Chapter 1

Jack dropped his cell phone into his pocket, took a deep breath and focused on the moment at hand. The lights on stage were intense, their heat radiating to the dark spot where he stood just behind a thick, dark curtain off stage. A deep, musty odor floated off. A smell that reminded him of his grandmother’s sewing room. It was comforting during such an anxiety filled moment. He leaned closer, unaware, and took a deep breath. Then the stage exploded with light.

The energy and murmurs of the enormous crowd filled the auditorium. Jack’s heart began to race with a nervous excitement. He had done this a dozen times, but this time he was literally going to change the world, and hopefully save his company at the same time. He closed his eyes and took a deep, slow breath. Deep inhale. Deep exhale. And again. Slow, deep inhale. Slow, deep exhale, pushing the recent phone conversation to the back of his mind. The moisture on his palms felt cool and the tips of his fingers, cold.

He concentrated on the moment as thoughts of his pending presentation repeated in his head. Introduction…industry direction…announce test results of groundbreaking new drug…then Algen’s plans for the future…closing. Introduction…industry direction…announce DD13…Algen’s plans for the future…closing. With this announcement, he was about to push his company to the forefront of the biotech industry, and garner worldwide recognition and influence for himself and Algen.

The waiting was the torturous part. Once he started speaking it always came together. In fact, once he began, he usually slipped his notes into his pocket after the first few minutes. It was a rush having the attention of thousands waiting on every word. In fact, he enjoyed speaking in front of large crowds far more than speaking in small groups. He could avoid questions in a large crowd by simply not asking for them. He could just keep speaking. Small groups were more intimate and Jack was not good at small talk. He did his best to avoid talking to others about his personal life.

The announcer’s voice reverberated through the vast hall, “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to thank you all for attending our 10th Annual ASR International Life Sciences and Biotechnology Conference.” Jack rubbed his palms on his pants, standing just out of reach of the bright lights.

“As many of you know, this is a very exciting time in our industry. A time that has shown extraordinary advancement in our understanding of the fundamental biological mechanisms of human life. A time when major discoveries are coming at an increasingly accelerated rate. And a time that will be looked back on as the dawning of a new age in meeting the needs of patients and doctors across the globe.”

Jack fiddled with the knot in his tie, wiggling it to make sure it was straight. He ran his palms down the front of his suit and tugged at the bottom of his jacket to eliminate imaginary creases. He stood waiting for his cue. As he waited, two sharp buzzes stung his thigh. He fumbled for the phone in his pocket.

“Crap!”

He slid the cool metal phone from his pocket and braced for more bad news. Instead, it was a text from his wife.

‘Are you free? I have more questions about Miller’

‘can’t right now. about to go on stage’

‘OK. Good luck. You’ll do great.’
‘will call you later’

Jack grinned and wished he could talk to his wife now, but there wasn’t time. He allowed himself a moment. A moment to remember how lucky he was. His heart rate slowed and he felt calm. He reread the exchange with Cynthia as he noticed the subtle aroma of the stage curtains again. His eyes closed and he tipped his head back. She had always believed in him. Even when he told her about the times when he drank too much and ended up on the streets. Even when he didn’t believe in himself. She was the talented one, an amazing writer. But it was always she that insisted he was the one who capable of doing big things. Jack was not so sure back then. But here he was, about to do something unimaginable.

A light tap on the shoulder startled Jack. A thin, dark-haired young man stood beside him. A large identification badge hanging around his neck. He looked like a local college kid, called to work at the convention center whenever there was a big conference in town. He wore the basic conference employee uniform. A black t-shirt and khakis. The name tag hanging from his neck read Zachary Dietrich, 10th Annual ASR Conference Employee.

“Don’t forget this, Mr. Getty. You know how to use it, right?” The young man handed Jack a small remote that would allow him to change the slides in his presentation.

“Oh shoot, thank you…” Jack looked at the employee’s name tag, “…Zachary. That would have been a little embarrassing getting stuck on the first slide.”

“I’m sure you would have figured something out, sir.”

“Well, I appreciate the thought, but you can’t always save someone from themselves.”

The young man smiled. “Is there anything else I can get for you, Mr. Getty? Would you like some water?”

“I think I’m good for now, thank you.”

“I don’t mean to be pushy, sir, but I highly recommend at least one drink.” Zachary lifted a steel thermos. “It’s warm water with a little lemon. My public speaking professor recommends it. It helps with dry mouth and cuts through any mucus buildup in your throat. It’s awesome.”

“Well, okay, just a quick sip.”

The young stagehand unscrewed the top and handed the thermos to Jack. Jack took it and tipped it to his lips. The young man was right. The warm, slightly sour water provided immediate relief to his parched mouth. Jack took a second drink.

“Thank you, Zachary,” Jack said as he handed the thermos back to the stage hand. “I appreciate your help.”

“No problem, Mr. Getty. Good luck, you’re going to do great,” replied the youthful man, visibly pleased that he was able to help the man of the hour. Jack smiled as he watched the young, go-getter scurry off to attend to other business. He turned his attention back to the stage.

“And we are so thankful to the city of Baltimore for making us feel so welcome.” The speaker clapped in appreciation and the crowd joined him with pleasant applause. Without thinking, Jack applauded as well.

“We have a number of excellent speakers over the next few days. And I will get to those in a few moments. But first, I’d like to introduce one of the top leaders in our industry. He’s a true innovator and respected member of our community. His company, Algen Incorporated, is leading the way in minimizing and reversing the effects of Alzheimer’s and other age related diseases. Please help me welcome the CEO of Algen, Mister Jack Getty!” The speaker reached his hand out towards the side of the stage, inviting Jack to come out and join him. Jack put on a smile and headed out into the lights; confident, adrenaline pumping through his veins and heart pounding in his chest. He was about to shock the world.

The crowd stood and cheered. Jack raised his right hand in acknowledgement, “thank you” he mouthed, walking onto the stage. The spotlights caused him to squint as the crowd roared in the darkness just beyond their hot, white brilliance. Jack turned back towards the speaker and continued walking, hand extended for a firm handshake. As he moved across the stage, his vision blurred. He opened his eyes wide and then squeezed them closed for a moment.

“What the…” Jack murmured.

