Run for Your Life (Michael Bennett Series #2)by James Patterson, Michael Ledwidge
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:
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. The pressure is enough for anyone, but Mike also has to care for his 10 children-all of whom have come down with virulent flu at once!
Discovering a secret pattern in The Teacher's lessons, Detective Bennett realizes he has just hours to save New York from the greatest disaster in its history. From the #1 bestselling author comes RUN FOR YOUR LIFE, the continuation of his newest, electrifying series.
Read an Excerpt
Run for Your Life
By James Patterson, Michael Ledwidge
Grand Central PublishingCopyright © 2013 James Patterson Michael Ledwidge
All rights reserved.
IT WAS COMING on three a.m. when I finally managed to get myself smuggled out of Harlem by a uniform who owed me a favor.
As we negotiated the gridlock maze of news satellite vans, barricades, and mounted crowd-control cops, there still wasn't the slightest hint about who had killed D-Ray.
Any standoff that led to a death would have been bad enough, but this bizarre shooting was the department's worst nightmare come true. No matter how much evidence suggested that the NYPD wasn't responsible, it looked like we were. The rabble-rousers, conspiracy theorists, and their many friends in the New 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, there was the mountain of reports and other red tape I'd be facing come morning. I'd have 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, I was so burnt out from fatigue, unresolved tension, and worry about what lay ahead that I almost stumbled to the door. I craved a few hours of peaceful sleep as 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 Dominican doorman, Ralph, seemed pissed off that I had to wake him up. I liked Ralph, but I 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 and Polly Pocket debris that crunched underfoot were actually welcoming. I mustered up enough energy to lock up my service weapon and ammo in the pistol safe in my front hall closet. Then, totally wiped, I collapsed onto one of the high stools at 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 a cheeseburger, heavy on the bacon. With divinely sent, cop-wife wisdom, she knew that the only panaceas for the grim reality of the streets were grease, cold beer, a shower, and bed, with her warm beside me.
A strange moment of clarity pierced my weariness, and I realized that she hadn't just been my love—she'd been my life support. On nights like this, the really bad ones, she'd listen for hours if I needed to talk, and understand completely when I couldn't.
Right then, more than anything in the world, I longed to feel her fingers caress the back of my neck as she told me that I'd tried my best. That sometimes there's nothing we can do. I would circle her waist with my hands, and her magic would 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 found any 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 quote a poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay. It kept ringing in my ears lately, like a song 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 head sagged, 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 pool of something sticky. I examined the stuff, sniffed it, then tasted it: grape jelly, Welch's finest, covering not just my hand, but my whole suit jacket sleeve.
Living without you isn't the only thing that's impossible, I told Maeve while I stood up on tired legs to search for a paper towel.
How can I take care of all our kids the way only you could?
I WAS HOPELESS on the domestic front, all right. I couldn't even find a paper towel. I rinsed off the jelly with water as well as I could, and put the suit coat in a closet with some other clothes that were waiting to be dry-cleaned. My luck started looking better when I poked around inside the fridge. There was a Saran-wrapped plate of baked ziti on a shelf, and I dug up a can of Coors Light buried beneath half a case of Capri Suns in the drink drawer. I set the microwave humming, and I was just crunching open my Silver Bullet when a hair-raising sound emanated from the dark interior of my apartment—a sort of howling moan followed by a long, unholy splatter. Then it happened again, only in a different tone.
As I slowly lowered my untouched brew, I was visited by one of those blink moments I'd read about. Though my conscious mind wasn't sure what was causing those noises, some deeper instinct warned me that it signaled a danger that any sane person would flee with all his might.
Against my better judgment, I staggered down the hall in that direction. Peering around a corner, I spotted a bar of light under the rear bathroom door. I tiptoed to it and slowly twisted the knob.
I stood rooted there, speechless with visceral horror. My instincts had been all too correct. I should have fled when I had the chance.
