Praise for Jay Bonansinga
Perfect Victim
“Eerie and mindbendingly imaginative, Perfect Victim plumbs the depths of evil—and the result is a chilling ride with scares all the way.”
—Tess Gerritsen,New York Times
bestselling author of The Keepsake
“Jay Bonansinga’s latest novel to feature Ulysses Grove, Perfect Victim, is a nail-biting cycle into terror and madness. Cross Patricia Cornwell with Stephen King and you’ll get some idea of what’s in store for you. Here’s a book that’s not for the faint of heart, but for everyone who enjoys a staccato-paced thrill ride into the heart of darkness. It’ll leave you gasping for breath up to the very last page.”
—James Rollins,New York Times
bestselling author of The Last Oracle
“I loved the book! In Perfect Victim Bonansinga’s prowess as a storyteller reaches a new level. This stunning thriller, which includes a light dusting of the paranormal and a touch of history, is un-putdownable. Bonansinga’s prose is addictive, the plot roils with suspense and action, and his FBI profiler protagonist, Ulysses Grove, grows more appealing with each novel. Well done!”
—Libby Hellman, Edgar-nominated
editor/author of Easy Innocence
Shattered
“M. Night Shyamalan, meet Harlan Coben. Shattered seamlessly blends the frightening metamorphosis of a serial killer with a race-against-the-clock chase. Who is more haunted, the serial killer or the FBI profiler chasing him? The head-spinning plot turns and fascinating characters put Shattered at the top of any reading list. This novel will stay with you long after you finish it.”
—David Ellis, Edgar Award–winning author of Eye of the Beholder
“A great hero, a truly sinister villain, and a riveting game of cat and mouse between them—Shattered is a gripping, compulsively readable thriller.”
—Joseph Finder, New York Times bestselling author of Power Play and Killer Instinct
“A first-rate suspense thriller, as compelling as it is frightening…. Bonansinga never lets the intensity flag while balancing believable characters, forensic science, hard-nosed detective work, and paranormal flourishes. Grove proves to be one of the most genuine, flesh-and-blood suspense-thriller protagonists out there, and the foe Bonansinga pits against him is truly chilling.”
—Publishers Weekly
Twisted
“Scarily real and really scary…everything a great thriller should be—and more.”
—Lee Child, New York Times bestselling author of Nothing to Lose
“Suspense, thrills, action—Twisted has a pulse-thumping pace all the way. Highly recommended!”
—Raymond Benson, author of A Hard Day’s Death and several James Bond novels
“The chills don’t stop…Bonansinga has a talent for painting suspenseful scenes in vivid colors, put to especially good use in the final showdown.”
—Publishers Weekly
Frozen
“A relentless chiller that leaves you guessing and gasping again and again.”
—David Morrell, New York Times bestselling
author of Scavenger
“A captivating novel of cold and meticulous suspense, Bonansinga’s Frozen rings a bell that defines eternal evil in all its manifestations, in fact spanning Six thousand years of the entity we call evil. This thriller is like no other serial killer novel. It has everything—a unique setting, a compelling lead character, a new twist on forensics, and the latent evil of mankind.”
—Robert W. Walker, author of
Absolute Instinct and Final Edge
“A thrilling, beautifully paced skyrocket of a novel.”
—Peter Straub, New York Times bestselling
author of In the Night Room
“Frozen will chill you to the bone! Bonansinga breathes much-needed life into the serial killer genre while simultaneously turning it on its head. With enough suspense, twists, action, and surprise revelations for a dozen thrillers, Frozen is the must-read book of the season, written by a master at the top of his game. Be prepared to set aside a few days, because once you begin Frozen, you won’t be able to put it down. Frozen kicks serious ass.”
—J. A. Konrath, author of Fuzzy Navel
“Frozen will send chills down your spine.”
—Barbara D’Amato, award-winning author of the
Cat Marsala mystery series; former president of
the Mystery Writers of America; former
president of Sisters in Crime International
“Frozen is the latest example of author Jay Bonansinga’s impressive range, depth, and audacity…. Bonansinga nimbly avoids all melodramatic traps and makes his two investigators believable and moving.”
—Chicago Tribune
“One of the best pure thrillers I’ve read all year—a marvelous, addictive piece of detective fiction that will appeal to anyone who enjoys the strange-science leanings of the Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child novels.”
—Rod Lott, Bookgasm.com
ALSO BY JAY BONANSINGA
Shattered
Frozen
Twisted
Available from Pinnacle
PERFECT VICTIM
JAY BONANSINGA
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
This one is dedicated to Mikey Stein
and the Bad Boys.
