Authors: Terri Blackstock

Tags: #Fiction, #Christian, #Suspense, #General, #Thrillers

Blind Trust (25 page)

I
n the throes of sleep in her hospital room later that night, Sherry struggled with the colliding images ranting through her mind like faces in a haunted house. Paul’s face and the cold, cruel glint of his gun; the dead boy on the bluff; the fire that had been meant to consume her and Clint; the navy hooded jackets; the pain of betrayal that was not really betrayal. But on the heels of the horror came an unyielding Bronco to chase her down and rescue her from her grief. And the horror was gone.

She opened her eyes and Clint—still sitting in the chair beside her bed—smiled down at her. It wasn’t all a dream. He was here, and no matter what had transpired before this moment, now was what mattered.

“I love you, Clint,” she whispered.

“I love you too, baby,” he said, stroking her hand. “Go back to sleep.”

“You won’t leave?”

“Not until you push me away,” he said.

“Then you’ll be here a long time, Superman.”

“That’s my plan,” Clint said with a smile as he leaned over to kiss her. “That’s been my plan all along.”

And, finally, Sherry knew that faith that she had almost abandoned. No longer would it be a flimsy bit of selfbetrayal. It would become the backbone of her secure world. A world she had fought for and won. The cornerstone of their little square of paradise.

About the Author

T
erri Blackstock is an award-winning novelist who has written for several major publishers including HarperCollins, Dell, Harlequin, and Silhouette. Published under two pseudonyms, her books have sold over 5 million copies worldwide.

With her success in secular publishing at its peak, Blackstock had what she calls “a spiritual awakening.” A Christian since the age of fourteen, she realized she had not been using her gift as God intended. It was at that point that she recommitted her life to Christ, gave up her secular career, and made the decision to write only books that would point her readers to him.

“I wanted to be able to tell the truth in my stories,” she said, “and not just be politically correct. It doesn’t matter how many readers I have if I can’t tell them what I know about the roots of their problems and the solutions that have literally saved my own life.”

Her books are about flawed Christians in crisis and God’s provisions for their mistakes and wrong choices. She claims to be extremely qualified to write such books, since she’s had years of personal experience.

A native of nowhere, since she was raised in the Air Force, Blackstock makes Mississippi her home. She and her husband are the parents of three children—a blended family which she considers one more of God’s provisions.

ENJOY THE NEXT BOOK IN THE SECOND CHANCES SERIES

Broken Wings

Chapter 1

I
f not for a minor car accident that kept her home, Erin Russell would have been copiloting Flight 94 when it crashed, killing 151 people, including her dear friend and captain, Mick Hammon. News of the crash devastated her, and she hasn’t flown since. Rumors are spreading throughout her airline that the crash has sent her over the edge, that fear and grief have paralyzed her, that she may never fly again. Addison Lowe, the National Transportation Safety Board investigator who is trying to determine the cause of the crash, has heard those rumors. Just last night, he even heard her trying to resign entirely, though her boss convinced her to give it some time. Despite her fragile state, Addison still has to grill her about the pilot whose errors may have caused his own death …

T
he persistent ringing of the doorbell penetrated Erin’s thin, shallow sleep, and she opened her eyes and sat up. Through the haze of grogginess, she realized she had fallen asleep on the couch, wearing her faded jeans and an old sweatshirt. There had been too many ghosts to sleep in the bed. The couch kept her from falling too deeply into sleep from which there was no escape once the dreams started.

The doorbell rang again, and Erin stood up and looked around, prepared to destroy any evidence that she’d slept on the couch. People were already beginning to question her mental state. But then, she was beginning to question it, too.

Pushing back her sleep-tousled hair, she stumbled to the door and opened it. The man she had seen waiting outside Frank’s office last night stood before her, clad in an ivory sweater that deepened the rough tan on his seasoned face. “Yes?” she asked.

“Miss Russell?”

“Yes,” she said again, irritated.

“I’m Addison Lowe. I was in Mr. Redlo’s office last night … “

“I remember, Mr. Lowe,” she cut in, crossing her arms with a decided lack of tolerance. “I hope you found my conversation with my boss interesting.”

“I wasn’t eavesdropping. I had an appointment.”

“Regardless,” she said, still blocking the door with her body, “you listened to a private conversation that was none of your business.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Miss Russell,” he said.

“Wrong about your listening? You don’t expect me to believe—”

“No,” he said. “Wrong about it being any of my business. It’s very much my business. It’s my job to know when a pilot’s stability is waning, though I generally find out after it’s too late.”

All the murky grogginess in Erin’s head vanished, and molten fire rose up in her eyes. “I beg your pardon.”

Addison reached for his wallet, handed her a card. “I’m with the National Transportation Safety Board, and I came from Washington to investigate the crash.”

