TILLY BAGSHAWE. Sidney Sheldon's. After the Darkness. Page 2. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are. Are You Afraid of the Dark PDF · If Tomorrow Comes The Doomsday Conspiracy PDF · The Naked Free download Sidney Sheldon Books. I'm sure all of you are familiar with this remarkable writer. It was his books that got me hooked on reading in the first place and I loved every novel I ever read.
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19 books based on votes: If Tomorrow Comes by Sidney Sheldon, Rage of Angels by Sidney Sheldon, Master of the Game by Sidney Sheldon, Tell Me Your Dr what was the last novel of sidney sheldon. Anyone can. Remember this novel from master storyteller Sidney Sheldon? A fast-paced potboiler filled with sex, revenge, fame, betrayal, etc. it was a runaway bestseller in. f. The characters and events in this novel are fictional. The background, however, is real, and I am indebted to those who generously helped to fill it in for me.
She undressed slowly, dreamily, and when she was naked, she selected a bright red negligee to wear so that the blood would not show. Doris Whitney looked around the bedroom for the last time to make certain that the pleasant room, grown dear over the past thirty years, was neat and tidy. She opened the drawer of the bedside table and carefully removed the gun. It was shiny black, and terrifyingly cold. She placed it next to the telephone and dialed her daughter's number in Philadelphia.
There will be dozens of friends who will want to see you married. Yes, of course. Why did I even doubt it? Stanhope said, "Some of the guests will be coming from abroad.
I'll make arrangements for them to stay here at the house. Stanhope asked, "Have you decided where you're going on your honeymoon? Stanhope inquired. And Tracy adored him for it. After dinner they moved into the library for brandy, and Tracy looked around at the lovely old oak-paneled room with its shelves of leather-bound volumes, the two Corots, a small Copley, and a Reynolds.
It would not have mattered to her if Charles had no money at all, but she admitted to herself that this was going to be a very pleasant way to live. It was almost midnight when Charles drove her back to her small apartment off Fairmount Park. Mother and Father can be a bit stiff sometimes. She was exhausted from the tension of the evening, but when they reached the door of her apartment, she asked, "Are you going to come in, Charles?
She wanted him to say, "I love you, darling. No one in this world will ever keep us apart. I've got a heavy morning. I understand, darling. Tracy jerked upright in her bed, groggy with sleep, sniffing for smoke in the darkened room. The ringing continued, and she slowly became aware that it was the telephone. The bedside clock read A. Her first panicky thought was that something had happened to Charles. She snatched up the phone.
If this was an obscene phone call Is this Tracy Whitney? This was an obscene phone call. Some crank trying to frighten her.
There was nothing wrong with her mother. Her mother was alive. I love you very, very much, Tracy. It was real. It was a nightmare, but it was happening. She could not speak. Her mind and her tongue were frozen. The lieutenant's voice was saying, "Hello? Miss Whitney? It was impossible that she was dead. She had always been so vibrant, so alive. They had had such a close and loving relationship.
From the time Tracy was a small girl, she had been able to go to her mother with her problems, to discuss school and boys and, later, men. When Tracy's father had died, many overtures had been made by people who wanted to download the business. They had offered Doris Whitney enough money so that she could have lived well for the rest of her life, but she had stubbornly refused to sell.
I can't throw away all his hard work. Oh, Mother, Tracy thought. I love you so much. You'll never meet Charles, and you'll never see your grandchild, and she began to weep. She made a cup of coffee and let it grow cold while she sat in the dark. Tracy wanted desperately to call Charles and tell him what had happened, to have him at her side.
She looked at the kitchen clock. It was A. She did not want to awaken him; she would telephone him from New Orleans. She wondered whether this would affect their wedding plans, and instantly felt guilty at the thought. How could she even think of herself at a time like this? Lieutenant Miller had said, "When you get here, grab a cab and come to police headquarters. What had happened? She tried to move close to the baggage carousel, but no one would let her through.
She was becoming increasingly nervous, dreading what she would have to face in a little while. She kept trying to tell herself that it was all some kind of mistake, but the words kept reverberating in her head: I'm afraid I have bad news for you She's dead, Miss Whitney I hate to break it to you this way When Tracy finally retrieved her suitcase, she got into a taxi and repeated the address the lieutenant had given her: "Seven fifteen South Broad Street, please.
Not now. Tracy's mind was too filled with turmoil. The taxi headed east toward the Lake Ponchartrain Causeway. The driver chattered on. I came here for death. She was aware of the drone of the driver's voice, but she did not hear the words.
She sat stiffly an her seat, oblivious to the familiar surroundings that sped past. It was only as they approached the French Quarter that Tracy became conscious of the growing noise.
