Devotion Apart Read online

  Devotion Apart

  Book One of the Lost Devotion Series

  Hope in the Midst of Darkness

  Davin Bradley

  Copyright © 2019 Davin Bradley

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Design by Angie with Fiverr

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  Davin Bradley webpage

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either 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.

  Scripture taken from the NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE® Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.

  Map – Devotion, Arizona

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to those who live in darkness, yet still shine brightly, who live burdened, yet remain faithful, who suffer, yet find hope in eternity. Devotion to Jesus Christ is their banner, and they inspire the next generation of servants across fallen venues.

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  Acknowledgments

  This book would not have been possible without Morning and Nick as part of the team, as well as our helpful beta-readers and faithful counselors who have patiently advised along the way. By God’s grace, the writing of this series stands now because of those who have come before it, who have opened doors that were once shut, who have watered what was once dry, who have lifted up what was cast down. Thank you.

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  Table of Contents

  Title and Copyright

  Map – Devotion, Arizona

  Dedication

  Note from the Author

  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

  Character Sketch

  What’s Next

  Ministry Guide

  Other Books by Davin Bradley

  About the Author

  Note from the Author

  Dear Reader,

  If you've already read the prequel Devotion Alone to this series, then you know you're in for an adventure! As you join Cord Dalton in the city of Devotion, I want to share with you a glimpse behind the scenes of the writing of this book and the series to come.

  The city of Devotion, Arizona, is fictional, but it could be any city in America right now. It is plagued with protests, marches, and violence. It has homelessness, abortion clinics, drugs, demonic movements, and gangs. On one street corner, there may be a church that serves God and the people in the community. On the next street corner, there may be a church that serves itself, focusing on pleasure, wealth, and the world. Devotion is a city that is a microcosm of America right now.

  To create a city that is as realistic as possible, fellow writer and artist Nick Haven sat down for many weeks and designed the city, street by street, building by building. As I've written this series, you may picture spread out on my desk a map that's about four feet wide by three feet tall. The illustration of the city in this book is just a sample of the detailed, inch-by-inch map I'm working with.

  After the layout of the city was designed, Nick created allegorical names for everything in the city. You'll notice that the city streets and buildings have odd or meaningful names. The letters in the names are sometimes jumbled, like Morliam Acres or Cornifate Way. It's not necessary to know what they mean for the story, but if you enjoy such things, you might figure out the word behind the name as you go along. You might subscribe to our newsletter at DavinBradley.com where we will someday release a list of the allegorical names contained in the city.

  You'll notice also that Devotion Apart may be an adventure, but it is not only an adventure. Our first beta-reader rightly acknowledged this book as a type of manual for today's born-again believers to navigate for Christ in our corrupt and selfish communities. Yes, this is a fictional story, but it could be your town's story. This is why Hope In the Midst Ministries (HIMM) has provided some encouragement for Christians in the back of this book. It may be time for you to step out boldly for Christ in a new way.

  We pray this novel is an experience that becomes a reality in your community. There is much more to come!

  Keep looking up!

  Davin Bradley

  Hope In the Midst Ministries

  Chapter One

  My heart was burdened with sorrow the day I returned to Devotion, Arizona, a city still reeling from the latest virus outbreak. Someone had killed my sister, and I was back in the city of my youth to find the murderer. After nearly two decades living among Brazil’s violent natives, I knew plenty about tracking and killing, hunting and vengeance. And although I was fighting those urges to exact justice where a corrupt legal system had failed, my sadness and anger felt like they were winning.

  Inside the Devotion International Airport, I was bumped from behind by a woman with a stroller, reminding me to keep moving or I’d be trampled by the sea of humanity flowing down the ramp. As I walked along the corridor to the baggage claim, I glanced down at the flat electronic device the woman at the information desk had given me. She'd called it a smartphone. Craig Tasman, my childhood friend, had left it for me without instructions. Sure, I’d been born in Devotion, but after nineteen years in remote South America, the city had changed, and the technology seemed like fiction. A man on the plane had said that some cars even drove themselves now—with or without people in them!

  At the baggage claim area, I stood with my back against the wall and tried to calm my anxious nerves. So many people. So much movement. Nothing was familiar. I already missed the smells of the Amazon, the lazy way the river moved like a living mass, the cries of arguing monkeys, the flashing color of parrots in flight. Now, I was a foreigner, and people seemed to look at me with disapproval. In my course cotton shirt, ripped cargo pants, and hiking boots, I probably looked like a homeless person.

  A muscled youth in jeans and spikey hair walked slowly past me. He checked me out, scoffed, and studied the other travelers. Everyone else seemed too busy waiting for the carousel to start to notice the predator moving among them.

  A buzzer sounded, and checked bags moved along the carousel. When my string-wrapped paper bag emerged from the hole in the wall, it drew several snickers from bystanders.

  "Whose is that?" A woman with purple hair laughed and pointed. "Someone forgot to take out the trash!"

