EBOOK
About
Deadly and devious, the Spiderman has the whole of San Francisco at his mercy, gripped in a terrible fear. It seems as though no woman is safe as he entices, traps and then bleeds his victims dry.
Beth Wells, a talented designer whose roommate has been killed by the Spiderman, must deal with not only her mounting suspicions about the identity of the killer, but also a series of threatening letters. Though she doesn't know it yet, she may have unwittingly become the Spiderman's next target.
Beth's friend Jim Kearns is the head of the investigation into the killings. Obsessed by the case but unable to save the growing number of victims, Kearns struggles with his own private demons.
Vasas-Brown skilfully brings San Francisco to life, conveying the rising media hysteria that leads everyone to believe the spiderman is a monster. It's up to Kearns to convince them that the killer is just a man. A man capable of being caught. A man capable of every wickedness. "Vasas-Brown's thriller hits all the right notes. The sinuous plot has readers guessing at the outcome as the story gallops to a climax. A very satisfying read." - The Victoria Times-Colonist
"Vasas-Brown writes like a more literate Mary Higgins Clark." - Jack Batten, The Toronto Star
"With all the panache of a pro, the Southern Ontario native has crafted a beautifully written tale." - The Ottawa Citizen Cathy Vasas-Brown is an elementary school teacher. She lives in Southern Ontario with her husband, Al, and their four cats - Watson, Holmes, Moriarty, and Spike. She is at work on two more thrillers. 1.
The goodnight died on her lips. Too quickly, the door closed with a cheap, hollow sound and she stood alone in the hallway, her Ferragamo shoes clashing with the beer-stained carpet. She inhaled musty air. Disgusted, she gave the finger to the creep on the other side of the door and hurried down the stairs to the street.
A dense fog rolled along the sidewalk, curling around each lamppost and caressing her with the gentleness the schmuck upstairs hadn't bothered with. Her back ached. Her legs ached. Her crotch ached. She gulped in fresh air and looked at her watch. Shit. The last bus had already left.
The street was deserted. She turned abruptly and looked up. His light was already out. Sleep tight, you bastard. Call me a cab? Please don't trouble yourself. She reached into her shoulder bag for a Lucky Strike, lit it, and began to walk.
After two blocks, she weighed her choices. Walk around the park and be home at four. Go through the park and be in bed by three. Her head spun, the chemically induced fog as thick as the one rolling in from the bay.
The park it was.
Three cigarettes later, she gave the finger salute again, this time to a carload of teenage boys cruising along Martin Luther King Jr. Drive. A vagrant begged for change, and she swore at him, too.
She pitched her last cigarette butt into the dahlia bed and glanced ahead to where a wooden staircase cut its path through a cavern of dense trees and shrubbery. Not so bad, she thought, having jogged steeper than this in a daily ritual to keep her thighs and glutes bikini-perfect. She could do it.
Ignoring the tympani hammer of her heart, she began the ascent, privately cursing her high heels, her blind ambition, and her overindulgence. The autumn air had done little to clear her head. Her eyes were playing serious tricks on her, the steps weaving and pitching like some sadistic carnival ride. She stopped climbing, steadied herself against the rough bark of a tree and fought the wave of nausea rising from her stomach. Seconds or minutes later, the steps became still again, her stomach settled, and she resumed the climb.
There was a rustling, off to her left. She stopped. The rustling stopped, too. Four more cautious steps, and she heard the snapping of a twig. Any minute now there would be heavy breathing and high-pitched violins to complete the horror movie cliché.
I
Beth Wells, a talented designer whose roommate has been killed by the Spiderman, must deal with not only her mounting suspicions about the identity of the killer, but also a series of threatening letters. Though she doesn't know it yet, she may have unwittingly become the Spiderman's next target.
Beth's friend Jim Kearns is the head of the investigation into the killings. Obsessed by the case but unable to save the growing number of victims, Kearns struggles with his own private demons.
Vasas-Brown skilfully brings San Francisco to life, conveying the rising media hysteria that leads everyone to believe the spiderman is a monster. It's up to Kearns to convince them that the killer is just a man. A man capable of being caught. A man capable of every wickedness. "Vasas-Brown's thriller hits all the right notes. The sinuous plot has readers guessing at the outcome as the story gallops to a climax. A very satisfying read." - The Victoria Times-Colonist
"Vasas-Brown writes like a more literate Mary Higgins Clark." - Jack Batten, The Toronto Star
"With all the panache of a pro, the Southern Ontario native has crafted a beautifully written tale." - The Ottawa Citizen Cathy Vasas-Brown is an elementary school teacher. She lives in Southern Ontario with her husband, Al, and their four cats - Watson, Holmes, Moriarty, and Spike. She is at work on two more thrillers. 1.
The goodnight died on her lips. Too quickly, the door closed with a cheap, hollow sound and she stood alone in the hallway, her Ferragamo shoes clashing with the beer-stained carpet. She inhaled musty air. Disgusted, she gave the finger to the creep on the other side of the door and hurried down the stairs to the street.
A dense fog rolled along the sidewalk, curling around each lamppost and caressing her with the gentleness the schmuck upstairs hadn't bothered with. Her back ached. Her legs ached. Her crotch ached. She gulped in fresh air and looked at her watch. Shit. The last bus had already left.
The street was deserted. She turned abruptly and looked up. His light was already out. Sleep tight, you bastard. Call me a cab? Please don't trouble yourself. She reached into her shoulder bag for a Lucky Strike, lit it, and began to walk.
After two blocks, she weighed her choices. Walk around the park and be home at four. Go through the park and be in bed by three. Her head spun, the chemically induced fog as thick as the one rolling in from the bay.
The park it was.
Three cigarettes later, she gave the finger salute again, this time to a carload of teenage boys cruising along Martin Luther King Jr. Drive. A vagrant begged for change, and she swore at him, too.
She pitched her last cigarette butt into the dahlia bed and glanced ahead to where a wooden staircase cut its path through a cavern of dense trees and shrubbery. Not so bad, she thought, having jogged steeper than this in a daily ritual to keep her thighs and glutes bikini-perfect. She could do it.
Ignoring the tympani hammer of her heart, she began the ascent, privately cursing her high heels, her blind ambition, and her overindulgence. The autumn air had done little to clear her head. Her eyes were playing serious tricks on her, the steps weaving and pitching like some sadistic carnival ride. She stopped climbing, steadied herself against the rough bark of a tree and fought the wave of nausea rising from her stomach. Seconds or minutes later, the steps became still again, her stomach settled, and she resumed the climb.
There was a rustling, off to her left. She stopped. The rustling stopped, too. Four more cautious steps, and she heard the snapping of a twig. Any minute now there would be heavy breathing and high-pitched violins to complete the horror movie cliché.
I