It was the sound of a mob gone mad, rioters yelling some ancient berserk litany. And then Tracy looked up and saw it.
It was an incredible sight. There were hundreds of thousands of shouting people, wearing masks, disguised as dragons and giant alligators and pagan gods, filling the streets and sidewalks ahead with a wild cacophony of sound. It was an insane explosion of bodies and music and floats and dancing.
It was February, the time when the whole city celebrated the beginning of Lent. Tracy got out of the cab and stood at the curb, suitcase in hand, and the next moment she was swept up in the screaming, dancing crowd. It was obscene, a black witches' sabbath, a million Furies celebrating the death of her mother.
Tracy's suitcase was torn from her hand and disappeared. She was grabbed by a fat man in a devil's mask and kissed. A deer squeezed her breasts, and a giant panda grabbed her from behind and lifted her up. She struggled free and tried to run, but it was impossible. She was hemmed in, trapped, a part of the singing, dancing celebration. She moved with the chanting mob, tears streaming down her face. There was no escape. When she was finally able to break away and flee to a quiet street, she was near hysteria.
She stood still for a long time, leaning against a lamppost, taking deep breaths, slowly regaining control of herself. She headed for the police station. We went through your mother's things, and you're the only one we could find to call.
Why would she kill herself? She had everything to live for. Tracy was led down a long white corridor into a large, sterile, empty room, and suddenly she realized that the room was not empty.
It was filled with the dead. Her dead. A white-coated attendant strolled over to a wall, reached for a handle, and pulled out an oversized drawer. I don't want to see the empty, lifeless body lying in that box. She wanted to get out of this place. She wanted to go back a few hours in time when the fire belt was ringing. Let it be a real fire alarm, not the telephone, not my mother dead.
Tracy moved forward slowly, each step a screaming inside her. Then she was staring down at the lifeless remains of the body that had borne her, nourished her, laughed with her, loved her. She bent over and kissed her mother on the cheek.
The cheek was cold and rubbery. Why did you do it? My darling Tracy, Please forgive me. I failed, and I couldn't stand being a burden on you. This is the best way. The district attorney served your mother notice that he was going to ask for an indictment against her for fraud, that she was facing a prison sentence.
That was the day she really died, I think. Orsatti runs New Orleans. I found out too late that Romano's done this before with other companies. Even if your mother had taken him to court, it would have been years before it was all untangled, and she didn't have the money to fight him.
And what could you do? There's nothing anyone can do. Where can I find him? You have no idea how powerful he is. She was filled with an emotion totally unfamiliar to her: hatred. Joe Romano is going to pay for killing my mother, Tracy swore to herself. Time to think, time to plan her next move. She could not bear to go back to the despoiled house, so she hecked into a small hotel on Magazine Street, far from the French Quarter, where the mad parades were still going on.
She had no luggage, and the suspicious clerk behind the desk said, "You'll have to pay in advance. That'll be forty dollars for the night. He concealed his irritation at being inconvenienced. Tracy's next call was to Charles. Mother has been trying to reach you all morning.
She wanted to have lunch with you today. You two have a lot of arrangements to go over. I'm in New Orleans. What are you doing in New Orleans? It must have been very sudden. She was quite young, wasn't she? Aloud she said, "Yes. Yes, she was. Are you all right? She wanted desperately to cry out the whole terrible story about what they had done to her mother, but she stopped herself.
It's my problem, she thought. I can't throw my burden on Charles. She said, "Don't worry I'm all right, darling. Thank you. I can handle it. I'm burying Mama tomorrow. I'll be back in Philadelphia on Monday. She counted the stained acoustical tiles on the ceiling.
Joe Romano She had no plan. She knew only that she was not going to let Joe Romano get away with what he had done, that she would find some way to avenge her mother. Tracy left her hotel in the late afternoon and walked along Canal Street until she came to a pawn shop. A cadaverous-looking man wearing an old-fashioned green eyeshade sat in a cage behind a counter. Tell you what.
I'll let you have the thirty-two for a hundred fifty, and I'll throw in a box of bullets. He brought it to the counter. Threatening Joe Romano with a gun was a criminal act. But he's the criminal, not I.
The green eyeshade made the man's eyes a pale yellow as he watched her. Joan Smith. Thirty-twenty Dowman Road. That would be in the middle of the river.
We'll make it Fifty-twenty. Tracy stared at it, then picked it up, put it in her purse, turned and hurried out of the shop. Louis Cathedral towering over it like a benediction. Lovely old homes and estates in the square are sheltered from the bustling street traffic by tall hedges and graceful magnolia trees. Joe Romano lived in one of those houses. Tracy waited until dark before she set out.
