The Masterpiece by Francine Rivers
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The Masterpiece
Copyright © 2018 by Francine Rivers. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph and mural artwork copyright © by Cameron Moberg. All rights reserved.
Designed by Jennifer L. Phelps
Edited by Kathryn S. Olson
Published in association with the literary agency of Browne & Miller Literary Associates, LLC, 52 Village Place, Hinsdale, IL 60521
Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.
The Masterpiece is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Rivers, Francine, date- author.
Title: The masterpiece / Francine Rivers.
Description: Carol Stream, Illinois : Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., [2018]
Identifiers: LCCN 2017033594| ISBN 9781496407900 (hardcover)
Subjects: | GSAFD: Christian fiction. | Love stories.
Classification: LCC PS3568.I83165 M37 2018 | DDC 813/.54—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017033594
ISBN 978-1-4964-3060-1 (International Trade Paper Edition)
ISBN 978-1-4964-2587-4 (autographed edition)
Build: 2017-12-22 11:05:43
TO MY HUSBAND,
RICK RIVERS.
Thank you for a life full of adventure!
Contents
Acknowledgments
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
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
Epilogue
A Note from the Author
Discussion Questions
About the Cover
About the Author
ONE OF THE GREAT BLESSINGS of being a writer is the opportunity to interview people who are experienced in arenas I have not entered. I’ve had a great deal of help on the winding road of writing The Masterpiece. I want to thank the following people for the information and encouragement they gave me:
Gary LeDonne shared his knowledge of the juvenile court system and group home referrals.
Heather Aldridge of the Sonoma County Sheriff’s Office forensics department and Christopher Wirowek, deputy director of the San Francisco Medical Examiner’s Office, told me about policies and practices of departmental record keeping and finding identities of Jane and John Does.
Ulla Pomele gave me daily scheduling information for a group home program structure and activities.
Debbie Kaupp gave me an extensive list of the various duties of a personal assistant.
My brother, Everett King, told me about his experience with silent heart attacks, heart surgery, and the installation of a defibrillator implant.
Ex-cartel gang tagger and graffiti artist “Allude” shared some of his street adventures and misadventures in the Bay Area.
My friend Carolyn Dunn invited me to brainstorm my characters with a group of certified, professional family counselors. Thank you, Uriah Guilford, Candace Holly, Terri L. Haley, Laurel Marlink Quast, Gary Moline, and Rebecca Worsley for your insights into the realities of bonding issues in traumatized children and how they might play out in adulthood. Laurel Quast also gave me much-needed information on working with women in crisis pregnancy and child placement.
Ashley Huddleston and Tricia Goyer shared heart-wrenching insights into the psyche of traumatized children, as well as the struggles of foster and adoptive parents who love them and strive to help them heal.
Antanette Reed, Kern County assistant director of CPS, gave me essential information about the foster care system.
When I got lost in my story and couldn’t find my way around, I called story doctor Stan Williams. He asked the right questions to get me on track.
Holly Harder, my dear friend, has awesome navigational skills on the Internet. Whenever I got lost in cyberspace or couldn’t find details on any given subject, I sent out a distress call to Holly, and she found in minutes the exact information I needed.
A huge thank-you to my Coeur d’Alene brainstorming friends: Brandilyn Collins, Tamera Alexander, Robin Lee Hatcher, Karen Ball, Sharon Dunn, Gayle DeSalles, Tricia Goyer, Sunni Jeffers, Sandy Sheppard, and Janet Ulbright. All amazing women of God who pray, plot, and know how to play. Whenever I hit a wall, these remarkable women helped get me over or through it.
Colleen Phillips, kindred spirit and missionary in Chile, was in this project from the beginning. Thank you for “listening” to all the variations of Roman and Grace’s journey and for being the first one to read, comment, and make corrections on the manuscript—not once, but twice—before I dared submit it.
I also want to thank my brilliant agent, Danielle Egan-Miller, for her insights and long hours of work in managing my writing career. It’s a blessing to be able to leave all the complex details of business to someone I trust so that I can concentrate on writing.
Thank you also to Tyndale publisher Karen Watson, who always has the questions to get my creative juices flowing. I’m grateful to Cheryl Kerwin, Erin Smith, Shaina Turner, and Stephanie Broene, who handle the lion’s share of my Facebook author page. Robin Lee Hatcher manages my website, and my daughter, Shannon Coibion, posts my blogs and helps me with incoming mail.
Finally, I am indebted to my longtime editor, Kathy Olson, who understands my process and story. Without her expertise in cutting, restructuring, and slipping in scenes from previous drafts, this book would not be in your hands.
Blessings to each of you in your future ventures. You are all God’s masterpieces.
