In God’s Name

Book 2: Mac Davis

by L.J. Breedlove

Genres: Female Sleuths; Media Thrillers; Political Thrillers; Vigilante Thrillers; female sleuth; suspense thrillers; Veteran; womens action adventure; newspaper editor; reporter; religious fanatics; abortion rights

Synopsis

Janet Andrews is a respected journalist and editor. But once, she was something else. Now, they're coming for her, and this time? They aren't going to let her go.
Mac Davis still 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 would be in jail, or maybe 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.

Warning: This book deals with controversial issues: abortion, religion and politics. Oh, yeah, and there's Mac's language. Marine. What more can I say?

In God's Name is the second thriller featuring Mac Davis, a cop reporter for the Seattle Examiner. A year ago, he broke a career-making story about a man who would do anything to be Secretary of Homeland Security -- even kill for it.

Release date: July 29, 2020

Print pages: 306

Sample

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.

She had her gym gear in the car. She would go to the gym, she vowed. The gym overlooked Puget Sound; she could run on the treadmill and watch the water. A gym membership was pricy, but the serenity she found watching the boats while working out was worth it.

The place was nearly empty, one of the advantages of working 6 a.m. to 3 p.m. She changed machines and started on the treadmill, working up to a jog, seeking oblivion in her workout.

An attendant tapped her on the shoulder, startling her. “Are you OK?” he asked. “It’s been an hour. You don’t usually go that long.”

“Lost track of time,” she mumbled, getting off. She smiled at him. Not convincingly, from his expression. She gathered up her stuff; no point in changing before she walked her dog Pulitzer. She called a friend about dinner.

Janet drove across the bridge to Ballard. She had a ritual of mentally casting the day’s problems off the bridge as she went over. They could catch a ride to the office from there in the morning, she said with a laugh. These current problems, however, seemed to follow her home, invading private space as well as her work.

She parked the car, locked it, not something she always remembered to do. Back in the days when she felt safe, she rarely locked the car. She let herself in the back door.

Pulitzer was waiting for her, eager to see her, wanting his walk. She stroked his head, bent down and hugged him. He licked her face. For the first time that day she laughed. To his great excitement she found his leash, and they trotted out to the driveway and down the block.

The tension in her arms and shoulders didn’t dissipate as it usually did. Pulitzer’s enthusiasm, the nice day, a walk through the neighborhood admiring everyone’s gardens—nothing relaxed her. Her muscles were tense, her nerves stretched too tight, too thin.

She took Pulitzer home, fed him. Showered and changed. Headed back out the door to dinner.

Her friend had called a couple of other women, which was fine with her. She wanted lights and company, not necessarily someone to confide in. They had a table staked out at Pasta Freska in Westlake when she got there. The humor and wit of her friends eased the tension in her throat. She could eat, swallow the food, and even laugh as if things were normal.

One friend, an attorney, was talking about a judge who had made some outrageous remarks about female attorneys in court last week. They giggled about the absurd responses she could have made. Someone else had seen a new play and pronounced it worth seeing.

A second bottle of wine appeared, disappeared. Mellower, Janet left the restaurant feeling almost normal. She took a deep breath and let it out, relieved to find the pain riding in her shoulders and arms had receded a bit. She could breathe. It felt like she’d been holding her breath all day. She felt tears crowd the corners of her eyes and swallowed hard.

One of her friends stopped beside her. “Are you going to make it?” she asked with concern.

Janet laughed. She could hear the tears and near hysteria in her response. “And my choices are?” she asked. “Of course, I’m going to make it. What else? Sit here on the curb, and say I can’t take this anymore?”

Her friend laughed and hugged her. “Well, if you do, be sure to call. I reserve a spot on the curb next to you.”

Janet smiled, hugged her back. She got in her car, carefully locked the doors, turned on the lights and headed out again, back along the edge of Lake Union to her bridge, to her home.

She wasn’t sure when she realized the car behind was following her. Stop it, she told herself. How could you tell? The traffic had few places to go here but along the shore.

She slowed. The car didn’t go around her. She slowed further. Finally, the car signaled, went around her. The windows were darkened; she couldn’t see anyone inside.

See? She told herself. Your imagination.

She parked in her driveway. A car went by on the street slowly. The same car? she wondered.

She went inside to the phone. With trembling fingers, she dialed a number, got an answering machine. Of course, she thought, it’s a Saturday night—he won’t be home. She hesitated, decided to leave a message anyway.

 “Mac,” she said barely above a whisper. “I think I’m being watched.”

