Misled

Copyright © 2016 by Dianne Kaye.

Eber & Wein Publishing

Leif Photography

Library of Congress Control Number:     2016906317

ISBN:                  Hardcover                         978-1-5144-7961-2

                            Softcover                           978-1-5144-7962-9

                            eBook                                978-1-5144-7963-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 07/11/2019

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Part One

The Silver-Haired Fox

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

Part Two

Wolf At The Gate

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Part Three

Dog-Ways

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Epilogue

Prologue

This novel is dedicated to the women who chose the wrong men and suffered dire consequences. My heart goes out to the families of the ones who did not survive.

Stand fast therefore in the liberty wherewith Christ hath made us free, and be not entangled again with the yoke of bondage.

—Galatians 5:1

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I owe my humble appreciation to my parents, Gwen and Monte, who taught me self-preservation. I would not be who I am today without their guidance. Thanks to my three sons—Mike, Scott, and Gary—for they have been my anchors in the storm and give meaning to my life. I’ve learned forbearance through their choices.

I gained skills from special helpers: my longtime mentor William, who taught me wordsmithery and the art of good intention; Billie, the art instructor, who taught me how to paint landscapes and religious scenes and unleashed the creativity in me (may she rest in peace); Keith, my banker, who took time out of his busy day to research currency conversions; Loren, who provided vital details for military scenes; Mic, who suggested a one-word title and helped create some of the characters; Randy, who spent countless hours listening to me as I processed the story; and Gary, who kept saying, Get ’er done.

I received encouragement from my early reviewers, who read the first twenty thousand words: My adopted daughter Tracey said she couldn’t wait to see the rest of the story. Kim liked the characters and encouraged me to keep writing. My cousin Gail inspired the intimate scenes. And daughter-in-law, Denise, provided her proofreading expertise.

I am grateful for fellow wordsmiths from An Association of Writers (AAW), who welcomed me with open arms, appointed me as membership chair, and elected me as board president, with special thanks to them for their invaluable critique of my work.

I give special thanks to the staff of Xlibris, especially publishing consultant Travis Black. Without his negotiations and blessing, this project might not have happened. And thanks to submissions representative Judelyn Dela Cruz, Mark, Sarah, Jenny, Kate, Judy and everyone who ushered this book into print.

Some people make little impression, while others affect our inner core. I crossed paths with someone who provided the sparks that ignited this story. He knows:

A friend once told me,

Nothing touches the spirit,

But for enrichment.

I owe my spiritual health to my prayer warrior Judie, who explained the dynamics of soul ties and helped me ask God into my heart. My journey led me to Pastor Rick and the Hucrest Community Church of God, and Ed Glaspey, director of Restoration Ministries, who helped me have a brighter soul.

PROLOGUE

T he phone call came in just before dawn. The flashing red light on the ship’s dashboard identified the caller. It was not the call the mariner hoped for, the one confirming his retirement. It was a duty call instead. Your work was never done when you worked for them. Once you signed up, your life as you knew it, was over. Forming any close ties was forbidden because it was too dangerous for everyone involved.

He sucked in a deep breath and pushed it out slowly. Yeah, he groaned into the mouthpiece. What is it? He was afraid to ask.

We have another assignment for you, Fox, the familiar voice said with authority.

Fox is off the grid, hoping to retire, just looking for a cozy little den.

You know as well as we do you’ll never retire. You couldn’t handle the boredom.

Don’t be too sure. I submitted my request last month.

Yeah, and you haven’t heard anything back now, have you?

The caller had him there. No. Hell no. He hadn’t heard a word from them. They often left their operatives hanging until the last minute. His orders were usually relayed indirectly, leaving no trail. Fox was sick in his soul of knowing too much about national security, Watchdog, and the GRIFFON Center.

Feeling pulled into old obligations, broken promises, and another failed assignment, Fox tried a belly breath with no relief. Forget breaking away from them, he thought. They’ve got me by the short hairs.

The voice on the other end of the line beckoned him. All right, what is the assignment? Fox asked.

Since, the president has pushed for more transparency from the intelligence community, some files have been declassified. Do you remember the old Clifford case?

Fox hesitated. Yes. Why?

It has come back to haunt us. Or maybe I should say it’s come back to haunt you and, more specifically, the woman in Seattle.

Fox gasped at the mention of the woman. Ivan Clifford has resurfaced, and he is stalking her. We want you to draw him out into the open and finish the job. With your connections, it shouldn’t be too difficult.

The old obligation suddenly grabbed Fox by the throat. He swallowed dryly and pleaded, No, not her. I can’t. You can’t. Don’t involve her in this darkness again. He placed two fingers on his carotid artery to pace his heart rate back to normal.

