Highest Praise for
John Lutz
“John Lutz knows how to make you shiver.”
—Harlan Coben
“Lutz offers up a heart-pounding roller coaster of a tale.”
—Jeffery Deaver
“John Lutz is one of the masters of the police novel.”
—Ridley Pearson
“John Lutz is a major talent.”
—John Lescroart
“I’ve been a fan for years.”
—T. Jefferson Parker
“John Lutz just keeps getting better and better.”
—Tony Hillerman
“Lutz ranks with such vintage masters
of big-city murder
as Lawrence Block and Ed McBain.”
—St. Louis Post-Dispatch
“Lutz is among the best.”
—San Diego Union
“Lutz knows how to seize and hold the
reader’s imagination.”
—Cleveland Plain Dealer
“It’s easy to see why he’s won an Edgar
and two Shamuses.”
—Publishers Weekly
Twist
“One of the top ten mystery novels of 2013.”
—The Strand Magazine
Pulse
“Grisly murders seen through the eyes of killer
and victim; crime scenes from which clues slowly
accumulate; a determined killer . . . compelling.”
—Booklist
“One of the ten best books of the year.”
—The Strand Magazine
Serial
“Wow, oh wow, oh wow . . . that’s as simple as I can
put it. You gotta read this one.”
—True Crime Book Reviews
Mister X
“A page-turner to the nail-biting end . . . twisty,
creepy whodunit.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
Night Kills
“Lutz’s skill will keep you glued to this thick thriller.”
—St. Louis Post-Dispatch
Urge to Kill
“A solid and compelling winner . . . sharp
characterization, compelling dialogue and graphic
depictions of evil.... Lutz knows how to keep
the pages turning.”
—BookReporter.com
In for the Kill
“Shamus and Edgar award – winner Lutz gives us
further proof of his enormous talent . . . an
enthralling page-turner.”
—Publishers Weekly
Chill of Night
“The ingenuity of the plot shows that Lutz
is in rare form.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“A dazzling tour de force . . . compelling, absorbing.”
—St. Louis Post-Dispatch
Fear the Night
“A tense, fast-moving novel, a plot-driven page-turner
of the first order . . . a great read!”
—Book Page
Darker Than Night
“Readers will believe that they just stepped off a Tilt-A-Whirl
after reading this action-packed police
—The Midwest Book Review
Night Victims
“John Lutz knows how to ratchet up the terror.... He
propels the story with effective twists and a fast pace.”
—Sun-Sentinel
The Night Watcher
“Compelling . . . a gritty psychological
thriller.... Lutz draws the reader deep into the
killer’s troubled psyche.”
—Publishers Weekly
Final Seconds
“Lutz always delivers the goods, and this is
no exception.”
—Booklist
ALSO BY JOHN LUTZ
*Carnage: The Prequel to “Frenzy” (e-short)
*Twist
*Pulse
*Switch (e-short)
*Serial
*Mister X
*Urge to Kill
*Night Kills
*In for the Kill
Chill of Night
Fear the Night
*Darker Than Night
Night Victims
The Night Watcher
The Night Caller
Final Seconds (with David August)
The Ex
Single White Female
*featuring Frank Quinn
Available from Kensington Publishing Corp. and
Pinnacle Books
JOHN LUTZ
FRENZY
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
ALSO BY JOHN LUTZ
Title Page
Dedication
PART ONE
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
PART TWO
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
PART THREE
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
PART FOUR
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
PART FIVE
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
PART SIX
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Teaser chapter
Epilogue
Copyright Page
For Wendy
Love always
PART ONE
Three silent things:
The falling snow . . . the hour
Before the dawn . . . the mouth of one
Just dead.
—ADELAIDE CRAPSEY, “Triad”
1
Creighton, Maine, two years ago
Gasping for air, Quinn tried to lengthen his stride but couldn’t. He swallowed, accepted the pain. Kept running.
The killer was far enough ahead of him that he couldn’t be seen through the trees, but occasionally Quinn could hear him crashing through the brush in his flight for freedom. The noise of the killer’s desperate dash seemed to be getting louder.
