Hausfrau: A Novel, by Jill Alexander Essbaum

Hausfrau: A Novel, by Jill Alexander Essbaum

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Hausfrau: A Novel, by Jill Alexander Essbaum

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NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • NAMED ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE, THE HUFFINGTON POST, AND SHELF AWARENESS • “In Hausfrau, Anna Karenina goes Fifty Shades with a side of Madame Bovary.”—Time “A debut novel about Anna, a bored housewife who, like her Tolstoyan namesake, throws herself into a psychosexual journey of self-discovery and tragedy.”—O: The Oprah Magazine“Sexy and insightful, this gorgeously written novel opens a window into one woman’s desperate soul.”—PeopleAnna was a good wife, mostly. For readers of The Girl on the Train and The Woman Upstairs comes a striking debut novel of marriage, fidelity, sex, and morality, featuring a fascinating heroine who struggles to live a life with meaning.Anna Benz, an American in her late thirties, lives with her Swiss husband, Bruno—a banker—and their three young children in a postcard-perfect suburb of Zürich. Though she leads a comfortable, well-appointed life, Anna is falling apart inside. Adrift and increasingly unable to connect with the emotionally unavailable Bruno or even with her own thoughts and feelings, Anna tries to rouse herself with new experiences: German language classes, Jungian analysis, and a series of sexual affairs she enters with an ease that surprises even her. But Anna can’t easily extract herself from these affairs. When she wants to end them, she finds it’s difficult. Tensions escalate, and her lies start to spin out of control. Having crossed a moral threshold, Anna will discover where a woman goes when there is no going back. Intimate, intense, and written with the precision of a Swiss Army knife, Jill Alexander Essbaum’s debut novel is an unforgettable story of marriage, fidelity, sex, morality, and most especially self. Navigating the lines between lust and love, guilt and shame, excuses and reasons, Anna Benz is an electrifying heroine whose passions and choices readers will debate with recognition and fury. Her story reveals, with honesty and great beauty, how we create ourselves and how we lose ourselves and the sometimes disastrous choices we make to find ourselves. Praise for Hausfrau“Elegant . . . There is much to admire in Essbaum’s intricately constructed, meticulously composed novel, including its virtuosic intercutting of past and present.”—Chicago Tribune“For a first novelist, Essbaum is extraordinary because she is a poet. Her language is meticulous and resonant and daring.”—NPR’s Weekend Edition “We’re in literary territory as familiar as Anna’s name, but Essbaum makes it fresh with sharp prose and psychological insight.”—San Francisco Chronicle“This marvelously quiet book is psychologically complex and deeply intimate. . . . One of the smartest novels in recent memory.”—The Dallas Morning News“Essbaum’s poignant, shocking debut novel rivets.”—Us Weekly“A powerful, lyrical novel . . . Hausfrau boasts taut pacing and melodrama, but also a fully realized heroine as love-hateable as Emma Bovary.”—The Huffington Post “Imagine Tom Perrotta’s American nowheresvilles swapped out for a tidy Zürich suburb, sprinkled liberally with sharp riffs on Swiss-German grammar and European hypocrisy.”—New York

Hausfrau: A Novel, by Jill Alexander Essbaum

• Amazon Sales Rank: #204962 in Books
• Brand: Essbaum, Jill Alexander
• Published on: 2015-03-17
• Released on: 2015-03-17
• Format: Deckle Edge
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Dimensions: 8.55" h x 1.08" w x 5.98" l, .0 pounds
• Binding: Hardcover
• 336 pages

Hausfrau: A Novel, by Jill Alexander Essbaum

Amazon.com Review

An Amazon Best Book of the Month for March 2015: You are quickly reminded while reading Hausfrau that Essbaum is first a poet. Her descriptions—from Anna's mundane trips through the market to her extracurricular erotic trysts—are laced with poetic precision. Anna, an American, has found herself living in her Swiss husband's world of suburban Zurich. We travel with her as she fumbles to live up to all it means to be a good wife, mother, and daughter-in-law while she searches to understand something more and, maybe, somehow, to disrupt the everyday monotony. Flashbacks to the memories Anna allows us, along with poignant glimpses into her regular counseling sessions, are the only clues we are given to try to piece together what is truly going on inside Anna's mind. Where Hausfrau really catches you off guard is in the complete journey you find yourself haven taken at the end. I quickly found myself captivated and unable to step away from Anna’s every day and as I read the last sentence of the book I was haunted. My thoughts travelled back through the story - the realizations settled in an amazement to all that had happened…and hadn't. Essbaum, in her crafting of Hausfrau, executes a story that's telling is just as artful as the story told… a quiet disruption that I still find myself thinking about weeks after reading. – Penny Mann

