12th of Never Read online

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by James Patterson

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue: A Dark and Stormy Night

  One

  Two

  Three

  Book I: Three Weeks Later

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Book II: Off The Bench

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Book III: 103 In The Shade

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Book IV: Eclipse

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Chapter 104

  Chapter 105

  Chapter 106

  Chapter 107

  Chapter 108

  Chapter 109

  Chapter 110

  Epilogue: A Bad Day for Pro Football

  Chapter 111

  Chapter 112

  Chapter 113

  Chapter 114

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  About the Book

  A baby on the way and two killers on the loose.

  Will Detective Lindsay Boxer be pushed to breaking point?

  An eccentric professor walks into Lindsay’s homicide department to report a murder that hasn’t yet happened.

  A convicted serial killer wakes from a two-year coma. He says he’s ready to tell where the bodies are buried, but does he have a much more sinister plan in mind?

  Lindsay doesn’t have much time to stop a terrifying future from unfolding. But all the crimes in the world seem like nothing when she is suddenly faced with the possibility of the most devastating loss of her life.

  About the Author

  JAMES PATTERSON is one of the best-known and biggest-selling writers of all time. He is the author of some of the most popular series of the past decade – the Alex Cross, Women’s Murder Club and Detective Michael Bennett novels – and he has written many other number one bestsellers including romance novels and stand-alone thrillers. He lives in Florida with his wife and son.

  James is passionate about encouraging children to read. Inspired by his own son who was a reluctant reader, he also writes a range of books specifically for young readers. James has formed a partnership with the National Literacy Trust, an independent, UK-based charity that changes lives through literacy. In 2010, he was voted Author of the Year at the Children’s Choice Book Awards in New York.

  Find out more at www.jamespatterson.co.uk

  Become a fan of James Patterson on Facebook

  Also by James Patterson

  THE WOMEN’S MURDER CLUB SERIES

  1st to Die

  2nd Chance (with Andrew Gross)

  3rd Degree (with Andrew Gross)

  4th of July (with Maxine Paetro)

  The 5th Horseman (with Maxine Paetro)

  The 6th Target (with Maxine Paetro)

  7th Heaven (with Maxine Paetro)

  8th Confession (with Maxine Paetro)

  9th Judgement (with Maxine Paetro)

  10th Anniversary (with Maxine Paetro)

  11th Hour (with Maxine Paetro)

  ALEX CROSS NOVELS

  Along Came a Spider

  Kiss the Girls

  Jack and Jill

  Cat and Mouse

  Pop Goes the Weasel

  Roses are Red

  Violets are Blue

  Four Blind Mice

  The Big Bad Wolf

  London Bridges

  Mary, Mary

  Cross

  Double Cross

  Cross Country

  Alex Cross’s Trial (with Richard DiLallo)

  I, Alex Cross

  Cross Fire

  Kill Alex Cross

  Merry Christmas, Alex Cross

  Alex Cross, Run

  DETECTIVE MICHAEL BENNETT SERIES

  Step on a Crack (with Michael Ledwidge)

  Run for Your Life (with Michael Ledwidge)

  Worst Case (with Michael Ledwidge)

  Tick Tock (with Michael Ledwidge)

  I, Michael Bennett (with Michael Ledwidge)

  PRIVATE NOVELS

  Private (with Maxine Paetro)

  Private London (with Mark Pearson)

  Private Games (with Mark Sullivan)

  Private: No. 1 Suspect (with Maxine Paetro)

  Private Berlin (with Mark Sullivan)

  Private Down Under (with Michael White)

  STAND-ALONE THRILLERS

  Sail (with Howard Roughan)

  Swimsuit (with Maxine Paetro)

  Don’t Blink (with Howard Roughan)

  Postcard Killers (with Liza Marklund)

  Toys (with Neil McMahon)

  Now You See Her (with Michael Ledwidge)

  Kill Me If You Can (with Marshall Karp)

  Guilty Wives (with David Ellis)

  Zoo (with Michael Ledwidge)

  NYPD Red (with Marshall Karp)

  NON-FICTION

  Torn Apart (with Hal and Cory Friedman)

  The Murder of King Tut (with Martin Dugard)

  ROMANCE

  Sundays at Tiffany’s (with Gabrielle Charbonnet)

  The Christ
mas Wedding (with Richard DiLallo)

