the bestselling author of Brink of Death, Eyes of Elisha, and other novels. She and her family divide their time between the California Bay Area and Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. Visit her website at www.brandilyncollins.com.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherZondervan
    Release dateMay 26, 2009
    ISBN9780310542131
    Author

    Brandilyn Collins

    Brandilyn Collins, known for her trademark Seatbelt Suspense™, is the bestselling author of Violet Dawn, Coral Moon, Crimson Eve, Eyes of Elisha, and other novels. She and her family live in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. Visit her website at www.brandilyncollins.com and her blog at www.forensicsandfaith.blogspot.com

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      Book preview

      Stain of Guilt - Brandilyn Collins

      srilanka1

      Other Books by Brandilyn Collins

      Kanner Lake Series

      1| Violet Dawn

      2| Coral Moon

      3| Crimson Eve

      4| Amber Morn

      Hidden Faces Series

      1| Brink of Death

      2| Stain of Guilt

      3| Dead of Night

      4| Web of Lies

      Bradleyville Series

      1| Cast a Road Before Me

      2| Color the Sidewalk for Me

      3| Capture the Wind for Me

      Chelsea Adams Series

      1| Eyes of Elisha

      2| Dread Champion

      suraj1

      ZONDERVAN

      Stain of Guilt

      Copyright © 2004 by Brandilyn Collins

      All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Zondervan.

      ePub Edition January 2009 ISBN: 978-0-310-54213-1

      Requests for information should be addressed to:

      Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530

      Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

      Collins, Brandilyn.

      Stain of guilt / Brandilyn Collins.

      p. cm. — (Hidden faces series ; bk. 2)

      ISBN-13: 978-0-310-25104-0

      1. Fugitives from justice—Fiction. 2. Police artists—Fiction.

      3. Women artists—Fiction. 4. Murderers—Fiction. I. Title.

      PS3553.04747815S73 2004

      813'.6—dc22

      {B}

      2004018411

      Published in association with Browne & Miller Literary Associates LLC, 410 South Michigan Ave., Suite 460, Chicago, IL 60605.

      All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New American Standard Version Reference Edition Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977 by The Lockman Foundation.

      Internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers printed in this book are offered as a resource to you. These are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement on the part of Zondervan, nor do we vouch for the content of these sites and numbers for the life of this book.

      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publishers.

      _____________________________________________________________

      08 09 10 11 13 14 15 1 21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4

      For my weekly prayer partners,

      Carol Lee, Jacqueline Clark, and Sally Ball.

      Countless times, we have witnessed

      God’s power and grace.

      "For where two or three

      have gathered together in My name,

      there I am in their midst."

      —MATTHEW 18:20

      Contents

      Title Page

      Copyright Page

      Author’s Note and Acknowledgments

      Prologue

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 22

      Chapter 23

      Chapter 24

      Chapter 25

      Chapter 26

      Chapter 27

      Chapter 28

      Chapter 29

      Chapter 30

      Chapter 31

      Chapter 32

      Chapter 33

      Chapter 34

      Chapter 35

      Chapter 36

      Chapter 37

      Chapter 38

      Chapter 39

      Chapter 40

      Chapter 41

      Chapter 42

      Chapter 43

      Read an Excerpt from Dark Pursuit

      About the Publisher

      Share Your Thoughts

      Author’s Note and Acknowledgments

      Once again, I must voice my thanks to some very wonderful people:

      Les Caldwell, retired deputy sheriff, and his wife, Marilynn, helped me with some interesting law-enforcement and forensic issues, and he and Marilynn read the manuscript to catch my mistakes. Les, you’re the best.

      Niwana Briggs, for critiquing the manuscript.

      My husband and family, for putting up with me. Especially during the obsessive final week of writing.

      Karen Ball and Dave Lambert, my dedicated editors, who make my writing so much better. And all the talented folks at Zondervan, who make my books possible. Curt Diepenhorst deserves special mention for his awesome artwork on the book covers of this Hidden Faces series.

