Books by Terri Blackstock
Predator
Double Minds
Soul Restoration
Emerald Windows
Shadow in Serenity
Intervention Series
1 | Intervention
2 | Vicious Cycle
A Restoration Novel Series
1 | Last Light
2 | Night Light
3 | True Light
4 | Dawn’s 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
Other Books
Miracles
(The Listener/The Gifted)
The Heart Reader
of Franklin High
The Gifted Sophomores
Covenant Child
Sweet Delights
ZONDERVAN
Downfall
Copyright © 2012 by Terri Blackstock
ePub Edition © May 2014: ISBN 978-0-310-28927-2
Requests for information should be addressed to:
Zondervan, 3900 Sparks Dr. SE, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49546
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Blackstock, Terri, 1957-
Downfall : an intervention novel / Terri Blackstock.
p. cm. — (Intervention series ; bk. 3)
ISBN 978-0-310-25068-5 (softcover)
I. Title.
PS3552.L34285D69 2012
813’.54—dc23 2011035013
Any Internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers in this book are offered as a resource. They are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement by Zondervan, nor does Zondervan 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 publisher.
Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920. www.alivecommunications.com
Cover design: Curt Diepenhorst
Cover photo: Vincent Besnault / Getty Images®
Interior design: Michelle Espinoza
11 12 13 14 15 16 17 /DCI/ 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
This book is lovingly dedicated to the Nazarene
Contents
Acknowledgments
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
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
A Note from the Author
Questions for Discussion
A Sample from Predator
Two
Three
Acknowledgments
Since this is the last book in my Intervention Series, I want to thank all of those Christian drug counselors who are called to work with drug addicts and influence their lives for good. We live in a fallen world, full of criminals and drug traffickers, dealers and addicts. But God puts people like you in place to help these confused and devastated people find their way out of the darkness. You invest your lives in them each day, loving them with the love of God, and you help them untangle their messes and learn to live happy, functional lives.
You face many failures, but don’t let that discourage you. Your work does have value, even to those who relapse. Your hard work and investment in their lives will bear fruit at some point. It might be soon, but it also might be years from now.
But you’re doing the work that God has put on your heart, and your only motivation is that God loves them so much that He was willing to die for them. You’re the ones telling them that it’s never too late for a second chance. Or a third. Or a hundredth. Like the father in the Prodigal Son story, you are there with your arms open wide, ready to welcome them back into the family.
Please accept my thanks for that. God uses you to give their loved ones hope. You’ll never know how broad-reaching and fruitful that hope can be, until you see the result of your labor in heaven.
God bless and encourage you in all of your efforts for Him.
Downfall
Chapter 1
The neighborhood was quiet at 3:00 a.m. Bugs flew in the yellow halo around the street lights, and the half moon gave a gray cast to the coveted homes along the Boulevard. It was the kind of home his mother had dreamed of having, the kind that had always been out of her reach.
The air reeked with greed and ambition. The Avenger, as he liked to call himself, walked in front of those houses, carrying his load in a backpack, thinking maybe he should double back just to blow up some of the BMWs parked in the driveways. Wouldn’t it be a thrill to watch from somewhere on the street as businessmen came out of those houses, briefcases in hand, and slipped into their cars? If they all went up at the same time . . . mushroom clouds of fire whooshing over each house in choreographed order . . .
But that was a fantasy for another day. Today only one car would go up like that.
The Avenger strode around the corner to a street where smaller houses lined the road. Though they weren’t as expensive and extravagant as those on the Boulevard, they were still out of his mother’s reach. Destined to live in a rotting rat hole, she papered her moldy bathroom with pictures from Southern Living. These weren’t mansions, but they were big and new. He was sure no mold grew on the attic walls. No cracks ripped the sheetrock in the living rooms. No paint peeled.
No sounds of rats scratching through the walls. The people who lived here probably weren’t business owners. They were the goons who worked for them, but they were still snotty and superior.
Steam fogged in front of the Avenger’s face with every breath as he approached the Covington house. One lamp shone in a room on the side. Out of sight, he’d followed twenty-year-old Emily home a while ago. Now she probably lay tucked in her bed with some feather comforter that cost a mint, smug about her sobriety. Oblivious.
Like always, she hadn’t pulled her car into the garage where her mother’s car sat. Hers was on the driveway.
