Twisted: The Collected of Jeffery Deaver
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New York Times bestselling author Jeffery Deaver has long thrilled fans with tales of masterful villains and their nefarious ways, and the brilliant minds who bring them to justice. Now the author of the Lincoln Rhyme series has collected for the first time his award-winning, spine-tingling stories of suspense -- stories that will widen your eyes and stretch your imagination.
A beautiful woman goes to extremes to rid herself of her stalker; a daughter begs her father not to go fishing in an area where there have been a series of brutal killings; a contemporary of the playwright William Shakespeare vows to avenge his family's ruin; and Jeffery Deaver's most beloved character, criminalist Lincoln Rhyme, is back to solve a chilling Christmastime disappearance.
Diverse, provocative, eerie and inspired, this collection of Jeffery Deaver's best stories exhibits the amazing range and signature plot twists that have earned him the title "master of ticking-bomb suspense" (People). With nods to O. Henry and Edgar Allan Poe, these beautifully crafted pieces, never before compiled in one volume, pulse with subtle intrigue and Deaver's incomparable imagination.
medics arrived. When they took her away she was wearing a straitjacket. A week later Harry Bernstein sat in the prison hospital waiting room. He knew he was a sight—he hadn’t shaved in several days and was wearing wrinkled clothes—which in fact he’d slept in last night. He stared at the filthy floor. “You all right?” This question came from a tall, thin man with a perfect beard. He wore a gorgeous suit and Armani-framed glasses. He was Patsy’s lead defense lawyer. “I never thought she’d do
wearing a ludicrous black floppy hat and was walking close to Stan with his elbow seated hard against her chest. They’d braked to a fast stop in front of the banshee wife. Oh, had Carolyn enjoyed that little scene. Lor-rie . . . What were they doing at this minute? Carolyn wondered, gripping the Lexus’s steering wheel so hard her fingers cramped. Drinking wine? Was he kissing her feet? Lying on top of her and hooking his longish brown hair behind his ears? Then Lawrence’s motel loomed and she
gray-painted porch. He sat, as he always did, not in one of the chairs but on the deck itself, his back against a post. “You left over ninety thousand?” Nate asked. “Sorry,” Lester said, cringing, ever deferential to his boss. “I counted wrong.” Nate laughed. “Probably was a good idea.” He’d thought Boz and Ed would fall for the scam if they’d seeded as little as thirty or forty thousand in the cave and getaway car. You wave double a man’s annual salary, tax free, in front of his face and nine
youthful enthusiasm. And that was when Tribow’s cell phone rang. It was the clerk with the news that the jury was returning. “Them coming back this fast—is that good or bad?” Wu asked. Tribow finished his coffee. “Let’s go find out.” “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?” “We have, Your Honor.” The foreman, a middle-aged man in a plaid shirt and dark slacks, handed a piece of paper to the bailiff, who carried it to the judge. Tribow kept his eyes on Hartman’s but
Honor.” “How’s that?” “She really did lick the flap of the envelope. It wasn’t the snow at all, like she claimed.” “Envelope?” “She sealed it to make me think she was going to give it to her lover. To push me over the edge. Then she hid it, knowing I was watching her.” “Uh-huh, I see.” The judge began reading files for the next case. Dennis then gave a long speech, rambling on about the significance of blank messages—about how what is unsaid can often be a lot worse than what’s said. “A