PRAISE FOR MICHAEL WEAVER’S DECEPTIONS
“ENHANCED BY STRONG, SINEWY WRITING, NUMEROUS PLOT TWISTS, AND A POTENT MELDING OF SEX AND VIOLENCE, THIS EXPERTIY WROUGHT NOVEL proves that Weaver knows what most thriller fans want—and can deliver it in spades.”
—Publishers Weekly
“DECEPTIONS carries a certain rhythm of motion to it as characters blend fluidly with an unusual plot… Readers will be intrigued… REACH FOR DECEPTIONS.”
—Neshoba Democrat (MS)
“SUCCESSFUL… so laceratingly tough that the ink it’s printed with might as well be distilled testosterone… Weaver practices a kind of art brut writing that rings true for his double-butch heroes. IF YOU CANT FIND ANYTHING TO SAVOR IN THIS ONE, BETTER FORGET HOW TO READ.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“THE BOOK KEPT ME IN THAT RARE STATE BETWEEN SPELLBOUND AND PAGE TURNING. THE DIALOGUE ABSOLUTELY CRACKLES.”
—Nelson DeMille
“A NIFTY TWIST ON THE USUAL ORDER OF THINGS AND A FAST-PACED THRILLER THAT GETS BETTER AS IT GOES ALONG. It’s the stuff of solid action fiction.”
—Baton Rouge Magazine (LA)
“THIS STORY TAKES NO PRISONERS.… [IT IS] A KINETIC THRILLER.”
—Buffalo News
“A COLORFUL, SUSPENSEFUL CHASE AND ESCAPE NOVEL…. An international thriller that exposes some of the worst aspects of politics and private ambitions. It does entertain solidly.”
—Calhoun Liberty Journal (FL)
“Michael Weaver [lands] the reader in the middle of a SPINE-TINGLING GOVERNMENT PLOT to murder an innocent woman. Ten years later, when the U.S. Attorney General discovers the woman is still alive, he tries again. AND THAT’S WHEN THE PLOT THICKENS.”
—Book Browsing
* * *
RAVES FOR MICHAEL WEAVER’S PREVIOUS NOVEL, IMPULSE
“WILL LEAVE READERS BREATHLESS, PROBABIY WITH THEIR THROATS RAW FROM SILENT SCREAMING.”
—James Patterson, New York Times bestselling author of Along Came a Spider
“IMPULSE STARTS OUT LIKE GANGBUSTERS… . What keeps one plowing through the steamy pages is the character of the demon developed by Weaver.”
—Chicago Tribune
“RIVALS THE VILLAINY OF HANNIBAL LECTER… . WEAVER WOULD SEEM TO HAVE A CAREER IN THIS GENRE.”
—Philadelphia Inquirer
“FIRST-RATE… IRRESISTIBLE… Weaver has pulled off an assured and stunning debut”
—Cleveland Plain Dealer
“A SERIAL KILLER NOVEL WITH A DIFFERENT TWIST… A FIRST-RATE NOVEL”
—Library Journal
MERCILESS… TERRIFYING… A POWERFUL, MESMERIZING PSYCHOTHRILLER, THE KIND OF BOOK YOU JUST CANT STOP READING.”
—West Coast Review of Books
“PERFECTLY PACED VACATION READING.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“SEX, VIOLENCE, AND ACTION… . DON’T READ IMPULSE IF YOU’RE HOME ALONE… . Guaranteed to give you some chilling goose-bumps no matter how hot the summer day… . You’re hooked for the entire book by page three.”
—Oakland Press
“CHILLING… . A SEARING, CRAFTIIY WRITTEN SUSPENSE STORY THAT WILL LIKEIY HAUNT YOU AS MUCH AS IT ENGAGES YOUR INTEREST AND ADMIRATION… A sophisticated psychological thriller that deserves its place in the summer reading roster as readily as those by Ludlum, Grisham, and Throw.”
—Raleigh News & Observer
“A QUICK, INTENSE EXPERIENCE. AN EXCELLENT CHOICE FOR A QUIET WEEKEND.”
—Wisconsin State Journal
“WILL SCARE YOUR PANTS OFF… . READ IMPULSE, BUT NOT AT NIGHT, HOME ALONE. THEN WATCH FOR WEAVER’S NEXT NOVEL.”
—Southbridge News (MA)
“HAUNTING… YOU’LL BE FASCINATED FROM PAGE ONE… . IMPULSE WILL RIVET YOU IN YOUR SEAT.”
—Macon Beacon
ALSO BY MICHAEL WEAVER
Impulse
Published by
Warner Books
Copyright
WARNER BOOKS EDITION
Copyright © 1995 by Michael Weaver
All rights reserved.
Warner Books, Inc.
