Speaking in Tongues

Speaking in Tongues

4.1 17
by Jeffery Deaver

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A gripping thriller about an evangelistic preacher turned killer from New York Times bestselling author Jeffery Deaver.

In this bestselling “shocker” (Los Angeles Times), Jeffery Deaver delivers a tale of “chilling retribution” (Ottawa Citizen) sure to keep you up at night!

Aaron Matthews is a man with

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A gripping thriller about an evangelistic preacher turned killer from New York Times bestselling author Jeffery Deaver.

In this bestselling “shocker” (Los Angeles Times), Jeffery Deaver delivers a tale of “chilling retribution” (Ottawa Citizen) sure to keep you up at night!

Aaron Matthews is a man with a gift: he can talk anyone into doing almost anything. As a psychologist he used that talent to help people. Now he’s using it against one man for revenge. Targeting former trial lawyer Tate Collier, the brilliant, ruthless Matthews knows the easiest way to destroy his adversary is to strike at the point of least resistance: Collier’s teenage daughter.

Editorial Reviews

Our Review
Speak of the Devil
These days, Jeffery Deaver is best known for the popular series of suspense novels (The Bone Collector, The Coffin Dancer, The Empty Chair) featuring quadriplegic forensic genius Lincoln Rhyme. But Deaver has also written a number of excellent stand-alone novels during the course of his career, including Praying for Sleep and -- my own personal favorite -- A Maiden's Grave. His latest, Speaking in Tongues, is another effective independent novel that offers an unpredictable, furiously paced story of murder, madness, and the limitless power of language.

Two figures, each blessed with uncommon powers of persuasion, dominate the narrative. The first is Tate Collier, a lawyer and gentleman farmer whose oratorical abilities once made him the most successful prosecuting attorney in Fairfax County, Virginia. The second is Aaron Matthews, a powerfully seductive former therapist whose tragic past -- and long-standing history of mental instability -- lead him to devise a complex scenario whose ultimate goal is the destruction of Tate Collier.

By the time the novel opens, Tate's once charmed life has drifted sharply off center. He is divorced, no longer practices criminal law, and has grown increasingly estranged from his troubled teenage daughter, Megan McCall, who has developed more than her share of emotional and psychological problems. The story begins when Aaron, posing as a "substitute" therapist, kidnaps Megan and hides her away in the crumbling, gothic ruins of a deserted mental institution in the Blue Ridge mountains. In the aftermath of that kidnapping, Tate, together with his former wife, embarks on a desperate quest to locate his daughter and to understand the origins of an apparently pointless crime.

Speaking in Tongues contains an oddly engaging combination of elements. On the surface, it is an unabashed thriller filled with unexpected plot reversals and narrative sleight-of-hand. Beneath that surface, it is an extended meditation on the art of manipulation and on language as the most potent -- and versatile -- of weapons.

In essence, Speaking in Tongues recounts a series of elaborate seductions, beginning with Megan's kidnapping and ending with a fatal confrontation between two master manipulators with radically different agendas. It isn't, by any means, a perfect novel -- the prose occasionally seems hasty, and a number of incidents stretch credibility past the breaking point -- but it's original, provocative, and a great deal of fun. At the very least, it should keep Deaver's many readers happy until the next Lincoln Rhyme adventure comes along.

--Bill Sheehan

Bill Sheehan reviews horror, suspense, and science fiction for Cemetery Dance, The New York Review of Science Fiction, and other publications. His book-length critical study of the fiction of Peter Straub, At the Foot of the Story Tree, has been published by Subterranean Press (www.subterraneanpress.com).

