Poison Flower

By Thomas Perry

The Native American guide is hunted for her knowledge in this “tour de force” thriller from the New York Times–bestselling author of Vanishing Act (Kirkus Reviews, starred review).
 
Jane Whitefield of the Seneca Nation has spent years helping desperate people disappear. But now she is about to become the hunted one. When James Shelby is unjustly convicted of his wife’s murder, Jane spirits him out of the heavily guarded criminal court building in downtown Los Angeles. Then, within minutes, Jane is kidnapped.
 
The person who killed Shelby’s wife now wants him dead, and Jane’s captors will put her through excruciating torment to discover his whereabouts. Though Jane manages to escape, she is wounded and weak, thousands of miles from home without money or identification . . . and hunted by both police and criminals.
 
Attempting to rejoin Shelby and get to safety, Jane is caught in a waking nightmare, as many of the pursuers she has eluded for years gather to bid on her capture in a multimillion-dollar auction. The winning bidder buys the chance to access Jane’s memory, and the locations of everyone she has helped disappear.
 
“Fans of Jane Whitefield know what to expect from this fearless Indian guide in Thomas Perry’s quick-witted capers: cunning strategies, clever disguises, ingenious escape tactics and breathtaking cross-country chases. Perry delivers to order in Poison Flower.” —Marilyn Stasio, The New York Times Book Review

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Mar 6, 2012
• ISBN: 9780802194695

Thomas Perry

Thomas Perry is the New York Times bestselling author of nearly thirty novels, including the critically acclaimed Jane Whitefield series, The Old Man, and The Butcher's Boy, which won the Edgar Award. He lives in Southern California. Follow Thomas on Facebook at @ThomasPerryAuthor.

Book preview

POISON FLOWER

A Jane Whitefield Novel

Thomas Perry

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The Mysterious Press

an imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.

New York

Copyright © 2012 by Thomas Perry

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 841 Broadway, New York, NY 10003 or [e-mail].

Published simultaneously in Canada

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN-13: 978-0-8021-5511-5

The Mysterious Press

an imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.

841 Broadway

New York, NY 10003

Distributed by Publishers Group West

www.groveatlantic.com

To my family

1

JAMES SHELBY in the white prison van looking out the tinted window. The tint was so dark it was hard to see out, and the grate on the inside that kept inmates from touching the glass made it worse. He was shackled to a ring welded to the side of the van, so he couldn’t move around much.

Five prisoners were going to court this morning. Every­one in the California Institution for Men at Chino had already been tried and convicted, so they all knew the ­routines —how they should stand, how their facial muscles should be set, where their eyes should be aimed. Three of the five men were going to be tried for crimes they had committed before they’d gone to jail—one man whose DNA had been taken at his prison intake physical and later matched to the sample swabbed from a rape victim, another man who had turned up on three bank security tapes committing robberies, and a liquor store bandit whose gun had been matched to a killing.

The fourth man was shackled a few feet from the others on the opposite side of the van with Shelby. His name was McCorkin and he was the former cellmate of an embezzler. McCorkin was going to testify that the embezzler had been bragging about using the money to buy drugs for resale. This was McCorkin’s fourth trip to court to testify against cellmates, all of whom seemed to tell him things they hadn’t told anyone else.

He and Shelby were shackled away from the others because they were both considered informers. Shelby had not concealed the name of the man who had stabbed him in the back two months ago. Being seated with McCorkin had its advantages. None of the others wanted to say anything in his presence that he could use to get more privileges or a shorter sentence. They didn’t want him to be aware of them, because his mere notice brought with it a risk of future prosecutions.

Shelby looked out at the road, and not at his companions. From the start he hadn’t let his eyes rest on any of them, because they were volatile. And today they were more dangerous to him than ever, because all any of them had to do was notice that something was odd about him and say so. If they even joked with him about being different today, the guards would hear it. He knew the malice and perversity that had tangled the prisoners’ minds. If they knew he was planning to escape, they’d be resentful that he wasn’t freeing them, too. They would be envious that he had a plan, because they didn’t. And the ones who considered him an informer would find it simple justice to snitch on him.

