A complete list of books by James Patterson is on James Patterson and more information about the author, Cross fire / James Patterson. Private Games 3 James Patterson - [Free] Private Games 3 James Patterson [ PDF] [EPUB]. JAMES PATTERSON is one of the best-known and. Suspect 1 James Patterson [PDF] [EPUB] James Patterson was selected by readers across. America as the Childrens Choice Book Awards.
|Language:||English, Spanish, German|
|ePub File Size:||25.64 MB|
|PDF File Size:||11.65 MB|
|Distribution:||Free* [*Sign up for free]|
James Patterson is one of the most popular writers of all time, with more than three hundred million copies of his books sold worldwide. He holds the record for . Get Instant Access to Cross The Line (Alex Cross Novels) By James Patterson # ad3 EBOOK. EPUB KINDLE PDF. Read Download Online. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data. Patterson, James. The postcard killers / James Patterson and Liza Marklund. — 1st ed.
Before I read this book, I had read some reviews which had me wondering if this one would be something I'd like, reviews from people whose opinions I trust. Short overview about this book : It has an ocean-front view, a private beach--and a deadly secret that won't stay buried. But its beautiful gothic exterior hides a horrific past: it was the scene of a series of depraved killings that have never been solved. Neglected, empty, and rumored to be cursed, it's known as the Murder House, and locals keep their distance. Detective Jenna Murphy used to consider herself a local, but she hasn't been back since she was a girl.
She opened them and we went inside, turning on lights. The odors in the hallway were so familiar and so intertwined with memories of my children that I stopped breathing through my nose. In her office, Dawson got on her desktop computer, typed, and then frowned before typing again.
The principal started rummaging in her desk, said, But Ive got his business card here somehere it is! Dont touch it! I yelled, coming around the desk quickly as she shrank back. Its just that well want to fingerprint it. In a thin voice, she said, He wore thin white gloves. Of course he did, I said, wanting to punch a wall. But just the same. Do you have a plastic sandwich bag? Will an envelope do? She got me an envelope and I used a pair of tweezers to pluck the business card from the drawer and place it on her desk.
Ive got a photocopy of his drivers license too, she said. Weve already got one of those, but thanks, I replied, studying the card and then taking a picture of it with my smartphone.
It gave a phone number in the area code and an address on Wilshire Boulevard. It also had a web addresswww. I was about to drop the card into the envelope and take it with me downtown for processing when something about the URL and the e-mail pinged deep in my recent memory.
Try www. The screen blinked, and up came the home page of TMI Enterprises, a multimedia and social-networking company. This is it, she said. This is his website. Click on Corporate Officers. She did and the screen jumped to another page that featured pictures and short bios of the people running the company. At the top of the heap was someone Id seen when Id visited the website two weeks before: a blond surfer-type guy in his late twenties wearing thick black glasses and a black hoodie.
Thats not the picture of Mulch I saw on the other version of the website, Dawson said. I saw the guy who came here, red hair, red beard, everything. Will the real Thierry Mulch please stand up? I said, and I felt the throbbing in my head start up all over again. Men in hard hats and respirator masks were using sledgehammers to bust down drywall. The air was full of gypsum dust as I went to the plastic sheeting that sealed off the destructing from the already destructed.
I started to cough and that only made the pain in my head worse. A part of me wanted to shut down then, to curl up in a fetal position right there in the dust and let it settle on me as I mourned my wife. But a greater part of me needed to keep pushing on. If I was to have any hope of saving the rest of my MY family, I had to keep moving, keep asking questions, keep fighting as long and as hard as possible.
I tore open the flap and stepped inside a large space already stripped down to the cement floors. In the middle, under a bank of fluorescent shop lights, stood eight desks. At them or around them, good men and women were working.
Mahoney spotted me and jumped up. Jesus, Alex, I just heard. And Im so goddamn I dont know what to say except I promise you, were moving heaven and earth to find this bastard.
I swallowed hard, patted him on the shoulder. Mahoney and I had worked together in Behavioral Sciences at Quantico. Wed toiled on too many cases involving the criminally insane to bullshit each other with psychological nuances and false premises.
If we dont catch him, hell carve them all up in the same twisted way. Thats not happening, said Captain Roelof Antonius Quintus, my boss, who was coming toward me with other members of the task force.
At the very least, hes kidnapped a DC cops family. For that, he will pay. The rest of the detectives and FBI agents behind him nodded grimly. Thank you, Captain, I said, nodding to the others. Thank you all for everything youre doing. I got out the envelope Id taken from Dawsons office. I went to Sojourner Truth and found the principal back from vacation, I told them.