Not one, not two, but three of my children were projectile-vomiting into the tub. It was like looking at an outtake from The Exorcist while you were seeing triple. I reared back as Ricky, Bridget, and Chrissy hurled again, each one's upchuck triggered by the previous one, like they were trying to puke a campfire round. Think Vesuvius, Krakatoa, and Mount Saint Helens all going off in musical succession.
Before I could catch myself, I made the mistake of breathing through my nose. My stomach lurched precariously. I blessed my stars that I hadn't had a chance to eat during the Harlem siege, or to get started on the ziti. Otherwise, yours truly would have chimed in a fourth eruption of his own.
My Irish nanny, Mary Catherine, was right beside the kids, her golden ringlets bouncing out from beneath a red bandanna as she mopped furiously at the blowback they left. She had wisely put on elbow-length, industrial rubber gloves and covered her face with another bandanna, but I could see from her eyes—usually crisp blue, but now damp and faded—that she was as exhausted as I was.
She gave me a quick wave, then pulled off the bandanna and said, in her lilting brogue, "Mike, remember before you left for work, I told you Chrissy was looking a little green?"
I nodded mutely, still struggling to absorb the enormity of the situation.
"I think that flu that's been going around school has arrived," Mary Catherine said. "Repent, for the plague is upon us."
I crossed myself solemnly, trying to pick up her joke to make us both feel a little better. But a nervous part of me wasn't entirely kidding. The way things had been going, maybe this was the plague.
"I've got it from here, Mary," I said, taking the mop from her. "You're officially off duty."
"That, I most certainly am not," she said indignantly. "Now, the Tylenol is in the cabinet over the sink, but we're running out of cough syrup, and—"
"And enough," I said, pointing toward the stairs to her upstairs apartment, formerly the maid's quarters. "I don't need any more patients to take care of."
"Oh? What makes you think you won't get sick?" She folded her arms in stubborn loyalty, which I'd come to know well. "Because you're a big tough copper?"
I sighed. "No—because I don't have time to. Get some sleep and you can take over in the morning, okay? That's what I'm going to need."
She wavered, then gave me a weary but sweet smile.
"You're not fooling anybody," Mary Catherine said. "But okay."
I MOANED along with the kids as the door closed behind Mary Catherine.
It's not that I don't love my children. I really do. But I'm the guardian of the kind of brood that would send Mother Teresa doctor-shopping for pharmaceutical assistance.
How's this for the Bennett lineup? Juliana, thirteen; Brian, twelve; Jane, eleven; Ricky, ten; Eddie, nine; twins Fiona and Bridget, eight; Trent, six; Shawna, five; and Chrissy, four. A total of ten, count them: two Hispanic, two black, one Asian, and the rest white. All of them are adopted. Pretty impressive, I know. Not many families can field a multicultural baseball team, plus a bench player.
It was primarily Maeve's idea. We started taking in her "stray angels," as she called our gang way back before Brangelina got into the act. How could either of us have foreseen the nightmare of her death from cancer at the age of thirty- eight?
I wasn't completely alone, thank God. Mary Catherine had appeared like a gift from heaven while Maeve was dying, and for some unfathomably merciful reason, she still hadn't fled screaming. My crotchety grandfather-turned-priest, Seamus, was pastor of Holy Name Church, just around the corner. He'd wangled the job so he could help with the kids and disapprove of me, but the disapproval was a small price to pay for his help.
But it had been nearly impossible to take care of my young ones even when their mother was still alive and they were perfectly healthy. What was I going to do with the apartment transformed into a children's ward at a hospital?
A thousand worries sprang up in my already stress-racked head. How was I going to get the well kids to school? What about taking the sick ones to a doctor's office? How much sick leave did I have left? Had I paid this month's health insurance premium on time? And what about the missed schoolwork? An image of the kids' strong-willed, meticulous principal, Sister Sheilah, loomed in my mind like a specter.
I palmed my forehead and took a deep breath. I was a trained problem solver, I reminded myself. I could get us through this. It was temporary—a rough spot for sure, but a brief one. Like in any survival situation, the worst thing I could do was panic.
I bent down over Chrissy, my youngest, as she began to wail at the tippity-top of her lungs. Through her thin Backyardigans pj top, I could feel her burning up with fever. So were her copatients, Ricky and Bridget. They all started whining for ginger ale.