On the way into Los Angeles there were mountains, then dry-looking pastureland and a succession of telephone poles, and then a big highway with cars driven by bored civilians who saw the marshal’s logo on the side of the van and the reinforcement of the side and back windows, and tried to see through the tinted glass. They wanted to see a sideshow, a few ferocious beasts whose ugly faces would give them chills, and maybe even more, the poor, sad bastards who didn’t look mean or crazy. Shelby was one of those. If they could have seen him through the glass, they would have said he looked just like their brother or nephew or cousin—a man in his late twenties with light hair and a reasonably handsome face. There was some unholy fake sympathy in people that made them think, There, but for the grace of God . . . and not mean it. The idea that they were the favored ones seemed to titillate them. They were not the ones inside the bars with the monsters and the freaks, and never would be.

The ride took another hour, and then the van pulled off the freeway at Grand Avenue, and went south to First Street and then up Broadway toward the Clara Shortridge Foltz Criminal Courts Building. It was still early morning. Through the tinted glass Shelby could make out lots of people on the sidewalks of the court district. The lawyers all wore suits, mostly in shades between light gray and charcoal, with white shirts and neckties. The female city bureaucrats all wore pantsuits, and the males had dress pants and light-colored shirts and ties, and all of them wore plastic badges dangling on lanyards from their necks like jewelry. The jurors dressed more casually. Each of them had a red-and-white paper badge for jury duty stuck in a plastic holder with an alligator clip to hold it.

In the period of his life long before his troubles started, Shelby had lived for a year in Los Angeles. He’d served on a jury here, so he knew. They always started the day by herding a couple of hundred men and women into that small assembly room on the fifth floor. Then they waited, and at irregular intervals one of the clerks would come out of their office and read some juror numbers.

Benches lined the hallways of the court building, and they were always occupied by lawyers, their clients, witnesses, and the defendants’ families. The first time he had seen the hallways, they had reminded him of the marketplaces in the Middle East, with people haggling and gossiping and scheming, their private conversations all out in the open, but unheard because there were too many people talking at once. Everyone had something pressing of his own to worry about at that moment—legal papers to look at and stories to repeat and get straight before going into the courtroom, or plea deals to evaluate before they were withdrawn.

The building was modern, with floors marked by rows of identical windows a person couldn’t see into. The main entrance consisted of steps descending into a sunken patio. At the edge of the patio were glass doors leading into the building. The court building seemed worn. Everything had been walked on, rubbed, touched by human hands so many times that it was old while it was still new. Inside the tall glass doors was a security area that could have been transported from an airport. Long lines of people waited to put their belongings on conveyer belts that took them through X-ray machines, and then waited to walk through the arch of one of the three metal detectors.

Big, hard-eyed male cops and a few women cops operated the machines and funneled the mass of people into single-file lines and off into the rows of elevators on both sides of the lobby, first the ones for floors twelve through nineteen, and then the ones for floors two through eleven. During the past weeks Shelby had spent hours remembering every detail he could bring back.

Shelby prepared himself while the van pulled up behind the building and then into an underground garage. The van stopped. The guard yelled, Listen up, and paused to hear the silence. When you’re unlocked, get out on the right side through the open door. Follow the man in front of you and line up in that order with your toes on the yellow line. Do not walk, do not move, until I tell you.

Shelby and the others got out and remained in line. They were all experts by now at hearing the order and following it without allowing it to linger in their minds to chafe. Following orders had become the only way forward in their lives.

The second guard got out with them and stood a few feet back, so they couldn’t rush him without getting shot. The driver pulled the van ahead and around to an extra-long parking space reserved for the vehicles from the lockups. He came back and stood near his companion. All right. We’re going in through that door over there. When we’re inside, you’ll be given instructions and taken to a holding room. Walk.

