Robert Elmer is a former pastor, reporter and as copywriter who now writes from he home he shares with his wife Ronda in northern Idaho. He is the author of over fifty books, including eight contemporary novels for the adult Christian audience and several series for younger readers. Combined, his books have sold more than half a million copies worldwide. Like his popular "Young Underground" youth series, Wildflowers of Terezin was inspired by stories Robert heard from his Denmark-born parents and family. When he's not sailing or enjoying the outdoors, Robert often travels the country speaking to school and writers groups.
ABOUT THE BOOK
When nurse Hanne Abrahamsen impulsively shields Steffen Petersen from a nosy Gestapo agent, she’s convinced the Lutheran pastor is involved in the Danish Underground. Nothing could be further from the truth.
But truth is hard to come by in the fall of 1943, when Copenhagen is placed under Martial Law and Denmark’s Jews—including Hanne—suddenly face deportation to the Nazi prison camp at Terezin, Czechoslovakia. Days darken and danger mounts. Steffen’s faith deepens as he takes greater risks to protect Hanne. But are either of them willing to pay the ultimate price for their love?
My review:
I had never read anything by Robert Elmer before, so he was a new author to me. I really enjoyed this book. It is set during World War II in Denmark. I have read several books set during that time, but had never read one set in Denmark, so it was interesting to read what it was like for them during World War II. Though the people in the book are fictional, the events are not, and I learned a lot about Denmark, and about the Jews there.
After I finished the book, I was again filled with amazement and horror at what Hitler did to the Jews. If for no other reason, books like these are good to remind us of the evil that is in the world, and what even our country could become if good people sit back and do nothing.
It is in the headlines again. Catholic priests molesting kids again. I'm not anti-Cathlolic, though I really don't get some of their beliefs. Such as, why do they pray to saints when we can go straight to God? Peter the first pope - where is the evidence for that? And burying a statue of St Joseph so your house will sell?
But I digress.
Who knows how many priests have molested kids over the years. I'm sure we are hearing about just the tip of the iceberg.
I have a solution, and a question: Let them marry. Where on earth did the Catholics get the idea that priests couldn't marry anyway?! Check out I Timothy 3 sometime. It lists requirements for bishops and deacons. Most people agree it applies to pastors nowadays - and priests. And guess what.... it doesn't forbid marriage. It does state they should be the husband of one wife.
I'm single - and I have my reasons - but even I know God is very pro-marriage and pro-family. He encourages people to marry and have children.
Not every man or woman who is single is going to molest kids. I'm single, and the very idea nauseates me and I think they need stronger punishment for people who do it. For men, maybe removing a certain part of their anatomy.........
That said, I'm sure in some people, the desire for sex is greater, and if there is no outlet, that could explain how the priests end up doing that - and no, I am not excusing it. There is never a good excuse or reason for molesting or hurting young children. But, anyone with common sense has to see there is a connection. Men not allowed to marry and expected to be celibate, who just by chance end up molesting kids. And yes, there are lot of married men who do it too, but I really believe the Catholic church has set themselves up for these scandals by not allowing their priests to marry. It is un-Biblical, and is causing them problems.
I firmly believe if they allowed their priests to marry, it would cut way down on the molestation issue, but that is just my humble opinion. What do you think?
The FBI has a secret weapon. But now the secret's out.
When missing teens begin turning up dead in a small Southern town, the FBI sends in Special Agent Samantha Cash to help crack the case. Her methods are invisible, and she never quits until the case is closed.
Homicide detective Connor Wolfe has his hands full. His relationship with his headstrong daughter is in a tailspin, and the string of unsolved murders has the town demanding answers. Connor is running out of ideas--and time.
Samantha joins Connor in a race against the clock to save the next victim. And the killer starts to get personal.
Too Close to Home ratchets up the suspense with each page even as love blossoms in the face of danger. Read this one with the lights on!
My review:
This book was one of those "read-in-one-sitting-reads." I have never read anything by Lynette Eason, but I loved the book. It is suspense/mystery, my favorite genre', and if this book is any indication, the Christian suspense authors that have been on the market for a while has some new stiff competition.
From the moment I opened the book, it grabbed me and pretty much held me hostage until I finished it. The plot was interesting and suspenseful, the characters were very likable, and there was a definite Christian message in the book.
This is the first book in the Women of Justice Series, but the book focused just as much or more on the male character, and though there is some romance in the book, male readers such as myself will enjoy the book.
In addition to being a great story, the book also shows the dangers of teenagers/kids on the internet. In the story, a man was posing as looking for fashion models and luring girls to him through chat rooms.
If you are a reader of suspense/mystery novels, check out Too Close To Home by Lynette Eason. It is an awesome read.
About the author:
Lynette Eason is the author of Too Close to Home and three other romantic suspense novels. She is a member of American Fiction Christian Writers and Romance Writers of America. A homeschooling mother of two, she has a master's degree in education from Converse College. She lives in South Carolina.
Available April 2010 at your favorite bookseller from Revell, a division of Baker Publishing Group.
Will a chance meeting in a time of war change her life forever?
Never pretty enough to please her gorgeous mother, Allie will do anything to gain her approval--even marry a man she doesn't love. While Allie has nearly resigned herself to that fate, Lt. Walter Novak--fearless in the cockpit but hopeless with women--takes his last furlough at home in California before being shipped overseas.
Walt and Allie meet and begin a correspondence that will change their lives. As letters fly between Walt's muddy bomber base in England and Allie's mansion in an orange grove, their friendship binds them together. But can they untangle the secrets, commitments, and expectations that keep them apart?
