With a sob, he prostrated himself on the floor. "Tagore!" he shouted. "I will rebuild this place. There is no death, no end. I will make a beginning. For you. For the others. I will live, and there will be another Patanjali after me, and Rashimpur will never die, and there will be magic, always, forever, as long as there is life."
He opened his eyes. And then he saw it, standing small and dark at the base of the tree: a chess piece, carved from a scrap of wood found behind a shack outside a Polish village.
Justin felt a cold rush of air fill his lungs. How could it be? Zharkov had died. Twice. Once on the cliffs in Cuba, again in the fire pit of Varja's palace.
We are the same, you and I. We always were.
The realization struck Justin like a physical blow. If he was alive, then so was his opposite. The Prince of Death was still waiting, still searching, still living out his destiny with the Grandmaster. For good to exist, so must evil.
He picked up the piece. It was the black king.
The game was not over.
It would never be over.
From outside, a soft breeze carrying the scent of almonds stirred the air.
Thank you for purchasing The Grandmaster by New York Times bestselling authors Molly Cochran and Warren Murphy. Keep reading for excerpts from The Temple Dogs and their international bestseller, The Forever King.
The Temple Dogs | Two prominent families steeped in the underworlds of New York and Tokyo clash in a tale of hard-won family honor, dark secrets, death, and betrayal.
The Forever King | When ten-year-old Arthur Blessing finds a strange antique cup, he has no idea it’s the most sought after object in history. Nor does he realize the discovery of the Holy Grail will take him on a journey that defies the rules of space and time.
Excerpt from The Forever King
Chapter One
He was there again.
The bright orange blaze was scorching, suffocating in the July afternoon heat. Through the din of cracking timbers and the air-sucking whoosh of the impossibly high and angry gasoline flames the frantic voices of the firefighters sounded muffled and small.
Hal Woczniak swallowed. His hands rose and fell in a jerky motion. The features of his face were contorted, still wearing the expression of shock that had followed the explosion. Nearby, sweating and helpless, stood a small army of useless men—six members of the FBI, a fully armed SWAT team, the local police. A heavyset, balding man unwrapped a stick of gum and popped it into his mouth.
"Forget it, Hal," he told Woczniak.
The house blurred and wavered in the heat. Two firemen dragged a body—what was left of it—out of the doorway.
"Leave him!" Woczniak shouted.
The heavyset man raised a hand to Woczniak's chest, a gesture of restraint.
"Chief, there's a kid inside!" Woczniak protested.
"They know that," the Chief said placatingly. "But they just got here. They've got to move that body. Give them a chance."
"What kind of chance does the kid get?" Woczniak growled. He shoved the Chief's hand away and ran for the house. Into the thick of the smoke pouring from the building, his lungs stinging from the black air, his legs pumped wildly.
"Woczniak! Hal!" the Chief shouted. "Somebody stop him, for God's sake!"
Two firefighters flung themselves at him, but Woczniak leaped over them effortlessly and hurtled himself into the inferno.
It was pitch black inside except for high licks of orange flame that shed no light in the dense smoke. Coughing, Woczniak tore off his shirt and pulled it over his head as he crawled spider-like up the fragile, superheated wooden stairs. A timber broke with a deafening crack and fell toward him. He slammed against the far wall at the top of the stairs. In the blind darkness, a shard of glass from a broken mirror cut deep into his cheek. Woczniak felt only a dull pain as he pulled it from his flesh.
"Jeff!"
Stooped and groping, he found a door. He pulled it open.
The boy will be there, tied to the chair. The boy will be there, and this time I'll get to him. This time Jeff will open his blue eyes and smile, and I'll muss his carrot hair, and the kid will go home to his folks. This one will escape. This time.
But it was not the boy with the carrot-red hair tied to the chair. In his place was a monster, a fire-breathing dragon straight out of a fairy tale, with eyes like blood and scales that scraped as it writhed. It opened its mouth, and with its foul breath came the words:
"You’re the best, kid. You're the best there is."