      One note about the setting for Stain of Guilt. Grove Landing is fictional, but the area in which it is located is very real. The Record Searchlight is a local newspaper in Redding, California, but no Adam Bendershil works for the paper, and all actions of the reporter in this book are entirely fictional. My apologies to the Shasta County Sheriff’s Department for altering the outlay of its building in Redding for the sake of this story.

      Although you wash yourself with soda and use an abundance of soap, the stain of your guilt is still before me, declares the Sovereign Lord.

      —JEREMIAH 2:22

      Come now, let us reason together, says the Lord. Though your sins are like scarlet, they will be as white as snow; though they are red like crimson, they shall be like wool.

      —ISAIAH 1:18

      Prologue

      He should have called the police.

      Emily Tarell stood in the wide entryway of her executive home, one hand on the staircase banister. The rich parquet floor gleamed under light cascading from the crystal chandelier. Emily loved that polished look of molten gold. But tonight it almost mocked her. Its sheen was too bright, too perfect for the stain that had soiled this house and the Tarell family business. A chill traced spindly fingers between Emily’s shoulder blades. She watched as the carved wooden door to her husband’s private study began to close. At the last moment Don angled his head through the narrowing space to give her one of his now-don’t-worry-dear looks.

      Little good that did. Emily could not shake the darkling premonition that hovered about her shoulders, ghost-whispering the approach of unseen evil. It rasped and sputtered, heard yet not heard, cautions uttered across a chasm.

      Sometimes Don was just too bighearted. Too quick to forgive. If he’d listened to her, Bill Bland would be interrogated by the police in a dirty little room down at the station instead of settled into an easy chair in his boss’s home study.

      Click. The door latched, shutting off the four men.

      Emily swallowed. What should she do now? She couldn’t just stand there, waiting, haunted by the sibilance of broiling wrath. She’d already been far too obvious with her emotions, answering the door with a nervous hello to Peter Dessinger, barely able to look Bill Bland in the eye when he’d arrived a half hour later. If Bill hadn’t known he’d been caught, he knew it now, just by her transparency. Her son, Edwin, had nodded to Emily, mouthing, It’ll be okay. Just like his dad. Both soothing her, even as they refused to heed her sense that something, something slithered toward them, looking to consume. Hadn’t the same feeling writhed in the pit of her stomach the day Wade had his accident?

      Emily pushed away from the banister and headed for the kitchen, her flat-heeled shoes shushing against the hardwood floor. Some herbal tea was what she needed. Calming spearmint flavor. Then she would sit in the family room with a book. No television. That way she could keep an ear cocked toward the study for a raised voice, any sign of how the confrontation was going. She selected a tea bag from a glazed canister and dropped it into the bottom of her favorite mug. The one Wade gave her for a birthday when he was twelve.

      Oh, Wade.

      Emily steeled herself against the familiar wash of emotions as she filled the teakettle with water. Her youngest son was killed in a car wreck a little over a year ago. Just back from his sophomore year at college, he drove off to meet up with some of his high school buddies . . . and never returned. The pain of that loss would never subside.

      Firming her lips, she pushed the heart-ripping thoughts away. She couldn’t deal with them right now, on this night.

      Not a sound emanated from the study. Emily strained to listen. The silence snapped and clacked in her ears. What were they doing in there? Had Don told Bill that they’d uncovered his embezzlement? That his sinful trail was undeniable?

      Whatever would Bill do?

      Tea made, Emily made her way into the family room, aware of her own breathing—of the catch she felt in the back of her throat. She lowered herself onto the couch, set her cup down on an end table, then stared at the brick fireplace. She’d forgotten to choose a novel from the bookcases lining the walls. No matter; she couldn’t concentrate enough to read.

      That premonition eeling through her . . .

      Her last look at Wade’s smiling face before he got into that car . . .

      Stop it, Emily. You’re overreacting.

      She clenched her drink, staring without seeing at the plush blue carpet. The house was so still. What could—?

      Crack!

      The furious sound shattered the air. Emily froze. What was that? It sounded almost—

      Nnno!

      The long, muffled cry squeezed her heart. Edwin’s voice, but as she’d never heard it, raucous and distorted with shock.

      A second bang split through her ears.

