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    Web of Lies
    Web of Lies
    Web of Lies
    Ebook529 pages5 hours

    Web of Lies

    By Brandilyn Collins

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    She was washing dishes when her world began to blur. Chelsea Adams hitched in a breath, her skin pebbling. She knew the dreaded sign all too well. God was pushing a vision into her consciousness. Black dots crowded her sight. She dropped a plate, heard it crack against the porcelain sink. Her fingers fumbled for the faucet. The hiss of water ceased. God, I don’t want this. Please! After witnessing a shooting at a convenience store, forensic artist Annie Kingston must draw a composite of the suspect. But before she can begin, she hears that Chelsea Adams wants to meet with her—now. Chelsea Adams—the woman who made national headlines with her visions of murder. And this vision is by far the most chilling. Chelsea and Annie soon find themselves snared in a terrifying battle against time, greed, and a deadly opponent. If they tell the police, will their story be believed? With the web of lies thickening, and lives ultimately at stake, who will know enough to stop the evil?

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherZondervan
    Release dateMay 26, 2009
    ISBN9780310543190
    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

      Web of Lies - 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

      BRANDILYN COLLINS

      best selling author

      book four

      Web of Lies

      hidden faces series

      Z-logo1

      The devil . . . was a murderer from the beginning,

      not holding to the truth, for there is no truth in him.

      When he lies, he speaks his native language,

      for he is a liar and the father of lies.

      JOHN 8:44

      ZONDERVAN

      WEB OF LIES

      Copyright © 2005 by Brandilyn Collins

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

      ePub Edition January 2009 ISBN: 978-0-310-54319-0

      Requests for information should be addressed to:

      Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530

      Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

      Collins, Brandilyn.

      Web of lies / Brandilyn Collins.

      p.  cm. — (Hidden faces series ; bk. 4)

      ISBN-13: 978-0-310-25106-4

      1. Police artists — Fiction. 2. Women artists — Fiction. I. Title.

      PS3553.O4747815W43 2006

      813'. — dc22

      2005021093

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

      All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible: New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

      The website addresses recommended throughout this book are offered as a resource to you. These websites are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement on the part of Zondervan, nor do we vouch for their content for the life of this book.

      08 09 10 11 12 13 14 1 24 23 22 21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5

      For my pals

      Deb Raney and Robin Lee Hatcher.

      Heh-heh.

      Now you have to read it.

      Contents

      Title Page

      Copyright Page

      Acknowledgments

      A Note to My Readers

      Prologue

      Thursday, September 22

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Friday, September 23

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Saturday, September 24

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 22

      Chapter 23

      Chapter 24

      Chapter 25

      Sunday, September 25 – Monday, September 26

      Chapter 26

      Chapter 27

      Chapter 28

      Chapter 29

      Chapter 30

      Chapter 31

      Chapter 32

      Chapter 33

      Chapter 34

      Chapter 35

      Chapter 36

      Chapter 37

      Chapter 38

      Chapter 39

      Chapter 40

      Chapter 41

      Chapter 42

      Chapter 43

      Chapter 44

      Chapter 45

      Chapter 46

      Chapter 47

      Chapter 48

      Chapter 49

      Chapter 50

      Chapter 51

      Chapter 52

      Chapter 53

      Chapter 54

      Chapter 55

      Chapter 56

      Chapter 57

      Chapter 58

      Chapter 59

      Chapter 60

      Chapter 61

      Chapter 62

      Chapter 63

      Chapter 64

      Chapter 65

      Chapter 66

      Chapter 67

      Chapter 68

      Chapter 69

      Chapter 70

      Chapter 71

      Chapter 72

      Saturday, October 22

      Epilogue

      Read an excerpt from Dark Pursuit

      About the Publisher

      Share Your Thoughts

      Acknowledgments

      My deep gratitude, as always, to members of the Zondervan fiction team, who make my books so much better. And to Niwana Briggs, who has critiqued just about all of my manuscripts.

      Citizens of Redding, thanks again for letting me borrow your city for this series. As with the other Hidden Faces books, I have fictionalized much about your area, including Annie’s neighborhood of Grove Landing, some roads, plus the buildings and certain procedures of the Redding Police and Shasta County Sheriff’s Departments.

