Evidence of Mercy
Terri Blackstock
Books by Terri Blackstock
Soul Restoration
Emerald Windows
Restoration Series
1 | Last Light
2 | Night Light
Cape Refuge Series
1 | Cape Refuge
2 | Southern Storm
3 | River’s Edge
4 | Breaker’s Reef
Newpointe 911
1 | Private Justice
2 | Shadow of Doubt
3 | Word of Honor
4 | Trial by Fire
5 | Line of Duty
Sun Coast Chronicles
1| Evidence of Mercy
2| Justifiable Means
3| Ulterior Motives
4 | Presumption of Guilt
Second Chances
1 | Never Again Good-bye
2 | When Dreams Cross
3 | Blind Trust
4 | Broken Wings
With Beverly LaHaye
1 | Seasons Under Heaven
2 | Showers in Season
3 | Times and Seasons
4 | Season of Blessing
Novellas
Seaside
ZONDERVAN
Evidence of Mercy
Copyright © 1995 by Terri Blackstock
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 July 2009 ISBN: 978-0-310-85856-0
Requests for information should be addressed to:
Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530
* * *
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Blackstock, Terri, 1957–
Evidence of mercy / Terri Blackstock.
p. cm.—(Sun coast chronicles)
ISBN-13: 978-0-310-20015-4
I.Title. II. Series: Blackstock, Terri, 1957– Sun coast chronicles.
PS3552.L34285E95 1995
813'.54—dc20
95-33052
* * *
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 publisher.
Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.
* * *
06 07 08 09 10 11 12 • 43 42 41 40 39 38 37 36 35 34 33 32 31 30 29 28
CONTENTS
COVER PAGE
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY - TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
CHAPTER SEVENTY
AFTERWORD
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS
* * *
This book and all those to follow it
are lovingly dedicated to
The Nazarene
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
* * *
Special thanks to Chip Anderson, of Anderson’s Optique in Jackson, Mississippi, for showing me his magic; to Carla Nowell, physical therapist at Methodist Hospital in Jackson, Mississippi, for helping me find authenticity; to Ellis Warren, pilot, for talking me through my landing; to Larry Morgan, aircraft mechanic, and Lane Smith, general genius, for helping me create my disasters; to the Cockrells and many others at First Baptist Church in Jackson, Mississippi, for their powerful prayers; to Greg Johnson, for sharing the vision; to the Phillips-Corry class, for leading me to the brink of awakening.
And to Ken, my spiritual leader, for helping me decide where to go from there.
PROLOGUE
* * *
He had waited for a new moon, for he needed the cover of darkness. Tonight was perfect. Dressed in black, he knew it would be virtually impossible for anyone to see him. The airport guard who patrolled the small building in the wee hours would never notice that anything improper was going on right beneath his nose. Not as long as he was swift and quiet.
Checking once again to make sure no one was near, he crept across the tarmac, past the private planes lined up like a military fleet, squinting to read the number and name on each fuselage.
Solitude was the fourth from the right, just as he’d expected.
With one more quick look around, he bent down and duck-walked under the plane, found the wheel well, and shone his small flashlight to find the spot he needed. Calmly he pulled the tool he’d brought out of his pocket, made the necessary adjustment, then flicked off the light.
It had taken less than thirty seconds to create the catastrophe that would finally make things right. Grinning, he hurried quietly back across the tarmac then broke into a jog for a mile beyond the airport until he reached his car. He’d parked it far enough away so he wouldn’t be heard back at the airport as he cranked it. He pulled into the street, keeping his lights off. Laughing out loud, he headed home, eager for the satisfaction he would feel the next time Solitude was flown.
Then there would be one less obstacle between him and
his prize—and one more victory to show who was really in control.
CHAPTER ONE
* * *
Solitude—the perfect name for the toy that defined Jake Stevens, not because he liked being alone. He didn’t. He’d always found it better to be surrounded by the right kind of people, and Jake had a knack for collecting friends just like he collected brandy snifters from the cities he’d traveled to. But the only way to be completely autonomous was to be unattached. It was a credo Jake lived by, and it meant that he knew the value of his own solitude. At the top of the pyramid that was Jake’s life, there was only one person—the one he smiled at in the mirror every morning. At thirty-nine, he was just where he’d wanted to be at this point in his life. Unfettered and financially fluid, he had the world by the tail, and today he was going to bag it and take it home.