Book 1 in the Wings of Glory series, A Distant Melody is an exciting and tender story of love, courage, and sacrifice during World War II.
My review:
Although this is a romance, it is also historical fiction set during World War II, which interests me, so I requested it to review.
This was a new author for me, and I was not disappointed. She spun a great romantic story, but also painted a great picture of World War II from a fighter pilot's view. There are some war scenes in the book, and I felt she did a great job in portraying those.
The two main characters, though Christian, are pretty dishonest with each other, which bothered me, being they were Christians, but their dishonesty did come back to haunt them, and the reader is shown that honesty is always for the best.
If you enjoy historical fiction/romance, I recommend A Distant Melody. It is the first in the Wings of Glory Trilogy.
About the author:
Sarah Sundin is the author of A Distant Melody. Her great-uncle flew with the US Eighth Air Force in England during WWII. Sarah lives in California with her husband and three children.
A Distant Melody is available from Revell Publishing, an imprint of Baker.
It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!
You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
New Leaf Publishing Group/Master Books (February 15, 2010)
***Special thanks to Stacey Drake of New Leaf Press for sending me a review copy.***
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Julie first heard a creation science speaker at her church when she was just 15, igniting her interest in creation science and sparking an enthusiasm for defending the Bible’s account of creation. She has obtained a degree in health science, and is currently completing a degree in law. Julie is married with one daughter and lives on the east coast of Australia.
List Price: $9.99
Paperback: 288 pages
Publisher: New Leaf Publishing Group/Master Books (February 15, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0890515840
ISBN-13: 978-0890515846
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Thomas Whitfield climbed out of the Lincoln Towncar and stood in the snappy, early morning fall air, breathing deeply. The temperature had fallen a few more degrees overnight, signaling that winter was truly on its way.
Thomas glanced up and down the wide street. There was nobody around at this early hour, and he took a moment to drink in the sights of his beloved city. The graceful willows, their branches arching over the street, were turning gold and red and, in the gentle yellow morning light, threw off highlights like burnished copper. This street was like many others in the center of DC — wide and tree-lined, with magnificent government buildings standing one after the other. That was another thing that Thomas found so delicious about this city — so much of it hinted at the enormous wealth and prosperity of the country, and yet only a few streets behind these world-famous landmarks, the seedier side of American poverty flourished. It was a city of contradictions, Thomas thought.
His gaze fell finally to the building right in front of him — the main complex of the Smithsonian Institution. Enormous stone pillars flanked the entryway into a marble lobby, and behind that were laid out the evidence of mankind’s brilliance. Everything about the institution was testament to the scientific and anthropological advances of man over the pages of history — the inventions, the discoveries, the deductions, the sheer radiance of a human being’s intelligence at its finest.
Thomas Whitfield had always been immensely proud of this place, and everything it showcased. He had boasted about it, defended it, nourished it, and protected it, the way a proud father would his prodigious child.
He was the secretary of the Smithsonian, after all, and he felt a strange kind of paternal relationship with the buildings and their contents.
He stood for a moment longer, a slender whippet of a man dressed immaculately, with highly polished shoes gleaming, thinning dark hair cut short, and a gray cashmere scarf to ward off the cold. Then he purposefully strode down the path and into the main building, scarf fluttering behind him.
To the malevolent eyes watching him through high-powered binoculars down the street in a non-descript Chevy, he presented a painfully easy target.
Thomas settled in his large office with the door shut, turned on the computer, and shut his eyes briefly as he contemplated what he would do next. The course of events he had planned for this day would change everything, and the impact would be felt right up to the president himself. Courage, Thomas, he told himself silently. What you are about to do is the right thing to do.
He began to type, slowly and decisively, feeling within himself a great sense of conviction and purpose. He was so lost in concentration that he was startled by the door suddenly swinging open.
“What are . . . ?” he exclaimed, almost jumping off his seat. Then he recognized his visitor and he glanced at his watch.
“What are you doing here?” Thomas asked. “It’s a little early for you, isn’t it?”
“I wanted to be sure I caught you,” his visitor replied, moving closer to the desk. “Without any interruptions.”
“I see. What can I do for you then?” Thomas asked, trying to hide his irritation. He hadn’t wanted to be interrupted during this most important task.
“What are you working on?” the unannounced guest asked, ignoring him and moving around the side of the desk and trying to look at Thomas’s computer screen.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Thomas answered with a falsely airy tone. “It’s just a family project. Nothing to do with work. Is there something I can help you with?”
Thomas was suddenly aware that his visitor was standing close by him. He felt uncomfortable, and tried to roll his chair away to maintain some space.
“You see,” his visitor said in a quiet voice, “there are people out there who don’t agree with you. They think the project you are working on could be very dangerous. In fact, I believe they have already tried to warn you about continuing with this project.”
Thomas now felt distinctly uncomfortable and a little afraid. He decided to assert his authority. “Listen here,” he said, in a voice that betrayed his anxiety. “What I am working on is none of your business. The subject is certainly not up for discussion with somebody like you. I suggest you leave my office immediately.”
The visitor managed to fuse sorrow and menace into his words as he said, “I’m afraid I can’t do that. You will have to come with me.”
Thomas retorted, “I’m not going anywhere with you. In fact, I. . . .” He broke off abruptly as he saw the small handgun in the visitor’s hand, pointing directly at him. There was no sorrow or pity on his face — only menace.
“Do I need to force you to come with me?” the visitor wondered, his tone like flint.
