Unintended Detour: A Christian Suspense Novel (The Unintended Series Book 3) Read online

  Unintended Detour

  Book Three of the Unintended Series

  D.L. Wood

  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

  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

  Note to My Readers

  About the Author

  Books By D.L. Wood

  UNINTENDED DETOUR

  Book Three of the Unintended Series

  Copyright ©2021 by D.L. Wood

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

  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 the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Scriptures taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com The “NIV” and “New International Version” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™

  ISBN-13: 979-8481334677

  Printed by Kindle Direct Publishing

  Published by Silverglass Press

  First Edition

  D.L. Wood

  www.dlwoodonline.com

  Huntsville, Alabama

  Dedicated to Kathleen,

  Kimberly, Wes, and Tassie Lee.

  You are an inspiration and

  we are with you.

  Acknowledgments

  Unintended Detour would not have been possible without the diligent assistance of my editorial readers: Shaw Gookin, Kirsten Harbers, Laura Stratton, Linda Sproul, and Gene Gettler.

  Thank you to my editor, Robin Patchen. Your insights have made this book a million times better.

  Thank you to my parents for your never-ending support and encouragement.

  And finally, thank you to my husband, Ron, for always being there, for cheering me on, for understanding the late nights and hours in front of the computer and being my biggest fan.

  1

  1930

  WILL

  Do I have what it takes to kill a man?

  The revolver rested heavily in Will’s hand. The wooden grip filled his palm, his fingers wrapped tightly around it but for the forefinger slipped tentatively through the trigger guard. A shiver, not borne of the freezing cold, vibrated down his spine.

  Swallowing hard, he looked up to where the lights of the main house burned brightly, far across the property from where he waited on a concrete bench just inside the edge of the woods surrounding the estate. Skeletal trees, dozens of evergreens, and the great expanse of grounds to the small, walled courtyard hiding the servants’ entrance—that was what stood between him and the house. Between him and everything that came next.

  Shadows flickered across the windows of the first two stories of Stonehall Estate’s towering four-story mansion. Light and dark oscillated with the party guests as they moved through the house, danced, ate, drank—reveling in this passing from 1930 to 1931 in only…what? He pulled his dead father’s pocket watch from his coat, opened it, and peered beneath the crack in its glass.

  Eighteen minutes.

  Eighteen minutes until December 31, 1930, became January 1, 1931.

  And this was cause for celebration?

  His chest tightened as he gently returned the watch to his pocket. From an ice-crusted branch somewhere above, an owl hooted, interrupting the ethereal quiet of the night. Will’s eyes drifted up briefly. Not finding the creature, he returned his gaze to the monstrosity of columns, balconies, stairs, and stone that were the mansion.

  Of course they were celebrating. They were inside. Warm and fat. Bejeweled and happy. Callous and oblivious. For them, the changing of the calendar to a new year was simply another excuse for gluttony. For him—for everyone else—the new year held only the promise of more misery. Because whether the people inside the mansion acknowledged it or not, the world was falling apart. Humanity had come through the Great War, even moved a decade beyond it, believing that better things were yet to come—only to have greed smash that dream to pieces and leave children starving. Families homeless.

  Fathers dying.

  Will squeezed his eyes shut as a gust of frigid wind blew hard, penetrating his patched, threadbare coat, racking him with another shiver. His eyelids flew open at its harsh touch and, refocusing on the mansion, he turned his thoughts again to those within its walls.

  Their hearts were as frigid as the night on this stretch of the Hudson River Valley, where the rich and powerful built their palaces and pretended the rest of the world wasn’t their problem.

  But tonight, that was going to change. Tonight, Will was going to make it their problem.

  He checked his watch again.

  Nearly midnight. Dread struck his core as the second hand ticked toward the twelve. Unbidden, a countdown began in his head.

  Ten, nine, eight...

  He was sure that inside the mansion, they were also counting down. Only they were terribly mistaken about what they were counting down to.

  It’s time.

  Will laid the revolver on his lap and from under his coat withdrew a flour sack. He pulled it over his head and tied it around his neck, hiding all but his blue eyes, which peered through the two holes he had cut in it.

  Then, he snatched up the gun and ran.