“The National Transportation … “ The words faded off into nothingness before they were completely uttered, and a foreboding sense of panic descended. Had she really admitted to being afraid to fly in the presence of a NTSB official? Had he heard everything? She tried not to look as defensive as she felt. “What … what do you want from me?” she asked.

“I understand you were Mick Hammon’s first officer,” he said. “I thought maybe you could answer some questions for me.”

She glared up at him, weighing one consequence against another. He didn’t exactly look menacing. In fact, those dark green eyes sparkled with soul. The normal impulse would be to like him at first sight. But Erin didn’t want to like him. Not if he was the one sifting through the remains of Mick Hammon’s crash. On the other hand, she asked herself, what choice did she really have?

Sighing loudly, she stepped back from the door to let him in. She was still an employee of Southeast Airlines, after all, and when it came to an investigation, the NTSB might as well be the FBI. She looked around for signs of her emotional state that could quickly be discarded, cluttered clues that she was at her rope’s end. “You might have called first,” she said, gathering a pile of wadded Kleenex from the coffee table and rushing into the kitchen to throw it away.

“I tried,” he said. “The phone was off the hook.”

Erin swung around, saw him standing in the kitchen doorway. His green eyes probed mercilessly, seeing far too many things that she wasn’t prepared to reveal. Guilty, she glanced at the telephone, lying on its side on the counter. “I guess I forgot to hang it up last night.”

“No problem,” he said. There was an almost amused twinkle in his eyes, but beneath that twinkle lay something else. Something like … concern. “I leave mine lying around all the time. Just forget to hang it up.”

“All right.” She stared coldly at him, resentful of the way he was trying to corner her about something that was none of his business. “I took it off the hook on purpose. I was in a bad mood.” Impertinently, she held out her wrists. “Go ahead. Cuff me and haul me in.”

The deep laughter that erupted from his throat took her by surprise, and her anger began to diminish by degrees. For the first time she noticed the strong texture of his short black hair, the thick lines of his brows, and the startling contrast of those laughing, smoky emerald eyes. The corners of her rigid mouth softened, and she smiled when he rubbed his mouth, as if the gesture could wipe away his condemning grin.

“Sorry,” he said, his laughter dying. “I don’t mean to drill you. If you want to leave the phone off the hook, it’s your prerogative.”

“I appreciate that,” she said dryly.

“I’m also sorry I woke you,” he added.

She looked down at her wrinkled sweatshirt, at the jeans she’d slept in. Self-consciously, she raised a hand to her tangled hair. “I … I wasn’t asleep. I had just gotten up.”

“Had you?” he asked skeptically. The look of amusement vanished from his eyes, replaced by that annoying look of concern. Erin wished that just once in the past two weeks she could have looked in someone’s eyes and not seen concern. “Well, whatever … I realize I haven’t come at the best time. But I really need to talk to you before I can go on with my report.”

Erin turned to the coffee pot, groped for the can of grains, and mechanically began filling the percolator. “I don’t know why you have to talk to me. I wasn’t there.”

Addison shifted his weight to one hip and leaned on the counter. Subtly, the scent of woodsy aftershave drifted to her senses. “No, you weren’t there, but you were usually Hammon’s copilot, and, I hear, his closest friend at the airline. I need a lot of background on him if I’m going to come to a fair conclusion about the crash. You can give it to me.”

His words served as sparks to ignite her tinder-dry emotions, and Erin swiveled and glared at him across the small kitchen. “Fair conclusion? Are you kidding me? You just want more evidence to nail him. Why not? He isn’t here to defend himself, is he? You can say just about anything you want to about him.”

“Erin, I’m looking for accurate—”

“You can call me Miss Russell.”

“I got your name from your file,” he said, all warmth gone from his voice. He quietly assumed an authoritative tone. “And I’ll call you whatever you like, Miss Russell. As for your hysterical accusation, I am not trying to ‘nail’ anyone. I’m trying to do my job and make certain that the cause of that crash is known so that it doesn’t happen again.”

Silence continued between them for a series of eternities as the smell of perking coffee intruded on vexed senses. Finally, Erin turned back to it, poured two cups, then grudgingly added the cream and sugar he politely requested. A frown cut deep into her forehead as she handed him a mug then set a spoon in her own and stirred the dark liquid. “I don’t … I don’t want to talk about Mick with you. Or the crash. Or anything else.”

Addison sipped the coffee and leveled those poignant eyes on her again.

“You have to,” he said quietly. “If you don’t, I’ll have you subpoenaed, and you’ll have to talk about it in front of a board of my superiors. Believe me, you don’t want to do that.”

She gulped her coffee, scalding her tongue. Frustrated, she set it back down too hard. It sloshed onto the counter, but she scarcely noticed, for she was staring at Addison with scathing eyes. “Well, do you mind if I brush my teeth first? Change clothes? I didn’t expect to wake up to an interrogation this morning.”