Ignoring the doorman who greeted him, he trotted down the steps in front of the Biltmore. At the bottom of the steps, his red Porsche idled as the valet got out. “Hey, put the top down, will ya?” Jake called down.
The kid, who looked no more than eighteen, knew exactly how to do it, and as the top began to buzz back, Jake’s attention was snatched away by the blonde on her way up the steps. She was college aged, probably twenty years his junior, but he’d never found that to be a problem. Tipping his sunglasses, he gave her that engaging grin that had always worked for him before.
She smiled back, as they always did, and slowed her step as he came toward her.
“I’m not usually this blunt, Ma’am, but I’ve learned over the years that if I let an opportunity slip by me, I sometimes never get it again. And you are, by far, the most beautiful woman I’ve laid eyes on since I pulled into St. Clair yesterday.”
She laughed, as though she’d heard the line before, but it didn’t seem to hurt his chances. “I’m Sarah,” she said. “Are you staying in the hotel?”
“Yes,” he said, “and if I had time, I’d turn around and escort you right back inside. But alas—” He threw his hand dramatically over his heart and sighed heavily as she laughed again. “I have to be somewhere—to look at a plane I’m thinking about buying.” He waited a beat for her to be sufficiently impressed, and when her eyebrows lifted slightly, he went on. “Now, I don’t want you to think I’m the kind of guy who hits on every woman he sees, but do you think, by any chance, you’d care to meet a lonely transplanted Texan for drinks later? I can call you when I get back.”
He knew he wasn’t imagining the sparkle in her eye, for he’d seen it many times before. “I’m in room 323,” she answered. “But if I’m not there, I’ll probably be out by the pool.”
The pool, he thought with a grin. Perfect. “I’ll call as soon as I get back.”
“You haven’t told me your name yet.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Jake. Jake Stevens.”
But already he’d forgotten hers. The room number was all that really mattered. Waving, he trotted the rest of the way down the steps. Tossing a five-dollar bill at the valet, he slid behind the wheel.
Florida was great, he told himself as he pulled onto Highway 19. Opportunities everywhere he looked. It was pure luck that he’d gotten transferred here. He only wished he could spend less time house hunting and more time playing in the few days he had left before he had to report to work.
He pulled up to a stoplight and leaned his head back on the headrest, letting the morning rays of sunlight beat down on his face. The wind was picking up, haphazardly blowing his hair. I should stop somewhere and get a haircut, he thought, glancing into his mirror. But it didn’t look so bad a little longer, and the women seemed to like it. Idly, he decided to wait.
The stoplight didn’t change, and he started to get irritated.
Traffic often made him feel out of control, and there was nothing he hated worse.
He glanced around at the billboards that dominated the four corners and saw one for his favorite cognac, another for a restaurant near Honeymoon Island, a third for the outlet mall, a fourth for a television station.
The light still hadn’t changed, and he began to perspire. He flicked on the air conditioner, knowing that it would do little to combat the heat with the top down, but Jake had never been one to let logic interfere with his quest for comfort.
When the light flashed green, Jake stepped on the accelerator and flicked on the radio. The wind in his ears made it impossible to hear, so finally he turned it off and tried to concentrate instead on the new toy he was going to buy—a Piper Arrow PA 28. Just what he needed to make life complete.
Once he had it, he would finally have everything he wanted.
The wind was too strong for a leisurely afternoon test flight, and Lynda Barrett wished she’d scheduled it for another day . . . another month . . . another year. But this fellow Jake Stevens was her first potential buyer, and she had already delayed showing him the plane as long as she dared; she didn’t have the luxury of waiting any longer. The maddening thing about listing something for sale is that, sooner or later, someone will buy it.
Lynda stood on the wing of the Piper, gently polishing the name she’d had painted on the side when she’d bought it two years ago. Solitude. This plane was her escape, her refuge from the pressures of her job as an attorney. She would rather have sold her home, her father’s home, and everything else either of them owned than the plane.
