Kill Again
Page 1
Highest Praise for the Thrillers of NEAL BAER and JONATHAN GREENE
Kill Again
“A stunning read. Neal Baer (executive producer of Under the Dome) and Jonathan Greene (former executive producer of Law & Order: SVU) teamed up to create this amazing sequel to Kill Switch, which may be even better. A thriller filled with many twists, characters, and puzzles that will keep readers guessing, this book is so entertaining that you should think twice about using it for a bedtime read. Stay in the well-lit living room for this one . . . That way you won’t have to check under the bed.”—Suspense Magazine
Kill Switch
“A psychological thriller of the first order.”
—David Baldacci
“A prime-time thriller . . . suspense on the order of Silence of the Lambs.”—Denver Post
“Masterful, unforgettable, gripping.”
—Douglas Preston
“Fans of high-octane, intricate thrillers will welcome TV producers Baer and Greene’s fiction debut . . . delivered with skill.”
—Publishers Weekly
“An absolute winner—a nonstop thrill ride.”
—Michael Palmer
“A startling, intense suspense novel . . . will have readers staying up at night—with the light on—to see how this one turns out. . . . Readers may just have found the next Preston & Child team!”
—Suspense Magazine
“Riveting and rich with character.”
—Gayle Lynds
“An exciting police procedural, fast-paced and filled with twists.”
—The Mystery Gazette
“A must-read.”
—Mariska Hargitay
“Fans of psychological thrillers will look forward to more adventures with Claire Waters.”
—Library Journal
“Amazing twists and turns will keep you on the edge of your seat.”
—Ice-T
“A brilliant young forensic psychiatrist tries to outwit a serial killer.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“A fast-paced, gritty thriller from two great story tellers.”
—Christopher Meloni
“Baer and Greene were producers on Law & Order SVU, which shows in this book’s tight plotting and carefully built suspense.”
—Romantic Times Book Reviews
“An extremely impressive debut . . . keeps the reader engrossed and guessing.”
—Bookreporter.com
“Deadly risk, a suspenseful conclusion . . . characters and dialogue ring true.”
—Booklist
KILL AGAIN
NEAL BAER AND JONATHAN GREENE
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2015 by Neal Baer and Jonathan Greene
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotions, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use. Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Ken - sington sales manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018, attn: Sales Department; phone 1-800- 221-2647.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-2757-6
ISBN-10: 0-7860-2757-6
First Kensington hardcover printing: July 2015
First Pinnacle mass market printing: December 2016
First Pinnacle electronic edition: December 2016
ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4068-1
ISBN-10: 0-7860-4068-8
Table of Contents
Praise For
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
PROLOGUE
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
Kill Switch Teaser
About the Authors
For Alan Downs and Marc Levitt, who listen.
To the next generation: Mara, Josh, Zach, Matt, Jacob, Shayna,
Noah, Sophie, Adin, Michael and Matthew.
PROLOGUE
He’d chosen the studio apartment not only for its location in the basement of a brownstone, but also for its own private entrance from the sidewalk, away from prying eyes. The apartment was shaped like a perfect square—a large, starkly furnished, windowless room. If you happened to enter, the first thing you’d see was the white-framed Ikea bed wedged into one corner against the rear and left-hand walls, situated such that he’d need only to turn his head to see the front door. Hugging the bed’s headboard sat an unstained pine dresser, drawers facing the right-hand wall. At first glance, perhaps it would appear a feeble attempt at feng shui. But he had no interest in such folly.
Walk a bit further in and, across the room and opposite the bed to your right, you’d see the small porcelain sink and two-burner gas stove that passed for the kitchen. You might also notice the place was spotless, as if he sprayed, rinsed, and wiped clean every inch daily. In the bathroom, the toilet gleamed like he scrubbed it after each use. Gone was the original antique claw-foot tub the brownstone’s builder originally had installed; in its place stood a cookie-cutter fiberglass bathtub/shower unit. To the tenant, the presence of this . . . thing . . . in such a place reeked of a rush job by a miserly charlatan, a glaring imperfection in what was otherwise the perfect place for his needs. But right now, it was just one more sin committed by one more sinner in a world filled with too many of both.