Review “In Hausfrau, Anna Karenina goes Fifty Shades with a side of Madame Bovary.”—Time   “A debut novel about Anna, a bored housewife who, like her Tolstoyan namesake, throws herself into a psychosexual journey of self-discovery and tragedy.”—O: The Oprah Magazine“Sexy and insightful, this gorgeously written novel opens a window into one woman’s desperate soul.”—People“Elegant . . . There is much to admire in [Jill Alexander] Essbaum’s intricately constructed, meticulously composed novel, including its virtuosic intercutting of past and present.”—Chicago Tribune  “For a first novelist, Essbaum is extraordinary because she is a poet. Her language is meticulous and resonant and daring.”—NPR’s Weekend Edition   “In Jill Alexander Essbaum’s promising novel, we meet Anna Benz, an increasingly desperate American housewife and mother of three in her late thirties, positively brimming with ennui. . . . We’re in literary territory as familiar as Anna’s name, but Essbaum makes it fresh with sharp prose and psychological insight.”—San Francisco Chronicle“This marvelously quiet book is psychologically complex and deeply intimate—as sexy as it is sad. . . . Though Anna, as heroine, has literary precedent, Essbaum has gracefully combined the mundane of the familial, graphic sex scenes, linguistics lessons and precise passages of psychological expertise into something utterly original. Essbaum has written one of the smartest novels in recent memory.”—The Dallas Morning News“Jill Alexander Essbaum’s poignant, shocking debut novel rivets.”—Us Weekly“A powerful, lyrical novel . . . Hausfrau boasts taut pacing and melodrama, but also a fully realized heroine as love-hateable as Emma Bovary and a poet’s fascination with language. . . . The beauty of Hausfrau, however, is the freshness it brings to a trope seemingly beaten into the ground. . . . In Anna, we don’t see a sinfully passionate naif throwing her life away on a doomed quest for love, à la Bovary or Karenina. Such a parallel hardly seems possible in these liberal modern times when divorce is common and premarital sex expected. But the numbed, uncertain person at the heart of Hausfrau is uniquely compelling.”—The Huffington Post   “[Essbaum’s] first foray into fiction has already drawn references to Madame Bovary and Anna Karenina. . . . But the self-alienation of the American wife of a Swiss banker, resulting in Jungian analysis and reckless serial adultery, feels more contemporary, subjective, and just plain funny than classical bourgeois ennui. Imagine Tom Perrotta’s American nowheresvilles swapped out for a tidy Zürich suburb, sprinkled liberally with sharp riffs on Swiss-German grammar and European hypocrisy.”—New York   “Hausfrau, a psychological trip about ‘a good wife, mostly’ who enters into a series of messy affairs and impulsive adventures, is brain-surgically constructed to fascinate you, entertain you, and then make you question what a life lived with meaning looks like—all with a sense of poetic discipline and introspection.”—Los Angeles Magazine“Over a century after the publication of Madame Bovary and Anna Karenina, poet Essbaum proves in her debut novel that there is still plenty of psychic territory to cover in the story of ‘a good wife, mostly.’ . . . The realism of Anna’s dilemmas and the precise construction of the novel are marvels of the form. . . . This novel is masterly as it moves toward its own inescapable ending, and Anna is likely to provoke strong feelings in readers well after the final page.”—Publishers Weekly (starred review) “[Anna’s] story will fascinate and thrill the most modern readers, even if you don’t agree with her decisions.”—Bustle“Hausfrau packs romance, sex, and infidelity into the story about a woman searching for meaning in her life.”