Quinn was gaining. Some of the others were, too, he was sure. But he had laid out everything he had in the beginning, putting every fiber and muscle he had into the chase. Now he was paying for it, but he was closest.
Quinn was closest, and closing.
It was like a fox hunt, and he was the fox.
The killer, whose grisly calling card read simply D.O.A., pressed on through the rustle and crackle of last year’s dead leaves, listening to the barking dogs, the occasional human shouts. His pursuers were gaining on him. It was as if they were actually having fun with him. With him!
He was out of breath, and almost out of options. But almost could be the most important word in the English language.
The ground was gradually falling away. He could see it beginning to slope, and he could feel it in the fronts of his thighs. He knew from the grade that he was approaching water.
Almost there!
The hectic barking of the dogs was getting louder. More frantic. He wondered what kind of dogs they were. The animals sounded as if they were in a frenzy, as if they wanted to kill him.
And maybe that was the game.
The killer glimpsed a blue-green plane of water through the foliage ahead, and his hope surged. The lake!
The question was, where along the shoreline was he going to emerge from the woods? Where would his sudden appearance not draw attention and bullets?
This can still work! It can still work!
He put on what in his mind was a burst of speed, but was in reality simply a great deal of thrashing around, like an exhausted long distance runner approaching the tape.
Almost there!
Almost!
2
Sarasota, Florida, 1992
“Dwayney!”
The house where it happened was at the edge of the water. The green lawn sloped gently away from the house, to an Olympic-sized swimming pool that appeared to merge with the bay. It made for an interesting illusion.
“Dwayney, honey?”
Maude Evans was lying posed on a webbed lounger at the edge of the rectangular pool, looking oddly as if she were floating on an invisible horizon. Every half minute or so she stretched her lithe, tanned body so she could reach her whiskey sour, take a sip, then replace the glass on a small white table. Towels were folded carefully beneath her so the lounger’s webbing wouldn’t make temporary ugly marks on her sleek body.
“Dwayney, fetch me another drink!” Maude called.
Dwayne’s body jerked. He’d been half dozing in the late-morning Florida sun. He peered over at Maude above the dark frames of his sunglasses. Looking back at him, Maude held up her drink and swished around what was left in the bottom of the glass. A clear signal and command.
He obediently went inside to the kitchen and carefully made a whiskey sour the way he’d been taught. Dwayne personally didn’t like whiskey sours. For that matter, what limited experience he’d had suggested to him that he’d never like alcoholic drinks. But after building Maude’s drink he sipped it to make sure it tasted the way she wanted it to taste.
More like demanded.
When he went back outside and handed the glass to Maude, she seemed to notice him only barely. Dwayne thought she smelled wonderful, of mingled scents of lotion and perspiration that gleamed on her smooth tan skin.
He left poolside and stood on the rear deck of the house, where he could observe his soon-to-be stepmother. He’d just turned fourteen, and he couldn’t help but be enthralled by Maude. Not that she minded. She would secretly urge him on, smiling and winking at him behind his father’s back.
Well, not so secretly. They were both amused by Dwayne’s discomfort, by his inability to conceal the erection he would often get in Maude’s presence. This embarrassed Dwayne so that he blushed a vivid pink, provoking their laughter. Sometimes, to tame and reduce the erection, Dwayne would think about his late mother. About how he’d hated her.
She and Dwayne’s father had used him in ways he hadn’t imagined possible. Ways he despised, and that made him despise them and himself.
When Dwayne’s mother died nine months ago, Dwayne hadn’t known how to feel. He did know the nighttime visits would stop, the gin breath and the giggling, his pain that his parents so enjoyed. His father had objected to hurting him that way at first, then his mother had convinced him that it didn’t matter. That Dwayne actually enjoyed what they were doing. She had figured out various ways to prove it.
When she died from heart failure that was somehow connected with the white powder she and her husband used, Dwayne had to pretend to mourn convincingly enough to fool the phony friends and business associates who came to pay their respects. He got pretty good at it.
What was life but playing a series of roles?
