Pressestimmen
"A streamlined bang-up addition to the oeuvre of Tami Hoag, Karen Robards, Elizabeth Powell and, these days, even Nora Roberts." —Publishers Weekly
"A dark, powerful tale of nerve-shattering suspense."—Tami Hoag
"A chilling story of revenge and betrayal, with one of the creepiest villains I've ever read."—Iris Johansen, author of The Ugly Duckling
"An unforgettably evil villain and a throat-gripping climax make The Perfect Husband a real page-turner!"—Tess Gerritsen, author of Harvest
"I loved this book! I was up till 2 a.m. finishing it!"—Karen Robards, author of Walking After Midnight and Hunter's Moon
"Nail-biting suspense...a taut roller coaster of a story that kept me up very, very late."—Kay Hooper, author of Amanda and After Caroline
"A superlative read, with vivid characters, faultless procedure, and a villain who will whisper in the dark evertime you turn off the light."—Eileen Dreyer, author of Brain Dead
"A dark, powerful tale of nerve-shattering suspense."—Tami Hoag
"A chilling story of revenge and betrayal, with one of the creepiest villains I've ever read."—Iris Johansen, author of The Ugly Duckling
"An unforgettably evil villain and a throat-gripping climax make The Perfect Husband a real page-turner!"—Tess Gerritsen, author of Harvest
"I loved this book! I was up till 2 a.m. finishing it!"—Karen Robards, author of Walking After Midnight and Hunter's Moon
"Nail-biting suspense...a taut roller coaster of a story that kept me up very, very late."—Kay Hooper, author of Amanda and After Caroline
"A superlative read, with vivid characters, faultless procedure, and a villain who will whisper in the dark evertime you turn off the light."—Eileen Dreyer, author of Brain Dead
Kurzbeschreibung
Bent on revenge, a man convicted of ten murders on the evidence of his wife, escapes. A giant manhunt across four States ensues, a countdown to a terrifying reunion.
-- Dieser Text bezieht sich auf eine andere Ausgabe:
Taschenbuch
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Der Autor über sein Buch
26-year old author has produced 14 books
THE PERFECT HUSBAND is my first mainstream suspense novel, released December 1997 under the name Lisa Gardner. I'm actually quite young, just 26, but this is not my first book. For the last 6 years I have written 13 romantic suspense novels under the name Alicia Scott for Silhouette Intimate Moments. If you enjoyed TPH and like romance, you might want to give my next Silhouette release, BRANDON'S BRIDE (February 1998 SIM) a try. I spent two years working on TPH and conducted very detailed research with various law enforcement agencies. I hope the end result is a gritty, authentic suspense tale about all the horrible things that can go bump in the night. If the ending caught you by surprise, then I feel I did my job right. <g> Living in New England, I'm now working on my next suspense novel, THE OTHER DAUGHTER, which should be available by end of '98. Best wishes always.
THE PERFECT HUSBAND is my first mainstream suspense novel, released December 1997 under the name Lisa Gardner. I'm actually quite young, just 26, but this is not my first book. For the last 6 years I have written 13 romantic suspense novels under the name Alicia Scott for Silhouette Intimate Moments. If you enjoyed TPH and like romance, you might want to give my next Silhouette release, BRANDON'S BRIDE (February 1998 SIM) a try. I spent two years working on TPH and conducted very detailed research with various law enforcement agencies. I hope the end result is a gritty, authentic suspense tale about all the horrible things that can go bump in the night. If the ending caught you by surprise, then I feel I did my job right. <g> Living in New England, I'm now working on my next suspense novel, THE OTHER DAUGHTER, which should be available by end of '98. Best wishes always.
Über den Autor
Lisa Gardner is the New York Times bestselling author of thirteen novels. Her Detective D. D. Warren novels include Love You More, Live to Tell, Hide, Alone, and The Neighbor, winner of the International Thriller Writers’ Award. Her FBI Profiler novels include Say Goodbye, Gone, The Killing Hour, The Next Accident, and The Third Victim. She lives with her family in New England.
Leseprobe. Abdruck erfolgt mit freundlicher Genehmigung der Rechteinhaber. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.
Tess Williams awoke as she'd learned to awaken--slowly, degree by degree, so that she reached consciousness without ever giving herself away. First her ears woke up, seeking out the sound of another person breathing. Next, her skin prickled to life, searching for the burning length of her husband's body pressed against her back. Finally, when her ears registered no sound and her skin found her alone in her bed, her eyes opened, going automatically to the closet and checking the small wooden chair she'd jammed beneath the doorknob in the middle of the night.
The chair was still in place. She released the breath she'd been holding and sat up. The empty room was already bright with mid-morning sun, the adobe walls golden and cheery. The air was hot. Her T-shirt stuck to her back, but maybe the sweat came from nightmares that never quite went away. She'd once liked mornings. They were difficult for her now, but not as difficult as night, when she would lie there and try to force her eyes to give up their vigilant search of shadows in favor of sleep.
You made it, she told herself. You actually made it.