  Will burst through the door to the servant’s entrance in the basement to an unoccupied drying room. Racing straight ahead, he barreled down the narrow corridor that would take him to the servants’ stairwell leading to the floors above. He braced himself for a fight, knowing he could encounter one of the help at any moment, but he made it to the end of the hall without incident. It was then, just before turning for the stairwell leading upstairs, that he glanced left to ensure the way was clear and caught a glimpse into the servants’ dining room.

  The space was packed with servants forming a mass of b
lack jackets and dresses, starched white shirts and cream, lace-fringed aprons, as well as the informal gray muslin of the kitchen staff. The sheer number appalled him. They must have taken on extra help for the night. Will knew the owner of this house did not employ that many on a regular basis.

  Of course they had gone to extremes. After all, appearances must be kept up.

  Thankfully, not a single person seemed to notice him as maids, footmen, and cooks alike raised and clinked their glasses, cheering and laughing. They were celebrating too. He wondered how, when questioned later, they would explain their failure to see him. His stomach clenched at the thought of causing them trouble. But it couldn’t be helped.

  He took the stairs two at a time, his shoes pounding on the wood, sacrificing stealth for speed, his right hand holding the revolver, his left gripping the railing, pulling himself onward—harder, faster—until he landed on the first floor in the corridor directly behind the banquet hall.

  His heart banged against his rib cage, spurred on by nerves and fear and doubt. But there was no time for that now. Now was the time for action. He inhaled deeply through his nose, set his shoulders back, and barged through the door to the butler’s passage. He veered to the left, barreling to the end, then flung open the final door into the banquet hall.

  From one end of the fifty-foot-long room to the other, men and women dressed in their finest caroused and carried-on, kissing and exclaiming, drinking and dancing. Gowns of slinky satin and silk draped the women while the men wore crisp tails and bow ties, their hair slicked back in a manner Will had never had the means nor reason to try with his own dark waves. Lively music from an eight-piece band filled the space as light shone from nearly every surface—the massive twin crystal chandeliers, dozens of glistening silver candelabras, the silver service on the long buffet table along the far wall…and the jewelry. Pearls and diamonds and rubies and emeralds. Gold and silver.

  He spied the Stone family, the residents of the estate, immediately. The husband and wife, their eldest daughter Lily, and even the young one, Cora, who had apparently been allowed to stay up and partake in the festivities.

  Anger flashed through him. He hated that the child would be there for this. Where was the nanny? What were her parents thinking, letting her stay up that late? His eyes shot to a woman with short, curled brown hair, dressed in a pale-green gown. Her hand was clasped over her mouth, her eyes wide as they panned to his revolver.

  He slammed the door behind him, pressed himself firmly against it, and jerked up the gun.

  The guests nearest him quickly back-pedaled, bumping into those behind them, creating a domino-like turning through the crowd.

  “Nobody move!” Will yelled. “Nobody move!”

  Screams and shouts erupted as finally the whole room took notice of him. The band’s playing halted on an unsettling cringy collection of wrong notes.

  A few of the men took steps forward as if readying to engage him.

  “I said don’t move!” Will barked, this time shaking the revolver for effect. When all but one of the men stopped, he aimed his gun at one of the two-story arched windows along the front of the house and fired. The glass shattered, raining down like shrapnel from a glittery bomb, drawing more screams and sending guests scrambling away from the downpour.

  The persistent man at the room’s center now froze in place like the rest, including the only two servants currently in the hall—footmen attending the buffet. Glacial air streamed inside the broken window, consuming all warmth as it spread through the room.

  “I want a man at each of the doors,” Will bellowed, pointing the weapon in turn at each of the other three doors to the hall, one in each corner of the grand space. “Stand against it and keep anyone from entering.” The doors, he knew, swung inward, and by merely positioning themselves in front of them, a single man could prevent anyone from entering. Three men, all dressed in their fashion-finest, moved to comply. “If anyone comes in, I’ll shoot,” Will warned, hoping his threat would insure their obedience. “So keep ’em out.”

  An eerie silence overtook the room. The quiet only served to heighten Will’s senses, and it was impossible for him not to be struck by the heavenly scent of roasted meats, freshly baked breads, savory vegetables and soufflés, desserts and…oh, the chocolates. The food overflowed on the buffet table. The grandiosity of it both turned his stomach and made it rumble. He hadn’t eaten anything other than a stale roll and bitter coffee since early that morning.

