by Lee Child
Until an hour ago, all Jason wanted was to earn enough to set him and Jenny up in an apartment before they broke the news about the baby, or maybe someone’s empty cabin. No way could they live in his parents’ basement. The Finns and the Swedes in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula had hated each other for generations. Jason’s parents hadn’t even met Jenny. Said they didn’t need to; all they needed to know was her last name. A saw that cut both ways, judging by the way Jenny’s parents treated Jason. Anyone who thought Romeo and Juliet would’ve had an easier time in the twenty-first century had never met the Andersons and Niemis.
He bent to make another notch. A breeze kicked up, an early winter wind that swirled wood chips and sawdust in his face. He blinked—
—and came to with an elephant on his chest.
Not an elephant, a log—a big one. Nothing like the puny scrub he’d been cutting—a massive, long-dead maple—a widow-maker hung up for God knew how long in a nearby tree, just waiting for someone like him to come along.
He lay still and waited for his brain to come back to full power. The saw was running, so he couldn’t have been out long. His hard hat was gone. No doubt it was the hard hat that saved him. They didn’t call them widow- makers for nothing.
He pushed against the trunk with both hands, then twisted sideways and shoved with his shoulder, feeling like the beetles he used to pin inside a shoe box when he was little. The tree shifted. He shoved again, letting the trunk rock and settle. Each time it rolled back, it knocked the wind out of him like a sucker punch, but at last he built up enough momentum to carry it past the tipping point. The log rolled down his shins and over his ankles.
Breathing heavily, he sat up.
Bright, arterial blood spurted from his right leg like a fountain.
Holy—The saw must’ve caught him on the way down. He pressed down hard with both hands. Blood gushed between his fingers. Fumbling one-handed with his belt buckle, he stripped off the belt and cinched it around his leg up high near his groin. The bleeding slowed.
He sat back. Wiped his hands on his jeans. Tried not to panic. His cell was in his truck. The truck was a quarter, maybe half a mile away. Reception was always spotty, but if there was a God in heaven, the call would get through.
He grabbed one of the maple’s broken-off limbs and used it as a cane to get to his feet. Blood ran down his leg. He shuddered. Wolves lived in the woods. Not many, but still. Bears and coyotes, too. Normally, they didn’t come around people, but this was about as far from normal as you could get.
He tried a step. It turned out more like a hop. He step-hopped, step- hopped, using the branch as a prop. Hop on Pop. Dr. Seuss played in his head as he got a feel for the cane and his feet found their rhythm. We like to hop on top of Pop. Better than the Brothers Grimm.
Finally, the truck. He hobbled around to the passenger side and took his cell out of the glove box. No service. Okay then, he’d drive himself out. It wouldn’t be easy without the use of his right leg, but he could do it. Eyeing the height of the 4 by 4’s seat, he tried to figure out the best way to climb in.
The keys. The keys were in his jacket pocket. His jacket was out where he’d been cutting, hanging on a bush.
He sagged against the doorjamb. He couldn’t walk all the way to his strip and back, he just couldn’t. Even if he found the strength, it’d be full dark before he made it half way.
But he couldn’t hunker down in the truck and wait for the crew to come along in the morning either. He could bleed out, freeze to death—Jenny might send someone looking for him when he didn’t text her to say goodnight. Or not.
All he could do was suck it up. Be a man.
The kind of man a father wanted for his daughter.
He straightened. Jenny was going to have a baby. He was going to be a father, whether they married or not. Maybe they were off to a bad start. Maybe Jenny would end up as shrewish as her mother. But there was no way he’d ever be as weak and indecisive as her father.
Hours (Minutes? Days?) later, he sprawled at the bottom of a hill he hadn’t known was there until he’d stumbled in the dark and rolled down it. He’d flailed wildly as he fell, grabbing at branches, grabbing at vegetation, grabbing at nothing, but nothing had stopped him from landing in a heap with his bad leg bent beneath him. The tourniquet was gone. Jason’s hands were locked in its place, squeezing at what he hoped was the right pressure point with fingers that had long ago lost feeling.
So cold. He shivered. How much blood could you lose before you were done for? He pushed away the thought and focused on the shush of the wind as he fought to stay conscious, letting the sound carry him back to when he used to work with his dad in the woods when he was little; laying the measuring pole alongside the downed trees so his dad could cut the logs to length, stepping in and around the brush struggling to keep up, listening to the trees crack from the cold and the chickadees whistle.
A chickadee called. A single high, shrill note.
No. Not a chickadee. What?
Another whistle. A voice calling his name. Then crunching leaves. Footsteps. A light in his face.
“You found me,” he whispered.
“Wasn’t me. Jenny asked me to come. Told me you were out here.” A pause. “She told me.”
Emphasis on the “told me.” Not much. Enough.
“I thought—I was afraid—” Jason swallowed. “I was afraid you’d be too late.”
