All Through the Night
PRAISE FOR DAVIS BUNN
“[A] page-turner reminiscent of The Devil Wears Prada, this novel is sure to please fans and increase Bunn’s readership.”
—Publishers Weekly (about My Soul to Keep)
“My Soul to Keep is a story of struggle, intrigue, and faith-in-action that will delight the author’s fans and capture new ones. Bunn effectively weaves an insider’s knowledge of the film business as the backdrop for this inspirational, suspenseful thriller…. The result is mesmerizing.”
—Christian Retailing
“My Soul to Keep is an intriguing story…. Once again Davis Bunn demonstrates his keen ability to develop character portraits and breathe life into their experience in a way that touches the life of the reader.”
—David H. McKinley, Teaching Pastor,
Prestonwood Baptist Church
“…authentic, touching, and entertaining. My Soul to Keep opens up the world of filmmaking in a fascinating and believable way…. Characters came to life for me….”
—Michele Winters, Reviewer
“The prolific inspirational novelist Bunn (The Lazarus Trap) is an able wordsmith, whether penning a historical romance series (HEIRS OF ACADIA) or a sweet seasonal novella (Tidings of Comfort & Joy). But he’s at his best in this absorbing faith-based suspense thriller….”
—Publishers Weekly (about The Imposter)
All Through
the Night
DAVIS BUNN
All Through the Night
Copyright © 2008
Davis Bunn
Cover design by Paul Higdon
Cover photography by Mike Kemp/Getty Images, and William Graf Illustration
Scripture taken from the HOLY BIBLE, TODAY’S NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. Copyright © 2001, 2005 by International Bible Society®. Used by permission of International Bible Society®. All rights reserved worldwide.
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, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.
Printed in the United States of America
* * *
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bunn, T. Davis, 1952—
All through the night / Davis Bunn.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-7642-0541-5 (alk. paper)—ISBN 978-0-7642-0542-2 (pbk. : alk. paper)
1. Swindlers and swindling—Fiction. 2. Angels—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3552.U4718A79 2008
813’.54—dc22
2008014107
* * *
For
RUTH McCOMMON
Maliaka
TABLE OF CONTENTS
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
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
BOOKS BY DAVIS BUNN
The Book of Hours
The Great Divide
Winner Take All
The Lazarus Trap
Elixir
Imposter
My Soul to Keep
All Through the Night
SONG OF ACADIA*
The Meeting Place
The Birthright
The Sacred Shore
The Distant Beacon
The Beloved Land
HEIRS OF ACADIA†
The Solitary Envoy
The Innocent Libertine
The Noble Fugitive
The Night Angel
Falconer’s Quest
*with Janette Oke †with Isabella Bunn
DAVIS BUNN has been a professional novelist for twenty years. His books have sold in excess of six million copies in sixteen languages, appearing on numerous national bestseller lists.
Davis is known for the diversity of his writing talent, from gentle gift books like The Quilt to high-powered thrillers like The Great Divide. He has also enjoyed great success in his collaboration with Janette Oke, with whom he has coauthored a series of groundbreaking historical novels.
In developing his work, Davis draws on a rich background of international experience. Raised in North Carolina, he completed his undergraduate studies at Wake Forest University. He then traveled to London to earn a master’s degree in international economics and finance, before embarking on a distinguished business career that took him to more than thirty countries in Europe, Africa, and the Middle East.
Davis has received numerous accolades, including three Christy awards for excellence in fiction. He currently serves as writer-in-residence at Regent’s Park College, Oxford University, and is a sought-after lecturer on the craft of writing.
All Through the Night
ONE
Weird as the job interview was, Wayne knew it was a whole lot better than he probably deserved.
Given the way he had shot holes in life itself, what Wayne should have been facing was a room lined with bars and razor wire. Three stone-faced officers should have been staring him down in a concrete room painted penitentiary green, with the sort of lighting that sucked out all hope and turned everybody into cadavers. Ordered to stand front and center and explain precisely why the officials shouldn’t deny him parole and keep him locked away from the world for another six hundred years.
That was what he deserved.
What he got was a hard-back wooden chair before a large conference table. Two women and a man sat behind the table and studied him. The long room had three tall windows that looked out over an emerald paradise. He deserved a firing squad, and he got heaven. Which, until that very moment, he had never believed in. That would have been good for a smile, if he could only remember how.
