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Dead Lines

Dead Lines

3.2 4
by Greg Bear

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With his acclaimed novels Darwin's Children and Vitals, award-winning author Greg Bear turned intriguing speculation about human evolution and immortality into tales of unrelenting suspense. Now he ventures into decidedly more frightening territory in a haunting thriller that blends modern technology and old-fashioned terror, as it charts one man's inexorable


With his acclaimed novels Darwin's Children and Vitals, award-winning author Greg Bear turned intriguing speculation about human evolution and immortality into tales of unrelenting suspense. Now he ventures into decidedly more frightening territory in a haunting thriller that blends modern technology and old-fashioned terror, as it charts one man's inexorable descent into a world of mounting supernatural dread. For the last two years, Peter Russell has mourned the death of one of his twin daughters-who was just ten when she was murdered. Recent news of his best friend's fatal heart attack has now come as another devastating blow. Divorced, despondent, and going nowhere in his career, Peter fears his life is circling the drain. Then Trans comes along. The brainchild of an upstart telecom company, Trans is (as its name suggests) a transcendent marvel: a sleek, handheld interpersonal communication device capable of flawless operation anywhere in the world, at any time. "A cell phone, but not"-transmitting with crystal clarity across a newly discovered, never-utilized bandwidth . . . and poised to spark a new-technology revolution. When its creators offer Peter a position on their team, it should be a golden opportunity for him. If only he wasn't seemingly going mad. Everywhere Peter turns, inexplicable apparitions are walking before him or reaching out in torment. After a chilling encounter with his own lost child he begins to grasp the terrifying truth: Trans is a Pandora's box that has tapped into a frequency not of this world . . . but of the next. And now, via this open channel to oblivion, the dead have gained access to the living. For Peter, and for humankind, a long, shadowy night of the soul has descended, bringing with it the stuff of a horrifying nightmare from which they may never awaken. By turns spine-tingling, provocative, and heart-wrenching, Dead Lines marks a major turning point in the consistently dazzling storytelling

Editorial Reviews

Imagine: Someone gives you a cell phone that works on a newly discovered bandwidth, offering you nearly instant and seemingly unlimited access. Like a child with a key to a candy shop, you begin to use your wondrous new cell phone. But then something strange happens: Ghosts start to appear wherever the phone is used; even the ghost of your own murdered daughter. Have you discovered a high-tech pathway to the Other Side?
Paul Di Filippo
Bear has managed to imbue the sunny Californian clime with all the dank existential misery of the creepiest British graveyard.
— The Washington Post
Publishers Weekly
In this taut ghost story set in the California of everyone's dreams-and nightmares-from Hugo and Nebula winner Bear (Darwin's Children), anything-goes hardcore porn films have blasted softcore screenwriter Peter Russell's career. The horrifying abduction and murder of his young daughter has destroyed Russell's marriage; his best friend has just died; and Joseph Weinstein, the reclusive sugar daddy who employs Russell as a dogsbody, seems to be descending into senility. Worse follows. In pursuit of financial security, Russell sells Weinstein on "Trans," a seductive new gadget promising unlimited instant broad-band communication, and all too soon reaching out and touching via Trans even wakes the dead, whose path to the hereafter is now so clogged with spam and unlimited phone calls that they return to haunt the living. Bear's ability to incorporate scientific concepts into tightly woven, fast-paced story lines reaches menacing new proportions here, because it draws on that nagging suspicion that the ubiquitous, innocent-appearing cell phone may really be killing off its users. By deftly extrapolating that doubt into everyone's most dreaded fears-loss of job, loss of friends, loss of children-Bear reanimates the old story of Faust, who sold his soul for unlimited knowledge and power, hinting ominously that the price of rampant technology may be dearer than we think. Agent, Richard Curtis. (On sale June 1) Forecast: What hard SF fans Bear may lose by exploring midlife crisis while downplaying science he may pick up among mainstream readers. Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
This thriller with ghosts centers around Peter Russell, an everyman in his late fifties who draws an unusual amount of attention from beautiful women. A former cheesecake film director, now gopher to a millionaire, Peter is caught up in a phenomenon that goes beyond the temporal world, and strange communication devices, called Trans, tap into the bandwidth inhabited by the dead. The death of Peter's best friend begins a journey that involves his rich boss, his ex-wife and daughters, and the Trans creators and climaxes with the destruction of the network and a return to "normalcy," albeit one in which most of the characters are dead. Though a good reader with a pleasing, gravelly voice (not unlike George Carlin), Jason Culp seems unable to differentiate his tones enough to accommodate the characters and drama. Bear's characteristic sensitivity to children (as seen in his Darwin series) comes through in this genuinely sad and truly creepy tale. An optional purchase.-Douglas C. Lord, Connecticut State Lib., Hartford Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
The Big Sleep meets Dean Koontz in Bear's first big leap into mainstream fiction after a lifetime of high-grade SF (Darwin's Children, 2003, etc.). Bear fans know that he can outwrite nearly all SF competitors and go so deep into science that few readers can follow his hallucinatory devising. Styled with light-struck immediacy, Dead Lines is as intensely seen and free of cliches as the best Koontz when that polymath downplays the gore. Bear adapts the big death theme and scenic format of Chandler's LA masterpiece, substituting for Chandler's gumshoe a burned-out softcore movie director hired by an ailing and infirm half-billionaire to unlock certain, well, psychic secrets the old guy in his vast mansion needs to know about his soul. Or maybe about his young wife's weirder side. Mr. Joseph Benoliel wants Peter to ask the respected spiritualist Sandaji whether "someone can live without a soul." Before Sandaji can answer Peter, she faints, having seen a ghostly figure beside him. As we find out midway through, Peter's young twin daughter Daniella was murdered and left under leaves in Griffith Park. After the murder, Peter fell adrinking, and his wife Helen moved out with their other daughter, Lindsey. Now he's been sober 18 months. One night he finds Lindsey asleep in Daniella's old bed-only later it turns out to have been Daniella. Meanwhile, he's been hired to publicize Trans, a new talking device that fantastically outclasses any cell phone. In fact, it works on a subatomic bandwidth and can handle infinite amounts of information. It also attracts the dead. That's enough plot, if not too much already. With strong characters and heartfelt dialogue, Dead Lines (phones to the afterworld) iswell on its way to being a suspense classic when current genre demands find Bear bending, twisting, and forcing his understated story through commercial hoops, with a big, gory and ghastly ending. The final close, though, is a quiet-as-dust epilogue. Agent: Richard Curtis/Richard Curtis Associates