Jenny’s mother stuck the flashlight under her arm, took a pack of cigarettes from her purse, and sat down heavily on a stump.
“Not too late.” She lit a cigarette and took a long, slow puff. “I’m too early.”
*
KAREN DIONNE is the author of Freezing Point (October 2008, Berkley Books), a thriller Douglas Preston called “a ripper of a story!” Her second novel, Boiling Point, is forthcoming in October 2010. Karen’s short fiction has appeared in Bathtub Gin, The Adirondack Review, Futures Mysterious Anthology Magazine, and Thought Magazine. Visit her on the Web at www.karendionne.net.
Wasn’t that a great ride? Lee Child promised in the introduction that this book contained a stellar lineup of high-octane writers—a purposeful mixture of seasoned veterans and remarkable rookies.
International Thriller Writers, Inc. (ITW) cofounder, David Morrell, once said, “If a story doesn’t thrill, it’s not a thriller.” As this collection has proven, thrills come in all shapes and sizes, tongue-in-cheek and serious, domestic and international. There were stories that explored those fascinating moments where ordinary people face difficult choices between right and wrong; there were journeys to the dark territory of noir, where hope is a precious commodity; and there were some good old-fashioned, tried-and-true adrenaline-rush rides of danger and amusement.
Many of the names who contributed to this book are well known. The fresh faces are all members of ITW’s Debut Author Program, a unique experience created to mentor thriller writers through their first year and beyond. Since the program began in July 2007, 103 ITW members have participated. So far, eight of those have garnered starred reviews in Publishers Weekly, Kirkus Reviews, and Library Journal. Four became New York Times bestsellers. Eleven found themselves on bestseller lists that include In de pen dent Mystery Booksellers, BookScan, Barnes & Noble, The Sunday Times (U.K.), the San Francisco Chronicle, Audible .com, and a variety of lists overseas. Seventeen sold rights to their books to foreign publishers. Four negotiated film and/or television options. And nearly thirty have already been published again, or are under contract for more books.
That’s an amazing set of statistics.
No other writers organization can boast such dedication and success in its debut authors.
Which speaks volumes for International Thriller Writers.
Currently, over twelve hundred working writers, editors, agents, and enthusiasts worldwide are members. Born in 2004, ITW has grown by leaps and bounds. The Debut Author Program joins a host of other ITW successes that range from exceptional marketing and pr
omotional programs to awards and recognition, to literacy efforts, to publishing projects, to the phenomenally successful ThrillerFest, the yearly gathering of ITW each July in New York. Those four days are, literally, summer camp for thriller writers and thriller enthusiasts. To learn more about ITW and Thrillerfest, I invite you to visit www.thrillerwriters.com.
Thrillers have been around a long time. Their magic, their allure, and their compelling nature come not just from providing readers an escape or rush. Rather they stem from an ability to transport the reader into another world that he or she, through his or her active participation, helps the writer create.
It’s a shared experience.
Facing danger, searching for truth, avoiding despair, finding hope, these are the essences of a thriller. My hope is that you’ve enjoyed this journey as much as all of us at International Thriller Writers have enjoyed creating these worlds for you to explore.
First Thrills is just one of many ITW publishing endeavors. We invite you to check out our other ITW products: Thriller, Thriller 2, The Chopin Manuscript, The Copper Bracelet, Watchlist, and The 100 Greatest Reads.
Just look for the ITW logo.
As Lee Child said in the beginning:
You won’t regret it.
STEVE BERRY
ITW Co-President
August 2009
Table of Contents
INTRODUCTION * Lee Child
THE THIEF * Gregg Hurwitz
SCUTWORK * CJ Lyons
THE BODYGUARD * Lee Child
LAST SUPPER * Rip Gerber
AFTER DARK * Alex Kava and Deb Carlin
WEDNESDAY’S CHILD * Ken Bruen
EDDY MAY * Theo Gangi
THE PLOT * Jeffery Deaver
EYE OF THE STORM * John Lutz and Lise S. Baker
THE DEAD CLUB * Michael Palmer and Daniel James Palmer
UNDERBELLY * Grant McKenzie
THE GATO CONUNDRUM * John Lescroart
THE PRINCESS OF FELONY FLATS * Bill Cameron
SAVAGE PLANET * Stephen Coonts
SUSPENDED * Ryan Brown
INVISIBLE * Sean Michael Bailey
WHEN JOHNNY COMES MARCHING HOME * Heather Graham
ON THE TRAIN * Rebecca Cantrell
CHILDREN’S DAY * Kelli Stanley
MY FATHER’S EYES * Wendy Corsi Staub
PROGRAM WITH A HAPPY ENDING * Cynthia Robinson
KILLING CAROL ANN * J. T. Ellison
CHLOE * Marc Paoletti
COLD, COLD HEART * Karin Slaughter
CALLING THE SHOTS * Karen Dionne
AFTERWORD
