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Dead of Night (#03 in Hidden Faces Series)

Brandilyn Collins
Dead of Night (#03 in Hidden Faces Series)
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Dead of Night (#03 in Hidden Faces Series)

Brandilyn Collins

$22.99

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All words fell away. I pushed myself off the path, noticing for the first time the signs of earlier passage--the matted earth, broken twigs. And I knew. My mouth turned cottony. I licked my lips, took three halting steps. My maddening, visual brain churned out pictures of colorless faces on a cold slab--Debbie Lille, victim number one; Wanda Deminger, number three . . . He'd been here. Dragged this one right where I now stumbled. I'd entered a crime scene, and I could not bear to see what lay at the end. . . .This is a story about evil.This is a story about God's power. A string of murders terrorizes citizens in the Redding, California, area. The serial killer is cunning, stealthy. Masked by day, unmasked by night. Forensic artist Annie Kingston discovers the sixth body practically in her own back yard. Is the location a taunt aimed at her?One by one, Annie must draw the unknown victims for identification. Dread mounts. Who will be taken next? Under a crushing oppression, Annie and ot

- Publisher Dead of NightCopyright 2005 by Brandilyn CollinsRequests for information should be addressed to:Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication DataCollins, Brandilyn.Dead of night / Brandilyn Collins.p. cm. - (The hidden faces series ; bk. 3)ISBN-10: 0-310-25105-2 (softcover)ISBN-13: 978-0-310-2510-71. Police artists-Fiction. 2. Women artists-Fiction. I. Title.PS3553.O4747815D43 2004813''.6-dc222005002767ISBN-13: 978-0-310-25105-7Published in association with Browne & Miller Literary Associates LLC, 410 SouthMichigan Ave., Suite 460, Chicago, IL 60605.All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible:New International Version. NIV. Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984 by InternationalBible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.The website addresses recommended throughout this book are offered as a resourceto you. These websites are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsementon the part of Zondervan, nor do we vouch for their content for the life of this book.All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in aretrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means-electronic, mechanical,photocopy, recording, or any other-except for brief quotations in printedreviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.Interior design by Beth ShagenePrinted in the United States of America05 06 07 08 09 10 11 12 /?DCI/ 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1PrologueNot so pretty in death, are you.Head twisted, back arched. Contorted mouth, eyes wide inshock, limbs all locked tight.Now your outside looks like your inside-a black soul, animmoral soul, a horrified and horrifying soul, bound for the blackpits, the depths of darkness, for eternity, ever and ever on.Skin still warm, clothes all askew, bleached blonde hairtangled around your devious head, fragile wisps caught on yourevil tongue. Dead, dead, dead and gone, and who will miss younow?Sit back and look at you, deserving the work of my hands.Look you up and down, your shoes kicked off in the convulsions,wrists bent, fingers curled like the limbs of an arthritictree, one knee drawn up toward your chest.How hard they fall, the proud and vain and shallow.But...Sweep aside the coarse, white-yellow hair. There it is.Pretty earring. Pretty, pretty bauble, so shiny, with a big bluestone and little white stones around it, playing with the spectrumlike shimmery fairies. Put my finger behind your earlobe,move it this way and that, watch the dancing colors catch thelight. My earring now, only mine, to keep and smile at andwatch it shine.How to take it? It is connected to your ear, right through it.Silly, arrogant woman, piercing holes in your body in the nameof beauty. Like her. She was self-absorbed and flirtatious, makingeyes at the men, swaying hips and pouting lips, and meanwhilethe child saw and was unseen, and no one else knew,and no one else cared, and who would tend the child?Pull. Tug. Rip at the earring, and still it will not come. Itlatches to your ear like a leech. You defy me, even in death, youshout to me in your silence that you will not be dejeweled, notbe robbed of the sparkly outward display of your wretched andgaudy heart.Hurry away,my footsteps scuffing the kitchen floor to grabwhat I need. I grip the handle, one finger testing the blade. Iwill take the prize from you, and your yawning mouth willscream in silence, but no one else knows, and no one elsecares, and who will tend to you?There.The earring is mine.Hold it close to my eyes. Feel the hardness of the stonewith my finger, tip it, turn it, watch the light play, the fadinglight of the setting sun. Darkness creeps toward the earth likeit has crept over you, and to the ground you will go, ashes toashes and dust to dust, to be remembered no more, to witherand rot.In the dead of night you will be taken. As the dead of night,so shall you ever be.Tuesday, June 21Chapter 1The moment before it began, I stood in my

