In God's Name, page 1
In God’s Name
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By L. J. Breedlove
Published by L. J. Breedlove
Copyright 2020 L. J. Breedlove
ISBN: 9781005462222
License Notes
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your e-book site and purchase a copy. Thank you for respecting the work this author.
Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. While place descriptions and news events may coincide with the real world, all characters and the plot are fictional.
Table of Contents
Copyright Page
In God’s Name
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Epilogue 2
Postscript
Further Reading: Serve & Protect
Also By L.J. Breedlove
About the Author
In God’s Name
Book 2 of the Mac Davis thrillers
SOMETIMES THE PAST WON'T STAY BURIED
Janet Andrews is a respected journalist and editor. But once, she was someone else. Now, they're coming for her, and this time? They aren't going to let her go.
Mac Davis isn't sure how he ended up being a cop reporter. But he's pretty sure he wouldn't still be a reporter if it wasn't for Janet Andrews. He probably would be in jail, if not dead. So he owes her. And he knows it.
Now, she's in trouble. She's being hunted. Mac doesn't plan to let her get hurt. So he's going after them, hunting the hunters.
And he's a very good hunter.
Book 2 in the Mac Davis thrillers featuring a Marine turned cop reporter in Seattle.
Prologue
(June 1985, Jehovah’s Valley, Oregon)
The Preacher hiked the ridge overlooking the valley. He wasn’t a young man anymore, almost 50, and hiking the steep hill took work. But he liked to be on the ridge and watch the sun rise, chasing the shadows of darkness away as they moved across the valley below.
“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear not, for the Lord is with me,” he quoted to himself. It seemed an appropriate promise for a man in his later years and it comforted him.
He carried his Bible, a black, leather-bound King James version that had seen some hard use. Later in the morning he had a sermon to deliver—an important one. The first in the Valley’s new church.
It was the first Sunday in June; he had led the congregation to its new home four weeks ago. A month of living in tents, starting to learn the land and its cycles, planting crops and building the church. It was their first building and the awkward skills of amateur builders showed. But it was sturdy and built with love for God—that was what counted.
The congregation called him Preacher. It suited him; he thought of himself that way now. He had led them here, and he would care for them here. He didn’t have advanced degrees, but he knew how to be a preacher. His father had been one; he’d been given a good education as a teen. He knew Latin and some Greek. He knew how to study the Word of God, to use the English language to speak God’s truths.
Twenty years in the Navy had taught him a few things as well. Preacher shook his head. He’d gotten out of the Navy at 38 and returned to his parents' home in Darrington, north of Seattle. Soon, he was driving truck during the week, and preaching in small churches throughout the northwest valleys of Washington state. He had a calling, some people said.
He met Mary, married, had three children—something he hadn’t thought he’d ever have. Sowed plenty of wild oats in the Navy and none of them grew; he’d thought perhaps he couldn’t have children. But God had blessed him and Mary. His two sons, nine and seven, were probably getting up now to start chores. Good boys, he thought with pride. They’d grow up to be Godly men here. His eldest, 10 years old, was a daughter. He sighed. She should be up as well, helping the women with breakfast. But he doubted she was there. She tended to sneak off, to read and to daydream. He despaired sometimes.
He’d seen war. He’d been in ’Nam, still woke from nightmares of the screams. Thank God, he was out now. Divided by the Vietnam War, by assassinations and protests, the country had turned away from God. He had watched the developments, troubled, troubled especially at the thought of raising children in a world of hedonism and sin. Gradually a congregation of 10 families formed. They would pool their money and move to a place where they could serve God and raise their families according to God’s will.
They owned nearly 4,000 acres here in eastern Oregon. It was a dry land, but fertile. Crops would grow; he was sure of it. There was water, natural springs and the Thief Valley Reservoir that could be brought to the crops in the valley. The people were willing to work hard, and God would bless their efforts. He had faith in that.
The 10 families had over 30 children to provide for. It gave a community meaning, Preacher thought now while looking over the valley. Jehovah’s Valley, they’d named it. Mary was a teacher; she would handle the little ones. Teens would be sent to a nearby school. He believed in education. He wanted the children to learn all they could to be able to serve God with their minds as well as with their hands.
It was dawn, the sunlight warmed the whole valley now. Preacher stood up from the rock he had been perched on. Off to his left a young girl’s voice broke into song.
“Morning has broken, like the first morning.”
He knew the voice, his daughter’s voice. A strong voice, clear in the morning air. He frowned and moved in that direction.
“Daughter,” he said firmly, startling her, breaking the song. “You should be below, helping with breakfast,” he said.