When he opened them the speaker split in two, then four, then dozens of images swirled in front of him. Another step and now his chest began to tighten. Jack moaned, putting both hands on his chest. He blinked again. His vision began to fade and the muscles in his chest squeezed ever tighter. A heaviness pulled him towards the floor. Gasping for air, Jack struggled to keep his balance.

His next step became a lunge and he felt himself falling, unsure of when and what he would hit. A desperate reach for the shape of a podium turned into a vain attempt to catch himself. His left hand grasped for the microphone, snagged it with two fingers, and pulled the entire podium to the floor as he fell. It smashed on the stage, breaking into large pieces. The squeal of feedback ripped through the auditorium speakers. Jack slammed into the floor next to the podium with a heavy thud. His vision focused long enough to catch a glimpse of a woman in the front row, hands over her ears grimacing at the screeching microphone. He heard screams in the distance.

A hushed murmur fell over the crowd. Jack fought to stay conscious; the heaviness in his chest forced the air from his lungs. The lights above flooded into his spinning vision. He lay flat on his back, struggling to fight off the darkness that threatened to consume him.

“Someone call an ambulance!”

The pain in Jack’s chest shot down his left arm. I’m dying!
The silhouette of a person appeared above him and blocked out the light. “Jack, can you hear me? Jack? Shit!” Jack wanted to respond but couldn’t. He was directing every effort to staying conscious.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Jack heard the frantic, trembling voice say. There was a firm tugging around his neck and a second voice broke into the chaos.

“Loosen it as much as you can. And unbutton his shirt. Make sure he can breathe.”

“I’m trying. Shit! Come on, Jack. Keep breathing.” The tugging at his neck became more frenzied. The voices started to fade and Jack could feel himself losing awareness.

“We’re losing him! We’re losing him! Someone please…”

He could hold on no longer. Jack willingly gave in to the darkness that was pulling him away from the voices. His body relaxed and he felt at peace. He saw his oldest son as a toddler, football grasped with both hands and that lopsided smile that warmed his heart. He saw his youngest son putting on his baseball uniform for the first time. And a vision of his wife on their wedding day pulled him deeper into his memories and away from the desperate voices.

All the commotion provided a distraction for a young, red-headed man seated at the end of the aisle. He was thirty rows back near one of the exits.

“Everyone, please remain seated,” came an announcement over the loudspeakers. The man ignored the instructions. He rose from his seat, doing his best not to draw attention. “Mr. Getty is getting the necessary medical assistance and will be okay.” The red-headed man knew this wasn’t true, at least not the part about Jack being okay. He slipped out the side doors and onto the busy streets of downtown Baltimore, anxious to blend in with the pedestrians. As he walked, he turned on his cell phone. He fought against his shaking fingers as he dialed. The phone rang.

“Yes, it’s done…yes I’m sure…I saw him hit the stage…I don’t know…they were tending to him as I left….I said I don’t know…sorry, I’m not going back in there…no way…I don’t care. I did what you asked and now I’m done.”

The man ended the call, slid the phone back into his pocket, and looked around to see if anyone had listened to his conversation, still disturbed by what had taken place. The people on the street had more important concerns than eavesdropping on a conservatively-dressed college type, so he vanished into the afternoon sun.

After a few blocks, a park appeared on the opposite side of the street. The man looked both ways and careened across the street, horns honking at him as he went. His stomach churned with anxiety and he was not completely aware of his surroundings, focused on creating as much distance as possible between him and the conference hall. He needed to find a calm, secluded place to sit and catch his breath; and his sanity.

He entered the park and saw a worn, stone bench under a large elm tree about fifty yards away. He turned to see if anyone had followed him, then made his way to the tree and settled on the hard, cool bench. He took a deep breath. His right leg bounced, quick and uncontrollable.

“Son of a bitch…”

The man ran his hand up his forehead and grasped a handful of hair between his fingers in a tight fist. He breathed again. His leg stopped bouncing and he began to relax. Then, just as he had begun to calm down, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

“Hello…sorry, I didn’t mean to hang up on you…the whole thing freaked me out. I’ve never seen anything like that in person. There’s a big difference between seeing Darth Vader choke out Admiral Motti and seeing a real human being hit the ground like that. I had to get out of there…yes, I know. All I can tell you is that it worked. I’m guessing we’ll be able to find out by the end of the day…Will do.”

The red-headed man dropped his head, slumped his shoulders, and rested his elbows on his knees. A pleasant breeze rustled the leaves in the tree above.

PROLOGUE

April

THE RIVERMAN

The riverman knew all about the Clyde. Its tides and currents were part of his heritage. His father and others before him had launched countless small craft from the banks of the river in response to a cry for help. Nowadays that cry came in the form of a klaxon that could waken him from sleep, the mobile phone ringing with information about where and when. It wouldn’t be the first time that he’d pulled someone from the icy waters with only a hasty oilskin over his pajamas.

This morning, at least, he’d been up and doing when the call came. The body was over by Finnieston, past the weir, so he’d had to drive over the river towing a boat behind him on the trailer. He was always ready. That was what this job was all about: prompt and speedy response in the hope that some poor sod’s life could be saved. And he’d saved hundreds over the years, desperate people who were trying to make up their mind to jump off one of the many bridges that spanned the Clyde or those who had made that leap and been saved before the waters filled their lungs.

George Parsonage had been brought up to respect his river. Once it had been the artery of a great beating heart, traffic thronging its banks, masts thick as brush-wood. The tobacco trade with Virginia had made Glasgow flourish all right, with the preaching of commerce and the praising of a New World that was ripe for plucking. The names of some city streets still recalled those far-off days. Even in his own memory, the Clyde had been a byword for ships. As a wee boy, George had been taken to the launch of some of the finer products of Glasgow’s shipbuilding industry. But even then the river’s grandeur was fading. He’d listened to stories about the grey hulks that grew like monsters from the deep, sliding along the water, destined for battle, and about the cruise liners sporting red funnels that were cheered off their slipways, folk bursting with pride to be part of this city with its great river.