- Publisher Dead of Night Copyright 2005 by Brandilyn Collins Requests for information should be addressed to: Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Collins, Brandilyn. Dead of night / Brandilyn Collins. p. cm. - (The hidden faces series ; bk. 3) ISBN-10: 0-310-25105-2 (softcover) ISBN-13: 978-0-310-2510-7 1. Police artists-Fiction. 2. Women artists-Fiction. I. Title. PS3553.O4747815D43 2004 813'.6-dc22 2005002767 ISBN-13: 978-0-310-25105-7 Published in association with Browne & Miller Literary Associates LLC, 410 South Michigan Ave., Suite 460, Chicago, IL 60605. All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible: New International Version. NIV. Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved. The website addresses recommended throughout this book are offered as a resource to you. These websites are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement on the part of Zondervan, nor do we vouch for their content for the life of this book. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means-electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other-except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher. Interior design by Beth Shagene Printed in the United States of America 05 06 07 08 09 10 11 12 /?DCI/ 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Prologue Not so pretty in death, are you. Head twisted, back arched. Contorted mouth, eyes wide in shock, limbs all locked tight. Now your outside looks like your inside-a black soul, an immoral soul, a horrified and horrifying soul, bound for the black pits, the depths of darkness, for eternity, ever and ever on. Skin still warm, clothes all askew, bleached blonde hair tangled around your devious head, fragile wisps caught on your evil tongue. Dead, dead, dead and gone, and who will miss you now? Sit back and look at you, deserving the work of my hands. Look you up and down, your shoes kicked off in the convulsions, wrists bent, fingers curled like the limbs of an arthritic tree, one knee drawn up toward your chest. How hard they fall, the proud and vain and shallow. But... Sweep aside the coarse, white-yellow hair. There it is. Pretty earring. Pretty, pretty bauble, so shiny, with a big blue stone and little white stones around it, playing with the spectrum like shimmery fairies. Put my finger behind your earlobe, move it this way and that, watch the dancing colors catch the light. My earring now, only mine, to keep and smile at and watch it shine. How to take it? It is connected to your ear, right through it. Silly, arrogant woman, piercing holes in your body in the name of beauty. Like her. She was self-absorbed and flirtatious, making eyes at the men, swaying hips and pouting lips, and meanwhile the child saw and was unseen, and no one else knew, and no one else cared, and who would tend the child? Pull. Tug. Rip at the earring, and still it will not come. It latches to your ear like a leech. You defy me, even in death, you shout to me in your silence that you will not be dejeweled, not be robbed of the sparkly outward display of your wretched and gaudy heart. Hurry away,my footsteps scuffing the kitchen floor to grab what I need. I grip the handle, one finger testing the blade. I will take the prize from you, and your yawning mouth will scream in silence, but no one else knows, and no one else cares, and who will tend to you? There. The earring is mine. Hold it close to my eyes. Feel the hardness of the stone with my finger, tip it, turn it, watch th

- Publisher
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About "Dead of Night (#03 in Hidden Faces Series)"

All words fell away. I pushed myself off the path, noticing for the first time the signs of earlier passage--the matted earth, broken twigs. And I knew. My mouth turned cottony. I licked my lips, took three halting steps. My maddening, visual brain churned out pictures of colorless faces on a cold slab--Debbie Lille, victim number one; Wanda Deminger, number three . . . He'd been here. Dragged this one right where I now stumbled. I'd entered a crime scene, and I could not bear to see what lay at the end. . . .This is a story about evil.This is a story about God's power. A string of murders terrorizes citizens in the Redding, California, area. The serial killer is cunning, stealthy. Masked by day, unmasked by night. Forensic artist Annie Kingston discovers the sixth body practically in her own back yard. Is the location a taunt aimed at her?One by one, Annie must draw the unknown victims for identification. Dread mounts. Who will be taken next? Under a crushing oppression, Annie and ot
- Publisher