Me, too, I thought, searching around frantically for Mary Catherine's spare bandanna. And let's not spare the Jack Daniel's.
THE MAN IN the beautifully tailored, two-button Givenchy suit had finished his morning's work with his usual expertise and speed. Many things in his life had changed since he had seen the truth—he was a new man now—but his superior intelligence and skills remained intact.
As he stepped into the garage of the stately Locust Valley home, he heard the lawn sprinklers kick on. He glanced at the black dial of his stainless-steel Rolex Explorer. Seven a.m. sharp. Excellent: he was running ahead of schedule, just the way he liked it.
He opened the gleaming door of the BMW 720Li, placed his Vuitton briefcase on the passenger seat, and swung his long, muscular legs under the steering wheel. As he adjusted the rearview mirror, he caught his own reflection. With his lean, brutally chiseled features, his razor-straight, collar-length black hair, and piercing, almost royal blue eyes, he looked like a model in a Vanity Fair ad. He smiled, showing himself his dimples and his perfect, gleaming white teeth.
He had it all, didn't he? he thought.
The V12 engine of the luxury BMW sedan came to life with an elegant explosion when he turned the key.
Too bad "it all" wasn't nearly enough.
While the engine warmed, the New Man took a Palm Treo 750 smart phone from his silk-lined inside jacket pocket. The little gadget could do everything: phone, e-mail, surf the Web. He clicked on Microsoft Tasks and opened the file he'd been working on.
It was a mission statement, a brief written summary of his goals, philosophy, and ambitions. He'd actually gotten the idea from the movie Jerry Maguire, of all places. In it, Tom Cruise's character sends out a mission statement that gets everyone all riled up.
That was precisely what the New Man was going to do today.
Except this was no movie.
He still liked Cruise, even though Cruise had made a fool of himself on Oprah with his couch-jumping antics. Maybe it was the slight resemblance they shared, but the New Man considered him a kind of a role model, almost a psychic brother. Cruise was a perfectionist, a peerless professional, a winner—just like himself.
Rereading the document for the hundredth time, he knew it was complete. The only problem that remained was how to sign it. There was no way he could use his real name, and the "New Man" wasn't distinguished enough. He could feel the true name hovering at the edge of his mind, but he couldn't quite reel it in. Well, it would come, he thought, closing the Treo down and tucking it back into his jacket. The important things always did.
He jauntily tapped the garage door opener on the Beemer's visor, and backed out smoothly toward the daylight flooding in through the rising door.
Then his passing glance caught the rearview mirror again—just in time to see the immense grille of a Lincoln Navigator, parked in the driveway directly in his path.
He slammed on the brakes barely in time to keep from ramming the Navigator and turning the shiny, showy grille into a twisted chunk of metal.
He exhaled a seething breath through his gritted teeth and wrenched the gearshift into park. Goddamn Erica! She had to leave her monster SUV right there, didn't she? Exactly in the one spot where he couldn't get around it. Now he'd have to go back inside the house, find the keys, move it, then start all over again in the Beemer. Like he wasn't in a distinct rush here. Like he didn't have important things to do. Erica wouldn't understand that—she'd never had anything important to do.
And now, she never would.
That thought made him feel a little better, but when he strode back to the Navigator three minutes later, his annoyance erupted all over again. This was cutting into his comfortable extra margin of time.
He twisted the key in the ignition so hard it bent, floored the accelerator, and threw the tranny into reverse. The SUV's seventeen-inch tires screamed as it rocketed backward, streaking rubber down the length of the herringbone-patterned limestone driveway. Instead of curving along with it, he kept going straight, onto the immaculate lawn. The spinning tires tore deep gouges and threw up tufts of shining green grass.
Leaving the Navigator's engine running, he parked the BMW, much more carefully, on the deserted suburban street. He was feeling a little calmer now. He was almost done with this crap, almost back where he'd started, and still ahead of schedule.