Hey, get a grip, the voice ordered. You involved her when you crossed the line. You knew the rules. We can guarantee your safety, but we can’t protect her, unless you finish your assignment.

Waves crashed relentlessly over the bow, splashed on the deck, and refocused Fox’s attention. What kind of time line are we talking about?

Headquarters indicated a thirty-day timeline.

That’s insane. I can’t put anything together that soon. I haven’t had any contact with her in over five years.

You had no problem making a connection with her before. You’ll think of something. We have utmost confidence in you, Fox.

The mariner tightened the backstay and turned the sloop starboard. He steered the vessel toward the eastern shoreline into the brilliant Mediterranean sunrise. His priorities had just been shifted, and the clock was ticking.

PART ONE

The Silver-Haired Fox

CHAPTER 1

Seattle, Washington

J ade Anne wrapped herself in a hooded gray sweatshirt and tucked her long copper hair under the hood. Feeling chilly, she stuffed her hands in the front pockets and walked the quarter mile down the driveway to get her mail. Shadow, her best friend and faithful shepherd, led the way. Leaves had turned into their glorious colors of red, orange, and gold. October winds blew across the Puget Sound and stung her cheeks.

Jade walked across the road, opened the mailbox, and found the thing she had both anticipated and dreaded—a letter from Stephan Peltzini. She saw the envelope had no return address and recognized the handwriting instantly. With insides shuddering, she picked up the letter, a hot rock in her hand. She shoved it into her pocket and walked back up the driveway. As usual, the dog followed closely behind.

When Jade got back to the cabin, she sank into the bentwood rocker. She held the letter with both hands and pondered over it for a moment. Tears leaked from her eyes. It was a surprise the letter found her because she had tried so hard to become invisible. The letter was addressed to her new name.

Stephan had tracked her down like a wild animal would find its prey.

Dear Jade,

This probably comes as a surprise to hear from me. I’ve discovered more of your family history and have some good news. That gold coin in your mother’s shadow box is a C-bracteate from seventh-century Germany. I found out that your grandfather three generations back cashed in a mother lode in 1880. I believe that antique key in your mother’s shadow box fits a lockbox in a bank in Dusseldorf, Germany. As it turns out, you are sole heir of the family fortune, and all you need to do is go after it. Do you remember the old farmhouse where we went to shoot targets? A package was left there for you. Inside is something you will recognize. It’s paramount to your well-being that you go pick up that package. I’ve included a key you’ll need. PS: Watch your back.

Holy crap, she mumbled. Stephan was always in character, the poker player who showed no tell. He was impossible to read with his never-changing aloof exterior, deadpan expressions, and piercing dark brown eyes. She could sense all that in his handwriting. But then she knew much more; she knew his inner core intimately. It had been five years since she heard from him, yet her body still ached for his touch.

Jade was drawn like metal to a magnet to those good-looking, unobtainable guys because they were so exciting to be around. You can’t predict their behavior; that was what was so mesmerizing. Trust him? Who knows what that means? Everybody you meet these days, would push his own agenda. It’s hard to tell foxes from wolves.

By the time she got to the end of the letter, Jade’s curiosity was piqued. Infused with a mixture of excitement and fear, her mind would not stop reeling. Stephan was just smart enough to include clues about her ancestors to make the letter seem credible.

What the hell? She had always been one with adventure. The car was full of gas, and it was only a day’s drive to the old farmhouse. Ignoring the clanging bell of better judgment, she decided to retrieve that mysterious package.

Northern California

It was close to dusk when Jade Anne pulled into the tree-lined driveway of the two-story old farmhouse. The property was sitting off the main road beside an overgrown pasture, isolated from the other farms in the area. She drove the car up to the gravel walkway and shoved the gearshift into Park. Relieved to see there were no other cars in sight, she unbuckled the seat-belt and looked out the passenger side window.

The house looked unkempt. The faded blue-green shutters hung lopsided from the front window, and much of the off-white paint had curled and chipped away from the vertical slats. The wood siding was streaked with brown and yellow patches of raw wood and discolored paint. The property had deteriorated since she last saw it.

A giant half-dead oak tree, with limbs covered with stringy lime green moss, hovered over the debris-covered shake roof and gave the place an eerie presence. The sun slid behind a hill in the background. A reflection bounced off gray clouds and washed the sky with streaks of silver and gold. Muted shadows jutted out beneath leafless trees like fingers perched, ready to grab anything within reach.

Jade leaned her head back on the headrest, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. She let it out slowly in an effort to get grounded. Sitting in the safety of her car, eyes scanning the property for the second time, she made sure she was alone. She wondered if Stephan would be here or send someone else.

I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for that damned letter.

It could be a ploy to dislodge her from the safety of her retreat and get her alone. She knew it wasn’t safe for Stephan to enter the States, yet there was a part of her that hoped he would try. On the other hand, she was afraid of what buried feelings would be brought up if she ever laid eyes on him again. Yet here she was, sitting in front of this creepy abandoned farmhouse.