      Karen T. Taylor, the nationally known forensic artist mentioned in this story, is a real person. You will see Annie employ Taylor’s recognized method for two-dimensional facial reconstruction from the skull. This method, as well as the study of skeletal remains to determine gender, height, race, etc., requires precision and often long hours of work. While Web of Lies includes overviews of these tasks, I have had to sacrifice some details in order to keep my story moving. In the end, this is a work of fiction, not a textbook. For an excellent text detailing two-dimensional reconstruction, plus all facets of forensic art, please see Karen T. Taylor’s book, Forensic Art and Illustration, or visit her website at www.karenttaylor.com.

      A Note to My Readers

      "When are you going to write another Chelsea Adams book?" This is a question I have heard countless times.

      My first two suspense novels, Eyes of Elisha and Dread Champion, featured Chelsea Adams, a Christian woman to whom God speaks through visions. In both of these stories, the visions God gives Chelsea about murder and malice send her on labyrinthine journeys that she would not have chosen, but that God wants her to make for the sake of justice.

      Fans of this Hidden Faces series have often added the same question in their letters: When will we see Chelsea Adams again?

      And so the idea for Web of Lies was born.

      There were some challenging hurdles along the way, however. The two series were written in very different formats, not the least of which involved character perspective. Annie’s stories in Hidden Faces have been in first person. Chelsea’s stories were not. As a result, Web of Lies evolved as a blend of both the characters and the varying points of view from these two series.

      By the way, a note for those who haven’t read Eyes of Elisha and Dread Champion: you’ll find no spoilers for those stories within this book.

      And now — off we go on another roller coaster ride. As always, strap yourself in, hold tight, and

      don’t forget to breathe . . .

      0310251060_content_0010_003

      Prologue

      She was washing dishes when her world began to blur.

      Chelsea Adams hitched in a breath, her skin pebbling. She knew the dreaded sign all too well. God was pushing a vision into her consciousness.

      Black dots crowded her sight. She dropped a plate, heard it crack against the porcelain sink. Her fingers fumbled for the faucet. The hiss of water ceased.

      God, I don’t want this. Please!

      But this one was strong; no stopping it now. Chelsea’s legs jellied. She stumbled across the kitchen and collapsed into a chair.

      The room went black. Chelsea gripped the edge of her seat with palsied hands — and waited . . .

      First, an overwhelming sense of evil. It rolled over her, terrifying, oppressive. Crushing her lungs as though she’d been shoved into a black, airless cave. She struggled to breathe.

      Far away through the darkness, a vague image began to shimmer. The kitchen chair fell from beneath her. Chelsea tumbled into the vision.

      She landed . . . somewhere, with a jarring thud.

      Chelsea blinked. Found herself staring at a dirty oval window filtering dim light into a small room.

      Where am I?

      Awareness grew. She sensed herself in someone’s body, seeing the room through that person’s eyes. Someone imprisoned, shell-shocked, and trembling. She felt bare feet against cold concrete. The place smelled dusty, close. Claustrophobic. The walls closed in. Panic seized Chelsea.

      I have to get out, I have to get —

      Wait. What was that, on the floor?

      A barely visible figure. Hunched, with head down.

      A sudden noise on Chelsea’s left. Her nerves flared. She heard a male voice, scratching out whispers. Vile explanations, deathly threats too horrible to imagine. She cringed at the words, heart flinging itself against her ribs. Let me out, let me out, let me out . . .

      A click, and red light filtered into the grayness. Slowly Chelsea’s eyes adjusted.

      The terror of the room froze her blood.

      Thursday, September 22

      Chapter 1

      Our nightmare started with a mundane errand.

      I was driving my SUV away from the Redding Municipal Airport, my sister in the passenger seat. She aimed a heavy sigh out the window. I miss my airplane already.

      I shook my head. Jenna, your precious airplane isn’t parked that far away from the house. Small price to pay for a few weeks, wouldn’t you say? Just think how much you’ll like the longer runway at Grove Landing.

      "We don’t need a longer runway. She couldn’t hide the pout in her voice. It’s our neighbors with their fancy twin engines who just had to have more space."

      So that was it. I threw her a glance, a sage smile crooking my mouth.

      What? Jenna’s velvet brown eyes glowered at me.

      I affected a shrug. Nothing.