ROMAN VELASCO CLIMBED the fire escape and swung over the wall onto the flat roof. Crouching, he moved quickly. Another building abutted the five-story apartment house, the perfect location for graffiti. Right across the street was a bank building, and he’d already left a piece on the front door.
Shrugging off his backpack, he pulled out his supplies. He’d have to work fast. Los Angeles never slept. Even at three in the morning, cars sped along the boulevard.
This piece would be seen by anyone driving east. He’d be at risk until he finished, but dressed in black pants and a hooded sweatshirt, he’d be hard to spot, unless someone were looking for him. Ten minutes. That’
The paper stencil hooked on something and tore. Swearing under his breath, Roman worked quickly to tape it. A wind came up, pulling a portion away. It was a long stencil and took precious minutes to secure. He grabbed a can of spray paint and shook it. When he pressed the button, nothing happened. Cursing, he pulled out another can and started spraying.
A vehicle approached. He glanced down and froze when he spotted a police car decelerating. Was it the same one that had come by an hour ago, when he’d been heading for the bank? He’d walked with purpose, hoping they’d think he was just some guy heading home from a night shift. The car had slowed, checking him out, and then moved on. As soon as it disappeared down the street, he’d done the work on the glass door of the bank building.
Roman went back to work. He only needed a few more minutes. He kept spraying.
Brake lights glowed hot red on the street. The police car had stopped in front of the bank. A white beam of light fixed on the front door.
One more minute. Roman made two more sweeps and started the careful removal of the stencil. He’d had to use more tape than usual, so it took longer. The last section of paper peeled away, and he added three small black interlocking letters that looked like a bird in flight.
One officer was out of the car, flashlight in hand.
Roman crouched low, rolled the stencil, and stuffed it into his backpack with the spray cans. The beam of light rose and moved closer. It flashed right over him as he started moving across the roof. It traveled down and away. Relieved, Roman shouldered the pack and rose slightly.
The light returned, silhouetting him against the wall. He bolted, face averted.
The beam of light tracked his escape across the roof. He heard voices and racing feet. Heart hammering, Roman took a flying leap onto the next building. He hit hard, rolled to his feet, and kept going. The police department probably had a file on the Bird’s work. He wasn’t a teenager anymore, facing community service for doing gang tagging on a wall. If he got caught now, he’d do jail time.
Worse, he’d destroy the budding reputation Roman Velasco was earning as a legitimate artist. Graffiti earned street cred, but didn’t help in a gallery.
One officer had returned to the squad car. Tires squealed. They weren’t giving up.
Roman spotted an open window a couple of buildings over and decided to climb up rather than down.
A car door slammed. A man shouted. Must be a slow night if these two cops wanted to spend this much time hunting a graffiti artist.
Roman swung over the edge of another roof. A half-empty can of spray paint fell out of his jostled pack and exploded on the pavement below.
The startled officer drew his gun and pointed it at Roman as he climbed. “LAPD! Stop where you are!”
Gripping a ledge, Roman pulled himself up and went in through the open apartment window. He held his breath. A man snored in the bedroom. Roman crept forward. He hadn’t gone two steps before bumping into something. His eyes adjusted to the dim light from the kitchen appliances. The occupant must be a hoarder. The cluttered living room could be Roman’s undoing. He left his backpack behind the sofa.
Opening the front door quietly, he peered out and listened. No movement, no voices. The man in the bedroom snorted and stirred. Roman slipped out quickly and closed the door behind him. The emergency exit door was stuck. If he forced it, he’d make noise. He found the elevator, his heart pounding faster as it took its sweet time rising. Bing. The doors opened. Roman stepped inside and punched the button for the underground parking garage.
Just stay cool. He shoved the hood back and raked his hands through his hair. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The elevator doors opened. The basement parking lot was well lit. Roman held the door open and waited a few seconds to scope the area before he stepped out. All clear. Relieved, he headed for the ramp leading up to the side street.
The police car sat at the curb. Doors opened, and both officers emerged.
For a split second, Roman debated inventing a quick story for why he’d be heading out for a walk at three thirty in the morning, but somehow he knew no story was going to keep him out of cuffs.
He bolted up the street toward a residential neighborhood a block off the main boulevard. The officers followed like hounds after a fox.
Roman went down one street, along a paved driveway, and over a wall. He thought he was home free until he realized he wasn’t alone in the backyard. A German shepherd leaped to its feet and gave chase. Roman raced across the yard and over the back fence. The dog hit the fence and clawed at it, barking fiercely. Roman landed hard on the other side and knocked over a couple of garbage cans in his haste to get away. Now every other canine up and down the street was sounding the alarm. Roman moved fast, keeping low and in the shadows.
