Smoke Screen

She turned to face him, took a chance. “But I’d guess, after looking at the evidence so far, that the real target of all that pent-up rage was you.”

Jake’s hands fisted, his only show of temper. Though his vivid blue eyes burned with anger, he kept his voice low, controlled. “Why?”

She didn’t touch him, just watched. “Why what, Pastor?”

“Why kill her? Why wouldn’t he come after me instead?”

“Because he wanted you to hurt worse than you have ever hurt in your life. And the numbers on the wall indicate that he’ll keep killing. Unless I’m way off base…he isn’t done torturing you yet.”

penned her first suspense story—complete with illustrations—at the age of twelve, but didn’t write seriously until her youngest child was in first grade. She lives in northwest Florida, where she gains inspiration from the sugar-white sand, aqua blue-green water of the Gulf of Mexico, and the many unusual and interesting things you see when you live on the beach. You can find her most often enjoying the water with her family, or at their church, where her husband is the pastor. Visit Stephanie at her Web site, www.stephanienewton.net or send an e-mail to [email protected].

Where can I go from Your Spirit?

Where can I flee from Your presence?

If I go up to the heavens, You are there;

if I make my bed in the depths, You are there.

If I rise on the wings of the dawn,

if I settle on the far side of the sea,

Even there Your hand will guide me,

Your right hand will hold me fast.

—Psalms 139:7–10

Many, many thanks are due to all those who

contributed to making this book a reality.

For the technical info, I have to give credit to those

way smarter than I am for so much that I didn’t know. Any mistakes…well, those I’ll take full credit for.

So, gracias, merci, xie xie, grazie, thank you,

thank you, thank you…

First, to my family, for being so understanding, and

(almost) always supportive of having pizza just one more time.

To my awesome editor, Melissa Endlich, and my

amazing agent, Barbara Collins Rosenberg—it’s my great honor to be working with you.

To my writing “support group,” Brenda Minton,

Catherine Mann and Holly La Pat—for the brainstorming, coffee breaks, late-night critiques and super-fast reads, especially when you are so busy with your own work.

To Brian Stampfl, of CSI Seattle—for answering my

questions and keeping me from making dumb mistakes.

To Joe and Susie Endry—for your generosity. I

wouldn’t have made my deadline without you!

Finally, to Joe Reeder, firefighter-EMT with Bay

County Fire-Rescue—for the help, for letting your wife befriend the new pastor’s wife, for what you do every day. I’m truly grateful.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

EPILOGUE

LETTER TO READER

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

“Units requested for structure fire at 1215 Conch Drive. Flames visible.” Jake Rollins tossed the red bubble light onto the dash of his 4Runner as the scanner continued its commentary from the floorboard. He was going to miss his meeting.

The calls sometimes came in the middle of the night. Fire didn’t have an alarm clock and accidents didn’t have a time schedule. Little children didn’t get lost—and found—according to what was convenient for emergency personnel.

“Units responding.”

Jake shifted gears, preacher to firefighter. He might not be a smoke-eater anymore, but he still fought fires his own way, fighting the damage they did—to their victims and to the people who walked fearlessly into them—every day. Fire had almost destroyed him.

It was only the grace of God that had saved him, only God that could have brought him back from the pit he’d been in when he’d discovered he couldn’t be a firefighter anymore. God had given him a new purpose, serving others in a way that he hadn’t been able to before—and working for the department in a way that would never have been cool to him before—as Sea Breeze, Florida’s, first fire department chaplain.

He leaned over to turn the scanner up, listening for details. Emergency vehicles and beach traffic didn’t mix well. A horn blared as he shot into an opening in the next lane.

Jake whipped into the neighborhood, pulling to a stop. A smear of charcoal-gray smoke in the sky told him he was in the right place without him even checking the address. Police had closed off the perimeter, but the turnout gear that he was required to wear on scene eased the way. The crew from his old station house was on duty. Two firefighters trained spray from the heavy hose onto the burning structure and Captain Caruso wore a path in the lawn, barking orders into his walkie-talkie.

Tension tightened Jake’s shoulders. When things went well at a job, the men who fought the fires cracked jokes to handle the stresses of a high-pressure job. That was a good day.