{"product_id":"the-bad-place-isbn-9780425245194","title":"The Bad Place","description":"\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e#1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Dean Koontz delivers terrifying thrills in this novel about a man caught in a never-ending nightmare.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eFrank Pollard is afraid to fall asleep. Every morning he awakes, he  discovers something strange—like blood on his hands—a bizarre mystery  that tortures his soul. Two investigators have been hired to follow the  haunted man. But only one person—a young man with Down's syndrome—can  imagine where their journeys might end. That terrible place from which  no one ever returns...\u003c\/p\u003e | “Fast-paced reading...masterly!”—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “This is white-knuckle, hair-curling-on-the-back-of-the-neck reading—as close to actual physical terror as the printed word can deliver.”—\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Koontz’s skill at edge-of-the-seat writing has improved with each book. He can scare our socks off.”—\u003ci\u003eBoston Herald\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e“Fascinating. Even his minor characters seem to live. A roller-coaster ride.”—\u003ci\u003eThe Boston Globe\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eMore Praise for Dean Koontz\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Dean Koontz is a prose stylist whose lyricism heightens malevolence and tension. [He creates] characters of unusual richness and depth.”—\u003ci\u003eThe Seattle Times\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Tumbling, hallucinogenic prose....‘Serious’ writers...might do well to examine his technique.”—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Lyrical writing and compelling characters...Koontz stands alone.”—Associated Press\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In every industry there exist ‘artists’ that are not only unforgettable, but know their craft better than the rest. Dean Koontz...is among these artisans.”—\u003ci\u003eSuspense Magazine\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“[Koontz] has always had near-Dickensian powers of description, and an ability to yank us from one page to the next that few novelists can match.”—\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Perhaps more than any other author, Koontz writes fiction perfectly suited to the mood of America...novels that acknowledge the reality and tenacity of evil but also the power of good...[and that] entertain vastly as they uplift.”—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e | \u003cb\u003eDean Koontz\u003c\/b\u003e, the author of many #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestsellers, lives in Southern California with his wife, Gerda, their golden retriever, Elsa, and the enduring spirit of their goldens, Trixie and Anna. | \u003cp\u003eTable of Contents\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTitle Page\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCopyright Page\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDedication\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 1\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 2\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 3\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 4\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 5\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 6\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 7\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 8\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 9\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 10\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 11\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 12\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 13\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 14\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 15\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 16\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 17\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 18\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 19\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 20\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 21\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 22\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 23\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 24\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 25\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 26\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 27\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 28\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 29\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 30\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 31\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 32\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 33\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 34\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 35\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 36\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 37\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 38\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 39\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 40\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 41\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 42\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 43\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 44\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 45\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 46\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 47\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 48\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 49\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 50\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 51\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 52\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 53\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 54\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 55\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 56\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 57\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e“THIS IS WHITE-KNUCKLE, HAIR-CURLING-ON-THE-BACK-OF-THE-NECK READING—as close to actual physical terror as the printed word can deliver.”\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFrank Pollard is afraid to fall asleep. Every morning he awakes, he discovers something strange—like blood on his hands—a bizarre mystery that tortures his soul. Two investigators have been hired to follow the haunted man. But only one person—a young man with Down’s syndrome—can imagine where their journeys might end. That terrible place from which no one ever returns ...