“Yes, father,” she whispered and fled down the hill, as graceful as the deer he saw some mornings. Her skirts flapped around her legs, was that a hem coming out? Yes. Although her hair was in braids, it still looked a mess, with fine hair flying loose around her face. Raising a daughter to be a good Christian woman might be the hardest task the Lord had assigned him.
He shook his head, and sighed. She’d left her Bible behind. He picked it up and glanced at what it was opened to. The story of Mary and Martha. He sighed again.
It was a story that troubled him. Jesus had reprimanded those of his followers who had tried to send Mary to the kitchen with her sister Martha. Mary had chosen the better things, Jesus had said, to sit at his feet and learn.
The Preacher made his way carefully down the rocky slope. Surely Jesus would understand that there was no room here for a Mary. Martha was required to keep the community fed and clothed. Someday perhaps. But not now.
The song his daughter had been singing echoed through his mind. It captured his mood on the ridge exactly. She had a way of doing that, of being able to call out emotions with just the right words.
Not for the first time, he wished she’d been a son.
The dedication of the new church was a day of celebration. The congregation had worked hard, very hard, for a month now. Preacher was happy with the way the morning sermon had gone, followed by a meal of fellowship and thanksgiving. There had been no work on the Sabbath today, the Preacher decreed. He and the other men spent the afternoon relaxing, a rare moment over the past month, watching the children play while the women cleaned up after lunch.
The congregation returned to the church that evening for a children’s pageant. The Preacher sat with his wife in the back pew, watching the children perform an arrangement of songs and skits that again captured the congregation’s mood perfectly. As the children finished, they began to sing a children’s song:
“This little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine.”
Each child lit a candle from the one his daughter held and went down into the congregation. Candles were handed out among the adults and each lit their candle from the person next to them.
“Hide it under a bushel. No! I’m going to let it shine.”
Preacher accepted the candle offered by his son. He lit his, turned to his wife and passed the light on.
“Devil wants to blow it out. No, I’m going to let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.”
The Preacher swallowed a lump in his throat, as the whole church filled with light, everyone softly singing.
“This little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.”
After the service, Preacher stood at the back of the church with hi
“Your daughter planned the whole thing,” Mary whispered proudly. “She’s so gifted.”
The Preacher glanced at the small woman next to him. His daughter still stood up at the front of the church, softly singing. “This little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.” Adults glanced up at her and smiled as they shook the Preacher’s hand.
“There is only one gift the Lord wants from a woman, the gift of submission,” he said sourly to his wife. “You should set a better example for your daughter, who seems to have a problem with that gift.”
His wife bowed her head. “Yes, husband,” she said softly.
“Let it shine, let it shine.”
Chapter 1
(Seattle, Saturday, September 20, 2013)
Baby killer, the email message said.
You killed your baby!
You preach for more deaths, more baby deaths.
Repent!
Confess your sins. Or face the VENGEANCE of God!
Janet Andrews stabbed the delete key and sat back in her chair. She closed her eyes, took a deep steadying breath, and let it out slowly.
The computer had become the enemy. Her phone, too. Messages came, two, three, four times a day. Invading her home, her office, her life.
“Janet, are you all right?”
Janet looked up, gathered a smile together. “Sure, Cari, was I spacing off? What do you need?”
“Got a story tip from City Hall today. Someone is challenging the art in the parks as not being politically correct.”
Janet raised an eyebrow. “Well, it’s not, I suppose. All those pioneer statues with square-jawed men, women, and children clinging to their legs. Not even historically correct.”
“Yeah, when you start looking at them,” Cari agreed. “No invaders stealing Indian land. And there aren’t many people of color honored anywhere, I guess. Do you think I should follow up on it?”
Janet nodded, scribbled on her notepad. “I’ll send out a photographer, just to go look,” she said. “You got some contact names?”
“Charlie Tu.”
Janet laughed. “Why am I not surprised? Go for it.”
The noise and chaos of the newsroom permeated the isolation created by the email message and chased away the shadows. Janet looked around, a half-smile on her face. Some 25 journalists reported to her on this shift—6 a.m. to 3 p.m.—with others working evenings and nights. Sports, lifestyle, and business had their own staffs segregated from the contaminating influence of the news junkies. Phones rang, computers hummed, people talked. No matter what the bosses did to tidy the place up, chaos won in the end as evidenced by countless stacks of paper and the debris of human endeavor. Janet loved every inch of it.