The group of shackled prisoners walked ahead in single file to the door and then continued inside. The second guard handed a police officer a piece of paper, and he read it and handed it to another police officer at a desk, who used a pen to check something off against a list and wrote something down. All of the cops’ faces were set in a wary distrust, making sure they were seeing the same things they’d seen ten thousand times before, and not something new.

The men were shackled to a railing that was attached to the wall in a holding room, in the same two groups. Shelby wondered where the black-haired woman was right now. He had listened closely to what she had told him during her visits to the California Institution for Men at Chino. She had told him where things were going to be and how he should reach them, but she’d never said where she was going to be or what she would do. Now he couldn’t help wondering whether she hadn’t told him because what she intended to do was insane, and she had been afraid he would lose his nerve. Maybe she had already set everything up before dawn, and had taken off, to be as far away as possible before things began to happen. She’d said only that she would give him a chance to free himself, and he had to be ready.

There was a television set on a metal stand high up in a corner, but it wasn’t turned on. On the center of the wall was an electric clock. He and the others sat in silence for a long time watching it and waiting for something to happen, but nothing did. He began to worry again that he was not exuding the same air of bored emptiness that he had on other days, in prison. If he seemed nervous or unusually alert, one of the other inmates would know that he was hiding something. He half-closed his eyes and pretended to be dozing, but he tried to figure out where the guards were. About once an hour one of the sheriff’s deputies in tan khaki shirts and green pants would come through the room as though he were taking a shortcut to somewhere else. Twice Shelby heard prisoners’ names called over an intercom, but they must have been in other holding rooms.

At eleven thirty Shelby began to get nervous and agitated. The time was coming. Either it would happen soon, or it would not happen. There were a hundred reasons why it couldn’t happen, and only one reason why it might—the woman’s sheer mad certainty—but as long as that one reason wasn’t dead, the tension in his chest kept growing. In a half hour he would be free or he’d be dead. Less than a half hour, now.

His eyes began to lose their ability to stay focused on one spot, because they weren’t able to rest anywhere long enough. A cop came to the door and called out, Shelby!

Yes, sir, Shelby said.

There’s an attorney waiting to speak with you. Stand up.

He stood and the cop unlocked his shackles from the rail on the wall and guided him out the door. Shelby took deep, even breaths. This was the start, and he was going to need to be sharp. The cop led him along the back hallway to the first open door, a room with a small window that started head-high with steel mesh over it. The cop ushered him in and closed the door behind them.

Seated at the table was the woman with black hair. Today she was dressed in a black suit, and she had draped a black raincoat over the table. The cop led Shelby to a chair across the table from her and began to shackle Shelby to the ring welded to the table.

The black-haired woman dropped something that sounded like a pen, and crouched to pick it up. For a moment Shelby and the guard lost sight of her under the table. The guard suddenly released Shelby’s chain and stepped back. Hey! What are you doing? He reached for something on his belt and took a first step to go around the table toward her. Before he could make the turn, his legs bent at the knees and he pitched forward. He fell to the floor, and rolled over to get his radio off his belt, but she batted it out of his grasp with her hand, and it clattered across the floor.

She held up her other hand to show him a hypodermic needle she had used on his leg. It’s a low dose of anesthetic. It won’t hurt you, and the effect will be gone in a little while. I’m sorry.

The cop stared at her with wide eyes, but he didn’t seem to be able to move. In a few seconds his eyes closed. She said, He’ll be out for a half hour. She knelt; unbuckled the cop’s utility belt with his gun, mace, and handcuffs and set it across the room in a corner; reached into his breast pocket to get his cell phone; and took the battery and put it with his other equipment.

Shelby saw that the cop hadn’t managed to close the hasp to lock his chain to the ring, so he pulled it through and freed himself.

She took the key from the cop’s limp hand and removed the chains from around Shelby’s waist and between his ankles. Take off the jumpsuit.