Product Details

Random House Publishing Group
Publication date:
Edition description:
Product dimensions:
6.89(w) x 4.16(h) x 0.88(d)

Read an Excerpt


Paul is dead. Call home.

Peter Russell, stocky and graying, stood on the sidewalk and squinted at the text message on his cell phone, barely visible in the afternoon sun on Ventura Boulevard.

He lifted his round glasses above small, amused eyes, and brought the phone closer to see the display more clearly.

Paul is dead. He flashed on his youth, when for a week he had sincerely believed that Paul was dead: Paul McCartney. I am the walrus. But he had misread the phone’s blocky letters. The message was actually Phil is dead.

That shook him. He knew only one Phil. Peter had not talked with Phil Richards in a month, but he refused to believe that the message referred to his best friend of thirty-five years, the kinder, weaker, and almost certainly more talented of the Two Ps. Not the Phil with the thirty-two-foot Grand Taiga motor home, keeper of their eternal plans for the World’s Longest Old Farts Cross-country Hot Dog Escapade and Tour.

Please, not that Phil.

He hesitated before hitting callback. What if it was a joke, a bit of cell phone spam?

Peter drove a vintage Porsche 356C Coupe that had once been signal red and was now roughly the shade of a dry brick. He fumbled his key and almost dropped the phone before unlocking the car door. He did not need this. He had an important appointment. Angrily, he pushed the button. The number rolled out in musical beeps. He recognized the answering voice of Carla Wyss, whom he had not heard from in years. She sounded nervous and a little guilty.

“Peter, I just dropped by the house. I took the key from your bell and let myself in. There was a note. My God, I never meant to snoop. It’s from somebody named Lydia.” Lydia was Phil’s ex-wife. “I thought I should let you know.”

Peter had shown Carla the secret of the bronze Soleri bell, hanging outside the front door, after a night of very requited passion. Now, upset, she was having a sandwich and a root beer from his refrigerator. She hoped he didn’t mind.

“Mi casa es su casa,” Peter said, beyond irritation. He tongued the small gap between his front teeth. “I’m listening.”

Carla’s voice was shaky. “All right. The note reads ‘Dear Peter, Phil died. He had a heart attack or a stroke, they aren’t sure which. Will let you know details.’ Then it’s signed very neatly.” She took a breath. “Wasn’t he another writer? Didn’t I meet him here in the house?”

“Yeah.” Peter pressed his eyes with his fingers, blocking out the glare. Lydia had been living in Burbank for a few years. She had apparently made the rounds of Phil’s LA friends. Carla rattled on, saying that Lydia had used a fountain pen, a folded sheet of handmade paper, a black satin ribbon, and Scotch tape.

