{"product_id":"gideonisbn-9780345434784","title":"Gideon","description":"Gideon. An identity shrouded in mystery - the anonymous source who holds the key to an explosive secret. In a clandestine meeting, writer Carl Granville is hired to take the pages of an old diary, articles, letters, documents in which all proper names and locations have been blacked out - and turn them into compelling fiction. He will be paid a quarter of a million dollars. But he can never tell a soul.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs he is fed information and his work progresses, Granville begins to realize that Gideon's book is more than just a potential bestseller. It is a revelation of chilling evil and a decades-long cover-up by someone with far-reaching power. He starts to have second thoughts. How will his book be used? Whose lives will be shattered? What is the truth behind the story - and who is the true storyteller?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen someone close to Granville is bludgeoned to death. Another is savagely murdered. His apartment is ransacked, his computer destroyed, all his records stolen. Suspicion falls on Granville. He tries to explain the shadowy assignment. No one believes him. He has no proof, no alibis...\"THE EFFECT IS A BIT LIKE ROLLING DOWN A GRASSY HILL . . . YOU PICK UP SERIOUS SPEED. . . . Writer Carl Granville - down on his luck personally and professionally - is approached one day by a hotshot publisher who says she'll pay him a startling amount of money to turn a top secret diary into a novel. Gift from God or devilish trap? . . . The conspiracy he gets tangled in plays on some seriously topical fears.\"\u003cbr\u003e-Entertainment Weekly\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"THE BOOK'S GOT EVERYTHING A BIG ADVENTURE THRILLER SHOULD - a potentially world-shaking secret, nearly invincible villains, vulnerable protagonists on the run, romance, [and] betrayal. . . . What takes it a step beyond . . . are the seriousness of its message and the playfulness with which it bites the hand that publishes it.\"\u003cbr\u003e-Los Angeles Times\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"FRANTIC . . . NOTHING IS EVER AS IT SEEMS.\"\u003cbr\u003e-The Boston Globe\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"THIS ONE WILL KEEP YOU GUESSING UNTIL THE END.\"\u003cbr\u003e-Houston ChronicleRussell Andrews is a pseudonym for the team of\u003cbr\u003ePeter Gethers and David Handler.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePeter Gethers has written two previous novels, The Dandy and Getting Blue, and two bestselling nonfiction books, The Cat Who Went to Paris and A Cat Abroad. In addition, he is an editor and publisher and, with David Handler, has written numerous film scripts and television shows. Mr. Gethers lives in New York City and Sag Harbor, New York. This is the first collaboration with Mr. Handler under the name \"Russell Andrews.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDavid Handler began his career as a journalist and critic. He won widespread critical acclaim for his autobiographical first novel, Kiddo, and has an Edgar and an American Mystery Award for his series of eight novels featuring amateur sleuth Stewart Hoag - a hero who, in the words of the Detroit Free Press, combines \"the panache of James Bond, the in-your-face attitude of Sean Penn, and the lethal wit of Gore Vidal.\" Mr. Handler has written many television and film scripts with his longtime partner, Peter Gethers. He makes his home in Old Lyme, Connecticut.Washington, D.C.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOnce again he woke up screaming.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was the dream, of course. The same dream. The same overwhelming, inescapable dream.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut there was something different this time. There was no distance to it, no feeling of safety. It had crossed over and crystallized and become stiflingly, palpably, claustrophobically real. The colors were bright and the sound was crisp. He could see the faces, hear the voices. Feel the pain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd he had to listen to the crying.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen he realized he was awake, that the sound he heard was real, was actually coming from inside him, he bit the scream off and the physical effort hurt his throat, as if the noise were being ripped out of him. He had to force himself to think about where he was, who he was, to stop himself from screaming again. And then he had to bite down on his lip so hard he drew blood. Otherwise he knew he could have howled and wept for minutes, for hours. Forever.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe was drenched in sweat, the sheets so damp beneath him he thought he'd wet the bed. But none of that was new. He was used to that. No, it was the \u003ci\u003eend\u003c\/i\u003e of the dream that left him weak and trembling. That's what was different.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis time he dreamed that he talked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd because he believed in the veracity of dreams, he woke up terrified.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe reasons for his terror had dominated his thoughts ever since the moment she had come to him, the woman he loved so absolutely, shaken and subdued, ever since she had told him she had to talk to him in private. It had been sunny that afternoon, and he remembered the warm glow he'd felt, basking in the realization that everything was going perfectly, all their plans were coming together so smoothly. When she leaned over and whispered to him, he had never seen her look like that. So frightened. Pale and trembling. He couldn't imagine what had done this to her. Then she told him about the package that had arrived. What was in it. And what the instructions were that came with it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey had sat together, holding each other, for a long time after that. Saying nothing because there was nothing to say. Because everything he had worked for, \u003ci\u003ethey\u003c\/i\u003e had worked for, was crumbling now. No, not crumbling. Exploding.