The Witnesses Read online

  ACCLAIM FOR ROBERT WHITLOW

  “Christy Award–winner Whitlow’s experience in the law is apparent in this well-crafted legal thriller. Holt’s spiritual growth as he discovers his faith and questions his motives for hiding his secret is inspiring. Fans of John Grisham will find much to like here.”

  —LIBRARY JOURNAL ON THE CONFESSION

  “Highlights not only Whitlow’s considerable skills as an author of legal thrillers, but it is also a gripping story of family dynamics and the burden of alcoholism.”

  —CBA RETAILERS + RESOURCES ON A HOUSE DIVIDED

  “Attorney and Christy Award–winning author Whitlow pens a character-driven story once again showcasing his legal expertise . . . Corbin is highly relatable, leaving readers rooting for his redemption even after family and friends have written him off.”

  —PUBLISHERS WEEKLY ON A HOUSE DIVIDED

  “Whitlow writes with the credence of a legal background and quite adeptly incorporates intrigue, romance, and redemption in its many forms into his book. Recommend to young adults and older readers with a penchant for unexpected twists and unanticipated outcomes.”

  —CBA RETAILERS + RESOURCES ON THE CONFESSION

  “Whitlow has weaved a well-constructed and engaging mystery with a crisp, concise style of storytelling, authentic, gritty characters and a well-defined plot. Strong tension and steady pacing add to this stellar read.”

  —RT BOOK REVIEWS, 4½ STARS, ON THE CONFESSION

  “Whitlow intertwines legal drama with spiritual highs and lows in an intensely exceptional read.”

  —DALE LEWIS, NOVEL CROSSING, ON THE CONFESSION

  “Readers will find plenty to love about this suspenseful novel as they watch its appealing main character juggle personal, professional, and spiritual crisis with a combination of vulnerability and strength.”

  —CBA RETAILERS + RESOURCES ON THE LIVING ROOM

  “. . . an intensely good read.”

  —BOOKLIST ON THE LIVING ROOM

  “In The Choice, Robert Whitlow crafts a moving tale of a mother’s love for her unborn children cast against the specter of the culture wars. Fans of Whitlow’s courtroom drama will not be disappointed, but here too the human drama of which we all become a part takes center stage. Every page entertains and inspires. I dare you to put this book down. Heartrending and triumphant, Whitlow at his best.”

  —BILLY COFFEY, AUTHOR OF SNOW DAYS AND PAPER ANGELS

  “Whitlow captures the struggle of many women trapped in the battle over abortion in a truly sympathetic and affecting way.”

  —BOOKLIST ON THE CHOICE

  “Author Robert Whitlow combines Grisham’s suspenseful legal-thriller style with the emotional connection of a Hallmark made-for-TV movie.”

  —CBA RETAILERS + RESOURCES ON WATER’S EDGE

  “. . . a solid, suspenseful thriller.”

  —BOOKLIST ON WATER’S EDGE

  ALSO BY ROBERT WHITLOW

  A House Divided

  The Confession

  The Living Room

  The Choice

  Water’s Edge

  Mountain Top

  Jimmy

  The Sacrifice

  The Trial

  The List

  THE TIDES OF TRUTH SERIES

  Deeper Water

  Higher Hope

  Greater Love

  THE ALEXIA LINDALE SERIES

  Life Everlasting

  Life Support

  © 2016 by Robert Whitlow

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.

  Thomas Nelson titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

  Scripture quotations taken from the 21st Century King James Version®, copyright © 1994. Used by permission of Deuel Enterprises, Inc., Gary, SD 57237. All rights reserved; the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide; and the King James Version of the Bible.

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-4016-8891-2 (eBook)

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Whitlow, Robert, 1954- author.

  Title: The witnesses / Robert Whitlow.

  Description: Nashville, Tennessee: Thomas Nelson, [2016]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016002050 | ISBN 9781401688905 (paperback)

  Subjects: | GSAFD: Christian fiction. | Legal stories.

  Classification: LCC PS3573.H49837 W58 2016 | DDC 813/.54--dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2016002050

  16 17 18 19 20 RRD 5 4 3 2 1

  TO THOSE WHO ARE CALLED TO WITNESS THE FUTURE AND GUIDE THE PRESENT

  CONTENTS

  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

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  I have set watchmen upon thy walls, O Jerusalem.

  —ISAIAH 62:6

  CHAPTER 1

  GERMANY-BELGIUM BORDER, 1939

  Franz Haus entered the small chapel. The dark stone walls were bare, and the windows were narrow slits that hearkened back to the days when archers defended a monastery from military attack. Light from the windows cast sharp, distinct lines on the stone floor. A junior officer in the German Wehrmacht, Franz’s high black boots clicked against the floor of the church as he walked slowly down the aisle.