I have a business card Mulch gave her when he went there to speak to the kids. Everything was the same except the picture of Mulch. It took sophisticated computer work.
The kind Preston Elliot could do in his sleep. Quintus, Sampson, and Mahoney exchanged glances. Why dont you sit down, Alex, the captain said. Whats going on? Quintus took a deep breath and pointed to a chair. Reluctantly, I sat in it, and I felt my eyes begin to burn even before Ned Mahoney spoke.
Three days ago, the Fairfax County sheriff was called to a commercial pig farm in Berryville, Virginia, Mahoney began. The owner found a human skull and a piece of femur in some machinery. Quantico ran the DNA and got three immediate matches.
Sampson said, Semen taken from that rape scene in Alexandria, semen taken from the pants leg of Mandy Bell Lees murdered attorney, and the hair sample Preston Elliots mother filed as part of his missing-persons report.
It took several moments before I grasped the implications of all that. Ten days before, the attorney of country-western star Mandy Bell Lee had been found poisoned in his room at the Mandarin Oriental. That same night, a man who called himself Thierry Mulch had raped a woman in Alexandria. Since we had clear DNA evidence linking the rape and the murder to Preston Elliot, we had been working under the assumption that the missing computer engineering student and Mulch were one and the same.
He stands by the edge of the moat, blinking. His breakfast lies un-touched beside him. He sits there, huge, silent, staring atLarson with those flat, flame-colored eyes. Larson feels his saliva dry up as the immense cat leans for-ward, then back, like a boxer feinting. Larson knows that in the wild,this grumpy twenty-year-old would have long ago been 8 Zookilled by a younger challenger who wanted the females inhis pride.
He thinksabout the radio, decides against it. At least not yet. Dominick has knownLarson for years. Besides, if worse comes to worst, Larson has the moat be-hind him. Wet and humiliated and maybe with a broken ankle, but bythe time the other keepers arrive, his skin will still be cover-ing his bones and his guts will still be on the inside of him,where he likes to keep them.
Heturns in time to see something burst from the grass, massive,tawny, throwing a column of dust into the air as it rockets athim, growing bigger, picking up speed. Her head slams into his chest like a wrecking ball. All thewind is knocked out of him as he goes airborne and thendown on his back ten feet away. Larson lies on his back, dazed. He reaches for the radio as Mosa puts her paws on his 9 James Pattersonshoulder and bites into his face.
Larson is as helpless as a rag doll as Mosa shakes him backand forth by his head. When his neck breaks, with a crack re-markably similar to a pencil snapping, the sound is the verylast thing his brain registers before he dies.
She uses thethumb-like dewclaw of her right front paw as a toothpick todislodge a sliver of meat from her teeth. Dominick, having already fed, is starting to jog for theopen gate. At the end of the fenced corridor, the two pass thetiny crush cage the keepers shove them into when they needmedical attention. They quickly cover the length of the big-cat serviceyard. They trot up a scrubby brush-dotted hill and down itsother side. They spot its source a moment later on one of the golf coursefairways.
Getting nine holes in before work. He lookssurprised to see lions on the golf course. Dominick charges, knocking the man sideways, out of hisshoes. Dominick releases the dead man and rears back slowly as apolice car glides down alongside the fairway from the north. He can smell that there are more humans inside this shriek-ing, shining box. He wants to stay and attack, but he knowsthat this box full of humans is of the same cold, difficult ma-terial as his cage. The two lions run for the cover of the trees.
At the top ofthe ridge, Dominick stops for a moment, gazing down at thecity.
Los Angeles spreads out beneath him, a brown field ofhumanity, woozily shaking in the smoke and the gatheringmorning heat, dissolving into fuzz at the edges. That smell is stronger now, coming from everywhere. From the buildings and houses, from roadways, from thetiny cars snaking along the highways. The air is saturatedwith it.
But instead of running away from it, Dominick andMosa run toward it, their paws digging for download, mouthswanting blood. I panicked at first, thinking I was having a stroke or some-thing.
It was my apartment. Outside the wall of dusty industrial-style windows besidemy bed came what sounded like a regiment of giants rhyth-mically striking concrete with their rifle butts in a paradedrill.
I knew it was theelevated number 1 Broadway local, rattling to shake the deadback to life next to my new fifth-floor Harlem loft apartment.
I winced, covered my head with a pillow. Only inNew York did one have to actually pay for the privilege ofsleeping beside an overpass. I sat 15 James Pattersonup. By that point I was in tunnel-visionmode, focusing my entire life on one desperate need: to fig-ure things out before it was too late. Only two years before,not only had I lived in a nonvibrating apartment, I was ac-tually on the PhD fast track at Columbia University.
