Private justice

The popular Blackstock begins a new mystery series, Newpointe 911, with Private Justice, about emergency services, in particular the fire department, in a midsize Mississippi town. The tale opens with a Fat Tuesday parade and the grumbling of firemen who, by order of the mayor, must walk the parade in clown outfits. As a Christian, fireman Mark Branning objects to the parade because of the paganism of Mardi Gras, and that paganism ties into the murder of two firemen's wives even as the parade proceeds. Mark goes running to see after his estranged wife, Allie, and together they solve the mystery and rediscover their faith in God. Blackstock is always workmanlike, but she has a better-than-average opener here, perhaps because it's based on actual murders in her own hometown, and perhaps, too, because Mark and Allie's marital difficulties seem real. Science fiction writer Card takes a detour into biblical fiction with Stone Tables, his account of Moses and the flight of the Israelites from Egypt. As he notes in his introduction, his novel is based on a play he wrote while serving his Mormon missionary duty in Brazil. It's a surprisingly lively tale, shrewd about ancient Egyptian court politics and with an interesting characterization of Moses the young Egyptian general, torn between loyalty to his shrewd adoptive mother, Hapshepsut, and the necessity for him to lead his persecuted people. The fifteenth-century internecine struggles of the Catholic Church in Bohemia, brought to a boil with the burning at the stake of the heretic John Hus and culminating in the Hussite Wars of 1419, form the lively, well-researched background of The Silver Sword, first installment of a new Hunt trilogy called the Heirs of Cahira O'Connor. A modern O'Connor woman, Kathleen, stumbles onto the fact that several brave O'Connor women of the past, beginning with Cahira O'Connor of Ireland, have risen in battle to save the day. In this first instance, it's Anika of Prague who dons male clothing and masquerades as a sword-wielding squire. It's the early history of Protestantism by way of Ivanhoe, and it's a strong opening for what looks to be a good series. Eclipse of the Sun is--well, a dark parable, set in British Columbia in the year 2000. It's another of O'Brien's Catholic apocalyptic novels in his series Children of the Last Days. A pervasive tolerance of moral decay--exemplified here with a sort of hippie colony that has, over time, devolved into a petty dictatorship--has led to complacency in Canada, so that when, "practically overnight," Canada becomes a police state, no one objects. Thank God for the old priest, Father Andrei, who steals upon the commune and rescues a child who may hold the key to the resurgence of civil liberties taken away by those devious liberals who, in O'Brien's eyes, are Nazis in their newest manifestation. Paranoid and quite well done. Victorian England was the setting for great intellectual turmoil, and Phillips makes a stab at reflecting it in Wild Grows the Heather in Devon, first in a series called the Secrets of Heathersleigh Hall. When it comes to evolution, though, and the rational exclusion of God, he can't really manage, and he gives all the good lines and emotional ballast to an old peasant couple. They provide a gentle comeuppance to the oh-so-modern Charles Rutherford, a Liberal in the House of Commons, and his wife, Jocelyn, who both come to God through hard times and war even as their emancipated daughter, Amanda, strikes off on yet another modern course to be covered in the sequel. Romantic stereotypes--dark and stormy nights, family curses, and deathbed confessions--keep Phillips' novel in the realm of light entertainment, yet one can respect his research, which results in some winning scenes. Stallsmith published a funny, quirky Christian mystery in 1995 called The Body They May Kill. One can sense her attempting a more conventional effort in Rosemary for Remembrance, first in a series called Thyme Wil

Another winner from Blackstock. It is the week of Mardi Gras in the Louisiana town of Newpointe, and the whole town is celebrating. Then horrible news arrives: Martha Dwyer, the wife of a firefighter, has been found murdered, shot through the head, her body set on fire. The townspeople's shock soon turns to horror when yet another firefighter's wife is found murdered in a similar fashion. By the time a third wife is attacked, it has become clear that a serial killer is at work. Firefighter Mark Branning is terrified, especially since he and his wife are estranged. Realizing that Allie may be the next victim, Mark convinces his reluctant wife to leave town with him. Unfortunately, this action does not stop the killer. This tense and exciting thriller is more than a fabulous read; it has an underlying message about the place of religion within a marriage. Highly recommended. (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

Chapter Two The baby's vibrato cries grew hoarse, but the level of urgency in his tone seemed to heighten as Reese Carter banged once again on Martha Broussard's door. Should he go around back? Maybe Martha was hanging laundry or working in the yard with one of those carry-around stereos with those despicable headphones that young people seemed to love these days. That wasn't like her, though. Martha wasn't that young, and she wasn't that irresponsible. The smell of smoke grew stronger, and finally his fear that something was terribly wrong overcame his reluctance. He tested the knob, found it unlocked, and pushed the door open. Feeling as if he were intruding in a place where he had no right to be, he stepped hesitantly inside. "Martha? Is anyone here?" The baby's hoarse voice choked out louder and more desperately, so he headed down the hall to the baby's room. Martha wasn't there. The baby's face was crimson and wet, and his eyes were swollen from the tears. It had been a long time since Reese had picked up a baby, and again he worried that Martha would think he was intruding, but something was obviously wrong. He leaned over the crib and lifted the baby out. Tommy had been crying too hard to stop, so his pattern changed from screams to hiccup sobs as the old man rocked him. "Martha?" Reese called again. He carried the baby back down the hall and peered into the living room. There was no sign of her, but a packed diaper bag lay on the floor, some of its contents spilled out. He stepped toward it, peering from the living room into the kitchen. "Martha?" It was then that he saw the splatters on the blue carpet, the brownish-red spray that was easy to miss at first, then the darker red blotches. He caught his breath. His heart began to pound painfully against his chest. The baby still cried, and Reese held him tighter as he followed the drops across the carpet and into the kitchen, toward the back door that stood open. His mind raced with possibilities. Maybe she had fallen and hit her head, then gotten up, confused, and wandered outside, where she had passed out in the yard. He stepped carefully around the blood and pushed open the screen door. The yard was filling with smoke, and he doubted that it was coming from someone burning tree limbs. He turned back into the kitchen and, with trembling hands, set the baby in the swing and locked the seat belt. As Reese stumbled outside, the baby began to wail again, but he couldn't go back. There was an old storage building at the back of the Broussard yard, and flames were shooting out of the roof. The door to the structure was partially open, and thick smoke poured out. Coughing, he kicked the door open and tried to see inside. Between the lawn mower and a bicycle, he could barely make out the shape of a woman's legs. "Martha!" Stomping out the flames over the threshold, he stepped in, reached for her feet, and pulled her out. It wasn't until she was out of the reach of the flames, lying on the grass, that he was able to see her face. Martha Broussard had a bullet hole through her forehead. Reese fell back in horror, then turned and ran, tripping on the step as he rushed into the house for the telephone. The baby kept screaming as he grabbed the phone and dialed. "911, may I help you?" He tried to speak, but the words choked in his throat. "Uh . . . yes . . . please, help. Martha . . . Martha Broussard . . . has been shot . . . and there's fire." Clutching the telephone in his shaking hands, Reese gradually became aware of the raucous strains of "When the Saints Come Marching In" mingling with the screams of the baby whose mother lay dead. Excerpted from Private Justice by Terri Blackstock All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.