"Aren't words the most astonishing thing?" asks Dr. Aaron Matthews as he stands over a shallow grave and prepares to kill a man. Words are the weapons of choice in this gripping battle between Matthews, a homicidal psychiatrist bent on revenge, and Tate Collier, the prosecutor whose gift of oration has propelled him to the top of his profession. Throughout his latest thriller, Deaver keeps the action fast and the violence brutal. As revenge against Collier, his long-time adversary, Matthews arranges the kidnapping of Collier's teen-age daughter. And so the chase is on: Collier teams with his ex-wife to search for their daughter; Matthews stays one step ahead by manipulating key witnesses and using their weaknesses against them. As Matthews pushes words to their limit, Collier learns an important lesson: When words and logic fail us, we are left with an even more powerful motivator, emotion. Throughout, Matthews' cruelty is convincing, yet his skills at manipulation stretch credulity—as does Collier's uncanny knack for intuiting his rival's intentions. Deaver's latest requires a substantial suspension of disbelief, but nevertheless provides a suspenseful good time.
—Jennifer Braunschweiger

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
Before he launched his praised and popular series about quadriplegic criminologist Lincoln Rhyme (The Empty Chair, etc.), Deaver made his reputation with tricky, stylish thrillers such as Praying for Sleep and Manhattan Is My Beat. This slick novel is a throwback to those books and Deaver's first wholly outside the Rhyme universe since A Maiden's Grave. The basic plot is simple. An insane but intensely charismatic psychiatrist, Aaron Matthews, for reasons revealed only near book's end, kidnaps his patient, alienated Megan McCall, the young adult daughter of former Virginia prosecutor Tate Collier, and imprisons her in an abandoned mental institution. Tate and his estranged wife go looking for Megan and enlist the cops in their search. Much violence ensues. Deaver's characters are workable but not deep, though there's some psychological probing along the fault lines dividing Tate, his wife and their daughter. The novel's primary appeal arises from its thrills, which are plentiful. Like James Patterson, Deaver writes dialogue-driven prose, in short, strong sentences and paragraphs that demand little from the reader while seizing attention to the max. Tate and his wife are forgettable heroes, but Deaver tells some of the story from feisty Megan's gripping POV, as she fights back against her captor--one dandy villain who delights in conning others through disguise and misdirection, allowing for plenty of plot curves. This isn't Deaver's most accomplished novel but it's high-energy entertainment. (Dec. 11) Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.
Library Journal
Deaver's fast-paced suspense novel provides a thrill-a-minute audio experience. The action begins as semiretired attorney and gentleman farmer Tate Collier is wrenched from his orderly existence when his teenage daughter, Megan, disappears. Although both Tate and his ex-wife Bett find handwritten notes from Megan that imply she has run away, the two soon sense that something far more sinister is afoot. They begin to search in earnest for their daughter and eventually deduce that she is in the hands of Aaron Matthews, a brilliant but twisted Harvard-educated psychologist who has manufactured this elaborate kidnapping scheme as a means to gain revenge against Tate. Dennis Boutsikaris's deliberate, well-paced performance gives credibility to the often larger-than-life events and characters in this thriller. Deaver's many fans will not be disappointed; enthusiastically recommended for all popular fiction collections. Beth Farrell, Portage Cty. Dist. Lib., OH Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Deaver takes a break from his Lincoln Rhyme blockbusters (The Empty Chair, p. 254) for a kidnapping story that packs just as much suspense but a lot fewer moving parts. For a young woman of 17, Megan McCall's had a surprisingly troubled life: her parents' divorce when she was two, her father's remoteness, her mother's string of lovers, her own sexual acting-out, and now a dangerous stunt that's won her a round of court-ordered therapy. But all these traumas are chump change compared to the trouble she falls headlong into when"Dr. Bill Peters," the handsome, empathetic charmer substituting for her usual therapist, turns out to be Dr. Aaron Matthews, a sociopathic psychiatrist who tricks Megan into writing defiant notes to her estranged parents, drugs her, dumps her into the trunk of her car, and drives off on the first leg of an elaborate abduction plan. As usual in Deaver's thrillers, the good guys have plenty of resources—the bulldog tenacity of Megan's forbidden boyfriend Joshua LeFevre, the immediate suspicion of her hotshot lawyer father Tate Collier that something's not quite right about her running away, Tate's friendship with a hardworking Fairfax County detective, the witnesses who know Matthews was stalking Megan—but Matthews has a fiendish bag of tricks to neutralize them all. Keeping two steps ahead of his pursuers, he locks Megan in a cell in an abandoned mental hospital, where she tries to elude her abductor's retarded son Peter as she's wondering why somebody would have done this to her. Meantime, back in the real world, Peter's father toys with his pitifully overmatched adversaries on his trail, leaving themnotonly routed but ruined or dead, till thefinal showdown reveals the inevitable one secret too many. Scorchingly one-dimensional: a ruthlessly efficient formula thriller with nary an ounce of thought on its bones.

