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  ACCLAIM FOR CARRIE STUART PARKS

  “I love Carrie Stuart Parks’s skill in writing characters with hysterical humor, unwitting courage, and page-turning mystery. I hope my readers won’t abandon me completely when they learn about her!”

  —TERRI BLACKSTOCK, USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF IF I RUN, IF I’M FOUND, AND IF I LIVE

  “Parks has created an intriguing female sleuth with depth, courage, and grit. The well-developed characters are complemented by a unique setting.”

  —PUBLISHERS WEEKLY, STARRED REVIEW FOR PORTRAIT OF VENGEANCE

  “Parks does a wonderful job in creating mystery, leaving clues without giving anything away. Portrait of Vengeance is an intense novel that takes readers through the struggles one woman faces to come to terms with her past as a way of saving the future.”

  —RT BOOK REVIEWS, 4½ STARS, TOP PICK!

  “Fans of Dee Henderson, DiAnn Mills, and Brandilyn Collins will flock to this suspenseful series.”

  —LIBRARY JOURNAL, STARRED REVIEW FOR PORTRAIT OF VENGEANCE

  “Rich characters, a forensic artist’s eye for detail, and plot twists—Carrie Stuart Parks hits all the right notes!”

  —MARY BURTON, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR

  “I’ve always known Carrie as someone devoted to mastering her craft, be it forensics, fine art, public speaking, kick-butt dinners (but please, no more zucchini!), or writing suspenseful mystery novels with just the right touch of her characteristic wit. When Death Draws Near reflects Carrie’s way with all things creative: it’s engaging, tightly woven, painstakingly researched, and a just plain fun read. Dive in!”

  —FRANK PERETTI, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR

  “Carrie Stuart Parks is a riveting storyteller, and every book about forensic artist Gwen Marcey shines with authenticity from this real-life forensic artist. Her books are an automatic buy for me and stay on my keeper shelf. When Death Draws Near and every other Parks novel is highly recommended!”

  —COLLEEN COBLE, USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF MERMAID MOON AND THE ROCK HARBOR NOVELS

  “Thank you so very much, Carrie Stuart Parks, for giving me a reading hangover! I highly recommend [When Death Draws Near], but only when you have several hours of uninterrupted time to read because you will NOT want to put it down. Fabulous job!”

  —LYNETTE EASON, AWARD-WINNING, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE HIDDEN IDENTITY SERIES

  “Parks, in her debut novel, has clearly done her research and never disappoints when it comes to crisp dialogue, characterization, or surprising twists and turns.”

  —PUBLISHERS WEEKLY, ON A CRY FROM THE DUST

  “Besides having a resourceful and likable heroine, the book also features that rarest of characters: a villain you don’t see coming, but whom you hate with relish . . . A Cry from the Dust will keep you hoping, praying, and guessing till the end.”

  —BOOKPAGE

  OTHER BOOKS BY CARRIE STUART PARKS

  THE GWEN MARCEY NOVELS

  A Cry from the Dust

  The Bones Will Speak

  When Death Draws Near

  Portrait of Vengeance

  Formula of Deception

  © 2018 by Carrie Stuart Parks

  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 email [email protected].

  Unless otherwise noted, Scripture quotations are taken from the ESV® Bible (The Holy Bible, English Standard Version®), copyright © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  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.

  Epub Edition May 2018 9780718083793

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Parks, Carrie Stuart, author.

  Title: Formula of deception / Carrie Stuart Parks.

  Description: Nashville, Tennessee : Thomas Nelson, 2018.

  Epub Edition May 2018 9780718083793

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018004759 | ISBN 9780718083854 (trade paper)

  Subjects: | GSAFD: Mystery fiction. | Suspense fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3616.A75535 F67 2018 | DDC 813/.6--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018004759

  Printed in the United States of America

  18 19 20 21 22 LSC 5 4 3 2 1

  To four beautiful women: Karen Solem,

  Amanda Bostic, Erin Healy, and Colleen

  Coble. You all believed in me. Thank you.

  FAMILY TREE

  CONTENTS

  Acclaim for Carrie Stuart Parks

  Other Books by Carrie Stuart Parks

  Family Tree

  Prologue

  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

  Author Note

  Acknowledgments

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  April 1, 1946

  Alaska

  The fountain pen in the man’s hand skidded across the journal, leaving a blotch of ink like black blood. He gripped it tighter, but the surface rippled under his arm. “What the . . .” He shoved away from the heaving table and stumbled to his feet.

  The floor shifted.

  He put out his arms to steady himself.

  The trembling increased, the floor rising and falling like earthen waves. The lantern on the table bounced and turned on its side. He lost his balance and dropped to his knees.

  Earthquake.

  The first rocks from the mountain above him clanged onto the metal roof of the Quonset hut. The shaking intensified. Metal plates and cups flew off the shelves, clattering on the wood flooring.