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com
First eBook Edition: October 2009
ISBN: 978-0-446-56942-2
Contents
PRAISE FOR MICHAEL WEAVER’S DECEPTIONS
Also by Michael Weaver
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
For Rhoda—who, happily for me,
continues to share it all.
A special thanks to Maureen Egen,
not only a brilliant editor,
but a reasonable one.
More thanks to Arthur and Richard Pine.
As friends and literary agents,
they’re simply the best.
1
GIANNI GARETSKY WAS thirty-eight years old and wearing his first nonrented tuxedo on the night the Metropolitan Museum of Art honored him with a grand reception.
Distinguished, elegantly dressed men and women smiled at him and he smiled back, although he knew very few of them. Still, it was a festive occasion, and there was nothing wrong with smiling. As his mother used to s
ay, smiling required fewer muscles than frowning.
Of course his mother had always said it in her own lyric Italian, which made it a lot more pleasing to the ear. But the meaning was the same.
Highlighting that night’s tribute was a retrospective of some of Gianni’s earlier work, along with the museum’s first public showing of Solitaire, his most recent painting. A leading critic had already praised the canvas as a haunting urban landscape that embodied the kind of stark, poetic imagery for which Gianni had become so justly celebrated.
Gianni himself was unimpressed by the rave. He had too clear a memory of this same authority dismissing him ten years ago as a naive candy-box painter with no true intellectual theory behind his work and therefore no real force as an artist.
So much for the judgment of experts.
A waiter brought Gianni a fresh drink, and he continued his slow circling of the crowd. Earlier, the Metropolitan’s cu rator had made a point of introducing him to everyone of possible importance to the museum’s financial and political well-being, and the artist had shaken hands and exchanged pleasantries with them all. Now it was sufficient to simply smile in passing, sparing him the need to hear his given name mispronounced with a hard G, rather than with its proper softness of Johnny.
It was a bit past ten o’clock when he saw Don Carlo Do-natti enter the rotunda.
The don carried himself with his usual great presence, an impeccably groomed man of medium height and build who, by the mere thrust of his jaw and the straightness of his back, managed to project an elemental force.
Glancing past Donatti, the artist picked out the three men who had arrived with him. They were young and sleek haired, and Gianni had never seen them before. Like the don, they were dressed in the latest in tuxedos. But instead of following him into the reception area, they positioned themselves at the entry and carefully watched their boss’s casual progress across the marble floor.
Gianni hurried to welcome the don. He had, of course, sent him an invitation, but only as a mark of respect and affection. Knowing the range and pressures of Donatti’s commitments, Gianni had never really expected him to attend. Seeing Donatti here now, knowing how rarely he indulged himself in this sort of lavish, ceremonial affair, the artist was touched.
“Don Donatti,” he said. “You do me honor.”
They embraced and Gianni felt the powerful back muscles beneath the fabric of the Don’s dinner jacket. Gianni had known him since early childhood, and it was always something of a surprise to be confronted by his seemingly impervious youth and strength, the dark eyes that glittered like marbles.
Donatti kissed him on both cheeks. “It’s you who does me honor, Gianni. You think I’d miss such an occasion?” He laughed. “For this, I’d have made them carry me here in my coffin.”
“Not even in a joke, Godfather.”
Gianni escorted Donatti to a small, corner table. How eas ily I slip back into it, he thought. The almost stylized rituals of old-world respect, the affectionate use of the term godfather that custom dictated, the sudden rush of warmth that made him feel not nearly as alone as he had felt just moments before. Although Gianni’s father had raised him as a Jew, it was by his mother’s Sicilian precepts that he had lived the core years of his life to date. As had his father. In the end, both his parents had died of them.
At the table, Don Donatti took out a pair of glasses, wiped them clear with his handkerchief, and surveyed the elegant setting and those in it. Then leaning forward, he gave particular attention to the collection of spotlighted paintings that made up the retrospective.
Gianni Garetsky considered the canvases along with the don.
Bits and pieces of me.
Yet, there was the wonder, too. I did this? That special sleight of hand. You started with a blank stretch of canvas, ran in some color, and presto! A new world. And it was all yours. Whatever you wanted to see, you saw. Whatever you wanted to happen, happened. Awesome. Sometimes his brush trembled, his eyes blurred, his stomach knotted. Whom did he think he was? God? If not God, then at least a sorcerer.
Donatti nodded, as if this slight movement of his head carried his ultimate judgment of everything he saw.
“Too bad, Gianni.”
Gianni looked at him.
“Too bad they couldn’t be with you tonight,” Donatti said softly.
The artist was silent. The anonymous “they” were his mother, his father, and his wife. His parents had been killed a long time ago, when he was not yet seventeen. Teresa, his wife, had been taken by cancer only recently. So what he was feeling mostly tonight was cheated.