      Emily dropped her tea. The near-boiling liquid leached through her slacks and attacked her legs with the bite of a thousand fire ants. Her mind scrambled to rationalize, to tell herself that what she’d heard could not be.

      Get up, get up!

      By some strength outside herself she shoved to her feet, stumbled around the end table, the couch. She raced across the shining parquet, nearly slipping, and jerked open the study door.

      In a brain-searing instant, she took in the scene. Don, crumpled on the floor by his desk. Peter sprawled on the couch. Edwin on top of Bill Bland, her son fighting for his life.

      Emily screamed.

      Mom, get away!

      Edwin’s and Bill’s hands flailed between their bodies, fighting over something. In the blur of movement, she couldn’t see the object until it was knocked aside. A gun! It hit the floor with a dull thud, then spun. Bill’s right hand scrabbled for it. Missed. Skittered again like a frenetic spider seeking prey, fingers closing around the barrel. He yanked the weapon up and smashed the butt end into Edwin’s cheek.

      Aahh! Edwin’s face contorted, his hands flying toward the wound. Bill gave a mighty shove and pushed him off. Rising to a crouch, Bill scuttled for the door. Edwin caught him by an ankle, crashing him again to the floor. Bill’s head hit the hardwood with a smack.

      Emily melted away from him into the door frame.

      Both dazed men lurched to their feet. Bill still held the gun by the barrel. Edwin lunged. With an awkward two-step, Bill swayed out of his reach and veered toward the door. His glazed eyes locked with Emily’s, and in that split second she saw the fear in his murderous soul. He knew Edwin would kill him for what he’d done.

      Before Edwin could launch again, Bill stumbled past Emily and through the hallway. He wrenched open the front door and pounded down the porch steps.

      Edwin started after him.

      No! Emily threw herself in his path. He’s got a gun!

      Her son hunched before her, breathing hard, indecision jagging furrows across his forehead. Outside, a car engine gunned. Tires squealed away. Edwin’s shoulders sagged. He blinked once, twice, then turned toward his father. Grim resolve firmed his face. Together he and Emily staggered toward Don, sinking to their knees on either side of the still form. Emily had to shuffle backward as Edwin turned Don onto his back.

      Dad, Dad! Edwin pushed fingers against his father’s neck, feeling for a pulse. A keen rose in Emily’s throat. Blood stained the front of Don’s shirt, a bullet hole over his heart.

      No, no, no, no, no, gurgled a voice that could not be her own, a voice that would leak from a drowning woman. Emily cast herself across her husband’s chest.

      Mom, get back! Let me see if I can help him!

      Edwin pushed her shoulder, and she lifted away, hands up and trembling in the air. She waited for Don to say something, for his eyelids to flicker, for something to tell her he still lived. In vain Edwin again sought a pulse from his father’s neck, his wrist. He grabbed his dad’s face, fingers digging into the cheeks, and shook it.

      "Dad! Come on, Dad, come on!"

      Sobs gurgling in his throat, he tore open his father’s dress shirt, popping the buttons. Deep red stained the T-shirt beneath. Edwin yanked it up, exposing a fatal wound. No, no. He pressed his palm against it and rubbed, as if to erase it, erase the unthinkable events of the last two minutes.

      It’s so small. The thought echoed in Emily’s head. So small. A wound this compact, this neat, could spill so much blood? Could take away her husband, her life?

      Edwin fell back on his haunches, blood on his hands. He’s gone. The words squeezed from his throat.

      Emily blinked rapidly, trying to form words, to think. Cold acid dribbled through her veins, eating away her energy.

      Edwin’s chest heaved. He drew a palm across his mouth, smearing blood onto his mouth and chin. I’ve got to . . . There’s . . .

      Shaking his head, he pushed to his feet and made his way across the room. Emily crouched on the floor and hugged herself, dazed eyes following her son’s movements toward Peter Dessinger. Peter slumped over on the couch, one hand trapped beneath his torso, the other dangling toward the floor. His neck twisted at an odd angle, his face half buried in the cushions.

      He’s dead too. The knowledge blew through Emily. Don’s dead. Peter’s dead. Wade’s dead.