\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eTHE BAD PLACE\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e“Koontz’s skill at edge-of the-seat writing has improved with each book. HE CAN SCARE OUR SOCKS OFF.”\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eBoston Herald\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for\u003c\/b\u003e  \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Bad Place\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Psychologically complex characters... fast-paced... a masterly and satisfying denouement.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“The intricate plot races along. Koontz also creates characters of unusual richness and depth ... a level of perception and sensitivity that is not merely convincing; it’s astonishing.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Seattle Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“At times lyrical without ever being naive or romantic. This is a grotesque world, much like that of Flannery O’Connor or Walker Percy... Scary, worthwhile reading.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Times-Picayune\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“A taut suspenseful novel that transcends genres. Total entertainment.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Macon Telegraph \u0026amp; News\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Thoroughly absorbing and wonderfully entertaining, a real leave-the-light-on effort.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Atlanta Journal-Constitution\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Koontz puts his readers through the emotional wringer. There are scenes... that stick in the mind long after the thriller has been laid aside.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e—The Associated Press\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Fascinating. Even his minor characters seem to live. A roller-coaster ride.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Boston Globe\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Strange. Weird. Eerie. Macabre. Terrifying.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e—\u003ci\u003eNew York Daily News\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“A compelling plot... excellent characters.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Baltimore Sun\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Koontz soars... shriek-worthy suspense.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“A roller-coaster ride.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Seattle Post-Intelligencer\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“The pace accelerates like an avalanche. By the time the reader reaches the denouement, he’s emotionally exhausted, shaken.”—\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Baton Rouge Advocate\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“A celebration of the imagination—and every bit as creepy as you hope it will be!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Chattanooga News-Free Press\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Just when you think you’ve got everything figured out, Koontz tosses in yet another surprise. He masterfully weaves [many] elements into a plot that is totally involving.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e—\u003ci\u003eHartford Courant\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Completely satisfying. His prose is rich and evocative. His characters are among the warmest—also the most despicable—in fiction.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Ottawa Citizen\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Highly entertaining.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Indianapolis Star\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“By the time you reach the end, you’ll feel as if you’ve just stepped off a roller coaster.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Fort Worth Star-Telegram\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“A stylishly terrifying adventure... characters the reader can care for, and a mystery that is truly mysterious.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e—\u003ci\u003eSouth Bend Tribune\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You can’t stop reading. It takes you on a chilly roller-coaster ride of stomach-gripping suspense that throws you breathlessly against a brick wall at the end.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e—UPI\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Hard to put down, absorbing... Each character comes alive.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Memphis Commercial Appeal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Koontz is a master.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e—\u003ci\u003eCalgary Herald\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Dean Koontz is on a roll. Each new novel... has brought more respect and more popularity. He creates sympathetic characters who are very human, and [the story races] from page to page.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e—\u003ci\u003eRockdale Citizen\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“This may be Koontz’s best book yet. He deftly juggles several subplots while keeping the suspense turned on high. A rousing conclusion.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Tulsa World\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Driving, character-rich, panoramic... a marvelously boisterous, scare-and-suspense-packed entertainment.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Fast and furious... surprise piled upon surprise...highly entertaining.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Orange County Register\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Memorable characters. Koontz has written another page-turner.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e—Gannett News Service\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Complex and fascinating characters. The character of Thomas is a tour \u003ci\u003ede force\u003c\/i\u003e of stylistics that more than anything suggests Koontz’s remarkable skill.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Mystery Scene\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Give me more of this man’s fiction anytime. The Bad Place [is] unrelenting in its purpose to thrill, challenge, and charm. It is one of the new breed of mystery thrillers... with such explosive panache that you don’t need explosive sex or violence to keep a reader’s interest.