The woman in the middle chair said, “Have a seat, Mr. Grusza.”
Another guy was seated in the shadows at the room’s far back corner. He was like guys Wayne had known in a different life. The kind of guy who always positioned himself where he could observe yet remain unseen. It was a sniper’s sort of act. Only this guy was built more like an aged boxer. Wayne put him down as a
detective. A thirty-year man with the patience of a somnolent bear.
Besides this man and the three people at the table, there were seven others in the room. Two young women, two elderly women, and three men over seventy. The room was large enough to swallow them all.
The woman in the center chair went on. “My name is Holly Reeves. I am president of the Hattie Blount Community. My fellow board members are Foster Oates and Victoria Ellis. Did I say your name correctly, ‘Grusza’?”
One of the younger women, who was leaning against the wall by the window, corrected her. “It’s pronounced ‘Grusha.’”
Wayne fingered the knot in his tie. He had not worn either a tie or a shirt with a top button for nearly two years. He could feel the fabric rub against his skin when he swallowed. He also felt the puff of air-conditioning against his cheeks. He had shaved off his beard the night before at the request of the woman leaning against the wall.
The woman wearing a dark suit and pastor’s collar.
The reason he was here at all.
“Mr. Grusza, your resume is incomplete.” Holly Reeves revealed unsteady nerves as she lifted the single page. “Where it asks for your qualifications, all you state is that you obtained a degree in accounting from night school and then qualified as a CPA.”
“That’s right.”
“But Mr. Grusza, you are—” she adjusted her glasses and calculated swiftly—“thirty?”
“Thirty-one.”
“You have left the space for previous employment blank.”
“Yes.”
“Could you give us a bit more detail about your background and qualifications?”
“No.”
Foster Oates, the lone guy at the table, was shrunk down to a pale prune. The man’s collar was so large, he could scoot his head down on his scrawny neck, slip through the buttoned collar, and disappear like a tortoise in blue-striped camouflage.
Foster said, “You’re expecting us to hire you based on an incomplete resume?”
Wayne gave the woman by the wall the kind of look that said, Are we done yet?
The female pastor aimed her gaze at the floor and gave a tiny headshake. As in, The things I have to go through.
She said, “Wayne Grusza is absolutely trustworthy.”
Foster Oates said, “And you know this how?”
“Because,” the woman pastor said, “he’s my brother.”
The woman seated closest to Wayne’s sister most definitely did not belong in an old folks’ community. It was not merely that the young lady was attractive. Which she was. Stunningly so. She held herself with a regal poise, and inspected Wayne with an intensity that threatened to peel back his armor. Why Wayne held such interest for a woman like that, he had no idea.
Foster said to Wayne’s sister, “I’ve seen you around. What’s your name?”
“Eilene Belote,” the community president supplied. “If you’d ever come to one of our evening services, you wouldn’t need to ask her name.”
“Thank you for that update on the health of my soul.” Foster kept his gaze on the woman pastor. “So what can you tell me about your brother?”
“He’s made some wrong turns. But for what you want, you could not ask for a better man.”
“Is that so.”
“Yes,” Eilene said. “It is.”
The old woman seated at the conference table spoke for the first time. “That’s good enough for me.”
Holly Reeves asked, “Are you sure?”
“I trust Eilene and Eilene trusts him.” She must have been pushing eighty, but even so Victoria Ellis had the rare ability to turn every word she spoke into music. “What more do you want?”
“A lot,” Foster replied.
“That’s because it’s your nature to doubt.”
The old guy smiled. “You say the sweetest things.”
Victoria responded without taking her gaze off Wayne. The old woman had eyes the color of a desert sky and just as clear. “He’s got my vote. I think we should hire him. Now. Today.”
The way she shut her mouth left Wayne fairly certain she would not speak again. Which he was a little sorry about. He liked her voice.
Foster said, “Well, I need more to decide.”
Eilene shifted from her place against the wall. She said to those at the table, “You watched him enter the room. He marched straight in, sat down in that chair, and he hasn’t turned around or looked back once.”
Foster demanded, “This is going somewhere?”
“Wayne. Tell me about the man seated in the back corner.”
He wasn’t going to do it. Except she gave him that dark-eyed look from their childhood. The one that was half defiance and half plea. Do this. One thing. For me.
So he said, “Six one. African American. Two hundred thirty. Light on his feet. Seated at a slight angle because he’s used to carrying.”