I wasthe golden boy in the ecology, evolution, and environmentalbiology department, so close to the brass ring I could practi-cally smell the book contracts, the cocktail parties, the cushyuniversity appointments. But then I came into contact with the event—what otherscalled the mistake—that changed my life. I noticed something.
Something that starts filling your everythought, your every dream, your every waking moment. I know how nuts it sounds. Intellectual promise plus ob-session plus throwing away conventional success usuallyends pretty badly.
I was morelike Chicken Little, an evolutionary biologist Chicken Littlewho had detected that the sky actually was falling. Biologicallife was falling. Animal life itself. Something very, very weirdand very, very bad was happening, and I was the only voiceshouting in the wilderness about it. My first nameis Jackson, but with a last name like mine, no one uses it. Unfortunately, my father is also known as Oz, as are mymother, my three sisters, my uncles, and all my paternalcousins.
It sounds grandiose, I know, but I feared that if I wereright— and for the first time in my life I truly hoped Iwas wrong — a planetary paradigm shift was underway thatwas going to make global warming feel like a Sunday strollthrough an organic community garden.
Shaved, showered, teeth brushed, I got backinto the fancy French pajamas.
Working from home has itsperks. Thiswas another kind of work. They were really com-fortable pajamas. PE complete, I headed into my shop. There were eight of them in all. As I waited for everything to boot up, I popped my firstRed Bull of the day. Another number 1 train kicked up myheart rate along with a cloud of dust off the windowsills.
I frowned at the lightening screens, remembering my fa-ther, a lieutenant in the FDNY, watching the evening news. Lots ofthem. All of them behaving very badly. The world was becoming a zoo, with-out cages. I turned up the volume on set number four. She held the micro-phone as though it were a glass of wine. Buzz cut, lanky. Country boy, uncomfortable infront of cameras.
Blip, blip, blip went the green bars on thescreen. Hehad a mustache and a Bollywood swipe of hair; there wassomething of Clark Gable about him. I watched as an elephant, tied to astake in a village square, stomped a little guy in front of herinto the ground.
The anchorman explained that the attack had occurredwhile the mother elephant was being separated from its babyduring a training ritual known as phajaan. Also known as torture training, phajaan isthe preferred way of elephant training in rural parts of India. A baby elephant is separated from its mother and put in acage so villagers can whack it with hot irons and sticks that 21 James Pattersonhave nails on the ends.
The brutal beating continues to thepoint where either the baby elephant allows itself to be rid-den or dies. The Barbie doll on TV informedme that two lions from the L. On the screen, half a dozen LAPD with M16scordoned off a block lined with palm trees, people from ani-mal control milling around behind them in white jumpsuits.
I threw down my pen. I was pissed, pissed, pissed. Skinitching, heart going like a hammer. Was everyone asleep? Under hypnosis? Was everybody frigging stoned? I grabbed the pen again and scribbled three letters on thepad, hard enough to tear the paper. Then I threw the pad of paper across the room. It was time for more caffeine. I listened to an uptown train blasting by mywindow, then a downtown one.
Then I crossed the room,picked up the pad again, and went back to work. This was the theory I wasworking on. Basically, it was my belief that all throughout the world,animal behavior was changing.
Not for the better, either. Noteven a little. On every continent, species after species wassuddenly displaying hyperaggressive behavior toward oneparticular animal. The enemy was us. You and me. Man, man.
The facts were undeniable. In fact, the world-wide rate of wild animal attacks in the last four years wasdouble the average of the previous fifty. For emphasis, I re-peat: double. In Australia, injuriesfrom cats and dogs had swelled by 20 percent. In Beijing, itwas 34 percent. In Britain, nearly four thousand people hadneeded hospital treatment for dog bites in the previous year.
Or, to put it in other terms, some-thing was driving animals to go haywire, and the time to dosomething about it was running out quicker than the plasticwand supply at a Harry Potter convention.
I know how it sounds—wing-nut city. Different speciesof nonhuman animals working in some sort of collusionagainst humans. Insane, impossible. I used tothink it was a big, strange coincidence, too. Just lots and lotsof totally unrelated, isolated incidents. I stopped laughing when I started looking at the evidencemore closely.
Nature, actually, was at war with man.
The devil is what old sailors used to call theseam between two hard-to-reach planks on a ship. In orderto caulk it, one had to be suspended from a plank held overthe water. If you fell into the ocean, it was certain death. Either waywas dangerous. Either way, you were screwed. I felt like I was out there caulkingthe devil, hanging above the deep blue sea. If I was wrong, I was crazy. If I was right, the world wasdoomed.