Thomas leapt to his feet, his eyes darting about wildly. He needed to get out of here, to try to get away from this situation that had so rapidly gotten out of hand. A hand shot out and grabbed Thomas by the collar with surprising strength. Thomas was shocked as he strained to get away from the man, who was intently staring at the computer screen.
“You traitor!” Thomas spat. “I should’ve known you were nothing more than a trained monkey!”
The visitor chuckled heartily. “That’s ironic, Thomas.”
The visitor, much younger and stronger than Thomas, began to drag him out of the room. Thomas was determined not to go down without a fight, and drove his heel backward into the visitor’s shin. There was a yelp of pain, but the unrelenting grip did not lessen around Thomas’s arm. Instead, a thick arm curled around Thomas’s throat and squeezed, applying pressure to the carotid artery. It took only a few seconds for Thomas to fall limply into the arms of his abductor as the blood supply to his brain was cut off.
That was the last anyone saw of the secretary of the Smithsonian Institute.
• • • •
Dinah Harris woke with a scream dying in her throat, the sheets twisted hopelessly around her legs. Her nightgown was damp with panicked sweat, her heart galloping like a runaway horse. She stared, blinking, at the pale dawn light streaming through the window, while the shadowy vestiges of her nightmare slithered from her memory.
As she lay in bed, joining the waking world from sleep, the familiar blanket of depression settled over her, dark and heavy as the Atlantic winter. The dread she felt at facing another day was almost palpable in the small bedroom. Dinah glanced across at her alarm clock, where the flashing numbers showed 6 a.m.
She threw aside the sheets and stumbled into the tiny bathroom, where she purposefully avoided looking at herself in the mirror. She was only in her mid-thirties and had once been relatively attractive. Certainly not beautiful, but with what her first boyfriend had once told her — a pleasant face and athletic body. Now her eyes were always underscored by dark bags, her skin pale and paper-thin, and the weight fell off her in slow degrees without ceasing. She dressed in her trademark dark pants suit, pulled her black hair from her face in a severe ponytail, and washed her face.
She made strong coffee and sat in the kitchen as she drank the bitter liquid. The dining alcove was still stacked with moving cartons, filled with books and music that she couldn’t face opening. The gray light of morning lent no color to the apartment, which suited Dinah just fine. Her world didn’t contain color anymore.
Though traffic often seemed at a standstill in the mornings, Dinah always arrived early to the J. Edgar Hoover building. She turned directly to the teaching wing, avoiding the eye contact and morning greetings of many she knew in the building. She knew what they whispered about during after-work drinks and at the water cooler. Her fall from grace would go down as one of the most spectacular in FBI history.
So she kept up the ice-cool veneer until she arrived at her desk, checking her e-mails and teaching schedule for the week.
She didn’t look up as an imposing shadow fell across her desk.
“Special Agent Harris, how are you?” boomed the voice of her former colleague, David Ferguson. He was a big man, six-four and two hundred pounds, with a loud, booming voice and a penchant for pork rinds. He stood above her, his hand resting easily on the holstered gun at his hip; the twin of a gun Dinah no longer wore but kept underneath her pillow.
“Ferguson,” she replied. “Fine, how are you?”
“Feel like a coffee?” he asked.
“Don’t you have a killer to catch?” Dinah asked, dryly.
He waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, they can wait. Come on.”
He took her to a tiny Italian café a block away from the FBI headquarters. While they ordered, Dinah wondered at his ulterior motive for bringing her here. It certainly isn’t for my sparkling wit and charm, she thought. Rumor had it that the freshman criminology classes were afraid of her.
“So I’m just wondering if I could get your opinion on something,” Ferguson began, tentatively testing the water.
She scowled at him. “You know I don’t get involved in cases.”
He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, calm down, Harris. I just want your opinion. I know you’ve given up your real talents to teach some snotty freshmen.”
His comment stung her, but she narrowed her eyes at him and pretended she hadn’t even noticed. “So get on with it already.”
“I don’t remember you always being this prickly,” complained Ferguson, draining his macchiato. “Anyway. What would you say if I told you the secretary of the Smithsonian Institution had gone missing?”
“Missing?” Dinah raised her eyebrows and slurped her latte. “In what context?”
“As in, turned up for work at six this morning and disappeared off the face of the earth shortly thereafter.”
“How do you know he turned up for work at six?” Dinah asked.
“Security cameras have him arriving in the lobby and heading for his office. After that, who knows?”
“So he’s an adult, maybe he took a trip to get away from work stress or his wife has been giving him grief or his kid is in trouble.” Dinah frowned. “Why are we even involved at this early stage?”
Ferguson paused. “It’s due mostly to his rather prestigious position. It wouldn’t do for the secretary of the Smithsonian to simply disappear. Congress is rather anxious.”
Dinah knew of political influence that ran high in this city but didn’t press the issue. “Is there evidence of homicide?”
“Not really, although I haven’t been to his office yet.” Ferguson made it sound like a confession, and he looked at her sheepishly.
Dinah stared at him. “What do you really want, Ferguson?”
He gathered up his courage. “I need you to work this case with me, Harris.”
Dinah opened her mouth to respond indignantly, but Ferguson held up his hand and continued with a rush. “You know I’m not good with sensitive cases. I. . . .”
“I’m operating on a hunch that this is a bad case, that it involves people in the White House.” Ferguson must have needed her very badly to allow her comment to go unheeded.
“Well, I’m sorry, but I have a heavy teaching workload,” she said. “So I’ll have to limit my involvement to opinions only.”
Ferguson didn’t say anything but looked even guiltier.
“What have you done?” Dinah demanded.
“I may have cleared your schedule so you could work with me.” Ferguson examined his fingernails with great concentration.