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Pocket Books
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4.10(w) x 7.50(h) x 1.00(d)

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Read an Excerpt

Chapter 1

Crazy Megan parks the car.

Doesn't want to do this. No way.

Doesn't get out, listens to the rain...

The engine ticked to silence as she looked down at her clothes. It was her usual outfit: JNCO jeans. A sleeveless white tee under a dark denim work shirt. Combat boots. Wore this all the time. But she felt uneasy today. Embarrassed. Wished she'd worn a skirt at least. The pants were too baggy. The sleeves dangled to the tips of her black-polished fingernails and her socks were orange as tomato soup. Well, what did it matter? The hour'd be over soon.

Maybe the man would concentrate on her good qualities — her wailing blue eyes and blond hair. Oh, and her body too. He was a man.

Anyway, the clothes covered up the extra seven...well, all right, ten pounds that she carried on her tall frame.

Stalling. Crazy Megan doesn't want to be here one bit.

Rubbing her hand over her upper lip, she looked out the rain-spattered window at the lush trees and bushes of suburbia. This April in northern Virginia had been hot as July and ghosts of mist rose from the asphalt. Nobody on the sidewalks — it was deserted here. She'd never noticed how empty this neighborhood was.

Crazy Megan whispers, Just. Say. No. And leave.

But she couldn't do that. Mega-hassle.

She took off the wooden peace symbol dangling from her neck and flung it into the backseat. Megan brushed her blond hair with her fingers, pulled it away from her face. Her ruddy knuckles seemed big as golf balls. A glance at her face in the rearview mirror. She wiped off the black lipstick, pulled the blond strands into a ponytail, secured the hair with a green rubber band.

Okay, let's do it. Get it over with.

A jog through the rain. She hit the intercom and a moment later the door latch buzzed.

Megan McCall walked into the waiting room where she'd spent every Saturday morning for the past seven weeks. Ever since the Incident. She kept waiting for the place to become familiar. It never did.

She hated this. The sessions were bad enough but the waiting really killed her. Dr. Hanson always kept her waiting. Even if she was on time, even if there were no other patients ahead of her, he always started the session five minutes or so late. It pissed her off but she never said anything about it.

Today, though, she found the new doctor standing in the doorway, smiling at her, lifting an eyebrow in greeting. Right on time.

"You're Megan?" the man said, offering an easy smile. "I'm Bill Peters." He was about her father's age, handsome. Full head of hair. Hanson was bald and looked like a shrink. This guy...Maybe a little George Clooney, Crazy Megan decides. Her wariness fades slightly.

And he doesn't call himself "Doctor." Interesting.


"Come on in." He gestured. She stepped into the office.

"How's Dr. Hanson?" she asked, sitting in the chair across from his desk. "Somebody in his family's sick?"

"His mother. An accident. I hear she'll be all right. But he had to go to Leesburg for the week."

"So you're like a substitute teacher?"

arHe laughed. "Something like that."

"I didn't know shr — therapists took over other patients."

"Some don't."

