From The Bone Collector to the brand-new James Bond masterwork, “there is no thriller writer today like Jeffery Deaver”( San Jose Mercury News )! John Pellam had a promising career as a Hollywood stuntman, until a tragedy sidetracked him. Now he’s a divorced, hard-living location scout who travels the country in search of shooting sites, and pulling his camper into any small town brings out the locals seeking their fifteen minutes of fame. But behind an idyllic locale in upstate New York is a hotbed of violence, lust, and conspiracy, and Pellam is thrust into the heart of an unfolding drama and the search for a killer when a brutal murder has him hunting down justice on behalf of a dear friend. Lawrence Block author of "Everybody Dies""Shallow Graves" is a real pleasure -- tough-minded, intelligent, and very well written. Bravo! Lawrence Block author of "Everybody Dies" "Shallow Graves" is a real pleasure -- tough-minded, intelligent, and very well written. Bravo! Jeffery Deaver is the #1 internationally bestselling author of forty-four novels, three collections of short stories, and a nonfiction law book. His books are sold in 150 countries and translated into twenty-five languages. His first novel featuring Lincoln Rhyme, The Bone Collector , was made into a major motion picture starring Denzel Washington and Angelina Jolie and a hit television series on NBC. He’s received or been shortlisted for a number of awards around the world, including Novel of the Year by the International Thriller Writers and the Steel Dagger from the Crime Writers’ Association in the United Kingdom. In 2014, he was the recipient of three lifetime achievement awards. He has been named a Grand Master by Mystery Writers of America. Chapter One "I heard this scary story about you one time," Marty said, "and I didn't know whether it was true or not." Pellam didn't look over. He was driving the Winne-bago Chieftain 43 back into town. They'd just found an old farmhouse a mile up the road and had offered the astonished owner thirteen hundred dollars to shoot two scenes on his front porch, provided he didn't mind if a combine replaced his rusting orange Nissan in the driveway for a couple of days. For that kind of money, the farmer said, he'd eat the car if that was what they wanted. Pellam had told him that wouldn't be necessary. "You used to do stunt work?" Marty asked. His voice was high and Midwest-inflected. "Some stunts, yeah. Just for a year or so." "About this film you did?" "Uh." Pellam pulled off his black 1950s Hugh Hefner sunglasses. The autumn day had dawned bright as blue ice. A half hour ago it had turned dark and now the early afternoon seemed like a winter dusk. "It was a Spielberg film," Marty said. "Never worked for Spielberg." Marty considered. "No? Well, I heard it was a Spielberg film. Anyway, there was this scene where the guy, the star, you know, was supposed to drive a motorcycle over this bridge and these bombs or something were blowing up behind him and he was driving like a son of a bitch, just ahead of these shells. Only then one hits under him and he goes flying through the air just as the bridge collapses...Okay? And they were supposed to rig a dummy because the stunt supervisor wouldn't let any of his guys do it but you just got on the bike and told the second unit director to roll the cameras. And you just, like, did it." "Uh-huh." Marty looked at Pellam. He waited. He laughed. "What do you mean, 'uh-huh'? Did you do it?" "Yeah, I remember that one." Marty rolled his eyes and looked out the window at a distant speck of bird. "He remembers it..." He looked back at Pellam. "And I heard that the thing was you didn't get blown clear but you had to hang on to this cable while the bridge collapsed." "Uh-huh." Marty kept waiting. It was no fun telling war stories to people who should be telling them to you. "Well?" "That's pretty much what happened." "Weren't you scared?" "Sure was." "Why'd you do it?" Pellam reached down and picked up a Molson bottle wedged between his scuffed brown Nokona boots. He glanced around the red and yellow autumn countryside for New York state troopers then lifted the bottle and drained it. "I don't know. I did crazy things then. Stupid of me. The unit director fired me." "But they used the footage?" "Had to. They'd run out of bridges." Pellam floored the worn accelerator pedal to take a grade. The engine didn't respond well. They heard the tapping of whatever taps in an old engine when it struggles to push a heavy camper uphill. Marty was twenty-nine, skinny, and had a small gold hoop in his left ear. His face was round and smooth and he had eyelids connected directly to his heart; they opened wide whenever his pulse picked up. Pellam was older. He was thin too, though more sinewy than skinny, and dark complected. He had a scrawny, salt-and-pepper beard that he'd started last week and he was already tired of. The lids over his gray-green eyes never