For the last two years she'd been running, clutching her four-year-old daughter's hand and trying to convince Samantha that everything would be all right. She'd picked up aliases like decorative accessories and new addresses like spare parts. But she'd never really escaped. Late at night, she would sit at the edge of her daughter's bed, stroking Samantha's golden hair, and stare at the closet with fatalistic eyes.
She knew just what kind of monsters hid in the closet. She had seen the crime scene photos of what they could do. Three weeks ago, her personal monster had broken out of a maximum security prison by beating two guards to death in under two minutes.
Tess had called Lieutenant Lance Difford. He'd called Vince. The wheels were set in motion. Tess Williams had hidden Samantha safely away, then she had traveled as far as she could travel. Then she had traveled some more.
First, she'd taken the train, and the train had taken her through New England fields of waving grass and industrial sectors of twisted metal. Then she'd caught a plane, flying over everything as if that would help her forget and covering so many miles she left behind even fall and returned to summer.
Landing in Phoenix was like arriving in a moon crater: everything was red, dusty, and bordered by distant blue mountains. She'd never seen palms; here roads were lined with them. She'd never seen cactus; here they covered the land like an encroaching army.
The bus had only moved her farther into alien terrain. The red hills had disappeared, the sun had gained fury. Signs for cities had been replaced by signs reading STATE PRISON IN AREA. DO NOT STOP FOR HITCHHIKERS.
The reds and browns had seeped away until the bus rolled through sun-baked amber and bleached-out greens. The mountains no longer followed like kindly grandfathers. In this strange, harsh land of southern Arizona, even the hills were tormented, flayed alive methodically by mining trucks and bulldozers.
It was the kind of land where you really did expect to turn and see the OK Corral. The kind of land where lizards were beautiful and coyotes cute. The kind of land where the hothouse rose died and the prickly cactus lived.
It was perfect.
Tess climbed out of bed. She moved slowly. Her right leg was stiff and achy, the jagged scar twitching with ghost pains. Her left wrist throbbed, ringed by a harsh circle of purple bruises. She could tell it wasn't anything serious--her father had taught her a lot about broken bones. As things went in her life these days, a bruised wrist was the least of her concerns.
She turned her attention to the bed.
She made it without thinking, tucking the corners tightly and smoothing the covers with military precision.
I want to be able to bounce a quarter off that bed, Theresa. Youth is no excuse for sloppiness. You must always seek to improve.
She caught herself folding back the edge of the sheet over the light blanket and dug her fingertips into her palms. In a deliberate motion, she ripped off the blanket and dumped it on the floor.
"I will not make the bed this morning," she stated to the empty room. "I choose not to make the bed."
She wouldn't clean anymore either, or wash dishes or scrub floors. She remembered too well the scent of ammonia as she rubbed down the windows, the doorknobs, the banisters. She'd found the pungent odor friendly, a deep-clean sort of scent.
This is my house, and not only does it look clean, but it smells clean.
Once, when she'd taken the initiative to rub down the window casings with ammonia, Jim had even complimented her. She'd beamed at him, married one year, already eight months pregnant and as eager as a lap dog for his sparing praise.
Later, Lieutenant Difford had explained to her how ammonia was one of the few substances that rid surfaces of fingerprints.
Now she couldn't smell ammonia without feeling ill.
Her gaze was drawn back to the bed, the rumpled sheets, the covers tossed and wilted on the floor. For a moment, the impulse, the sheer need to make that bed--and make it right because she had to seek to improve herself, you should always seek to improve--nearly overwhelmed her. Sweat beaded her upper lip. She fisted her hands to keep them from picking up the blankets.
"Don't give in. He messed with your mind, Tess, but that's done now. You belong to yourself and you are tough. You won, dammit. You won."
The words didn't soothe her. She crossed to the bureau to retrieve her gun from her purse. Only at the last minute did she remember that the .22 had fallen on the patio.
J.T. Dillon had it now.
She froze. She had to have her gun. She ate with her gun, slept with her gun, walked with her gun. She couldn't be weaponless. Defenseless, vulnerable, weak.
Oh God. Her breathing accelerated, her stomach plummeted, and her head began to spin. She walked the edge of the anxiety attack, feeling the shakes and knowing that she either found solid footing now or plunged into the abyss.
Breathe, Tess, breathe. But the friendly desert air kept flirting with her lungs. She bent down and forcefully caught a gulp by her knees, squeezing her eyes shut.
"Can I walk you home?"
She was startled. "You mean me?" She hugged her school books more tightly against her Mt. Greylock High sweater. She couldn't believe the police officer was addressing her. She was not the sort of girl handsome young men addressed.
"No," he teased lightly. "I'm talking to the grass." He pushed himself away from the tree, his smile unfurling to reveal two charming dimples. All the girls in her class talked of those dimples, dreamed of those dimples. "You're Theresa Matthews, right?"
She nodded stupidly. She should move. She knew she should move. She was already running late for the store and her...
The chair was still in place. She released the breath she'd been holding and sat up. The empty room was already bright with mid-morning sun, the adobe walls golden and cheery. The air was hot. Her T-shirt stuck to her back, but maybe the sweat came from nightmares that never quite went away. She'd once liked mornings. They were difficult for her now, but not as difficult as night, when she would lie there and try to force her eyes to give up their vigilant search of shadows in favor of sleep.