Dr. Peters — Bill Peters — had called yesterday after school to tell her that Hanson had arranged for him to take over his appointments and, if she wanted, she could make her regular session after all. No way, Crazy Megan had whispered at first. But after Megan had talked with Peters for a while she decided she'd give it a try. There was something comforting about his voice. Besides, baldy Hanson wasn't doing diddly for her. The sessions amounted to her lame bitching about school and about being lonely and about Amy and Josh and Brittany, and Hanson nodding and saying she had to be friends with herself. Whatever the hell that meant.

"This'll be repeating some things," Peters now said, "but if you don't mind, could we go over some of the basics?"

"I guess."

He asked, "It's Megan Collier?"

"No, Collier's my father's name. I use my mother's. McCall." She rocked in the stiff-backed chair, crossing her legs. Her tomato socks showed. She uncrossed her legs and planted her feet squarely on the floor.

"You don't like therapy, do you?" he asked suddenly.

This was interesting too. Hanson had never asked that. Wouldn't ask anything so blunt. And unlike this guy, Hanson didn't look into her eyes when he spoke. Staring right back, she said, "No, I don't."

He seemed amused. "You know why you're here?"

Silent as always, Crazy Megan answers first. Because I'm fucked up, I'm dysfunctional. I'm a nutcase. I'm psycho. I'm loony. And half the school knows and do you have a fucking clue how hard it is to walk through those halls with everybody looking at you and thinking, Shrink bait, shrink bait? Crazy Megan also mentions what just plain Megan would never in a million years tell him — about the fake computerized picture of Megan in a straitjacket that made the rounds of Jefferson High two weeks ago.

But now Megan merely recited, "'Cause if I didn't come to see a therapist they'd send me to Juvenile Detention."

When she'd been found, drunk, strolling along the catwalk of the municipal water tower two months ago she'd been committing a crime. The county police got involved and she maybe pushed, maybe slugged a cop. But finally everybody agreed that if she saw a counselor the commonwealth's attorney wouldn't press charges.

"That's true. But it's not the answer."

She lifted an eyebrow.

"The answer is that you're here so that you can feel better."

Oh, please, Crazy Megan begins, rolling her crazy eyes.

And, okay, it was totally stupid, his words themselves. But...but...there was something about the way Dr. Peters said them that, just for a second, less than a second, Megan believed that he really meant them. This guy's in a different universe from Dr. Loser Elbow Patch Hanson.

He opened his briefcase and took out a yellow pad. A brochure fell out onto the desk. She glanced at it. A picture of San Francisco was on the cover.

"Oh, you're going there?" she asked.

"A conference," he said, flipping through the brochure. He handed it to her.


"I love the city," he continued. "I'm a former hippie. Tie-dyed-in-the-wool Deadhead and Jefferson Airplane fan...Whole nine yards. Course, that was before your time."

"No way. I'm totally into Janis Joplin and Hendrix."

"Yeah? You ever been to the Bay Area?"

"Not yet. But I'm going someday. My mother doesn't know it. But I am."

He squinted. "Hey, you know, there is a resemblance — you and Joplin. If you didn't have your hair up it'd be the same as hers."

Megan now wished she hadn't done the pert 'n' perky ponytail.

The doctor added, "You're prettier, of course. And thinner. Can you belt out the blues?"

"Like, I wish..."

"But you don't remember hippies." He chuckled.

"Time out!" she said enthusiastically. "I've seen Woodstock, like, eight times."

She also wished she'd kept the peace symbol.

"So tell me, did you really try to kill yourself? Cross your heart."

"And hope to die?" she joked.

He smiled.

She said, "No."

"What happened?"

"Oh, I was just drinking a little Southern Comfort. All right, maybe more than a little."

"Joplin's drink," he said. "Too fucking sweet for me."

Whoa, the F-word. Cool. She was almost — almost — beginning to like him.

He glanced again at her hair — the fringes on her face. Then back to her eyes. It was like one of Josh's caresses. Somewhere within her she felt a tiny ping — of reassurance and pleasure.