And then the creature, the terrible beast Hal Woczniak had somehow known all along would meet him in this room, cackled with a sound like breaking glass.
Screaming, Woczniak ran up to it and clasped the saurian around its slimy neck. It smiled at him with triumphant malice.
Then, fading as if it had been fashioned of clouds, it vanished and the reality of his life returned. In the monster's place was the red-haired boy, tied to the chair . . . dead as he had been all along, dead as he always was in these dreams.
Woczniak was still screaming. He couldn't stop.
He woke up screaming.
"Honey. Hey, mister."
Hal gasped for breath. His sweat was slick and cold.
"You musta had a bad dream."
It was a woman's voice. He looked over at her. It took him a moment to orient himself to his surroundings. He was in bed, in a dingy room he reluctantly recognized as his own. The woman was beside him. They were both naked.
"Do I know you?" he asked groggily, rubbing his hands over his face.
She smiled. She was almost pretty.
"Sure, baby. Since last night, anyway." She snuggled against him and flung her arm over his chest.
He pushed her away. "Go on, get out of here."
"Watza matter?"
She's not even angry, Hal thought. She's used to it. He pulled the filthy covers off them both, then saw the bruises on the woman's body. "Did I do that?"
She looked down at herself, arms spread in self-examination. "Oh. No, hon. You was real nice. Kind of drunk, though." She smiled at him. "I guess you want me to go, huh?"
She didn't wait for an answer as she wriggled into a cheap yellow dress.
"What . . . ah . . . What do I owe you?" Hal asked, wondering if he had any money. He remembered borrowing twenty from Zellie Moscowitz, who had just fenced some diamonds for a second-story man in Queens. That had been yesterday. Or the day before. He pressed his fingers into his eyes. Hell, it might have been last week, for all he knew. "What day is this?"
"Thursday," the woman said. She wasn't smiling anymore. Her shoulders sagged above the low-cut bodice of her dress. "And I ain't no hooker."
"Sorry."
"Yeah." She zipped up her dress. "But now you mention it, I could use cab fare."
"Sure." Hal swung his legs woodenly over the side of the bed and lurched toward a pair of pants draped over a chair. They reeked of stale booze and cigarette smoke, with a strong possibility of urine.
There were four one-dollar bills in his wallet. He handed them to her. "It's all I've got."
"That's okay," she said. "My name's Rhonda. I live over in Jersey. In Union City."
"Nice to meet you," Hal said.
"What's yours?"
As he replaced his wallet, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the broken triangle of a mirror above the sink. A pair of watery, bloodshot eyes stared stupidly at him above bloated cheeks covered with graying stubble.
"I said, who are you?"
Hal stood motionless, transfixed by the sight. "Nobody," he said softly. "Nobody at all."
He didn't hear the woman let herself out.
You're the best, kid. The best there is.
That was what the chief had said when Hal turned in his resignation to the FBI. The best there is.
He turned on the tap in the sink. A thin stream of cold water trickled out, disturbing two roaches that had apparently spent the night in a Twinkie wrapper stuffed into a brown-spe
ckled styrofoam coffee container.
Hal splashed water on his face. Hands still dripping, he touched the scar on his cheek where the piece of glass had cut him during the fire.
That was the problem: Too much of the dream was real. If it were all dragons vaporizing on contact, he could handle it better. But most of it was exactly as things had really been. The fire, the boy, the laughter . . . that crazy bastard's laughter . . .
—Look, Woczniak, nobody else could have saved the kid, either. You went into the burning building, for chrissake. Even the fire department couldn't get into a gasoline fire. SWAT couldn't go in. You've just spent five months in the hospital for that stunt. What'd you expect, magic?
—Maybe.
—Well, welcome to the real world. It's got psychos in it. Some of them kill kids. That's not the way we want it, it's just the way it is. I'm telling you, you did a good job. You're going to get a citation as soon as you're out of here.
—A citation.
