No One Will Hear You

by Max Allan Collins, Matthew Clemens

Genres: Thrillers

Synopsis

"Cutting-Edge Action And Suspense." —David Morrell The first video arrives by email. An unidentifed man. A naked woman. Her scream caught in a freeze-frame. The producers of TV's Crime Seen! can't believe what they're witnessing--an all-out sadist "auditioning" for a starring role in reality television. And if he doesn't get it, he'll kill again. To meet the demented demands of the self-proclaimed "Don Juan," former sheriff and TV host J.C. Harrow has no choice but to spotlight him along with another ruthless maniac who has captivated millions of viewers. Now two killers are locked in a bloodthirsty competition. For fame. For notoriety. For victims. "No One Can Twist Through A Maze With The Intensity And Suspense Of Max Allan Collins." —Clive Cussler Max Allan Collins Is. . . "Masterful. His ability to sustain suspense [is] exceptional." —San Diego Union-Tribune "Among the finest crime writers working today." — Milwaukee Journal Sentinel "Unforgettable. . .Collins is a literary Houdini." —James Rollins

Release date: March 1, 2011

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 401

Sample

Praise for You Can’t Stop Me

“Max Allan Collins delivers cutting-edge action and suspense!”—David Morrell, New York Timesbestselling author of The Shimmer

“Reality TV turns thriller! A killer yarn from a master of suspense.”—James Rollins, New York Timesbestselling author of The Doomsday Key

“You Can’t Stop Me is not only the title but also a mantra I said to myself whenever something threatened to interrupt my reading. I look forward to more stories with J.C. Harrow.”—Crimespree

“Engrossing.”—Rod Lott, Bookgasm

“An exhilarating ride … A fast-paced page-turner that moves like a semi down a mountain road with the brakes burned out.”—Pulp Fiction Reviews

“An all-out thriller with plenty of twists and turns. Maybe the title should have been You Can’t Stop Reading because this one’s hard to put down.”—Bill Crider’s Pop Culture Magazine

 

… and for Max Allan Collins

“Max Allan Collins has an outwardly artless style that conceals a great deal of art.”—New York Times

“No one can thrust through a maze with the intensity and suspense of Max Allan Collins.”—Clive Cussler

“Max Allan Collins is masterful. His ability to sustain suspense is exceptional.”—San Diego Union-Tribune

“Collins’ witty, hardboiled prose would make Raymond Chandler proud.”—Entertainment Weekly

“Max Allan Collins is the closest thing we have to a twenty-first century Mickey Spillane.”—This Week (Ohio)

“One of the new masters of the genre.”—Atlantic Journal-Constitution

“A compelling talent for flowing narrative and concise, believable dialogue. Highly recommended.”—Library Journal

“Simply open the book. The pages turn themselves. A fine novel by a fine writer.”—John Lutz (on Road to Purgatory)

“As cool as an Eskimo Pie on a summer day and as sharp as a Ginsu knife.”—Milwauke Journal Sentinel (on The First Quarry)

“Collins skillfully ties up a multitude of branches into the big, bloody bouquet one would expect from the author of The Road to Perdition … sharp and satisfying …”—Publishers Weekly (on Deadly Beloved)

Naked, shivering but not cold, Crystal Haggerty huddled behind bushes.

Sweat streamed through her long, blonde hair, and down her face, stinging her eyes. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she stared back through the darkness, toward the house.

Nothing.

Then she swiftly scanned the woods for any sign of her pursuer.

Nothing.

Shit, she thought, anger at herself spiking through the terror. That usually infallible bullshit detector of hers had failed her big-time, her hunger for a gig, any damn gig, sending her home with a charming indie movie producer …

… who behind closed doors had transformed into a raving psychopath with a butcher knife!

His silhouette appeared on a rise, in the distance, and the lovely blonde saw the outline of that weapon in his right fist—the same blade she’d glimpsed him fondling thanks to the cracked bathroom door, a sight that had sent her on a headlong run through his kitchen, out the back door, and into a sticky California night and moonlit woods.

When they met after that acting class, he’d told her he was a producer—Louis St. James. She did her research and his story rang true, so she accepted his request for dinner.

After that impressively expensive restaurant, she allowed him to drive her to his place on the pretense of looking at a script, not at all surprised when he began kissing her the instant they got inside. She was a big girl and he was a handsome enough guy. An actress and a producer—not exactly a new story.

When he led her into the bedroom, the roses on the nightstand struck her as a little over the top, but what the hell? She fawned over them for him, still hoping he’d haul out a script after she had, well, paid for dinner.