Dinah waited for a beat. “I see. You’ve spoken to my superiors?”
He nodded. “They’ve agreed to lend you to me for as long as the case takes.”
Dinah stood abruptly. “Thanks for the coffee.” She walked angrily from the café.
Ferguson stared at her as she walked off, then slapped down some crumpled notes and heaved his bulk out of the chair. “Where are you going?” Ferguson asked, struggling to keep up with her.
She wheeled around and glared directly at him. “Who do you think you are? Do you think I’m lesser than you so you can sneak around behind my back?”
“Dinah, we really need you back in the field. You were — are — brilliant.” Ferguson spoke softly, hoping to calm her down.
“My field days are behind me, with very good reason,” snapped Dinah. I can’t see a dead body anymore. I can’t feel desire to catch the person who did it. I just want to lie down beside the body and feel the same endless peace of sleep.
“Please, I’m begging you. I need you back,” Ferguson said. Then it hit her. Dinah realized that this situation was very serious. Ferguson was the last person on the planet to beg anybody.
“I don’t really have a choice, do I?” she said dully. She knew that this case could break her.
Ferguson didn’t reply, and his answer was in his silence.
• • • •
The Smithsonian Institution was bustling with tourists and school kids as if nothing had gone wrong. Dinah and David strode into the main lobby, trying unsuccessfully to look casual. When they flashed their badges discreetly, they were allowed into the inner sanctum, where Thomas Whitfield’s personal assistant was fielding phone calls.
The secretary was young and pretty, with thick, dark hair waving gracefully to her shoulders, startlingly blue eyes, and a creamy olive complexion. Her only downfall was the thick eye makeup, applied to make her eyes stand out but which had the effect of making her look like a scared raccoon. “I’m afraid Mr. Whitfield simply cannot be interrupted at present,” she snapped into the phone. “I’ll have him call you back if you’d leave a message.”
She glanced up and saw the two agents standing at her desk. She gave them a wave to acknowledge their presence, repeated the details of the caller, scribbled furiously, and then hung up.
“Good morning,” she said, jumping to her feet. “If you caught the end of that conversation, you’ll know that Mr. Whitfield is in an extremely important meeting and. . . .”
“Save it,” interrupted Dinah, showing the secretary her badge. The young woman blushed. “We’re here to investigate the disappearance of Mr. Whitfield. What is your name?”
The secretary sat down hard, looking relieved. “I’m Lara Southall. I’m so worried about Mr. Whitfield.”
Ferguson flashed his partner a frown and took charge. “I’m Special Agent David Ferguson and this is Special Agent Dinah Harris. You’ll have to excuse her; she’s been out of the field for some time and has forgotten how to relate to people.”
Dinah opened her mouth to reply with outrage, but Ferguson continued, “Can you tell us about this morning?”
Lara Southall regarded Dinah with a mixture of amusement and fear, which Dinah filed away for future reference. “I got to work at eight o’clock as usual,” she replied. “Mr. Whitfield always arrives before me. I usually turn on my computer, get settled, and then get us both a coffee. When I opened his office door to give him the coffee, the room was empty.” As the girl spoke, she tapped perfectly manicured fingernails together absently. Dinah hated manicured fingernails: they reminded her of her distinctly unattractive, chewed-to-the-quick fingertips.
“Mr. Whitfield was due to give a presentation at eleven o’clock,” Lara continued. “So I didn’t really start worrying until about ten-thirty. He hates to be late, and he had to come back to get his presentation and make it uptown in less than half an hour. At eleven, I started to make some calls.”
“Has he ever been absent from the office before?” Ferguson asked.
“Sure, he often has meetings or goes out into the museum to talk to visitors. The thing is, I always know what he’s doing. That’s part of my job. He never goes anywhere during the day without letting me know.”
“So you started making calls at eleven. Who did you call?” Dinah asked impatiently.
Lara ticked off her fingers as she remembered. “I called his cell phone, and I called the other museums. I thought maybe he’d just forgotten to tell me he had a meeting. Nobody had seen him and his cell just rang out. So I called his home. His wife told me he’d left for work at about five-thirty and she hadn’t seen him since. Then I called some of the senior executives. I thought they might’ve had an emergency. But nobody had seen him.”
“Did the people you called — his wife, the executives — seem concerned about his whereabouts?” Ferguson asked.
“Yes, they did. It’s so unusual for Mr. Whitfield to act this way that everyone I spoke to was concerned. I think his wife is actually here somewhere at the moment.”
“So then you called the police?” Dinah said.
“No, one of the directors came over to look at the security tapes. She specifically told me not to call anyone until she’d viewed the footage. I thought that Mr. Whitfield might’ve had an accident on the way to work. Mrs. Whitfield was calling the hospitals when Ms. Biscelli — the director — came back from security.”
“What did the tapes show?” Dinah asked.
“They showed him arriving at six-thirty or so. That’s all I know.”
“Did any of the tapes show him leaving?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“Right. So what then?”
“I called the police.”
Ferguson nodded. “What did they tell you?”
“Basically they won’t do anything until he’s been missing 24 hours.” Lara stopped clicking her nails together and started twisting her hair with one finger. “So I told Ms. Biscelli, and she wasn’t happy with that. I think she must’ve pulled some strings, because here you are.”
Dinah and Ferguson both raised their eyebrows at her in confusion.
“The FBI,” explained Lara. “You guys wouldn’t normally get involved, would you?” She may have been a very pretty secretary, but Lara Southall was an intelligent girl. She’d asked the very question Dinah had been mulling over all morning.