      "Don’t tell me nothing. I know that look on your face."

      Wow, she was in a mood today. You’re just jealous of those neighbors. You want a bigger plane.

      I do not.

      Uh-huh. Private pilots are a strange breed, never satisfied. They always want the next electronics system, the latest turbocharged engine. Whatever’s better and bigger. Especially bigger.

      Jenna huffed and folded her arms. We drove in silence.

      What’s with you anyway? I turned north, headed for Foothill High School to pick up my daughter, Kelly, and her best friend, Erin. School would be letting out in about five minutes. You’ve been out of sorts all morning.

      Air seeped from Jenna’s throat. Yeah, well, I have a reason. I’m mad at Eric.

      Oh. Trouble in paradise. What happened?

      He was a jerk last night. When it comes right down to it, all men are jerks. She frowned and turned away.

      At one time I would have agreed with her, but no more. Not since Dave and I had started dating — if you could call our painfully slow process that. At any rate, Dave Willit was not a jerk. My voice softened. Tell me about it.

      We need milk.

      Huh?

      Jenna pointed at a 7-Eleven ahead on the right. Stop there so we can buy some milk. We’re out.

      My sister is seven years younger than I but bosses me like a nagging mother. The trait only worsens when she’s upset. I’ve learned to roll with it. Okay.

      I slowed the SUV and turned into the small 7-Eleven parking lot, pulling up next to the walkway leading into the store. Three other cars filled spaces around us, two on our left, on the other side of the entrance walk, and one immediately to our right. Switching off the engine, I turned to Jenna. Her beautiful, heart-shaped face looked pinched. First tell me what happened.

      She focused ahead at the store. We sort of argued.

      I gathered that. And?

      She turned to me, words spilling. "He went out with someone else! Which I suppose is his right, because we’re not dating exclusively. But he lied to me about it, told me he wasn’t seeing anyone but me. When I caught him in his little fib, he tried to squirm out of it by telling a bigger lie . . ."

      My peripheral vision caught frantic movement in the rearview mirror. I blinked, focused on it.

      ". . . and I am so sick of men who can’t tell the truth. You’d think for once . . ."

      Someone sprinted across the street toward the store. A young man. Caucasian. Shoulder-length blond hair.

      . . . I’m just not going to put up with it . . .

      Wait. Another young man behind him, chasing.

      With a gun.

      My mouth opened but no sound came. I threw out my right hand, gripped Jenna’s arm.

      She stopped midsentence. What —

      I whipped my head around. The first young man hit the curb, flew over it into the 7-Eleven parking lot. He raced toward our car, the second man barreling behind him.

      "Get down!" I grabbed behind Jenna’s neck, pulled her low across the console, and pressed on top of her. My eyes squeezed shut. Footsteps pounded past my window —

      Thud!

      A body slammed into the door of the building. I raised my head a few inches, peeked through the windshield. The 7-Eleven door smacked open, the man streaking through it into the store. He veered left, aiming for the checkout counter. His pursuer thumped past us, hit the door as it was closing and flung it wide. The first man reached the counter and dove over it. The store clerk shouted, jumped out of the way. Somebody screamed. In seconds the pursuer rammed into the counter, flattened himself upon it. Up came the gun.

      Bam. Bam, bam. Bam.

      "What’s happening?" Jenna squirmed under me. I held her down.

      The shooter pushed off the counter, twisted toward the door. He’d have to run right by our car . . . and this time he might notice us. I pressed my head back down, air pooling in my throat.

      Jesus, protect us.

      The door slammed open. My heart slammed with it.

      God, please . . .

      Footsteps pounded toward our car . . .

      And past us.

      A wail from inside the store rent the air.

      I counted to ten.

      Cautiously I raised my head, glanced through the rear window. The shooter was racing across the street toward an alley. Soon he would be out of sight.

      The whole thing couldn’t have taken more than sixty seconds.

      Jenna heaved herself off the console, forcing me up. Strands of her thick auburn hair were stuck to her lips. What happened? What happened? Where’s my gun?

      My sister carries a two-inch barrel Chief Special in her purse, identical to the one in mine. But it was too late. Screams staccatoed from the store. A woman staggered outside, yelling, Call the police! Jenna and I shoved our doors open and jumped out. I reached the woman first, gripping both shoulders to steady her.

