Weather had a private room, and when Lucas walked in, she was on her feet, in a hospital gown, digging into a lockerlike closet for her clothes. Her face was intent, hurried.
“Weather . . .”
She jumped, turned, saw him and her face softened: “Oh, God, Lucas.” She reached toward him.
“How are you?” He wrapped her up in his arms and her feet came off the floor.
“If you don’t smother me, I’ll probably be okay,” she gasped.
He put her down. “Probably?”
“Well, when they had me sedated, they talked me into this ridiculous hospital gown.” She pulled it out to the side, as if she were about to curtsy. “Every doc I know has been down to check on me, and every one has taken a good look at my ass.”
“Just like you: bringing light into people’s lives.”
“I gotta get out of this gown,” she said, digging into the locker again. “Shut the door.”
Lucas shut the door, and as she tossed the balled-up gown on the bed, he said, “Really now—don’t bullshit me. How are you?”
She was pulling on a blouse, and stopped, suddenly, as her hands came through the cuffs. “I’m sorta . . . messed up, I think. It’s the weirdest thing.” She rubbed her temple, looking up at him. Then her eyes drifted away, focused in the middle distance past his shoulder. “I’ll be going along, thinking about something else, and then all of a sudden, there I am again, back in the hall with this man and you’re standing there and then . . .”
She shuddered.
“Don’t think about it,” Lucas said.
“I’m not thinking about it. I refuse to think about it. But it’s like . . . like somebody else holds up a picture of it, right in front of my eyes. It just comes, boom!” she said.
“Post-traumatic stress,” he said.
“That’s what I think,” she said. “But in some way, I never really believed in it until now. It’s like people who had it were . . . weaklings, or something.”
“It’ll go away,” he repeated. “There in the hall—I didn’t know what was happening with you and LaChaise, I couldn’t take any chances, there wasn’t any way to really know.”
“I worked that out,” she said. “And God, the whole thing was my fault. What was I doing here? When he came in the OR, I thought I was dead. I thought he’d kill me right there, and all my friends, the people with me. I felt so stupid . . .”
“You can’t anticipate lunatics,” Lucas said. “None of this made any sense.”
Weather was rambling on: “Then he made the fatal error. I didn’t see it, because we were talking so . . . normally. But I see it now: he’d maneuvered himself, by what he’d done, the way he was acting, into a spot where all the solutions were drastic and narrow. Thinking about it, I’m not sure he would have surrendered. At the time I thought he would: No, I was sure of it. But now, I’m not sure. When we were talking, he’d keep changing his mind, like . . . like . . .”
“A child,” Lucas said.
“Yes . . . Well, not quite. Like a crazy child,” she said.
She was staring out the window when she said that, looking down at the trees along the Mississippi, when suddenly she focused again, and turned to look up at him. “What about you?” she asked. “We heard about the policeman, that he was killed and you were there . . . are you all right?”
“Oh, yeah, I’m fine.” He stood back from her, holding on to her shoulders but at arm’s length, looking her over. She seemed so bright, so focused, so normal, so all right, that he suddenly laughed.
“What?” she asked, trying on a smile.
“Nothing,” he said. He wrapped her up again, and her feet came off the floor again. “Everything. Especially the way that gown showed your ass off.”
“Lucas . . .”
SECRET
PREY
JOHN SANDFORD
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
SECRET PREY
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1998 by John Sandford.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
http://www.penguinputnam.com
ISBN: 1-101-14618-4
BERKLEY©
Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
A division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
Berkley and the “B” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
First edition (electronic): June 2001
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
PRAISE FOR
JOHN SANDFORD AND SECRET PREY
‘‘How good is Secret Prey ? Well, when I get the time, I intend to take a look at Rules of Prey —the first in the Lucas Davenport series.’’
—USA Today
‘‘Satisfying.’’
—San Francisco Examiner
‘‘Sandford is back in top form.’’
—Associated Press
‘‘With further explorations into Davenport’s psyche, and the creation of a truly memorable villain, Sandford has fashioned a topnotch whodunit/thriller.’’
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
‘‘Explosive . . . Inventive and daring . . . No one who starts this novel will be able to put it down . . . Another winner from Sandford.’’
— The Daily Sun (GA)
‘‘Sandford keeps all of his plots and subplots humming along in apparent effortless harmony.’’
— Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
‘‘Events from earlier Prey novels weave intriguingly through this one, inviting the reader to plunge into the entire series. Not a bad idea.’’
— Kirkus Reviews
‘‘A sparkling mystery . . . Sandford writes at the top of his game.’’
— Lexington Herald-Leader
‘‘Exciting . . . His best work to date. The hero is drawn to perfection . . . This book has heart, action, and moxie.’’
— Without a Clue
‘‘Nicely done . . . Sandford keeps it fresh.’’