Holly Reeves asked, “Carrying?”
Eilene answered for him. “He means Jerry is used to being armed. His holster would make him angle himself in his seat. Go on, Wayne.”
“Pleated khakis, navy sports coat, yellow oxford shirt, frayed collar…”
“Shoe size?”
“Twelve and a half, maybe thirteen. Scar beneath his left eye. Nose broken at least twice.”
The room was very quiet. Eilene gave him a tiny nod. Her way of saying thanks. “Wayne is the most observant man I have ever met. Which, it seems to me, is part of what you need.”
The guy at the back of the room asked, “Have you ever done time?”
Holly Reeves started to say something, then subsided. So Wayne answered, “Never even been arrested.” Which, given everything he had been through, was fairly remarkable.
“The reason I asked,” the guy went on, “we were robbed.”
“Jerry. Please.”
Jerry had a voice to match his boxer’s frame. Low and rough. “Just telling the man like it is.”
Holly Reeves shook her head. “The police did not come to that conclusion. Besides, you’re not even a member of the board.”
“Don’t need titles or letters after my name to have good sense. You want the man to help us, you got to tell him the problem.”
“The board will decide what to say and when to say it.”
“Oh. Wait. We’re talking about the board that went and got us in this mess?”
Foster Oates rose from the table in stiff stages. He walked back and gripped the larger man’s arm and tugged. “Let’s go, Jerry.”
“What, you’re operating a gag order now?”
“You’re all done here.”
Jerry was large enough to have flicked the board member across the room. But he allowed the scrawny man to pull him toward the exit. “Might as well bring my gun next time. Give you folks a real reason for kicking me outta this cuckoo’s nest.”
The community president said, “We haven’t reached a decision, Foster.”
“With what we can afford, I doubt we’ll do any better,” Foster said. “You folks have to excuse my friend. He missed his morning meds.”
The door closed on the bigger man saying, “Huh. Only meds I take are the vitamins I believe I’m gonna stick in your ear.”
Holly Reeves sighed in the manner of having a lot of practice. “Mr. Grusza, given your reticence over certain elements in your past, the most we could offer you is a six-month trial arrangement.”
The prospect of employment almost propelled him out the rear doors. The only thing that kept Wayne trapped in his chair was the strength of his sister’s gaze.
“What Jerry Barnes said is unfortunately true. We have been robbed. The authorities are unable to help us. As a result, we are currently operating on a knife’s edge.” Saying the words pinched up the woman’s features tight as pain. “We will not be able to pay you much at all. But the community can offer you a home on the property.”
When Wayne remained silent, Eilene spoke for him. “If my brother helps recover your money, would he receive a
commission?”
Holly Reeves stared down at the table and said tonelessly, “Naturally.”
His sister’s gaze was strong enough to squeeze the words from Wayne’s throat. “Thank you. I accept.”
TWO
Wayne had still not really decided about the job. He’d shaken hands with Holly Reeves. But so far it had all been for his sister. He was hooked but not landed. The ink wasn’t on the page.
His sister hugged him in the community center’s front foyer and left the building without him. Probably afraid he might feel the sunshine and bolt. He was standing in the doorway, staring at the front lawn and the palm trees and the sunlight, when the big former cop named Jerry stepped up behind him and said, “What were you, Special Forces?”
Wayne’s attention remained clamped in a sunlit vise by the stranger walking out beside Eilene. The young woman who had sat near his sister during the interview.
Apparently Jerry was not troubled by Wayne’s lack of response. He also shared Wayne’s interest in the stranger. Jerry said, “I noticed your sister didn’t ask you to describe the lady there.”
From Wayne’s other side, scrawny Foster Oates said, “A corpse laid out in the refrigeration room would have noticed that one. What is that car she’s heading for?”
“A Ferrari,” Jerry said. “But it ain’t no car. That’s a bomb you strap on and ignite.”
Foster stuck out his hand. “Guess you could call us your welcoming committee.”
Wayne noted the interesting combination of callouses and strength, as though Foster’s hand belonged to the man who had existed thirty years ago. A guy who liked doing guy things. “Thanks.”
The community center building had a broad overhang where cars could pull in and drop off passengers. The Ferrari was a red missile parked in the first row of spaces beyond the overhang, two spaces over from Wayne’s truck. The woman opened the driver’s door, then glanced back toward the entrance.
Foster said, “My pacemaker is stuttering.”