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
PART I: THE ARCHETYPE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
PART II: COLD METAL MISERY MACHINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
PART III: THE WORMWOOD EVENT
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Major thanks to Michaela Hamilton, Peter Miller, Adrienne Rosato, Keith Scherer, Tina Jens, The International Thriller Writers, Lee Child, Harlan Ellison, The Landlocked Film Festival, Terrence Rogers, David Cushing, Richard Walter, Bruce Ingram, Anastasia Royal, and especially my family—Bratch, Joey, and Bill—for giving me the ultimate gift.
PROLOGUE
Raw Material
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br /> Woe to you, O earth and sea, for the devil has come down to you in great wrath.
—REVELATION 12:12
Barbara Lynn Allison noticed things. Little things. Seemingly trivial things. It was partly her nature, and partly the curse of twenty-first-century motherhood. Before giving her children packaged cookies, for example, she would notice in the small print below the Nutrition Facts legend whether the product contained trace elements of peanuts. Last year, when she and her husband, David, upgraded to the split-level in Eden Prairie, she noticed all the sharp corners in the kitchen, the questionable second-floor banister, and the lack of a sturdy fence around the pool. “Kid Hazard Radar” is how her pal and fellow mah-jongg player Cyndee Kaiser characterized the talent. More than likely it was this preternatural mommy-vision that caused Barbie Allison to first notice the gray panel van that afternoon, parked way off in the corner of the mall parking lot.
As she pulled her Dodge Caravan into the south lot of the Mall of America, temple of consumerism and eighth wonder of the retail world, she never really got a good look at the van—or at the dark figure huddled behind its steering wheel—as the vehicle was nearly a football field away, sitting out there all alone. Plus Barbie was too busy scanning the jammed parking lanes near the entrance. She needed to find a spot close to the doors so that she wouldn’t have to lug her sample case full of cosmetics farther than necessary. Distracted, craning her neck to see an opening, she only caught a fleeting glimpse of the van out of the corner of her eye before losing it in sunspots flaring off the high-gloss hoods of parked cars.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she made a mental note. It was probably nothing. Lots of vans park in the far reaches of parking lots. Still…just for an instant, something about it strummed a nerve.
Shrugging it off, Barbie parked her minivan, killed the engine, and gathered her things. She had a full itinerary of sales calls ahead of her—her cruelty-free cosmetics, developed as an independent project during her days at the University of Minnesota, had been catching fire as of late—and she wanted to take advantage of this rare eight-hour workday afforded her by the playdates she had arranged for Carrie and Casey that afternoon.
She got out, her keyless alarm chirping as she thumbed the control and started across the traffic lane, her glamorous yet sensible wares in tow. The sun was high and wan in the pale spring sky that day, the air redolent with the scents of Cinnabon and coffee wafting out of the massive brick façade of Macy’s. The endless ant farm of glass boutiques rose up before Barbie like a Mayan rampart, four levels high, housing hundreds of upscale stores, creating an audible thrum—the whirring of a great particle accelerator bubbling with voices, fountains, and perfumed air.
The sound of commerce.
Barbie paused near the entrance, digging her PDA out of her purse to double-check her first appointment. An elfin woman with a spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose, she looked a decade younger than her thirty-three years. Rigorous postpartum jogging and Pilates had staved off the requisite midriff bulge, and a burgeoning small business had done similar wonders for her self-image. Now, clad in her smart, formfitting, navy DKNY dress, she put her iPhone away and strode through the mall entrance with the high-chinned confidence of a color guard leading a victorious regiment. She was ready to rock.
Thoughts of errant vans parked in unlikely places had already faded from her radar screen.
She got a lot done that day.
After Macy’s she bopped over to Bath and Body Works, then on to Perfumania, then Sephora, then Nail Trix. All told, Barbie took eleven orders. The gal at Nail Trix bought an entire carton of organic yucca moisturizer and Teddy Furniere at Regis Salon ordered the entire line of avocado body lotion.
It was a good day, and by the time Barbie, her sample case empty, made her way down to the food court, exhausted and famished, it was nearly five o’clock. Mrs. Kamin would be dropping off Casey and Carrie soon. Dinner would have to be made, homework supervised. There was just enough time to fill out the sales log and have a quick frozen yogurt, and then back home for mommy-work.
But first things first. Barbie’s bladder was screaming. That venti mocha that she had snuck between Bare Escentuals and Your Body Repair Shop was threatening to pop.