—PopSugar “In Anna Benz, Essbaum has created a genuine, complex woman whose journey—no matter how dark it may be—reveals truths as only great literature can. She may have her roots in Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina or Flaubert’s Emma Bovary or Ibsen’s Hedda Gabler, but she is a thoroughly modern and distinct character. Hausfrau is not just an exceptional first novel, it is an extraordinary novel—period.”—Shelf Awareness “[Essbaum’s protagonist] shares more than her name with that classic adulteress, Anna Karenina, but Essbaum has given a deft, modern facelift to the timeless story of a troubled marriage and tragic love in this seductive first novel.”—Booklist“With an elegance, precision, and surehandedness that recalls Marguerite Duras’s The Lover and Anita Brookner’s Hotel du Lac, Jill Alexander Essbaum gives us this exquisite tale of an expatriate American wife living in Switzerland and her sexual and psychic unraveling. Hausfrau stuns with its confidence and severe beauty, its cascading insights into the nature of secrets, the urgency of compulsion and the difficulty of freedom. This is a rare and remarkable debut.”—Janet Fitch, #1 New York Times bestselling author of White Oleander  “I was mesmerized by this book. Hausfrau creates a complete, engrossing, and particular world where nothing is as easy as it should be, according to the hopeful stories we tell ourselves. It’s a corrective novel, taking character, destiny, and our choices as seriously as a novelist can.”—Sheila Heti, author of How Should a Person Be? “I loved this brilliant, insightful, and devastating novel about Anna: trains . . . adultery . . . the punctual, rigid Swiss . . . Jungian analysis . . . anhedonia . . . more adultery and more trains . . . and Jill Alexander Essbaum’s beautiful sentences strewn with sharp thorns that prick and cut straight into the heart of a woman’s unfulfilled life. I wish I had written it.”—Lily Tuck, National Book Award–winning author of The News from Paraguay“A stunningly written, hauntingly paced book. Anna Benz has the weight of a classic heroine—isolated yet crowded—but she is utterly modern in Jill Alexander Essbaum’s hands. ReadingHausfrau is like staring at a painting that simultaneously seduces and disturbs. Even when you want to turn away, you find your feet are planted to the floor.”—Sloane Crosley, author of I Was Told There’d Be Cake “Hot damn, is Hausfrau a beautiful, heart-wrenching novel. It casts a spell that doesn’t stop working until that wonderful final line. Jill Alexander Essbaum has a seismic talent, and it shows on every page of her first novel. Just read this bad boy. Like right now.”—Victor LaValle, author of The Devil in Silver “This debut brilliantly chronicles a woman’s life falling apart.”—The Times (U.K.)“Uncompromising . . . [a] seductive debut.”—The Guardian (U.K.)   “Riveting and shocking.”—Marie Claire (U.K.)  “The book that will have everyone talking.”—Cosmopolitan (U.K.)   “This slow-burning literary novel of marital disintegration will leave you in bits. It’s a bleak, but beautiful read, with echoes of Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina.”—Glamour (U.K.) “This book is sheer sex and madness, written in one of the most amazing voices I’ve ever read.”—Bookriot  “Hausfrau is authentic in its depiction of a strikingly passive woman whose betrayals overwhelm her. There are distinct echoes of Anna Karenina. But it is the wordcraft, structure and restrained intimacy of this first novel that make it a standout.”—BBC   “[An] insightful and shocking portrait of a woman on the edge.”—Woman & Home (U.K.)“With more than a passing resemblance to Anna Karenina . . . [Hausfrau will] be a book club winner.”—Stylist (U.K.)“The ghost of Anna Karenina haunts the poet Jill Alexander Essbaum’s debut, Hausfrau, about an American in Zürich with the perfect husband, perfect sons and perfect home; but she is far from the perfect wife.”—Harper’s Bazaar (U.K.)