The romance and nostalgia had persisted for decades after the demise of shipbuilding and cross-river ferries. Books written about the Clyde’s heyday still found readers hankering after a time that was long past. The Glasgow Garden Festival in the eighties had prompted some to stage a revival along the river and more recently there had been a flurry of activity as the cranes returned to erect luxury flats and offices on either side of its banks. Still, there was little regular traffic upon its sluggish dark waters: a few oarsmen, a private passenger cruiser and the occasional police launch. Few saw what the river was churning up on a daily basis.

As he pushed the oars against the brown water, the riverman sent up a silent prayer for guidance. He’d seen many victims of despair and violence, and constantly reminded himself that each one was a person like himself with hopes, dreams and duties in different measure. If he could help, he would. That was what the Glasgow Humane Society existed for, after all. The sound of morning traffic roared above him as he made his way downstream. The speed of response was tempered by a need to row slowly and carefully once the body was near. Even the smallest of eddies could tip the body, filling the air pocket with water and sending it down and down to the bottom of the river. So, as George Parsonage approached the spot where the body floated, his oars dipped as lightly as seabirds’ wings, his eyes fixed on the shape that seemed no more than a dirty smudge against the embankment.

The riverman could hear voices above but his eyes never left the half-submerged body as the boat crept nearer and nearer. At last he let the boat drift, oars resting on the rowlocks as he finally drew alongside the river’s latest victim. George stood up slowly and bent over, letting the gunwales of the boat dip towards the water. Resting one foot on the edge, he hauled the body by its shoulders and in one clean movement brought it in. Huge ripples eddied away from the side as the boat rocked upright, its cargo safely aboard.

The victim was a middle-aged man. He’d clearly been in the water for some hours so there was no question of trying to revive him. The riverman turned the head this way and that, but there was no sign of a bullet hole or any wound that might indicate a sudden, violent death. George touched the sodden coat lightly. Its original camel colour was smeared and streaked with the river’s detritus, the velvet collar an oily black. Whoever he had been, his clothes showed signs of wealth. The pale face shone wet against the pearly pink light of morning. For an instant George had the impression that the man would sit up and grasp his hand, expressing his thanks for taking him out of the water, as so many had done before him. But today no words would be spoken.There would be only a silent communion between the two men, one dead and one living, before other hands came to examine the corpse.

George grasped the oars and pulled away from the embankment. Only then did he glance upwards, nodding briefly as he identified the men whose voices had sounded across the water. DCI Lorimer caught his eye and nodded back. Up above the banking a couple of uniformed officers stood looking down. Even as he began rowing away from the shore, the riverman noticed a smaller figure join the others. Dr. Rosie Fergusson had arrived.

‘Meet you at the Finnieston steps, George,’ Lorimer called out.

The riverman nodded briefly, pulling hard on the oars, taking his charge on its final journey down the Clyde.

Excerpt from The Riverman by Alex Gray. Copyright © 2017 by Alex Gray. Reproduced with permission from HarperCollins | WitnessImpulse. All rights reserved.

Monday, 5th March

Winchester

Her vision blurred as her gloved hands fumbled with the combination lock securing her bike. She swiped at her eyes, kidding herself it was the brightness of the morning making them run.

It wasn’t, it was self-pity.

She didn’t want to go back there, not today. The constant drunken comings and goings were becoming increasingly unnerving as more workers arrived. Naz had sympathised, but she couldn’t help. Couldn’t make it better, easier, or safer. With property prices high and funds low, she knew she should be grateful for a job and a home, but today she was struggling. Today she wanted more.

She wanted a life.

She wasn’t sure she could stand this one. Her breath caught in her throat as the emptiness and isolation she faced overwhelmed her.

“The first one is the worst one,” Naz had said, hugging her as she tied the knitted scarf around her neck. “Be brave.”

She wanted to be brave, as brave as Naz, but she felt weak and lonely and lost. Discreetly dabbing her eyes with her new scarf, she took a furtive glance back at the building. Naz stood at the window, watching her. With a half-hearted smile, she dropped her backpack at her feet to fasten her bicycle helmet. Naz smiled back and pressed a hand to the glass. In the time it took to pick up her backpack and hook it over her shoulders, Naz had gone.

With a heavy, resigned sigh, she pushed her bike down the long shingle drive to the entrance gates. Once outside she propped the bike against the kerb and cautiously glanced up and down the quiet tree-lined avenue – almost jumped out of her skin when a car door slammed somewhere up ahead. Seeing a blue light poking up from the row of parked cars, she pressed herself into the shadow of a tall oak tree, heart stuttering in her chest.

Her eyes followed the police officer as he strolled across the road and let himself into a house.

he didn’t know a police officer lived there. She didn’t know she’d been holding her breath either, until it juddered from her body when the door shut behind him.

Hands trembling, she drew a deep, steadying breath, mounted her bike and set out for the short journey home.

Home. Memories stabbed at her heart and stung at her eyes.

She shook them away as she cycled onto the main road and into the safety of the crowded morning traffic, feeling her shoulders finally relax. Relaxation was dangerous. Naz said it would get her killed. The words echoed in her head, causing her body to tighten once more. Gritting her teeth, she pedalled harder. Kept her head down as she passed the last of the picturesque shop fronts adorned with nice things she’d never own, and concealing aisles she’d never browse. She hated this life. Wished so much that she could go back, back to before she knew. But now that she did know, back wasn’t an option. Her only option was forward. Her only option was to run.

At first, the angry chorus of blaring horns seemed normal background noise, the same as every Monday morning approaching the Winchester bottleneck. It was the sound of a high revving engine that had her glancing over her shoulder to glimpse a white van pushing aggressively through the traffic.
Her mouth went dry.

A white van. There were probably millions of them, billions even.

It was probably nothing, just the bog standard enemy of regular road users trying to get ahead, but she never knew when or where they would come for her. And she knew what they’d done. Knew what they were capable of.

As a precaution, she bumped her bike out of the bus lane and onto the pavement, meandering slowly and carefully, wary of the pedestrians heading her way. Behind her she heard the prolonged guttural torque of an engine racing at breaking point. A split second later, a single heartbeat, her world span upside down in a silent slow motion strobe of black and white as she rotated endlessly past trees filtering sunlight.

This is it, she thought, spinning through the air. This is The End.

It wasn’t how she’d imagined it to be. And she’d imagined it a million times. Thought it would be painful. They’d promised it would be painful. They’d given her every graphic gory detail of how her end would be.