“We’re going to look in his office,” Ferguson said, ignoring the question. He handed her his card. “Please call me if you think of anything else that might be helpful.”
She nodded and picked up the ringing phone. “No,” she said, sounding very weary. “Mr. Whitfield is in a meeting at the moment and can’t be disturbed.”
• • • •
Ferguson opened the door to the office while Dinah waited to get the log-on details for Thomas Whitfield’s computer. Dinah stood in the doorway, looking into the impressive room, and felt the thrill of the chase wash over her like a wave. It had been a long time since she had felt anything.
The office was furnished with heavy cedar furniture that consisted of a large desk, a leather-bound chair, a couch, and two armchairs grouped around a glass-topped coffee table and one entire wall of built-in bookcases. The floor was covered with thick burgundy carpet, and the drapes at the picture window were also burgundy. The walls contained portraits of several great scientists and inventors — Dinah recognized Charles Darwin, Thomas Edison, and the Wright Brothers — as well as photos of the secretary with the president, the queen of England, and other dignitaries. The room itself was clean and uncluttered, likely symbolic of the man himself, Dinah thought.
Ferguson was moving around the room, muttering to himself, as was his habit. Dinah had forgotten how intensely annoying she found this habit. She preferred silence so that she could concentrate.
Having received the log-on details from Lara, Dinah strode to the desk and pulled on her latex gloves. The top of the desk was shiny and would be a great medium to obtain fingerprints. She was careful not to allow herself to touch the desktop while she turned on the laptop.
“By the way, Harris,” Ferguson said from the wall of bookcases, “I forgot to mention that if something has happened to Mr. Whitfield, the media scrutiny is likely to be intense.”
Dinah scowled at the screen of the laptop. She hated the media, and it was a long-term grudge she held from the last case she’d been involved in. “You can handle it,” she said. “I want nothing to do with those vultures.”
Ferguson glanced over at her. “Of course I’ll handle it. But I can’t guarantee that they’ll leave you alone.”
Dinah tapped her foot against the leg of the desk impatiently as the laptop struggled to come to life. “Sticks and stones, Ferguson,” she said tightly. “Words can never hurt me.”
She could see that Ferguson didn’t buy the lie, but he’d decided to let it go. He at least knew not to push too far.
“This whole office is giving me a weird vibe,” he said after a moment. “It’s too . . . organized.”
Dinah logged onto the laptop. “I’m listening.”
“Look at the desk,” Ferguson mused. “No files or paperwork. Not even a pen or a Post-It note. No diary.”
“Maybe he’s just really neat,” Dinah said, opening Outlook on the laptop.
Ferguson went back to his muttering as he continued drifting around the room. Dinah frowned as she clicked through the folders in Outlook. Then she opened the other programs on the computer and looked through the folders there.
“That’s odd,” she commented at last. Ferguson looked up and came over to her.
She clicked through the inbox, sent items, and calendar of the e-mail program. There were no entries in any of them. “They’re completely clean,” she said. “The calendar is the strangest. You’d think the secretary of the Smithsonian Institution would have at least a couple of meetings a week.”
“Maybe he uses a paper diary,” suggested Ferguson.
“Certainly a possibility,” agreed Dinah. “But couple the empty calendar with the fact that he’s neither received nor sent an e-mail from this computer and something isn’t right.”
Ferguson opened the desk drawers and started looking through them.
“Also,” added Dinah, “there is not one single saved document in any other program — no letters, articles, presentations, anything. The entire computer is as if it’s never been used.”
Ferguson sat back on his heels. “You think someone has wiped his computer?”
“Well, the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question is: did Thomas Whitfield wipe his own computer before disappearing or did someone else wipe his computer before abducting him?” Dinah began to shut down the programs. “After all, there is no evidence to suggest that he has been abducted. There’s no sign of a struggle in here or blood stains, is there?”
Ferguson shook his head. “No, there isn’t. But there is something off about this office. Nobody, least of all a man in his position, can get through a working day without sending an e-mail or doing paperwork of some kind.” He gestured at the desk drawers. “There’s absolutely nothing in them.”
“I agree,” Dinah said. She closed the laptop and picked it up. “I’m going to have the lab look at the hard drive. What else?”
“I’ll call in crime scene to lift some fingerprints and check for blood.” Ferguson paused, thinking. “I’d like to talk to Ms. Biscelli, and I’d like to talk to his wife.”
Dinah nodded. “If Mr. Whitfield has been abducted, what do you suppose is the motive?”
Ferguson considered. “I don’t know. Money? Fame? Half the time I think these loonies go around killing people just so they can get their name in the news.”
Dinah stared at him. “Do you think Thomas Whitfield is dead?”
He shrugged. “Right now, Harris, I know nine-tenths of absolutely nothing. Let’s talk to Ms. Biscelli. Maybe she’ll know what happened and we can solve this case before dinner time and I’ll get a decent night’s sleep.”
Flippancy, Dinah remembered, was just Ferguson’s way of dealing with the intensity of this job and the horror they’d witnessed over the years.
My review:
Awesome book. This was a new author for me, and I think it is her debut novel. And for a debut novel, it rocks. There is a lot of suspense and mystery, which I love, the characters are very likable and real, and the plot was excellent. There is a lot of discussion about the origins of the earth - evolution verses Creationism, which is done in an interesting and easy to follow way, and that issue is at the heart of the story. I was impressed to see the people the author consulted on the issues of Creationism and evolution, and I went away from the book not just enjoying a great suspense novel, but I also learned a bit more about why Creationism makes so much more sense than evolution. This is definitely an author to keep an eye on.
It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!
