Thomas Perry: Shadow Woman

“A THRILLER THAT IS BOTH LITERATE

AND COMPELLING … THE ENDING

IS TERRIFIC.”

—The Orlando Sentinel

“In this superb book, with its surreal description of the glitter and fakery of Las Vegas, Thomas Perry’s peerless heroine, Jane Whitefield, engineers a disappearance worthy of the Miraculous Miranda. A wonderful mix of plot and character, Shadow Woman dazzles like a house of mirrors.”

—MARTHA GRIMES

“Perry shares with very few writers the specific skill of writing about pursuit. He is powerfully adept at pacing, retaining and renewing suspense, all the while keeping track of how a character thinks and acts through the long, difficult problem of staying alive against great odds. It is no less than a delight to watch Whitefield in action.… Shadow Woman is the best of the three Jane Whitefield novels thus far, and the first two were merely wonderful.”

—Newsday

“The suspense of the chase gives this moody thriller its power.”

—The Boston Globe

“Another masterfully invented detective story … The suspense is unrelenting.”

—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

“A UNIQUE HEART-POUNDER.”

—The Hartford Courant

“Rewarding … Perry infuses his novel with everything he’s got: some introspection, some magic, lots of action.”

—Newark Star-Ledger

“Perry is creating a niche as enticing and solid as Dean Koontz or Tom Clancy with Indian guide Jane Whitefield.… Perry’s strength as the third-person narrator is a knack for breakneck pacing, a wry unobtrusive wit that sets perfect hair-raising scenes, and inventive plotting with clever twists. He manages to build suspense, pull surprises, and keep his characters in such imminent danger that he seems ready to sacrifice a hero at any moment.”

—Memphis Commercial Appeal

“Swift plotting.… The overall story is so good that the climax comes much too soon.”

—The Seattle Times

“From the disappearance of Pete Hatcher during a Las Vegas magic show to the satisfying denouement, Perry’s third Jane Whitefield thriller delivers in full: a well-paced and complex plot, intriguing characters (including a chillingly psychotic couple who make a living as killers), and enough suspense to keep the pages turning all day.… Perry leads his readers on a galvanizing chase along a twisting, thrilling course.”

—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

“A WONDERFULLY HARROWING PAGE-TURNER.”

—Wichita Eagle

“Perry excels at chase scenes.”

—San Francisco Chronicle

“Excellent writing … Shadow Woman is the third and the best in this series featuring Jane Whitefield.… The writing is crisp, the characterizations of the homicidal couple terrifying, and the tension relentless. In Jane, the author has created one of the strongest female protagonists in current fiction. Highly recommended.”

—Sunday Montgomery Advertiser

“Perry is an accomplished veteran who’s created a nifty, compelling tale that’s hard to put down and a unique heroine whose clever struggle for survival is tough to top.”

—Lansing State Journal

“A humdinger of a thriller … The talented Perry is back with another top-notch crime novel filled with high-octane action and featuring cool, calm, confident Jane Whitefield, the mysterious ‘guide’ who helps the downtrodden and desperate ‘disappear.’ ”

—Booklist

By Thomas Perry:

THE BUTCHER’S BOY

METZGER’S DOG

BIG FISH

ISLAND

SLEEPING DOGS*

VANISHING ACT*

DANCE FOR THE DEAD*

SHADOW WOMAN*

*Published by Ivy Books

Copyright © 1997 by Thomas Perry

For my mother

my sister

my wife

my daughters

Any person, whether old or young, male or female, might become possessed of an evil spirit, and be transformed into a witch. A person thus possessed could assume, at pleasure, the form of any animal, bird or reptile, and having executed his nefarious purpose, could resume his original form, or, if necessary to escape pursuit, could transmute himself into an inanimate object.

Lewis Henry Morgan, League of the Iroquois , 1851

1

Pete Hatcher pushed through the warm, dry night air that was trapped between the tall hotels and casinos, feeling the stored heat from the sun still rising from the concrete to his ankles. He had tightened his back muscles to keep his spine straight and his shoulders back, but it felt like a pose, so he tried to lose his self-consciousness and slouch a little. It was hard to do anything for so many days without ruminating on the way it must look, what they must think about it. He had tried to look formidable and alert, as though he would be hard to kill. The idea was worse than childish. It was the reaction of an animal trying to convince a predator that he wasn’t weak enough to take down just yet.

The part of Las Vegas that he loved was the Strip, with the exaggerated shapes of its giant buildings lit up in candy colors that burned against the blue-black desert sky, but being downtown like this was different. The carnival neons and incandescents glared from all sides and bounced off asphalt and concrete, then washed across the faces of the people walking with him as a dead yellow-gray that cast deep shadows in their wrinkles and sunken eyes.

He followed a couple who seemed to sense it. Each eyed the other and the woman became uncomfortably aware that the ghastly light that had skinned the life from her beloved’s cheek must have done the same to her own. She bravely forced a smile that only gave her face deeper hollows and the bared teeth of a skull. The pair reached the roofed-over mall, retreated to the nearest glass door, and escaped into the soft blue of a bar lit with the twinkle of tiny star-white bulbs. When they had taken a few steps into the cool, machine-made air, Pete saw them both give a little shrug-and-shudder to be sure none of the leftover street magic was clinging to them.

Hatcher followed them through the bar into the big casino, then skirted the margin of the gaming floor, ignoring the din of the bells on the slots and the rattle of coins in the collection pans that bounced off the walls above his head to excite the customers. He moved deeper, staying far from the blackjack tables and crap tables, where bright overhead lights shone on the green felt and turned the dealers’ starched white shirts into semaphores. He stepped to the little window in the wall a few feet apart from the cashiers’ cages.

He said to the middle-aged woman behind the glass, “There was supposed to be a ticket for the midnight show left for me.”

“Your name, sir?” He had somehow assumed she would know his face, but her expression was only attentive.

“Pete Hatcher.”

Hatcher took the ticket and read the seat number while he was still in the light, then handed it to the girl in the fishnet tights and frock coat at the door and let her lead him into the show. Hatcher never looked back to see whether the two men were still following. They were.

The round walls of the room were lined with big plush booths in three tiers, and the space in front of the stage crowded with rows of long, narrow tables arranged like the spokes of a wheel so nobody in the cheap stackable chairs along them could see better than anybody else.