She was naked on the bed, and they were kissing, tangling tongues, before she got a hint of anything off-key. He still had on most of his clothes, but then … some guys were shy. They continued to make out, his hands finding her breasts. She didn’t mind sharing them with him—she’d paid enough for them.

Then when his lips wandered farther south, Crystal decided he wasn’t shy. …

“I want to get inside you,” he murmured. “Deep inside you….”

Just when she was ready to let him do that, he backed off—not something she was used to. Still clothed, he excused himself to use the bathroom, leaving her naked and confused.

Crystal never had a guy walk out on her that close to the moment of truth. Not ever. Guys were guys. He’d proved he wasn’t shy, and he sure didn’t seem nervous, so what was his problem? He’d hit the men’s room back at the restaurant, hadn’t he?

Discreetly, Crystal followed him. That was when the cracked door revealed her host standing at the mirror, holding that knife in a troublingly sexual way.

He wanted to get inside her, all right!

The crazy damn thing was: she had played this part before, running through the woods, naked, terrified. Mixed in with her hysteria was the ridiculousness of playing out this cliché, a cliché she had worked so hard to bring reality to as “Naked Female Victim Number Five” in that low-budget embarrassment, Slasher Camp 3: Body Check.

But an actress whose latest performances were chiefly at Hooters in Long Beach took what she could get … like dinner with a producer. …

She had almost outwitted the killer in that dumb flick. Hidden behind a tree and leapt out and clouted the clown with a rock. In the movie, though, a rock couldn’t hurt the killer, who was a supernatural freak. St. James, though, was a flesh-and-blood freak.

So she had, in a bizarre B-movie way, lived this scene before … only this time she would survive.

When her pursuer’s silhouette swung in her direction, Crystal ducked even lower behind the bushes. Finally, she peeked out to see him moving to his left, away from her. Then she was up and on the run again.

The hard ground and underbrush tore at her bare feet as she sprinted blindly between trees. In the movie, she had hard-sole slippers on, except in the long shots, and then they’d cleared the brush for her, but these woods were doing her no favors.

She didn’t care.

The pain wasn’t devastating, not at all, and it said she was alive, and that was how she wanted to stay.

Her goal was to get far enough away from the bastard that she could set her trap for him and be waiting when he lumbered past. He knew these woods and she didn’t. But he would never expect her to go from hunted to hunter.

This, she felt, was her best chance.

Maybe her only chance.

Just past a huge-trunk tree, Crystal saw a low-slung overhang of brush she could hide under and, when her pursuer came past that tree, spring out. She scurried into the nest, brambles nicking her, but she didn’t give a damn. Making sure she didn’t make too much noise was a larger concern.

Beneath the overhang, nestled in night, Crystal crouched, animal-like. She could hear him moving through the brush, hear the twigs and leaves crunch—he still had ground to cover. Not close yet. Not yet.

She planned to tackle him, just take him down, maybe make him fall on that knife, or at least get on his back and work her long natural nails over his face and eyes.

Crunching twigs and leaves, louder.

Still not close.

Closer, but not close. …

Her mind, like her heart, raced. If she had a weapon, a branch that could be a club, a rock that could be a blunt instrument, like in Slasher Camp, she might do better than just flinging her damn self at him.

But the darkness hampered any search. Like a blind woman, she moved her hands across the ground around her, trying not to make a sound, or much of one.

Then fingers found it and her hand grasped it: an egg-shaped rock that fit her fist as if God had fashioned it for her.

From what she heard, she judged her attacker to be about fifteen yards away. Wouldn’t be long now, and she would have him. Son of a bitch thought he could get her, but she would get him. This time Naked Female Victim Number Five would not die. …

She waited, the mushroom of brush protectively over her as she crouched. She held her breath—not a sound—and then St. James strode into view, his back to her.

Perfect!

Crystal leapt out and raised that rock high, and he spun and thrust the butcher knife deep into her abdomen.

The pain was immediate and as sharp as the blade itself.

She heard herself gasp.

“I saw that movie,” he said.

The rock dropped from her hand and thudded onto the ground.

He yanked the knife free and her body shuddered, and then she, too, thudded down.

He was hunkered over her now, the knife flailing into her chest, burning pain almost instantly replaced by numbing cold as the knife arced down again and again.

She felt the blows, but not any more pain. Breathing came hard, yet she felt peaceful, drifting away as the blows came in a blur, as unreal as celluloid, until finally they were an abstraction and she lay cloaked in silent serenity.

