Chapter 1
The summer storm lit up the night sky in a jagged display
of energy, lightning streaking and fragmenting between
towering thunderheads. Sara Walsh ignored the storm as
best she could, determined not to let it interrupt her
train of thought. The desk lamp as well as the overhead
light were on in her office as she tried to prevent any
shadows from forming. What she was writing was disturbing
enough.
The six-year-old boy had been found…. Dead.
Writing longhand on a yellow legal pad of paper, she
shaped the twenty-ninth chapter of her mystery novel.
Despite the dark specificity of the scene, the flow of
words never faltered.
The child had died within hours of his abduction. His
family, the Oklahoma law enforcement community, even his
kidnapper, did not realize it. Sara didn’t pull back from
writing the scene even though she knew it would leave a
bitter taste of defeat in the mind of the reader. The
impact was necessary for the rest of the book.
She crossed out the last sentence, added a new detail,
then went on with her description of the farmer who had
found the boy.
Thunder cracked directly overhead. Sara flinched. Her
office suite on the thirty-fourth floor put her close
enough to the storm she could hear the air sizzle in the
split second before the boom. She would like to be in the
basement parking garage right now instead of her office.
A glance at the clock on her desk showed it was almost
eight in the evening. The push to finish a story always
took over as she reached the final chapters. This tenth
book was no exception.
This was the most difficult chapter in the book to write.
It was better to get it done in one long sustained effort.
Death always squeezed her heart.
Had her brother been in town, he would have insisted she
wrap it up and come home. Her life was restricted enough
as it was. He refused to let her spend all her time at the
office. He would lean against the doorjamb of her office
and give her that look along with his predictable lecture
telling her all she should be doing: puttering around the
house, cooking, messing with the roses, doing something
other than sitting behind that desk.
She did so enjoy taking advantage of Dave’s occasional
absences.
His flight back to Chicago from the FBI academy at
Quantico had been delayed due to the storm front. When he
called her from the airport out East, he cautioned her he
might not be home until eleven.
It wasn’t a problem, she assured him, everything was fine.
Code words. Spoken every day. So much a part of their
language now that she spoke them
instinctively. “Everything is fine”—all clear; “I’m fine”—
I’ve got company; “I’m doing fine”—I’m in danger. She had
lived the dance a long time. The tight security around her
life was necessary. It was overpowering, obnoxious,
annoying…and comforting.
Sara turned in the black leather chair to watch the
display of lightning. The skyline of downtown Chicago
glimmered back at her through the rain.
With every book, another fact, another detail, another
intense emotion, broke through from her own past. She
could literally feel the dry dirt under her hand, feel the
oppressive darkness. Reliving what had happened to her
twenty-five years ago was terrifying. Necessary, but
terrifying.
She sat lost in thought for several minutes, idly walking
her pen through her fingers. Her adversary was out there
somewhere, still alive, still hunting her. Had he made the
association to Chicago yet? After all these years, she was
still constantly moving, still working to stay one step
ahead of the threat. Her family knew only too well his
threat was real.
The man would kill her. Had long ago killed her sister.
The threat didn’t get more basic than that. She had to
trust others and ultimately God for her security. There
were days her faith wavered under the intense weight of
simply enduring that stress. She was learning by necessity
how to roll with events, to trust God’s ultimate
sovereignty.
The notepad beside her was filled with doodled sketches of
faces. One of these days her mind was finally going to
stop blocking the one image she longed to sketch. She knew
she had seen the man. Whatever the consequences of trying
to remember, whatever the cost, it was worth paying in
order to try to bring justice for her and her sister.
She couldn’t force the image to appear no matter how much
she longed to do so. She was the only one who still
believed it was possible for her to remember it. The
police, the FBI, the doctors had given up hope years ago.
She fingered a worn photo of her sister Kim that sat by a
white rose on her desk. She didn’t care what the others
thought. Until the killer was caught, Sara would never
give up hope.
God was just. She held on to that knowledge and the hope
that the day of justice would eventually arrive. Until it
did, she carried guilt inside that remained wrapped around
her heart. In losing her twin, she had literally lost part
of herself.
Turning her attention back to her desk, she debated for a
moment whether or not she wanted to do any more work
tonight. She didn’t.
She slipped the pad of paper with her draft of the book
chapter into the folder beside her computer keyboard. When
it had begun to rain, she turned off her computer, not
willing to risk possible damage from a building electrical
surge should lightning hit a transformer or even the
building itself.
