They entice recruits with sex. These recruits are kept in line with a mixture of violence and fear: do what you're ordered, or suffer the consequences. They are the Pack. They live in secret, under assumed names and new identities, hidden away or on the run, avoiding the Pack, who cast them out. They are the Fallen. He has a quiet life. He is married with a child on the way; he's successful and fulfilled. But he has his own demons to battle. He is the Listener. She was a member of the Pack. She fought, she killed, and she recoiled in revulsion. She ran from the Pack. She is Rachel. After that horrifying act, the Listener helps to repair Rachel's fragile psyche. Until she's well enough to return to a normal life. Until she falls in love. Until the Pack finds her. Until the Listener and the Fallen come together to save her. The Pack would see her dead. And that is something that the Listener cannot allow to happen.
Book Description
Editorial Reviews
About the Author
In addition to being a writer, Josh Cohen is a traffic reporter and radio producer, and lives with his wife and four cats in a suburb near Orlando, Florida.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
An Excerpt From Chapter One...
"Hello?"
"J... Jen?"
Jennifer put down her book. "Rachel? What is it?"
"I... I need... Help me... Please..."
She sat up straighter, the fractured voice of her sister scaring her. "Rachel," she said, soothing, softer, "what’s wrong?"
Rachel took a deep breath, but Jennifer heard the shaking in her voice. "I got into something. Something bad. I ran. I hid. And I don’t know what to do."
"Where are you?"
"Oh God, Jennifer. I’m at a hotel. It was the only place I could go. I... I can’t go home. They know where I am."
"Rachel, go to the police! They’ll protect you!"
Jennifer heard her younger sister start to cry, choking on her tears. "I... I can’t..."
"Why not?" As she spoke, Jennifer moved across the house as quickly as she could, into the office, where the Listener was working on his computer. "What’s wrong?"
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Oh my God, Jennifer, they’re dead. I killed them." Another sob, harsh like torn glass against Jennifer’s ear. "I had no choice. I had to kill them."
"Oh God."
The Listener turned, watched the phone fall out of Jennifer’s hand and smack against the tile, watched her drop to her knees, face in her hands. He slid out of his chair and knelt beside her. Whispered, "what is it?"
She tilted her face up to his, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. "Rachel. Something’s wrong with her. She..."
Now he could sign, since she was watching him. She what?
"I think she killed someone."
He picked up the phone. "Rachel?" His whisper was barely audible, but it was the best he could do. "Rachel, can you hear me?"
She was sniffling, crying, but she responded. "Yes."
He paused, steeling himself to speak. "I want you to tell me where you are, Rachel." The pain of speaking, of using what was left of a voice that had once been smooth, deep, almost melodic, burned at his throat, but he had to.
There was shuffling on the other end of the line, then Rachel, "Days Inn. Mc... McCarran..." She gave him the phone number.
"Stay there." He swallowed, fighting the urge to wince at the pressure using his voice was putting on his ravaged throat. "We’ll take care of everything. We’re coming, Rachel."
"Help me..." Her voice grew thick with pain, with despair, becoming less and less intelligible. "H... Help..."
"We’re coming, Rachel. I promise."
From his wallet, the Listener took out his corporate credit card, called the number Rachel gave him.
"Days Inn McCarran, may I help you?"
He was whispering, fighting the pain, each word like a burning knife shoved into the front of his throat. But he got Rachel’s room number. He told them she was his sister, that he would pay for her room, anything she needed. She was his sister, after all—they didn’t need to know it was merely a legal relationship, not a blood one—and they allowed his company – really just an incorporation of convenience with an employee count of one – to pay for the room for the next two days. Oh, and no cleaning service for at least that long. Long enough to get to Las Vegas.
If only Rachel would hold on.
He turned to Jennifer. Get your things, he signed.
"What?" Her tears had dried out, but she was shaking, shellshocked.
We’re going to get her. Right now. He lifted her to her feet, pulled her into a hug, and laid his cheek against hers, feeling her skin burning against him, and whispered, "we’ll take care of her. As long as we have to."
Her whisper was as broken as his.
"Thank you."
By three o’clock that afternoon, Jennifer and the Listener were in his car, already an hour from home, on the Turnpike heading northbound out of their home in Florida. Jennifer was on her phone, calling the hotel. "Rachel? Can you hear me?"
"I... I hear you..."
"We’re coming, honey. We’re coming to get you. Just hold on."
"Hurry. Please... please hurry."
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