BRINK OF DEATH
Copyright (c) 2004 by Brandilyn Collins
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AER Edition January 2009 ISBN : 978-0-310-31671-8
Requests for information should be addressed to: Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Collins, Brandilyn.
Brink of death Brandilyn Collins.p>
p. cm. — (The hidden faces series ; bk. 1) ISBN 978-0-31025103-3
1. Courtroom artists—Fiction. 2. Trials (Murder)—Fiction.
3. Women artists—Fiction. 4. Witnesses—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3553.O4747815 B75
2004
813’.6—dc22
2003024008
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(r). NIV(r). Copyright (c) 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society.
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Acknowledgments
This story could only be written with the help of some very patient people. Many thanks to these kind folks, who proved invaluable to me:
Les Caldwell, retired sheriff’s sergeant, who granted me an interview as the story was being built, then read the completed manuscript to catch any glitches regarding the law enforcement characters. Les’s wife, Marilyn, who also read the completed manuscript and caught numerous typographical errors.
Guy Ottsman, retired deputy sheriff, and Bill Osborn, retired sheriff’s detective, for their willingness to be interviewed.
Mark Collins, my husband and a private pilot, for going over all the details relating to flying.
Jacqueline Clark, my dear friend who serves in the chaplaincy programs of numerous California Bay Area law enforcement departments, for guiding me with the character and duties of Gerri Carson.
My editors, Dave Lambert and Karen Ball. The two best in the business. What more can I say?
One more important note. Forensic Art and Illustration, by nationally renowned forensic expert Karen Taylor, serves as the basis for my fictional textbook The World of Forensic Art. For purposes of this story, I moved some of the information and chapters of Ms. Taylor’s book around, but in general the concepts and procedures of forensic art noted within these pages are attributable to her excellent text.
I tell you the truth,
whoever hears my word
and believes Him who sent me
has eternal life and will not be condemned;
he has crossed over from death to life.
JOHN 5:24
PROLOGUE
The noises, faint, fleeting, whispered into her consciousness like wraiths in the night.
Twelve-year-old Erin Willit opened her eyes to darkness lit only by the green night-light near her closet door, and the faint glow of a streetlamp through her bedroom window.
She felt her forehead wrinkle, the fingers of one hand curl, as she tried to discern what had awakened her.
Something was not right.
An oak tree lifted gnarled branches between the streetlamp and her window, its leaves casting eerie spider-shadows across the far wall. When she was younger, Erin had asked that a small lamp on the desk by that wall be left on at night.
Anything to dispel the jerking dance of those leaves. Lately she’d watched the dark tremble across the posters of pop stars on her wall with no fear at all.
But not tonight. On this night the shadows writhed and twitched.
Erin listened.
Vague sounds from her dad’s office on the other side of her wall took form. A drawer slid open. Contents rustled.
Her heart tripped over itself, then scrambled for balance.
There was nothing unusual about the sounds. Anyone working in the office could have made them. Someone paying bills, like she’d seen her dad do so many times, making no noise or movement until a pen was required or a piece of paper…until a drawer was opened to pull out a file. Erin knew how quiet her dad could be when he worked in his office. She was used to the creaks of his chair, the plunk of his briefcase on the desk.
The shadow-leaves on her wall skittered across the face of a male star, transforming his features into the thrust forehead and sunken cheeks of a half-human. Erin pulled her eyes away.
She raised her head from the pillow, listening more intensely. Her breath stalled midthroat, making a little click as her mouth sagged open. More noises. It couldn’t be her dad. He’d flown his plane just that afternoon to visit his sister in San Diego, who was sick.
Maybe Mom was in the office. She had a second desk in there, which she used when she helped Dad. Erin glanced at her radio alarm clock. Nearly twelve-thirty. Mom never worked that late. Besides, the sounds were stealthy, secretive.
Like someone sneaking around in a place they weren’t supposed to be.
Erin’s heart staccatoed once more, then ground into a steady, hard beat. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, echoed the blood in her head. All other sound ceased, drowned out in the adrenaline rush. Erin gripped the hem of her pajama top, straining to hear. She held her head off the pillow until her neck ached. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. She could hear nothing more.
She bit her lip, then laid her head down.
Erin inhaled deeply, willing her heart to settle.
She’d imagined the noises. Just like she’d imagined the ghosted death-dance on her wall. She forced her gaze to the trembling silhouettes, eyes boring into them until she could discern the pattern of individual leaves. See? Just shadows from an old tree.
A muffled thud emanated from the office. A drawer closing. Then a soft thump against hardwood floor. A footfall.
Primal instinct reared its head. Erin wanted her mom—now. Her mother meant safety, security against all harm.
Mom was sleeping upstairs in the master bedroom suite—so far away. But Erin had to go. She would turn on every light between here and there.