She made her way down a side corridor toward the restrooms. The mall had cleared significantly since her arrival that morning, and now the narrow corridor leading to the ladies’ john was deserted. Barbie reached the last door on the right and stopped.
The CLOSED FOR REPAIRS sign taped over the knob sent of zing of frustration down her spine.
She turned and trundled back out into the main corridor, found the directory kiosk, and saw that the next-nearest public restroom was at the other end of the east corridor, next door to the Sheraton Hotel, between Martini Cove and the Wine Shack. Barbie had no choice. In rush-hour traffic she would be wetting her pants, so she marched eastward, toward the darker, muskier, smokier regions of the mall.
The ladies’ room was inside a tile-brick alcove tagged with the international symbol: stick-figure-woman in skirt. Barbie slipped into the silent fluorescent chamber, immediately flinching at the peppery stench of ammonia and human spoor. The restroom was deserted. The muffled drone of a nearby jukebox thrummed behind the walls, the bass lines of some garish hip-hop tune vibrating the tiles. Barbie hurried into the last stall, latching the door behind her. She set her empty case on the floor, then got her dress hiked up in seconds flat.
She was tinkling when she heard someone else enter the ladies’ room.
All at once her urine stream halted.
Her heart started racing, a current of amorphous alarm flowing through her brain. The hair on her arms bristled. All because of what she saw underneath the gap at the bottom of that stall, crossing the tiled floor of the restroom: the pointy-toed black shoes of a man.
“Excuse me,” she blurted, her voice cracking with tension.
She could hear a thick, deep breathing out there as those onyx wingtips paused and pivoted toward the stall. Barbie held her breath, her heart thumping in her ears. She could barely muster another word, her saliva all dried up. “You’re in a ladies’ room, sir.”
No answer.
“Sir?”
Nothing.
“Sir!”
Cold panic sluiced down Barbie’s backbone. Her joints felt stiff and cold all of a sudden, her mind swimming with contrary undercurrents. Were these the shoes of a harmless, scatterbrained janitor? Maybe. But wingtips? Didn’t janitors wear work boots? Perhaps it was a security guard. But why wasn’t he responding? Was this a stylish, oblivious, hearing-impaired janitor?
“There is someone in here!” she barked at the pointy shoes, taking a different tack. Perhaps if she got angry he would leave. “Hello? Sir?”
Then she heard something coming from the man with the black shoes that chilled her to the bone.
A low, breathy shushing noise.
Barbie instinctively rose off the toilet seat, yanking her panties up over her privates with a dry wheezy sound. The back of her dress accidentally slipped into the toilet water. She gasped, whirling around, pulling the expensive silk-rayon blend out of the muck. Her hands trembled as she wrung the fabric dry.
She glanced back at the floor under the stall door.
The shoes were gone.
Barbie took a couple of girding breaths. She told herself to calm down, take it easy, it was probably just a maintenance man who didn’t understand English. She smoothed down her dress. Another deep breath and she opened the stall door.
The ladies’ room was empty.
Inadvertently leaving her sample case in the stall, Barbie went over to the sink and ran water over her shaking hands. This was so silly. What was wrong with her? She let out a pained sigh as she dispensed a dollop of cleansing foam on her hands. She washed and shook her head and let out another sigh, glancing absently up at her reflection in the mirror.
The man behind her smiled.
“OH!”
Barbie hardly had a chance to turn around before the man lunged at her, grabbing her from behind, pressing a big rancid-smelling hand over her mouth.
So many impressions flooded Barbie’s brain and body at that moment that she could only writhe in the man’s iron grip as he tugged her toward the southeast corner of the bathroom. She could smell smoke on him, not just cigarette smoke but brimstone and wood smoke, like the smell of burned buildings.
White-hot terror knifed through Barbie’s midsection as she dug her heels into the floor and bucked wildly in his arms. She would not be raped. That notion crackled through her brain with the cold abruptness of a lightning bolt. She would rather die than be raped. If she had to perish at the hands of this freak she would go down fighting. And that’s when she thought of something she had learned in a self-defense class she had taken with Cyndee Kaiser many years ago.
She lifted her right foot suddenly and slammed her stiletto heel down as hard as she could on the man’s instep.
It was as though a switch had been thrown, the man yelping suddenly like a stuck pig, his arms instantly loosening, his body seizing up. Barbie slipped out of his grasp, lumbering toward the door but stumbling over her own feet. Those four-inch heels proved to be a blessing and a curse. She tripped and landed on her face.
Perfect Victim Page 1