Megan continued her story. "And somebody I was with said no way they'd climb up to the top and I said I would and I did. That's it. Like a dare is all."

"All right, so you got nabbed by the cops on some bullshit charge."

"That's about it."

"Not exactly the crime of the century."

"I didn't think so either. But they were so...you know."

"I know," he said. "Now tell me about yourself. Your secret history."

"Well, my parents are divorced. I live with Bett. She has this business? It's really a decorating business but she says she's an interior designer 'cause it sounds better. Tate's got this farm in Prince William. He used to be this famous lawyer but now he just does people's wills and sells houses and stuff. He hires people to run the farm for him. Sharecroppers. Sound like slaves, or whatever, but they're just people he hires."

"And your relationship with the folks? Is the porridge too hot, too cold or just right?"

"Just right."

He nodded, made a small notation on his pad though he might've been just doodling. Maybe she bored him. Maybe he was writing a grocery list.

Things to buy after my appointment with Crazy Megan.

She told him about growing up, about the deaths of her mother's parents and her father's dad. The only other relative she'd been close to was her aunt Susan — her mother's twin sister. "She's a nice lady but she's had a rough time. She's been sick all her life. And she really, really wanted kids but couldn't have them."

"Ah," he said.

None of it felt important to her and she guessed it was even less important to him.

"What about friends?"

Count 'em on one hand, Crazy Megan says.


"I hang with the goth crowd mostly," she told the doctor.

"As in 'gothic'?"

"Yeah. Only..." She decided she could tell him the truth. "What it is is I kinda stay by myself a lot. I meet people but I end up figuring, why bother? There're a lot of losers out there."

"Oh, yeah." He laughed. "That's why my business is so good."

She blinked in surprise. Then smiled too.

"What's the boyfriend situation?"

"This won't take much time," she said, laughing ruefully. "I was going with this guy? Joshua? And he was, like, all right. Only he was older. And he was black. I mean, he wasn't a gangsta or anything. His father's a soldier, like an officer in the Pentagon, and his mother's some big executive. I didn't have a problem with the race thing. But Dr. Hanson said I was probably involved with him just to make my parents nuts."

"Were you?"

"I don't know. I kinda liked him. No, I did like him."

"But you broke up?"

"Sure. Dr. Hanson said I ought to dump him."

"He said that?"

"Well, not exactly. But I got that impression."

Crazy Megan thinks that Mr. Handsome Shrink, Mr. George Clooney stud, ought to've figured it out: How can a psycho nutcase like me go out with anybody? If I hadn't dumped Josh — which I cried about for two weeks — if I hadn't left, then everybody at his school would be on his case. "He's the one with the loony girl." And then his folks would find out — they're the nicest people in the universe and totally in love — and they'd be crushed...Well, of course I had to leave...

"Nobody else on the horizon?" he asked.

"Nope." She shook her head.

"Okay, let's talk about the family some more. Your mother."

"Bett and I get along great." She hesitated. "Only it's funny about her — she's into her business but she also believes in all this New Age stuff crap. I'm, like, just chill, okay? That stuff is so bogus. But she doesn't hassle me about it. Doesn't hassle me about anything really. It's great between us. Really great. The only problem is she's engaged to a geek."

"Do you two talk, your mom and you? Chew the fat, as my grandmother used to say?"

"Sure...I mean, she's busy a lot. But who isn't, right? Yeah, we talk." She hoped he didn't ask her about what. She'd have to make up something.

"And how 'bout Dad?"

She shrugged. "He's nice. He takes me to concerts, shopping. We get along great."


C.M. — Crazy Megan — chides, Is that the only word you know, bitch? Great, great, great...You sound like a parrot.

"Yeah," Megan said. "Only..."

"Only what?"

"Well, it's like we don't have a lot to talk about. He wants me to go windsurfing with him but I went once and it's a totally superficial way to spend your time. I'd rather read a book or something."

