So Close the Hand of Death (Taylor Jackson Series #6)

So Close the Hand of Death (Taylor Jackson Series #6)

4.4 64
by J. T. Ellison

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It's a hideous echo of a violent past. Across America, murders are being committed with all the twisted hallmarks of the Boston Strangler, the Zodiac Killer and Son of Sam. The media frenzy explodes and Nashville homicide lieutenant Taylor Jackson knows instantly that The Pretender is back…and he's got helpers.

As The Pretender's disciples perpetrate their


It's a hideous echo of a violent past. Across America, murders are being committed with all the twisted hallmarks of the Boston Strangler, the Zodiac Killer and Son of Sam. The media frenzy explodes and Nashville homicide lieutenant Taylor Jackson knows instantly that The Pretender is back…and he's got helpers.

As The Pretender's disciples perpetrate their sick homages—stretching police and the FBI dangerously thin—Taylor tries desperately to prepare for their inevitable showdown. And she must do it alone. To be close to her is to be in mortal danger, and she won't risk losing anyone she loves. But the isolation, the self-doubt and the rising body count are taking their toll—she's beside herself and ready to snap.

The brilliant psychopath who both adores and despises her is drawing close. Close enough to touch….

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Those who like plots about a desperate effort to catch multiple serial killers before they can add to their body count will welcome Ellison's sixth Taylor Jackson thriller (after The Immortals). A Nashville homicide lieutenant, Jackson has no time to breathe between psychopaths. Having foiled the savage killer known as Snow White, she must now contend with Snow White's protégé, the Pretender, who's arranged for several murderers to commit crimes around the country patterned on those of the Boston Strangler, Son of Sam, and the Zodiac Killer. As so often happens in such books, Jackson and her team get a handle on the Pretender's likely true identity early on, then try to figure out what mask he's been hiding behind to escape detection. Ellison offers few genuine surprises and little depth, but airport readers seeking to kill a few hours could do worse. (Mar.)

Product Details

Publication date:
Taylor Jackson Series, #6
Product dimensions:
4.10(w) x 6.60(h) x 1.20(d)

Read an Excerpt

Boston, Massachusetts 8:12 p.m.



Subject: Boston

Dear Troy, All is well.


Quiet, except for the pounding of his heart.

She was home now, the week of late nights at the office finally over. He'd been starting to wonder if she'd ever make it back and was amused at the relief he felt when he saw her trundling down the street, her heavy wool coat dragging her steps. He had been more concerned than he expected, considering the stakes. This was just a game for him, after all. A lovely game.

She'd walked right past the truck without giving him a second glance. A few feet more and she was at her building. The wrought-iron kissing gate was broken, listing slightly, ajar. She pushed it open with her left hand and plodded up the steps. He watched with his head bent, eyes slid to the side as she unlocked the door and slipped inside. She never turned her head, never thought for a moment that she wasn't safe. Her millionth mistake this week.

He'd give it just one more minute, let her get upstairs. He busied himself with the package, the hard, plastic electronic-signature tablet, the straps on the box, all the while counting.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi.

Once he hit sixty, he followed her path to the door. He pushed his finger into the white button, heard the shrill bell ringing. A woman's voice, tinny and thin, said, "Yes?"

"Delivery for June Earhart."

She buzzed him in without saying anything else. The door unlocked with a snap and he pulled it wide, allowing enough room for the handcart to fit in, adjusting his cap lower on his head. He didn't want his face to be seen. There were cameras in the foyer, he knew from earlier reconnaissance.

He thought about his target. He loved the way June looked. Brown hair, brown eyes, five foot six, somewhat lumpy, but that was just because she enjoyed her food and didn't exercise. Not lazy, never lazy. Just… padded.

He'd watched her take lunch all this week: Monday was McDonald's, Tuesday Subway, Wednesday a couple of iced crullers and a sugary juice smoothie from Dunkin' Donuts. Thursday she'd stayed in, but this afternoon she'd gone for a grinder, thick with salami and ham and cheese, with a side of potato chips. He wondered if she would smell like onions or if she'd been considerate enough to chew some gum, or suck on a Tic-Tac. He'd wager the latter; June was a self-conscious woman.