  MAXIMUM RIDE SERIES

  The Angel Experiment

  School’s Out Forever

  Saving the World and Other Extreme Sports

  The Final Warning

  Max

  Fang

  Angel

  Nevermore

  DANIEL X SERIES

  The Dangerous Days of Daniel X (with Michael Ledwidge)

  Daniel X: Watch the Skies (with Ned Rust)

  Daniel X: Demons and Druids (with Adam Sadler)

  Daniel X: Game Over (with Ned Rust)

  Daniel X: Armageddon (with Chris Grabenstein)

  WITCH AND WIZARD SERIES

  Witch & Wizard (with Gabrielle Charbonnet)

  Witch & Wizard: The Gift (with Ned Rust)

  Witch & Wizard: The Fire (with Jill Dembowski)

  Witch & Wizard: The Kiss (with Jill Dembowski)

  MIDDLE SCHOOL NOVELS

  Middle School: The Worst Years of My Life (with Chris Tebbetts)

  Middle School: Get Me Out of Here! (with Chris Tebbetts)

  Middle School: My Brother Is a Big, Fat Liar (with Lisa Papademetriou)

  I FUNNY

  I Funny (with Chris Grabenstein)

  CONFESSIONS SERIES

  Confessions of a Murder Suspect (with Maxine Paetro)

  GRAPHIC NOVELS

  Daniel X: Alien Hunter (with Leopoldo Gout)

  Maximum Ride: Manga Vol. 1–6 (with NaRae Lee)

  For more information about James Patterson’s novels, visit

  www.jamespatterson.co.uk

  Or become a fan on Facebook

  Suzie and John, Brendan and Jack

  PROLOGUE

  A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT

  One

  I WOKE UP to a sharp report, as if a gun had gone off next to my ear. My eyes flew open and I sat straight up in bed.

  I yelled “Joe,” but my husband wasn’t lying next to me. He was in an airplane, thirty-five thousand feet above the heartland, and wouldn’t be home until the morning.

  There was another ferocious crack and my bedroom brightened with lightning that snapped and wrapped around the windows. A boomer shook the window frames and sheets of rain lashed the glass. I was so distracted by the vicious storm that it took me a second or two to register the wave of pain that came from my belly and washed right through me.

  Oh, man, it hurt really bad.

  Yes, it was my own fault for gorging on refried beans for dinner, then chasing down the Mexican leftovers with rigatoni marinara at ten.

  I looked at the clock—2:12 a.m.—then jumped at the next seismic thunderclap. Martha whined from under the bed. I called to her. “Martha. Boo, honey, whatchoo doin’? It’s just a storm. It can’t hurt you. Come to Mama.”

  She flapped her tail against the carpet, but she didn’t come out. I swung my legs over the bed and flipped the switch on the bedside lamp—and nothing happened. I tried a couple more times, but damn it—the light wouldn’t go on.

  The power couldn’t be out. But it was.

  I reached for my Maglite, accidentally knocked it with the back of my hand, and it flew off the night table, rolled under the bed, and went I don’t know where.

  Lightning branched down and reached across the black sky, as if to emphasize the point that the lights were out as far as the eye could see.

  I grabbed the cordless phone and listened to dead air. The phones were out, too, and now I was feeling that weird wave of stomach pain again. Yowee.

  I want to be clear. I was feeling a wave, not a contraction.

  My age classifies me as an “elderly primigravida,” meaning over forty, pregnant with my first child. I had seen my doctor yesterday morning and I’d checked out fine. The baby had checked out fine, and wasn’t due for another week.

  I had booked a bed on the birthing floor at California Women’s Hospital, and although I’m not the organic granola type, I wanted to have the whole natural childbirth experience. The truth was, this baby might be the only one Joe and I would ever have.

  Another wave of pain hit me.

  To repeat, it was not a contraction.

  I staggered out to the living room, found my handbag—an item I hadn’t needed in several weeks—and dug around until I found my iPhone. The battery bar was showing that I had only 10 percent of a full charge. Too damned little.

  I leaned against a wall and went online to see what kind of storm was beating up San Francisco.

  The squall was even worse than I thought. Twenty thousand families were in the dark. People were stuck in elevators between floors. Signs and other detritus had been flung through windows. Cars had skidded across roads, crashed, and flipped. All emergency vehicles had been deployed. Emergency rooms were flooded with patients and downed power lines were sparking on the streets.

  This was shaping up to be one of the worst storms in SF history. Headlines quoted the mayor: STAY IN YOUR HOMES. THE STREETS ARE UNSAFE.