Stephan had warned her: Watch your back. So before she left home, she had put the revolver Stephan had given her under the front seat. She got out of the car, locked the doors, and tucked the keys into her Levi’s. The weapon fit into the pocket of her Windbreaker.

Stephan’s voice echoed in her head. Remember to breathe. Otherwise, you’ll get light-headed.

Jade walked up the gravel walkway cautiously, rubber soles crunching rocks, and climbed the rickety front steps. The toe of her boot caught on a nail. She stumbled forward on the rotten porch boards but braced herself on the wobbly handrail.

Fear stuck in her throat, but she pushed past it. She found the key under the terra-cotta flowerpot on the porch and unlocked the front door. It opened with ease; she left it open just in case she needed to escape in a hurry. She squinted against the dark haze and swirling dust and felt the hairs on the back of her neck tingle.

A stench of faulty plumbing mixed with mold and plaster dust met Jade as she stepped inside the dank and dusty parlor. Gray light streamed in from the dirty windows and threw distorted shadows across the floor. A cracked mirror on the wall caught her reflection—wind-blown copper hair, turquoise eyes clouded by stress. People often told her she didn’t look her age, but she was beginning to feel her almost forty-five years.

Jade turned away from the mirror and moved her gaze around the room. The once-beautiful dark walnut floorboards looked almost as rotten as the porch. The ceiling hung, suspended, unevenly from above, its warped plaster ready to collapse. Some pieces had crumbled, dropped to the floor, and turned to dust. There appeared to be a kitchen and dining room on the left. Cupboard doors stood in one corner on a floor, which was scattered with broken black-and-white tiles.

She stood still for a moment and listened, awash in the deadening silence. A wooden staircase covered with layers of dust and cobwebs stood against the northern wall. She hoped Stephan didn’t leave the package upstairs and decided to look downstairs first. As she crossed the parlor to the hallway, the floor creaked with her every step.

Jade wandered up and down the hallway of the old farmhouse, frantically trying doorknob after doorknob. Her boot steps were muffled by the rattling sounds of metal against glass that bounced from wall to wall. She thought she could not stand the sound any longer when one door gave way. Her heart pounded against her chest so hard that the sound echoed in her ears.

She opened the door and peeked around the jamb to see what might have been an elegant master bedroom in a past life. However, time had taken a toll on the torn floral wallpapered walls. Ragged burgundy drapes hung from a wooden rod above an arched window. Faded and frayed forest green carpet showed a lifetime of footsteps.

Then she spied it. A wooden briefcase sat on a rickety bedside stand, and she recognized it immediately. It was made of polished maple hardwood. She had bought it for Stephan at a quaint little gift shop as a going-away present. Of course, he would leave it for her in the bedroom. The briefcase sat on the dusty table as if it had been waiting for her all this time.

Jade approached the briefcase carefully, afraid of what she might find inside. She reached into her jeans’ pocket and wrapped her fingers around the small brass key so thoughtfully included in the letter. Her heart thumped in her ears; her legs felt weak.

Hands shaking, she inserted the key. Jade hesitated to savor the moment, but she no more than lifted the lid on the briefcase when she heard a noise upstairs.

Thoughts became verbal. Stephan! Her voice bellowed throughout the empty room as the realization hit her; she gave her position away. That was stupid. Her heart sank when she heard no answer.

Frozen in place for a few seconds, she had stopped breathing again. It took two seconds to close the lid on the briefcase and shove the key back into the front pocket of her Levi’s. She pulled the revolver out of her windbreaker, pressed the grip safety, and held the weapon out in front of her, elbow locked. Locked and loaded.

She gripped the handle of the briefcase with her left hand and tiptoed, as best she could in Red Wings, over to the bedroom door. Peeking around the doorjamb, she cautiously looked down the hallway. She shifted her eyes left to right as she stepped out of the bedroom. Creeping down the hallway and across the parlor to the front door, she stopped again to listen. All she could hear were her gasping breaths and her own heartbeat. The bone-chilling sensation someone else was there plagued her awareness.

Jade leaned against the front door frame and scanned the property. She stepped out the door and placed the key under the flowerpot. She bounded down the steps and ran down the walkway. The echo of her boot steps slapping the gravel path trailed after her like a shadow following a retreating animal in fading sunlight.

When Jade got to the old beater she bought secondhand, she was out of breath. She unlocked the car door, threw the briefcase on the floorboard, and shoved the gun under the seat. She dropped behind the wheel and pumped the gas to get the thing started. Panic filled her insides.

Come on, start, you piece of crap, she uttered as she stomped on the pedal. The bitter taste of disappointment that Stephan wasn’t at the old farmhouse stained her mouth. Jade followed the road back to I-5 as she watched the rearview mirror.