Lydia had never liked telephones.

Phil is dead.

Thirty-five years of kid dreams and late-night plans, sitting in the backyard in old radar-dish rattan chairs on the dry grass between the junipers. Shooting the bull about stories and writing and big ideas. Phil hanging out on movie sets and model shoots—not so selfless—but also helping Peter carry his bulky and unsold wire sculptures to the dump in the back of the old Ford pickup they had often swapped.

Only the truck, never the women, Phil had lamented.

Slight, wiry Phil with the short, mousy hair who smiled so sweetly every time he saw a naked lady. Who longed for the female sex with such clumsy devotion.

“Are you okay, Peter?” Carla asked from far away.

“Heart attack,” Peter repeated, lifting the phone back to his mouth.

“Or a stroke, they aren’t sure. It’s a very pretty note, really. I’m so sorry.”

He visualized Carla in his house, locked in her perpetual late thirties, leggy as a deer, dressed in pedal pushers and a dazzling man’s white dress shirt with sleeves rolled up and tails pinned to show her smooth, flat tummy.

“Thanks, Carla. You better leave before Helen comes over,” Peter said, not unkindly.

“I’ll put the key back in the bell,” Carla said. “And Peter, I was looking through your files. Do you have some glossies of me that I can borrow? I have a new agent, a good guy, really sharp, and he wants to put together a fresh folio. I’m up for a credit card commercial.”

All of Carla’s agents had been good guys, really sharp; all of them had screwed her both ways and she never learned. “I’ll look,” Peter said, though he doubted cheesecake would help.

“You know where to find me.”

He did, and also what she smelled and felt like. With a wave of loose guilt, Peter sat on the old seat in the car’s sunned interior, the door half open and one leg hanging out. The hot cracked leather warmed his balls. A cream-colored Lexus whizzed by and honked. He pulled in his leg and shut the door, then rolled down the window as far as it would go, about half way. Sweat dripped down his neck. He had to look presentable and be in Malibu in an hour. His broad face crinkled above a close-trimmed, peppered beard.

Peter was fifty-eight years old and he couldn’t afford to take ten minutes to cry for his best friend. One hand shielded his eyes from sun and traffic. “Damn it, Phil,” he said.

He started the car and took the back roads to his home, a square, flat-roofed, fifties rambler in the Glendale hills. Carla was gone by the time he arrived, leaving only a waft of gardenia in the warm still air on the patio. Helen was late, or maybe not coming after all—he could never tell what her final plans might be—so he took a quick shower. He soon smelled of soap and washed skin and put on a blue-and-red Hawaiian shirt. He picked up his best briefcase, a maroon leather job, and pushed through the old French doors. The weedy jasmine creeping over the trellis had squeezed out a few flowers. Their sweetness curled up alongside Carla’s gardenia.

Peter stood for a moment on the red tiles and looked up through the trellis at the bright blue sky. He pressed his elbow against a rough, sun- battered post, breath coming hard: The old anxiety he always found in tight places, in corners and shadows. When events fell outside his control or his ability to escape. A minute passed. Two minutes. Peter’s gasping slowed. He sucked in a complete breath and pressed the inside of his wrist with two fingers to check his pulse. Not racing. The hitch behind his ribs untied with a few solid pushes of cupped fingers under the edge of his sternum. He had never asked a doctor why that worked, but it did.

He wiped his face with a paper towel, then scrawled a note for Helen on the smudged blackboard nailed below the Soleri bell. Reaching into the oil drum that served as an outdoor closet, mounted high on two sawhorses, he tugged out a lightweight suit coat of beige silk, the only one he had, a thrift-store purchase from six years ago. He sniffed it; not too musty, good for another end of summer, soon to turn into autumn.

Peter let the old Porsche roll back out of the garage. The engine purred and then climbed into a sweet whine after he snicked the long, wood-knobbed shift into first gear.

Last he had heard, Phil had been traveling in Northern California, trying to unblock a novel. They hadn’t seen each other in months. Peter tried to think why friends wouldn’t stay in touch from week to week or even day to day. Some of his brightest moments had been with Phil; Phil could light up a room when he wanted to.

Peter wiped his eye and looked at his dry knuckle. Maybe tonight. But Helen might drop off Lindsey, and if he started crying with Lindsey around, that might rip open a wound that he could not afford to even touch.

Numbness set in. He drove toward the ocean and Salammbo, the estate of Joseph Adrian Benoliel.