I only got about halfway throughbefore I was laughed off the stage. The L. The reporthad said that the cats had been born in captivity. Why woulda pair of zoo lions one day just decide to start killing peopleand rampage through a city? Because there are two hundredchannels and nothing is on? Until now. I speed-dialed my press agent to try to get on Fox.
Asusual, I got kicked immediately into voice mail. Even shethought I was nuts, and I paid her. Not a good sign. After I recorded my latest plea to her, I decided to do theonly thing I could think of.
Help me, Lemmy. I sat up when Attila yanked my earbuds out. My roommate held out his hand for alow five. I gave it to him. Every timeI think things are going to calm down, the activity doubles. Boy Who Cried Wolf, I feel yourpain, you know? Then he made a few panting hoots and scrambled into mylap and gave me a sloppy kiss and hairy-armed hug.
Attila, by the way, is a chimpanzee. Attila: five years, fourfeet, and a hundred pounds of chimpanzee. For breakfast I gave him a mango, a stack of Fig Newtons which he went ape over , and half a leftover turkey club. Even apes need happy pills in our crazy world.
Or maybejust the ones who live in New York City. Actually, those last two were more my toys thanhis. He could kick my assat bowling. I stood in the doorway and watched him play a littlewhile. She had braids and a gingham dress, very Little House onthe Prairie. Attila rocked the big blond-haired doll back andforth and kissed her. Then he brought her over to me andheld her up so I could kiss her, too. Attila panted, content,and took the doll back over to the beanbag chair in the cor-ner and began to pretend to feed her.
The people who say their dogs are like children to themnever lived with a chimp, believe you me. I shook my headand smiled at my little buddy. It was nice to see him quiet,calm, having fun. I was cleaning up late on my second day when Iopened a door, and there he was.
The cutest damn three-year-old ape you ever saw, lying there with his pink facepressed against the cold bars of his tiny cage.
He was staring at me miserably, his eyes red-rimmed, hisnose running to beat the band. Most biomedical researchwith chimps works like this: they infect the chimp withsome disease before giving it the new cure they wanted 28 Zooto test out.
Or they look for side effects and so on. Flippingthrough the paperwork attached to the cage, I saw that someintrepid human had been doing some type of weird olfactoryresearch on him. Testing perfumes or something. A vet friend of mine diagnosed himwith post-traumatic stress disorder and wrote out a scrip forthe Zoloft, which worked like a charm.
Or insane. Or an idiot. I never planned on being the twenty-first-century Manwith the Yellow Hat. It just kind of happened. My originalthought was to drop Attila off at an animal sanctuary in ru-ral Louisiana that takes in retired research monkeys. Andthat is still my eventual plan. But for the time being, Attilalives with me. Pit attack! The tips ofhis long, knotty fingers graze the ground. Strong, lean arms,built for climbing trees. Like most chimps, Attila likes toplay.
He likes wrestling, laughing, being tickled. And, like humans, he is sharply status-conscious and ca-pable of deception.
He is more like people than any other living creature. When Attila spies the man down the hallway, he makes ahigh, curt cry, indicating his agitation, his anxiety. Gettingno response, Attila crashes back into the tire swing and hur-tles himself back and forth, the chain creaking loudly underthe strain. Everything is so strange. The moving, boxlike shapes be-low.
The small thunder overhead sometimes. Sometimes, 31 James Pattersoneverything suddenly has the smell. The Smell. The smell is get-ting stronger. Always stronger. Even outside. More and moreeach day.
Bored, angry, afraid, Attila turns away from the windowand searches around his play area until he finds the mirror. He holds it up in front of his face and looks at himself. Likeall chimps, he recognizes himself. His tuft of wirywhite chin hair is almost gone. Tiring of the mirror, he puts it aside and runs back and forth,shaking the fence, shrieking down at the strange walls andmoving things.
After a while, he begins to amuse himself bytossing around the stuff on the terrace. The plastic chair. TheThomas the Tank Engine big wheel. Then his gaze falls on astuffed bunny. He picks it up and brings it over to the corner. He cuddles it, delicately petting its soft fur with his fin-gers, when a breeze wafts in over the terrace, and the BadSmell hits his nose like a punch.
Attila rips the bunny in half with his hands. He makes a low howlingsound as he tears it to fluff and tatters. Then he stuffs thepieces of bunny through the holes in the fence, hooting asthey flutter like snow, like ash, down to the rear alley of thebuilding. This makes Attila feel better. After a minute, Attila flops himself back into the tire swingagain, and wheels himself in circles with his long arms.
I was still waiting to hear back from people and putting inmy second call to my press agent when I got a text. HAC !