But it was nothing like they’d promised.

A serene sense of calm engulfed her as she closed her eyes and accepted her fate, her everlasting freedom.

Excerpt from The Wages of Sin by Bo Brennan. Copyright © 2017 by Bo Brennan. Reproduced with permission from Bo Brennan. All rights reserved.

Prologue

THE FIRST CALL CAME IN AT 6:08 AM.

“Send an ambulance to Central Park West and 75th,” a male caller said in an eerily measured voice, as if arranging a ride to the airport. “Someone just got hit by a car. There’s a body in the middle of the street. I can see it from my window.”

“OK, sir,” the 911 dispatcher responded. “Let me make sure I heard you correctly. You said someone was hit by a car?”

“Yes.”

“How long ago did this happen?”

“Like fifteen seconds ago.”

“Did you see it happen?”

“No, I heard it. Get some paramedics here quick.”

The line went silent.

“An ambulance and the police are on the way,” the dispatcher said after a moment. “Can you tell me what you heard, sir?”

“I heard a screech of tires and a kind of thud. Now this woman is standing outside her car screaming. It’s a BMW 3-series.”

“You hear screaming now?”

“The woman who hit the person is screaming. I can see the whole thing. I’m on the third floor. Hold on, I’m going to take some pictures.”

Another short silence.

“Sir, are you still there?”

“Yeah. She’s totally freaking out. You’ve gotta have more calls coming in.”

They did. Another dispatcher was speaking to a woman who lived on the eighth floor of the same apartment building. And a third caller, who identified himself as a doorman, sounded distressed.

“It looks bad, man,” he said. “Tell them to hurry.”

The first calls came mostly from the north tower of the fabled San Remo, a hulking twin-steepled architectural gem that dominated the western skyline over Central Park. The San Remo was one among many grand pre-war co-ops along Central Park West, the West Side’s so-called “gold coast.” But it was also grander than most. It even had its own Wikipedia page that included a list of celebrities—past and present—that owned apartments there.

The only eyewitness to the accident, a runner on her way into the park, reached a 911 operator a full five minutes after the first caller.

A little breathlessly she explained that she’d just seen a woman get pushed in front of a car.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner but I didn’t have my phone with me. I had to borrow someone’s.”

“That’s OK,” the dispatcher said. “Have you spoken to any police officers yet?”

“No, they’re trying to keep everyone away from her. The ambulance just got here. The paramedics are working on her. There’s a lot of blood. My God, I hope she isn’t dead.”

“OK, I need you to stay there and give a statement to a police officer. They need to know what you saw. But I also want you to tell me what you saw and I’ll make sure they get it.”

The NYPD had a smattering of high-resolution cameras in and around Central Park, but none near the intersections of 74th or 75th and Central Park West; the closest was a block south at 73rd. The San Remo, however, had its own security cameras and one of them did record the accident. The grainy video would support what the jogger told the dispatcher:

“This guy, he looked like a homeless guy, came up to her while she was in the crosswalk,” she said. “She was walking her dog. He was slightly behind her to her right. She looked over at him. I don’t know if she said anything or not. But suddenly he lunged forward and pushed her into the street just as a car was coming.”

The vehicle’s front bumper struck the woman just below the knees, taking her legs out from under her. She rolled up onto the hood, ricocheted off the edge of the windshield and corkscrewed gymnastically in the air. Her right hand hit the pavement, followed by her hip and torso, and then her head, face-first. One of her shoes came off and her cell phone skittered across the street, all the way to the other side, where it was found resting next to the back tire of a parked car, the screen cracked but otherwise operational.

“I went over to help,” the jogger said, her voice wavering. “I didn’t know what to do. I’d never seen anything like that. There was so much blood. It was coming out of her ears.”

PART 1

Chapter 1 | Readers Love Ballsy Women

“MY PROTAGONIST IS THE PROBLEM,” THE PROSPECT SAID.

“The rest is good.”

The rest wasn’t good, Fremmer thought. But at least it was bad in a good way. A campy way.

“She use the U word?” he asked the prospect.

“The U word?”

“Unsympathetic.”

The prospect’s eyes flashed a glint of pain. His name was Brian.

Brian Tynan. Compliance officer by day, aspiring novelist by commute, he’d written a zombie techno thriller while riding on Metro North. Croton Falls to Grand Central and back. The first draft took a year. The rewrites another eight months, maybe longer.

“I made the changes she suggested,” Brian said, referring to his agent.

“I made him more sympathetic. But she won’t send it out anymore.

Look, the guy, the protagonist, is a tech entrepreneur. He’s a little bit of a douchebag. They all are. It’s part of their DNA.”

Fremmer nodded. They were seated near the front window of the Starbucks on Columbus Avenue and 81st Street. Fremmer had scootered there fifteen minutes earlier from his apartment a few blocks away. Brian was already at a table, waiting for him, not exactly what Fremmer expected. When a guy tells you he’s a compliance officer for a bank, you think little bald guy with spectacles. But Brian was tall. Maybe six-three, a little overweight, big head and features and wavy salt and pepper hair parted neatly to the left. In his late forties, he was wearing a standard-issue gray suit and blue striped tie. Physically, he was imposing. But as soon as he started talking he shrunk. Not timid exactly. Just unsure of himself, not comfortable in his skin. He had a tic, too. The right eye, it fluttered now and then.

“I’m more partial to penis,” Fremmer said. “Or prick. Douchebag is overused at this point. So much so that you sound like a douchebag for using it.”

“Oh, sorry,” Brian said.

“Don’t be sorry. The point is he’s not douchey enough.”

“Not enough?”

“Not even close.”

“But how would that make him more sympathetic?”

“It wouldn’t. But it would make him more likeable. You’re looking for likeable, Brian, not sympathetic.”

“Aren’t they the same—or at least similar?”

“You said your wife left you for your contractor.”

“He wasn’t my contractor. He was just a contractor. He has a masonry business. What’s that got to do with anything?”

Fremmer leaned forward, lowered his voice. “It’s a crappy situation. Wife leaves you. Custody battle. Now you get your kids every other weekend. Bummer. I feel bad for you. But then I hear you’ve got a little bit of a temper. You lose it from time to time. Go off. Some might call it an abusive streak.”

