Silent Stalker

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Authors: C. E. Lawrence

BOOK: Silent Stalker
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Highest Praise for C. E. Lawrence
“C. E. Lawrence is a multitalented New Yorker—writer,
performer, poet, composer, and prize-winning
playwright. . . first class, high-quality.”
—Lee Child
(in his introduction to the
anthology
Vengeance
)
 
 
Silent Kills
 
“A dark and atmospheric thriller that takes an
unflinching look at the primal urges—and disturbing
fears—we all share. Sharp, distinct detail and
an unnerving plot.”
—Steven James
 
“A startlingly suspenseful novel—an unforgettable
and deep portrait of the mind of a killer. Don't
miss this extraordinary page-turner—Lawrence is
a first rate storyteller.”
—Cody McFadyen
 
“A sophisticated thriller with robust, fascinating
characters. . . an intense psychological ride . . .
a great story.”
—J.T. Ellison
 
“C. E. Lawrence has an incredible gift for setting and
description. Her three-dimensional characters leave
you turning pages long after you should have gone to
bed and just maybe you'll sleep with the lights on.”
—Books, Looks, and Takes
 
“Rousing, tense, scary, exciting. . . a must-read.”
—Tracy Reader Dad Book Reviews
 
Silent Victim
 
“C. E. Lawrence's writing is so compulsively
readable, you won't just tear through the pages,
you'll scream through them.”
—Chris Grabenstein
 
“Lawrence pushes plot and character boundaries to
put an entirely new twist on the whole concept of the
serial killer. . . . Lawrence provides surprises and
bumps in the night and day, even while assembling a
cast of characters who are by turns odd, quirky and
memorable. I simply cannot wait for her next book. . . .
Lawrence's ability to create flawed and memorable
characters and to take a familiar plot in unexpected
directions has me hooked.”
—Bookreporter.com
 
“This vivid, chilling serial killer thriller will have
readers jumping at every sound. Although serial
killer thrillers glut the market, C. E. Lawrence's
flawed champion makes for a strong tale.”
—Harriet Klausner
 
“Silent Victim
is a very good, complex, thriller . . .
and a very interesting look into the mind of an
insane person.”
—Tracy Reader Dad Book Reviews
 
Silent Screams
 
“Criminally compelling,
Silent Screams
nails you to
your seat with a fascinating NYPD profiler who's
hurled into the case of his lifetime. This journey
into violence and the soul is unforgettable.”
—Gayle Lynds
 
“Pulse-racing, compelling, first rate. Lawrence knows
how to build and hold suspense with the best of
them. . . a wild ride down a dark road.”
—John Lutz
 
“C. E. Lawrence has achieved a rare level of
authenticity, not only in character development but
also in the realistic use of behavioral science. If you
want to read a serial-killer thriller that's solidly based
on frightening reality, this is the one.”
—Louis B. Schlesinger,
PhD, Professor of Forensic
Psychology, John Jay College of Criminal Justice
 
“C. E. Lawrence delivers finely honed suspense,
with unique twists, and accurately captures the
logic and intuition of a profiler under pressure.”
—Katherine Ramsland
 
“Silent Screams
is a wickedly brilliant, carefully wrought
thriller where the roles of hunter and hunted are
skillfully blurred . . . an escalating torrent of
murder you won't soon forget.”
—Gregg McCrary
 
“Silent Screams
beckons C. E. Lawrence to become a
repeat offender in the thriller genre.”
—Marina Staji
,
PhD, DABFT, President of American
Board of Forensic Toxicology
 
“A dark, intriguing thriller. . . Lawrence assembles
a quirky group of detectives and experts, all strong
characters who can support future books in the series.”
—Publishers Weekly
ALSO BY C. E. LAWRENCE*
Silent Screams
 
 
Silent Victim
 
 
Silent Kills
 
 
Silent Slaughter
 
 
*featuring NYPD profiler Lee Campbell
SILENT STALKER
C.E. L
AWRENCE
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
For Kegan and Kylie
Two of the coolest kids I know
C
HAPTER
O
NE
The girl was too pretty not to know it. She was, Carver thought, the kind of girl whose whole life was defined by her prettiness. It trailed after her like the tail of a comet. She smelled faintly of strawberry blossoms, delicate, pink and white, like her skin. Her laugh, too, lingered in the room afterwards, soft and lovely, like the gentle tinkling of bells. It didn't seem fair that someone like her had been endowed with so much—but then, Carver knew life wasn't fair.
He was about to even the score. He knew where she went, when she went there, and who she went with. Most important, he knew when she would be alone. Carver was patient—oh, so patient. It was one of his most useful virtues.
Crouched in the darkened hallway of the tenement building, Carver glanced at his wristwatch.
Eleven-twenty-five.
She would arrive any minute. Rehearsal ended at eleven, and she would have stopped by the deli to pick up something on the way home—a salad, yogurt, or something equally healthy. Like all actresses, she was vain, always watching her figure.
Carver shifted his weight from one leg to the other, ignoring the Rice Krispies crackle in his knees. He bent over and stretched his back, touching his toes. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, using his training to control his body's autonomic responses. He was more nervous than he had expected. Not scared exactly—more like excited, like on Christmas morning.
The bare fluorescent bulb hanging from the ceiling blinked and quivered, casting its sickly yellow glow over the dilapidated foyer, with its thick layers of peeling paint and drafty doorways. Carver smiled. These Hell's Kitchen tenements were filled with struggling actors who streamed into New York from their mundane lives in the hinterlands, hoping some of the city's glamour and glitz would rub off on them. Most of them gave up after a few years of drudgery waiting tables or stints as tour guides, trudging through Midtown followed by packs of Swedish tourists. Still others became high-end prostitutes, living off the generosity of Japanese businessmen looking for a night of fun.
The aroma of frying onions and garlic floated down from the third-story landing. Someone upstairs was making dinner—maybe the old biddy he had followed into the building, after fumbling in his pocket for imaginary keys. He had helped her with her grocery cart, and the look she gave him was so grateful. It was pathetic that a woman like her should have to lug a heavy cart up flights of rickety stairs. It was disgusting what people were willing to put up with in this town. Assailed by a fresh wave of cooking smells, Carver's stomach rumbled in response. He tensed his already taut muscles in an attempt to squelch the sound. He would not allow anything to betray him, much less his own body. His command over his own flesh was unflinching and rigid. He loathed self-indulgence of any kind, and regarded daily bodily needs as a hindrance to his own darker agenda.
He heard the metallic
clunk
of the dead bolt on the front door.
She's here.
Carver held his breath and waited for the sound of the door to close behind her. When she was inside the tiny foyer, he stepped from the shadows into the light, a broad grin on his face.
Her brief smile of recognition was replaced almost instantly by the expression he had fantasized about for so long: pure animal terror. It flooded his body like a drug, filling him with a delicious tingling sensation. He was upon her before she had a chance to cry out.

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