Shelby unzipped it and stepped out of it, then stood in his underwear feeling cold and vulnerable. The woman looked out the screened window and took off her suit pants, which had been rolled at the waist to conceal their length, and cinched with a belt at her hips. She took off her black stretch turtleneck and handed it to him. This left her in a pair of tight black pants and a fitted vest over her white blouse. The suit coat she had left inside her raincoat when she’d taken it off, she now extricated and handed to Shelby. He put it on, and it fit reasonably well. She put on her raincoat.

She turned to him again, and he felt the blue eyes sweeping down from his face to his feet.

How do I look? he asked.

Not like a prisoner. She knelt again beside the cop, took off his black shoes, and handed them to Shelby so he could put them on. He kicked off his plastic sandals, stepped into the oversize shoes, and tied them as tightly as possible. The last thing she handed him was her briefcase. Ready?

He nodded. She unlocked the door with one of the keys from the cop’s belt, and went out to the narrow, empty corridor. There were doors all along the left side that led to rooms like the one they’d just left, and one windowless steel door at the end with a clipboard hanging on it. The sheet on the clipboard listed Kristen Alvarez, but she took out a pen and added the name Gregory Campbell to the list with the same entry time as Kristen Alvarez. She looked at her watch and signed them both out. They stepped out into the main hallway of the building. As they walked, she and Shelby looked straight ahead and never met the eyes of passersby. Shelby noticed that any eyes passed over him and lingered on her. She was beautiful, tall and erect, and took long, purposeful strides. They made a turn and stepped through the exit door into the staircase.

They hurried down four floors without meeting anyone on the stairs, and then she stopped at a small glass door with a fire extinguisher inside. She opened the door, reached behind the extinguisher, and produced a red-and-white juror badge in a plastic holder and clipped it to Shelby’s breast pocket. She looked at her watch. We’re on the fifth floor. Just go out into the hall near the jury room and sit on one of the benches. In three minutes it will be noon.

How can I ever thank you?

You’re not even out yet. Make sure you get one of the first elevators.

He nodded and went out into the fifth-floor hallway. In two and a half minutes the staff in the jury assembly room would let the two hundred or so bored prospective jurors go to lunch, and they’d all stream out to jam the hallway and the elevators and stairs. He walked toward the jury assembly room, but stopped outside the door and sat down on the bench by the wall closest to the elevator to wait.

JANE WHITEFIELD RAN DOWN THE stairwell the rest of the way toward the first floor, but just as she was reaching for the door handle to go out to the lobby, she heard a door a few floors up flung open, and she could hear the measured sound of leather-soled shoes on the metal stairs, and the murmur of voices—jurors. She almost smiled, but instead kept her face blank and serene as she stepped out into a narrow corridor to the back of the lobby near the elevators.

Then Jane saw the three men. Shelby’s sister had given her photographs of them when she had come to Jane in Deganawida, New York, to ask for her help. I took these during Jim’s trial, she said. These are the three who helped frame him. They bribed some witnesses to say that Jim had done violent things when he got mad at people, some to say they saw him sitting in the parking lot waiting for Susan to come home that night, and scared at least two other witnesses away so they couldn’t be found in time for the trial.

The pictures had been taken from different angles: one photo of them taken as they were coming out of some public building together, one taken when they were getting into a car, and one taken through the open side window as they pulled away. The men were all about thirty to forty, with short, well-barbered hair, all wearing suits. They looked like lawyers or business clients arriving for a case.

Jane watched them. They had already passed through the metal detectors to get in, so they couldn’t be carrying guns. But they were moving against the crowd of jurors and lawyers departing for lunch, standing in front of the bank of elevators, and as each door opened to let jurors out, the three men moved a little closer to get in. There were six elevators on each side of the lobby. There was still a good chance that when James Shelby’s elevator arrived they would be entering another one, or at least not looking in his direction.