You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
***Special thanks to Mavis Sanders, Corporate Publicist, Tyndale House Publishers for sending me a review copy.***
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Award-winning author DiAnn Mills is a fiction writer who combines an adventuresome spirit with unforgettable characters to create action-packed novels. DiAnn's first book was published in 1998, and she currently has more than 40 books in print, with combined sales of over one million copies. In 2009, Tyndale House introduced Breach of Trust, Book #1 in her Call of Duty series about women with dangerous occupations. Six of her anthologies have appeared on the CBA best-seller list. Eight of her books have been nominated for the American Christian Fiction Writers' book-of-the-year contest, and she is the recipient of the Inspirational Reader's Choice award for 2005 and 2007. Lightning and Lace was a 2008 Christy Award finalist.
DiAnn is a founding board member for American Christian Fiction Writers and a member of Inspirational Writers Alive; Romance Writers of America's Faith, Hope, and Love chapter; and the Advanced Writers and Speakers Association. She speaks to various groups and teaches writing workshops around the country. DiAnn is also a mentor for Jerry B. Jenkins's Christian Writers Guild. DiAnn and her husband live in Houston, Texas.
List Price: $12.99
Paperback: 400 pages
Publisher: Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. (March 4, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1414320515
ISBN-13: 978-1414320519
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
We are truly a nation of immigrants.
But we are also a nation of laws.
Brent Ashabranner
McAllen, Texas
The Rio Grande was not just murky. It was toxic. Danika Morales respected the river’s temperament—lazy and rushing, crystal and muddy, breathtaking and devastating. To many illegal immigrants, its flowing water signified hope and an opportunity for a better tomorrow, while others viewed the river crossing as a means of smuggling drugs or spreading terrorism. But for Danika, the depths meant death, and it didn’t discriminate among its victims. That was why she chose a Border Patrol badge and carried a gun.
Shortly after the 8 a.m. muster, Danika snatched up the keys to the Tahoe assigned to her for the next ten hours and checked out an M4. A hum of voices, most with Hispanic accents and clipped with occasional laughter, swirled around the station. A labyrinth of sights and sounds had succeeded in disorienting her. A daze.
She took a sip of the steaming coffee in hopes no one saw how the day’s date affected her. Her hands shook. The twelfth of July. The second anniversary of Toby’s murder. She thought she could handle it better than this, but the raw ache still seared her heart.
“Tough day for me too,” Jacob whispered beside her. “We can get through this together.” The familiar tone of voice, as in many times before, nearly paralyzed her. Jacob sounded so much like his brother.
She stood shoulder to shoulder with her brother-in-law and glanced at his muscular frame and the silver streaks in his closely cropped hair, everything about him oddly different from Toby. Gone were the gentleness, the patience, and the outstretched arms of love.
“Thanks. But I’m all right.”
He frowned, a typical expression. “Well, I’m not, and you shouldn’t be either.”
She was in no mood to rile him today. “I miss Toby every minute of the day, but we have to move on. He would have wanted it that way.”
“Not till his murderer is found.” Jacob’s jaw tightened. “I’m disappointed in you.”
Danika took another sip of the hot coffee, burning her tongue. Caustic words threatened to surface and add one more brick to the wall dividing them. “I want the killer found too. I’m committed to it. I think about him every day and mourn for our daughter, who will never know her daddy. But I choose not to spend my time harboring hate and vengeance.”
“You must not have really loved my brother.”
The words cut deep, as Jacob must have known they would. No woman could have loved Toby like she did. “I refuse to be browbeaten by you anymore. Your hate is going to explode in your own backyard one day.” She stopped herself before she lit a match to his temper. Actually, she’d rather have been dropped in the bush for the next ten hours with a shotgun and a can of OFF! than argue with him. But the time had come to distance herself from Jacob.
“Hey, Danika,” an agent called, “do these belong to you?”
She turned to see wiry Felipe Chavez carrying a vase with a huge bouquet of roses. They remembered. She swallowed a chunk of life. “Oh, guys, you didn’t have to do this.”
Felipe made his way toward her. The other agents hushed; then one of them started to clap. She smiled through the tears as he handed her the clear glass vase. The sweet fragrance no longer reminded her of death, but of life and her resolve to live each day in a way that commemorated Toby’s devotion to her and their little daughter. Perhaps this was what the two-year marker meant.
She took the roses and studied the small crowd of agents. Good men, all of them—even Jacob.
“We cared about what happened to Toby too,” Felipe said with a grim smile.
Danika brushed her finger around one of the delicate petals and formed her words. Memories had stalked her like a demon since last night. “Don’t know what to say except thank you. Toby was a soldier for his own cause, and he spent his life doing what he believed in. Just like all of us.”
One agent shook his head, frowned, and left the room. Far too many explanations for his disapproval raced through her mind. But Danika needed to put the ugliness behind her.
She set the flowers on the long table in front of her. “Today is the second anniversary of Toby’s death. All of you have looked after me and my daughter, especially during holidays and special occasions. His death is why I’m more dedicated than ever to help protect the border.” She paused, sensing her emotions rushing into chaos. “I appreciate your remembering him and the sacrifice he made, especially since his beliefs were controversial.” Enough said.
She took a deep, cleansing breath. “I brought doughnuts.”
And they were buttermilk, Toby’s favorite.
She glanced at Jacob, hoping to end the tension between them. How Barbara could stay married to him was beyond her comprehension. He treated her and their four kids like yesterday’s trash.
Danika wound through the crowd of agents, greeting those who offered condolences and others who offered a good-morning.