Dead of NightCopyright 2005 by Brandilyn CollinsRequests for information should be addressed to:Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication DataCollins, Brandilyn.Dead of night / Brandilyn Collins.p. cm. - (The hidden faces series ; bk. 3)ISBN-10: 0-310-25105-2 (softcover)ISBN-13: 978-0-310-2510-71. Police artists-Fiction. 2. Women artists-Fiction. I. Title.PS3553.O4747815D43 2004813''.6-dc222005002767ISBN-13: 978-0-310-25105-7Published in association with Browne & Miller Literary Associates LLC, 410 SouthMichigan Ave., Suite 460, Chicago, IL 60605.All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible:New International Version. NIV. Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984 by InternationalBible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.The website addresses recommended throughout this book are offered as a resourceto you. These websites are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsementon the part of Zondervan, nor do we vouch for their content for the life of this book.All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in aretrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means-electronic, mechanical,photocopy, recording, or any other-except for brief quotations in printedreviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.Interior design by Beth ShagenePrinted in the United States of America05 06 07 08 09 10 11 12 /?DCI/ 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1PrologueNot so pretty in death, are you.Head twisted, back arched. Contorted mouth, eyes wide inshock, limbs all locked tight.Now your outside looks like your inside-a black soul, animmoral soul, a horrified and horrifying soul, bound for the blackpits, the depths of darkness, for eternity, ever and ever on.Skin still warm, clothes all askew, bleached blonde hairtangled around your devious head, fragile wisps caught on yourevil tongue. Dead, dead, dead and gone, and who will miss younow?Sit back and look at you, deserving the work of my hands.Look you up and down, your shoes kicked off in the convulsions,wrists bent, fingers curled like the limbs of an arthritictree, one knee drawn up toward your chest.How hard they fall, the proud and vain and shallow.But...Sweep aside the coarse, white-yellow hair. There it is.Pretty earring. Pretty, pretty bauble, so shiny, with a big bluestone and little white stones around it, playing with the spectrumlike shimmery fairies. Put my finger behind your earlobe,move it this way and that, watch the dancing colors catch thelight. My earring now, only mine, to keep and smile at andwatch it shine.How to take it? It is connected to your ear, right through it.Silly, arrogant woman, piercing holes in your body in the nameof beauty. Like her. She was self-absorbed and flirtatious, makingeyes at the men, swaying hips and pouting lips, and meanwhilethe child saw and was unseen, and no one else knew,and no one else cared, and who would tend the child?Pull. Tug. Rip at the earring, and still it will not come. Itlatches to your ear like a leech. You defy me, even in death, youshout to me in your silence that you will not be dejeweled, notbe robbed of the sparkly outward display of your wretched andgaudy heart.Hurry away,my footsteps scuffing the kitchen floor to grabwhat I need. I grip the handle, one finger testing the blade. Iwill take the prize from you, and your yawning mouth willscream in silence, but no one else knows, and no one elsecares, and who will tend to you?There.The earring is mine.Hold it close to my eyes. Feel the hardness of the stonewith my finger, tip it, turn it, watch the light play, the fadinglight of the setting sun. Darkness creeps toward the earth likeit has crept over you, and to the ground you will go, ashes toashes and dust to dust, to be remembered no more, to witherand rot.In the dead of night you will be taken. As the dead of night,so shall you ever be.Tuesday, June 21Chapter 1The moment before it began, I stood in my
- Publisher