As she put the folder away, the framed picture on the
corner of her desk caught her attention. Her best friend
was getting married. Sara envied her. She could feel the
sense of rebellion rising again. The need to break free of
the security blanket around her rose and fell with time.
Ellen had freedom and a life. She was getting married to a
wonderful man. Sara longed to one day have that same
choice. Without freedom, it wasn’t possible, and that
hurt. Her dream was being sacrificed with every passing
day.
She opened her desk drawer, retrieved her purse, then
picked up her briefcase.
Her office had plush forest green carpet and ivory walls.
The furniture, European; the bookcases, mahogany. This was
the office where H. Q. Victor, the internationally known
British author, worked.
She lifted her raincoat from the stand by the door. With
the London Fog coat, she even looked British.
As she stepped into the outer office, the room lights
automatically turned on. They illuminated a massive
receptionist area where the walls displayed children’s
books—thirty-five of them—by Sara J. Walsh. Sara reached
back and turned off the interior office lights.
There was a second office twenty feet away, where the name
Sara Walsh had been stenciled in gold on the nameplate.
She wrote the children’s books there, illustrated them,
had fun. The office behind her had no nameplate. When she
locked the suite door, an electronic beam triggered behind
her, securing the office.
Her suite was in the east tower of the business complex.
Rising forty-five stories, the two recently built towers
added to the already impressive downtown skyline. Sara
liked the modern building and the shopping available on
the ground floor. She disliked the elevator ride for she
didn’t like closed spaces, but she considered the view
worth the price.
The elevator that responded tonight came from two floors
below. There were two connecting walkways between the east
and west towers, one on the sixth floor and another in the
lobby. She chose the sixth floor concourse tonight,
walking through it to the west tower with a confident but
fast pace.
She was alone in the wide corridor. Travis sometimes
accompanied her, but she had waved off his company tonight
and told him to go get dinner. If she needed him, she
would page him.
The click of her heels echoed off the marble floor. There
was parking under each tower, but if she parked under the
tower where she worked, she would be forced to pull out
onto a one-way street no matter which exit she took. It
was a pattern someone could observe and predict. Changing
her route and time of day across one of the two corridors
was a better compromise. Hopefully she could see any
danger coming.
Adam Black dropped the pen he held onto the white legal
pad and got up to walk over to the window, watching the
lightning storm flare around the building. He felt like
that inside. Storming, churning.
He had lost more than his dad—he had lost his confidant,
his best friend. Trying to cope with the grief by drowning
himself in work was only adding to the turmoil.
The passage in Mark chapter 4 of the storm-tossed sea and
Jesus asleep in the boat crossed his mind and drew a
smile. What had Jesus said? “Why are you afraid? Have you
still no faith?” Appropriate for tonight.
He rubbed the back of his neck. His current commercial
contracts expired in three months. A feeding frenzy was
forming—which ones would he be willing to renew? Which new
ones would he consider? What kind of money would it cost
for people to get use of his name and image?
The tentative dollar figures being passed by his brother-
in-law Jordan were astronomical.
The stack of proposals had been winnowed out, but the
remaining pile still threatened to slide onto the floor.
All he needed to do was make a decision.
God, what should I do?
The decisions he made would set his schedule for the next
five years of his life.If he said yes, he was by default
saying no to something else. Was it that he didn’t want to
make a decision or that he didn’t want to be tied down?
It was hard to define what he wanted to accomplish
anymore. He was restless. He had been doing basically the
same thing for three years: keeping his image in the
public eye and building his business. It had become
routine. He hated routine.
His dad would have laughed and told him that when the work
stopped being fun, it was time to find a new line of work.
They’d had eight days together between the first heart
attack and his death. Eight good days despite the pain—
Adam sitting at his dad’s hospital bedside and talking
about everything under the sun. They had both known that
time was short.
“I’ll be walking in glory soon, son,” his dad would quip
as they ended each evening, never knowing if it would be
their last visit. And Adam would squeeze his hand and
reply, “When you get there, you can just save me a seat.”
“I’ll save two,” his dad would reply with a twinkle in his
eye that would make Adam laugh.
Adam glanced at the red folder he had placed between the
picture of his father and the glass-encased football on
the credenza. No, he wasn’t reading the list in the folder
again tonight. He already knew it by heart.
It was time to go home. Time to feed his dog, if not
himself.
Sara decided to take the elevator down to the west tower
parking garage rather than walk the six flights. She could
grit her teeth for a few flights to save time. She pushed
the button to go down and watched the four elevators to
see which would respond first. The one to her left, coming
down from the tenth floor.