  Others seemed more determined to fetch their luggage than I was, so I remained against the wall until the crowd thinned. Giant screens on the walls flashed flight schedules and ads. On some screens, news reports scrolled, updating travelers at a glance about the latest political climate, pandemic reminders, and crime statistics in Devotion. But I wanted more than a glance. I stared at the screens, studying everything I could take in. Craig had said that Cora had been killed by someone powerful, and if I was going to confront him, I needed to understand the city’s social and moral climate. There were corruption investigations, murders, missing people, and lawsuits. Big pharma was expanding, and some protested in opposition. The city, at least on the screens, appeared to be a thriving and beautiful metropolis. But I knew looks could be deceiving.

  In moments, only a handful of us were left at the carousel, and I took my awkwardly-wrapped parcel off the runner. My luggage consisted of a fishing
pole case attached by yarn to brown wrapping paper. With an eagerness that surprised me, I tore at the paper to find my leather satchel had indeed made the journey in one piece.

  With a sigh of relief, I fit the cross-body strap over my head and shoulder, so that the satchel rested on my left hip. This was the style of the Matamata tribespeople with whom I’d lived for many years. I returned to the wall and threw away the wrapping paper and string, then opened my satchel. It contained my only worldly possessions: a Portuguese Bible, a weaved hammock, and a steel knife with a razor’s edge, made by a Matamata tribeswoman.

  Next, I opened the fishing pole container and drew out two five-foot lengths of wood, heavy and hollow. This was my blow-pipe, a deadly weapon that I hadn't been willing to leave behind. Lord willing, I’d return to my calling in the Amazon in a week or two, but it wasn’t an option to be without my few necessities in the meantime. Of course, as I fit the blow-pipe on its sling onto my back, I realized how awkward the weapon must’ve appeared to onlookers. But again, I hadn’t returned to Devotion to impress anyone. I belonged in the rainforest, where I preached the gospel of Jesus Christ and discipled natives.

  Finally, with my smartphone in my hand, I lifted my head to search for the exit when a commotion caught my attention near the end of the carousel.

  "No!" a Hispanic woman in a blue blazer screamed at the muscled youth with spikey hair. "Let it go!"

  The woman and the youth tugged with equal strength on a brown leather tote bag. I hadn’t noticed the woman at the baggage claim, but I’d already identified the youth as trouble. Passersby scrambled to keep their distance as the youth let go of the tote bag with one hand, and raised his fist to strike the woman.

  My blow-pipe was immediately in my left hand, and I ran to the woman’s aid. With my right hand, I gripped the wrist of his raised arm. Then I thrust the rigid end of the blowpipe under the youth’s chin. He let go of the woman’s tote bag and spun to swing his free arm at me. Instead, I thrust his own arm into his face, fumbling his attack. Then I kicked at the shin of his nearest leg.

  He went down with a grunt, rolled over, and was on his feet an instant later. With fists raised, he squared off with me, but I merely raised the two lengths of the blow-pipe, aimed straight at his face.

  "Walk away," I urged, moving to the side to place myself between him and the woman. "Walk away while you still can."

  A few travelers had stopped to watch the conflict, and the youth seemed to notice he was attracting too much attention. He rocked a couple of times on his feet, like he was about to pounce, then turned and ran away, shoving people in the corridor aside as he passed.

  "Oh, thank God!" The woman at my side held her tote bag in her arms and shook her head at me. "If you hadn’t been here. . ."

  "It’s okay." I fit the pipe onto my back again. "You're okay? He didn’t hurt you?"

  "No, just tore my strap a little." She inspected her bag. "I hate coming here. Everybody knows this place is crawling with creeps."

  "Well, at least you're okay." I nodded. "You already have your luggage? Do you need someone to walk you out to your car?"

  "I'm a little shaky." She brushed at wavy brown hair, revealing a beauty mark below her left eye. "But no, I should be okay now. Thank you so much! Wait. You're not here for the real estate convention, are you?"

  "Real estate?" I frowned. "No, I have nothing to do with real estate."

  "This day just keeps getting better." She turned and shook her head at the empty baggage claim area. "The guy didn't even show? How could he leave me hanging without even calling?"

  I shrugged, not sure if she wanted me to actually answer her or not. After speaking Portuguese and native languages for so long, I was still adjusting back to English and American mannerisms.

  "Do you want to use my phone?" I held it out to her. "I'm not sure how to use it."

  She smiled—perfect teeth—then chuckled.

  "Seriously?" For a moment, she looked me over. "Are you even from this century?"

  She plucked the phone from my hand and swiped her finger across the screen.

  "People keep their whole life on these things." She moved next to me, smelling of flowers and fruit, making me self-conscious of my own smell. "Look, here on your phone. You've got a text. Your car is parked on Green Level, Space Nineteen."

  "I don't have a car." I squinted at the screen. "I don't even have a driver's license."

  "It says here you do, and you're supposed to go to this address in Morliam Acres." She took a step back and seemed to see me in a different light. "Who do you know in Morliam Acres?"

