To Merline Lovelace and the participants

       of her workshop Four Steps to Perfect Plots at the 2006 Written In The Stars NOLA STARS (North Louisiana Storytellers and Authors) conference. Thanks to all of you for giving me this story idea!

      And special thanks and acknowledgment to

       paratroop and skydiving instructor Jim Bates at aero.com for his help on how to “let go of a plane.” Any mistakes were my own!

      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

      ONE

      Someone was going to have to explain about the dead body in the bathtub. Really. That thought kept running through Lydia Cantrell’s head as she looked from the grotesque body of a wide-eyed dead man wearing a bloody suit to the shock-filled stare of the surprised and very alive man standing in front of her.

      Then her practical mind went into overdrive. She would probably have to explain how she’d wound up in Pastor Dev’s hotel room late at night, only to find him wearing a bright red action figure T-shirt and old, faded jeans, while staring at the body in the tub, his expression filled with shock and something else Lydia couldn’t quite figure out, something that looked like anger and resolve. Since she’d never seen Pastor Dev angry, she couldn’t grasp what was happening or the strange look she saw in his deep blue eyes.

      And she certainly couldn’t grasp his attire. Lydia rarely saw Pastor Devon Malone dressed in anything other than a nice suit and interesting tie, so she was a bit taken aback, seeing him in jeans and a T-shirt and realizing that the man was built like a regular weight lifter and football jock all rolled into one mighty good-looking package. That, and the body in the tub, really set Lydia into a tizzy.

      But she had come here for a reason. A very legitimate reason. They were supposed to go over Pastor Dev’s notes for his speech the next day. They were attending a statewide religious conference in Atlanta, Georgia. That’s why Lydia was in his hotel room tonight—to help him go over his notes and make sure his speech was tip-top.

      Pastor Dev was funny that way. He was thorough and very detail-oriented. He liked to do things the right way. Some implied he was a perfectionist, but Lydia called that just plain hardworking and dedicated. That’s why the man was such a good minister. His speech, entitled “Pastoral—Finding Inner Peace in a Troubled World” would, of course, be excellent. Everything about Pastor Dev was excellent, in Lydia’s mind, at least. Which was why she refused to believe there was a dead man in the room, or that Pastor Dev had anything whatsoever to do with it.

      Closing her eyes to the image of the dead man, Lydia thought about how people would react to a young, impressionable girl of twenty-five visiting a single man’s hotel room late at night, but she kept telling herself this was all beyond reproach—if you didn’t count murder, of course. This was Pastor Dev after all. Even the church matrons who’d ridden the bus up to Atlanta with them had given this meeting their blessings. Because they knew Lydia and the pastor had work to do—God’s work. And because Pastor Dev was always a perfect gentleman. Everyone knew that.

      And there had been a chaperone present—Pastor Dev’s roommate. Except his roommate and mentor, Pastor Charles Pierson from Savannah, was in no shape to chaperone, since he was the dead man in the bathtub.

      Lydia thought about all the people who had put their trust in Pastor Dev and her. This certainly wouldn’t sit well with the church members back home in Dixon, Georgia. It was where Pastor Dev preached and Lydia worked as his secretary ever since she’d come back with a business degree from the University of Georgia.

      And she’d worked hard to get the job at the First Church of Dixon, because she had decided instead of building a career in some big company with stock options and a great 401K plan, she wanted to work for Pastor Dev. She’d fallen in love with him one Christmas during her senior year at UGA, when she’d met him at her parents’ annual Christmas Eve open house. He was the new preacher, single and just a few years older than Lydia. And he was so good and sweet and kind, she knew immediately that he was the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with.

      Only, he still didn’t know that. Because, though Lydia made goo-goo eyes at him all the time and twirled her long, dark blond hair each time he came to stand by her desk back in the church office, he’d never once noticed a thing about her or her feelings. He was always too preoccupied with taking care of church members—he was so very dedicated that way.

      Lydia felt safe with Pastor Dev. He was such a mild-mannered, quiet man, and she just knew she was perfectly safe with him even now, with that horrible body staring up at them.

      But she had to admit things looked mighty suspicious with Pastor Dev standing there all shocked and surprised and looking from the body back to her with a kind of dread.

      Finally, Lydia managed to speak. “I know you didn’t kill that man, Pastor Dev. Please tell me you didn’t kill your roommate?”

      “Of course I didn’t do this, Lydia,” he replied, a soft plea in his words. Then he just stared at the body, that strange look on his face.

      While she waited for an explanation, Lydia reminded herself that Pastor Dev was so quiet and focused, so kind and polite, so good and solid, that he could never lift a hand in brutality or violence toward another human being. The man was a walking example of what being a true Christian was all about. Period. End of discussion.

      So, Lydia asked another question. “If you didn’t kill your friend, then who did?”

      Devon Malone heard the doubt in Lydia’s appeal. And because he couldn’t explain things, he repeated his words. “Lydia, I didn’t do this. You have to believe me.”

      Lydia Cantrell, of the South Georgia we pioneers-settled-this-town-with-wagons-and-mules Cantrells, apparently wanted to believe him. She bobbed her head. “I do believe you. I do, Pastor Dev. But—”

      He grabbed her by the hand, hauling her into the room as he shut the door. Which really threw him and her both, since he had never tried to touch her, not even so much as touch a strand of her hair or press his fingers along her arm as he opened a door for her. He’d always followed proper decorum when it came to his relationship with Lydia. But now, he had her by the arm, tugging her along with him as he grabbed equipment and weapons out of a steel briefcase. A briefcase he’d hoped never to use again.

      Lydia looked at him in surprise. “What’s with all those fancy gadgets?” When he didn’t respond, she said, “You don’t even carry a cell phone like most normal human beings.”

      It was true. He rarely bothered to use the computer they’d had installed two years ago at the church office. He mostly devoted his time to reading the Word, and taking care of members’ needs and visitation. Dev was a stickler about visitation—always going out amongst his flock, sharing their good and bad times. Graduations—even from kindergarten—weddings, births, medical emergencies,