“I told you she only said that because she was trying to get full custody. Believe me, she was far more abusive than I ever was. She called me names. Demeaning names.”

“You’re the victim, Brian. I get that. But see how easily I’ve made you unlikeable. Just from the guilty look in your eyes right now I can totally understand why your wife left you for your contractor.”

“He wasn’t my contractor.”

“I know. The point is your agent who’s not really your agent because she only took you on because your older, more successful brother asked her to, isn’t going to give it to you straight because she doesn’t want to harsh on someone who’s in such a fragile state of mind.”

“Younger brother,” Brian said. “He’s my younger brother.”

“Whatever. Just understand that I don’t have a problem telling it like it is. I’m not going to toss off some dismissive comment about your protagonist not being sympathetic enough. He’s actually pathetic, if you want to know the truth. He’s completely overshadowed by the villain, the Evil Steve Jobs character.”

The antagonist had a real name, but skimming the book while sitting on the toilet that morning, Fremmer noticed a line about how the bad guy—the diabolical venture capitalist using the protagonist’s social-media start-up to turn everyone into zombies—reminded people of “an evil Steve Jobs.” The description stuck.

The prospect slumped in his chair. He was crestfallen. Mission accomplished. Teardown complete.

“So you don’t think I should publish it?” he asked.

“No, by all you means you should publish it.”

A woman at a nearby table glanced up from her laptop. Fremmer often raised his voice when uttering the “p” word in Starbucks. He likened it to a duck call—but for writers. These places were teeming with potential clients.

“I should?”

“Absolutely,” Fremmer said. “But not for the bullshit reason you gave me. Sure, in your present financial condition, it’d be nice to make some extra money. But we know the real dream is to show your ex-wife that you aren’t the putz she thinks you are. That instead of forever talking about writing that novel, you went ahead and did it.”

“So you think it’s publishable?”

“Anything’s publishable, Brian.”

“What I mean is, you think there’s enough here…you think it’s good?”

“With a little work, I can make people think it’s good. And I can also make you feel like you accomplished something.”

“How much will that cost? To do that?”

“About nine grand,” Fremmer replied without hesitation. “And that’s only if we do the e-book.”

Brian blanched. “That seems a little steep.”

“Very. So here’s what I’m going to do. Normally you’d have to pay a professional editor at least $3,000 to go through your book and give you a detailed critique. And that doesn’t include line editing or copyediting.”

“I thought that’s what you did. You’re a book doctor.”

“No, that’s just my Google title. For SEO. Think of me more as a book expediter, a shepherd if you will. I’ve spent years vetting the right cover designers, formatters, copy editors, and the people you’re going to pay to review your book, etcetera, etcetera.”

Brian laughed, but he clearly didn’t find the remark funny. In fact, he was offended. “So you have people create fake reviews for my book? That’s what I’m hiring you to do?”

“First of all, I don’t work for you, you work for me. You’re hiring me to work for me. Secondly, they’re not fake reviews. They’re real reviews written by fake people. That’s different from fake reviews written by real people. Those are the ones you get from friends and relatives. You’ll need some of those, too.”

Another laugh, this one more incredulous than the last. “You’re a piece of work, Fremmer. The scooter, the T-shirt, all part of the act, right?”

“Max,” Fremmer said, not taking offense. “Call me Max.”

Fremmer leaned down to fish out a small pad of paper from a backpack sitting on the floor next to a folded-up Xootr kick scooter. Judging from his attire, that scooter could easily have been mistaken for a fashion accessory—or, as Brian had put it, “part of the act”—for Fremmer looked like an over-the-hill skateboarder or former Internet executive who’d gotten his big exit and decided to check out of the rat race for a while. He was wearing jeans, vintage Fred Perry tennis shoes, and a white long-sleeve shirt layered under a green Mohegan Sun casino resort T-shirt that he’d picked up at a thrift shop. It had the words “Double Down” written on the front in cartoonish letters. A sporadic shaver since college, Fremmer’s face showed five or six days of stubble speckled with gray. His short hair was stylishly unkempt. His nose, prominent but straight, was juxtaposed against a set of bright blue eyes. The eyes won. They stood out.

He wrote some numbers on the pad along with their corresponding services. Then he turned the pad around and slid it across the small table toward Brian.

“I’ve read your manuscript, and except for the protagonist problem, it’s pretty polished,” he said. “So here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to tell you how to fix that problem so we can knock out that editor’s fee.” He then did just that, drew a line through the first number, $3,000. “And to be clear, what I’m about to tell you is worth far more than three grand. It will completely transform your book.”

Brian crossed his arms and smiled.

“Wait, don’t tell me, the catch is I’ve got to pay for all the other stuff to get this incredibly valuable piece of advice.”

“Nope. This is a freebie, my gift to you for schlepping up to the Upper West Side and buying me my third chai latte of the day. Walk away with it. It’s yours to keep.”

“I’m listening,” Brian said.

“You turn him into a her. You make your protagonist a woman.”

Another laugh. However, this time he seemed genuinely amused—at least until he realized Fremmer wasn’t kidding.

“You’re serious?”

“Think about. It’s an easier fix than you think. And as soon as you do it, you’ll realize how much more sympathetic your character will become. The dynamics will totally change.”

“I thought you said I wanted him to be likeable.”

“They’re pretty much the same thing, Brian. You said so yourself.”

“But what about the guy’s wife?”

“Husband. She’s a man now. Same scenario only he’s now the not-by-choice stay-at-home-dad who’s developed the drinking problem and is banging the neighbor’s wife down the street. See how much better that plays?”

Brian looked away for a moment, trying to wrap his mind around the sex-change operation.

“I know it’s a lot to process right now,” Fremmer went on. “But take a few days to go through the manuscript. You’ll see what I mean.

Yeah, you’ll have to redo some descriptions, but most of the time you’ll just be looking at a pronoun change.”

Just then a buff-looking Asian guy wearing a Philadelphia Eagles jersey and gold chain around his neck looked at Fremmer. Fremmer had noticed him scanning the place for a spot to sit down. Or so Fremmer thought. Their eyes locked, but instead of turning away, the guy kept staring.

“You know, you may be right,” Brian said. His thoughts churning, he failed to notice that the Eagles fan had approached their table and unfolded a sheet of paper, which he then held up for Fremmer to inspect.