Then, as he was getting into the Navigator to return it to where it had been, a cold jet of water from a sprinkler pop-up lashed across the back of his designer suit from his shoulders to his waist.
His blue eyes practically smoked with fury, and he almost started pounding on the steering wheel with the heels of his hands. But a memory cut in, from an anger management therapy session he'd been ordered to take part in several years before. The therapist had concentrated on techniques to ratchet down his destructive rage: count backward from ten, breathe deeply, clench his fists, and pretend he was squeezing oranges.
Squeeze your oranges, he could almost hear her soothing voice saying to him. Then flick, flick, flick off the juice.
He gave it a try. Squeeze and flick. Squeeze and flick.
The sprinkler jet shot across the Navigator again, pissing into his face through the open window.
"I'll show you anger management, you idiot bitch!" he snarled, and stomped on the accelerator.
Spraying grass and chunks of limestone, the SUV hurtled straight through the garage and into the back wall at thirty-five miles per hour. The crash was like a bomb going off in a phone booth, with studs splintering and clouds of drywall dust billowing through the air.
Excerpted from Run for Your Life by James Patterson, Michael Ledwidge. Copyright © 2013 James Patterson Michael Ledwidge. Excerpted by permission of Grand Central Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Meet the Author
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.
- Palm Beach, Florida
- Date of Birth:
- March 22, 1947
- Place of Birth:
- Newburgh, New York
- B.A., Manhattan College, 1969; M.A., Vanderbilt University, 1971
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Since all of these reviews except one are without reading the book first, it's my turn. James Patterson went from a great author to a miserable one with this co-author army that pumps out 10 150 page books (- the blank spaces) a year that you can read in 2-3 hours. Even Cross Country was terrible, the worst Alex Cross book yet. The Sail? Please - what a Joke. What's next, JP with Donald Duck as that's what we have been getting lately. He'll still make his millions on people who thrive on these mindless reads. Want a real mystery novel? Try Baldacci, Connelley, Deaver and Daniel Kalla for medical mysteries. They will never disappoint you.
THIS IS ONE OF THOSE BOOKS YOU BETTER MAKE TIME FOR BECAUSE ONCE YOU START IT YOU WILL NOT WANT TO PUT IT DOWN. I TOTALLY ENJOYED THE STORYLINE, THE CHARACTERS, THE BEGINNING, THE MIDDLE AND THE VERY SATISFYING ENDING.
I very much enjoyed Run for Your Life. As all of Patterson's novels, it is fast-paced with continuous action and a sympathetic lead detective. I enjoyed Run for Your Life in part because it had less gore than most other thrillers and even the killer was unusually interesting. How can you not be drawn in by someone whose mission is to teach the wealthy and arrogant of NYC manners? Plus, Run for Your Life introduces us to a fun new detective. I was drawn in by Detective Michael Bennett and the insight that comes from his role in NYPD Tactical Assistance Response Unit. The light hint of romance adds to Michael Bennett's charm. Publisher: Grand Central Publishing; 1 edition (October 20, 2009), 416 pages. Review copy provided by the publisher.