Dead of Night Copyright 2005 by Brandilyn Collins Requests for information should be addressed to: Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Collins, Brandilyn. Dead of night / Brandilyn Collins. p. cm. - (The hidden faces series ; bk. 3) ISBN-10: 0-310-25105-2 (softcover) ISBN-13: 978-0-310-2510-7 1. Police artists-Fiction. 2. Women artists-Fiction. I. Title. PS3553.O4747815D43 2004 813'.6-dc22 2005002767 ISBN-13: 978-0-310-25105-7 Published in association with Browne & Miller Literary Associates LLC, 410 South Michigan Ave., Suite 460, Chicago, IL 60605. All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible: New International Version. NIV. Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved. The website addresses recommended throughout this book are offered as a resource to you. These websites are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement on the part of Zondervan, nor do we vouch for their content for the life of this book. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means-electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other-except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher. Interior design by Beth Shagene Printed in the United States of America 05 06 07 08 09 10 11 12 /?DCI/ 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Prologue Not so pretty in death, are you. Head twisted, back arched. Contorted mouth, eyes wide in shock, limbs all locked tight. Now your outside looks like your inside-a black soul, an immoral soul, a horrified and horrifying soul, bound for the black pits, the depths of darkness, for eternity, ever and ever on. Skin still warm, clothes all askew, bleached blonde hair tangled around your devious head, fragile wisps caught on your evil tongue. Dead, dead, dead and gone, and who will miss you now? Sit back and look at you, deserving the work of my hands. Look you up and down, your shoes kicked off in the convulsions, wrists bent, fingers curled like the limbs of an arthritic tree, one knee drawn up toward your chest. How hard they fall, the proud and vain and shallow. But... Sweep aside the coarse, white-yellow hair. There it is. Pretty earring. Pretty, pretty bauble, so shiny, with a big blue stone and little white stones around it, playing with the spectrum like shimmery fairies. Put my finger behind your earlobe, move it this way and that, watch the dancing colors catch the light. My earring now, only mine, to keep and smile at and watch it shine. How to take it? It is connected to your ear, right through it. Silly, arrogant woman, piercing holes in your body in the name of beauty. Like her. She was self-absorbed and flirtatious, making eyes at the men, swaying hips and pouting lips, and meanwhile the child saw and was unseen, and no one else knew, and no one else cared, and who would tend the child? Pull. Tug. Rip at the earring, and still it will not come. It latches to your ear like a leech. You defy me, even in death, you shout to me in your silence that you will not be dejeweled, not be robbed of the sparkly outward display of your wretched and gaudy heart. Hurry away,my footsteps scuffing the kitchen floor to grab what I need. I grip the handle, one finger testing the blade. I will take the prize from you, and your yawning mouth will scream in silence, but no one else knows, and no one else cares, and who will tend to you? There. The earring is mine. Hold it close to my eyes. Feel the hardness of the stone with my finger, tip it, turn it, watch th
- Publisher

Meet the Author

Brandilyn Collins

Brandilyn Collins, known for her trademark "Seatbelt Suspense", is the bestselling author of Eyes of Elisha, Brink of Death, Dead of Night, Web of Lies, Violet Dawn, and many other exciting novels, most recently Coral Moon. Her fast-paced, character-driven crime thrillers weave unpredictable plots with the message of God's grace and power. Brandilyn has also written a distinctive book on fiction-writing techniques, Getting Into Character: Seven Secrets a Novelist Can Learn From Actors. Between writing novels, she teaches the craft of writing at writers' conferences.

Excerpt

Excerpt from: Dead of Night (#03 in Hidden Faces Series)