Trembling, Erin pushed back the covers and slid out of bed. Cool conditioned air slithered around her shoulders. She stood rock still. What if some predator in the next room had sensed her movement? She could almost visualize a massive beast’s shining nose sniffing the air, smelling her fear.
Oh, she was thinking crazy stuff now.
She edged forward. The dark leaf images tremored on her wall, warning her: Don’t go, don’t go! The undefined shadow of her own form hulked across her desk and wall, obliterating the oak silhouettes. Erin crept across her bedroom carpet on soundless feet. Reaching the door, she placed her palm against the cool metal knob.
Another sound from the office. A light bump.
Erin’s resolve crumbled. She couldn’t do this! She should lock her door, jump back in bed, and jerk the covers over her head. Dive deep, deep down in those warm folds.
But then what? Hide panic-stricken and vulnerable until Whoever It Was came for her?
No way! She had to get to her mother. As she opened the door, she’d see the gleam of light from the office. She’d just peek into the room, see her mother there, working late.
Maybe with a cup of tea resting on the coaster that never left her desk. “Sorry to wake you,” Mom would be saying seconds from now. “I couldn’t sleep and I had some paperwork to do.”
Erin could almost hear the lilt of her mom’s voice. Could almost see her face, bathed in the glow of the desk lamp.
Please, Mom…please be there. Erin held her breath and twisted the knob. She pulled the door open a crack and peeked through.
No lamplight spilled from the office. The darkened hallway was lit only by a night-light like the one in Erin’s bedroom.
Maybe the office door was closed. Sure, that was it. That was why the sounds had been so muffled. Erin eased her own door farther open, slipped her head out. A short hallway to the office angled off the main hall that ended at Erin’s bedroom. She couldn’t see the office entry without venturing farther from her room.
Don’t be so stupid! Go on out there. If she could just step out, she’d see the office light illuminating the bottom of the door. Heralding her mother’s presence on the other side.
A sudden glow spilled from the office and swept over the hallway, like the weakened edge of a flashlight’s beam. A shuffle and a small thud followed, another drawer opened and closed. Erin froze. Mom wouldn’t bump around in a darkened office with a flashlight.
Hideous images from Erin’s childhood sprang into her head—from gruesome imaginings of a toddler’s boogeyman to visions of the murderous Freddy Kruger. The latter images were the most terrifying. Freddy was not a surreal monster.
He was real, a man with a killing machine for a heart. Erin suffered nightmares for a week after the back-to-back horror movies illicitly watched at her friend’s house. The lamp on her desk was on that whole week, just like when she was little.
Her mom tut-tutted. “That’s why I don’t want you watching those movies.”
Moms were right about some things.
Mom. How could Erin get to her? If Erin ran down the hall, Freddy would hear her, maybe see her. He’d come after her. Freddy loved coming after his victims.
Erin hunched, half in and half out of her doorway, stilled by indecision. And fear.
At the other end of the house, the entryway chandelier flicked on. Erin flinched, every nerve tingling. Freddy had to see the light! Had Mom come to investigate the noises?
Surely she couldn’t have heard them from her bedroom.
Maybe she’d come downstairs for a glass of ice water. Maybe sheer maternal instinct had pulled her from bed and toward her panicked daughter.
Down the hall, Erin’s mom glided into view, a pink summer robe tied about her waist. She stopped to turn on the hall light, rubbing one of her eyes. No fear on her face, no tension racking her limbs. Erin’s shoulders eased. If her mom wasn’t scared, then there was nothing to be frightened of. The mere sight of Mom’s calm features whisked Erin back to when she was three years old, huddling in her mother’s lap.
“Hush, hush now, there’s no one there; you just saw a shadow.”
See? Nothing to be afraid of.
Reality rushed back, chilling Erin to the bone. This time she had seen something. She had heard noises. Noises that couldn’t be explained away by any amount of soothing.
Go back, Mom, go back! Erin wanted to shout. Freddy’s in the office! Run!
She opened her mouth, emitting only a gurgle. At that moment her mother saw her in the doorway.
“Erin, what are you—”
Her mother’s eyes shifted toward the office. Her expression pinched; then her features shifted into a frozen mask.
Help, God. She saw Freddy. Help!
“N-no!” Mom’s voice quavered. “Erin, get back!”
Instinct flooded Erin, pushing her toward her mother. No matter the distance separating them, no matter what lay between, her mom’s arms still meant safety. She flung her door wider, drawn forward by a force she couldn’t resist. Her mom threw out both hands. “No! No!”
Time leapt into a nightmare dance, whirling before Erin’s eyes. A dark figure— Freddy! —sprang from the office hallway. A man dressed in black shirt, black jeans. Not too tall but muscular, built like a truck. He lunged toward Erin’s mom and shoved her hard. She bounced off the wall, then lashed out, pummeling him with her fists. Move! The word screamed through Erin, telling her to creak her knees into action, help save her mom… .
