Detective Mike Bennett takes on a chilling man trying to play god as he threatens New York with a terrifying epidemic in this gripping novel from the world’s #1 bestselling author. A calculating killer who calls himself The Teacher is taking on New York City, killing the powerful and the arrogant. His message is clear: remember your manners or suffer the consequences! For some, it seems that the rich are finally getting what they deserve. For New York's elite, it is a call to terror. Only one man can tackle such a high-profile case: Detective Mike Bennett. As time ticks down and his children fall ill, he has only hours to save New York from the greatest disaster in its history. From the world's #1 writer, discover an electrifying story of action, thrills, and heart-stopping suspense. James Patterson has had more New York Times bestsellers than any other writer, ever, according to Guinness World Records . Since his first novel won the Edgar Award in 1977 James Patterson's books have sold more than 300 million copies. He is the author of the Alex Cross novels , the most popular detective series of the past twenty-five years, including Kiss the Girls and Along Came a Spider . He writes full-time and lives in Florida with his family. Run for Your Life By James Patterson, Michael Ledwidge Grand Central Publishing Copyright © 2013 James Patterson Michael Ledwidge All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-4555-9977-6 CHAPTER 1 IT WAS COMING on three a.m. when I finally managed to get myself smuggled out ofHarlem by a uniform who owed me a favor. As we negotiated the gridlock maze of news satellite vans, barricades, andmounted crowd-control cops, there still wasn't the slightest hint about who hadkilled D-Ray. Any standoff that led to a death would have been bad enough, but this bizarreshooting was the department's worst nightmare come true. No matter how muchevidence suggested that the NYPD wasn't responsible, it looked like wewere. The rabble-rousers, conspiracy theorists, and their many friends in theNew York City media were going to have a field day. And if that wasn't enough to make me rip into a blister pack of Prilosec, therewas the mountain of reports and other red tape I'd be facing come morning. I'dhave gladly accepted another caning from D-Ray's grandaunt instead. When the cop dropped me off in front of my West End Avenue apartment building, Iwas so burnt out from fatigue, unresolved tension, and worry about what layahead that I almost stumbled to the door. I craved a few hours of peaceful sleepas a man who'd been crawling for days through the desert craves an oasis. But the oasis turned out to be a mirage. Right off the bat, my crazy Dominicandoorman, Ralph, seemed pissed off that I had to wake him up. I liked Ralph, butI was in no mood for petty surliness, and I gave him a look that told him so. "Any time you want to trade jobs, Ralph, just let me know," I said. He lowered his eyes apologetically. "Rough night, Mr. Bennett?" "You'll read about it tomorrow in the Times ." When I finally made it into my darkened apartment, the Crayola products andPolly Pocket debris that crunched underfoot were actually welcoming. I musteredup enough energy to lock up my service weapon and ammo in the pistol safe in myfront hall closet. Then, totally wiped, I collapsed onto one of the high stoolsat the kitchen island. If my wife, Maeve, were still here, she'd be standing at the stove right now,handing me an icy Bud while something wonderful fried—chicken wings or acheeseburger, heavy on the bacon. With divinely sent, cop-wife wisdom, she knewthat the only panaceas for the grim reality of the streets were grease, coldbeer, a shower, and bed, with her warm beside me. A strange moment of clarity pierced my weariness, and I realized that she hadn'tjust been my love—she'd been my life support. On nights like this, thereally bad ones, she'd listen for hours if I needed to talk, and understandcompletely when I couldn't. Right then, more than anything in the world, I longed to feel her fingers caressthe back of my neck as she told me that I'd tried my best. That sometimesthere's nothing we can do. I would circle her waist with my hands, and her magicwould make all my doubts and guilt and stress disappear. Maeve had been dead for almost a year now, and in all that time, I hadn't foundany new ways to cope with it—only new ways to miss her. I'd been at the funeral of a homicide victim one time and heard his mother quotea poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay. It kept ringing in my ears lately, like asong you can't get out of your head. Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender the kind ... I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned. I don't know how much longer I can live without you, Maeve, I thought. My headsagged, and I leaned my forearms on the counter for support. But I jerked back upright when I noticed that my left hand was resting in a poolof something sticky. I examined the stuff, sniffed it, t