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Fear\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eBerkley titles by Dean Koontz\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eTHE EYES OF DARKNESS\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eTHE KEY TO MIDNIGHT\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eMR. MURDER\u003c\/b\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eTHE FUNHOUSE\u003c\/b\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eDRAGON TEARS\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eSHADOWFIRES\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eHIDEAWAY\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eCOLD FIRE\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eTHE HOUSE OF THUNDER\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eTHE VOICE OF THE NIGHT\u003c\/b\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eTHE BAD PLACE\u003c\/b\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eTHE SERVANTS OF TWILIGHT\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eMIDNIGHT\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eLIGHTNING\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eTHE MASK\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eWATCHERS\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eTWILIGHT EYES\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eSTRANGERS\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eDEMON SEED\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003ePHANTOMS\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eWHISPERS\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eNIGHT CHILLS\u003c\/b\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eDARKFALL\u003c\/b\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eSHATTERED\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eTHE VISION\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eTHE FACE OF FEAR\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThis is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eTHE BAD PLACE\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA Berkley Book \/ published by arrangement with\u003cbr\u003ethe author\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePRINTING HISTORY\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBerkley mass-market edition \/ December 1990\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eCopyright \u003cb\u003e©\u003c\/b\u003e 1990 by Nkui, Inc.\u003cp\u003e“Afterword” copyright \u003cb\u003e©\u003c\/b\u003e 2004 by Dean Koontz.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAll rights reserved.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThis book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced\u003cbr\u003ein any form without permission.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet\u003cbr\u003eor via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal\u003cbr\u003eand punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic\u003cbr\u003eeditions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of\u003cbr\u003ecopyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFor information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,\u003cbr\u003ea division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eeISBN : 978-1-101-00719-8\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eBERKLEY®\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBerkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,\u003cbr\u003ea division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBERKLEY and the “B” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTeachers often affect our lives more than they realize. From high school days to the present, I have had teachers to whom I will remain forever indebted, not merely because of what they taught me, but because they provided the invaluable examples of dedication, kindness, and generosity of spirit that have given me an unshakable faith in the basic goodness of the human species. This book is dedicated to:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDavid O’Brien\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThomas Doyle\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eRichard Forsythe\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJohn Bodnar\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCarl Campbell\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSteve and Jean Hernishin\u003c\/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eEvery eye sees its own special vision;\u003cbr\u003eevery ear hears a most different song.\u003cbr\u003eIn each man’s troubled heart, an incision\u003cbr\u003ewould reveal a unique, shameful wrong.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eStranger fiends hide here in human guise\u003cbr\u003ethan reside in the valleys of Hell.\u003cbr\u003eBut goodness, kindness and love arise\u003cbr\u003ein the heart of the poor beast, as well.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e—The Book of Counted Sorrows\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTHE NIGHT was becalmed and curiously silent, as if the alley were an abandoned and windless beach in the eye of a hurricane, between the tempest past and the tempest coming. A faint scent of smoke hung on the motionless air, although no smoke was visible.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSprawled facedown on the cold pavement, Frank Pollard did not move when he regained consciousness; he waited in the hope that his confusion would dissipate. He blinked, trying to focus. Veils seemed to flutter within his eyes. He sucked deep breaths of the cool air, tasting the invisible smoke, grimacing at the acrid tang of it.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShadows loomed like a convocation of robed figures, crowding around him. Gradually his vision cleared, but in the weak yellowish light that came from far behind him, little was revealed. A large trash dumpster, six or eight feet from him, was so dimly outlined that for a moment it seemed ineffably strange, as though it were an artifact of an alien civilization. Frank stared at it for a while before he realized what it was.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe did not know where he was or how he had gotten there. He could not have been unconscious longer than a few seconds, for his heart was pounding as if he had been running for his life only moments ago.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eFireflies in a windstorm....\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThat phrase took flight through his mind, but he had no idea what it meant. When he tried to concentrate on it and make sense of it, a dull headache developed above his right eye.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eFireflies in a windstorm\u003c\/i\u003e...\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe groaned softly.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBetween him and the dumpster, a shadow among shadows moved, quick and sinuous. Small but radiant green eyes regarded him with icy interest.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFrightened, Frank pushed up onto his knees. A thin, involuntary cry issued from him, almost less like a human sound than like the muted wail of a reed instrument.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe green-eyed observer scampered away. A cat. Just an ordinary black cat.