The don understands this better than most. The thing was, how much did even the best of it mean without those you loved with you to share it?
A waiter appeared with champagne and filled their glasses. They sat wordless until he had left.
Donatti gazed evenly at the artist.
“It happens, Gianni. In time, we lose our cheering sections. That’s when it’s good to have a friend. So I’m here.”
The don reached for a glass of champagne and slowly brought it to his lips. His eyes were solemn. “And not only for tonight.”
Gianni sat with it.
In time, we lose our cheering sections.
He could put it no better than that.
And for how long had Teresa been cheering for him? Seventeen, eighteen years? Nearly half as long as he had lived. She had lifted him when he was low, had made him feel better than he knew himself to be, had gone wild over his smallest achievement.
His one love.
Would he ever have another? Gianni doubted it. He knew that in time all things, even grief, finally passed. But he had no idea what would come to take its place. Here, now, on this special night, Gianni’s mind edged closer to the image of Teresa he kept like a talisman. He saw her fair hair catching an early light on her pillow, a mouth all too vulnerable to what life had to offer, the delicate tip of her nose that had always suggested the lift of something in flight, the wide, shining eyes whose color never failed to surprise.
Then his thoughts drifted to the worst of it, the part he couldn’t bear but which he still held on to like some awful relic he was afraid to cast away. Which meant he saw her, too, as she had been at the end, with her hair reduced to scrabble, her flesh wasted, the source of his love staring up from the same pillow while she struggled for the strength to smile. God help her if she failed to smile for him.
His wife had a way of saying things that he could never come close to matching, wildly extravagant things that would have sounded foolish coming from him or anyone else, yet seemed absolutely right coming from her. Like saying they’d been made for each other since the beginning of time and no exaggeration… or how just the way his hands touched her could leave her breathless… or that when he was probing deep inside her, she was sure he was reaching straight to God.
All this from a devoutly religious girl who had come to him untouched by any other man.
So naturally God had gotten jealous and taken her. While her idiot doctors, unknowing, had called it cancer.
It was close to one o’clock when Gianni paid off the cabbie in front of the converted loft building where he lived.
There was heavy fog and the downtown Manhattan streets were deserted, left to the mist as though the night itself were a public disaster that the inhabitants of SoHo were wisely avoiding by staying inside their apartments. As the cab drove away, a dark sedan swung around the corner and stopped at the curb.
Gianni saw two men get out. They were wearing tuxedos, and he remembered seeing them earlier at the museum.
The taller of the two was carrying an attache case. It was he who spoke as they approached. “Federal Bureau of Investigation, Mr. Garetsky. I’m Special Agent Jackson, and this is Special Agent Lindstrom.”
They took out wallets and showed Gianni their identification. The artist glanced at them by the light of a street lamp.
“What did I do? Put the wrong postage on a lette
r?”
Their smiles were polite. But they gave Gianni the feeling they had been taught to smile exactly this way in a course at the FBI Academy.
“It’s no big deal, Mr. Garetsky,” said Jackson. “Could we just go upstairs and talk for a few minutes, please?”
Gianni stood there, unmoving. So if it was no big deal, why were they here at one o’clock on a Sunday morning?
Then he turned and led them through the front door of his building and into an old iron elevator.
They ascended slowly to a dull, clanging sound while Gianni felt the air being sucked out of his lungs. It was as though he had fallen asleep in a deep wood and wakened to find the trees burning. His mind searched for possible reasons and came up with none that he liked. It’s nothing, he told himself. Yet he did not believe it for a second. A small hidden part of him said he had been waiting for this moment for no less than twenty years.
They stood in silence, no one quite looking at anyone else. Then the elevator clanged to a stop at the tenth floor and they got out.
There was just the one big metal fire door facing them, and Garetsky unlocked it, preceded the two men past the threshold, and switched on the light.
The loft took up the entire top floor of the building and had once belonged to a manufacturer of men’s clothing. There were three skylights and a wall of windows at the far end, facing north… which was the studio area. Gianni’s living quarters were closer to the entrance. There were a few rooms partitioned off for privacy. The rest of the space was open.
The artist saw everything along with the government agents. They all saw the same things, but what he saw was marked inside him.
The two men stood in the center of the living area, courteously waiting to be told where to sit.
Gianni nodded toward a couch and chose a straight chair for himself. The agents sat down side by side. They were big men and their bulk made the oversize sectional couch appear small.
“We just need a few questions answered,” said the one named Jackson, a balding, smooth-faced man with blank eyes. He sat with the attache case on his lap and was evidently the senior agent of the two. “Then we’ll get out of here and let you go to bed.”
“Questions about what?”
“They concern an old friend of yours.”
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