  “Hello!” he called out in German.

  No one answered, and Franz stepped up to the altar rail that separated the common from the holy. To the left was a wooden pulpit made of dark wood that shone with a deep luster. A massive Bible lay open on a broad table directly across the railing. Glancing over his shoulder to make sure he was alone, Franz opened a small gate in the railing and approached the table. The Holy Book was a work of art with gilted edges. The first letter of each chapter was embellished by fantastic creatures from land and sea. The Bible was open to 2 Kings 6. Franz read the words tr
anslated from Hebrew into classic German by Martin Luther. When he reached verses 8 through 12, his heart started beating so hard he thought it might jump out of his chest:

  Then the king of Syria warred against Israel, and took counsel with his servants, saying, “In such and such a place shall be my camp.” And the man of God sent unto the king of Israel, saying, “Beware that thou pass not such a place; for thither the Syrians are coming down.” And the king of Israel sent to the place of which the man of God told him and warned him, and saved himself there, not once nor twice. Therefore the heart of the king of Syria was sore troubled by this thing; and he called his servants and said unto them, “Will ye not show me which of us is for the king of Israel?” And one of his servants said, “None, my lord, O king; but Elisha, the prophet who is in Israel, telleth the king of Israel the words that thou speakest in thy bedchamber.”

  Elisha was a witness to what no one else could see, and the prophet’s secret knowledge turned the tide of battle for his nation. To reveal the unseen, to protect the fatherland, was a noble calling. Franz put his hand in his pocket and felt the Iron Cross awarded to his grandfather for extraordinary valor during the Franco-Prussian War in 1870–1871. This was Franz’s hour, his time to step into his destiny.

  Turning around, he left the church.

  SOUTHWESTERN GERMANY, 1944

  There was a sharp knock on the door. Hauptmann Franz Haus hastily folded the letter and slipped it into the inner pocket of his military jacket. He neatly draped the jacket bearing the insignia of a captain over a plain wooden chair.

  “Come in,” he said crisply.

  The door opened, and a soldier entered who looked so much like Franz’s younger brother, Wilhelm, that Franz suddenly wondered if he’d stepped into the unseen realm. The soldier’s salute and “Heil Hitler” banished any doubt of present reality.

  “General Berg will see you in fifteen minutes in the library of the main house, sir. You will then accompany him to the briefing.”

  “Thank you, Private. You’re dismissed.”

  The soldier didn’t move. “He ordered me to accompany you, sir,” he continued.

  Franz’s mouth suddenly went dry. It was his job, not that of his commanding officer, to discern secret thoughts and plans.

  “Very well. Please wait outside. I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

  The soldier turned on his heel. Franz waited until the door closed, then retrieved the letter he had written to his father in Dresden. He read it again. The vision that prompted the words had been clear. In his mind’s eye he’d witnessed the horror of the all-consuming flames and could almost feel the searing heat. However, Franz had been mistaken in the past in interpreting what he saw.

  Sitting in a simple wooden chair, Franz polished his dress boots with an oily rag and made up his mind. Better to warn of danger and be wrong than to keep silent and bear the guilt of disaster. Seeing the resemblance between the private and Wilhelm strengthened Franz’s resolve to act. Overcoming his father’s doubts would be as hard as dislodging an entrenched enemy from a well-fortified position, but the last blood Franz wanted on his conscience was that of his family. Perhaps his father would at least discuss the letter with Franz’s mother. She would act.

  Tossing the rag in the corner of the room, Franz stood and slipped on his jacket. It was not typical military protocol for a twenty-three-year-old without any military pedigree to receive regular access to the commander of an infantry division in a German army group. But Franz was no ordinary soldier. He inspected himself in the handheld mirror that was part of his dopp kit. He kept his light brown hair cut close to his scalp, masking the tight curls his mother had loved since his hair first sprouted. He had a square jaw and clear blue eyes. The ability of those eyes to see what others could not caused General Berg to call him “the Aryan Eagle.” Franz hated the label.

  A shade under six feet tall with a slender build, Franz rubbed his hands across the front of his uniform. When he did, he noticed a dark spot left from a wine spill the previous day. He didn’t worry about the spot. One welcome perk he enjoyed because of General Berg’s favor was a pass from close inspection of his appearance or quarters, a privilege that drove Major Deigel, his immediate commander, to red-faced distraction. Deigel may have been Franz’s superior on an organizational chart, but not in practice.

  Franz opened the door and the private snapped to attention. He followed the soldier down a narrow hallway in the former dormitory of an abandoned school at the edge of the estate. They stepped outside into the sleepy warmth of an early-summer afternoon. Linden, beech, and Norway spruce trees, the same trees that covered the nearby Black Forest, surrounded the buildings. The linden trees were Franz’s favorite. On a class trip when he was seven years old, he’d had his picture taken in front of the squat, gnarly trunk of the Kaditzer Linde, the oldest tree in his hometown of Dresden.