Chapter 2

(Seattle, Washington, Saturday, September 20, 2013)

 

The Bohemian was packed; music and people spilled out onto the sidewalk into the mild Seattle night. It was late, midnight, and the crowd was happy with itself: the young, the pretty, the employed.

Mac Davis watched the people around him, his eyes slightly narrowed with amusement. He was part of the crowd, moving to the music, to the warmth of people around him, enjoying the pleasures of the evening. But he was also outside the crowd, watching. He couldn’t help it; this observer was a part of him, as much as his gray eyes and dark hair. The observer felt detached, put off by the youth of the crowd and their innocence. Mac Davis was not quite 30, no older, no younger than most. It’s not the years, it’s the miles, he thought ruefully now, as he watched the people he was with. He willed himself back into the moment, into the enjoyment.

The bouncer approached, weaving among the tables; Mac’s eyes narrowed, watching him. Bouncers targeted him, it seemed. He wasn’t sure why. Yes, he had tattoos, but there were others here with tattoos. OK, most of the tattoos were more... suburban... than the one's he'd earned running with his cousin in the San Diego gangs. But he also had a Marine tattoo—that should count for something. Earrings were almost universal. He was clean, well-dressed. He'd been told that there was a “quiet menace” about him that made smart men shy away. Whatever. Mac sized up the bouncer and decided he could take him, no sweat. Then he forced himself to relax. Getting busted for a bar fight wouldn't play well. Not when he was the cop reporter for the Daily Examiner. His boss frowned on that.

The bouncer leaned down to shout in his ear. “Ty wants to know if you’ll spell him for a bit.”

Mac relaxed, let go of his wariness. He nodded, made his excuses, and headed to the DJ’s box, still holding an untouched beer in his hand.

Ty looked up and saw him approach. “Man, I need a break,” he said. “Thirty minutes? Time for a piss, a drink, maybe a smoke?”

Mac smiled with pleasure. “Any time,” he said, seating himself at the console. He stroked the mixer.

Ty stretched. “Yeah, well, I don’t want the competition, you know?” He laughed and sauntered off toward the “Employees Only” door, stopping to chat, for a few low fives. He hugged one young woman, who leaned into him suggestively.

Mac grunted, turned to the mixer. DJs no longer just played the music, they could mix their own, combining beats and rhythms and sounds to make something new out of the old. Mac loved it. As the song ended, he started his own mix—a beat first, then a repeat, some rhythm, some soul sounds. The music built, Mac could feel the crowd reacting, moving onto the dance floor. He added in a different rhythm, keeping the bass beat. He laughed with pleasure as he cut in a sequence from a favorite rap artist, seducing this Top 40 dance crowd into responding to his music and his choice of artists.

He played with the music and the crowd for nearly eight minutes before resolving the sounds into a long slow ending that left just the beat for a measure. Then silence. The crowd applauded. Mac stood, bowed, and then he put on an old song of Ayesha while he caught his breath and came down from the high of music and the crowd’s response.

“You’ve gotten even better,” a low husky voice said from the steps to the DJ’s box.

Mac looked over, startled. His wary look changed to warmth; a sexy half smile lit up his face. The woman standing there responded instinctively.

“You’re looking good, babe,” Mac said. “When did you get into town?”

Kelly Womack leaned against the side of the booth, staying out of view of the dancing crowd. “Flew in yesterday for a week’s vacation. See the folks. You know,” she said with a shrug.

Kelly Womack was tall, lean, wearing a black Lycra dress that started low on top and ended short. She looked good, Mac thought again. Tanned legs. Long, tanned legs. “Chicago law must agree with you. Made partner yet?”

She laughed. “Soon, I hope.”

The song ended. Mac started another song, then turned back to the woman standing just out of touch.

“I see you made the front page. I always thought you would,” she said teasing.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You know, Mackensie Davis, 29, today was convicted of....”

Mac laughed. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Either that, or Mac Davis, found dead with six bullet holes....”

Kelly’s dimples showed as she smiled at him. “You did good, my friend, you really did good. I bragged to everyone that I knew you when.”

He laughed again. He’d broken the news story of a lifetime 10 months before: a rogue CIA agent who wanted to be National Security Adviser badly enough to kill for it. He was still trying to adjust to the notoriety.

“You seeing anyone? Serious-like?” she asked.

He shook his head. His last girlfriend was dating a football coach in Louisiana—long-distance sucked. “You?”

She laughed. “Not this side of the Rockies.” She cocked her head, teasing, in the way he remembered from high school. “Will you come dance with me?” she asked. “When Ty comes back?”