The parades had moved on to Chartres Street, and in the distance Tracy could hear an echo of the pandemonium she had been swept up in earlier. She stood in the shadows, studying the house, conscious of the heavy weight of the gun in her purse. The plan she had worked out was simple. She was going to reason with Joe Romano, ask him to clear her mother's name. If he refused, she would threaten him with the gun and force him to write out a confession.
She would take it to Lieutenant Miller, and he would arrest Romano, and her mother's name would be protected. She wished desperately that Charles were there with her, but it was best to do it alone. Charles had to be left out of it. She would tell him about it when it was all over and Joe Romano was behind bars, where he belonged.
A pedestrian was approaching. Tracy waited until he had walked past and the street was deserted. She walked up to the house and pressed the doorbell. There was no answer. He's probably at one of the private krewes balls given during Mardi Gras.
But I can wait, Tracy thought. I can wait until he gets home. Suddenly, the porch light snapped on, the front door opened, and a man stood in the doorway. His appearance was a surprise to Tracy.
She had envisioned a sinister-looking mobster, evil written all over his face. Instead, she found herself facing an attractive, pleasant-looking man who could easily have been mistaken for a university professor.
His voice was low and friendly. May I help you? What can I do for you? No wonder my mother was taken in by this man, Tracy thought. Please come in. Joseph Romano lived well.
On my mother's money, Tracy thought bitterly. What would you like? I'm Doris Whitney's daughter. I heard about your mother. Too bad. He had caused the death of her mother, and his only comment was: "Too bad. Romano, the district attorney believes that my mother was guilty of fraud.
You know that's not true. I want you to help me clear her name. It's against my religion. Tracy opened her purse and pulled out the revolver. She pointed it at him. Having you confess to exactly what you did to my mother. It could go off. You're going to write down how you stripped the company, put it into bankruptcy, and drove my mother to suicide. What if I refuse? His voice was soft and sincere. Tracy felt the sharp sting of the alcohol in her eyes, and an instant later the gun was knocked from her hand.
She tried to move away from him, but he backed her into a wall, pressing against her. I like that. It turns me on. Tracy could feel his body hard against hers, and she tried to twist away, but she was helpless in his grip.
Well, Joe's going to give it to you. Look at those tits," he whispered. He began pinching her nipples. She felt herself being forced down to the floor. He was astride her now, his body heavy on hers, his hands moving up her thighs. Tracy pushed out blindly, and her fingers touched the gun. She grabbed for it, and there was a sudden, loud explosion. His grip suddenly relaxed. Through a red mist, Tracy watched in horror as he fell off her and slumped to the floor, clutching his side.
You shot me She felt she was going to be sick, and her eyes were blinded by stabbing pain. She pulled herself to her feet, turned, and stumbled to a door at the far end of the room. She pushed it open. It was a bathroom. She staggered over to the sink, filled the basin with cold water, and bathed her eyes until the pain began to subside and her vision cleared. She looked into the cabinet mirror.
Her eyes were bloodshot and wild looking. My God, I've just killed a man. She ran back into the living room. Joe Romano lay on the floor, his blood seeping onto the white rug. Tracy stood over him, white-faced. Tracy hurried to the telephone on the desk and dialed the operator.
When she tried to speak, her voice was choked. The address is Four-twenty-one Jackson Square. A man has been shot. Oh, God, she prayed, please don't let him die. You know I didn't meal: to kill him.
She knelt beside the body on the floor to see if he was still alive. His eyes were closed, but he was breathing. She fled. She tried not to run, afraid of attracting attention. She pulled her jacket close around her to conceal her ripped blouse. Four blocks from the house Tracy tried to hail a taxi. Half a dozen sped past her, filled with happy, laughing passengers. In the distance Tracy heard the sound of an approaching siren, and seconds later an ambulance raced past her, headed in the direction of Joe Romano's house.
I've got to get away from here, Tracy thought. Ahead of her, a taxi pulled to the curb and discharged its passengers.
Tracy ran toward it, afraid of losing it. Where you goin'? What if they were too late and Joe Romano was dead? She would be a murderess. She had left the gun back at the house, and her fingerprints were on it. She could tell the police that Romano had tried to rape her and that the gun had gone off accidentally, but they would never believe her. She had downloadd the gun that was lying on the floor beside Joe Romano.
How much time had passed? Half an hour? An hour? She had to get out of New Orleans as quickly as possible. Tracy swallowed. She had been stupid to try to make Joe Romano confess. Everything had gone wrong. How can I tell Charles what happened? She knew how shocked he would be, but after she explained, he would understand.
Charles would know what to do. Did all this happen in just one day? Her mother's suicide That's what a guilty conscience does, she thought. She wished there were some way she could learn about Joe Romano's condition, but she had no idea what hospital he would be taken to or whom she could call.