About the Author Jill Alexander Essbaum is the author of several collections of poetry and her work has appeared in The Best American Poetry, as well as its sister anthology, The Best American Erotic Poems, 1800-Present. She is the winner of the Bakeless Poetry Prize and recipient of two NEA literature fellowships. A member of the core faculty at the University of California, Riverside’s Palm Desert Low-Residency MFA program, she lives and writes in Austin, Texas.

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Most helpful customer reviews

102 of 114 people found the following review helpful. "A bored woman is a dangerous woman." By Jill I. Shtulman Anyone who has ever read Madame Bovary or Anna Karenina knows that this saying is true. Emma Bovary is a bored married woman who seeks to escape life’s banality through affairs. And Anna Karenina, arguably the more interesting woman, seeks solace from her cold, emotionless husband through her affair with the far more dashing Vronsky.Why do I begin this review with a look at Emma and Anna? Largely because Anna Benz, a displaced American woman living in a Zurich suburb – married to a gorgeous Swiss banker named Bruno – is their legacy. Readers who are familiar with these two books will be richly rewarded with nods to these classics.This is a mesmerizing book, one of the more psychologically astute books I’ve read. This Anna, on the surface, appears to have it all: the successful husband, three children, a beautiful home, the trappings of wealth. Yet she is curiously disconnected from life, a stranger in a strange land (she barely speaks the Swiss-German dialect that is required of her to fully participate in life). Snippets of sessions with her analyst, Doktor Messerli, tease out some of the underlying layers of this seemingly impenetrable woman.Anna has affairs – lots of them – to fill up the empty hole inside her, skirting with discovery. Yet these affairs are devoid of the passion and emotional investment that one might expect from a novel that focuses on affairs – sometimes jarringly so.Hausfrau veers into territory that its classic predecessors do not – the precision of words. Throughout the book, Anna queries Dr. Messerli on word meanings (Delusion vs. hallucination? Maze vs. labyrinth? Indifference vs. ambivalence? Secrecy vs. privacy?) Anna reflects, “She could have simply told the Doktor that she was good at word games…But that confession would have wrung out another one: that her wittiest moments were her slyest and most often they served her in the way the ink serves the octopus. Smoke screens, she hid behind them.” Words in this novel can obscure and reveal; language can connect or can isolate. And indeed, in many key scenes, they do.As the book veers toward its preordained conclusion, it touches upon so many issues: the nature of love and betrayal, the fine lines of morality, the continual search for self and meaning, and the lengths we go to fill the voids in our lives. This is an incredibly fine debut that portends good things for Jill Alexander Essbaum.

78 of 87 people found the following review helpful. Stunning novel. Absolutely loved it. By Ladybug It was hard for me to know what to make of Hausfrau at first. This book is oppressively melancholy. I mean, just absolutely unbearably sullen. And, what’s more, it goes on forever. It honestly has no business being as long as it is–ambling along like a dawdling toddler. There were more than a few points when I wanted to scream at Essbaum, “Can we just hurry this up a little bit, please?”And yet–and yet!–I loved this book. I couldn’t put it down. I basically neglected my children for two straight days while I finished it. It wasn’t that I liked Anna. Honestly, she is fairly annoying most of the time: sullen, withdrawn, passive, and pessimistic. She continually takes on a helplessness she doesn’t have to. She is defeated before she even puts up a fight–and not for lack of insight, awareness, or ability. The woman is actually quite intelligent and clever. No, she most definitely could have made a better life for herself, but she is faithfully, determinedly married to her sadness.But even though I wanted and expected more from Anna, I still loved her. I loved her because I understood her. I am also a hausfrau, married for nine years and with three young children. I know all too well the appeal of passivity, how easy it can be to let all of the obligations take over and fill your time. You lose control, you lose yourself, and somehow you end up taking the path of least resistance. You know it isn’t the “right” path, the healthy path. You aren’t happy taking it, but after the babies and the moves and the job searches and the cooking and the upkeep and the doctor’s visits and the school forms and the bills and the hours–the hours!–you spend caring for, entertaining, cleaning, comforting, refereeing, it can feel good, like a relief, to not fight, to let it all happen for you. Instead of struggling to make your own destiny, instead of fighting to carve out a piece for yourself, you give up. And then you draw close the disappointment, the melancholy and hopelessness you feel; you wrap it around you like a warm blanket, and you let yourself disappear. You exist, but you don’t exist.I’m certainly not the only one to relate to a character like Anna. The whole “bored and dissatisfied housewife” angle is hardly a unique one. Of course this book forces the reader to recall Anna Karenina and Madame Bovary and Edna Pontellier. As I drew near to the end of the novel, I thought, “Oh no, are we really going to end all this glorious writing with such a tired, tired cliche? Please don’t, Essbaum!” But thankfully, (SPOILER ALERT) she doesn’t.The story’s ending may not have been everything I wanted, but it was still strangely, surprisingly hopeful. As someone who feels herself occasionally trapped by this “I exist, but I don’t exist” entanglement, I absolutely loved that Essbaum didn’t force Anna to take one long final plunge in that river of despondency. Anna may not have blossomed into a blinding ray of sunshine, but she was able to rally–and I think, most importantly, she was finally able to be honest with herself, about herself, and acknowledge everything. “She had nothing left to worry about. What autonomy. It settled her. She stood at the center point of her own spiral and it was a fixed position.” Anna finally steps out of her passive role and becomes a participant in her own life. I began to have hope for her–and, if I can just be totally honest, it helped me have a bit more hope for myself. Why be anything but your most authentic self? Who are you protecting? What are you hiding from? Live your truth, or die choking on it.So, yes, I loved this book. It wasn’t perfect; there were flaws. But it resonated with me in such a personal way. And while this does make me worry that I might be treading into cliche “despondent housewife” territory myself, I still appreciate that Essbaum was able to capture one woman’s complicated state of existence so beautifully.

