Read Speaking in Tongues Online
Authors: Jeffery Deaver
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Thrillers
Speaking in Tongues
The world has changed and so has Bond, James Bond.
Jeffery Deaver brings superspy 007 into the twenty-first century with his #1 bestseller
CARTE BLANCHE
“Brilliantly captures Fleming’s style . . . with Deaver’s trademark twists flying.”
—The Washington Post
“Ian Fleming was a master. . . . Deaver too is a genius and this publishing marriage was truly made in heaven.”
—
The Sunday Express
“The pairing is as smooth as vodka and vermouth.”
—
Parade
“A new, streamlined incarnation for a new generation of global fears.”
—The Guardian
“[A] worthy homage. . . . Think of Jack Bauer let loose in Whitehall.”
—
The London Times
“Thrilling and genuinely surprising.”
—
Heat
“Deaver combines the best of Fleming’s crisp, eclectic style without compromising his own ability to tell a cracking story.”
—
Literary Review
“Intricate and inventive, surprising and satisfying.”
—
Publishers Weekly
“Fantastic. . . . Jeffery Deaver truly
got it
.”
—
Ann Arbor News
Suspense fiction that “stokes our paranoia”
(Entertainment Weekly),
from the inimitable Jeffery Deaver!
EDGE
“Wildly twisted . . . a nail-biter.”
—
Kirkus Reviews
(starred review)
“Ingenious.”
—
The New York Times Book Review
“Deaver unveils some nifty new tricks in this edge-of-your-seat thriller.”
—
Publishers Weekly
“Twist-filled. . . . The odds seem to change with each turn of the page.”
—
The Wall Street Journal
The “grand master of the ticking-clock thriller” (Kathy Reichs) puts special agent Kathryn Dance on a harrowing online manhunt
ROADSIDE CROSSES
Chosen as a Hot Summer Thriller on TheDailyBeast.com!
“Clever and twisted. . . . Don’t miss this one.”
—
Library Journal
“The techno-savvy Deaver . . . has one of those puzzle-loving minds you just can’t trust.”
—Marilyn Stasio,
The New York Times
“Deaver’s got the world of social networking and blogs down cold. . . . That dose of realism adds a fresh, contemporary edge.”
—David Montgomery, TheDailyBeast.com
Be sure to read his ninth sizzling Lincoln Rhyme bestseller
THE BURNING WIRE
“Deaver, master of the plot twist, does his usual magic. . . .”
—
Booklist
“Shocking twists . . . electrically charged.”
—
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)
And praise for all of the Lincoln Rhyme novels, “masterpieces of modern criminology”
(Philadelphia Daily News)
“A thrill ride between covers.”
—
Los Angeles Times
“Devious and heart-stopping.”
—
Ottawa Citizen
“Dazzling.”
—
The New York Times
“Prime Deaver . . . prime entertainment.”
—
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)
“Deaver must have been born with a special plot-twist gene.”
—
Booklist
“Keeps the pulse racing while challenging the emotions. . . .”
—
Orlando Sentinel
“A mastermind of manipulation.”
—
Library Journal
“High-tension wired. . . . Deaver . . . fills every keystroke with suspense.”
—
People
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Part II: The Inconvenient Child
Part III: The Devil’s Advocate
Part IV: The Silence of the Deed
In the beginning was the Word. Man acts it out. He is the act, not the actor.
—Henry Miller
THE
WHISPERING
BEARS
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.
“Hi.”
“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?”
He 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.