The sunset beyond the hills and water was gorgeous in a sullied way: lapis sky, the sun a yellow diamond hovering over the gray line of the sea, dimmed by a tan ribbon of smog. Peter Russell pushed along in second gear, between lines of palm trees and golf-green lawn spotted with eucalyptus. Flaubert House cast a long cool shadow across the drive and the golf-green approach. Crickets were starting to play their hey-baby tunes.

Salammbo covered twenty acres of prime highland Malibu real estate. She had survived fires, earthquakes, landslides, the Great Depression, the fading careers of two movie stars, and tract-home development. In more than thirty years in Los Angeles and the Valley, Peter had never encountered anything like her—two huge, quirky mansions set far apart and out of sight of each other, looking down descending hills and through valleys rubbed thick with creosote bush and sage to Carbon Beach.

Here was illusion at its finest: the fantasy that peace can be bought, that power can sustain, that time will rush by but leave the finer things untouched: eccentricity, style, and all the walls that money can buy. Life goes on, Salammbo said with sublime self-assurance, especially for the rich. But the estate’s history was not so reassuring.

Salammbo was a nouveau-riche vision of heaven: many mansions “builded for the Lord.” The lord in this case had died in 1946: Lordy Trenton—not a real lord but an actor in silent comedies—had risen from obscurity in the Catskills for a good twelve-year run against Chaplin, Keaton, and Lloyd. His character—a drunken aristocrat, basically decent but prone to causing enormous trouble—had palled on audiences even before the onset of the Depression. Trenton had gotten out of acting while the getting was grand. One grand, to be precise, which is the price for which he had sold all rights to his films in 1937.

During the Depression, Lordy had invested in sound equipment for the movies and made big money. In the mid-thirties, he had built Flaubert House and then started to erect what some architectural critics at the time referred to as Jesus Wept. Trenton’s friends called it the Mission. The Mission featured a huge circular entry beneath a dome decorated with Moorish tile, high vaulted ceilings, bedrooms furnished in wrought iron and dark oak, an austere refectory that could seat a hundred, and a living room that by itself occupied two thousand square feet. It consumed much of his fortune.

In the early forties, beset by visions of a Japanese invasion of California, Lordy connected Flaubert House and the Mission with a quarter-mile underground tramway, complete with bomb shelter. He lined the smoothly plastered stone-and-brick tunnel with a gallery of nineteenth-century European oils. At the same time, he became involved with a troubled young artist and sometime actress, Emily Gaumont. After their marriage in 1944, she spent her last year obsessively painting full-sized portraits of Lordy and many of their friends—as clowns.

In 1945, during a party, a fire in the tunnel killed Emily and ten visitors and destroyed the tram. Four of the dead—including Emily, so the story went—were burned beyond recognition.

A year later, alone and broken by lawsuits, Trenton died of acute alcohol poisoning.

The next owner, a department-store magnate named Greel, in his late sixties, acquired a mistress, allegedly of French Creole descent. To please her, he spent a million dollars finishing the Mission in Louisiana Gothic, mixing the two styles to jarring effect. The name Jesus Wept acquired permanence.

Greel died in 1949, a suicide.

From the Hardcover edition.

Meet the Author

Greg Bear is the author of more than twenty-five books, which have been translated into seventeen languages. His most recent novel is Darwin’s Children. He has been awarded two Hugos and five Nebulas for his fiction. He is married to Astrid Anderson Bear, and they are the parents of two children, Erik and Alexandra. Visit the author’s Web site at www.gregbear.com.

From the Hardcover edition.

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Dead Lines 3.3 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 4 reviews.
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Peter Russell¿s life turned out much different than he expected. He wanted to write books but instead made a living taking picture and making movies of naked people when the soft porn industry flat-lined. Now he is a little more than an errand boy for movie producer and real estate executive Joseph Benoliel, dependant on him for cash. A consortium is trying to get Joseph to invest in Trans, a wireless telephone that uses a broad bandwidth so that people can communicate with each other almost instantaneously.

The people making the Trans are giving them away as a promotional gimmick and folks all over the world have one. The transponder that is heart of the Trans is located in the bowels of San Andrea Prison. The investors of the new means of communication didn¿t know that it interferes with the ghosts of the dead moving on. Earth is populated with ghosts and nobody knows how to get rid of them except Peter.

Fans of Peter Straub and Stephen King will love this old fashioned ghost story. From the very beginning of DEAD LINES, there is a sense of foreboding and of anticipation as readers wait for events to reveal themselves. Some might think that the protagonist wasted his life but in reality he experienced life as few people can and accepts the consequences. Greg Bear has written a horror novel that has the audience keeping the lights on at night to keep the ghosts away.

Harriet Klausner