{"product_id":"merciless-isbn-9780345492418","title":"Merciless","description":"On a frigid December night, Karen sits at the edge of Philadelphia’s Schuylkill River, dressed in a flowing gown, like a visitor from the distant past. A beautiful and shining young woman, she gazes up at a bone-white winter moon like a fairy-tale princess frozen in time. At first glance, one might not even notice that she is dead, coated in a glistening patina of ice. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHomicide cops Kevin Byrne and Jessica Balzano take the lead on the case, uncovering a plethora of eerie clues–each more warped and spine-chilling than the last. Yet the identity of Karen’s pitiless killer remains a mystery. Then the next victim is found upriver at an abandoned waterworks, posed with an unlikely object in her clasped hands. Struggling to link the victims and make sense of the madman’s agenda, Byrne and Balzano follow his twisted trail, which stretches into a past of dark crimes forgotten by all but a few. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow the past roars back into the present with a vengeance as the ingenious killer unleashes a torrent of rage upon the streets of Philadelphia. As Byrne and Balzano sift through suspects and clues, they unearth a shocking secret history: a legacy of malevolence and cold-blooded retribution dating back twenty years. And the farther they make their way up the body-strewn banks of the Schuylkill River, the closer they get to a villain from their worst nightmare, an evil as patient as it is merciless. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLightning fast and razor sharp, this jolting thriller from acclaimed author Richard Montanari coils back in time to deliver a fiendish mystery, a shattering revelation, and one hell of a wild ride. Lock your doors and turn up the lights. Montanari’s terrifying bedtime story will keep you up all night.Praise for Richard Montanari\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Skin Gods\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What makes The Skin Gods engrossing isn’t just the sustained suspense but the adept rendering of the characters.”\u003cbr\u003e–Rocky Mountain News\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Perfect for anyone who enjoys a well-crafted thriller . . . bestselling Montanari has another hit on his hands.”\u003cbr\u003e–Booklist\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Rosary Girls\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Readers of this terrifying page-turner are in the hands of a master storyteller. Be prepared to stay up all night.”\u003cbr\u003e–James Ellroy\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Gripping . . . You begin The Rosary Girls out of curiosity but finish it out of compulsion.”\u003cbr\u003e–Cleveland Plain DealerRichard Montanari is a novelist, screenwriter, and essayist. His work has appeared in the Chicago Tribune, Detroit Free Press, Cleveland Plain Dealer, and scores of other national and regional publications. He is the OLMA-winning author of the internationally acclaimed thrillers The Skin Gods, The Rosary Girls, Kiss of Evil, Deviant Way, and The Violet Hour. Visit the author’s website at www.richardmontanari.com.\u003cb\u003e1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e December 2006\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He is Moon, and he believes in magic.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Not the magic of trapdoors,  and false bottoms, and sleights of hand. Not the magic that comes in the form of  a pill or a potion. But rather the magic that can grow a beanstalk to the sky, or  spin straw into gold, or turn a pumpkin into a carriage.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Moon believes in the pretty  girl who loves to dance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He had watched her for a long time. She is in her twenties,  slender, above average in height, possessed of great refinement. Moon knows she lived  for the moment, but for all that she was, for all she was going to be, she still  seemed quite sad. Yet he is certain she understood, as does he, that there is an  enchantment that lives within all things, an elegance unseen and unappreciated by  the passing pageantthe curve of an orchid's petal, the symmetry of a butterfly's  wings, the breathtaking geometry of the heavens.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A day earlier he had stood in shadows,  across the street from the Laundromat, watching as she loaded clothes into the dryer,  marveling at the graceful way she encountered the earth. The night was clear, terribly  cold, the sky a seamless black fresco above the City of Brotherly Love.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He watched  her step through the frosty glass doors, onto the sidewalk, her bag of laundry over  her shoulder. She crossed the street, stood at the SEPTA stop, stamped her feet against  the chill. She had never been more beautiful. When she turned to see him, she knew,  and he was filled with magic.\u003cbr\u003e Now, as Moon stands on the bank of the Schuylkill River,  the magic fills him again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He looks at the black water. Philadelphia is a city of  two rivers, twin tributaries of the same heart. The Delaware River is muscular, broad  of back, unyielding. The Schuylkill River is crafty and cunning and serpentine. It  is the hidden river. It is his river.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Not unlike the city itself, Moon has many  faces. Over the next two weeks he will keep this face unseen, as he must, just another  dull daub on a gray winter canvas.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He gently places the dead girl on the bank of  the Schuylkill, kisses her cold lips one last time. As beautiful as she is, she is  not his princess. He will meet his princess soon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Thus the tale is spun.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She is  Karen. He is Moon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And this is what the moon saw . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e2\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The city hadn't changed.  He'd been away only a week, and hadn't expected miracles, but after more than two  decades on the police force of one of the toughest cities in the nation, one could  always hope. On the way into town he had seen two accidents and five arguments, along  with a trio of fistfights outside three different taverns.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ah, the holiday season  in Philly, he thought. Warms the heart.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Detective Kevin Francis Byrne sat at the  counter of the Crystal Diner, a small, clean coffee shop on Eighteenth Street. Since  the Silk City Diner had closed, this had become his favorite late night haunt. The  speakers offered \"Silver Bells.\" The chalkboard overhead heralded the holiday message  of the day. The multicolored lights on the street spoke of Christmas and joy and  merriment and love. All well and good and fa-la-la-la-la. Right now Kevin Byrne needed  food, a shower, and sleep. His tour started at 8 am.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And then there was Gretchen.  After a week of looking at deer droppings and shivering squirrels, he needed to look  at something beautiful.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Gretchen upended Byrne's cup, poured coffee. She may not  have poured the best cup in town, but nobody ever looked better doing it. \"Haven't  seen you in a while,\" she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Just got back,\" Byrne replied. \"Took a week in  the Poconos.