Beside the bathroom stood the door to the apartment’s lone closet, which, if you opened it, would appear as modest as that in most prewar buildings. Each article of clothing hung from the same type of light-wood hanger, each hanger evenly spaced from the next. The tenant’s wardrobe consisted of crisply pressed white oxford shirts, khaki pants, and one black suit. You might guess the occupant as someone who coveted simplicity, who didn’t want the added pressure of deciding what to wear every day. Who didn’t care about worldly possessions or creature comforts.
And you’d be correct. Because what interested him—and at times drove him mad—were the thoughts running through his mind.
He took the apartment under the condition that the landlord never enter without a day’s advance notice. He actually insisted it be written into the lease, which of course made the landlord instantly suspicious—until his prospective tenant handed over three months’ rent and two months’ securi
ty without blinking an eye. Which brought the landlord’s immediate signature on the document and ensured that the tenant’s clause protecting him from prying, unwelcome eyes would be respected.
He was counting on it. He had to. After all, who would possibly comprehend a grown man writing words on his wall? The cops found words written on the walls of the apartment of David Berkowitz, the notorious Son of Sam serial killer—and they didn’t understand.
No cop would ever see his writings. At least, not while he was alive. Of that he was certain. He swore to himself he would protect this, his creation, at all costs. Even if it meant painting over it.
Now, alone in his sanctuary, he finished the latest addition to his work, taking a sniff of the black Magic Marker before capping it. He loved the intoxicating smell. He’d collected Magic Markers as a child, and had one of each color: brown, blue, red, orange, purple, green—even yellow. The yellow one was his prize. He never saw anyone use a yellow Magic Marker. Then one day, when he was twelve, his mother threw them out because he’d drawn “nasty, sick, perverted” pictures on his bedroom wall. He smiled, remembering. He used the yellow marker for their private parts. His mother painted over the pictures of the women he’d drawn because Magic Marker can never be washed off.
It’s permanent, he thought, stepping back to admire what he’d done. He added two words, fictions chaperone, to the dozens of pairs of words already written, neatly, one pair above the next, on one wall. He smiled, looking at infections poacher, octopi enfranchise , and Pinocchio fastener at the top of the list. Though the combinations of words would’ve appeared nonsensical to others, they calmed him because only he knew what they meant.
They did make sense, didn’t they? It was the alphabet itself that made no sense. It was just a long train of letters, waiting to be made into words and sentences and thoughts. Individual letters could be coupled, with more letters added like a delicious recipe, to make words. He loved to cook too, to add assorted ingredients together to make a savory stew or a delicately crusted pie. Just like the letters of the alphabet, the ingredients alone weren’t satisfying. But the right combinations of letters or ingredients brought order to the chaos of his life. The words on his wall and the cinnamon aroma of the apple pie he had baked earlier in the day eased his mind, bringing even more perfection to an emerging, flawless world of his own making.
Order. Perfection. Flawlessness. He mused on these words, as he often did, because they were exactly what he strived to find in the randomness of his own life, and they had always, for one reason or another, eluded him.
Until now.
He grabbed his favorite yellow Magic Marker and wrote two words atop the other pairs, outlining the letters in brown so that they almost sparkled like gold in the glint of the one bare bulb that lit the room: GATHER STAMINA. Those words meant more to him than just a motto; they were his mantra. They represented who he was. Who he wanted to be. His very being. And only he knew why.
He turned to the wall to the left. Again, he admired his work: a grid of fifteen neatly drawn boxes running across and down. To anyone else, it would look like an empty crossword puzzle. Using a ruler, he neatly finished the final box, in black Magic Marker, in the lower right-hand corner. He’d waited for this day longer than he realized. When the grid was full of those random letters, finally ordered into words, it would be his masterpiece. His life’s work, completed. And with those last strokes of the Magic Marker, he knew it was time to begin.
He walked across the room to his small kitchen and picked up a manila envelope he’d left on the stove. He turned on the gas burner, watching the blue and yellow flame dance before him, luring him. He opened the envelope and poured its contents into his hand—perfectly cut up half-inch squares from a photograph—which he dropped over the flame. The fire licked the pieces, an eye, an upper lip, a nose, consuming them until all that remained was a small pile of gray ash.
Satisfied, he turned off the burner and removed two large pots from a lower cabinet. Then, from a drawer, he took a rolled-up piece of cloth, from which the handles of knives, a cleaver, and shears protruded like spires. From his closet’s top shelf, he removed a sleeping bag, small canvas tent, and deflated air mattress, all neatly folded. He’d always loved the outdoors, and tonight he would sleep under the stars.