But her muscles turned to stone.
The sights and sounds pounded Erin, wrapped squeezing fingers around her head. The man warded off her mom’s flailing arms with one hand and hit her in the face with the other. Mom reeled into the wall. She came back with a scream, kicking.
Erin stared as her mother became a creature she didn’t know, violent and keening. Arms and legs lashed out, intertwined, as man and woman struggled to the death. Then Erin’s mom sagged, unable to keep up her battle. The man wrapped gloved fingers around her throat and squeezed. Her hands flew to those fingers, clawing, clawing. Her eyes bugged, her mouth dropped open. Strangled sounds spilled from her bluing lips. The man flung her then, across the hall and into the kitchen, out of Erin’s sight. Erin heard a sickening crack, then the thud of her mom hitting the tile floor.
Nauseating heat gushed through Erin’s veins. Her mouth opened to scream, but only a desperate whimper escaped.
The man turned and, for the longest second she’d ever experienced, locked bright-blue eyes with hers.
It isn’t Freddy, it isn’t Freddy, it isn’t Freddy.
That one distinct thought ran in her head. Even as Erin’s brain shut down, she knew she stood at the brink of death.
The hallway dimmed and the world spun around her; black spots ate away at the perimeter of her vision. The spots grew and gobbled and crawled. Like cockroaches.
Erin’s mind slipped away, down a long dark tunnel, peering back at her soon-to-die earthly form.
Run, run! Lock the door! But her brain’s final plea was too late. Far, far too late.
The man drew himself up, breathing hard. The sound was muffled. Erin slid farther into the tunnel. Still he stared at her.
The cockroaches ate up the walls and ceiling and floor.
Ate right to the man, then fed on his arms, his toes, his head.
Erin’s knees gave way.
As she fell, her elbow hit the door frame hard, sending shock waves up her arm. Cockroaches scurried and swarmed.
Then covered her world in blackness.
Chapter 1
Vic stands behind me with his arms around my waist, pulling me against him, his chin on the top of my head. I lean back into his solid body, my eyes closed, drinking in the sense of security and warmth. My nostrils fill with the woodsy scent of his cologne.
How long it has been since that smell washed through me like a warm wave! I see no one else, the scene filled with the power of the two of us. Sheryl is blissfully absent—a blustering wind invading someone else’s marriage, ruining someone else’s life.
“The kids need us together,” Vic whispers, and I feel his breath wisp through my hair. “Let’s try again.”
The kids need him, yes. But can I forgive him after all he’s done to me, to us? I need him, too. I love him still.
And I hate him.
My mouth opens to answer…
A sudden howl swoops over us—a monstrous, black-winged bird, hurling blasts of air against our faces. I cringe, digging fingers into Vic’s arms. His skin shimmers…breaks apart…evaporates. I am left alone, helpless. The bird beats away to hang in the air. Its curved beak
opens as it glares at me, its eyes cold and obsidian. I swivel away, hands shielding my head. The monster screeches, screeches…
Wails ripped the night. My eyes flew open, mind hovering between dream and reality. The manic bird, the feel of Vic’s arms—so vivid one second ago—faded into oblivion.
But the screeching remained. Slowly the sounds registered.
Sirens.
I turned my head to check the digital clock, a superstitious voice within whispering that the hour would make a difference. Sirens at noon could spell tragedy. Sirens after midnight…madness.
In my defense, I don’t think I was fully awake.
The numbers glowed red in the darkness. Twelve-fifty, past the bewitching hour.
The sirens grew closer, one falling as another rose, yowling like wounded beasts. The final lingering shrouds of my dream dropped away. I pushed up on my elbows, veins pulsing, senses alert.
They were coming up Barrister Court.
I hauled myself from bed, tapped the base of my touch-sensitive lamp twice. It flicked on to medium power. The sirens writhed in my ears like hissing snakes. Red and blue lights flashed through the sheers on my window, tainting them the colors of blood and water. Surely the bearers of these sirens had taken a wrong turn. My father’s house—I still couldn’t think of it as my own—lay at the left end of the cul-de-sac, bordered by forest. Where could the sirens be going?
I raked back the sheers. Two black-and-white Sheriff’s Department patrol cars and an ambulance careened to a halt outside the Willits’ house across the wide street. The Willits.
What could be happening at the Willits’? I shook my head to clear it. In the next instant I found myself jerking open a dresser drawer, pulling out jeans and a T-shirt. I threw them on with barely a thought, fingers trembling.
All sirens fell away. The ensuing silence was deafening.
Car doors slammed, voices intermingled. For a moment I felt frozen, watching the scene. Then before I knew it, my feet were racing out of the bedroom and down the hall toward Kelly. At her door I tried to gather myself, force calmness into my expression, knowing that I failed miserably. I crossed the threshold of my twelve-year-old daughter’s room.
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