Granted, she'd walked from her office to each of these places, but she'd passed the pita joint and the all-natural juice-and-salad bar on the way. She chose the fattening food, and he knew it was because she was afraid to be alone but needed a defense mechanism to justify her single status to herself. He knew she sat in her dingy apartment, night after night, reading fitness and yoga magazines, dreaming about what it would be like to have a hard, lithe body, knowing that if she did, if she put in the effort, then she would be irresistible. And irresistible meant the paralegal from the office next door would notice her.

But she was afraid, and so dreamed only, her traitorous actions affording her a little more time. He knew she planned to join a gym at the beginning of the new year—it had been scribbled in purple ink on a list of possible New Year's resolutions discarded in her kitchen trashcan. He bet she made that resolution every year. June was the type of woman who made New Year's resolutions in November and never, ever saw them through. A woman who dreamed. A woman who would buzz a total stranger into her building because she never expected to be a victim.

His kind of woman.

The handcart made the trip awkward, bumping, bumping, bumping along the risers as he climbed. It would have helped if June hadn't ordered wine—he could have carried a normal box up the stairs. But this fit the image he had of a delivery man. Safe and unassuming, too busy with his work to be a threat.

He was at the door of June's second-story walk-up now. He straightened his cap, arranged the handcart in front of him, the heavy wooden box tied tightly to the metal. He felt in his pocket—yes, everything was there. He arranged his features into something close to a smile and knocked.

June opened the door, still a little out of breath from her climb up the stairs. She'd taken off the heavy coat but her scarf was still wound around her neck in a breathtaking knot. Face-to-face with her, he didn't realize that he'd frozen until she said, "Kind of late for a delivery, isn't it?"

Moving his lips even wider over his teeth, he said, "Yes, ma'am. Apologies, ma'am. Got behind today."

"I never thought the damn stuff would get here. Put it over there," June said, pointing to an uncluttered alcove just before the kitchen. The same alcove he'd been in last night, watching June watch television. She'd never known he was there, and he'd slipped out after she fell asleep.

He wrestled the handcart into the foyer and made for the alcove, reached into his pocket and depressed the call button on his disposable phone. June's phone began to ring. He saw a brief flicker of debate in her eyes, then she shrugged and let the door close behind him as she started toward the living room to attend to the call. The moment her back was turned, he attacked. He whipped her scarf up into her mouth so she couldn't scream, then picked her up and moved toward the bedroom. Might as well be comfortable about it.

She was struggling, so he clouted her over the ear, just enough to daze her. That did the trick. June's eyes got woozy and the panic in them dulled. He stripped her down and tossed her on the bed, but took care in removing his own clothing piece by piece, folding the brown pants with the seams in, the shirt with sleeves together, then in half. He'd need to reclothe the driver, he didn't want anything getting on the uniform. June was groggy but cognizant, and when he rolled on the condom and took her, she tried to scream and get away. But he was much bigger, much stronger, and she had no chance. All her wriggling made it go quicker than he'd prefer, but at the end, he wrapped the trailing ends of the scarf around her throat and pulled them tight…and felt another kind of release flow through his veins.

When her eyes bugged out he pulled the scarf tighter still, watching critically as her skin turned a mottled red, and the whites of her eyes began to fill with blood. After three long, excruciating, joyful minutes, she went completely limp beneath him.

He cleaned up quickly, the truck was sure to be noticed soon. When everything was in place, he unwound the scarf from her neck and tied it in a jaunty bow. He kissed June on the forehead, briefly felt sorry that she'd never make it to the gym, dressed carefully then left the apartment, locking the push button lock behind him. He was surprised at how quietly the door closed, a silent witness to the death of its owner and the stranger going gently into that good night.

The night air was brisk. Snow was coming. He turned up his collar and pushed the handcart in front of him to the delivery truck. He'd been lucky: the original driver was his size, and his uniform fit perfectly. He clambered into the truck, drove around the corner to a quiet, deserted cul-de-sac. He stripped, replaced the brown uniform with his own street clothes, struggled a bit getting the dead limbs of the driver back into the arm and leg holes, but finally had things in their proper places. He patted the empty-eyed driver on the head. Collateral damage, but necessary.

He looked out the window on either side. The street was empty, the lights off in the two houses that flanked him. He was confident he hadn't been seen. He slid out the side of the truck and started to whistle, a tune he'd long forgotten. Strangers in thenight…exchanging glances…

One down. Many, many more to go.