The field operations supervisor, Agent Oden Herrera, stood in front of the flags—the U.S., Homeland Security, and the Border Patrol. Pushing the emotions of regret and grief about Toby aside, Danika captured the supervisor’s attention. “During the muster you said intel had picked up a cocaine drop last night?”
Herrera walked to a wall map and pointed. “Like I said earlier: arrested seven men and two women right along here, your area. A kid had a small bag of cocaine on him. Most likely a deterrent. The drug smuggler either hid it before being apprehended, or he’s still waiting for someone to pick him up. Dogs have been out there most of the night, but Barnett and Fire-Eater are headed that way in a few minutes.”
Danika finished her coffee and made her way into the stifling heat and stopped by Jon Barnett’s truck. As Fire-Eater’s handler, he had everyone’s admiration, and the Belgian sheepdog had a reputation for being the best of the K-9s. Barnett snapped on the dog’s leash and waved.
“I hear we’re working the same area today.” Danika refrained from patting Fire-Eater. Some days he wasn’t people friendly. After seeing the dog in action a few times when he’d found drug runners, she sometimes felt sorry for those he brought down.
Barnett grinned and wiped the sweat already beading on his face. “He’s a good dog, Morales. Just needs a little help with his people skills.” He laughed, his freckles deepening in the intense sun. “And he’s great with the wife and kids. Like another member of the family.” He pulled out his keys. “Do you want to talk? We have a few minutes.”
All she really wanted was for the day to be over. Talking increased the chances of liquid emotion—which was more lethal than the river flowing between the U.S. and Mexico. “No thanks. I’m fine.”
“Do you need to talk?”
“It’s been two years.” Therapeutic or not, she would not open up, even to a sweet guy like Barnett. She’d spent hours building a reputation as a tough agent, and she wasn’t about to take a nosedive now.
“Right, and the sooner you admit that today has crept up on you worse than a case of food poisoning, the better you’ll feel.”
She had to agree. “Have you turned psychologist?”
“Fire-Eater and five kids taught me all I know.”
“I had a dog when I was a kid,” she said, looking for any subject except Toby. “Gentle, sensed my moods, smart. My best friend. Sure missed him when he was gone.” Danika blinked back a tear, despising her reaction. She stared at Fire-Eater rather than look into Barnett’s face.
“I bet he slept at the foot of your bed.”
Fire-Eater climbed into the backseat of the double-cab truck.
“Sometimes in it. We even shared meals. I didn’t like meat, and he’d eat it for me.”
“Who’s your best friend now?”
She swallowed the ever-increasing lump in her throat. “Toby’s gone, and I have a tough time in church.”
“Confession is a beginning. Any family?”
“Toby’s family has been good to me.” Never mind Jacob. “My folks never approved of my marriage.” She sucked in a breath. It hissed like the poisonous snakes she feared. “Well-meaning friends do this to me.”
“Do you feel any better?”
Sneak. “Yeah, thanks, doc. You—”
Fire-Eater barked. No doubt anxious to get moving. The animal and Jacob had similar personalities, but today she’d rather be with the dog.
HHH
Danika turned off Old Military Road and bounced along a narrow dirt and gravel path, bordered by tall, thick grass and brush and laden with prickly pears on the Rio Grande side and more thick brush on the other. Jon had radioed ahead and reported signs from last night, but nothing new. Every agent was on alert. Trouble brewed along the entire two-thousand-mile border between Mexico and the United States. Drug cartels were slaughtering innocent people in the streets, and those on the U.S. side feared it was only a matter of time before the fighting spilled over the line. Not on her watch.
She drove slowly past the few houses perched on the right side of the road, most of which had been stash houses at one time or another, havens for illegal aliens and drug smugglers. She stopped the truck beside a well-worn trail to look for recent signs in the dirt. After a generous spray of mosquito repellent on her uniform and hands, she stepped into the stifling ninety-degree heat and bent to study the hours-old footprints indicating where the illegals had gained access into Texas before being apprehended. Most of them only wanted an opportunity to better themselves, but others had a darker agenda. At least she hoped the footprints had been accounted for.
A breeze from the north fanned her face and offered a brief reprieve from the unrelenting sun. The tall grass with its thick growth waved as though mocking her commitment to the Border Patrol.
Fifteen minutes later, Barnett radioed a call for assistance.
“Spotted a man wearing a backpack near the 112 sensor. He headed into the carrizo.”
Danika ran back to the truck and raced her vehicle toward Barnett’s location. She wanted to tell him to wait for backup and not search through the thick grass alone, but she knew Barnett and Fire-Eater were a team and stayed on the traffic. The smuggler probably hid on a rattler’s nest.
She was the first to respond to Barnett’s request. Pulling in behind his truck, she unclipped her HK from her belt while radioing her arrival. She grabbed her cell phone and dialed his number.
“Barnett, I’m here,” she said. “Tell me you’re not in the middle of the carrizo.”
He chuckled. “Fire-Eater’s after him. I’m skirting it. Neither one of us is coming out until we have our man.”
She pocketed her cell phone and followed the agent’s footprints on the dusty road until they disappeared into the thicket. Hot as it was, the Kevlar vest felt good, even if it was worthless against a stab wound or a shotgun blast.
Fire-Eater barked, snapping Danika’s attention toward the riverbank. The dog growled from somewhere in the depths of the overgrowth.
Gunfire cracked in the still morning air. Alert to the danger, she pulled her weapon.
“This is the United States Border Patrol! Come out with your hands up!” Barnett’s voice roared.
Another shot fired. Fire-Eater yelped.
Blood pumping, Danika yanked out her radio. “Shots fired. Shots fired. Agent or K-9 may be down.”
