Review
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PRAISE FOR SILENCE
"Thomas Perry is one hell of a writer. Silence is an ingeniously
plotted and tightly written novel of taut psychological
suspense. This is catnip for true fans of the mystery/suspense
genre."―Nelson DeMille
"Mr. Perry spins an elaborate web of cat-and-mouse machinations .
. . driven as much by the characters’ fears and neuroses as by
ordinary motives . . . Expertly wrought."―Janet Maslin, The New
York Times
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From the Back Cover
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“Irresistible.”—New York Daily News
“Inspired.”—The New York Times Book Review
“Ingenious.”—George Pelecanos
“Surprising.”—The New York Times
“Brilliant.”—Robert B. Parker
“Catnip for true fans of the mystery/suspense genre.”— Nelson
DeMille
Six years ago, Jack Till helped Wendy Harper disappear. Now Till
must find her before tango-dancing assassins Paul and Sylvie
Turner do.
“As good as [Perry] gets . . . Silence entertains until the very
last page.”—New York Daily News
“[Perry]’s at the top of his cat-and-mouse game in
Silence.”—Marilyn Stasio, New York Times Book Review
THOMAS PERRY is the author of the Jane Whitefield series as well
as the bestselling novels Nightlife, Death Benefits, and Pursuit,
the first recipient of the Gumshoe Award for Best Novel. He won
an Edgar Award for The Butcher’s Boy, and Metzger’s Dog was a New
York Times Notable Book of the Year. He lives in Southern
California.
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About the Author
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THOMAS PERRY is the author of the Jane Whitefield series as well
as the bestselling novels Nightlife, Death Benefits, and Pursuit,
the first recipient of the Gumshoe Award for Best Novel. He won
an Edgar Award for The Butcher’s Boy, and Metzger’s Dog was a New
York Times Notable Book of the Year. He lives in Southern
California.
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Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
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1
THE SMALL NEON LIGHT outside that said BANQUE was turned off.
Wendy Harper armed the alarm system, flipped the light switch to
throw the dining room into darkness, slipped outside, tugged the
big front door shut, and locked it. David the bartender and the
last three kitchen men loitered, leaning against the pillars
beside the entrance of the old bank building, talking quietly
while they waited for her. “Thanks, everybody,” she said. “Eric
and I really appreciated all of your work tonight.”
Victor, Juan, and Billy, the three kitchen men, gave Wendy shy,
murmured answers and began to walk toward their cars, but David
stayed at her side as she walked to the far end of the parking
lot where she had left her car. She was surprised at how hot the
night was, even though it was after three o’clock. The dark
fronds of the tall, thin coconut palms beside the Banque parking
lot were absolutely motionless in the still night air, and it
felt as though the asphalt was exhaling the heat it had stored
during the day.
She got in her car, started the engine, and locked the doors.
She backed out of her space and waited until David was in his
car, then waved to him, pulled out of the lot to La Cienega, and
turned to head toward Sunset. Wendy checked her rearview mirror
frequently, and sometimes abruptly. Whenever she passed a car
idling on a side street or pulling out onto La Cienega, she kept
track of it until it turned and disappeared.
She felt gratitude for the patience of the restaurant crew. They
seemed to be watching over her late at night. Eric and I thank
you, she thought. Eric and I. That was a big part of what had
changed. For all of the time since Banque had opened—in fact, for
all of her years in the restaurant business—she and Eric had gone
home together. It had not mattered to her if it was three in the
afternoon or three at night because he had been there. But
tonight she had seen Eric leave at midnight.
The kitchen had already shut down, but the bar was still noisy
and active when she had crossed the dining room to oversee the
end of food service. One of the busboys opened the kitchen door
and held it open for someone to pass with a bin of heavy dishes.
Beyond the door she could see the white-suited helpers and
Victor, the kitchen-floor man, beginning to scrub the tables and
scrape the grill. She saw Eric. He had already taken off his
white coat and changed into a short-sleeved blue shirt.
When she looked at him, even from a distance, she felt a
physical sensation, as if he’d touched her. She could almost feel
his short blond hair, nearly a crew cut but soft as cat fur, a
little wet after a night in the heat and steam and exertion. He
was athletic and strong, a head taller than any of the cleanup
crew working around him. He was moving away from her. As he
passed Victor and Juan, he smiled and gave each of them a pat on
the arm that turned into an affectionate shoulder squeeze, and
said something to each of them. She could not read his lips, but
she knew roughly what he was saying. Even though Eric was
becoming a famous chef, he had started as a busboy not so many
years ago, and it was too soon for him to forget. The door swung
shut.