New York, New York 10:12 p.m.



Subject: New York

Dear Troy,

Hey man. I'm on schedule.


The bag was rustling, damn it. He knew keeping the gun in the bag wasn't a good idea. Every step he took, all he could hear was the crackle, crackle, crackle against his leg. How was he supposed to sneak up on anyone like this? And he couldn't take the gun out and carry it properly—this was New York, after all. A cop on every corner, a chicken in every pot. Tourists every few steps, wide-eyed and camera happy.

The directions had been explicit, though. The paper bag was required.

The dog made me do it. The dog, the dog, the dog.

There. He was back in character.

A light snow began to fall. He knew it was dusting his body, his head, but he couldn't feel it, he'd pulled a black watch cap over his bald scalp. He got too cold otherwise. He crossed Houston and jogged into Washington Square Park, skipping around a puddle. Crackle, crackle, crackle. Maybe if he put his hand in his pocket he could shush the noise, but no, he'd look furtive and strange walking with his hand deep in his cargo pants. He remembered the instructions. Don't draw attention to yourself. Walk tall, shoulders back, meet the eyes of those you pass. No one remembers the ones who look at you. They only remember the ones who look away.

The dog made me do it.

He spied his quarry. Two men leaning close in to one another, one blond, one dark, oblivious on the green park bench. He felt his heart soar. Everything was going according to plan. Unbeknownst to their wives, who thought their respective spouses were at the gym—or a card game, or a movie, a late dinner, a meeting run long, terrible traffic—the men came to this bench every night. They sat and talked and dreamed together. Sometimes, if they were feeling terribly risky, a finger would softly stroke a palm, or a bit of pressure would be felt against a thigh. And on the glorious nights—the ones they both looked forward to the most—after a decent interval of time, they'd slink, one after the other, to a small, dingy apartment they borrowed for their occasional physical assignations, make hurried love, then disappear back to their lives. No one could know. No one did know.

Except one. And now two.

The dog made me do it.

He walked right up to them, the fornicators. The wretched, abnormal bastards. He stopped three feet away, reached in his pocket and pulled out an American Spirit. He lit it, took a long, hard drag and blew a plume of smoke out of his nose. He knew he looked like a dragon, did it again for his own amusement.

They hadn't looked up. They were completely wrapped up in their conversation. He felt a moment of disgust—men weren't supposed to feel like that about one another, it wasn't right—but their distraction was good. He was just another guy on the street, taking a smoke break. He finished the cigarette, savoring the deep, husky burn in his lungs, then tossed the butt away into the bushes.

He glanced over his shoulder. Washington Square was strangely deserted. It must be the cold, or providence. The angel sitting on his shoulder squeaked. He ignored him, like he'd been ignoring him for the past six weeks. He was bored, and ready. Ready to have some fun.

The men leaned closer together.

He sniffed once, like he was deciding what to do, then whipped the gun out of his pants pocket. The suppressor coughed and blood burst from the wounds. Two shots, each to the head. They never knew what hit them. He crumpled the letter and tossed it at them, then fled. The sinners slumped together, gray sweats and red brains commingling on the hard cold bench, little spatters of blood dropping into the dusting of snow beneath them. He heard the drip as he left.

The dog made me do it.

He was a block away when his angel told him he wasn't crackling anymore. Son of a bitch. He searched his pockets and found nothing but the gun, his cigarettes and the lighter. The bag had come out with the gun and dropped to the ground, he'd been too caught up in the furious noises the angel was making to notice. Shit. He wasn't supposed to leave anything behind except the note. Shit, shit.

He snapped right out of character, panic invading his bloodstream.

The angel talked to him. Breathe. That's good, man. Breathe. Keep walking. It's just a brown paper bag, not like anyone can identify where it came from. He made a mental note to throw the receipt for the package of lunch bags away as soon as he got home, just in case. He didn't want to leave anything behind that might implicate him. Orders were orders, after all.

The angel was on a roll now. Fucking dog. Who blames a dog? Some crazy ass motherfucker, that's who. Dog made me do it, my ass.

He wasn't a very good angel.

Behind him, sirens started. He felt the panic start in the pit of his stomach, gone watery at the noise. He needed to go. He needed to run. He started to break away, but the angel yelled in his ear.

Walk, homey. Walk away.