33 of 38 people found the following review helpful. Wonderful Story!!!!! By Jody Anna Benz, main character of "Hausfrau", is a psychologically complex female character."Her relationship with sex was a convoluted partnership that rose from both passivity and as unassailable desire to be distracted. And wanted. She wanted to be wanted."Anna is lonely, bored, & unsatisfied ....living in a foreign country with her husband and three children. She does not drive, relying on public transportation or from her mother-in-law, who lives near by. Her husband Bruno is in the Banking business. Bruno is Swiss. Anna American. Bruno & Anna only moved to Switzerland because of Bruno's job transfer.Anna is in analysis...and throughout the entire book, the reader is a 'fly-on-the-wall' listening in on the intimate 'patient/client' sessions. Doktor Messerli works with Anna to see her root problems.During one of their early sessions, Doktor Messerli asks Anna:"When you were a girl, what did you want to be when you grew up?"Anna gave a plaintive answer."Loved. Protected. Secure.". She knew that wasn't what the doctor meant.The Doktor tried another approach."What did you study at university?"Anna flushed. She didn't want to say."Tell me""Home economics", Anna whispered."Hausfrau" is compulsively readable. An astutely imagine story ....the author opens a window into the mind of Anna...the sadness, the confusion, the pain, the circumstances.Be warned...(rather, be reminded), you, the reader, are 'human'. Its normal to 'feel' erotic sensations. Reading about lustful-passionate-raw-intimate-sex between a man and a woman is bound to stimulate aspects of eros!With luminous, fluid prose, Jill Alexander Essbaum invites us into the world of Anna Benz whose soul is battered.Erotic moments, (because the sexual storytelling is hot), ....and a very sad story!elyse jody

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The United Saints of America, by Eleanor C. Horner

The United Saints of America, by Eleanor C. Horner

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The United Saints of America, by Eleanor C. Horner

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The year 2033 marks the two-thousandth anniversary of Christ's resurrection, so join the Countdown to Christ and help find America's Best Citizen Saints! Each of the twelve short stories features an amazing American who has been nominated as America's next Citizen Saint. Imagine there was a theme park of miracles and suffering and each of these people were a ride you could take? Would you pick the blind girl living in a volcano who can heal with her mind? The public school teacher who survived the Arctic? A candy making astronaut millionaire who saw the angel Gabriel from space? A stripper who was burned to death and came back to life? A mute foster child who sews miracles? Or would you cast your vote for an abducted badass and his dog named Cookie?

The United Saints of America, by Eleanor C. Horner

• Published on: 2015-03-17
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Dimensions: 8.00" h x .37" w x 5.00" l, .36 pounds
• Binding: Paperback
• 160 pages

The United Saints of America, by Eleanor C. Horner

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0 of 0 people found the following review helpful. A fun and unique upgrade of the saint mythology By Philip Kurtz A strange and beautiful collection of stories. Though each story is tragic, as saint stories always are, each is colorized with its own vibrant imagery adding a unique and surreal quality to each of the tales. A combination fairy tale and magical realism, this collection offers a creative freshness that is a rare commodity in contemporary fiction.

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The Rancher's Return (Harlequin Romantic Suspense), by Karen Whiddon

The Rancher's Return (Harlequin Romantic Suspense), by Karen Whiddon

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The Rancher's Return (Harlequin Romantic Suspense), by Karen Whiddon

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In the small town of Anniversary, Texas, pure evil will find you…  The night rancher Reed Westbrook makes love to Kaitlyn Nuhn, his life ends. While in the throes of passion, his brother is murdered…and Reed becomes the prime suspect. When Kaitlyn, his solid alibi, vanishes, Reed goes straight to prison and becomes a scourge of the town.   Finally released, Reed lives under the radar, until Kaitlyn reappears claiming she was held prisoner by the real murderer, a man so powerful he's virtually untouchable. This killer will stop at nothing to eliminate Kaitlyn, and only Reed can protect her. The electrifying attraction that drove him to near-madness is still as powerful as ever. And the walls he's built around his heart are in danger of crumbling.