She pushed a cassette tape into the deck and listened to a female singer belting out her favorite blues tune. Jade felt like she could have written the song. The lyrics spoke her heart’s desire. She turned up the volume and sang along.

"I’m searching for someone who will share my life dream,

To take me places to see what we can see.

I’m looking for a partner who will stay the course,

Someone with a kind and gentle heart

Who sees me for me.

I’m searching for a Gardner, someone to plant seeds,

Cultivate strong feelings and grow roots with me,

Come to full bloom into love everlasting.

I’m looking for a place to bury the past.

Who knows how much time we have?"

CHAPTER 2

Inglewood, California, 2010

N adine Hawke paid the cabdriver and walked up the street to the courthouse annex. It was hot in the City of Angels, and she was sorry she wore a three-piece suit and heels. She stepped inside and searched for the sign that directed her to the GRIFFON Center, Administration, housed on the third floor.

The name of the center had caught her attention because the griffin, the beast with a lion’s body and an eagle’s head and wings, symbolized the ferocity of her Germanic ancestors. A rearing griffin was depicted on the Hawke family coat of arms. Nadine had applied for the clinical supervisor position online. She was impressed with the GRIFFON Center mission statement of providing education and treatment services for emotionally disturbed youth.

She’d graduated with a master’s degree in counseling psychology, which qualified her for an interview. As an experienced counselor, she was sure it would take all her skills to meet the challenges of this job.

After finding the right door, Nadine stepped into a plush office, where a fidgety man in a black suit slid out from behind a large oak desk. His greasy hair was slicked back in a feeble attempt to cover a bald spot. The badge on his jacket was labeled Eldon Wolf, Assistant Administrator.

Hello, I’m Nadine Hawke. I have an appointment with Director Marshal.

Yes, come this way, Ms. Hawke, the smarmy little man announced. He led her down a long hallway and into a wood-paneled conference room.

Mr. Wolf introduced Nadine to Dir. George Marshal, who sat at the head of a large oak conference table. A small gray-haired man holding forearm crutches, Director Marshal almost disappeared into the oversized red leather chair. He seemed comfortable deferring to Wolf.

Ms. Hawke, this is Stephan Peltzini. He has a master’s degree in clinical psychology and is the clinical supervisor of our Inglewood residential treatment facility in Watts. He has extensive experience with treating severely disturbed adolescent males.

Nadine followed Mr. Wolf’s hand as he pointed out a man who sat across the table from Director Marshal.

Stephan Peltzini was also dressed in black, an extra-large man with a dark complexion, close-cropped silver hair, heavy stubble, and the most piercing dark brown eyes Nadine had ever seen. He rose from his chair to reach across the table to shake her hand, flashing a gorgeous smile. He met her eyes and said, It’s nice to meet you.

Same here was all she could manage.

When their hands met, Nadine felt a tingle. For some strange reason, he felt familiar to her. Perhaps he sensed something familiar in her as well because he held her hand a little longer than necessary. He looked European to her, the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome—the image of the man she had looked for all her life. He was the kind of man she called a silver-haired fox.

During the interview, Nadine discovered Stephan Peltzini wore many hats: clinical supervisor, psychotherapist, family therapist, and reserve police officer. Stephan held the group’s attention while he told them about his clinical practice, military service, training in army intelligence, and expertise in hostage negotiations. He explained with pride, My specialty is ritual abuse and deprogramming. We called it ‘psych-ops’, in the military.

Nadine, impressed with his credentials, sat in a daze until Mr. Wolf dragged her back to reality. Please, tell us about your background, Ms. Hawke, he directed.

She discussed her education and specialty with post-traumatic stress disorder. As a certified play therapist, she often utilized art as a viable means to change behavior. As she described her work with abused children, all three men listened attentively.

When she finished, Mr. Wolf offered her the position as clinical supervisor for GRIFFON Center Day Treatment Unit in Redondo Beach. George Marshal sat silently, while Mr. Wolf informed them about policies and procedures of the GRIFFON Center.

Mr. Wolf explained, The day treatment and the Inglewood residential units often refer adolescents back and forth between treatment facilities. The two of you will be working together on mutual cases and provide individual and family therapy as needed.

When the meeting was over, Nadine and Stephan left the conference room together and rode the elevator down to the first floor. He held the door open for Nadine as they left the GRIFFON Center.

Thank you, Mr. Peltzini.

Call me Stephan. Nadine—that’s an old German name, isn’t it? It only took him a few minutes to make a deep connection with her.

Nadine supervised a team of psychotherapists and provided youth crisis counseling. She settled into the job requirements with ease and soon felt competent in her role. One day, she noticed a boy sitting alone at a small table