  Martha slunk over and collapsed on top of my feet.

  “We’re going to be okay,” I cooed.

  And then that pain came over me. And it flipped me out.

  “Go away,” I yelled at Martha. “Go away.”

  She ran.

  “I’m sorry, Boo,” I said to my whimpering dog. “These are false contractions. If they were real, I would know it.”

  I grabbed my knees—and that’s when my water broke.

  No way!

  I could not comprehend what was happening—it could not be happening. I wasn’t ready to have the baby. It wasn’t due for another week. But ready or not, this baby was coming.

  God help me.

  My little one and I were really in for it now.

  Two

  I WANTED TO abandon my body.

  Yes, that sounds insane, but that’s how I felt—and it was all that I felt. I clicked the light switch up and down, picked up the landline.

  Still no power and no phones; neither would be restored until the sun threw some light on the situation. I had five minutes of battery left on my iPhone, maybe less.

  I speed-dialed my doctor, left a message with her service, then called the hospital. A nice woman named Shelby asked me, “How often are your contractions coming?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t time them. I didn’t even know I was having them.”

  “Lindy?”

  “Lindsay.”

  “Lindsay, your water breaking means you’ll be in labor for a while yet. You could deliver in three hours or three days, but don’t worry. Let me explain about three-one-one.”

  I knew about 311. But still I listened as Shelby explained that 311 was the rule for what to do when your contractions come every three minutes, last for one minute, and that pattern repeats for at least one hour: you go to the hospital.

  “Are you kidding me?” I screeched into the phone. “Because, listen! I’m alone and I’ve never done this before.”

  “Do not come in until you’re in active labor,” Shelby said. “Stay home, where you’re comfortable.”

  I yelled, “Thanks!,” snapped off my phone, and walked my enormous baby bump to the window. I was breathing hard as I looked up Lake Street in the direction of my chosen hospital. There was no traffic, no traffic lights. The street was closed.

  A tremendous burst of lightning cracked the sky open and sent Martha skittering under the couch. It was crazy, but I was starting to like the storm, even though it had sucked all the air out of the room.

  It was hot. Damned hot. I kicked off my XXL pj’s and another painful wave took my breath away. It was as if a boa constrictor had wrapped itself around my torso and was squeezing me into the shape of a meal.

  I was scared, and it wasn’t all about the pain.

  Babies got strangled by umbilical cords. Women died in childbirth. Elderly primigravidas were more at risk than younger women, and old babes like me weren’t supposed to do childbirth by themselves. What if there were complications?

  Claire Washburn i
s my best friend. She is San Francisco’s chief medical examiner—a forensic pathologist, not an obstetrician, but hell. She’d had three babies. I knew she could talk me through this. At least she could try.

  I dialed and Claire answered with a groggy “Dr. Wazjjjbrn.”

  “Claire. It’s too soon to go to the hospital, I know, but yow. I think I can feel the baby’s head down there. What should I do?”

  “Don’t push!” my best friend shouted at me. “I’m calling nine-one-one right now.”

  I shouted back at her, “Call a private ambulance service so I can go to the Women’s Hospital! Claire, do you read me?”

  Claire didn’t answer.

  My phone was dead.

  Three

  MY RAGING RIVER of hormones was sending a single, unambiguous message.

  Push.

  Claire had said, “Don’t push,” and that sounded both insane and impossible, but I got her drift. The baby was safe inside me until help arrived.

  It must have taken me ten minutes to ease my throbbing, hurting self into bed.

  I knew that Claire wouldn’t let me down, that she had probably thrown the weight of her office behind the 911 call. I put my birthing instincts in park and thought with my entire being, I’m in God’s hands now. All I can do is make the best of this and hope that the baby is safe. That’s all I can do.

  Martha got up on the bed and curled up next to me. I put my hand on her head and I resisted my contractions. I heard noises, someone calling “Helloooo”—sounds that were far outside my tunnel of pain. I put my hands up against blinding flashlight beams and then, like a force of nature, all the lights went on.

  The power was back.

  My bedroom was filled with strapping men standing shoulder to shoulder in a line that stretched from the door to the bed and ran along both sides of it. There had to be at least twelve of them, all with stricken, smoke-smudged faces, all in full turnout gear. I remember staring at the reflective tape on their jackets, wondering why a dozen fire-fighters were crowding in on me.