The newcomers, on the other hand, were mesmerized by the sight, at least once the initial fear drained away. They summoned their kids and went outside to their perfectly maintained lawns and pointed up at the sky, idly wondering if they should invest in a telescope. Might be cool to show the kids these kinds of things. Or maybe start looking up at the stars on a regular basis.
Within the hour, however, the explosion and the rocket and the fire trail and the telescope and everything else were forgotten, and people got back to their lives. Miracles are cool and all. But there are things to do.
Hardie woke up cold.
He opened his eyes.
No memory problems this time. There had been no need for a shot. The training had been important; he needed to remember every piece of it. There was a checklist of duties to perform.
But this morning he indulged himself and looked in on his family first.
Kendra was making chicken soup. Both she and Charlie, Jr., were fighting colds. Kendra had already taken apart the chicken and was now chopping thick carrot slices. Made him nervous to watch her fingers move so quickly, chop chop chop chop chop chop chop, even though her fingers were curled under, just as they were supposed to be. Still, fingers could slip. And if something should happen…
Charlie, Jr., was in the living room, holding up an imaginary gun and blasting away digital opponents on a flat screen. Nothing real, except the anger on his face. You could tell when he got off a particularly gory shot, because his eyes lit up in a certain way. Partly appalled, partly amused.
Hardie’s family.
They were right there in front of him.
Actually, they weren’t. Their
He should be passing over them soon, actually.
THANKS & PRAISE
If I could round up everyone who supported me during the writing of
First, I would use fabric hoods and plastic wrist-tie cuffs on a group of people I like to call…
My keeper and minder for thirteen-plus years now has been the lovable yet hardboiled David Hale Smith. This book is dedicated to him, not just for his faith in me, and his unflagging support and advice since the turn of the last century, but because he’s the kind of agent who inspires you in the present while keeping an eye on the bigger picture. I love DHS like a brother and without him I couldn’t have found my way through the novel you’re holding in your hands (or on your favorite e-reading device) (or direct mental implant if this is the year 2019).
By his side, smacking their batons against their gloved palms, are the amazing Richard Pine, Lauren Smythe, Danny and Heather Baror, Angela Cheng Caplan, Shauyi Tai, Jessica Tscha, and Kim Yau, as well as the whole (chain) gang at Inkwell Management.
In the brand-new Mulholland Wing of my secret prison you’ll find John Schoenfelder, Miriam Parker, Wes Miller, Michael Pietsch, Luisa Frontino, Theresa Giacopasi, Betsy Uhrig, Barbara Clark, Christine Valentine, and the rest of the stellar Little, Brown team. Some may question the wisdom of incarcerating my publishers, but you have to understand: they trapped me in a karaoke prison during BookExpo America 2011 and refused to let me out until I did my drunken Jim Morrison impression. It wasn’t pretty; they deserve the sentence they’ve received.
In an adjoining office in the control tower is Ruth Tross and the amazing Mulholland UK team. Their office has the wet bar, and they know
My official prison doc, and the man who keeps me from making serious medical blunders in all of my books, is the legendary Lou Boxer. He’s the most
I would also forcibly (yet lovingly) detain certain people I like to call
Megan Abbott, Cameron Ashley, Janelle Asselin, Brian Azzarello, Jed Ayres, Josh Bazell, Eric Beetner, Stephen Blackmoore, Juliet Blackwell, Linda Brown, Ed Brubaker, Aldo Calcagno, Jon Cavalier, Sarah Cavalier, Stephanie “Mos Stef” Crawford, Scott and Sandi Cupp, Warren Ellis, Peter Farris, Erin Faye, Ed Fee, Joshua Hale Fialkov, James Frey, Joe Gangemi, Sara Gran, Allan “Sunshine” Guthrie, Charlaine Harris, Charlie Huston, Tania Hutchison, John Jordan, McKenna Jordan, Ruth Jordan (mystery nerd trivia: only
I’m sure I’ve forgotten a ton of potential inmates here; my apologies in advance, and please go easy on me during my sentencing hearing.
Living nearby, in a private residence near the secret prison—all Alcatraz-style, natch—is my family: Meredith, Parker, and Sarah, who are incredibly understanding when I disappear into the prison of my own making (in the basement office of our northeast Philadelphia home) for long stretches of time.
And finally, a word of thanks to my former high school English teacher James Roach, who showed us
About the Author
Duane Swierczynski is the author of several crime thrillers, including
…and what about Charlie Hardie?
In March 2012, Charlie Hardie’s story continues in
—Morgan Freeman,
Philadelphia—Now
Of all the shocks Kendra Hardie had endured over the past few hours—the dropped call from her son, the chilling messages on the alarm keypad, the thudding footfalls on the roof, the wrenching sounds in the very guts of her house, the missing gun, and the awful realization of how quickly her situation had become hopeless—none of