Lights went on. He could hear voices.
Inquiries would slow down the cops, and they’d be less likely to go over fences and trespass. Roman moved fast for a few blocks and then slowed to a normal gait to catch his breath.
The dogs had stopped barking. He heard a car and slipped behind a privet hedge. The police car crossed the next street, not slowing as it headed back toward Santa Monica Boulevard. Maybe he’d lost them. Rather than push his luck any further, Roman waited another few minutes before venturing out to the sidewalk.
It took him an hour to make his way back to his BMW. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he couldn’t resist driving east to check out his work.
The bank would have its front door cleaned by noon, but the high piece on the wall across the street would last longer. The Bird had gained enough notoriety over the past few years that some building owners left the graffiti untouched. He hoped that would be the case with this one. He’d come too close to getting caught to have the work buffed and forgotten in a day or two.
Freeway traffic had already picked up. Fighting exhaustion, Roman turned on the air-conditioning. Cold air blasted him, keeping him wide-awake as he drove up into Topanga Canyon, feeling drained and vaguely depressed. He should be reveling after his successful night raid, not feeling like an old man in need of a recliner.
He slowed and turned onto the gravel drive down to his house. The push of a button opened the garage door. Three more cars bigger than his 740Li could fit in the space. He shut off the engine and sat for a few seconds as the door whirred closed behind him.
As he started to get out of his car, a wave of weakness hit him. He sat still for a minute, waiting for the odd sensation to pass. It hit him again when he headed for the back door. Staggering, he went down on one knee. He anchored his fist on the concrete and kept his head down.
The spell passed, and Roman stood slowly. He needed sleep. That’s all. One full night would fix him up. He opened the back door to dead silence.
Unzipping and removing the black hoodie, he headed down the hallway to his bedroom. He was too tired to take a shower, too tired to turn the air conditioner down to sixty-five, too tired to eat, though his stomach cramped with hunger. Stripping off his clothes, he sprawled across the unmade bed. Maybe he’d get lucky tonight and sleep without dreaming. Usually, the high he got from one of his night raids earned a payback of nightmares from his days in the Tenderloin. White Boy never stayed buried for long.
Morning shot spears of sunlight. Roman closed his eyes, craving darkness.
Grace Moore got up early, knowing she would need plenty of time to cross the valley and arrive on time for her first day as a temp worker. She wasn’t sure the job would pay well enough to get a small apartment for herself and her son, Samuel, but it was a start. The longer she lived with the Garcias, the more complicated things became.
Selah and Ruben were in no hurry for her to leave. Selah still hoped Grace would change her mind and
She’d sent out dozens of résumés since being laid off over a year ago and only received a few calls back for interviews. None had produced a job. Every employer wanted a college graduate these days, and she’d only completed a year and a half before putting her education on hold so she could support her husband, Patrick, until he graduated.
Looking back, she wondered if Patrick had ever loved her. Every promise Patrick had made, he’d broken. He had needed her. He had used her. It was that simple.
Aunt Elizabeth was right. She was a fool.
Samuel stirred in his crib. Grace lifted him gently, thankful he was awake. She’d have time to nurse him and change his diaper before handing him over to Selah. “Good morning, little man.” Grace breathed in his baby scent and sat on the edge of the twin bed she’d just made. She opened her blouse and shifted him so he could nurse.
The circumstances of his conception and the complications he’d added to her life ceased to matter the moment she first held him in her arms. He hadn’t been an hour old before she knew she couldn’t give him up for adoption, no matter how much better his life might be with the Garcias. She’d told Selah and Ruben as much, but every day brought its own anguish as Selah took over his care while Grace went out looking for a way to support herself and her son.
Others do it, Lord. Why can’t I?
Others had family. She had only Aunt Elizabeth.
Father, please let this job work out. Help me, Lord. Please. I know I don’t deserve it, but I’m asking. I’m begging.
Thankfully, she’d passed the interview and tests with the temp agency and been added to their list. Mrs. Sandoval had a job opening. “I’ve sent this man four highly qualified people, and he rejected every one. I don’t think he knows what he needs. It’s the only work I can offer you right now.”
Grace would have agreed to work for the devil himself if it meant a regular paycheck.
The sound of chimes pulled Roman up out of the darkness. Had he dreamed he was in Westminster Abbey? He rolled over. His body had just relaxed when the chimes started again. Someone had pushed the doorbell. He’d like to get his hands on the owner who installed the blasted system. Cursing, Roman pulled a pillow over his head, hoping to muffle the song that could be heard from one end of the five-thousand-square-foot house to the other.