—That's right. And you deserve it.
—The kid's dead, Chief.
—So's the psycho. After four months, you were the one who found him. You were the one who figured out why he went after the kids.
—I was the one who let him kill the last one.
—Nobody expected him to blow himself up.
—I could have stopped it.
—How?
—I could have shot him and covered the grenade.
—With what? Your body? Jesus Christ. How long you been with the Bureau, Hal? Fifteen years?
—Sixteen.
—That's a long time. Don't throw it away just because you got too close to one kid's family. Believe me, I know what it's like. You see pictures, home movies, you have dinner with the parents 'cause you've got nothing else to do at night . . .
—I'm out, Chief.
—Listen to me. You find a girl, maybe you get married. Things are different with a wife.
—I said I'm out.
Hal Woczniak left the hospital five and a half months after the fire that had killed Jeff Brown and his abductor. He left with no future and a past he wanted only to forget.
Funny, he thought as he walked down the glistening hospital sidewalk toward the bus stop. He had just spent half a year in the same hospital where the killer had found Jeff.
His name was Louie Rubel, Hal remembered. He had worked as an orderly in the Trauma and Burn Unit from which Hal had just been released. Using the Visitors' Registration records, Rubel would pick out boys of the right age among the visitors and then stalk them on their home turf. Before he got to Jeff Brown, he had already killed and mutilated four other ten-year-olds. Each murder had reenacted the first killing, that of his better-favored younger brother.
Woczniak led the FBI team that cracked the case just as Rubel was about to murder the Brown kid. It had looked like a perfect collar, with evidence in place, the boy alive, and a confession. No one had counted on the killer's own sense of drama.
As the authorities approached the house, Louie Rubel announced that he had sprayed the place with gasoline. Hal ordered everyone on scene to freeze. When they did, Rubel took a grenade out of his vest pocket and pulled out the pin with his teeth.
The next few seconds were pandemonium, but Hal remembered only silence, a silence welling and gradually filling with Rubel's high, shrieking, monstrous laughter. He laughed until the grenade exploded. He blew himself to bits in full view of the police, the FBI, SWAT, and an ambulance crew.
A moment later the house went up like a torch, but Hal could still hear the laughter.
He had run into the fire, run to save the red-haired boy, kept running even after the shard of glass had ripped his cheek in two and the flames burned away the hair on his arms and chest and head, had run into the upstairs room where the boy was sitting, tied to a chair. You're safe, Jeff, just a second here, let me get these ropes off you . . . Jeff . . .
And he carried Jeff Brown out the window and tried mouth-to-mouth on him right there on the roof while the SWAT boys nearly roasted themselves pulling a tarp over to the wall beneath them. But it was too late.
Hal came to in the hospital a week later. His first thought was the memory of the boy's lips, still warm.
You're the best, kid, welcome to the real world you'll get a citation for this what'd you expect?
Magic?
It had been almost a year since the incident.
The face in the broken mirror above the sink, the loser's face, shook as if it were powered by an overheated engine. His eyes—a stranger's eyes—were glassy and staring. His teeth were bared.
He turned off the water. The roaches returned.
"Screw it," he said. It was time for a drink.
It was always time for a drink.
Excerpt from The Temple Dogs
Chapter One
The white chrysanthemums arrived anonymously, as they always did.
The unknown sender had been so conscientious through the years that the Haverfords had counted on the flowers, reserving an entire wall of New York's elegant Inn on the Park at their daughter's wedding reception.
They weren't disappointed. The blossoms, as delicate looking as the Eurasian bride, filled the wall and spilled over into the adjoining rooms, suffusing the restaurant with their soft fragrance.
Susi Haverford, now Mrs. John Belmont, wore a white silk Mary McFadden gown covered by a Japanese ceremonial kimono duster, bright red and worked heavily with hand-painted gold. Her clothing, like her face, reflected the mingling of two cultures, two races, and as she danced with her brother, Miles, the two Haverford offspring looked like exotic and beautiful visitors from another planet.