Jane moved closer to them. This was developing into a situation where she might have to pay a high price for James Shelby. She had prepared herself for this possibility a long time ago, something that was implicit in the promise she made to her clients. If she was going to save innocent people from the enemies who wanted them dead, there would be times when she must fight.

She was close to the three men now, almost to their backs. The door of the elevator to their left opened and she saw James Shelby. He was in the middle of the crowded ele­vator, and as the door opened he spilled out with a dozen jurors, all pushing forward, weaving to get past the surge of people wanting to get in. A hand shot out as one of the men in front of her grabbed Shelby’s arm, and Jane pushed off with her back foot to throw her body into the arm, wrenching the hand off Shelby. The man grunted in pain and surprise and half-turned to get a look at her over his shoulder, but she pivoted, her back to him and his companions as she moved toward the main exit. Ahead of her she saw Shelby heading across the lobby with the torrent of people.

That’s him! the man yelled.

What are you talking about? That seemed to be one of his companions.

It’s Shelby! He’s leaving!

The voices were behind her as she caught up with Shelby and pushed him out with the crowd into the narrower space at the glass doors.

Stop him! the man said. It’s him!

Jane got Shelby out onto the sunken patio outside the entrance where the steps went up onto Broadway. Go! she said to him. Just as we planned.

He looked at her in panic, but his legs took him up onto Broadway, and he kept going.

Jane planted herself at the foot of the steps. She reached into a pocket of her purse, took out a black elastic band, gathered her hair in a ponytail and slid the elastic over it, then tucked it under so the hair was tight to her head. She stood straight and held on to her purse.

The man who had grabbed Shelby had wasted fifteen seconds keeping his companions out of the elevator and another fifteen getting them to plow through the crowd and across the lobby. The people in the crowd were unwilling to let anyone push them aside to get out of the building ahead of them, so getting out took time and the three men weren’t much faster than anyone else.

Jane felt the seconds passing. Shelby should spot the parked car soon. Within another minute or two he should get in, find the keys, start the engine. Next he would head for the freeway entrance. Maybe the crowd would delay the men long enough.

But the three men burst out the double doors. They had been craning their necks to see what went on through the glass while they fought their way to the exit, so they all dashed toward the steps where Shelby had escaped to the street. Jane knew Shelby was still not completely recovered from the stabbing two months ago, so he would be slow. Not enough time had passed since she’d freed him from the man’s grasp. They could still run him down if she didn’t stop them.

Jane took two steps and turned on the bottom step to face them. She could see that they still hadn’t grasped what she was. To them she was a lady lawyer, and they planned to push past her and endure her look of irritated disdain.

The first one was easy, probably because he was bigger and faster than the other two. He didn’t seem to be aware that she could possibly be a lethal opponent. He charged ahead, barely seeing her as he dashed to the steps. All Jane had to do was sidestep, trip him, place one hand on his spine and the other on the back of his head to direct his face downward into the steps. Her push increased his momentum enough so he hit hard and lay still.

The second man was the one who had grasped ­Shelby’s arm in front of the elevator, so he was ready. He didn’t try to get around her, but went straight for her with both his hands up, preparing to throw a punch. Jane knew she couldn’t fight toe-to-toe against a male opponent who outweighed her by a hundred pounds, so she never did. She retreated up two more steps to place herself beyond the man’s fallen companion. He took a wild swing at her with his right fist, and when he missed, he had to put one foot on his unconscious comrade to keep from falling over him.

Jane swung her purse into his face. He grabbed it, and she wrapped the strap around his wrist, tugged him toward her over his unconscious companion, and delivered a quick jab to the bridge of his nose. When both of his hands went to his face, she stomp-kicked his kneecap from the side. He went down, landed on his friend, and rolled down the last step clutching his knee while his nose bled down the front of his clothes.

Spectators were beginning to gather, jamming the crowd that was still trying to leave the building. In the corner of her eye Jane caught the third man moving up the steps toward her back, but he threw his arms around her from behind in a bear hug before she could evade him. In a single motion she threw her head back into his nose and upper teeth, heel-stomped his right instep, made a fist with her right hand, and swung it behind her into his groin. She felt a puff of his hot breath on the back of her neck as he released her and rocked back.