Being a cop in a large city such as New York can be a very difficult job in the work you perform, the job you take home with you, and the perpetrators that are always in your mind. Detective Michael Bennett had been a cop for quite a few years and thought he had met some weird criminals but this new perp that called himself The Teacher was possibly the worst ever. He was killing, seemingly taking no definite direction regarding his victims as to location or individuality. And his killing was increasing too quickly to keep up with or where he would next strike. Bennett had lost his wife, Mauve, less than a year ago. She was his rock and salvation being there to give Michael comfort when he came home downhearted because of work problems. Mauve knew how to "be there" for him whether it was a hug, a beer, words of encouragement, or anything else that caused him to be out of sorts. But Mauve wasn't there now, only his nanny, Mary Catherine, who lived in a nearby apartment, filled in caring for the ten adopted children he and Mauve had adopted and loved so much. Huge problems existed in the Bennett apartment when the kids started coming down with some bug and were vomiting, sometimes not in the proper place! Thank God Mary Catherine was there to assist with the kids. Amidst the sickness Bennett was trying to find this killer that struck anywhere, anytime, and dressed himself in ways that made it even more difficult to track and find. Several task forces were formed due to pressure the Police Commissioner was placing on Bennett and all that had been thrown into the fray. Days went on with no further progress in the killers search but Bennett's kids still were taking their turns puking. Poor Michael and poor Mary Catherine. Rest for both was hard to get. A reporter had broken some news not released and Bennett's superiors accused him of leaking the information. The Teacher escalated his killing using more disguises and appearing in the least likely areas to do his killing. The police always seemed to be one step behind. The Teacher sent his "mission statement" to the reporter who took it to Bennett. She wanted to get on his good side now. The statement made no sense other than he would kill more unless certain statements he wanted published we so done. Eventually the Teacher and Bennett made contact by email but there was still no information on where this guy was or where he would strike next. You certainly have the gist of the story now and I consider "Run For Your Life" one of the best these authors have written in some time. I used to always read every James Patterson book, even the ones he co-authored. The last book I was very disappointed in after reading and did not even write a review. This book is very well written with a very good story and great characters.
This is the secord book i read by James Patterson. I read "Sail" and liked it a lot. This book was not believable, not captivating. I though the plot was not complex, and the main character was no appealing. Before this book, i read "The Associate" by Grisham and loved it. I hope this book is just one bad apple for Patterson, i purchased "The 8th Confession" and i am really hoping i like it better. Will let you know.
This is a good bok for a plane ride but not when you want something to really sink yout teath into. Some parts are completely unbeleivable.
James Patterson is throwing his reputation as a exciting author down the drain. With his partnering of unknown writers, the large print and short chapters, his books are not worth the money. A man with 10 children could not do what Michael Bennett does for a living. I know it's fiction, but it's also unbelievable. Totally......
I'm an avid Patterson fan - so what happened to this book???? One of the worst I have ever read of his. I'm not sure if I shouldn't buy another Patterson book with Michael Ledwidge on the cover or not. Talk about boring - how you could take a plot that had potential and totally bore the reader to death with details that don't even matter or have anything to do with the book! Who cares if the main character's character has 10 kids - that is unbelievable enough - but how time and detail went into his kids throwing up, him stepping in, smells, etc. - I mean who cares??? Patterson used to be goog - BUT I'm wondering if he just signs his name on to the book cover and never reads it???? So, bottom line, for the cost of hardbacks - at this point - I will make sure I don't ever pick up a book with Patterson/Ledwidge combination again. He used to be the best - maybe he's just too tired to write stories anymore or even care. This would be at best, a bargain store buy, so sorry I waited and bought it as soon as it came out at full price. Very discouraging to say the least!!!
He is my man I adore his book I wait for every book of his and I have to get it immediately. He is exciting and dont want the book to find can't wait for his new ones to come out.
This was not up to the regular standards. The family story was touching, it is hard for single working parents to do everything, especially with 10 children. But the killer was just too ordinary and not very exciting. I did finish it but would not recomend it.
Wide margins and double-spacing suggest this is a bit of a potboiler, but it's still fun. NYPD detective Michael Bennett faces down a serial killer who targets the city's snootier denizens. He also has a brood of ten kids at home who are down with the flu. How a cop can afford the monthly fees on an "inherited" luxury coop, as well as feed his ten kids and pay a nanny is never explained. But never mind. Expect the usual harrowing climax, complete with highly unlikely come-back-from-the-dead recoveries after serious throttling, not to mention hairbreadth escapes. Still, it's a good escapist book that can be finished within the day.
In this heart racing novel, many good and bad points surface about people and society as a whole. The author's ability to truly capture the thought process of a calculating murderer in such detail really helps the reader understand the overall situations throughout the book. As seen by this example 'but so was the profane hollowness she called her life that she either hadn't noticed or didn't care that she had offended a fellow human being.'(page 41) Not only is this novel narrated through the protagonist's point of view, but also the antagonist's. This made the story more interesting as the readers would have to pay close attention, but also required of them to remember details about each character. Although this novel is fiction Patterson managed to create real life situations and captured the society's reactions to people and events quite accurately. As seen on page 44, 'people still watched him, but no one was going to challenge a man who looked like him, on the word of a woman who looked like her...' However, due to the usage of some strong, unnecessary and overall offensive language did take away from the story. Overall this story is a definite 'must have' to any reader who enjoys action, ingenious plots, and thrilling suspense within a novel.