— St. Paul (MN) Pioneer Press
‘‘The best Prey in some years . . . Davenport continues to develop: tougher, coarser, and more vulnerable.’’
— San Antonio Express News
‘‘Sandford has allowed his character to change and improve . . . without sacrificing any of the action and thrills.’’
— Orlando Sentinel
RULES OF P REY
Sandford’s smash bestselling debut
—introducing
Lucas Davenport . . .
‘‘Sleek and nasty . . . it’s a big, scary, suspenseful read, and I loved every minute of it.’’
—Stephen King
‘‘A haunting, unforgettable, ice-blooded thriller.’’
—Carl Hiaasen
SHADOW PREY
Lucas Davenport goes on a city-to-city search for
a bizarre ritualistic killer . . .
‘‘When it comes to portraying twisted minds, Sandford has no peers.’’
—Associated Press
‘‘Ice-pick chills . . . excruciatingly tense . . . a doublepumped roundhouse of a thriller.’’
— Kirkus Reviews
EYES OF PREY
Davenport risks his sanity to stalk the most brilliant and dangerous man he has ever known, a doctor named
Michael Bekker . . .
‘‘Relentlessly swift. Genuinely suspenseful . . . excellent.’’
— Los Angeles Times
‘‘Engrossing . . . oneof the most horrible villains this side of Hannibal the Cannibal.’’
— Richmond Times-Dispatch
SILENT PREY
Michael Bekker, a psychopath Davenport captured in Eyes of Prey, escapes . . .
‘‘Sleek and nasty . . . superb!’’
— St. Paul Pioneer Press
‘‘ Silent Prey terrifies . . . just right for fans of The Silence of the Lambs .’’
— Booklist
WINTER PREY
In the icy woods of rural Wisconsin, Davenport searches for a brutal killer known as the Iceman . . .
‘‘Vastly entertaining . . . a furious climactic chase . . . One of the best Preys yet.’’
— Kirkus Reviews
‘‘An intense thriller with an unlikely killer.’’
—Playboy
NIGHT PREY
Davenport faces a master thief who becomes obsessed with a
beautiful woman—then carves her initials into his victims . . .
‘‘One of the most engaging characters in contemporary fiction.’’
—Detroit News
‘‘ Night Prey sizzles . . . positively chilling.’’
—St. Petersburg Times
MIND PREY
Lucas Davenport tracks a vicious kidnapper who knows more about mind games than Lucas himself . . .
‘‘His seventh, and best, outing in the acclaimed Prey suspense series.’’
—People
‘‘Grip-you-by-the-throat thrills . . . impossible to put down.’’
—Houston Chronicle
SUDDEN PREY
Davenport falls prey to the purest, simplest criminal motivation: revenge . . .
‘‘The story will clamp down like a bear trap on all who open its covers.’’
—Publishers Weekly
‘‘Unquestionably the best [ Prey ] yet, a tale of perverse revenge that strikes very close to home.’’
—Cleveland Plain Dealer
THE NIGHT CREW
A People magazine ‘‘Page-Turner’’
A mobile unit of video freelancers, they prowl the midnight streets for news to sell to the highest network bidder.
Murders. Robberies. High-speed chases. For them, it is an exhilarating life. But tonight, two deaths will change everything . . .
‘‘This is fresh ground for Sandford.’’
—Chicago Tribune
‘‘With its pulse-quickening plot and attractive heroine, you’ll be hooked to the finish.’’
—People
‘‘This is riveting, intense crime fiction . . . lean-andmean . . . Perfect for the high-tech ’90s, replete with bursts of black prose that zap the reader like quick video cuts.’’
—Cedar Rapids Gazette
And don’t miss John Sandford’s thrilling novels of stings and swindles . . .
THE EMPRESS FILE
Kidd and LuEllen are a pair of lovers and liars plotting the ultimate scam . . . until everything goes wrong . . .
‘‘Alfred Hitchcock would have been delighted.’’
—Philadelphia Inquirer
‘‘The imaginative con scheme is clever . . . but the biggest thrills occur when events don’t go as planned.’’
—Library Journal
THE FOOL’S RUN
Kidd and LuEllen return for a killer con in the high-tech world of industrial espionage . . .
‘‘A gripping, ultramodern novel . . . fast-paced and suspenseful.’’
—Chicago Tribune
‘‘Fast-paced action, high-intellect puzzle-solving, dandy characters . . . if you start guessing outcomes, you are fooled.’’
—Minneapolis Star & Tribune
‘‘Sandford is one of the most skilled thriller writers at work in this country or any other.’’