His momentary distress seemed to give bystanders courage. A dozen men swarmed in at once, getting between Jane and the three attackers, holding them back and pinioning their arms. It was surprisingly quiet, just a bit of grunting and You don’t want to hit a woman, pal. Calm down. Just don’t struggle. Fight’s over.

Suddenly there was a loud, authoritative voice. Stand aside. Police officers. Five big cops in black LAPD uniforms moved in, parting the crowd as they made their way toward the three men.

Jane turned instantly and walked off, away from the center of the crowd, adjusting her steps to put as many people as possible between her and the policemen. She hurried along the sidewalk in front of the building and into the other, separate crowd of curious people who had retreated half a block before stopping to watch. As she burrowed deeper into the group, she took off the black raincoat, pulled the elastic band off her hair, and shook her long hair out. She set her face in a slightly amused expression, an implication that whatever had been going on down there had nothing to do with her and was, in any event, incomprehensible.

She got past the spectators and moved on with the stream of people going to lunch. She walked downhill on Broadway to First Street, and turned right to head for the Metro station at Hill and First. She walked quickly, taking long strides that carried her past most of the other pedestrians. The

Reviews for Poison Flower

[yogiabb_1 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Poison Flower is one of Thomas Perry's "Jane Whitefield" Books. Ms. Whitefield hides people as her mission. She takes people who are targeted for abuse or death and sets them up with a new identity in a place where they are safe. In Poison Flower she helps James Shelby a man framed for his wife's death escape from jail. She also helps Iris a lady she met in an abused women's shelter. She runs into complications though because the man who framed Shelby is a very powerful criminal who sends professional killers to kill Shelby. They find Jane and torture her but she doesn't reveal where Shelby is. As you can guess she escapes her tormenters and turns the tables on them and heads out to find the employer. I didn't really care for the book at first. She suffers horrific torture but shrugs it off, it was about halfway in before it got interesting when the turning the tables phase begins.. Even then the whole book was predictable and not very suspenseful. I give it two stars out of five. Sorry!

[kraaivrouw · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

I've been trying to remember the name of this series and this author for ages and finally identified it when I found this galley to review. It's always been a fun series - a sort of female version of Lee Childs' Jack Reacher series. Like Reacher, Jane Whitfield is hyper-prepared and impossible to beat - not necessarily grounded in reality, but I don't read thrillers for reality.Pure escapist mind candy with some caveats. Most of this book, unlike others in the series, is a non-stop brutality fest with Jane playing avenging angel. The level of violence makes a lot of this not so fun to read, perhaps particularly because much of the violence is torture committed against the main character. In fact, the first third of the book is all about this torture. The rest follows Jane's revenge. It's a good read, but if you're squeamish I wouldn't recommend it.Not the best entry in the series - okay, but not great.

[justmelissa_1 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

I love this series and have missed Jane so much! She's been happily married and mostly out of the "disappearing" business. But everyone once in a while a case she can't refuse shows up. This time, she's compelled to help a wrongly accused and convicted man escape from jail and start a new life. Unfortunately, those who are guilty of the crime would really like him to stay put. When Jane gets caught and tortured by the bad guys, she's determined to keep the secrets of her client and all of those she's helped guide.Once again, Perry keeps us on our toes and entertained by the process of becoming a new person and avoiding detection at all costs. This books has more focus on Jane and her capture and escape attempts that usual which only reinforces the lengths she will go to to protect her clients. There's a bit of side-story about the toll Jane's missions are taking on her marriage - I'm torn between wanting to know more about Jane's personal life and knowing that part of the point of Jane is that the books are not about her.Overall, not my favorite in the series but entertaining and I'm already waiting for Jane's next adventure.

[lewilliams-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A top notch Jane Whitefield thriller you won't want to put down.