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFrank got to his feet, swayed dizzily, and nearly fell over an object that had been on the blacktop beside him. Gingerly he bent down and picked it up: a flight bag made of supple leather, packed full, surprisingly heavy. He supposed it was his. He could not remember. Carrying the bag, he tottered to the dumpster and leaned against its rusted flank.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLooking back, he saw that he was between rows of what seemed to be two-story stucco apartment buildings. All of the windows were black. On both sides, the tenants’ cars were pulled nose-first into covered parking stalls. The queer yellow glow, sour and sulfurous, almost more like the product of a gas flame than the luminescence of an incandescent electric bulb, came from a streetlamp at the end of the block, too far away to reveal the details of the alleyway in which he stood.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAs his rapid breathing slowed and as his heartbeat decelerated, he abruptly realized that he did not know who he was. He knew his name—Frank Pollard—but that was all. He did not know how old he was, what he did for a living, where he had come from, where he was going, or why. He was so startled by his predicament that for a moment his breath caught in his throat; then his heartbeat soared again, and he let his breath out in a rush.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eFireflies in a windstorm\u003c\/i\u003e...\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhat the hell did that mean?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe headache above his right eye corkscrewed across his forehead.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe looked frantically left and right, searching for an object or an aspect of the scene that he might recognize, anything, an anchor in a world that was suddenly too strange. When the night offered nothing to reassure him, he turned his quest inward, desperately seeking something familiar in himself, but his own memory was even darker than the passageway around him.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eGradually he became aware that the scent of smoke had faded, replaced by a vague but nauseating smell of rotting garbage in the dumpster. The stench of decomposition filled him  with thoughts of death, which seemed to trigger a vague recollection that he was on the run from someone—or something—that wanted to kill him. When he tried to recall why he was fleeing, and from whom, he could not further illuminate that scrap of memory; in fact, it seemed more an awareness based on instinct than a genuine recollection.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA puff of wind swirled around him. Then calm returned, as if the dead night was trying to come back to life but had managed just one shuddering breath. A single piece of wadded paper, swept up by that insufflation, clicked along the pavement and scraped to a stop against his right shoe.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThen another puff.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe paper whirled away.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAgain the night was dead calm.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSomething was happening. Frank sensed that these short-lived whiffs of wind had some malevolent source, ominous meaning.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIrrationally, he was sure that he was about to be crushed by a great weight. He looked up into the clear sky, at the bleak and empty blackness of space and at the malignant brilliance of the distant stars. If something was descending toward him, Frank could not see it.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe night exhaled once more. Harder this time. Its breath was sharp and dank.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe was wearing running shoes, white athletic socks, jeans, and a long-sleeved blue-plaid shirt. He had no jacket, and he could have used one. The air was not frigid, just mildly bracing. But a coldness was in him, too, a gelid fear, and he shivered uncontrollably between the cool caress of the night air and that inner chill.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe gust of wind died.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eStillness reclaimed the night.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eConvinced that he had to get out of there—and fast—he pushed away from the dumpster. He staggered along the alley, retreating from the end of the block where the streetlamp glowed, into darker realms, with no destination in mind, driven only by the sense that this place was dangerous and that safety, if indeed safety could be found, lay elsewhere.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe wind rose again, and with it, this time, came an eerie whistling, barely audible, like the distant music of a flute made of some strange bone.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWithin a few steps, as Frank became surefooted and as his eyes adapted to the murky night, he arrived at a confluence of passageways. Wrought-iron gates in pale stucco arches lay to his left and right.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe tried the gate on the left. It was unlocked, secured only by a simple gravity latch. The hinges squeaked, eliciting a wince from Frank, who hoped the sound had not been heard by his pursuer.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBy now, although no adversary was in sight, Frank had no doubt that he was the object of a chase. He knew it as surely as a hare knew when a fox was in the field.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe wind huffed again at his back, and the flutelike music, though barely audible and lacking a discernible melody, was haunting. It pierced him. It sharpened his fear.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBeyond the black iron gate, flanked by feathery ferns and bushes, a walkway led between a pair of two-story apartment buildings. Frank followed it into a rectangular courtyard somewhat revealed by low-wattage security lamps at each end. First-floor apartments opened onto a covered promenade; the doors of the second-floor units were under the tile roof of an iron-railed balcony. Lightless windows faced a swath of grass, beds of azaleas and succulents, and a few palms.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA frieze of spiky palm-frond shadows lay across one palely illuminated wall, as motionless as if they were carved on a stone entablature. Then the mysterious flute warbled softly again, the reborn wind huffed harder than before, and the shadows danced, danced. Frank’s own distorted, dark reflection whirled briefly over the stucco, among the terpsichorean silhouettes, as he hurried across the courtyard. He found another walkway, another gate, and ultimately the street on which the apartment complex faced.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt was a side street without lampposts. There, the reign of the night was undisputed.