Fremmer was looking at himself.

“This you?” asked his new friend, who upon closer inspection had a boyish face but strands of gray in his hair.

It was his Facebook profile picture, blown up to headshot size.

Fremmer noticed that he was wearing the same T-shirt in the picture that he was wearing now, which was sort of embarrassing.

“Yeah, what’s going on?” he asked.

The paper went away and was replaced by a gold-colored police shield. He introduced himself as Thomas Chu, a detective with the NYPD. “We’ve been looking for you,” he said. “There was an accident. I need you to come with me to the station house.”

Fremmer’s stomach dropped. His whole body tensed, bracing for the worst. Jamie, he thought.

“Who, my kid?”

“No, not your kid. A woman.”

The weight on his chest lifted, but only temporarily.

“What woman?”

“Candace Epstein. She was hit by a car this morning.”

Fremmer noticed that the detective observed him carefully, studying his reaction as he spoke. Fremmer couldn’t hold back the shock—and perhaps a little alarm—from showing in his eyes.

“Christ. How bad?”

The detective didn’t respond right away. So Fremmer asked again:

“How bad?”

“Bad. She isn’t expected to survive.”

Fremmer sat there, dumbfounded. Hit by a car? Not expected to survive? He had a vision of her hooked up to life support in the ICU, tubes jutting out of her, a heart-rate monitor beeping rhythmically.

With each imagined beep, he felt his own pulse speed up. He’d exchanged text messages with her only yesterday. In the last month, she’d made more than a few cryptic comments about a soured relationship that had turned threatening. He pressed her about it, but she would only say was that she knew something bad about someone. The kind of bad that lands you in prison for a long time.

He didn’t know what to believe. Part of him thought she was taking him for a ride to avoid paying him. He’d taken precautions to avoid being stiffed, but she was one of a few clients with whom he shared royalties instead of accepting a larger, upfront payment.

Now he was terrified he’d completely misread her. He’d been dismissive of her fears—and it was all going to come out that he was a callous son-of-bitch who just wanted to get paid. Or worse. Maybe they thought he had something to do with it.

“Where did it happen?” he asked.

The detective nodded to his left, in the direction of the park. West.

“On CPW.”

“Did someone run a light or something?”

“I can’t discuss that. We have an active investigation. Which is why we need you to come in. We need you to provide us with some background info.”

Yeah, right, Fremmer thought. Background info.

“Now?”

“Sounds good to me,” the detective said, flashing a charming smile. “You need a minute to conclude your business?”

Fremmer looked over at Brian, who seemed both stunned and perplexed. The poor guy had gone from despair to hope to what the fuck?

Fremmer leaned over and picked up his backpack and scooter, then stood up, one in each hand.

“I was serious about what I said, Brian,” he announced. “You’re a pair of tits and a vagina away from fulfilling your destiny. Readers love ballsy women. The detective here loves ballsy women.”

Fremmer glanced over at the detective, who, judging from the expression on his face, clearly didn’t love ballsy women—or more probably thought Fremmer was a lunatic.

“OK, maybe not,” Fremmer said. “But the readers do. And I do.

So make the change. And do it with conviction. Do whatever you do with conviction. Always.”

Excerpt from Lucidity by David Carnoy. Copyright © 2017 by David Carnoy. On sale from The Overlook Press February 7, 2017. Reproduced with permission from The Overlook Press, Peter Mayer Publishers, Inc. www.overlookpress.com. All rights reserved.

For every light there is shadow. For every sound, silence. From the moment he got the call Detective Kevin Francis Byrne had a premonition this night would forever change his life, that he was headed to a place marked by a profound evil, leaving only darkness in its wake.

“You ready?”

Byrne glanced at Jimmy. Detective Jimmy Purify sat in the passenger seat of the bashed and battered department- issue Ford. He was just a few years older than Byrne, but something in the man’s eyes held deep wisdom, a hard- won experience that transcended time spent on the job and spoke instead of time earned. They’d known each other a long time, but this was their first full tour as partners.

“I’m ready,” Byrne said.

He wasn’t.

They got out of the car and walked to the front entrance of the sprawling, well- tended Chestnut Hill mansion. Here, in this exclusive section of the northwest part of the city, there was history at every turn, a neighborhood designed at a time when Philadelphia was second only to London as the largest English- speaking city in the world. The first officer on the scene, a rookie named Timothy Meehan, stood inside the foyer, cloistered by coats and hats and scarves perfumed with age, just beyond the reach of the cold autumn wind cutting across the grounds.

Byrne had been in Officer Meehan’s shoes a handful of years earlier and remembered well how he’d felt when detectives arrived, the tangle of envy and relief and admiration. Chances were slight that Meehan would one day do the job Byrne was about to do. It took a certain breed to stay in the trenches, especially in a city like Philly, and most uniformed cops, at least the smart ones, moved on.

Byrne signed the crime- scene log and stepped into the warmth of the atrium, taking in the sights, the sounds, the smells. He would never again enter this scene for the first time, never again breathe an air so red with violence. Looking into the kitchen, he saw a blood splattered killing room, scarlet murals on pebbled white tile, the torn flesh of the victim jigsawed on the floor.

While Jimmy called for the medical examiner and crime- scene unit, Byrne walked to the end of the entrance hall. The officer standing there was a veteran patrolman, a man of fifty, a man content to live without ambition. At that moment Byrne envied him. The cop nodded toward the room on the other side of the corridor.

And that was when Kevin Byrne heard the music.

She sat in a chair on the opposite side of the room. The walls were covered with a forest- green silk; the floor with an exquisite burgundy Persian. The furniture was sturdy, in the Queen Anne style. The air smelled of jasmine and leather.

Byrne knew the room had been cleared, but he scanned every inch of it anyway. In one corner stood an antique curio case with beveled glass doors, its shelves arrayed with small porcelain figurines. In another corner leaned a beautiful cello. Candlelight shimmered on its golden surface.

The woman was slender and elegant, in her late twenties. She had burnished russet hair down to her shoulders, eyes the color of soft copper. She wore a long black gown, sling- back heels, pearls. Her makeup was a bit garish— theatrical, some might say— but it flattered her delicate features, her lucent skin.