[fidget78 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Wonderful addition to the Jane Whitfield Series. See my full review at puretextuality.com

4.5 Stars

[marzia22_1 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Too violent and too preposterous

[marlyn_11 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

When Jane Whitefield married Dr. Carey McKinnon, they both hoped that she could leave behind the former life where she helped people disappear. It worked, for a while. She became a model surgeon's wife: working on committees and raising money for the hospital. They thought about having a child. But eventually, someone desperately needed her help and she couldn't say "no". As Carey thinks to himself at one point during the story "To her, saving people was just something a person did, if she happened to have the skills".This book begins with the third "runner" Jane has helped since her marriage. James Shelby was framed for the murder of his wife. The people who set him up try to have him killed in prison, and he is taken to court to testify against his attacker. Posing as an attorney, Jane helps him escape, then acting as a decoy,she is captured, taken to a remote warehouse and tortured. She manages not to reveal where James is, but her captors do learn who she is. When they discover that many powerful people would like to get revenge against her, they decide to auction her off to the highest bidder.Jane Whitefield makes all of her cunning and intelligent moves seem like simple common sense. She is so attuned to the world around her: the people, the animals, trees and even physical structures, that she is able to anticipate almost exactly what will happen in any situation. Her actions are almost always calm and measured and planned. She has the enviable ability to focus on whatever task she happens to be doing, yet still remain aware of her surroundings. Many of these traits can be ascribed to her upbringing as a Seneca, and her study of Native American history and folklore. It's only a tiny spoiler to reveal that there's a wonderful chapter in the book when Jane goes to the riverbank and gives a tribute to the Jo-Ge-Oh, the little people, as thanks for helping her to return alive. Make sure to set aside a block of time to read this book. Once you open it, you won't want to put it down until you reach the end. *FTC Full Disclosure: Many thanks to the publisher, and to NetGalley for providing me an e-galley to review.

[beamis12 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

erry can sure write and I always felt Jane was one of his most interesting characters. In this novel Jane is a victim herself, shortly after doing what she is know for and that is helping someone escape, she is captured buy the same people she is helping save someone from. Jane is an exceptionally strong woman, which I like, and I love her Indian background and the way she draws strength from it. Fast paced, and through it all the reader will be rooting for Jane,

[mikedraper · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Jane Whitefield helps people disappear.James Shelby was framed for his wife's murder. Now the people who set him up want him dead. He is in prison and called to testify on another matter. While waiting to testify, Jane stages his escape.Jane is caught by the people who want Shelby. She's wounded and taken to a secluded place where they intend to torture her to reveal where Shields is.Jane reaches back to her Seneca Indian history and is able to withstand the punishment but at a terrible price. When it's found that other people are looking for her, for depriving them of the person they were ready to harm, they decide to have an auction. The highest bidder gets Jane so they can have their own revenge.The author has set the table well. We feel sympathy for the characters that Jane is helping and hope she will succeed and the antagonists punished.This is an enjoyable story with a lesson about how much good one woman can do for people who are left without any help. It is a lesson for us all.

[P B · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Meh. But the end was worse than meh. Too bad.

[susandennis-139327 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is yet another Jane Whitfield books. They are pretty much all the same and I cannot get enough of them. I'm just going to learn to live with the fact that Jane is going to try to help someone, get in huge piles of very dangerous trouble and I will worry about her until 10 pages from the end of the book when everything works out.

If I had another right here right now, I'd be reading it instead of writing this. Is there a 12 step program?

[carol420 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Jane didn’t seem to be the same person she was in the last six books…maybe it was just me, but she seemed out of character. Perhaps it’s because she's sadder… wiser…and more mature than in previous books. Overall it was another good story in this series. It would be unfair to reveal too much more about the plot. One of the appeals of this series and the character of Jane Whitefield is Thomas Perry’s ability to keep you from ever being able to second guess what will happen.

[sberson_2 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Addictive reading. fun!