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe blustery wind lasted longer than before, churned harder. When the gust ended abruptly, with an equally abrupt cessation of the unmelodic flute, the night seemed to have been left in a vacuum, as though the departing turbulence had taken with it every wisp of breathable air. Then Frank’s ears popped as if from a sudden altitude change; as he rushed across the deserted street toward the cars parked along the far curb, air poured in around him again.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe tried four cars before finding one unlocked, a Ford. Slipping behind the wheel, he left the door open to provide some light.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe looked back the way he had come.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe apartment complex was dead-of-the-night still. Wrapped in darkness. An ordinary building yet inexplicably sinister.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNo one was in sight.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNevertheless, Frank knew someone was closing in on him.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe reached under the dashboard, pulled out a tangle of wires, and hastily jump-started the engine before realizing that such a larcenous skill suggested a life outside of the law. Yet he didn’t feel like a thief. He had no sense of guilt and no antipathy for—or fear of—the police. In fact, at the moment, he would have welcomed a cop to help him deal with whoever or whatever was on his tail. He felt not like a criminal, but like a man who had been on the run for an exhaustingly long time, from an implacable and relentless enemy.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAs he reached for the handle of the open door, a brief pulse of pale blue light washed over him, and the driver’s-side windows of the Ford exploded. Tempered glass showered into the rear seat, gummy and minutely fragmented. Since the front door was not closed, that window didn’t spray over him; instead, most of it fell out of the frame, onto the pavement.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYanking the door shut, he glanced through the gap where the glass had been, toward the gloom-enfolded apartments, saw no one.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFrank threw the Ford in gear, popped the brake, and tramped hard on the accelerator. Swinging away from the curb, he clipped the rear bumper of the car parked in front of him. A brief peal of tortured metal rang sharply across the night.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut he was still under attack: A scintillant blue light, at most one second in duration, lit up the car; over its entire breadth the windshield crazed with thousands of jagged lines, though it had been struck by nothing he could see. Frank averted his face and squeezed his eyes shut just in time to avoid being blinded by flying fragments. For a moment he could not see where he was going, but he didn’t let up on the accelerator, preferring the danger of collision to the greater risk of braking and giving his unseen enemy time to reach him. Glass rained  over him, spattered across the top of his bent head; luckily, it was safety glass, and none of the fragments cut him.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe opened his eyes, squinting into the gale that rushed through the now empty windshield frame. He saw that he’d gone half a block and had reached the intersection. He whipped the wheel to the right, tapping the brake pedal only lightly, and turned onto a more brightly lighted thoroughfare.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLike Saint Elmo’s fire, sapphire-blue light glimmered on the chrome, and when the Ford was halfway around the corner, one of the rear tires blew. He had heard no gunfire. A fraction of a second later, the other rear tire blew.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe car rocked, slewed to the left, began to fishtail.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFrank fought the steering wheel.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBoth front tires ruptured simultaneously.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe car rocked again, even as it glided sideways, and the sudden collapse of the front tires compensated for the leftward slide of the rear end, giving Frank a chance to grapple the spinning steering wheel into submission.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAgain, he had heard no gunfire. He didn’t know why all of this was happening—yet he did.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThat was the truly frightening part: On some deep subconscious level he \u003ci\u003edid\u003c\/i\u003e know what was happening, what strange force was swiftly destroying the car around him, and he also knew that his chances of escaping were poor.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA flicker of twilight blue ...\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe rear window imploded. Gummy yet prickly wads of safety glass flew past him. Some smacked the back of his head, stuck in his hair.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFrank made the corner and kept going on four flats. The sound of flapping rubber, already shredded, and the grinding of metal wheel rims could be heard even above the roar of the wind that buffeted his face.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe glanced at the rearview mirror. The night was a great black ocean behind him, relieved only by widely spaced streetlamps that dwindled into the gloom like the lights of a double convoy of ships.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAccording to the speedometer, he was doing thirty miles an hour just after coming out of the turn. He tried to push it up to forty in spite of the ruined tires, but something clanged and clinked under the hood, rattled and whined, and the engine coughed, and he could not coax any more speed out of it.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhen he was halfway to the next intersection, the headlights either burst or winked out. Frank couldn’t tell which. Even though the streetlamps were widely spaced, he could see well enough to drive.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe engine coughed, then again, and the Ford began to lose speed. He didn’t brake for the stop sign at the next intersection. Instead he pumped the accelerator but to no avail.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFinally the steering failed too. The wheel spun uselessly in his sweaty hands.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEvidently the tires had been completely torn apart. The contact of the steel wheel rims with the pavement flung up gold and turquoise sparks.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eFireflies in a windstorm....\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe still didn’t know what that meant.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNow moving about twenty miles an hour, the car headed straight toward the right-hand curb. Frank tramped the brakes, but they no longer functioned.