When Byrne stepped fully into the room the woman looked his way, as if she had been expecting him, as if he might be a guest for Thanksgiving dinner, some discomfited cousin just in from Allentown or Ashtabula. But he was neither. He was there to arrest her.

“Can you hear it?” the woman asked. Her voice was almost adolescent in its pitch and resonance.

Byrne glanced at the crystal CD case resting on a small wooden easel atop the expensive stereo component. Chopin: Nocturne in G Major. Then he looked more closely at the cello. There was fresh blood on the strings and fingerboard, as well as on the bow lying on the floor. Afterward, she had played.

The woman closed her eyes. “Listen,” she said. “The blue notes.”

Byrne listened. He has never forgotten the melody, the way it both lifted and shattered his heart.

Moments later the music stopped. Byrne waited for the last note to feather into silence. “I’m going to need you to stand up now, ma’am,” he said.

When the woman opened her eyes Byrne felt something flicker in his chest. In his time on the streets of Philadelphia he had met all types of people, from soulless drug dealers, to oily con men, to smash-and-grab artists, to hopped-up joyriding kids. But never before had he encountered anyone so detached from the crime they had just committed. In her light- brown eyes Byrne saw demons caper from shadow to shadow.

The woman rose, turned to the side, put her hands behind her back. Byrne took out his handcuffs, slipped them over her slender white wrists, and clicked them shut.

She turned to face him. They stood in silence now, just a few inches apart, strangers not only to each other, but to this grim pageant and all that was to come.

“I’m scared,” she said.

Byrne wanted to tell her that he understood. He wanted to say that we all have moments of rage, moments when the walls of sanity tremble and crack. He wanted to tell her that she would pay for her crime, probably for the rest of her life— perhaps even with her life— but that while she was in his care she would be treated with dignity and respect.

He did not say these things. “My name is Detective Kevin Byrne,” he said. “It’s going to be all right.” It was November 1, 1990. Nothing has been right since.

Excerpt from The Echo Man by Richard Montanari. Copyright © 2017 by Richard Montanari. Reproduced with permission from Witness Impulse. All rights reserved.

CHAPTER 1

“Katrina, I need help.”

Katerina stumbled out of bed, her cell phone slipping from her hand.

“Damn it,” she muttered. Fumbling for the lamp, she snapped it on, blinking several times against the harsh light. She heard the low tone of the man’s voice, now coming from under the bed. Even from a distance he sounded frightened and hysterical.

“Katrina? Katrina?”

Bending over the side of the bed, her long chestnut hair cascading onto the floor, she groped for her phone. She grabbed it, bringing it to her ear.

“This is Katerina. Who is this?”

“Katr—, it’s Joe Lessing. I’m a friend of Phil’s. You remember me, right?”

Kat worked to match the voice to a face. After a moment, the film of sleep dropped away. Medium height. Built like a boxer. Strong jaw. Black hair with a widow’s peak.

“Yes, Mr. Lessing. How can I help you?”

She listened to Joe Lessing’s labored breathing at the other end of the phone; he sounded like he had just come in from a brisk jog. The clock radio read twelve-thirty. It was a little late for a run around the reservoir.

“I can’t find Phil. Do you know where he is?”

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”

“He’s not answering his cell phone.”

“Mr. Lessing, I don’t work for Mr. Castle anymore. Maybe his current assistant can help you—”

“Shit! Shit!” Lessing’s voice rose. “SHIT!”

“Mr. Lessing—”

“Listen, Katri—Katerina—I need some help. Be a good girl and come over here and I’ll make it worth your while. Okay?”

Katerina answered with silence. She had met Joe Lessing maybe three times when she worked for Philip. He never struck her as a crazed, rapist murderer…until now. Not a good idea, she thought. Whatever this is, I don’t need it.

“Look, this is on the level. I’m in some shit here and I need a little help. It’s worth a thousand dollars.”

That I do need. Desperately. “Okay…twenty minutes.”

“Make it ten. It’s a matter of life or death.”

“Which is it?”

“I’m not sure.” He gave his address and hung up.

Kat considered his comment and then threw on a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, and laced into a pair of ankle boots. She twisted her mass of hair into a sloppy braid. Stuffing some cash, ID, cellphone, and her trusty pepper spray in her pockets, she rushed out into the brisk New York City night. Against her better judgment, she took the subway. But, if there should be a police investigation, a cabbie, overeager to cooperate, would be a liability. In one of his many moments of ego and hubris, Philip had bragged about his golden rule of “fixing” people’s problems: get in, get out, get gone. Don’t linger. See everything but never be seen.

Keeping alert for drunkards, creepers, and other assorted predators lying in wait, she kept one hand in her pocket, her finger on the button of the palm-sized can of pepper spray.

She found Lessing’s building. She glanced up, the bite of the chilly October night air making her give a quick, involuntary shiver. She pushed the call box button.

“Who is it?” Lessing sounded apprehensive.

Who do you think it is? “Katerina.”

The buzzer rang. Kat slipped inside.

She found the apartment door ajar. She inched inside. A colorful Persian rug covered most of the foyer. Examining the bright pattern of red, blue, and black and finding no sign of blood, she relaxed. She took tentative steps inside, scanning the living room. Everything was neat and in order.

“Mr. Lessing?” she said.

“In here,” he called from the end of the hallway.

Kat hesitated. Move ahead or turn back? She crept down the narrow space lined with modern art consisting of colorful paint splatters. The door was open.

Kat peered inside and saw Joe Lessing, a man in his forties, his overdeveloped muscular build now turning fleshy and soft. He was naked, pacing, and breathing hard. His flaccid penis, dangling like an oversized rotini, bobbed and swayed with every step.

Katerina froze. Oh shit.

He turned to look at Kat; she saw the panic in his dark eyes.

“Thank God you’re here,” he said, turning to the bed. It was a massive four poster with a distressed wooden chest squatting at its foot. A Queen Anne style night stand on each side held a Tiffany lamp. But it was the unconscious, naked blonde woman lying on top of the rumpled covers that grabbed Kat’s attention.

“I called someone. She said she would try to get here but I can’t wait anymore.” He pointed at the bed. “Can you help me, please.”

