Circle of death, p.1
Circle of Death, page 1
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2023 by James Patterson
In association with Conde Nast and Neil McGinness
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First Edition: July 2023
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ISBNs 9781538711101 (trade paperback) / 9781538743249 (large-print edition) / 9781538711132 (ebook edition)
LCCN is available at the Library of Congress.
E3-20230429-JV-NF-ORI
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
New York City: 2088
One
Two
Three
Four
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
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Epilogue
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NEW YORK CITY
2088
ONE
I’M TELLING THE story like it happened just last night. That’s how it feels to me. Even with the distance of all these years, parts of it still seem incredible. But it was totally real. All of it.
It was early 1933. New York City was being menaced by an army of bloodsucking killers. I know it sounds strange when I say it out loud, but that’s the only way to describe what was going on. They weren’t vampires or zombies. Nothing supernatural. They were poverty-stricken young men under the control of a demented doctor. Rodil Mocquino was his name. This guy had taken medical hypnosis to a criminal level. He’d gotten to the point where he could turn ordinary men into murderers, and make them kill on command.
The killers only moved by night, which made them even more horrifying, and they traveled in a pack, which made them even more dangerous. Some people thought they had super-human strength or magical abilities, but it was really just mindless stamina. Nothing could stop them. If you saw the gang from a distance, you had a chance to escape. Maybe. But once they got close, you were dead. Simple as that.
A few years after, somebody wrote a novel about Mocquino and his killers. It was called The Voodoo Master. It was really popular at the time—a bestseller—but they got a lot of stuff wrong. I should know. After all, I’m the real Lamont Cranston, which makes me the real Shadow. And I lived it.
Here’s the real story.
I was living uptown. Like most nights, my girlfriend, Margo Lane, was staying over. She was my business partner, my confidant, and the person I loved and trusted more than anybody else in the world. Margo was smart and levelheaded. She thought I sometimes went off half-cocked. And she was right. I didn’t always think things through.
We’d both been hearing and reading about the maniacal bloodsuckers for weeks, and the NYPD seemed to be powerless against them. The whole city was paralyzed with fear, and the killings just wouldn’t stop.
I knew it was time for the Shadow to go into action. I had to find these bloodsuckers and end them once and for all. If not me, who? When I heard a report of another killing, I decided to do it. That night. By myself.
Margo and I had a fight about it. She thought I was being reckless again. But pretty soon she realized she couldn’t talk me out of going. She hugged me at the door. “Be careful,” she said. “I’ll be waiting up for you.”
“In that case,” I said, “I’ll be extra careful.” I kissed her good-bye and headed out into the dark alone. I was trying to keep it light with Margo. I hoped I’d be back.
But I knew it wasn’t a sure thing.
TWO
THE MOST RECENT victims had been found in a park on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. So why was I heading downtown? Pure instinct. People used to say “The Shadow knows,” and sometimes I actually did. At least I made some educated guesses.
I figured that an army of bloodsuckers would need a place to hide and regroup. So I headed for a part of the city with a lot of big, empty buildings.
The waterfront.
In that era, the Lower West Side of Manhattan was filled with docks and warehouses. That’s where the big White Star ocean liners came in, and where cargo ships loaded and unloaded. Depending on the season, warehouses would fill up and then go empty. Sometimes companies went bust and spaces would stay vacant for months. Even in normal times, the waterfront was a rough area. Nobody in their right mind would go down there at night. But like I said, I had problems with impulse control.
I was invisible now. At that point in my life, it was the only super power I had. When I reached the waterfront, I crept along the row of warehouses, trying not to step on a loose plank or a wharf rat. At the end of the row, I saw a huge warehouse with its loading bay partway open. There was a glow from inside, like the flicker from a wood-fired stove. And I could see shapes moving against the back wall. Maybe dock workers on the night shift, I thought at first. But my gut told me it was something else. A chill shot right through me.
As I got closer to the open door, the smell hit me. It was the smell of unwashed humans. Musty. Sour. Sickening. I stepped into the open doorway, and there they were—cadaverous, dull-eyed bloodsuckers. Dozens of them! Some were slouched against the wall; others were lying on the floor in some kind of stupor. Their clothes were tattered, and stained with patches of dried blood.
I was pretty good with my fists, but against those odds, I knew that starting a fight would be suicide. For a
So I decided to turn myself into bait.
I made myself visible.
The second I rematerialized, the bloodsuckers rose up and started to come for me. They made low, guttural howls—a sound I’ll never forget. I backed out of the doorway and ran. I figured that would trigger some primal pursuit response, and it did. As I headed for the docks, I looked over my shoulder. They came as a pack, lumbering like animals. Their eyes were fixed on me, like I was their favorite prey. So far, so good. My pulse was racing. My plan was working.
I stepped onto one of the main piers. It stretched for two hundred yards into the Hudson River. The pack followed. As long as I held the attention of the few at the head of the crowd, the rest kept following. That was the way they’d been trained—or programmed. They moved like a single organism.
I started running toward the end of the pier, faster and faster. I could hear footsteps pounding on the planks behind me. When I ran out of pier, I did a brave or stupid thing.
I dove off.
As soon as I hit the black water, I doubled back and slipped underneath the pier. I grabbed a piling and watched as the bloodsuckers tumbled off the end. They sank like weighted sacks. I figured they’d be too dazed or demented to swim. A few bubbles rose up. I saw thrashing underneath. Then the water was still. Thank God! My Pied Piper act had worked.
I climbed back onto the dock. I was soaked and exhausted, but relieved. It was over.
Then I heard splashing.
THREE
I LOOKED BACK toward the river. The water was frothing. An arm stretched out from underneath. Then another. And another! As I watched, the damned bloodsuckers rose up, spitting out water and crawling over one another to get back to the dock. They swarmed up the pilings and grabbed the thick metal cleats.
