The Judas Child

Table of Contents

 

 

 

“Compelling.”

“A kidnapped-child nightmare that’s every bit as intense as O’Connell’s acclaimed Kathy Mallory detective stories . . . O’Connell’s characters are so painfully real . . . that you’re hard-pressed to take anything for granted in this grisly, poetic tale.”

—
Kirkus Reviews

“[A] chilling tale.”

 

“Ingenious . . . Ms. O’Connell gleefully invents a hothouse of . . . malice. She assigns dark secrets and strange habits to every last character in her serpentine story.”

“[
Bone by Bone
] pulses with a Gothic noir . . . this is one of those books you can’t put down.”

 

 

“A terrific find: a tightly wrapped, expert combination of suspense, mystery, and show-stopping character . . . For those who discover it at this breakthrough moment, Mallory’s story has just begun.”

“A trip inside the dark heart of pop fiction’s most compelling mystery series.”

 

 

 

 

“Pure O’Connell . . . [Her] fans will be knocked out by this one.”

“Scores on all levels . . . O’Connell keeps the tension and suspense high right through to the surprising end.”

“Breaks the usual rules.”

 

 

“Ingenious . . . O’Connell sets the standard in crime fiction.”

—
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

“Blazingly original. Once again, O’Connell transcends the genre.”

—
Kirkus Reviews
(starred review)

 

 

“One of the most original and striking crime fiction protagonists to appear in the last few years.”

 

 

“Rich, complex, memorable . . . another superb effort from one of our most gifted writers.”

—
Booklist
(starred review)

 

 

 

“Rich in people, places, and customs vividly realized, with mordant humor, terror, and sadness.”

 

“Hard to resist . . . blazingly original.”

“Darkly stylish . . . highly original . . . This is great fun.”

“A tight, twisting mystery.”

“Another triumph for this truly gifted writer.”

 

“Even more satisfying than
Mallory’s Oracle
. And that’s high praise indeed.”

“Beautifully written.”

“The suspense is excruciating.”

 

“Mallory is a marvelous creation.”

—Jonathan Kellerman

“A classic cop story . . . one of the most interesting new characters to come along in years.”

—John Sandford

“An author who really involves you, and makes you care.”

—James B. Patterson

“Wild, sly, and breathless—all the things that a good thriller ought to be.”

—Carl Hiaasen

BONE BY BONE
FIND ME
WINTER HOUSE
DEAD FAMOUS
CRIME SCHOOL
SHELL GAME
THE JUDAS CHILD
STONE ANGEL
KILLING CRITICS
THE MAN WHO CAST TWO SHADOWS
MALLORY’S ORACLE

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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

 

THE JUDAS CHILD

 

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with Hutchinson, a division of Random House U.K. Ltd.

 

Copyright © 1998 by Carol O’Connell.

 

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

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eISBN : 978-1-101-45876-1

 

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This book is dedicated to the memory of Michael Abney, a talented Arizona photographer and a good friend from my student days. Over many a beer, I gave him useful insights on women. However, Mike’s reciprocal information about men turned out to be pure gender bragging, for the true prince was not a common occurrence in nature, but a rare one—and I miss him.

Up and down the lane ran two bright
ribbons of grass, still green so deep in December. Long flanking rows of pine trees ended where the modern public road met this private one of ancient cobblestones. Though there was no proper name on any map, the townspeople called it the Christmas tree lane.

Hidden beyond the west bank of evergreens lay all the brown dead leaves of a bare-branched forest. The dry carcass of an eyeless sparrow was crushed under the man’s shoe as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The day had turned chilly and mean. Wisps of fog hung low where the denuded woodland was protected by the windbreak of tall pines. The highest boughs of a nearby oak disappeared in the haze, and the trees behind it were only ghosts of birch and elm.

The man glanced at his watch.

His fingers splayed wide and then balled into fists. The surrounding air was dead still; the brittle leaves and low-lying clouds of the woods never stirred as a clean breeze whipped down the Christmas tree lane.

He took great pride in this art of selecting the time and the place. Soon, a solitary child would come riding by on her bicycle, as she did every Saturday afternoon at this same time. The little girl would be fearless, for the cobblestoned roadway of trimmed grass and majestic pine trees was so different from the atmosphere of the forest, it might have been carved out of another world, a better one, where this man could not exist.

She slowed the purple bicycle and turned
around to look directly at him with the full force of big brown eyes and a wicked grin.

The boy’s front wheel wobbled at the exact moment he braked to a dead stop. And then the child resigned himself to the short flight over the handlebars, all but shrugging in midair. The hard landing on the road was all the pain and punishment he had expected it to be.

Why did she do these things to him?

Though Sadie Green had never laid a hand on him outside of dancing class, one day at school she had caused him to step off a second-floor landing, to fall down the stairs and cut his head—but only because the sudden sight of her had blinded him to science—more precisely, the law of gravity. For one fraction of a second, he had believed he could step out into thin air and not pay for that.

Now David Shore sat cross-legged on the cold ground near his fallen bicycle. He pulled off a torn woolen glove to pick the gravel out of his hand. Sadie’s bike was describing lazy circles in the road, and by her wide smile, he could tell she was enjoying this enormously. As he plucked out one sharp bit of stone, the indent of his skin filled with a red droplet. He looked up at her.