He stopped, and took a deep breath. Remembered the look of surprise on their faces. Turned to look at a bar window as the flashing lights cruised past, feigning interest. Just another guy on his way home, thinking about stopping in for one more drink. Smiled into his beard.

All in all, it had been a good night.

San Francisco, California 11:00 p.m.



Subject: San Francisco

Dear Troy,

It's going well. Will be in touch if anything goes wrong.


His palms were sweating.

He fought the urge to vomit, swallowed hard against the rising gorge. The gloves felt tight, itchy, claustrophobic. Defying orders, he whisked them off. Cool air made his damp skin prickle. There. Better. He tucked the gloves into the back pocket of his black jeans. His grip on the gun became surer, stronger. The metal was slick, hot in his hand. He'd imagined this moment for years. Now he had a chance, a real chance, to fulfill his fantasies and make some money at the same time. Save himself from the day-to-day grind he was living. The hateful job that laid him off. The hateful house the bank was taking. The hateful car he could barely make payments on. He was homeless, broke and hungry to try his hand at murder. The money would be a nice bonus. This opportunity had come at the perfect time.

Meet the Author

J.T. Ellison is the bestselling author of the critically acclaimed Taylor Jackson series, including All The Pretty Girls, 14, Judas Kiss and The Cold Room. She is the bi-monthly Friday columnist at the Anthony Award nominated blog Murderati, and was named "Best Mystery/Thriller Writer of 2008" by the Nashville Scene.