The Rancher's Return (Harlequin Romantic Suspense), by Karen Whiddon

• Amazon Sales Rank: #2532073 in Books
• Published on: 2015-03-03
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Dimensions: 6.61" h x .59" w x 4.21" l, .0 pounds
• Binding: Mass Market Paperback
• 288 pages

The Rancher's Return (Harlequin Romantic Suspense), by Karen Whiddon

About the Author Karen Whiddon started weaving fanciful tales for her younger brothers at the age of eleven. Amidst the Catskill Mountains of New York, then the Rocky Mountains of Colorado, she fueled her imagination with the natural beauty that surrounded her. Karen now lives in north Texas, where she shares her life with her very own hero of a husband and three doting dogs. She divides her time between the business she started and writing. Check out her website, www.karenwhiddon.com.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Reed Westbrook knew all too well that there were many kinds of torment. Some were subtle, like the way most townsfolk crossed to the other side of the street to avoid having to speak to him, or when salesclerks in the local stores averted their eyes as they reluctantly waited on him.Reed was pretty damn tired of it.Judging from the repetitive knocking on Reed's front door—right in the final forty-five seconds of the playoff football game—Deputy Sheriff George Putchinski was at it again.Reed debated ignoring it, pretending he wasn't home. But since his presence was obvious—with his pickup parked in his driveway and the TV turned up pretty loud—he hefted himself out of his chair and headed toward the door.The first few times this had happened, when he'd opened the door to see a uniformed Anniversary deputy standing on his step, he'd been flabbergasted. Ten or fifteen instances later, he'd gotten his response down pat.Swinging open the door, he started his spiel. "I didn't do it. Whatever it was. Now go—"He stopped. Stared. Not George. No, not even close. The gorgeous woman with the amazing blue eyes definitely wasn't Reed's nemesis. And yet she was.He knew her instantly. Kaitlyn Nuhn had once been the girlfriend of his brother, Tim. In addition to that, she'd been the only person who'd known the truth, and who could have kept Reed from going to prison for his brother's murder. The fact that she hadn't, and disappeared instead, brought the anger back, full force. He nearly shut the door in her face.By some instinct, he held back. Because maybe, after all this time, she'd give him a reason, some freaking closure. And possibly even a chance to finally clear his name and find out who had really shot Tim dead.Heaven help him if she confessed it had been her.As he stood staring, their gazes locked, he saw a flash of something in her eyes. He recognized it as pain, an emotion he'd felt often during the dark time he'd spent behind bars. If he hadn't gotten out on appeal, he knew he would have gone crazy, locked away in hell for a crime he hadn't committed."Kaitlyn Nuhn. I'll be damned," he said softly, raking his gaze over her as if he found her repulsive, when in fact it was the opposite. Just like always, his heart stuttered, his chest felt tight and he couldn't speak. He clenched his fist around the doorknob, frozen with indecision, which pissed him off even more.When he'd thought of her, which had been more often than he'd like to admit, he'd hoped time hadn't been kind to her. Surely the ugliness inside had to have manifested in her looks, somehow.Shocked, he now saw that hadn't been the case. She still looked…unreal. Still as stunningly beautiful, as if she'd just stepped from the pages of some glossy magazine ad for women's lingerie. Just as in the old days, the power of that beauty felt like a punch in the gut.She didn't speak. Just stood staring up at him, a combination of naked fear, sorrow or regret making hollows in her cheeks. He looked past her, noting the sleek silver luxury car. Why had she returned? To make an apology? She was way too late for that. Three years, to be exact. It would have been longer had it not been for his astute lawyer, the prosecution's mistakes and lack of evidence.But that didn't negate the three years he'd spent in a hellhole, with his brother dead and not knowing who had killed him. Or the way people in this town still treated him like a killer, capable of gunning down his own twin brother."What do you want?" he asked, not bothering to be polite. He'd let her say her spiel, nod in response and close the door in her face. Then he'd go back to his football game and his ordinary, quiet life. And try to forget the way seeing her brought the past rushing back up."I came to tell you I'm sorry." Her husky voice wavered and she swallowed, continuing to keep her gaze locked on his."Sorry?" He spat the word. "Too little, too late. Your apology means nothing to me."Bowing her head, she nodded, as if she'd