      I’m dead.

      Distantly, she watched Edwin ease Peter’s body onto the floor, examine a bullet hole in the center of his forehead. Peter’s eyes were wide open and fixed.

      Nausea slimed into Emily’s throat. She barely had time to turn her head away from Don before she threw up. When her stomach held nothing more, she dry heaved.

      She could hear Edwin beating the floor with his fist, crying, No, no. Then she sensed him pushing to his feet, his denials intensifying, anger mounting. Still she held her sides, jaw open and gagging. Edwin’s cries churned into waves of rage that crashed him through the room, sweeping knickknacks off tables, throwing books, overturning a chair.

      I’ll kill him! A figurine smashed into a hundred pieces against the wall. "I’ll kill him!"

      Emily listed to one side, shrinking into herself. Trying to block out the guttural threats, the smell of vomit and blood. Through a blur she saw her son drag himself to the doorway of the study. I’m going after him. The words cut from his throat.

      Edwin. Her voice shook, a mere whisper. No.

      Call 911. I’m going after him.

      "Edwin! Don’t!"

      Her son never looked back. He shoved himself over the study threshold and toward the open front door. Emily wailed as his footsteps slapped down the front sidewalk and melted into the dusk.

      0310251044_content_0019_001

      Tuesday, May 4

      Chapter 1

      The grandfather clock chimed 1:00 P.M.

      My visitors were all too prompt.

      I stood in the great room of my executive-style log home, peering through an expansive window at the white Mercedes that had just pulled up to the curb. Pressing my knuckles into my chin, I watched the front car doors open. A man got out of the driver’s seat. That would be Edwin. Midforties. Brown hair, slightly receding. My artist’s eye took in the thick eyebrows, a strong nose. The natural upward curve of his lips, now weighted by downward furrows. From the passenger side emerged a stately looking woman in perhaps her late sixties. Her gray hair was well coiffed. She had a soft mouth and wide-set eyes. I saw little resemblance between mother and son. Perhaps Edwin looked more like his late father.

      Falling into step side by side, they began a purposeful walk toward my front door. Neither spoke.

      I knew only a few details of what they wanted. These were enough to set me on edge.

      With a deep breath I started toward the door.

      Mrs. Tarell. I forced a smile. Mr. Tarell. Please come in.

      Thank you. Please call me Emily. The woman’s voice poured over me like molasses, thick and sweet.

      And I’m Edwin. He shook my hand with the firm grip of a confident businessman. Seeing him up close, I thought him handsome in a melancholy sort of way. As if life had painted his features to profess the tragedy he’d seen. You are so kind to see us on such short notice.

      Of course. And call me Annie, by the way. I gestured toward the couches and arm chair grouped around the massive rock fireplace. My kids are at school so we can sit here. Would you like something to drink?

      Oh, no, we’re fine. Emily tipped her elegant head up, surveying the huge room and its twenty-five-foot ceiling. Beautiful place you have. Absolutely beautiful. Have you been here long?

      Only since last spring. My father had it built almost six years ago. My sister and I inherited it when he died unexpectedly. A heart attack.

      Emily closed her eyes. Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Edwin murmured similar condolences.

      As I nodded my thanks, Emily made her way to sit, straight-backed, on one of the oversized couches. Edwin waited as I chose the couch opposite Emily, a large, glass-topped coffee table between us. He sat in an armchair in the middle, facing the fireplace.

      Your children are how old? Emily asked.

      Kelly’s thirteen and Stephen’s sixteen. I gave a little wince. Two teenagers.

      Oh, boy, I remember those days. But you’ll make it. We all do.

      At the last comment her eyes drifted toward the fireplace, and I sensed she looked through a spiraling tunnel into the past.

      Mom? Edwin’s voice was gentle. Do you want me to tell Ms. Kingston—Annie—why we’re here?

      No, no, I’ll do it. Emily lifted her shoulders, suddenly all business. I’d like to start at the beginning, if I may. So you can fully understand how important this is to me. First, as I told you on the phone, I’ve known of you since last summer, when all the news stories covered your daring face-off with that horrible murderer.