Two more shots pierced the air.
When Barnett didn’t respond, she clicked the radio in place on her belt. “Barnett,” she yelled, “tell me you’re all right.”
Nothing.
A dark-haired man emerged from the right side of the road several yards away, wearing a backpack that no doubt contained drugs. His attention scattered in different directions.
“Alto, o disparo,” she said.
The man turned and fired at her before racing across the road. The bullet angled to her left. Danika returned the fire and sank a bullet into his thigh. He fell, and she raced toward him.
“Drop the gun, or I’ll be forced to shoot again.”
He kept his fingers wrapped around it. She wrestled with the rage that always seemed to lie below the surface of her control. If she killed him, she could claim self-defense. But her job title meant self-control.
“I said drop the gun.” She fired above him and kept running in his direction.
He lifted his hand and aimed. Instinctively she pumped a bullet into his hand. His wound caused a burst of blood to splatter the ground and the quiet air to echo with obscenities. Still he refused to release the hold on his gun.
“Do you want your whole hand blown off?” She stood over him and clamped her booted foot over his injured hand.
He screamed, and she pointed her firearm at his face. Danika trembled. She wasn’t a murderer, but anger did struggle to rule her emotions.
“You’ll pay for this,” the man said. “I know who you are, and there’s a contract out for you.”
“You aren’t the first or the last to threaten me.” She picked up the man’s gun, an older model Beretta. With his leg and hand bleeding, he wasn’t going anywhere. She slipped the handcuffs from her belt and clamped them on his wrists. Rolling him over, she brushed his bleeding leg against the hard ground, and he moaned. Where was backup? Please, let Barnett be okay. Five kids. A respected agent.
“The drug cartels will destroy the Border Patrol.”
“Big talk for a man in handcuffs.”
“You wait and see who wins.” He spit on her boot. “You’ll never find out who killed your husband.”
She smothered the gasp that nearly stole her breath. How did the man know her? know about Toby’s death? He clearly had inside information—information that couldn’t have been obtained easily. Unless Toby’s murder was related to something bigger than she had imagined.
Focus. Now was not the time to weigh the shooter’s words. Later she’d look into it.
Her gaze searched the area. An outstretched arm poked through the overgrowth where the downed man had attempted to cross the road. She hurried, gun raised, eyes taking in every inch of the brush. As she grew closer, she saw the rest of Barnett’s body sprawled on the trodden grass. Blood soaked the ground, creating a small puddle of red against the vibrant green. Danika bent to his side.
Barnett moaned. “He shot Fire-Eater,” he whispered. “Get him.”
“I have him cuffed. Hold on. Help’s coming.” She pulled out the radio. “Need EMS. Agent down.”
She hadn’t been there for Toby, but she could be there for Barnett.
My review:
I've never read anything by DiAnn Mills before, but I really enjoyed this book. It is the second in a series, but I would say they could be read in any order.
The main character in this book is a Border Agent. The story is suspense, so there is a lot of that, but without taking sides on the issue, the author also takes a good look at the illegal immigration issue. I am firmly against it, but found it interesting to see the other viewpoint also. I also learned some interesting things about Border Agents and what they do. One thing that stuck out to me which is not a fictional fact, but real: many Border Agents change into their uniform at work and keep their job a secret from their neighbors, as it is not a popular job and they could endanger their lives and the lives of their families if people knew what they did for a job.
I liked this book enough that I am going to read the first in the series. And I highly recommend this series and author.
Book Description: The Tides of Truth series follows one lawyer's passionate pursuit of truth--in matters of life and the law.
As the storm clouds gather, Tami does her best to weather the growing turbulence in every area of her life.
She's just accepted a job with a law firm but now wonders if she made the right decision. She has two strong men vying for her heart--and is about to lose them both if she can't determine which one is right for her.
And Tami's new case is anything but simple. When she first meets her prospective client, she immediately knows the rough young teen is lying, guilty...and utterly terrified of something beyond the charges she's facing. What she doesn't realize is just how far reaching the effects of the case will go. Or how close to home the deadly results will hit. For by the time the storm breaks, someone close to Tami will have paid the ultimate price.
Through it all, Tami will experience greater sacrifice, greater friendship, and greater love than she's ever known.
My review:
This whole series is different from Whitlow's normal writing. I prefer his more suspenseful/legal thriller type, but this is a good series. I like his characters, and have enjoyed a whole series revolving around the same characters.
This book, the third in the series, is the best of the three, in my opinion. The main character faces some rough choices, not only with the two men who are interested in her romantically, but also with the case she is working on. As with the other books in the series, Tami's more conservative faith faces some unique challenges. This is the final book in this series, and had a couple of surprises, but Whitlow did a great job bringing the series to a fitting conclusion.
About the author:
Robert Whitlow is a best-selling author of eight legal thrillers[citation needed], and has contributed a short story (The Rescuers) to the book What The Wind Picked Up by The ChiLibris Ring. In 2001, he won the Christy Award for Contemporary Fiction, for his novel The Trial. He is a practicing attorney and lives in North Carolina.
His debut novel, The List, was made into a movie starring Malcolm McDowell.
Greater Love is available from Thomas Nelson Publishers
Note to authors: I do review for some publishers, but if you are interested in getting a book reviewed, doing a email review, or even a guest blog, contact me. I am primarily interested in Christian fiction. I do prefer physical copies over e-books.
Email: marcus802001(at)yahoo(dot)com
I live in East Palestine, Ohio. I am single, and am uncle to the six greatest kids in the world. I enjoy blogging about Christian fiction, my family, Christianity, and the events of my life
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