—Richmond Times Dispatch
Berkley Books by John Sandford
RULES OF PREY
SHADOW PREY
EYES OF PREY
SILENT PREY
WINTER PREY
NIGHT PREY
MIND PREY
SUDDEN PREY
THE NIGHT CREW
THE EMPRESS FILE
THE FOOL’S RUN
SECRET PREY
CERTAIN PREY
SECRET
PREY
ONE
THE CHAIRMAN OF THE BOARD PULLED THE DOOR shut behind him, stacked his rifle against the log-sided cabin, and walked down to the end of the porch. The light from the kitchen window punched out into the earlymorning darkness and the utter silence of the woods. Two weeks of nightly frost had killed the insects and had driven the amphibians into hibernation: for a few seconds, he was alone.
Then the chairman yawned and unzipped his bib overalls, unbuttoned his pants, shuffled his feet, the porch boards creaking under his insulated hunting boots. Nothing like a good leak to start the day, he thought. As he leaned over the low porch rail, he heard the door opening behind him. He paid no attention.
Three men and a woman filed out of the house, pretended not to notice him.
‘‘Need some snow,’’ the woman said, peering into the dark. Susan O’Dell was a slender forty, with a tanned, dry face, steady brown eyes, and smile lines around her mouth. A headlamp was strapped around her blaze-orange stocking cap, but she hadn’t yet switched it on. She wore a blazeorange Browning parka, snowmobile pants, and carried a backpack and a Remington .308 mountain rifle with a Leupold Vari-X III scope. Not visible was the rifle’s custom trigger job. The trigger would break at exactly two and a half pounds.
‘‘Cold sonofabitch, though,’’ said Wilson McDonald, as he slipped one heavy arm through his gun sling. McDonald was a large man, and much too heavy: in his hunting suit he looked like a blaze-orange Pillsbury Doughboy. He carried an aging .30–06 with open sights, bought in the thirties at Abercrombie & Fitch in New York. At forty-two, he believed in a certain kind of tradition—his summer car, a racing-green XK-E, was handed down from his father; his rifle came from his grandfather; and his spot in the country club from his great-grandfather. He would defend the Jaguar against far better cars; the .30–06 against more modern rifles, and the club against parvenus, hirelings, and of course, blacks and Jews.
‘‘You all ready?’’ asked the chairman of the board, as he came back toward them, buttoning his pants. He was a fleshy, red-faced man, the oldest of the group, with a thick shock of white hair and caterpillar-sized eyebrows. As he got closer to the others, he could smell the odor of pancakes and coffee still steaming off them. ‘‘I don’t want anybody stumbling around in the goddamn woods just when it’s getting good.’’
They all nodded: they’d all been here before.
‘‘Getting late,’’ said O’Dell. She wore the parka hood down, and the parka itself was still unzipped; but she’d wrapped a red and white kaffiyeh around her neck and chin. Purchased on a whim in the Old City of Jerusalem, and meant to protect an Arab from the desert sun, it was now protecting a third-generati
on Irishwoman from the Minnesota cold. ‘‘We better get out there and get settled.’’
Five forty-five in the morning, opening day of deer season. O’Dell led the way off the porch, the chairman of the board at her shoulder, the other three men trailing behind.
Terrance Robles was the youngest of them, still in his mid-thirties. He was a blocky man with thick, blackrimmed glasses and a thin, curly beard. His watery blue eyes showed a nervous flash, and he laughed too often, a shallow, uncertain chuckle. He carried a stainless Sako .270, mounted with a satin-finished Nikon scope. Robles had little regard for tradition: everything he hunted with was new technology.
James T. Bone might have been Susan O’Dell’s brother: forty, as she was, Bone was slim, tanned, and dark-eyed, his face showing a hint of humor in a surface that was hard as a nut. He brought up the rear with a .243 Mauser Model 66 cradled in his bent left arm.
Four of the five—the chairman of the board, Robles, O’Dell, and Bone—were serious hunters.
The chairman’s father had been a country banker. They’d had a nice rambling stone-and-redwood home on Blueberry Lake south of Itasca, and his father had been big in Rotary and the Legion. The deer hunt was an annual ritual: the chairman of the board had hung twenty-plus bucks in his forty-six years: real men didn’t kill does.
Robles had come to hunting as an adult, joining an elk hunt as a thirtieth-birthday goof, only to be overwhelmed by its emotional power. For the past five years he’d hunted a half-dozen times annually, from Alaska to New Zealand.
O’Dell was a rancher’s daughter. Her father owned twenty miles of South Dakota just east of the Wyoming line, and she’d joined the annual antelope hunt when she was eight. During her college years at Smith, when the other girls had gone to Ivy League football games with their beaux, she’d flown home for the shooting.
Bone was from Mississippi. He’d learned to hunt as a child, because he wanted to eat. Once, when he was nine, he’d made soup for himself and his mother out of three carefully shot blackbirds.
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