  "Why? What's Morliam Acres?"

  "Only the richest gated community within a hundred miles." She gave me my phone. "Who are you? And why don't you know how to operate a phone?"

  "When I left, these weren't exactly around." I memorized the address on the screen, then dropped the gadget into my satchel. "It looks like I'll be taking a cab."

  "Wait." She hesitated, her eyes narrowing. "You weren't in prison, were you?"

  "No, just out of the country."

  "And you know people in Morliam Acres?"

  "Well. . ." I shrugged. "Just the guy who left me the phone and the car. I'll be staying with him. Why?"

  She tossed her hair as she considered an answer. I noticed tiny crosses she wore for earrings. With next to no makeup and her conservative blouse and slacks, I wondered if the crosses meant something more to her than just fashion. There was certainly no one like her in the Amazon!

  "Look, my boss sent me here to pick up someone for a real estate convention. The guy didn't show. The least I can do is give you a ride to your friend's house. I'd sort of like to have a contact inside Morliam Acres, if you know what I mean."

  "I'm not a contact." I chuckled. "And I can't speak for my friend."

  "But I can drive you. Please. Morliam Acres is like royalty around here. Brokers work for years to show houses behind that fence. I promise I won't ask anything else of you. Look." She dug into her tote bag and produced an oversized wallet. "See? Real estate. That's me. Sadona Escobar. Take a card. Your first souvenir in Devotion."

  "So, what do you want exactly?" I slipped the card into my satchel. "I do need a ride, but I'm not in a position to offer you anything. I don't even live there."

  "I understand." She held up her hand. "Just go with me on this. Let me drive you. You don't have to do anything."

  "I'm not sure who's doing whom a favor," I laughed and offered my hand, "but we seem to have a deal. I'm Cord Dalton."

  We left the airport together in a four-door Honda, and once on the highway, she pushed a button and took her hands off the steering wheel. She spoke passionately about Devotion, the housing crisis, and a friend of hers who'd disappeared recently for standing against powerful people. Then she shared job-related facts about real estate commissions and percentages I couldn't follow. I kept drifting from her conversation to catch the low music playing on the radio. The sound was gentle, the words laced with Christian lyrics. In the rainforest, we'd had no music except the hymns I'd written in Portuguese that were sung at churches I'd planted.

  As we flew down Frontage Road, the Airport District flashed past my window. Memories also flooded back, memories of a troubled youth in a growing city, on the very streets I looked down that evening. Those streets now looked garbage-strewn and haunted. Abandoned cars sat against curbs and cardboard filled window frames where glass should've been. Police lights filled the night sky and transients trudged along littered streets.

  Then, we were beyond the Airport District, and new sights awaited. Sadona pointed out little machines that zipped above the car, hovering, circling, some moving north, some moving south. She called them drones, and they were everywhere! And beyond the freeway, the fairgrounds were now crowded by concrete and steel business developments, and uniform suburbs expanded all the way to the edge of a golf course I remembered still being designed when I'd been a teenager. My mouth opened. I felt like an alien back i
n my own city.

  As we neared the city, I gazed out the passenger window at a sea of lights as night settled over the western desert. Hundreds of new buildings had been erected, taller, shinier, broader. But the streets appeared the same, streets on which I'd ridden my bike and stolen cars for joy rides. Flea Street. Xarious Street. A sign that read Teargulf Road brought back a feeling of guilt. The mischief I'd caused before leaving after high school hadn't been subtle. Only by God's grace had I not seriously hurt anyone. With so much history in the area, I was relieved I wouldn't be there long.

  On Teargulf Road, we turned away from downtown and crossed Body River. I'd swam in its waters as a boy, down along Gloria Park, where we'd parked our bikes in the bushes and leaped off the bridge into the muddy water.

  "Get your PID ready," Sadona suddenly said.

  "PID?"

  "Your phone ID. You'll need to show it to them. It's like Fort Knox around here."

  She slowed the car up to a guard shack where an iron gate spanned the driveway. The high fencing continued to the left and right under bright lights. Two uniformed guards, armed with sidearms, emerged from the shack and approached both sides of the car. Our windows hummed down.

  "This is a private residence, ma'am," said the man at Sadona's window. "You'll have to back out and turn around at the cross street."

  "I'm here to see Craig Tasman." I leaned toward the driver's window, offering my phone with an old photo of me on the screen. "My name's Cord Dalton. I'm staying with Mr. Tasman for a few days."

  With his own phone, he scanned my phone's screen.

  "And you?" he asked Sadona. "Who're you?"

  The guard at my door peeked into our windows, shining a flashlight.

  "I'm Sadona Escobar, just acting as chauffeur tonight." She presented her PID. The man scanned the phone, then walked into the shack. I felt sweat on my palms. Why so much security? In an instant of gloom, my sister's death came to mind. Devotion had become a dark place.

  "Mr. Dalton?" the guard returned to Sadona's window. "I have you cleared to arrive in a Jaguar to see Mr. Tasman."