      Face-off. Ironic way to put it.

      In the fall, Annie, I read the follow-up feature story about you—how through that experience you’d decided to become a forensic artist and were now taking classes. I was interested, you see, because in the back of my mind, my own plan was forming. Emily smoothed her skirt. I told you that twenty years ago this spring my husband, Don—Edwin’s father—was shot and killed. Along with his vice president, Peter Dessinger.

      Yes. I’m so sorry.

      She nodded. My husband was a keen-minded businessman. When we were newly married, he founded a small plastics manufacturing company. Over the years he built it into a very successful business—one he would pass on to his two sons. Since Don’s death, Edwin has been running the company. He was very young when he took over so suddenly, but he’s done well . . . She glanced at Edwin.

      And your other son?

      Emily’s mouthed pinched. Our younger son, Wade, was killed in an auto accident shortly after his twenty-first birthday. Just a little over a year before Don died.

      I swallowed, searching for an appropriate response. Losing a son and a husband in such a short span of time? I couldn’t imagine the grief. Emily noted my stricken expression and gave me a sad smile.

      Edwin looked at his hands. Even all these years later, he apparently found it difficult to watch his mother’s pain.

      Peter Dessinger had been with Tarell Plastics for over fifteen years, Emily continued. He and Don were not only business associates, they were the best of friends, and our families knew each other well. In 1980 Don hired a new chief financial officer who was quite young—only twenty-nine. This was the man I told you about over the phone. Bill Bland. Emily shook her head. Can you believe a name like that? And he looked bland too. Average height and weight, light brown hair combed to one side. Glasses. Sort of a doughy face. Absolutely . . . banal. He had little sense of humor, few hobbies other than reading. He was very reserved, almost standoffish. In short, what one might consider a stereotypical accountant type.

      Maybe, but he must have hidden a mind-boggling secret life. The stereotypical CFO didn’t commit double homicide. I repressed a cringe. My overactive brain was already hurtling me down speculative paths. What would make a person like Bill Bland do what he did?

      Edwin seemed to read my mind. The man my father hired wasn’t the same man I came to know. There was a dark side to Bill Bland. Even so, we never would have guessed what would happen. Not in a million years.

      People are often not what we think. I gave him a wry smile even as my ex-husband’s face taunted my thoughts. Three years ago, out of the blue, Vic announced he was leaving me for someone named Sheryl—a girl much younger and prettier than I. Not in a million years would I have seen that coming.

      Emily looked me in the eye as if sizing me up. For some reason she seemed to like what she saw. Maybe she’d made a fatal mistake about Bill Bland, but I sensed she still believed in her ability to judge people.

      So. She sighed. Things went fine for the first three years. Then Bill began to have trouble at home. We didn’t hear about it at first; he was so private. And when Susan, his wife, didn’t show up for the company Christmas party, we believed his story that she needed to stay home with their sick one-year-old. But in time the truth started coming out. They were having trouble—real trouble. She’d left him for another man, who would soon be moving out of state. She’d taken the baby with her. By the spring she and Bill were divorced. Bill could hardly function. He loved his family deeply. I could almost say fiercely. Seemed to me he wanted to control his wife too much. And he was so meticulous, you see—every part of his life in a certain order. His work, his home, his finances. Now all was in shambles.

      Edwin rubbed the arm of his chair—an unconscious gesture of concentration that I could imagine him making as he solved problems at work. Bill was a control freak, all right. I knew him better than Mom did. Still, he was very private in a lot of ways. Later I learned from Susan that Bill didn’t have the money to buy out her half of their house. And he really wanted to stay in that house.

      And he faced monthly expenses of alimony and child care, Emily added. Susan was cunning, not planning to marry her new man, so the alimony would keep flowing.

      That hit home. Sheryl had been cunning in her own way. Later I realized how she’d set her sights on Vic the moment she met him. Bill Bland, like I, had been left adrift, a castaway on a bleak and rugged island. He’d even had his child taken . . .

      Watch it, Annie.

      Ambivalence weighed my thoughts in equal balances. If the Tarells’ request proved what

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