I needed a new plan. Fast.
I ran back toward the warehouses and then took off through the downtown streets. When I reached the 14th Street subway station, I headed down the steps. The station below was empty. I turned around. The filthy, dripping bloodsuckers were coming down the stairs, crowding onto the platform, pressing me toward the edge.
I backed up until my heels were overhanging the lip. Then I turned and jumped down onto the tracks. I ran into the dark tunnel that led out of the station. The mob jumped onto the tracks and came after me. I planted my feet in the middle of a wooden railroad tie between the two main rails. I could hear the howls echoing against the tile. In the tight space, the odor of all those wet bodies hit me like a wave. I grabbed a long metal bar from a service alcove. The creatures surged toward me in a single mass, ready to engulf me. At the last second, I threw the bar like a spear. Not at the mob. At the third rail.
The one carrying six hundred volts of electricity.
The charge ran up the metal bar and jumped to the soaking bloodsuckers, one after the other. I threw myself against the tunnel wall. I could hear the bodies sizzle and explode behind me. When I looked up, I saw blood and brains all over the tunnel.
I climbed out and staggered up the stairs to 14th Street. I walked back uptown, tired and numb. I remember trying to get the howls and the smells and the gore out of my head. I didn’t get home until two in the morning, and I could barely make it up the stairs.
When I walked into the bedroom, Margo was waiting.
Just like she promised.
FOUR
AS I WRAP up my story, Maddy gives me a slow clap. Maddy is nineteen—my youngest living descendant. She’s sitting on the floor in front of me. To be honest, I expected a little more excitement.
“Pretty good,” she says. “I liked the parts with Margo.”
“What about the rest?” I ask. “What about me?”
“To be honest,” says Maddy, “I actually preferred the book. It seemed more believable.”
Now I’m really getting annoyed. This used to happen all the time. Fans fell in love with the books and radio shows about the Shadow. But they weren’t the real thing. Not even close! Maddy, of all people, should know that by now.
“But the book is not how it happened,” I tell her. “I was there! I’m the Shadow, remember—the real one. Not a character some writers made up!”
Maddy’s clearly not impressed. She shrugs. “Maybe they just told it better.”
CHAPTER 1
MADDY’S A LOT more excited this morning. That’s because I’m making my famous banana-nut pancakes. They’re a family favorite. And the whole family is here. Maddy and my wife Margo are already sitting at the kitchen table with Maddy’s grandmother Jessica, who raised her from a baby. Bando, our Scottish terrier, is crouched at my feet, sniffing the air and pawing my leg. He can’t wait for his portion.
“That smells so good!” says Maddy. “I’m drooling over here!”
“Be patient,” says Margo. “Perfection can’t be rushed.”
“Remember,” says Jessica, “extra nuts in mine.”
I’m watching the circles of batter in the hot skillet, waiting for the bubbles to break through the surface, watching for the perfect moment to flip. Patience is key. And Margo is right. It’s not my strong suit.
The morning sun is pouring through the windows behind me. The air is filled with the aromas of fresh coffee and sizzling butter and warm bananas. I’m thinking how much I love this room, this house, these people.
We’re all living in the mansion I built in the 1930s—back when I started my career as an investigator in New York. Before Margo and I even met. It was a big house for a bachelor, but I had the money and I liked living in style. And maybe, deep down, I knew that someday I’d be filling this place with a family. I just didn’t know it would take more than a century.
Now! The bubbles are popping. I angle my spatula and flip the pancakes one by one. I turn to see the light streaming into the kitchen. Why waste this great weather? I nod to Maddy. “Let’s have breakfast on the terrace, okay?”
Maddy grumbles a bit as she picks up the plates and flatware and carries them outside. She’s very mature in some ways, but she’s also a typical teenager. Cheery one second, grumpy the next.
I think about the changes this house has been through since I built it. About all those years it sat empty after Margo and I nearly died. About those long decades when we were both held in suspended animation—until Maddy found us and brought us back to life. By then the house was in the hands of a world dictator—who turned out to be my old enemy Shiwan Khan. Very dark days.
Khan almost killed us all, right here in this house. My house! But we managed to defeat him. Me and Maddy. The girl who turned out to be my great-great-great-great-granddaughter. The girl with powers of her own—powers she’s still trying to figure out.
“Hey, chef! Watch the flapjacks!” It’s Jessica calling from the terrace.
Dammit! The griddle is starting to smoke. I flip the pancakes just in time. A little dark on top, but still presentable. I really need to focus when I cook. When the pancakes are done on the other side, I grab a pair of oven mitts and carry the whole plateful out to the terrace.
I have to say, even slightly overdone, my pancakes are world-class. I toss one to Bando. He catches it in midair and gobbles it down. The rest of us dig in.
It’s a beautiful morning, and a beautiful setting. The terrace overlooks the garden, our own private paradise. Just beyond the bushes and flowers, I can see the bustle of pedestrians and vehicles on Fifth Avenue.
After years of living under Khan’s repression, the city is trying to get back to normal. People are starting to trust each other again, instead of worrying about getting rounded up in random police raids or getting murdered en masse, like Khan was planning.
I admit I feel a little guilty living in a thirty-two-room house while so many people are still struggling. I actually resisted moving back here. I thought it might make us too visible to the wrong people. It was Margo who convinced me. She said I’d earned it. I decided she was right. Besides, this isn’t just my home. It’s my headquarters. And I need it now more than ever.
Maddy pours a river of syrup over her second helping of pancakes. “Not your best,” she says, spearing into her stack with a fork. “But still great.”
I don’t want to spoil the mood by telling the family what I know—what I’ve learned about the evil brewing on the other side of the globe. First, I need to be sure things are ready on the home front.