The stars faded. The moon shut its big eye. She gave herself to the night.

Rage drove him.

He’d been cool before, but now anger had him, and he could not control it. The stupid bitch! She had ruined everything, and she was dead for it, he was sure of that, even as again and again he slammed the knife into her.

With each blow, his mind screamed, “Cut! Cut! Cut!”

She had left the bed—no professional gets off his or her mark in the middle of a damn scene!—and moved off set, out of camera range, and run the hell out here.

If the action had been captured, that would have been one thing.

But none of the climax was on camera! The whole evening, and all the planning that had gone into it, had been a waste.

The actress had ruined their one and only shot at it, their one and only take. You don’t get a second, much less a third take, when an elaborate stunt is involved! What the hell kind of professional was she?

This was to have been his first episode, the introduction to a new breakthrough reality series.

And—thrust—she—thrust—had—thrust—screwed—thrust—it—thrust—up!

He sagged, the bloody knife slipping from his hand, his face covered in sweat mixed with blood. Hers.

All the conventional methods of making it in this merciless business had been tried and tried again and, talent be damned, had led nowhere.

But now Crime Seen had come along—thank you, God—and a new opportunity presented itself. This was his time, his chance, at least till this stupid inexperienced damn day-player actress came along and padded her damn part.

Next time he would use a sedative, Rohypnol, to calm his costar’s anxieties, and not just rely on his charm. He would make sure subsequent actresses would be more pliable.

All right—so this would not work as a first episode. But almost every series shot a pilot episode, right? Often never to be aired, merely to iron out the kinks and get the show up on its feet?

He got on his feet.

Calm now.

Reflective.

Sometimes a series needed to be recast and reshot. This wouldn’t be the first time—hadn’t Lisa Kudrow been fired from Frasier and replaced by Peri Gilpin? Even William Shatner hadn’t been the first choice for captain of the Enterprise.

Of course, the lead in this show would not be recast. He would correct the small errors, bury the day player in the woods, and get himself another actress for the real first episode. Changes, tweaks, that was show biz. But the lead, at least, was perfect.

After all, he was the star.

He was Don Juan.

John Christian Harrow sent a narrow-eyed gaze from the Colorado woods toward the rambling, rustic, one-story house nestled on a bluff in a small clearing maybe twenty yards away. It might have been the idyllic home of a Waltons-esque happy family, and not a meth lab filled with dangerous felons.

A light was on in the living room at the front, another toward the back, either a bedroom or the kitchen. Harrow—J.C. to his friends (and the audience of UBC Network’s top-rated reality television show, Crime Seen)—had no floor plan, so it was hard to know which.

Crime Seen’s resident computer expert, petite blonde Jenny Blake, was ensconced in the show’s mobile crime lab down the road, tracking the house’s blueprints on the Internet. A tall order, but if anyone could make that happen, it was Jenny.

Right now, however, Harrow’s earbud remained silent, and he wondered if for once Jenny might come up empty.

The night was surprisingly warm for early spring in the Rocky Mountains, the sky Coors-commercial clear, the quarter moon a sliver of silver, the stars as bright as they were countless. This felt akin to the Iowa night sky Harrow had grown up with, and far preferable to the smog-filled air over his adopted Los Angeles.

Beside Harrow stood Billy Choi of Crime Seen’s forensic all-star team. Son of an Asian father and Caucasian mother, Choi—with his long black hair, chiseled good looks, and taekwondo-sculpted body—was a tool marks expert, firearms examiner, and door-kicking-in ace. His eyes followed his boss’s to the house.

Like Harrow, Choi wore a black Crime Seen Windbreaker (Kevlar beneath), camo-chinos, and boots. There was a Batman-and-Robin effect to the two men, as the brown-eyed, rugged, Apachecheekboned Harrow—his brown hair gone fully white at the temples—towered at six foot two over Choi’s five eight. If Harrow’s eyes were any darker brown, they’d have been black (the network-mandated blue contacts, demanded for season one of the show, were a thing of the past).

Around them at the edge of the woods, seven or eight Denver County deputies were checking shotguns and other equipment, preparing for an assault.

At the rear, cameraman Maury Hathaway—his heavyset frame covered, typically, by a Grateful Dead T-shirt and bandolier battery belt—waited with his Sony digicam at the ready, like the deputies with their shotguns.