When it stopped she reached inside and pushed the garage-
floor parking button but didn’t step inside. Tonight she
would take the second elevator.
It came down from the twenty-fifth floor.
Sara shifted her raincoat over her arm and moved her
briefcase to her other hand. The elevator stopped and the
doors slid open.
A man was in the elevator.
She froze.
He was leaning against the back of the elevator, looking
as if he had put in a long day at work, a briefcase in one
hand and a sports magazine in the other, his blue eyes
gazing back at her. She saw a brief look of admiration in
his eyes.
Get in and take a risk; step back and take a risk.
She knew him. His face was as familiar as any sports
figure in the country, even if he’d been out of the game
of football for three years. His commercial endorsements
and charity work had continued without pause.
Adam Black worked in this building? This was a nightmare
come true. The last thing she needed was to be near
someone who attracted media attention.
She hesitated, then stepped in, her hand tightening on the
briefcase handle. A glance at the board of lights showed
he had already selected the parking garage.
“Working late tonight?” His voice was low, a trace of a
northeastern accent still present, his smile a pleasant
one.
Her answer was a noncommittal nod.
The elevator began to silently descend.
She had spent too much time in European finishing schools
to slouch. Her posture was straight, her spine relaxed,
even if she was nervous. She hated elevators. She should
have taken the stairs.
“Quite a storm out there tonight.”
The heels of her patent leather shoes sank into the jade
carpet as she shifted her weight from one foot to the
other. “Yes.”
Three more floors to go.
There was a slight flicker to the lights, and then the
elevator jolted to a halt.
“What?” Sara felt adrenaline flicker in her system like
the lights.
He pushed away from the back wall. “A lightning hit must
have blown a circuit.”
The next second, the elevator went black.
Ten seconds clicked by. Twenty. Sara’s adrenaline sent her
heart rate soaring. Pitch black. Closed space.
Lord, no. It’s dark. Get me out of this box!
“How long before they fix it?” She tried to keep her words
level and steady. She had spent years learning the
control, but this was beyond something she could control.
“It may take a few minutes, but they will find the circuit
breaker and the elevator will be moving again.”
Sounds amplified in the closed space as he moved. He set
down his briefcase? She couldn’t remember if there was a
phone in the elevator panel or not. How could she have
ridden in these elevators for three months and not looked
for something so simple?
“No phone, and what I think is the emergency pull button
seems to have no effect.”
Sara took deep breaths, trying to slow down her heart
rate. Neither her cellular phone nor her signaling beeper
would work inside this elevator.
“You’re very quiet,” he said eventually.
“I want out of here,” she replied slowly to hide the fact
her teeth were trying to chatter.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
She wanted to reply, “You’ve never been locked in a pitch-
black root cellar and left to die before,” but the
memories and the panic were already overwhelming her. Her
coping skills were failing when she needed them most. Her
hand clenched in the darkness, nails digging into her
palm. She could do this. She had no choice. It was only
darkness.
“Consider it from my viewpoint. I’m stuck in the dark with
a beautiful woman. There could be worse fates.”
She barely heard him. Lord, why tonight? Please, not this.
The darkness was so bad she could feel the nausea building.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean any offense with that remark.”
She couldn’t have answered if she wanted to. One thought
held her focus fast—surviving. The moment she needed
clarity, her mind was determined to retreat into the past
instead. A cold sweat froze her hands. Not here. Not with
someone else present. To suffer through a flashback when
her brother Dave was around was difficult enough. To do it
with a stranger would be horrible.
Adam didn’t understand the silence. The lady had
apparently frozen in one position. “Maybe it would help if
we introduced ourselves. I’m Adam Black. And you are…?”
Silence. Then a quiet, “Sara.”
“Hi, Sara.” He reached out a hand wondering why she was so
tense. No nervous laughter, no chatter, just frozen
stiffness. “Listen, since it looks like this might
actually take some time, why don’t we try sitting down.”
His hand touched hers.
She jerked back and he flinched. Her hand was like ice.
This lady was not tense, she was terrified.
He instantly reviewed what he had with him. Nothing of
much use. His sports coat was in his car, his team jacket
still upstairs in his office. What had she been wearing
when she stepped into the elevator? An elegant blue-and-
white dress that had caught his attention immediately, but
there had been more…a raincoat over her arm.
First get her warm, then get her calm.