There had never been mention of where his father had obtained Maude Evans. She’d simply shown up a few weeks after his mother’s death. His mother’s life.
Maude smoothly replaced the life part with her own version.
Dwayne’s own life slipped into a routine. He was supposedly being homeschooled. A strict tutor, Mrs. Jacoby, would arrive at nine o’clock every weekday and stay until one o’clock. She was a broad, middle-aged woman with a perpetual scowl. There was no need for him to know her first name, as long as he learned his prime numbers and Latin roots. She took no crap from Dwayne.
Mrs. Jacoby and Maude seemed barely to notice each other. Or maybe that was just in Dwayne’s presence.
At precisely nine o’clock, when Mrs. Jacoby arrived, was when his father would go to work at his property procurement and management office. The company owned prime beach front property all over Florida, and some in the Carolinas. Money was no problem. Money allowed for the regular, sun-drenched routine. It was something taken for granted.
After the conversation Dwayne overheard between Maude and Bill Phoenix, the man who came every other day to service the pool, Dwayne knew that money was all that had attracted Maude to his father. Phoenix was a tall, rangy guy with friendly brown eyes, muscles that rippled, and curly black hair on his head and chest. He looked like he’d make a great James Bond in the movies. Maude and money had attracted Bill Phoenix.
Dwayne knew that Maude and the swimming pool guy had plans.
3
Creighton, two years ago
Quinn kept up a rough but steady pace parallel to the shoreline, casting a sharp eye in all directions as he ran. He knew the dogs were slightly ahead of him and to his left. To his right was the lake. Directly ahead of him was the killer. It was like a steadily narrowing isosceles triangle, gradually bringing killer and pursuers together at its narrow point. The killer could keep going the way he was and stay in the squeeze. Or he could break to his left and try to get out ahead of the dogs and their handlers. Or he could break to his right and start swimming.
Quinn figured the killer would stay on course, and when he ran out of safe ground, he would run out of freedom or life.
Maybe that was the way he planned it.
No way to know that for sure now. No point in worrying about it.
They’d almost had the bastard back at the lodge, where he’d just taken his latest victim, after torturing her with dozens of knife cuts and cigarette burns, and gradual disembowelment. An anonymous phone call, proclaiming that someone was being murdered at the lodge, hadn’t come in time to save the victim.
The killer had seen their approach. He’d fled the scene after making the phone call, not realizing how quickly they would respond, how close Quinn was on his heels. Now he found himself in a running gun battle with Quinn and the county sheriff.
Quinn was sure that the sheriff, a slim, gray haired man named Carl Chalmers, had been badly wounded. The last Quinn saw of him, he was sitting on the ground, talking on what Quinn assumed was a cell phone, and waving his free arm at Quinn, urging him to continue the chase. Chalmers had come late to the hunt, joining Quinn after Quinn had followed a trail of dead bodies from New York City to Maine.
There was a lot of blood around the sheriff.
And here Quinn was, in the chase and with unexpected help. He knew now that the sheriff had called in the dogs as well as the state police.
Quinn also suspected that the anonymous phone call had been made by the killer
to him alone, to lure him to the scene of the murder, to trick him into a futile chase.
This was the kind of asshole who played that kind of game.
Now, unless the killer had a boat stashed somewhere, the chase might not be futile after all. The dogs, forcing a hard and close pursuit, might be the difference. The killer might not have planned on the dogs.
Suddenly the flat plane of the lake appeared through the trees to Quinn’s right, exactly where it was supposed to be. Quinn slowed and veered in that direction, coming out at the edge of the woods, and near a long and dilapidated wooden dock that poked like an accusing finger out toward the opposite shore.
Quinn stopped running and bent forward to catch his breath, leaning his rifle against a nearby tree.
He knew now how the killer planned to escape. He also knew the killer had outsmarted and outmaneuvered him.
But not out-lucked him.
Quinn had the bastard!
The killer could see the level blue-green surface, and knew he was almost on the mud bank. He slowed down and glanced right and left to get his bearings. The trees thinned. There was a subtle but unmistakable scent that rose from flotsam and algae and acres of still water.