  Heart pounding in his chest, he scrabbled for the door.

  The crashing of rocks on steel grew, then increased to a roar. The ceiling bent inward, cracking the wooden surface.

  A shriek tore from his throat.

  The building shuddered and moaned. The door to the lab smashed inward as boulders crushed that end of the hut. He crabbed sideways to avoid the tumbling rocks.<
br />
  More stones slammed through the front door and broke through the windows.

  He covered his ears, closed his eyes, and tried to pray.

  The shaking stopped.

  Slowly he tottered to his feet. The toppled lantern illuminated the shattered windows. Rocks blocked the openings. Don’t panic. He could still get out. The rocks couldn’t be that deep or the weight would have crushed the Quonset hut—as they had the adjacent lab.

  Cold air from Alaska’s violent winds blew around him. The williwaw’s chill cut through his flannel shirt and stirred his shaggy hair, raising goose pimples on his arms. Harsh cries of seagulls carried through the remains of the ventilation opening over the door. He could see early-morning light.

  “See?” The sound of his voice calmed him. “The avalanche didn’t bury this side. I can get out.”

  He slipped on a coat, righted the chair, and sat at the table. Full daylight would come soon enough. He’d assess the damage then. The remnants of the hut would protect him from the weather, but many of his provisions were in the crushed lab.

  He wouldn’t have to wait very long for help. His partner would return within a day or two with a report on his meeting with the Supreme Command. There was a chance he’d even met General Douglas MacArthur.

  He would, of course, have turned in the results of their own Operation Fair Cyan. The results of what they’d known two months ago, that is.

  The new data was far more disturbing, but the experiment was over, and no one would ever hear about it. Or about the missing pair of rats. He’d made sure to hide all the details of their work.

  He rose from his seat to straighten the cot, then knelt and withdrew a lockbox holding his personal possessions. Using the key he carried on a chain around his neck, he unlocked the lid. A photo of the love of his life rested underneath a service medal and ribbon bar. He pinned the medal to his khaki shirt, then kissed the photo once, then three more times before returning it to the box.

  A strange crashing sound caught his attention.

  He glanced up, then over to the clock still ticking in the corner. Even the seagulls sounded strange, squawking like a bunch of crows. He scratched the day-old whiskers on his cheek.

  The crashing occurred again, followed by a loud hiss.

  He stood and cocked his head to listen. He’d lived on this island long enough to be familiar with every sound.

  The hiss grew, then another crash. The surf? Or maybe a large ship. Or maybe . . .

  Tsunami. He slowly backed away from the door facing the ocean.

  Frigid saltwater surged through the rocks blocking the entrance, covering his ankles.

  He stumbled, dropped to one knee in the freezing water, then grabbed a chair and lunged to his feet.

  The water rose to his thighs. He opened his mouth to scream.

  The sea smashed through the rocks, crushing him against the wall.

  CHAPTER 1

  Murphy Andersen’s mission to Kodiak Island was about to collide with her lies. She hadn’t planned on getting in so deep.

  But here she was in a dying Russian’s bedroom, with a cop standing beside her.

  The stench of Vasily Scherbakov’s deteriorating flesh engulfed her. She blinked and breathed through her mouth.

  “Cancer’s a nasty way to die,” Detective Elin Olsson whispered.

  Boy howdy, you can say that again. “I’m used to such things. You know, messy crime scenes, dead bodies, stuff like that.” Liar.

  The Russian Orthodox priest standing beside the bed inspected Murphy from head to foot.

  She’d already ducked her head and turned it sideways. They always stared at the scar first, the angry red one that split her eyebrow and continued down to her cheek. Her oversized glasses hid some of it, but not enough. She studied her scuffed shoe tips, waiting for his scrutiny to continue. Despite her cheerful scarf, he no doubt noted the threadbare navy blazer, stained shell blouse, and too-big khaki slacks.

  A quick peek told her the audit was over. Here came part two.

  The priest spoke with a slight Russian accent. “But she is a child. A young girl.”

  Bingo. It never failed. It came from her short stature, thin frame, and childlike face. Whenever she ordered a beer, servers always carded her. To some, looking young would be a compliment. But not to Murphy.

  “You said you would bring an experienced artist. A . . . what do you call it? A forensic artist.”

  The priest didn’t look so . . . priestly himself. She’d expected an elderly man wearing fancy embroidered layers of clothing, with a long gray beard reaching his stomach, and a big hat. And he should have an oversized ring, something for people to kiss.

  This character appeared to be in his midthirties, with a brown beard, piercing dark eyes, and hair pulled into a hippie-style low ponytail. He wore a black cassock, a big cross, a brimless soft-sided cap, and lime-green tennis shoes.