The Avenger set his package down beside her car.
Right here, under the wheel well . . . that was the best place. He took the jar half-filled with gasoline and the roll of duct tape from his backpack and ripped off enough to tape the bottle under the car, careful not to cover the lamp cord coming from the hole he’d punched in the jar’s lid. The gloves on his hands made it difficult work, but he didn’t give up. When he’d gotten the bottle in place, he checked to make sure it wasn’t leaking. The small amount of gasoline seemed stable. The bottle was angled so it wouldn’t leak.
Now if he could just find the right place to connect the other end. He pulled the lamp cord out from under the front of the car, then quietly opened the hood. It made a clicking sound. He froze, looking from left to right. No one stirred at this hour. He shone his flashlight to the place where he needed to connect the cord.
He held the small flashlight in his teeth as he found the spot in the wiring that would ignite his bomb.
The Avenger chuckled to himself as he closed the hood as quietly as possible, pressing down until it engaged. He checked to make sure the cord coming from under the car into the motor wasn’t noticeable. If someone knew to look for it, it might be. But he doubted Emily would see it walking out to her car.
If this worked the way it was supposed to, the bomb would explode when Emily started the car. She would probably escape, but hopefully, she’d be wounded or burned. And she and her family would be terrorized. He’d make them homeless by making them fear their home, and that would just be the beginning.
He chuckled as he gathered his equipment. Then he dropped his gloves into his bag and walked slowly back up the street to where he’d left his car. He reveled in the sense of power his actions had given him. He would never be powerless again.
Too bad he hadn’t had an audience tonight. That would have made it so much sweeter. But manipulating victims like chess pieces was almost as good.
It was cold, but the thrill of victory warmed him. He thought about the stash he’d left in his glove compartment, his reward for carrying out his plan. He’d wait until he got home, to the privacy of his basement, and when he was high, he’d go back and carry out the rest of his plan. And what a genius plan it was.
Headlights turned onto the street, illuminating him like a stage star. He pulled up his hood and looked down at the sidewalk as the car slowly passed. As soon as darkness enveloped him again, he broke into a trot back to his car.
There was still so much to do. He had to go take care of Devon, put a gun to her head, watch her bleed. He’d planned it for weeks, waited for the right mixture of courage and cockiness. He’d found it tonight. Freedom had been birthed inside him with one act of will. Now he could set everything right. He’d continue exacting revenge on all those who’d messed with him. So much fallout. So many consequences.
He was the great Avenger.
Chapter 2
Emily Covington had managed to slip into the house and down the hall to her bedroom without waking her mother, a major feat since her mom slept lightly when Emily was out. Emily hadn’t meant to stay out so late tonight without calling, but one thing had led to another, and she’d wound up coming in at 2:00 a.m., tiptoeing like a high-school kid who’d broken curfew.
Now she had to cram for her test before she could go to bed. Why had she waited until the last minute?
“Emily? You’re home?”
She turned to see her mother standing in her bedroom doorway, her hair tangled and disheveled from bed. “Hey. I didn’t want to wake you up.”
“Did you just come in?”
“A little while ago. Sorry I didn’t call. I went to the choir concert at school, and afterward some of us went to a movie. Then we hung out for a while in Ree’s dorm room.”
“Emily, it’s three o’clock, and you have class tomorrow.”
“I know. It’ll be fine.”
“Don’t you have a test?”
“Yeah, but it’s okay. Just go back to sleep.”
Her mother just stood there for a moment. “Okay. Come give me a kiss.”
Emily grinned. It was her mother’s way of smelling her breath and her hair, to see if she’d been drinking or smoking dope. Emily went to her mom, kissed her cheek, and gave her a hug. “Get a good whiff,” she said. “All you’ll smell is popcorn and coffee.”
Her mother let her go and stared into her eyes, as if checking her pupils for normalcy. “All right, but you’re going to put me in an early grave with these long nights.”
“Mom, if I lived on campus, you wouldn’t even know when I came in.”
“Well, you don’t live on campus. You live here, and I worry. Go to bed soon, okay?”
“Okay.” Emily went back to her bed where her books lay spread out, wishing she hadn’t made her mother lose sleep, tonight of all nights. Her mom had a big presentation tomorrow at work, and she wanted her to do well. Her mother had been elated to have this job in Atlanta after they’d struggled so much in Jefferson City. Emily hoped her actions tonight hadn’t messed her up.