"You like to read?"

"Yeah, I read a lot."

"Who're some of your favorite authors?"

"Oh, I don't know." Her mind went blank.

Crazy Megan isn't much help. Yep, he's gonna think you're damaged.

Quiet! Megan ordered her alter ego. She remembered the last book she'd read. "You know Márquez? I'm reading Autumn of the Patriarch."

His eyebrow lifted. "Oh, I loved it."

"No kidding. I — "

Dr. Peters added, "Love in the Time of Cholera. Best love story ever written. I've read it three times."

Another ecstatic ping. The book was actually sitting on her bedside table. "Me too. Well, I only read it once."

"Tell me more," he continued, "about your father."

"Um, he's pretty handsome still — I mean for a guy in his forties. And he's in pretty good shape. He dates a lot but he can't seem to settle down with anybody. He says he wants a family."

"Does he?"

"Yeah. But if he does then why does he date girls named Bambi?...Just kidding. But they look like they're Bambis." They both laughed.

"Tell me about the divorce."

"I don't really remember them together. They split up when I was three."


"They got married too young. That's what Bett says. They kind of went different ways. Mom was, like, real flighty and into that New Age stuff I was telling you about. And Dad was just the opposite."

"Whose idea was the divorce?"

"I think my dad's."

He jotted another note then looked up. "So how mad are you at your parents?"

"I'm not."

"Really?" he asked, as if he were completely surprised. "You're sure the porridge isn't too hot?"

"I love 'em. They love me. We get along gre — fine. The porridge is just right. What the fuck is porridge anyway?"

"Don't have a clue," Peters said quickly. "Give me an early memory about your mother."


"Quick! Now! Do it!" His eyes flashed.

Megan felt a wave of heat crinkle through her face. "I — "

"Don't hesitate," he whispered. "Say what's on your mind!"

She blurted, "Bett's getting ready for a date, putting on makeup, staring in a mirror and poking at a wrinkle, like she's hoping it'll go away. She always does that. Like her face is the most important thing in the world to her. Her looks, you know."

"And what do you think as you watch her?" His dark eyes were fervent. Her mind froze again. "No, you're hesitating. Tell me!"


He nodded. "Now that's wonderful, Megan."

She felt swollen with pride. Didn't know why. But she did.

"Brilliant. Now give me a memory about your father. Fast!"

"Bears." She gasped and lifted a hand to her mouth. "No...Wait. Let me think."

But the doctor pounced. "Bears? At the zoo?"

"No, never mind."

"Tell me."

She was shaking her head, no.

"Tell me, Megan," he insisted. "Tell me about the bears."

"It's not important."

"Oh, it is important," he said, leaning forward. "Listen. You're with me now, Megan. Forget whatever Hanson's done. I don't operate his way, groping around in the dark. I go deep."

She looked into his eyes and froze — like a deer in headlights.

"Don't worry," he said softly. "Trust me. I'm going to change your life forever."

Copyright © 2000 by Jeffery Deaver

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Meet the Author

Jeffery Deaver is the author of two collections of short stories and twenty-eight previous suspense novels. His most recent #1 international bestseller is Carte Blanche, the newest James Bond novel that brought Ian Fleming’s Agent 007 firmly into the modern age. Deaver is best known for his Kathryn Dance and Lincoln Rhyme thrillers, most notably The Bone Collector, which was made into a feature starring Denzel Washington and Angelina Jolie. Deaver has been nominated for seven Edgar Awards by the Mystery Writers of America, an Anthony Award, and a Gumshoe Award. He was recently short-listed for the ITV3 Crime Thriller Award for Best International Author. His books are sold in 150 countries and translated into twenty-five languages. He lives in North Carolina.

Brief Biography

Washington, D.C.
Date of Birth:
May 6, 1950
Place of Birth:
Chicago, Illinois
B.A., University of Missouri; Juris Doctor, cum laude, Fordham University School of Law

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