Patterson has been up and down in his mass attack of book over the past few years but this one is back to Patterson spot on. A page turner that will leave you sweating. Like Cross it gets back to the roots! Read you be happy you'll did
Whilst I agree with others that co-authored James Patterson books in general are lack-luster and are for the most part disappointing, this one's a gem. It's every bit as good as a true James Patterson endeavor! This partnership with Michael Ledwidge is a winner. Looking forward to another!
I know that there are times where I would like to scream at the obnoxious person talking loudly on their cell phone in a public place without a care to the others around them, but when the Teacher in James Patterson novel, RUN FOR YOUR LIFE talks it to the extreme and pushes her onto the tracks of an income subway train. The Teacher is the latest protagonist in a Patterson story and he continues to murder those he deems rich, obnoxious and not caring about the importance of all our lives. New York City Detective Michael Bennett starts putting the pieces together and tries to track down the Teacher while trying to maintain a family for his ten motherless children. As with many of Patterson's books, this is a fast-paced, easy read. One can devour it one sunny day at the beach. But the thrills are beginning to fade. His stories tend to formulaic and even the twist at the end did not make for a good book. My wife loves James Patterson, but he puts out books too quickly for me to expect anything powerful.
Great new series for Patterson
Some of James new books are not up to par, especially when he writes with someone else. This one was very good, Patterson Style. For anyone who wants to read a good mystery by him, this one is great.
This seems like Patterson has run out of steam with Alex Cross so is trying to invent a new detective. It DOES NOT WORK. A detective with 10 adopted kids whose characters do not truly develop (and who cares). Far too much time trying to create a family we care about rather than concentrating on the case in hand which should be the thrill of the chase. I love reading Patterson but this reminded me of too many recent movies I have seen. Certainly not one of his best.
A menace is loose in the Big Apple, punishing the rich that don't have good manners. Calling himself "The Teacher," this menace has gone on a killing spree in New York City. Co-authors James Patterson and Michael Ledwidge take you through a suspenseful thriller that might just leave you scared in their book Run for Your Life. The story takes place in the magnificent and sometimes scary New York City. The main character Michael Bennett is a police detective for the NYPD. The story gets right into the suspense as it starts with a touchy hostage situation. Bennett is also a widow and has to take care of his ten adopted children. His life gets quite hectic trying to do his stressful job while taking care of the kids, especially when all of them come down with the flu. When word of a murder hits, Bennett is assigned to the case. A second murder occurs at the 21 Club by a bicycle messenger. After studying evidence, Bennett decides that the murders are related. It is the work of The Teacher. He says he is tired of the impoliteness in New York and is punishing those who don't have manners. Bennett is determined to catch this menace so New Yorkers will calm down. Patterson and Ledwidge create a suspenseful situation that makes you feel like you are actually there. The ending twists and turns and gives you a sense of satisfaction. If you love James Patterson's mysteries, you will love this one even more. With the combined mind of Michael Ledwidge, this suspense thriller is one of a kind. This book is mind twisting and fun to read.
I love JP but I am feeling disappointed lately. It is true that he has way too many books out with co-authors that were no good. Even Cross Country was a huge disappointment.
I have read ALL of James Pattersons books. The very best is The Jester and The Beach House. I sure hope that this new book, Run for your Life, is good cause if not I think James will continue to loss his fans.
Anyway, on another note,there is a new author by the name of Chelsea Cain that is fantastic. She only has 2 books out, HeartSick (part 1) and Sweetheart (part 2). While part one was good, I must say part 2 will knock your socks off!!!! I am sure looking forward to a part 3. Go pick up these books, they will not disappoint.
A very good read! Read it and you will see!