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe had canceled all meetings, shut off all phone calls. They had locked themselves behind closed doors. Then she spoke, examining their options, going over every choice rationally and calmly. Analyzing. Probing. Until finally she had put her hand over his, her skin cool and soft. Her softness was all that kept him from bursting into tears.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"There's only one thing you can do,\" she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"That's the one thing I \u003ci\u003ecan't\u003c\/i\u003e do,\" he said sadly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"There's no other choice. Anything else is too risky, too terrible for you.\" She touched his cheek. \"What if they find out? Think what would happen.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe didn't have to ask who \"they\" were. And he didn't have to think. He knew what would happen. He knew exactly what would happen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe also knew that he could never accept the way out she was urging him to take. She could propose it only because she didn't truly understand his power, didn't know what she was really asking him to give up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter all her rational explanations, after eliminating choice after choice, ultimately it was still impossible, what she was asking him to do.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo he'd thought of another solution. A far better one.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe latest dream showed him that it was right. And just. He knew better than anyone that it was just.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe sat up suddenly in the bed, as if the quickness of his movement could shed the fear like an unwanted layer of skin. He blinked furiously, willing the nightmare--and the night's solitude--to disappear.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was just getting light outside, the sun's first rays filter-\u003cbr\u003eing down so passively they didn't seem to have the strength to make it all the way through the windows of the bedroom. But neither the shadows of the dawn outside nor the icy air-conditioning inside--the best system money could buy--were able to disguise the brutal humidity of this Washington summer. His rapid breathing slowed somewhat, and he uncurled the clenched fingers of both hands. He tried to force himself to be still, to relax. To come back to life. But he \u003cbr\u003ecould not.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe glanced to his left, where his wife slept soundly. He wondered how she could possibly sleep, and yet he was glad she did. For the first time since he'd known her, he didn't think he could face her, couldn't talk to her, tell her what he was thinking. Yet despite everything it pleased him to hear her gentle, rhythmic breathing, so comfortably familiar to him, soft and delicate. And there was another marvel: In twenty-seven years of marriage she had never been anything but a comfort to him. Never anything but a tower of strength.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe swung his legs out of bed. They were not yet steady. Still sitting, his bare feet planted in the pastel Aubusson carpet, he ran his left hand over the smooth, hollowed-out top of the bedpost. He loved their four-poster bed. Built in 1782, dated and signed by Nathaniel Dolgers, the greatest of colonial carpenters. It was too short for them, really, and not all that comfortable. But he insisted they sleep in it. He looked at his wife, curled up in the sheets, and smiled. She thought his affection for the bed was because he'd always loved working with his hands, had always, above all, worshiped craftsmanship. But that wasn't it at all. The real reason was that the bed had cost $175,000. A bed! And every single night before he slept--if he slept--he thought about what his mother had done when he'd told her he was sleeping in a $175,000 bed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe'd laughed. She'd thrown her head back and laughed and laughed until tears of wonderment flowed down her leather-tough cheeks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis legs were steadier now, his heart no longer pounding. He stood slowly, padded over to the window. Directly before him he could see the square, deserted and still. To the right, below him, at the eastern side of the house, he could make out the garden, the silhouettes of her flowers. He glanced back at the sleeping woman and had to shake his head. They always referred to them as \"her\" flowers. And when she talked about them, she might have been talking about the children they'd never had. Put her before a Grant Thomas rose or a \u003ci\u003eCampanula lactiflora\u003c\/i\u003e and her face would soften, her eyes would glisten, her voice would coo in that tender, musical tone of hers. And when she \u003ci\u003etouched\u003c\/i\u003e those petals--what caresses, what love. Whenever he passed one of the arrangements she'd cut for the house, he couldn't help but reach out and stroke the petals himself. He always felt as if he were touching her. And she were touching him.","brand":"Ballantine Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304828555493,"sku":"NP9780345434784","price":7.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780345434784.jpg?v=1730758568","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/gideonisbn-9780345434784","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}