“Sara, it will be okay. Sit down; let’s get you warm.” He
touched her hand again, grasping it in his so he could
turn her toward him. Cold. Stiff.
“I’m…afraid of the dark.”
No kidding.
He had to peel her fingers away from her briefcase
handle. “You’re safe, Sara. The elevator is not going to
fall or anything like that. The lights will come back on
soon.”
“I know.”
He could feel her fighting hysteria. The tremors coming
through her hands were growing stronger. He didn’t have to
be able to see her to know she was heading for deep
shock. “You’re safe. I’m not going anywhere. And I’m no
threat to you,” he added, wondering what would make a
grown woman petrified of the dark. The possibilities that
came to mind all made him feel sick.
“I know that too.”
He carefully guided her down to sit with her back leaning
against the elevator wall. He spread her coat out over her
and was thankful when she took over and did most of it
herself, tucking it around her shoulders, burying her
hands into the soft warmth of the fabric.
“Better?”
“Much.”
He couldn’t prevent a smile. “Don’t have much practice
lying, do you?”
“It sounds better than admitting I’m about to throw up
across your shoes.” There was almost the sound of an
answering smile in her reply.
He sat down carefully, close enough so he could reach her
if necessary but far enough away so she hopefully wouldn’t
feel any more cornered than she already did.
“Try leaning your head back and taking a few deep breaths.”
“How long has it been?” she asked a few moments later.
“Maybe four, five minutes.”
“That’s all?”
Adam desperately wished for matches, a lighter, anything
to break this blackness for her. “We’ll pass the time
talking about something, and the time will go by in an
instant. You’ll see. What would you like to talk about
first; do you have a preference?”
Silence.
“Sara. Come on, work with me here.”
He was reaching out to shake her shoulder when she
suddenly said through teeth that were obviously
chattering, “Sports. Why did you retire?”
Adam didn’t talk about the details of that decision with
many people, but under the present circumstances, she
could have asked him practically anything and he wouldn’t
have minded.
“Did you see the Super Bowl we won?”
“Of course. Half this town hated you for months afterward.”
He didn’t have to wonder if that was a smile.
“I liked the feeling of winning. But I was tired. Too
tired to do it again. It wasn’t just the physical
exhaustion of those last games, but the emotional drain of
carrying the expectations of so many people. So I decided
it was time to let the next guy in line have a chance.”
“You got tired.”
“I got tired.”
“I bet you were tired the season before when you lost the
Super Bowl to the Vikings.”
He chuckled. “I was.”
“Your retirement had nothing to do with being tired.” She
sounded quite certain about it. Her voice was also growing
steadier. “You won that Super Bowl ring to prove you were
capable of winning it; then you retired because the
challenge was gone. You didn’t play another season because
you would have been bored, not tired.”
“You sound quite certain about that theory.”
“Maybe because I know I’m right. You’re like your
father. ‘Do It Once—Right—Then Move On.’ Wasn’t that the
motto he lived his life by?”
Adam’s shoulder muscles tensed. “Where did you hear that?”
“You had it inscribed on his tombstone,” was the gentle
reply. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to touch a nerve.”
Adam didn’t answer. When and why had this lady been to the
cemetery where his father was buried? It was outside the
city quite a distance, and it was an old cemetery where
most plots had been bought ahead for several generations.
That inscription had not been added until almost a month
after the burial.
She was a reporter. The realization settled like a rock in
his gut. She had executed this meeting perfectly. Setting
up this “chance” encounter, paying off a building
maintenance worker to throw a switch for her, giving him
every reason to believe he was going to be playing the
hero by keeping her calm while the lights were out. He had
been buying the entire scenario, hook, line, and sinker.
“I like the quote and the philosophy of life it contains.”
“Sara, could we cut the facade? What do you want? You’re a
writer, aren’t you?”
Silence met his anger.
“What kind of writer would you like me to admit to being?”
The ice in her voice was unmistakable.
“Just signal for this elevator to start moving again, and
I’ll consider not throttling you.”
“You think I caused this?”
“Not going to try denying you’re a writer?”
“I don’t have much practice lying,” she replied tersely,
echoing his earlier words.
“Great. Then I would say we are at an impasse, wouldn’t
you?” He waited for a response but didn’t get one. “When
you get tired of sitting in the dark, just signal your
cohorts that we are done talking, and we’ll go our
separate ways. Until then, I have nothing else to say to
you.”
“That’s fine with me.”
And with that, there was nothing between them but a long,
cold silence.