After he had finished what he was compelled to do. Which he knew, beyond any doubt, would relieve the unbearable anxiety he’d felt all his life.
At least for now.
CHAPTER 1
Claire Waters sat bolt upright in bed, one hand covering her mouth to muffle the scream that otherwise would have escaped, the other hand throwing aside the sky blue comforter covering her. Claire loved this time of year in New York City: early May, still cool at night in these minutes before sunrise. If you could tune out the perpetual noise from the street below in the City That Never Sleeps, it was perfect sleeping weather with the open window, at least for her.
As far back as she could remember, even in the frigid winters of her childhood home upstate in Rochester, Claire had always preferred a cold night’s rest and could never sleep in a warm room, which for her was anything over sixty-five degrees. After all, she reasoned, you could always pile on more blankets (which she relished) when it was cold. You couldn’t rip off your skin if it was too hot.
Right now, Claire wanted to rip off her skin. She was sweating profusely, and not because of the temperature. Her nightmares were becoming more frequent. And this one—a man in the shadows, holding a small knife and lunging at Claire just as she woke up—was the most vivid yet.
She tried to shake off the anxiety but her pounding heart wouldn’t cooperate. She reached for the drawer in the night table beside her bed and the bottle of Xanax she kept there, but changed her mind, realizing that a quick fix wouldn’t make the churning in her stomach go away. When it came back tomorrow night, and the night after, and the night after that, what then? Pop Xanax until it went away? The last thing she needed right now was to become dependent on benzodiazepines, among the most addicting substances on the planet. The nightmares were hellish, but benzo withdrawal could kill you. Literally.
As the anxiety lingered, she tried to count how many consecutive days she’d relied on the drug after one of these nightmares. When she lost count, she realized she’d already been on it too long. Had she counseled a patient to use it as she’d been doing, she’d lose not just her board certification as a forensic psychiatrist but likely her license to practice medicine as well.
Physician, heal thyself. Yeah, right. Whoever wrote the Bible had never tried benzos.
Claire realized she needed to follow the advice she’d give her patients.
She had to talk about it.
She had to feel it.
But all Claire could feel was emptiness.
Feeling is still too painful, she thought. And then came the thought that always followed: she’d suffered enough emotional pain to fill several lifetimes.
So she did what she’d always done when her emotions overtook her brain: shut them down.
She grabbed her iPod, put in the ear buds, and blasted Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven” as loud as she could stand. Music had always been Claire’s therapy, especially through the worst times, of which she’d had more than her fair share in the past year.
She felt the soft guitar melody begin to ease her tension, a drug of its own. As a research scientist, she knew that buried in her own brain, in the amygdala, the most primitive neural structure, was a switch that reacted to danger. When she began swirling into the abyss, her amygdala, her own neural makeup, sensed a mortal threat. But what? She’d had the nightmares since she was a child. They’d gone away three months after the horror of last year. And, though she’d made steady progress since then, they’d suddenly returned two weeks earlier. Why had they come back?
She turned to look at the clock on her nightstand. 5:29 a.m. Perfect. She set the alarm every night as a precaution, but never had to shut it off; she’d
always woken minutes before it sounded. Even the mornings after those seemingly endless thirty-hour shifts as an intern and resident, when she’d come home and collapse into bed, sleep deprived, her only desire was to nod off and escape from the world.
Now, she threw her legs over the side of the mattress, turned off her iPod, removed the ear buds, and flipped on the light. The boxy dresser, nightstands, and headboard for the queen-sized bed were all made of beige wood and laminate, bought from one of those generic stores where you can pick furniture for every room of your apartment and have a completely furnished place the next day. She took in her surroundings: the parquet floors, rectangular, ordinary bedroom in a standard, stark, cookie-cutter, one-bedroom box on the twenty-eighth floor of a contemporary glass tower. About as nondescript as one could get in Manhattan.
Perhaps as nondescript as Claire wanted to be right now.
She looked at the framed photo of Ian, her fiancé, the image she woke to every morning, on the nightstand behind her clock. The apartment they’d shared had been cozily furnished with antiques and memorabilia, most of which Claire had sold or given away.
“Can you believe I actually live in a place like this?” Claire said to the photo.