But she had tried selling both houses, and there hadn’t been any buyers. Now the only way she could see to get a start on paying off the enormous debts her father had bequeathed her was to sell her favorite possession—the only thing she had that anyone seemed to want to buy.
The wind picked up, blowing an empty paper cup across the tarmac. Her eyes followed it—until she saw Gordon Addison leaning against the wall of the hangar, smoking a cigarette. He was watching her the way he always did, with that narrow-eyed look that gave her chills. He hadn’t spoken to her in weeks, not since she’d come up with her fifth excuse not to go out with him. He was the one thing about this airport she wouldn’t miss when she sold her plane.
Moving to the other side of the wing so he couldn’t see her so easily, she looked into the wind and ran her fingertips over the cold, smooth metal of the fuselage. She remembered the day she bought Solitude. It had meant that she’d finally risen above the humdrum existence of her parents—whose lives consisted of “Jeopardy” and macaroni-and-cheese. Lynda had had a plan—to have more, to do more, to be more. Buying the plane had meant that she had finally arrived.
As her love for the plane had grown, she had begun casting off friends, as though they exceeded the weight limit of the baggage she could carry. She had shaken off her hobbies, her clubs, and her church in order to free up more time to spend in the cockpit. The cockpit she was about to sell. Where would she anchor herself once the plane was gone?
Shaking off her quicksand depression, Lynda went back to polishing the plane. The prospective buyer would be here any minute, and she supposed she should be practicing some kind of sales pitch. She did need the money after all. But somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew she was still hoping some miracle would keep her from having to go through with the sale.
She heard the sound of a car and turned around. Across the tarmac, a red Porsche was weaving through the parked planes, as if the driver had a perfect right to drive wherever he pleased. Lynda stopped polishing and watched as he made his way toward her.
The man who got out was in his late thirties and sported a dark tan and designer clothes that mocked his attempt to look casual. He grinned up at her, a cocky grin that set her instantly on guard. “This isn’t a parking lot,” she called down.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I parked here yesterday when I looked at the plane, and nobody objected. I’m Jake Stevens.”
The confidence with which he uttered his name riled her, and she resisted the urge to say, “Oh, well. Since you’re Jake Stevens—”
Climbing down, she eyed him more closely. He was too good-looking, too self-as
sured, and probably had too much money. The combination made her dislike him instantly.
Grudgingly, she extended her hand. “I’m Lynda Barrett.”
“I figured as much,” he said. “Did Mike tell you I came yesterday?”
“Yes. He said you’d want to take a test flight today.”
“I wanted to take one yesterday, but he had a problem with it.”
“He runs the airport,” she said, “but he doesn’t own this plane. I do, and I was in court.”
“So he said.” He took off his Ray Bans and dropped them into his shirt pocket, as if by showing her his “mesmerizing” eyes he might soften her mood a bit. “No problem, though. Today’s as good a day as any.”
“Not really,” she said, looking into the breeze. “The wind’s a little stronger than I like.”
“Not for me. I can handle it.”
The ego behind his words made her grin slightly. “Of course you can. So, Lindbergh, any questions you wanted to ask about the plane?”
He cocked his head at her barb. “No, but I might have a few about its owner.”
“Such as.”
“Such as, where you get your attitude?”
“My attitude?” She breathed a laugh and shook her head, her comeback forming on the tip of her tongue. But something stopped her. No need to make him angry, she told herself. Unfortunately, this is business. Sighing, she took a stab at honesty. “Look, I guess I’m just having a little trouble with this. I’m not looking forward to selling my plane.”
“I don’t blame you.” Walking under the Piper, he checked the wing flaps and glanced back at her. “I looked it over pretty well yesterday. You’ve really maintained it.”
“I spend all my spare time taking care of it,” she said. She watched him drain a little fuel from the wing sump and fought the proprietary urge to tell him to keep his hands off her plane. “Did Mike let you see the log books?”
“Yeah, and the maintenance records. He was able to answer most of my questions, but he didn’t really know why you were selling it.”
Lynda’s stomach tightened. “Financial reasons.”
“Your law practice isn’t doing well?”