  Focus, he commanded himself, a steel rod of purpose forming along his backbone.

  He had just moved to reach inside his coat when a desperate banging sounded on the door behind him. Will’s heart jumped as he shoved his body against the thick wood. “Stop!” he yelled, turning his head slightly toward the door, but keeping his eyes on the throng before him. “Back away from the door! I’m armed, and I’ll shoot anyone who enters, got it?” The banging ceased immediately. “I don’t want to hurt anyone,” he added, his voice a degree softer, “but I will if I gotta. Keep everyone downstairs.”

  Hurried footsteps raced away from the door, and urgency swelled within him.

  The staff know now. It won’t be long before they send for help.

  Will pulled another flour sack from his coat, this one intact and weighted with a rock, and threw it about six feet in front of him into the wide clearance created when those nearest him had rushed away. “I want everybody’s hands in the air.” Approximately forty pairs of hands, bejeweled with rings, bracelets, and even a wristwatch or two, shot toward the white-wainscoted, two-story ceiling. “All right. Now two at a time, step forward. Remove every piece of jewelry, including watches, fellas—and drop them in the bag. Then put your hands back up and step back over to the band and stay there.” He gestured to his left, where the quartet was situated against the wall behind the crowd. “Fast and smooth, and no one gets hurt. Make a wrong move, and I’ll put a bullet in you.” He nodded at the couple closest to the sack, a sapphire-gowned woman cowering partially behind a man who had his arm slung protectively in front of her. “You two start.” When neither made a move, he pointed the gun directly at them. “Now,” he growled.

  With a slight whimper, the woman moved to unclasp her extravagant diamond necklace as the two stepped forward together. The man removed his watch and cufflinks, snatched the bag off the marble-tiled floor and dropped the items in. He held it open for the woman, who dropped in the necklace and a pair of equally ostentatious diamond earrings, then put it back on the floor.

  “Okay, go on,” Will said, waving them off to the band with the gun’s barrel. “Next,” he said, nodding at a pair of men who had cigars out, the ends glowing red, probably having lit them up after midnight struck. “And don’t bother picking the bag up, just leave it like that—mouth open—and drop your stuff in.”

  They let go of their cigars where they stood, ash and embers breaking onto the floor, then moved forward, relinquishing their valuables to the sack’s depths—one gold pocket watch, a signet ring encrusted with a crimson stone, and even a fancy new wristwatch like the ones Will had seen in the window of Tiffany’s in the city. Hope flickered in his gut.

  The rich had arrived intending to show off, as expected. That bag was gonna be full. This was going to work.

  Guests stepped forward, deposited their valuables, then moved to stand by the band. Will calculated that, at the current rate, the entire process should only take a few more minutes, which was good because a few minutes were probably all he had. The help downstairs would’ve called the police from the butler’s telephone. If they actually managed to get through to someone just after midnight on New Year’s Day, the coppers would bear down in full force once they knew it was Stonehall Estate being robbed.

  As the guests continued shuffling by, dropping or tossing valuables into the sack’s depths, Will’s gaze rotated continuously around the room—across the guests yet to surrender their valuables, to the guests who already had, and finally to the doors
in the three corners still manned by the conscripted males. So far, no one had tried anything, thank goodness, though the strained jaws and tense postures of many of the men in the room made it clear it wasn’t far from their minds. Just as the thought presented itself, one of the men guarding the door catty-corner from Will shifted, moving his arm behind him—

  “Hey, you! Over there!” Will bellowed, jabbing the gun in the man’s direction. “If you go through that door, I’ll shoot the person nearest me. You got it?” The man stopped moving, his lips tightening into a hard line. He nodded stiffly, dropping his arm to his side. “Look, you’re all doing well, okay? Just nobody do anything crazy, and we’ll be done, easy-peasy. Then I’ll be on my way, and nobody better follow, ’cause I’ll shoot the first person I see—man, woman, servant or guest? I don’t care. Got it?”

  Over the faint sounds of crying from somewhere in the gathered guests, he counted twelve people yet to come up to the bag. Then ten. Then seven. And four of those were the Stone family themselves.