As she drove toward their house she began to feel her anxiety
grow with each block. She went up above Sunset onto the narrow,
dark and winding roads in the hills, and she began to look for
danger without knowing what form it would take. Could a car
follow her on these streets with its headlights off? For the past
two weeks she had been going home by different routes, and
leaving the restaurant at different times every night. It was
probably Olivia’s fault. She had been with Wendy since the
opening of the restaurant and been her friend through everything,
but she had lost her nerve. She had kept reminding Wendy of what
could happen, how easy it would be to do, and how hard it would
be to prevent. She had left town two weeks ago.
As Wendy drove past the houses in her neighborhood, she studied
each one separately, looking for tiny changes. This was an area
where every house was different, some of them three stories high
and dug into the hillside, and others almost invisible beyond
tall hedges. When she turned the last curve, she could already
see the house that she and Eric had bought less than a year ago.
One of the things she had liked about the house was that it had
seemed so substantial, but now it didn’t feel to her like a place
of safety. Tonight the house would be big and empty, and most of
it dark. But she had nowhere else to go.
She slowed and turned into the driveway. Recently she’d had
automatic lights installed along the front and side of the house
that went on when the night came, but they had not had the right
effect. The bright beams under the floodlights left big spaces
between them and beyond them that seemed much darker than before.
She would have to remember to do something about that tomorrow.
Maybe there should be more lights, or bulbs that were dimmer and
more diffuse. She reminded herself that she was being foolish to
keep changing things. She and Eric had once planned to stay in
this house forever, but that was not going to happen.
She parked her car in the garage and walked toward the side
door. She liked the Japanese-style natural wood timbers that
jutted out from the eaves. She had patterned that look after the
enclosed garden behind the restaurant. The garden was her little
surprise for customers who had come in the front door between the
Corinthian columns and walked across the marble floor of the bank
lobby.
As she walked toward the door under the jasmine vine, she
crossed the boundary of its perfume, and the air was thick with
it. She looked down to separate the key from the others on her
ring, and looked up to see the man.
She could see he was holding something as he took a step out
from the dark pocket under the arbor, and then his swing began
and the motion made her recognize that the something was a
baseball bat. Wendy threw up her arms and jerked back in a reflex
to protect her face, but the man had not been swinging at her
face.
There was an explosion of pain in her left thigh above the knee,
and the bat swept her legs out from under her. She hit the
pavement on her left hip, but she tried to scramble, to crawl
away from him. The second blow hit her forearm. When it
collapsed, she knew the small s had been broken.
She could see him now, the broad shoulders, the dark sport coat,
the face like the face of a statue in the dim light. “What?” she
asked. “What do you want?” The bat swung again, and it hit her
just below the hip. The pain splashed a red haze over her vision
for an instant, then faded. The blow obliterated her disbelief,
her sense that this could not be happening. She knew he was
crippling her, and in another swing, she would be beyond hope.
She would be immobile, and then he would kill her. He raised his
bat again. She exerted a huge effort, pulled herself to her feet
and tried to run, but all she could manage was a painful, limping
hobble. In three steps, his strong hand grasped her arm and
dragged her backward.
She tried to jerk her arm away, but his hand closed its grip on
her blouse at the shoulder. He still had the bat in his other
hand, but he swung her in a quick circle. The blouse tore, much
of it came away in his hand, and her momentum flung her to the
pavement of the driveway. This time she was in the center of a
pool of light from a floodlight ed under the eaves of the
house.
The man knelt, held her down with the bat, and hit her with his
free hand, delivering four quick punches to her face and
shoulders. She was groggy. She tasted blood, and couldn’t seem to
spit it all out, and there was more in her eyes. She was in hot,
throbbing pain. Both her arms felt weak and useless.With the
glare above and behind him, she could only see him in silhouette,
raising the bat again. When he brought it downward, she flinched
and half-rolled away from it. The bat hit the concrete beside
her head with a hollow sound, bounced up and skinned the back of
her head. This time he stood with one foot on either side of her,
raised the bat above his head. She could see this swing was going
to crush her skull.
The world ignited and burned with new light. The man, the bat,
the house behind him, the concrete beside her face were all lit
as though it were daylight. The man’s face lifted to squint up
the street, and he stepped out of her vision. She heard his
footsteps, fast-running, going away from her. She heard the
bang of a car door, and then another, and then voices.
Copyright © 2007 by Thomas Perry
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
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