  “Private, what sort of trees grow where you live?” Franz asked.

  The soldier glanced over his shoulder. Outside, he looked even younger—a boy who should be kicking a soccer ball, not carrying a rifle.

  “I’m from Kiel, sir. There is a big maple tree in my aunt’s yard. It turns bright red in the fall.”

  Kiel was a major port on the Baltic Sea and home to people with a mix of German and Viking heritage.

  “Why didn’t you join the navy?” Franz asked.

  “I tried to, sir, but I was sent to the army.”

  “Is this your first assignment?”

  “Yes, sir. I arrived last week.”

  They turned toward the chateau and stepped onto a narrow stone walkway rubbed smooth by years of countless footsteps. Bits of moss peeked from the cracks between the stones. They reached the front door where two guards with machine guns stood on either side of the entrance.

  “Thank you, Private,” Franz said.

  The freshly minted soldier delivered another smart salute and a “Heil Hitler.”

  Franz casually reciprocated. The young man turned to leave.

  “Oh, one other thing,” Franz said, causing the soldier to stop and face him.

  Franz looked into the private’s eyes and knew the young man had not yet seen or smelled death.

  “If an opportunity to join another unit in the north comes up, don’t accept it, even though it might look like a chance to be closer to home.”

  The soldier’s eyes widened. “My uncle is an oberst with the Army Group North and is trying to arrange a transfer.”

  “Respectfully ask him to stop.”

  The private opened his mouth, then closed it without speaking. Franz turned away and walked up the steps toward the chateau. One of the guards opened the door for him. Franz didn’t look back. He doubted the young man from Kiel would heed his warning.

  Faded Oriental carpets that whispered of their former glory covered the marble floor of the expansive foyer. Inside the library eight or nine senior officers were sitting in leather chairs. A thin haze of cigarette smoke hung in the air. General Berg hadn’t arrived. No one paid any attention to Franz, who slipped to the side of the room. Many of the volumes on the shelves were in French. He thumbed through Germinal, a novel by Émile Zola about the brutal life of coal miners in northern France in the 1860s. Franz had read parts of the novel in French class in school, but he couldn’t remember much about it beyond the difficulty he had conjugating the verbs.

  “Zola?” a man’s voice said. “That’s trash, Hauptmann. Don’t waste your time.”

  Franz turned and faced a middle-aged oberst with red cheeks and a thin goatee.

  “He’s the Jew-lover who came to the defense of Dreyfus,” the officer continued, referring to the Jewish French officer convicted of spying for Germany in the 1890s. “It turned out he was innocent, of course, but it took the French years to sort it out. However, no Jew can be trusted. It’s not in their nature to love any country.”

  As a boy Franz was friends with two Jewish brothers. Their father served in the German army during the
Great War and received the Iron Cross first-class. It was hard to imagine anyone more patriotic than the boys’ father, who proudly displayed his service medals in a case on the wall in the foyer of the family home. Franz had lost track of the brothers when he joined the army. He returned the book to its place on the shelf.

  Every man sitting in the room suddenly jumped to his feet as General Berg entered. The general, a short man with thinning gray hair and a paunch caused by a lifelong love of sweet pastries, quickly made his way around the room. Flanked by three aides, the general stopped in front of Franz, who stood ramrod-straight.

  “Hauptmann Haus, come with me.”

  Franz saw a puzzled look cross the face of the oberst who’d spoken to him about Zola and felt the eyes of other officers in the room on his back as he followed the general from the room. Army Group G, tasked with defending southern France from an anticipated Allied invasion, was a recent creation, and few officers knew that Franz had long been a part of General Berg’s inner circle.

  “We can’t talk in there,” the general said when they reached the door. “It’s smokier than an Egyptian coke factory. Apparently they haven’t gotten the word about no smoking in my presence.”

  Franz followed the general down a hallway, up a half flight of stairs, and around a corner into a small windowless room with white cabinets on the walls.

  “Leave us,” the general said to his aides, who backed out of the room and closed the door.

  “A footman’s antechamber,” Berg said, opening the door to an empty cabinet. “These cabinets should be filled with silver serving platters.”

  The senior commander coughed into the back of his hand. Berg was more likely to die from emphysema than to fall in battle.

  “I sent your report on the Allied invasion to a senior officer I know on General Von Rundstedt’s staff. Are you one hundred percent sure the landings at Normandy aren’t a feint, with the real invasion to take place at Pas de Calais? I’m sticking my neck into someone else’s fight, and I don’t want to get it chopped off.”

  Franz licked his lips. “As sure as I was about the enemy’s intentions southeast of Sedan,” he replied.