Kat didn’t know what to say to him. When he had come to Philip’s office he was always calm and relaxed… and fully dressed. He liked perching on the edge of her desk and talking about his motorcycle, his house in the Hamptons, and his wife.

His wife.

“What happened?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said in a shaky voice. “I don’t know but I have to do something. We have to do something.”

He returned to mindless pacing and the penis began dancing again. Kat moved to the bed. The woman had bottle blond hair, a too perfect nose, but her breasts were real, her waist a size zero. Kat leaned over and touched her cheek. Warm.

“I’m fucked, aren’t I?” he asked, wiping sweat off his brow. “Am I fucked?”

“She has a pulse,” Kat said.

“Thank Christ,” Lessing said.

“Have you tried waking her?”

“Of course I did! Nothing works!”

“What happened?”

Joe scratched his head like he was trying to work out a difficult math problem. “We were going at it and it was good—shit, it was great—and then she collapsed. Look, we have to get her the hell out of here.”

“When is your wife due, Mr. Lessing?”

Joe gave a short, guilty laugh. “She’s taking a night flight from LAX. She’ll be here soon.”

“What’s soon?”

Lessing’s eyes met hers. “Less than two hours.”

Shit.

“Your —friend needs medical care.”

“I can’t take her to the hospital. No one can know about this. Her husband would be very upset.”

And your wife. “I understand.”

“Please, you work for Phil—or you worked for him—whatever. You know people. You can work this out for me, right? You have to make this—” he said, pointing in the general direction of the bed, “go away.”

Kat mentally tried to construct what Philip, the attorney who considered his oath a suggestion rather than a requirement, would do.

“Just a minute,” she said, and pulled out her cell phone. She listened to the ringing on the other end of the line. Finally, there was a click.

“Yeah,” the voice said. A chorus of coughing and gurgling noises followed.

Kat waited for him to finish. “Doc, it’s Kat,” she said when it was quiet. “I need a favor.”

“I don’t get out of bed for less than a thousand,” the raspy voice said, followed by a deep drawing sound for air.

She held the phone away from her ear. “It’s going to cost a thousand.”

“For both of you?”

“No.”

“Will he take Travelers Checques?”

“No.”

“Will you take Travelers Checques?”

“No.”

“They’re American Express,” Lessing said.

“I don’t care.”

Lessing resumed shuffling. Kat averted her eyes so that the penis was dancing in her peripheral vision. A miniature Slinky. She was tired of looking at it.

“Mr. Lessing?”

“Yeah?”

“Put your pants on…please.”

He looked down at himself and then swiped his pants up off the floor.

Kat got back on the phone. “You need to get out of bed.”

“If this needs a cleaner, it’s your problem.”

Kat glanced over at the unconscious woman. “I don’t think so.” She recited the address and hung up. Good God, I hope not.

I was the first one there.

The parking lot was empty, except for Stan’s pickup truck. Stan was the custodian, tall, hair thinning, face pock-marked from long ago acne. He moved silently, popped out of closets and appeared in corners, prowled the halls armed with a mop or a broom. In fourteen years, I couldn’t remember a single time when he’d looked me in the eye.

Wait—fourteen years? I’d been there that long? Faces of kids I’d taught swirled through my head. The oldest of them would now be, what? Twenty-one? Oh man. Soon I’d be one of those old school marms teaching the kids of my former students, a permanent fixture of the school like the faded picture of George Washington mounted outside the principal’s office. Hell, in a few months, I’d be forty. A middle-aged childless widow who taught second grade over and over again, year after year, repeating the cycle like a hamster on its wheel. Which reminded me: I had to pick up new hamsters. Tragically, last year’s hadn’t made it through the summer.

I told myself to stop dawdling. I had a classroom to organize, cubbies to decorate. On Monday, just three days from now, twenty-three glowing faces would show up for the first day of school, and I had to be ready. I climbed out of the car, pulled a box of supplies from the trunk, started for the building. And stopped.

My heart did triple time, as if responding to danger. But there was no danger. What alarmed me, what sent my heart racing was the school itself. But why? Did it look different? Had the windows been replaced, or the doors? Nothing looked new, but something seemed altered. Off balance. The place didn’t look like an elementary school. It looked like a giant factory. A prison.

God, no. It didn’t look like any of those things. The school was the same as it had always been, just a big brick building. It seemed cold and stark simply because it was unadorned by throngs of children. Except for wifi, Logan Elementary hadn’t changed in fifty years, unless you counted several new layers of soot on the bricks.

I stood in the parking lot, observing the school, seeing it fresh. I’d never paid much attention to it before. When it was filled with students, the building itself became all but invisible, just a structure, a backdrop. But now, empty, it was unable to hide behind the children, the smells of sunshine and peanut butter sandwiches, the sounds of chatter and small shoes pounding Stanley’s waxed tiles. The building stood exposed. I watched it, felt it watching me back. Threatening.

Seriously, what was wrong with me? The school was neither watching nor threatening me. It was a benign pile of bricks and steel. I was wasting time, needed to go in and get to work. But I didn’t take a single step. Go on, I told myself. What was I afraid of? Empty halls, vacant rooms? Blank walls? For a long moment, I stood motionless, eyes fixed on the façade. The carved letters: Logan School. The heavy double doors. The dark windows. Maybe I’d wait a while before going inside. Becky would arrive soon, after she picked up her classroom aquarium.

Other teachers would show up, too. I could go in with them, blend safely into their commotion. I hefted the box, turned back to the car. But no, what was I doing? I didn’t want to wait. I’d come early so I could get work done without interruption or distraction before the others arrived. The school wasn’t daring me, nor was I sensing some impending tragedy. I was just jittery about starting a new year.

I turned around again, faced its faded brown bricks. I steeled my shoulders, took a breath and started across the parking lot. With a reverberating metallic clank, the main doors flew open. Reflexively, I stepped back, half expecting a burst of flames or gunfire. Instead, Stan emerged. For the first time in fourteen years, I was glad to see him. Stan surveyed the parking lot, hitched up his pants. Looked in my direction. He didn’t wave or nod a greeting, didn’t follow social conventions. Even so, his presence grounded me, felt familiar.

I took a breath, reminded myself that the school was just a school. That I was prone to mental wandering and embellishing. And that children would stream into my classroom in just three days, whether I was ready or not.