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So Close the Hand of Death (Taylor Jackson Series #6) 4.4 out of 5 based on 1 ratings. 64 reviews.
L_Gondelman More than 1 year ago
The Boston Strangler, the Zodiac Killer, and the Son of Sam are all back. OK, well maybe not technically, but someone is out there killing in the same gruesome fashion as these notorious serial killers. With the murders happening across the nation it soon becomes apparent that they can-not possibly be the work of one killer, that there is a greater evil out there. An evil all to familiar to Taylor Jackson. The Pretender has returned. With this book taking place immediately after The Immortals ends, there is not one second for Taylor to stop and catch her breath, to deal with her emotions after having shot and killed a young man, or to process what happened to Fitz and figure out what is going on with Baldwin that he isn't talking about. But she needs to push all of that aside and once and for all take The Pretender down. She is over knowing that he's out there, waiting for her. She is sick with the thoughts that until The Pretender is caught, everyone she loves will be at his mercy, and there is nothing she can do about it. Will she be able to let others help her? Or will she find herself seeking her own kind of justice? Can she do what needs to be done? Can she protect the ones that mean the most to her against the one person that hates her the most? And when the ultimate betrayal comes who will be left standing to deal with the repercussions? So Close the Hand of Death is the sixth book in the Taylor Jackson series. The book can definitely be read as a stand-alone, but to get a deeper understanding of Taylor, her G-man fiance Baldwin, her medical examiner BFF Sam, and the rest of her team, you should read them in order (All the Pretty Girls, 14, Judas Kiss, The Cold Room, The Immortals). I'm keeping this review, as vague as possible to avoid any spoilers. If you pay close attention, virtually everything that happens in this story is a clue about what has happened in the terrifying past, and what's going on in the intense present and what will happen in the explosive near future. There is no doubt J.T. Ellison is a master at her craft. Just when you think her last book is her best yet, you read the next one. And you realize just how wrong you were. So Close the Hand of Death is an edge-of-your-seat, white-knuckled, can't-turn-the-pages-fast-enough thriller - that will have you clutching the book as you turn pages almost faster than you can read them in - a desperate desire to find out what comes next.
dhaupt More than 1 year ago
Taylor Jackson get's word from her fiancé John Baldwin that her fellow team member and father figure Fitz has been found, alive as she's spiriting her way to him there is a macabre crime spree going on all across the country and Taylor fears that The Pretender is back that diabolical serial killer that mimics other serial killers and was the student of The Snow White Killer, he's been haunting her ever since he got away and it looks like his ghost may just have materialized. Taylor is now very afraid for all the people around her that she cherishes will be in the line of fire for this madman and she has to find a way to not only keep her loved ones safe but to find a way to permanently stop The Pretender. Taylor of course is helped by the one man who is her true soul mate and he's vowed to keep her safe at all costs, but there are still secrets he hasn't shared with Taylor and he's about to learn the cost of not coming clean. Ms. Ellison is a terrifyingly cleaver author to keep her stable of characters interesting by giving them the utmost in villains to find and eliminate. This plot is straight out of the dictionary of Hardboiled Crime Fiction with a diabolical evil doer who is Oscar worthy. It's an over the top crime with an over the top villain but that's what brings her fans back time after time. I also love the not quite cliffhanger but that hint of what's to come that brings me back novel after novel. If you're a fan then you're used to that no-nonsense in your face cop speak that Ms. Ellison uses and for her series and her characters it's very effective. Her characters rarely change so we get a chance to really get to know what makes them tick as well as keeping an eye on what they're up to now. Her heroine Taylor Jackson is a straight shooting good cop, not necessarily by the book, but always in the name of justice and what I really like about her is how she evolves with each subsequent novel as she learns how to be not only a better cop but a better friend/lover/person sometimes in spite of herself. Her other main characters from the cops to her friends to her significant other all take supporting role awards and I love the interaction between the characters. Her romance between John and Taylor is ongoing although not always smoothly and it's that certain angst that keeps her fans wondering what exactly is on the horizon for this couple. So all in all what it boils down to is this amazing talent that Ms. Ellison has in spinning a tale that keeps her fans glued to the pages and buying the next one in the series long before the published date. She has a unique style that's all her own but her plots remind me of Lisa Gardner's. One thing's for sure she can definitely bat in the majors because this is another home run. Well done Ms. Ellison you make it hard for me to patiently wait for the next installment in Taylor's life.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Awesome book even if you have no history with the series!
harstan More than 1 year ago
Across the United States copy cat serial killers of dead or jailed psychopaths surface. Law enforcement is stretched way too thin as the homicidal frenzy is from sea to shining sea. The media adds to the taut situation demanding underpaid and understaffed cops do their jobs. Nashville police homicide lieutenant Taylor Jackson knows who the mentor of these crazed killers is. The Pretender has returned with a horde of trained deadly predators imitating the worst murderers of society. She also knows his personal target is her as she has been for quite a while (see The Cold Room, for instance). The apprentice killers are just background noise to isolate her from support and to break her mentally with what happens to those who remain close to her. The Pretender is coming for the woman he cherishes and loathes for cherishing her. So Close the Hand of death is an exciting Taylor Jackson police procedural (see All The Pretty Girls) that grips the audience with suspense as fans anticipate the Pretender coming close enough to Jackson to either kiss or kill her. Fast-paved and tense from the onset, fans of the series will appreciate the latest case though wonder whether Jackson is a modern day Typhoid Mary as anyone who befriends her throughout the six books is in jeopardy from a serial killer. Harriet Klausner
BookAddictFL More than 1 year ago
When I read Ellison's first book in the Taylor Jackson series - All The Pretty Girls - I was immediately hooked. I loved Ellison's writing, as well as the characters she'd created. This is #6 in the series and, while I still love Ellison's writing, I'm not as enthralled with the direction the series has taken. Detective Taylor Jackson is constantly being persecuted, singled out by serial killers, chased, and otherwise endangered in a personal way. Her friends suffer for the mere fact of being close to her. For me, the storyline of Taylor's over-the-top endangerment has become so routine that it has ho-hum bordering on unbelievable feel. This would be a difficult book to read as a stand-alone. Ellison carries threads of each book through to the next. Killers come back for revenge and past cases haunt her. I'd suggest starting with the first book, so that you have a good feel of all that is going on. ** I received this ebook from Harlequin as an early review copy, through netGalley. **
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Lve this series!
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StephWard More than 1 year ago
"So Close the Hand of Death" is another superb crime thriller by best-selling author J.T. Ellison. Fans of her earlier novels will not be disappointed with the trouble that heroine Taylor Jackson finds herself in once again. The book is full of surprising plot twists and solid writing. The psychological cat and mouse game that goes on in the novel sets you at the edge of your seat and has you trying to guess what is going to happen until the very end. Ellison's characters are very rounded and built upon a strong background from her previous novels - which helps the reader to understand and sympathize with them all the better. "So Close the Hand of Death" is a wonderfully written, taut crime thriller that will make readers eager for the next adventures of Lt. Taylor Jackson. Disclosure: I received a free copy of the book from the publisher in exchange for an honest review.
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