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe car hit the curb, jumped it, grazed a lamppost with a sound of sheet metal kissing steel, and thudded against the bole of an immense date palm in front of a white bungalow. Lights came on in the house even as the final crash was echoing on the cool night air.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFrank threw the door open, grabbed the leather flight bag from the seat beside him, and got out, shedding fragments of gummy yet splintery safety glass.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThough only mildly cool, the air chilled his face because sweat trickled down from his forehead. He could taste salt when he licked his lips.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA man had opened the front door of the bungalow and stepped onto the porch. Lights flicked on at the house next door.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFrank looked back the way he had come. A thin cloud of luminous sapphire dust seemed to blow through the street. As if shattered by a tremendous surge of current, the bulbs in the streetlamps exploded along the two blocks behind him, and shards of glass, glinting like ice, rained on the blacktop. In the resultant gloom, he thought he saw a tall, shadowy figure, more than a block away, coming after him, but he could not be sure.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTo Frank’s left, the guy from the bungalow was hurrying  down the walk toward the palm tree where the Ford had come to rest. He was talking, but Frank wasn’t listening to him.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eClutching the leather satchel, Frank turned and ran. He was not sure what he was running from, or why he was so afraid, or where he might hope to find a haven, but he ran nonetheless because he knew that if he stood there only a few seconds longer, he would be killed.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e2\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTHE WINDOWLESS rear compartment of the Dodge van was illuminated by tiny red, blue, green, white, and amber indicator bulbs on banks of electronic surveillance equipment but primarily by the soft green glow from the two computer screens, which made that claustrophobic space seem like a chamber in a deep-sea submersible.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDressed in a pair of Rockport walking shoes, beige cords, and a maroon sweater, Robert Dakota sat on a swivel chair in front of the twin video display terminals. He tapped his feet against the floorboards, keeping time, and with his right hand he happily conducted an unseen orchestra.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBobby was wearing a headset with stereo earphones and with a small microphone suspended an inch or so in front of his lips. At the moment he was listening to Benny Goodman’s “One O’Clock Jump,” the primo version of Count Basie’s classic swing composition, six and a half minutes of heaven. As Jess Stacy took up another piano chorus and as Harry James launched into the brilliant trumpet stint that led to the most famous rideout in swing history, Bobby was deep into the music.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut he was also acutely aware of the activity on the display terminals. The one on the right was linked, via microwave, with the computer system at the Decodyne Corporation, in front of which his van was parked. It revealed what Tom Rasmussen was up to in those offices at 1:10 Thursday morning: no good.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOne by one, Rasmussen was accessing and copying the files of the software-design team that had recently completed Decodyne’s new and revolutionary word-processing program, “Whizard.” The Whizard files carried well-constructed lockout instructions-electronic drawbridges, moats, and ramparts. Tom Rasmussen was an expert in computer security, however, and there was no fortress that he could not penetrate, given enough time. Indeed, if Whizard had not been developed on a secure in-house computer system with no links to the outside world, Rasmussen would have slipped into the files from beyond the walls of Decodyne, via a modem and telephone line.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIronically, he had been working as the night security guard at Decodyne for five weeks, having been hired on the basis of elaborate—and nearly convincing—false papers. Tonight he had breached Whizard’s final defenses. In a while he would walk out of Decodyne with a packet of floppy diskettes worth a fortune to the company’s competitors.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“One O’Clock Jump” ended.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eInto the microphone Bobby said, “Music stop.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThat vocal command cued his computerized compact-disc system to switch off, opening the headset for communication with Julie, his wife and business partner.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You there, babe?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFrom her surveillance position in a car at the farthest end of the parking lot behind Decodyne, she had been listening to the same music through her own headset. She sighed. “Did Vernon Brown ever play better trombone than the night of the Carnegie concert?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“What about Krupa on the drums?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Auditory ambrosia. And an aphrodisiac. The music makes me want to go to bed with you.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Can’t. Not sleepy. Besides, we’re being private detectives, remember?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I like being lovers better.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“We don’t earn our daily bread by making love.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’d pay you,” she said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Yeah? How much?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Oh, in daily-bread terms ... half a loaf.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’m worth a whole loaf.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJulie said, “Actually, you’re worth a whole loaf, two croissants, and a bran muffin.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe had a pleasing, throaty, and altogether sexy voice that he loved to listen to, especially through headphones, when she sounded like an angel whispering in his ears. She would have been a marvelous big-band singer if she had been around in  the 1930s and ’40s—and if she had been able to carry a tune. She was a great swing dancer, but she couldn’t croon worth a damn; when she\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48338549637349,"sku":"NP9780425245194","price":22.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780425245194.jpg?v=1769572645","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-bad-place-isbn-9780425245194","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}