She always had, since the day she walked timidly into a college newspaper office to ask if she could write. She’d been sent out to interview a professor who was collecting dolls. Nervous and scared, she’d had to stop in a bathroom and throw up. But she came back with an interview and a story. The editors at the UW Daily ran it with a picture of the historian, who demonstrated how toys—dolls in particular—reflected the changes in culture and values.
And Janet was hooked. The loud, cynical, sarcastic people in the newsroom looked at the straight, plainly dressed girl, who didn’t drink, much less smoke weed, who didn’t say damn or even hell, and shook their heads. But she thrived in a newsroom. The intelligence that had never been allowed to ask all the questions it wanted to, had finally found a home.
Janet sighed at the thought of the girl of her past, and took the first stack of mail that had been dumped on her desk to open and sort. Or actually, she sorted and opened. She’d once calculated the hundreds of pieces of mail she opened each day. Depressing. She looked at return addresses, tossing some in a pile for the business department, others into the garbage. She sorted others into piles for various reporters, and finally tackled the pile that was left. Open, pull out, glance. Sort that one to a pile. Toss that one.
“Vengeance!” one screamed in big type at her. Her scanning got the rest of the message—devil worshiper, baby killer—before she crumpled the paper and tossed it into the garbage.
“I’m going to lunch,” she called over to the receptionist, as she stood up and grabbed her purse.
Out in the late summer sun, Janet took a deep breath and decided to walk for a while. The Examiner’s offices were in an old building on 4th Street, northeast of Pioneer Square. She could walk up Capitol Hill to Elliot Bay books, have a sandwich. Clear her head.
The harassment had started after the Examiner did an in-depth look at the anti-abortion movement. Not so much the issues of abortion as the movement itself: the people, the organization, the money. Lots of money. The newspaper’s special projects team had worked on the stories all summer.
One reporter, the only woman on the team, had been assigned to talk to the people who ran abortion clinics about the intimidation and harassment they lived with. About two thirds of the way through the story, the reporter fell apart. She couldn’t deal with the story, not the tension nor the fear. The special projects editor asked Janet if she’d finish it.
Janet had been reluctant. She was an editor now, and she wasn’t sure this was the story she wanted to return to a writing career. She couldn’t let the story go unfinished, however, so she’d agreed.
The package of stories had been really good. She was proud of it; glad she’d agreed to finish her piece. There was talk that it would win a Pulitzer.
Then the calls and the emails started. Personal, hateful. And worst of all, constant. She rarely answered her phone anymore. Let it go to voice mail, return the calls from friends and coworkers. She dreaded opening the mail, was paranoid about what would appear in her email.
Whoever coined the jingle, “sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me,” had his head up his ass, she thought grimly as she opened the door of Elliott Books.
Bookstores always rejuvenated her. She could feel the tension start to drain away as she browsed through the new books on display and then went to check out the discount tables. She bought a couple of books and a few magazines and went to the small cafe for a sandwich. Eating with one hand, she opened a book by Toni Morrison and started to read.
But she couldn’t focus, couldn’t immerse herself into the words. She set the book aside and finished her sandwich rapidly. Shoving the book back into the sack, she headed down the steep hill to the piers.
She was a tall woman, broad-shouldered, long-legged, no longer thin at 38, but strong and athletic. She put some effort into lengthening her stride, her shoulders thrown back. A movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention. She turned to look, but there was nothing unusual in the mix of tourists, businessmen, and shoppers. She shook her head, walked down to the piers, up Alaskan Way past Ivar’s, dodged across the street to a Starbucks coffee shop. The flicker was there again. She looked. Again, saw nothing.
She got the coffee, came out, sat at the table on the sidewalk, watching. Nothing unusual. She wasn’t even sure what it was that had caught her eye. A ghost. Something familiar. She sighed.
When she went to college, she’d shut the door on her prior life and got on with building a life she wanted. Over time, the memories had faded, fragmented. She found she had trouble recalling faces from her youth; the details of events—even well-known ones like the shuttle Challenger blowing up—were vague and hard to grasp. Sometimes they cropped up in her dreams. And when they did, a scene, a person would have the vividness of reality rather than the soft edges of dreams.
Lately, she felt like she’d built her life on a paved-over volcano. She’d shoved all those bad memories down, slammed the lid shut. Now they threatened to blow up, taking everything with it.
Restless still, she carried her half-finished coffee up the hill and back to the office.
At 3 p.m. Janet leaned against her car and let out a deep sigh of relief. Thank God the day was over, she thought. Now it’s time to go to the gym, walk the dog and call a friend for dinner.
What she really wanted to do was go home, pull the covers over her head, and hide. Let loose the tears that had been threatening to spill out all day.