      Are you hurt?

      She shook her head, sobbing. But a man in there, and a boy . . . She turned wide, shocked eyes toward the store.

      Jenna ran back to the car, grabbed her purse and snatched out her cell phone. I eased the woman down on the curb, then rushed into the building.

      A teenage girl stood near the checkout, knuckles pressed to her mouth. I hurried around the counter. A man knelt beside the young clerk, now sprawled upon the floor, his face white. Blood oozed from his right thigh. Beside him lay the crumpled body of the young man who’d been chased. That man’s face was turned away from me, his hair matted red. The left side of his head had been blown away. Oh, dear God. Two bullets had plunged into his back. He wasn’t moving.

      The clerk moaned.

      Just stay still; we’ll call for help. The kneeling customer reached into his pocket and withdrew a cell phone.

      My sister’s already called. My words sounded hiccupped, ragged. I moved around the customer and clerk toward the still form. Bile rose in my throat. I leaned down to look at the face, trembling in fear of what I would see. Please, Lord, please — I sucked in a breath. Nearly gagged. One cheek and an eye were gone. Obliterated. I steadied myself, swallowed hard. Felt for a pulse in his neck. Nothing. Checked for breath. None.

      Numbly I straightened.

      How are they? Jenna’s voice, firm, controlled, came from above me and across the counter. Both her handbag and mine hung over one arm, a cell phone at her ear. My fast-thinking sister. Even in the chaos, she’d thought about securing our purses — and the guns inside.

      I shook my head. This one’s gone.

      The teenage girl rattled out a wail. The woman who’d staggered outside appeared behind Jenna, face flushed. My sister spoke the news into her phone, then looked to the young clerk. Second man down, white, maybe nineteen years old. He’s been shot in the thigh. He’s conscious. She paused. Yeah, I’ll stay on the line. How far away are they? She looked to me. Police car will be here in two minutes. Ambulance in five.

      I nodded. Did you tell them who we are? Any dispatcher in Redding would know my name.

      Yes.

      Okay. I glanced at the young clerk’s leg. Jenna, can you find me something to place against that wound? I moved over to kneel beside him, gently touching his shoulder. Hey. What’s your name?

      T – Toby Brown. He groaned. "It hurts!"

      His pain squeezed my throat. I know. Help is going to be here real soon. You’ll be okay.

      I’m Ken. The man on the other side of Toby patted his hand. She’s right, you’ll be fine. And we’ll get that guy who shot you, don’t you worry.

      Did you get a look at him? I asked.

      Ken shook his head. It happened so fast, and I was in the back of the store.

      Annie, here. Jenna held a roll of paper towels over the counter. I don’t see any kind of packaged cloths.

      These’ll do. I took the roll, tore off a long strip, and folded the paper towels over on themselves. Carefully I pressed them against Toby’s oozing wound. He winced and I bit my lip. Sorry. Just don’t want the bleeding to get too bad.

      He managed a nod.

      Toby, did you see the man who shot you?

      Y – yes.

      One for our side. I hadn’t seen the shooter at all. I’d been too busy focusing on the gun in his hand. How stupid. Of all people, I should have noticed his features.

      Toby whimpered, started to shake.

      I think he’s going into shock. I looked to Ken, who wore only a short-sleeved shirt. Then to the girl. Even in the hot weather, she had on a light jacket. Can you give me your coat? We need to keep him warm.

      Words and actions flowed in those suspended minutes while we waited for the police. I covered Toby with the jacket, Jenna reporting everything to the 911 dispatcher. The teenage girl told us her name was Christine, and the woman identified herself as Mary. Neither of them had seen the shooter’s face either. We all avoided looking at the dead body mere feet away. In its silent stillness, it screamed at me. Somewhere out there a mother and father, brother, sister, friends, would soon mourn him. Who was he? Why had he been chased like that — in broad daylight — and killed? Anger at the senselessness of his death coagulated in my chest. The man who’d done this would be found. And I’d do everything I could to help.

      Toby’s face cinched with pain. Ken and I soothed him, my heart clutching. I tried to distract him, asking his age. Eighteen, he managed, every breath careful, his chest shuddering. I pressed my eyes shut. My own son was seventeen.

      Are you in high school? I rubbed his arm.