She resolved to do better next time. The least she could do was call to let her mom know not to worry. But after all she’d put her family through, worry had become a way of life. Staying out so late only exacerbated old memories — and old fears.
But one day Emily would prove to her family that her life of addiction was behind her. Then maybe her mom could sleep better at night.
Chapter 3
Milly Prentiss heard the knock on her back door as she waited for her coffeepot to fill. Pulling her robe tighter around her, she stepped to the door and looked through its window onto the rotting back porch. The sun was just coming up, painting the small dirt-patched lawn a lighter shade of gray. She saw no one.
She heard the knock again. Looking lower, she saw the top of a tiny blonde head.
Milly threw the door open. Her next-door neighbor’s four-year-old stood in front of her, barefoot and wearing a long gown. There was blood on her sleeves, and the little girl was pale as porcelain.
Milly dropped to her knees. “Allie, honey, what’s wrong?”
“Mommy won’t wake up.”
Milly took the girl’s hands. “What’s this on your hands?”
The child looked down at her hands blankly, as if she hadn’t noticed it before.
“Allie, what happened?”
“Mommy hurt herself in her bed. I shaked her but she wouldn’t come awake.”
“Where’s Carrie?”
“In her crib, crying. Mommy won’t come.”
Something thudded in the pit of Milly’s stomach. She picked the child up and ran through the yard, her slippers soaking in the cold morning dew. She carried the girl through the carport and into the house, and heard the eighteen-month-old’s angry wailing. She put Allie down in front of the couch. “Wait here, honey. I’m going to see about Mommy.”
She left Allie in the living room and hurried past the kids’ room, to the small bedroom at the end of the short hall. She saw Devon in bed, under the covers, her eyes closed as if she still slept. Milly turned on the light and stepped toward the bed.
The pillow was soaked in blood. Milly gasped and stumbled back. Her neighbor’s face was a pale gray, her lips white. Milly forced herself to move closer, touch her arm. Devon’s skin was cold.
Milly’s mind went blank, and she stood frozen for a moment, unable
to move. Carrie’s screams penetrated her paralysis.
She had to do something.
She grabbed the phone next to the bed, dialed 911, and choked out the words. “My neighbor is dead in her bed. Please send someone.”
Chapter 4
The morning was cold and blanketed with fog. Kent Harlan started into his second mile, his breath clouding. He had taken up jogging two years ago when he’d suddenly begun caring how he looked. Before Barbara came into his life, he’d just marked time, letting himself get thick around the middle. Since he’d started running, he’d lost twenty pounds. But he was still nowhere near her league. He wanted to look his best this weekend. The day he got down on one knee would be one of the biggest days of his life.
He hoped Barbara liked the ring.
The fact that she’d moved to Atlanta to be near him nine months ago had changed everything. He felt full of life and hope, with nothing but brightness on the horizon. He wouldn’t have believed he could feel young again. He’d tried to take it slow for the sake of Barbara and her kids, allowing them time to get settled here before talking more about marriage. But things seemed to be going pretty well. He couldn’t wait much longer.
His cell phone rang, and he slowed and checked the readout. It was the dispatcher at the police department. He and his partner, Andy, were up in the homicide rotation, so he had to take it. He slowed to a walk and clicked on the phone. “Kent Harlan.”
“Kent, we’ve got a homicide at 342 East Bailey Road. Female victim, shot in bed, apparently during a burglary.”
“Okay,” he said, still breathing hard. “Did you call Andy?”
“I’m calling him next.”
“All right. I’ll get right over there. Do me a favor and text me that address — I don’t have anything to write with.”
“Sure thing.”
He clicked the phone off and dropped it back into his pocket. He picked up his step again and jogged the rest of the way home. He supposed he should be happy that he’d gotten a whole night’s sleep. When he and his partner were next in line to get a case, he was usually disturbed during the night.
He showered, got dressed, and made himself a cup of coffee to take with him. There was no hurry. The first responder was supposed to secure the area, and the body would still be there when he arrived. But he didn’t like for much time to pass between the 911 call and his seeing the scene. The more time that passed, and the more investigators who arrived, the more the evidence would be disturbed.
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