He's going to be all right. Charles and I will come back for Mother's funeral, and Joe Romano will be fine. She tried to push from her mind the vision of the man lying on the white rug, his blood staining it red. She had to hurry home to Charles. Tracy approached the Delta Airlines counter.
You're in luck. I have one seat left. You just have time to board. One of them said, "Tracy Whitney? It would be stupid to deny my identity. Tracy watched herself being led through the airport, manacled to one of the policemen, while passersby turned to stare. She was shoved into the back of a black-and-white squad car with steel mesh separating the front seat from the rear.
The police car sped away from the curb with red lights flashing and sirens screaming. She huddled in the backseat, trying to become invisible. She was a murderess. Joseph Romano had died. But it had been an accident. She would explain how it had happened. They had to believe her. They had to. The booking room was crowded with seedy-looking characters--prostitutes, pimps, muggers, and their victims. Tracy was marched to the desk of the sergeant-on-watch.
One of her captors said, "The Whitney woman, Sarge. We caught her at the airport tryin' to escape. Tracy found her voice. I didn't mean to kill him.
He tried to rape me and" She could not control the hysteria in her voice.
The desk sergeant said curtly, "Are you Tracy Whitney? I" "Lock her up. Wait a minute," she pleaded. I I'm entitled to make a phone call. How many times you been in the stammer, honey? This is" "You get one call. Three minutes. What number do you want? She could not even recall the area code for Philadelphia.
Was it two-five-one? That was not right. She was trembling. I haven't got all night. That was it! She could hear the phone ringing. And ringing. Charles had to be home. The desk sergeant said, "Time's up. But she suddenly remembered that Charles shut off his phone at night so that he would not be disturbed. She listened to the hollow ringing and realized there was no way she could reach him. The desk sergeant asked, "You through?
He walked away, leaving her alone. None of this is happening, Tracy thought. This is all a terrible dream. Oh, please, God, don't let any of this be real. But the stinking cot in the cell was real, and the seatless toilet in the corner was real, and the bars were real. If only I could have reached Charles. She needed him now more than she had ever needed anyone in her life.
I should have confided in him in the first place. If I had, none of this would have happened. At A. She could not touch it. Her stomach was in knots. At a matron came for her. He's a mean son of a bitch. An elderly judge was seated on the bench. His head and hands kept moving in small, quick jerks. In front of him stood the district attorney, Ed Topper, a slight man in his forties, with crinkly salt-and-pepper hair cut en brosse, and cold, black eyes.
Tracy was led to a seat, and a moment later the bailiff called out, "People against Tracy Whitney," and Tracy found herself moving toward the bench. Aks books 57 friends. Trisha books 0 friends.
Dhodj 20 books 0 friends. Carmen 6 books 11 friends. Dec 28, Jan 20, How do i get rid of E. James and Sylvia day from this list? Feb 02, Dian wrote: Feb 03, Thank u so much: Mar 23, Once you start reading his books you never want to stop.
I love sydney sheldon. Apr 11, I love Sidney Sheldon. His passing was our loss. I have read every book. Thank you Tilly Bagshaw for carrying on. Apr 16, May 02, Sydney Shelden you wrote interesting books. You are the great Specially I read the other side of mid night. Jun 01, Jun 18, Jul 07, Jul 08, Jemma wrote: Have no idea how to remove it.
Jul 22, Sidney Sheldon, by far, is my favourite author who wrote masterpieces. Jul 23, Yes pweaseee: Bryan wrote: Aug 13, One of the best story writers the world ever saw! Sep 25, I love Sidney Sheldon: Nov 25, Love to read his books. I am always looking forward to his new novel. As Annie tries to put out the flames, Paul strikes her with the typewriter and they engage in a violent struggle, in which Annie hits her head. Paul escapes the room but passes out, and upon awakening manages to alert officers who have come to search for the missing Kushner.
He warns them that Annie is possibly alive and in the guest bedroom, and passes out when they tell him the room was empty. Later, it is revealed that Annie had escaped through the window and gone to get a chainsaw to kill Paul, dying from her head trauma in the process.
Returning home to New York, Paul submits Misery's Return to his publisher, which is set to become an international bestseller. Paul suffers frequent nightmares about Annie, and continues to have withdrawal from painkillers. He has also become an alcoholic with writer's block.
Eventually, after a random encounter on the street, Paul gains inspiration to write a new story, weeping both in misery for his shattered life and in joy that he is finally able to write again.
Background[ edit ] One of Stephen King's inspirations for Misery was the reaction his fans had to his novel The Eyes of the Dragon. He stated: "Take the psychotic nurse in Misery, which I wrote when I was having such a tough time with dope. I knew what I was writing about. There was never any question. Annie was my drug problem, and she was my number-one fan.