"Even more flowers than usual," Susi said.
"Our secret admirer never fails," Miles said with a grin. He remembered a truckload of flowers had arrived at his apartment in New Haven on the day he graduated from law school. And it had been that way since they were toddlers. Every birthday, every personal milestone, had been greeted with white chrysanthemums; but no one ever knew where they came from.
At first their mother Mickey had believed that her husband was sending them, but he quickly disabused her of that idea. "Tomfoolery," he had grumbled. "And a waste of good money."
As Miles spun her around the dance floor, Susi was able to see the vast array of the floral arrangements. "These must have cost thousands," she said. "But why chrysanthemums? Aren't chrysanthemums for funerals?"
"Depends on where you live," Miles said with authority. "In Japan, chrysanthemums are the symbol of love."
Susi smiled. "I'm glad your two semesters of Japanese Language and Culture weren't wasted." She closed her eyes as they danced, and Miles noticed how little she had changed since childhood. She looked as Japanese as their mother, golden-skinned and delicate. The difference between them was that Susi accentuated her Asian features with her makeup and clothing, while their mother had spent a fortune on plastic surgery to eradicate hers.
"You look beautiful," Miles said quietly.
"I'll miss you, Miles." She lay her head on his chest.
"Hey, this isn't goodbye. You can count on me for dinner every Sunday. John does cook, doesn't he?"
"Dog," Susi growled mockingly and hugged him more tightly. "Dad says you might join his law firm?"
Miles sighed. "I guess so. I've been dodging it as long as I could, but I guess Dullstein, Boringly, and Stultifiable are now calling. God, Susi. Brain death as a career. Even marriage sounds better."
Susi reddened. "You'd still have to work sometime, at something," she said stiffly.
Miles smiled at his sister.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I must be an awful bore."
He kissed her forehead. "Forget it, Sis."
In the tradition of younger sisters everywhere, Susi was given to worrying about Miles. It seemed to her that everything—money, women, athletic skill, social grace—had always come too easily for him. He was an excellent piano player who didn't practice; a fine boxer who,
like as not, in a tough bout would surrender before the bell and walk out of the ring; potentially a brilliant lawyer who had chosen instead to party his way through Yale, graduating somewhere near the middle of his class.
Miles's lack of drive bothered Susi more than it did either of his parents. Mickey Haverford had never objected to her son's academic mediocrity, since he excelled at all the things that really mattered: he was six feet tall, darkly handsome, and possessed of the sort of shallow charm that shows best at cocktail parties. Miles was the perfect tenth man at dinner, glib, self-assured and undemanding—either of others or of himself—and the ideal escort for his mother on the many occasions when her husband begged off some unmissable "A"-list party or another, preferring to hide in the sanctum of his law office.
As for Miles's father, Curtis Haverford felt nothing but disappointment in the boy who had once held so much promise. Miles had won a Westinghouse Science Award at eleven. He had given a piano recital of Bach fugues at Julliard when he was thirteen. By sixteen, he had read every book in Curtis's library, including those on law. And he was going to follow his father into the profession.
But that was long ago, it seemed. Long before Miles had lost interest in his future.
"It's just that you could do something wonderful with your life, if you wanted," Susi said gently. "If there were something worth dedicating yourself to . . ."
"Oh, Susi."
"I mean it, Miles. You're special. Meant for special things. I've always known that about you."
With a gesture, Miles invited his father to cut in. Curtis shook his head. During the brief exchange, Mickey Haverford eyed the dancing couple with disdain, then turned away.
"Okay, I'll shut up," Susi said.
"Good." He laughed. "Did you see Mother? She looks like somebody forced a dill pickle down her throat."
"It's my kimono," Susi said with a sigh. "She hates it. She hates anything that reminds her that she's Japanese."
Miles didn't answer. He knew it was true. Mickey Haverford had spent several hundred thousand dollars on cosmetic surgery to systematically westernize the Asian features of her face.
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