      Yeah. He shivered. A senior at Central Valley High.

      Oh, God, help him. Stephen’s a senior too. What if this had happened to my son?

      Ken surveyed me, a look of recognition smoothing his face. Now I know who you are. Annie Kingston, right? The forensic artist.

      I kept my focus on Toby, feeling the familiar self-consciousness. Yeah, that’s me.

      Christine gasped. Oh, wow. You’re the one the Poison Killer —

      Listen. I held up a hand, glad for a reason to cut her off. Sirens sounded in the distance.

      Jenna trotted to the entrance. The sirens wailed louder, suddenly upon us. They’re here.

      Police burst through the door, two paramedics not far behind. In moments the store turned into a scene of bustling uniforms, voices over radio, revolving red and blue lights. Jenna handed me my purse, and with the other witnesses we were herded out of the store. From the parking lot we all watched as officers strung up yellow crime-scene tape. Before long the paramedics emerged from the store with Toby on a stretcher, loaded him into their vehicle, and bore him to the hospital. The man who’d been pursued by the shooter was pronounced dead.

      Dead.

      Even though I’d known, the official word pierced me. I grieved for the man and his family. And for the entire town. Only three months had passed since the Poison Killer was caught. Three months of calm in Redding, of newness in my own life. I was not ready to have that peace disturbed, and neither was our town. We had barely enjoyed enough time to heal from the evil of a serial murderer and all the national media that descended upon us when that case finally broke.

      God, once again the people in Redding are going to need You.

      My cell phone rang. I pulled it from my purse and saw Kelly’s number displayed on the ID. Oh great. She and Erin would be wondering where we were. I didn’t relish telling them what happened. The girls and Stephen were protective enough of me, after all I’d been through. With a meaningful glance at Jenna, I flipped open the phone.

      "Mom, where are you?" my daughter demanded.

      Oh, we’ll be there soon. Lightness forced itself into my tone. I was just picking up Jenna after she flew the plane over to the Redding airport. Remember, she has to keep it there while they lengthen the runway at home?

      A sigh. Okay, but will you hurry? Erin and I have lots of homework and we need to get started on it.

      Be there as soon as we can. Has Stephen already left for work?

      Yeah. He had to be at the video store fifteen minutes after school let out.

      Should I call and tell him what happened? I didn’t want the news to filter to him from someone else.

      All right, Kelly. Just hang around with your friends, and we’ll be there as soon as we can.

      I hung up and slid the phone back into my purse. Jenna gave me an empathetic look. You’re going to have to tell them, you know.

      I shook my head at the thought. Here we go again. More disaster. Yeah. I think I’d better call Stephen at work while we’re on the way to pick up the girls.

      With the ambulance gone, officers Fred Sparks and Raymond Bradet, joined by homicide detective Tim Blanche, began questioning the witnesses. On the sidewalk behind us, a curious crowd had begun to swarm like stirred-up bees. Someone said my name, and it buzzed from one mouth to another.

      That’s Annie Kingston.

      "You know who she is."

      Even though the town hailed me a hero, the whispers stung. My mere presence spelled extra sensationalism. I couldn’t blame them; history was on their side. But I hated it.

      My eyes grazed the crowd — and landed on Adam Bendershil, reporter from the Record Searchlight. He darted among people, jotting in his notepad. At that moment he looked up, and our eyes met. I turned my back on him.

      Detective Blanche beckoned me and Jenna into the taped-off area, his face stern. You see the guy, Annie? His penetrating blue eyes bore into me. I suppressed a wince. Blanche was not one of my favorites at the Redding Police Department, to say the least. He was far too arrogant, with those raised eyebrows and a frequent curl to one side of his mouth. I didn’t think he cared for me, either. I’d heard rumors of his cynical remarks about my belief in prayer and in God. Blanche was in his midforties, with three kids, the oldest of which had recently graduated from Foothill High. He had thick salt-and-pepper hair and a large mole on his left cheek.

      I felt slack-limbed, shaky. Afraid not. Everything happened way too fast.

      He narrowed his eyes, almost in accusation, then glanced toward the store. "Well, let’s hope the security cameras did their job. Should have caught it, as long as the tape’s in good condition."

      I hope so.

      Jenna mumbled agreement. The press of her lips bespoke her righteous anger over the

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