Mac nodded. “Let me mix one more, before he gets here. And then I’m yours.”

She arched her eyebrows in amused questioning. “Mix one for me, then,” she requested.

Mac obliged.

 

His telephone was ringing.

Mac Davis rolled over, glanced at the clock… 9 a.m. He reached for the phone. “Hello?” he said hoarsely. He hadn’t gotten home until 4 a.m. Kelly had asked him for a ride to her hotel—big girls did not stay with mom and dad in the ’burbs—and invited him in. He’d said yes.

“Mac? It’s Janet.”

Mac sat up in bed. He wasn’t scheduled to work this morning. He had some perks now at the newspaper, and Sundays off was one of them. He kind of missed covering cops on the weekends, but he wasn’t going to tell anyone that. Friday and Saturday nights were busy for the cops; almost always some good stories came out.

“What’s up?”

“Sorry to bother you on a day off,” the city editor apologized. “But…” she trailed off into silence.

Mac frowned. Janet Andrews wasn’t supposed to be working this shift either. “Do you need me to come in?”

“No, no, it’s not about work. Well, kind of. Not really...” she trailed off again. “Never mind. I’m sorry I woke you.”

“Janet!” he said sharply to prevent her from hanging up. This didn’t sound like his take-charge boss at all. “What the fuck is going on?”

She laughed. Mac thought he heard tears in her voice. “I... Someone vandalized my house last night. Can you come here?”

“Vandalized how?” Mac threw back the covers and got out of bed, still holding the phone.

“Just come.”

“I’m on my way,” he assured her, hanging up the phone. He saw that he had messages, listened, heard the one from the night before. Watched?

He walked into the bathroom, started a shower. Shaved. If he didn’t, he’d have a beard by Monday. He looked at his face thoughtfully. His dark brown hair was cut short, emphasizing the sharp planes of his face and his gray eyes. Maybe it was time for a beard again.

He turned away, dismissing the beard. Clothes: baggy jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, New Balance shoes. He wore what he liked style be damned. Let others look to him for styles. He was tall, six-foot-two, broad shoulders. He stayed fit, worked out daily. You didn’t have to worry about the clothes if you took care of the body. He was approaching 30 and weighed 15 pounds less than when he left the Marines. It was fat he monitored—he hoped to cut 2 more percentage points off by the time he was 30. Which wasn’t far away.

Twenty minutes after the phone call he was padding down the stairs. His aunt Lindy was in the kitchen as he walked through. “Didn’t expect to see you up this early,” she said mildly.

“Janet called. Got to go,” he called over his shoulder. The back door slammed behind him.

He shared the house with his aunt for good reason: neither of them could afford to live on Seattle’s Queen Anne Hill alone. Lindy bought the house years ago when the homes were much cheaper and the area less trendy. Mac and Toby, Lindy’s son, lived with her while in high school. The house was one of those classic Seattle homes, an Arts and Crafts bungalow, set into the hillside, with a front porch facing the street above a small garage. Lindy parked in the garage, while Mac parked out back off the alley.

August had been dry in Seattle. The grass was a bit worse for wear, Mac thought absently as he got into his 4-Runner. Neither Lindy nor he were gardeners. Lindy was occupied with her art and her teaching at the University; Mac’s job kept him busy, and he wasn’t into green stuff anyway. It reminded him of too many places he’d fought in during his Marine days where brush was just another place for ambush. He liked city streets and bright lights.

He had to admit as he dropped down the west side of Queen Anne Hill to pick up 15^th Ave, that all the green made Seattle a pretty city. If he could just get over the feeling that enemies lurked behind those huge Rhododendrons by the garage.

He headed over the Ballard Bridge to Magnolia Heights. Janet Andrews was a gardener, he remembered. At the newsroom barbecue on the Fourth of July, her back yard had been full of flowers, lots of roses, things that smelled good. The lawn had a few holes in it where the dog dug, and the arbors leaned a bit, but everywhere there was color and the fragrant perfume of flowers in bloom.

Curiosity was enough to get Mac out to see what was going on at Janet’s. More than that, he owed her. Janet Andrews had stood beside him, kept him from being fired, even posted bail for him during the mess last winter. Most of all she’d believed in him. He couldn’t begin to describe what that meant during the bleakest days. He owed her. It was that simple. She was one of the few people he cared about. Even if she was almost 40 and lived in Magnolia.

He pulled up in front of the small brick house and stared. Vandalism was right, he thought, getting out and locking the car. Someone had sprayed “baby killer” in huge letters across the entire brick front of the house, easily visible from the street.