Dead of Night Prologue Not so pretty in death, are you. Head twisted, back arched. Contorted mouth, eyes wide in shock, limbs all locked tight. Now your outside looks like your inside---a black soul, an immoral soul, a horrified and horrifying soul, bound for the black pits, the depths of darkness, for eternity, ever and ever on. Skin still warm, clothes all askew, bleached blonde hair tangled around your devious head, fragile wisps caught on your evil tongue. Dead, dead, dead and gone, and who will miss you now? Sit back and look at you, deserving the work of my hands. Look you up and down, your shoes kicked off in the convulsions, wrists bent, fingers curled like the limbs of an arthritic tree, one knee drawn up toward your chest. How hard they fall, the proud and vain and shallow. But... Sweep aside the coarse, white-yellow hair. There it is. Pretty earring. Pretty, pretty bauble, so shiny, with a big blue stone and little white stones around it, playing with the spectrum like shimmery fairies. Put my finger behind your earlobe, move it this way and that, watch the dancing colors catch the light. My earring now, only mine, to keep and smile at and watch it shine. How to take it? It is connected to your ear, right through it. Silly, arrogant woman, piercing holes in your body in the name of beauty. Like her. She was self-absorbed and flirtatious, making eyes at the men, swaying hips and pouting lips, and meanwhile the child saw and was unseen, and no one else knew, and no one else cared, and who would tend the child? Pull. Tug. Rip at the earring, and still it will not come. It latches to your ear like a leech. You defy me, even in death, you shout to me in your silence that you will not be dejeweled, not be robbed of the sparkly outward display of your wretched and gaudy heart. Hurry away,my footsteps scuffing the kitchen floor to grab what I need. I grip the handle, one finger testing the blade. I will take the prize from you, and your yawning mouth will scream in silence, but no one else knows, and no one else cares, and who will tend to you? There. The earring is mine. Hold it close to my eyes. Feel the hardness of the stone with my finger, tip it, turn it, watch the light play, the fading light of the setting sun. Darkness creeps toward the earth like it has crept over you, and to the ground you will go, ashes to ashes and dust to dust, to be remembered no more, to wither and rot. In the dead of night you will be taken. As the dead of night, so shall you ever be. Tuesday, June 21 Chapter 1 The moment before it began, I stood in my bedroom, folding clothes. In the last year I've developed a kind of sixth sense---a lingering smudge from my brushes with death. A sense that jerks my head up and sets my eyes roving, my ears attentive to the slightest sound. Nerves tingle at the back of my neck, then pinprickle down my arms and spine. The sensations surge through my body almost before I consciously register what caused them. Sometimes they are right; sometimes they are overreactions to mere surprise. Experience has taught me to err on the side of caution. And with five local murders in as many months, I was already on edge. Something...something downstairs... My arms stopped to hover over my bed, a half-folded shirt dangling from both hands. 'Hey!' The male voice echoed up from our great room one floor below---a voice I didn't recognize. It mixed surliness with a throaty growl, like stirred gravel. I didn't hear the doorbell. 'Hey!' The voice again, impatient. My thoughts flashed to Kelly, my fourteen-year-old. She'd fallen asleep down there, on one of the oversize couches near the fireplace. My daughter in a vulnerable position . . . some man I didn't know standing over her? Kelly gasped---loudly enough for me to hear.With the expansive wooden floor and the wood wainscoting of our great room, sounds echo. The fear in that gasp jolted me into action. Almost before I knew what I was doing, I'd run for my purse on the nightstand. My fingers fumbled, looking, searching.Within seconds I felt the smooth, frightening comfort of my gun. I yanked it out. No time to think. Pure instinct took over. Hadn't Chetterling told me it would? I wrapped my hands around the gun, trigger finger ready, and sneak-sprinted down the hall. Below me, the great room jerked into view through banister railings. I skidded to a halt at the landing and nearly dropped the gun. My terrified eyes fixed on an unknown man in profile to me, hulking over Kelly. He was in his early twenties. Big---maybe six two?---with vein-laden, bulging biceps. The wide nose and lips of an African American, but with dustycolored skin. Light brown hair in thick dreadlocks. Kelly had raised up on one elbow, mouth open, her expression a freezeframe of shock. My legs assumed the stance Chetterling had taught me. Feet apart and planted firmly. My arms stretched before me over the banister, gun pointed at the man's head. 'Stop!' He jerked toward me, eyes widening. Both arms raised shoulder height, large fingers spread. 'Hello.Wait one minute. I was just looking for Stephen.' His cultured tone so surprised me that I almost lowered the gun. From the looks of him, I'd expected more of an urban hip-hop. Annie, keep it together; he's right near Kelly! I stared at him, breath shuddering. How could this be happening? I'd drawn a gun on someone. Someone who stood right next to my daughter. 'Back away from her.' He retreated one step. What if this was the man who'd killed those five women? 'More.' 'Would you mind putting the gun away?' He shuffled back two more steps, but he couldn't go far. Another three feet and he'd hit the armchair facing the fireplace.To his left sat a big glass-topped coffee table, to his right the sofa where Kelly lay. Any second he could lunge for her, pull her in front of him as a shield. What would I do? Chetterling, we never practiced anything like this! 'Look.' Sulkiness and an arrogant irritation now coated his voice. 'I was just going to ask her about Stephen; you don't have to threaten my life.' My insides shook, but my hands did not waver.When I spoke, my voice carried the cynical disgust of a policeman on patrol. 'I don't recall anyone letting you in the house.' 'The door was unlocked.' Unlocked. Still, that was hardly an invitation. My jaw clenched. 'You in the habit of just walking into people's homes?' He shrugged. Anger tromped up my spine. How dare he act so nonchalant? 'Well, let me tell you something---you picked the wrong house to walk in to.'

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Product Details

Product Details
  • Catalogue Code 228362
  • Product Code 0310251052
  • EAN 9780310251057
  • UPC 025986251055
  • Pages 368
  • Department General Books
  • Category Fiction
  • Sub-Category Suspense Mystery
  • Publisher Zondervan
  • Publication Date Apr 2005
  • Sales Rank #20690
  • Dimensions 215 x 139 x 28 mm
  • Weight 0.417kg

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