You made it, she told herself. You actually made it.
For the last two years she'd been running, clutching her four-year-old daughter's hand and trying to convince Samantha that everything would be all right. She'd picked up aliases like decorative accessories and new addresses like spare parts. But she'd never really escaped. Late at night, she would sit at the edge of her daughter's bed, stroking Samantha's golden hair, and stare at the closet with fatalistic eyes.
She knew just what kind of monsters hid in the closet. She had seen the crime scene photos of what they could do. Three weeks ago, her personal monster had broken out of a maximum security prison by beating two guards to death in under two minutes.
Tess had called Lieutenant Lance Difford. He'd called Vince. The wheels were set in motion. Tess Williams had hidden Samantha safely away, then she had traveled as far as she could travel. Then she had traveled some more.
First, she'd taken the train, and the train had taken her through New England fields of waving grass and industrial sectors of twisted metal. Then she'd caught a plane, flying over everything as if that would help her forget and covering so many miles she left behind even fall and returned to summer.
Landing in Phoenix was like arriving in a moon crater: everything was red, dusty, and bordered by distant blue mountains. She'd never seen palms; here roads were lined with them. She'd never seen cactus; here they covered the land like an encroaching army.
The bus had only moved her farther into alien terrain. The red hills had disappeared, the sun had gained fury. Signs for cities had been replaced by signs reading STATE PRISON IN AREA. DO NOT STOP FOR HITCHHIKERS.
The reds and browns had seeped away until the bus rolled through sun-baked amber and bleached-out greens. The mountains no longer followed like kindly grandfathers. In this strange, harsh land of southern Arizona, even the hills were tormented, flayed alive methodically by mining trucks and bulldozers.
It was the kind of land where you really did expect to turn and see the OK Corral. The kind of land where lizards were beautiful and coyotes cute. The kind of land where the hothouse rose died and the prickly cactus lived.
It was perfect.
Tess climbed out of bed. She moved slowly. Her right leg was stiff and achy, the jagged scar twitching with ghost pains. Her left wrist throbbed, ringed by a harsh circle of purple bruises. She could tell it wasn't anything serious--her father had taught her a lot about broken bones. As things went in her life these days, a bruised wrist was the least of her concerns.
She turned her attention to the bed.
She made it without thinking, tucking the corners tightly and smoothing the covers with military precision.
I want to be able to bounce a quarter off that bed, Theresa. Youth is no excuse for sloppiness. You must always seek to improve.
She caught herself folding back the edge of the sheet over the light blanket and dug her fingertips into her palms. In a deliberate motion, she ripped off the blanket and dumped it on the floor.
"I will not make the bed this morning," she stated to the empty room. "I choose not to make the bed."
She wouldn't clean anymore either, or wash dishes or scrub floors. She remembered too well the scent of ammonia as she rubbed down the windows, the doorknobs, the banisters. She'd found the pungent odor friendly, a deep-clean sort of scent.
This is my house, and not only does it look clean, but it smells clean.
Once, when she'd taken the initiative to rub down the window casings with ammonia, Jim had even complimented her. She'd beamed at him, married one year, already eight months pregnant and as eager as a lap dog for his sparing praise.
Later, Lieutenant Difford had explained to her how ammonia was one of the few substances that rid surfaces of fingerprints.
Now she couldn't smell ammonia without feeling ill.
Her gaze was drawn back to the bed, the rumpled sheets, the covers tossed and wilted on the floor. For a moment, the impulse, the sheer need to make that bed--and make it right because she had to seek to improve herself, you should always seek to improve--nearly overwhelmed her. Sweat beaded her upper lip. She fisted her hands to keep them from picking up the blankets.
"Don't give in. He messed with your mind, Tess, but that's done now. You belong to yourself and you are tough. You won, dammit. You won."
The words didn't soothe her. She crossed to the bureau to retrieve her gun from her purse. Only at the last minute did she remember that the .22 had fallen on the patio.
J.T. Dillon had it now.
She froze. She had to have her gun. She ate with her gun, slept with her gun, walked with her gun. She couldn't be weaponless. Defenseless, vulnerable, weak.
Oh God. Her breathing accelerated, her stomach plummeted, and her head began to spin. She walked the edge of the anxiety attack, feeling the shakes and knowing that she either found solid footing now or plunged into the abyss.
Breathe, Tess, breathe. But the friendly desert air kept flirting with her lungs. She bent down and forcefully caught a gulp by her knees, squeezing her eyes shut.
"Can I walk you home?"
She was startled. "You mean me?" She hugged her school books more tightly against her Mt. Greylock High sweater. She couldn't believe the police officer was addressing her. She was not the sort of girl handsome young men addressed.
"No," he teased lightly. "I'm talking to the grass." He pushed himself away from the tree, his smile unfurling to reveal two charming dimples. All the girls in her class talked of those dimples, dreamed of those dimples. "You're Theresa Matthews, right?"
She nodded stupidly. She should move. She knew she should move. She was already running late for the store and her...