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Must be nice.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"It was,\" Byrne said. \"Funny thing though, for the  first three days I couldn't sleep. It was too damned quiet.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Gretchen shook her  head. \"You city boys.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"City boy? Me?\" He caught a glimpse of himself in the night-blackened  window--seven-day growth of beard, L.L.Bean jacket, flannel shirt, Timberland boots.  \"What are you talking about? I thought I looked like Jeremiah Johnson.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You look  like a city boy with a vacation beard,\" she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was true. Byrne was born and  bred a Two-Streeter. And he'd die one.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I remember when my mama moved us here from  Somerset,\" Gretchen added, her perfume maddeningly sexy, her lips a deep burgundy.  Now in her mid-thirties, Gretchen Wilde's teenaged beauty had softened into something  far more striking. \"I couldn't sleep either. Way too noisy.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"How's Brittany?\" Byrne  asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Gretchen's daughter Brittany was fifteen, going on twenty-five. She had gotten  busted a year earlier at a rave in West Philly, caught with enough Ecstasy to pull  a charge of possession with intent. Gretchen had called Byrne that night, at wit's  end, not really realizing the walls that existed between the divisions in the police  department. Byrne had reached out to a detective who owed him a favor. The charge  was reduced to simple possession by the time it got to municipal court, and Brittany  had gotten community service.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I think she's gonna be okay,\" Gretchen said. \"Her  grades are up, she's getting home at a respectable hour. At least on weeknights.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Gretchen had been married and divorced twice. Both of her exes were drug-addled,  violent losers. But somehow, against the odds, Gretchen had managed to keep her head  up through it all. There was no individual on earth Kevin Byrne admired more than  the single mother. It was, hands down, the hardest job in the world.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"And how's  Colleen?\" Gretchen asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Byrne's daughter Colleen was the lighthouse at the end  of his soul. \"She's amazing,\" he said. \"Absolutely amazing. A brand-new world every  day.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Gretchen smiled. They were two parents who, for the moment, had no worries.  Give it another minute. Everything could change.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I've been eating cold sandwiches  for a week,\" Byrne said. \"And lousy cold sandwiches at that. What do you have that's  warm and sweet?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Present company excluded?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Never.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She laughed. \"I'll see what  we've got.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She sashayed into the back room. Byrne watched. In her tight pink tricot  uniform, it was impossible not to.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was good to be back. The country was for other  people: country people. The closer he got to retirement, the more he thought about  leaving the city. But where would he go? The past week had all but ruled out the  mountains. Florida? He wasn't big on hurricanes either. The southwest? Didn't they  have Gila monsters there? He'd have to give this more thought.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Byrne glanced at  his watch, a huge chronograph with a thousand dials. It seemed to do everything but  tell the time. It had been a present from Victoria.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He had known Victoria Lindstrom  for more than fifteen years, ever since they'd met during a vice raid at a massage  parlor where she had been working. At the time she was a confused and stunningly  beautiful seventeen-year-old, not long from her home in Meadville, Pennsylvania.  She had continued in the life until one day a man attacked her, viciously cutting  her face with a box cutter. She had endured a number of painful surgeries to repair  the muscles and tissue. No surgeries could repair the damage inside.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e They had recently  found each other again. This time with no expectations.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Victoria was spending time  with her ailing mother in Meadville. Byrne had been meaning to call. He missed her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Byrne glanced around the restaurant. There were only a handful of other diners.  A middle-aged couple in a booth. A pair of college girls sitting together, both on  cell phones. A man at the booth nearest the door, reading a newspaper.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Byrne stirred  his coffee. He was ready to get back to work. He had never been one to flourish in  the down times between jobs, or on those rare occasions when he took his vacation  time. He wondered what new cases had come into the unit, what progress had been made  in ongoing investigations, what arrests, if any, had been made. The truth was, he'd  thought about these things the entire time he'd been away. It was one of the reasons  he hadn't brought his cell phone with him. He would have been on the horn to the  unit twice a day.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The older he got, the more he came to terms with the fact that  we are all here for a very short time. If he'd made even the slightest difference  as a police officer, then it was worth it. He sipped his coffee, content with his  dime-store philosophies. For the moment.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Then it hit him. His heart picked up a  beat. His right hand involuntarily formed a pistol grip. That was never good news.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He knew the man sitting by the door, a man named Anton Krotz. A few years older  than the last time Byrne had seen him, a few pounds heavier, a little more muscular,  but there was no doubt it was Krotz. Byrne recognized the elaborate scarab tattoo  on the man's right hand. He recognized the mad-dog eyes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Anton Krotz was a cold-blooded  killer. His first documented murder had come as a result of a botched robbery at  a variety store in South Philly. He had shot the cashier point-blank for thirty-seven  dollars. They had brought him in for questioning on that case, but had to let him  go. Two days later he robbed a jewelry store in Center City and shot the man and  woman who owned the store––execution style. It was caught on video. A massive manhunt  nearly shut down the city that day, but somehow Krotz slipped through.International bestseller; Author of Badlands; [quote] -- Cleveland Plain Dealer","brand":"Ballantine Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300947742949,"sku":"NP9780345492418","price":7.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780345492418.jpg?v=1767732571","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/merciless-isbn-9780345492418","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}