  Detective Olsson tucked a stray lock of white-blond hair behind her ear. “The regular forensic artist from the agency was tied up in a case in Montana, but I assure you, Father Ivanov, she’s a trained forensic artist.”

  Okay, so Detective Olsson didn’t know that she had fudged the truth. Murphy was an artist, and she had a decent portfolio of pencil portraits, and since her purse had been stolen with every last penny to her name, she needed the work.

  When she had asked her landlady yesterday for an extension to pay the rent, Myra, against all of Murphy’s protests, called the police to report the theft. And when Detective Olsson saw the portraits spread out on Murphy’s kitchen table, her lies began in earnest. Yes, I have experience in forensic art. Yes, at a police department in West Virginia. No, sorry, my credentials were in my purse. Yes, I’m available tomorrow. How hard could forensic art be to someone already good at drawing figures? She spent quality time last night watching a YouTube video on the subject. She was practically an expert.

  The priest turned to Vasily. “Eta genshina budet risovat’ litso mugzhiny kotorogo vy videli. Ya ne dal ey nikakoy informacii.”

  He took the words right out of her mouth. She stared at the floor until she could control her grin. Too little sleep, not enough coffee, and her own nerves only led to the giggles. Once the mirth passed, she pulled up a chair to the bed, sat, and opened her art bag. She removed the packet of mug photos—provided by Detective Olsson—a pad of bristol paper, and a pencil.

  “What did you tell him?” Murphy asked the priest.

  “You are the art lady.”

  Detective Olsson smiled. “The priest has offered to translate for the interview.”

  That didn’t sound good. Rather like watching a foreign-language film with subtitles. The actors always said more than what appeared on the screen. “Vasily doesn’t speak any English?”

  “His English is limited,” Father Ivanov said. “He understands it better than he speaks it.”

  “I just hope you can understand my Virginia accent, y’all.” Murphy smiled slightly at Vasily.

  “I thought you said West Virginia?” Detective Olsson asked.

  “That’s where I worked.” Murphy nodded quickly.

  Detective Olsson looked at the priest. “Where is the woman who called this in? She seemed distraught.”

  “His caretaker, Irina. Yes, she was very upset. She’s one of my parishioners. I wish she would have talked to me before calling you. She’ll be in later today to look after Vasily. Do you want to interview her?”

  “I do. I just want to be sure I cover all the bases.”

  The priest nodded.

  Murphy’s hard and uncomfortable chair was as spartan as Vasily’s bedroom. A wooden icon of the Virgin Mary was the sole item on the wall. The furniture consisted of two straight-backed chairs, a nightstand covered with prescription bottles, and a metal cot. A faded piece of cadmium-red calico fabric blocked the closet, and a matching curtain sagged at the window.

  Vasily lay on the bed, quilt pulled almost to his chin. His chalk-white skin stretched
across his skull, and wisps of fine, light-brown hair haloed his head. His skeletal hands clutched the blanket while his sunken eyes watched her.

  “Good morning, Vasily,” Murphy said. “May I call you by your first name?” She was grateful when he nodded, considering she couldn’t pronounce his last name.

  “Well, Vasily, my name is Murphy Andersen. I’ve been asked to draw a portrait from your memory. I have no idea what you saw, other than Detective Olsson said it’s a cold case.”

  “Technically, it’s a new case from the past. The Alaska State Troopers have asked us to do the preliminary interviews.” Detective Olsson moved to the foot of the bed. “We’re taking your report seriously and have several technicians on their way. Maybe you could tell Murphy what you saw.”

  Vasily straightened slightly, adjusted his blanket, and began speaking in Russian, never taking his eyes from Murphy’s face. He spoke for some time before pausing to cough. The priest held a glass of water to Vasily’s lips.

  The room was overheated. Murphy clamped her jaw shut to stop the yawn that threatened to emerge and peeked at her watch. The sun rose early and stayed up late in Alaska’s June, and she’d been awake since 4:00 a.m., too nervous to sleep with the upcoming interview. Her eyelids felt like gravel pits.

  Vasily took a sip of water from the priest, closed his eyes, then waved for Ivanov to translate.

  She prepared to take notes.

  The priest took the chair next to her. “Vasily hunted on various islands, first with his father and uncles, later alone. About ten years ago he was hunting on Ruuwaq Island when he stumbled across five men.”

  “Five men?” she asked. “No women?”

  “No,” Vasily answered, then waved Ivanov to continue.

  The priest leaned forward. “He remembers one man’s face as if it were yesterday.”

  “I see.” She glanced at the blank paper. “And what were the men doing that was so memorable?”

  “Doing?” The priest raised his eyebrows. “They weren’t doing anything. They were dead.”

  “Dead. Of course, but are we talking about an accident? Murder?”

  Father Ivanov spoke briefly to Vasily in Russian, listened to his reply, then said, “He says it looked like they killed each other with their bare hands.”