Local sheriff Jens Watson, a flinty-looking string bean in jeans and a cowboy shirt embroidered with a Denver County star, was about Harrow’s age—late forties—and seemed to be a good cop. But Watson had wanted nothing to do with having Harrow and Choi along on this raid.

Like Harrow (back when he’d been sheriff of Story County, Iowa), Watson had to run for reelection every four years. This meant making good decisions to keep the voters happy, like accepting twenty thousand dollars worth of new lab equipment from Dennis Byrnes, president of the United Broadcasting Company.

Now, out here in the dark, on the edge of the county, the unreal sense that time had stopped draped them all in frozen tension. The house sat half a mile from its nearest neighbor, surrounded for the most part by woods, except for the long, twisting drive up the hill and the scrubby clearing that formed a modest front yard.

The law enforcement team that Harrow and Choi accompanied had gone past the driveway to park around a bend, just off the road on a firebreak. The posse trudged up the hillside through thick trees and dense undergrowth to this vantage point above the house. They could see all of the front, one side, and into the backyard, though not much of the latter before its slope fell away down a mountainside.

The trek up the steep hill found Harrow sucking air like the two-pack-a-day smoker he’d once been. While he slipped off the wagon occasionally (now that his wife, Ellen, and son David were gone), he wasn’t even half the smoker now.

He took only mild pleasure that the other flat-lander, Choi—half Harrow’s age, a nonsmoker in terrific shape—was sucking air himself.

For their part, the deputies, used to living in the troposphere, breathed as calmly as if the tromp through the woods were a leisurely stroll.

“Not much movin’ down there,” Sheriff Watson said.

Choi, in thermal-imaging goggles, said, “One for sure in the living room in the front.”

“You can’t see anyone else?” Watson asked.

Choi turned the goggles toward the back of the house. “Two heat signatures in that room. A person and something smaller.”

“Smaller?” Watson asked. “What, a dog?”

“Hard to tell …”

“Kid, maybe?”

Harrow offered, “Could be they’re cooking up their next batch.”

Choi said, “It’s a small heat source, but it’s getting hotter fast. Think you’re right, boss.”

Watson turned to his deputies, raising his voice a hair. “Could be hot chemicals in there, fellas—let’s stay alert.”

The protocol probably dictated protective suits and the bomb squad and a hundred other things that Harrow knew Watson wasn’t about to wait for.

Harrow, Choi, and the Denver County contingent were poised at woods’ edge on this mountain tonight thanks to a Crime Seen viewer tip.

A comic book dealer, Michael Gold, had become suspicious when he suddenly found himself serving new customers who seemed to have neither knowledge of nor enthusiasm for the collectibles they were buying. They were simply interested in purchasing high-end comics.

When other dealers started showing up at comic conventions with those same books—sold to them at a loss by Gold’s clients—the comics dealer grew suspicious. Who bought pricey comic books they weren’t interested in, and then turned right around and sold them at a loss?

Only somebody very stupid …

… or somebody very smart.

Gold knew damn well he was dealing with smart criminals laundering money.

The team tracked Gold’s Crime Seen line tip to this house, leading to this moment—a televised raid on a meth lab (albeit one taped and edited for next Friday’s show).

Finally, in his earbud, came Jenny’s small, almost timid voice: “Sorry to take so long, boss. There’ve been additions to the original home. Room you’re talking about, behind the living room, is a bedroom. Kitchen is on the other side of the house.”

“Thanks, Jenny,” Harrow said into a lavalier mic, clipped to his shirt. A bedroom converted to a meth lab.

“You’re welcome,” came Jenny’s voice, as if they’d just transacted a sale over a counter. “Uh, J.C.?”

“Yeah?”

“If they’re using meth, not just making it? They may be excitable.”

He smiled. “Thanks, Jen. Keep it in mind.”

Unbidden, Warren Zevon’s song “Excitable Boy” began to play in his mind.

Harrow passed the new information along to Sheriff Watson. “The comic book ‘collectors’ in there are frying up a new batch of crank.”

Watson turned. “Jenkins—you, Siegel, and Hartley get around back, and be goddamn careful. We don’t want to blow that house, and us, to hell and gone … and take Mr. Choi with you.”

Choi looked at Harrow. “I should be out front.”

“Neither one of you,” Watson growled, “oughta be anywhere around here.”

Calmly Harrow said, “A Crime Seen tip brought us here. It’s our bust as much as yours.”

“Don’t see it that way,” Watson said. “No chance either of you civilians goes in with my team.”

Harrow knew when to back off. “No problem. You want Choi around back, that’s where he’s going—right, Billy?”

His voice friendly and his eyes cold, Choi said, “Right.”

But before Choi could fall in with the three deputies, somebody saw headlights at the bottom of the hill.

“Truck,” the deputy said.

They ducked when headlights swept the hill, then clicked off, as a white Cadillac Escalade crept up the drive and came to a smooth stop next to the house.

The driver climbed out—a good six feet, scruffy beard, jeans, and a black-and-red plaid flannel shirt. At the open rider’s side window of his vehicle, he was handed a weapon—looked to Harrow like an AK-47.

“Oh shit,” Sheriff Watson muttered.

No one disagreed with this sentiment.

Though the vehicle mostly blocked their view, Harrow could see both doors on the passenger side.

Two more men got out.

The doors of the SUV were closed carefully, quietly. The no-headlights approach confirmed something wasn’t right here….

Watson said, “Great—more guests at the party.”

“Not welcome guests,” Harrow said.

“Huh?”

“Those aren’t reinforcements.”

The three men eased away from the Escalade and moved silently toward the house. Each carried an automatic weapon.

Acid burned in Harrow’s stomach—he knew what they were about to witness.

So did Choi: “It’s a hit.”

And took off through the woods in the direction of the house.

“It’s a what?” Watson asked, not sure he’d heard Choi correctly.

“A hit,” Harrow threw back, falling in behind Choi.

Too late for Harrow to advise Choi this wasn’t their battle. Choi had a cop’s instincts.

Loping down the hillside, Harrow could make out the driver cutting around back while the other two crept up to the front door.

He glanced back at the sheriff and the deputies trailing them—confusion on their faces plain even in the dark.

Cameraman Hathaway was behind Denver County’s finest, having the good sense to hang back.

Thrashing through the undergrowth behind Choi, Harrow was just waiting for the gunmen to turn those AK’s in their direction and chop them down, unless an exposed root in this darkness beat them to it, to send Harrow tumbling, breaking his goddamn neck.

Neither Harrow nor Choi had a weapon, the older man wondering if that had even dawned on the younger one. Harrow wasn’t sure which scared him more, being unarmed out here or Choi not caring as they charged unarmed toward three men with automatic weapons.

Choi circled the house, so that he—Harrow tailing him—could close the distance with the lone gunman, heading for the rear.

Glancing back, Harrow saw Watson and most of the deputies peel off to try to take the two out front. Up ahead Choi was keeping low, making rapid progress toward his target.

If our Escalade interloper will just stay focused on his own prey for another few seconds …

Gunfire erupted out front—the distinctive bark of an AK-47!

The interloper’s head snapped around, and he caught movement in the brush nearby. His gun came up, and he dropped into a shooter’s crouch and squeezed the trigger just as Choi broke through the undergrowth, kicking the barrel of the gun, sending its rounds flying harmlessly into the mountain air.

As the interloper brought the weapon around, Choi elbowed the guy in the chest, grabbed the gun by its barrel, and the two men tumbled to the ground, wrestling over the damn thing.

Harrow narrowed the distance quickly, ready to give Choi a hand …

… then the back door of the house slapped open and two T-shirted occupants came bursting out. The pair took off across the yard and, judging from the sounds of a firefight out front, Harrow had no choice.

He took off at a dead run after the meth cookers. The shorter, squatter one was catchable, even if his lankier partner wasn’t.

In Harrow’s earpiece, Jenny’s small, breathless voice was saying, “Boss, we heard gunfire! Everything all right? Boss?”

“Get back to you,” Harrow said breathlessly.

Sucking wind but closing fast, Harrow could hear his prey’s heaving breath over his own. Just short of the woods, Harrow threw a flying tackle, driving the guy down.

The two rolled, meth cooker squealing like a pig, trying to kick free of Harrow’s arms. As the kicks thumped painfully into his chest and arms, Harrow finally released his grip and bounced up, getting to his feet ahead of the meth cooker.

When the pudgy kid finally rose, Harrow was already in a combat stance.

“You’re caught—give it up!”

The kid threw a wild, looping right, which Harrow sidestepped easily.

Harrow said, “Don’t make me—”

The meth cooker interrupted with a lashing kick that Harrow easily avoided. The man’s momentum took him up in the air and landed him on the lawn with a hard whomp, air gushing.

Kneeling and grabbing the kid by his T-shirt, Harrow advised, “Stay down, son—you’re caught.”

Blinking furiously, sweat pouring off him, the meth cooker looked up at his captor, with a goofy sm. . .