expected this. "I'm sorry about what happened to you. That's why I came back. I wanted you to know the truth, about all of it. I know who murdered Tim." Pausing for breath, she kept her gaze locked on his. "And then he set you up to go to prison for it. He couldn't keep you from filing the appeal or from getting out, but he tried."Of all the things she could have said, he hadn't expected this. Worse, he didn't believe her. Why should he, after all this time? "You also knew I couldn't have done it. Especially since you'd left me in your bed, waiting for your return."Unbelievably, she blushed. "That was a mistake.""You'd better believe it was." He met her gaze full on, letting his loathing show. "You were my only alibi, and you disappeared. And you know what? For the longest time, I thought you might have been who killed Tim."Recoiling as if he'd stabbed her, she stared at him. He only looked away when her bottom lip started trembling, furious with himself that he could still feel any emotion at all toward her."Why are you really here?" Reed took a step closer, aware he was clenching his hands into fists."I wanted to apologize. For everything. He set it up so that we'd blame each other." She swallowed again, the movement drawing his gaze to her graceful throat. "I came as soon as I learned the truth."Part of him wanted to believe her. After all, he'd spent years wondering who'd really killed Tim and set Reed up to take the blame. Prison had given him time to burn for revenge.And now, when Kaitlyn held out the information like a poisoned T-bone in front of a starving dog, he wasn't sure what to believe. The past he'd shared with this woman had proven that she wasn't to be trusted. No matter how great her beauty.Finally, as he'd known he would, he went for the bone. "Who?" he rasped. "Give me the name."The fact that she still hesitated made another strike against her."The name," he repeated.She glanced at the doorway, almost as if she expected someone to come charging through and save her. Or knock her down.Finally, she spoke. "Okay." She met his gaze straight on and lifted her chin. "Alex Ramirez."At first he didn't recognize the name. When he did, his first impulse was to think she was lying. "Lieutenant Governor Ramirez? The same guy who's been talking about making a run for governor?""Yes." Though her generous mouth thinned, making her appear miserable, she stood her ground. "That's the one."He nearly snorted out loud. "Why him? And if you're telling the truth, why didn't you come forward before now?"Again the hesitation. Just enough to make him question whatever she might say."I couldn't.""Why not?" He fired back."Because I've been Alex's prisoner for the last three years." She took a little breath, blowing it back out her nose. "He likes to brutalize wounded things."Her words made no sense. "Why should I believe anything you have to say?" he said. "Don't show up here and then try to play me for a fool.""I'm not, believe me." Her chest heaved as she turned to go, drawing his unwilling gaze. "You know what? You're right. I shouldn't have come. I'm sorry to have bothered you."Something she'd said haunted him. "Wait," he told her. "What do you mean about him liking to brutalize wounded things?"Her blue eyes blazed—either with hope or with pain. In his mind, sometimes the two had become indistinguishable."Exactly what it sounds like. And now I've escaped. If he finds me, I'm a dead woman. Especially since I know what he's done."Still not entirely convinced, nonetheless he stepped aside and motioned her into his living room. "Please. Come in."As she moved past him, he caught a whiff of her scent, which surprisingly reminded him of vanilla rather than the flowery perfume he remembered."Have a seat." Though he sounded churlish, he didn't care. Indicating the sofa, he tried not to stare as she sank gracefully onto the leather cushions. She wore a T-shirt and jeans—ordinary clothes that were elevated to an entirely new level by her feminine curves. Her kind of lush, wild beauty would make any red-blooded man break out in a sweat.And Reed was no exception. The sharp surge of desire he felt when he looked at her was nothing new, though certainly as unwelcome now as it had been before. He'd always had trouble not wanting her, even back then when she'd belonged to his brother. He didn't understand how this could still be so, especially now when he should despise her.Noise from the television drew his attention. The football game had gone into overtime. Since he no longer cared, Reed grabbed the remote and turned off the TV.Deciding to continue standing, he crossed his arms and glared at her, deliberately hostile, feeling it was safer this way. "Explain," he ordered, when she showed no sign of elaborating.She sighed and smoothed back her wealth of golden hair with perfectly manicured fingers, although a few wisps defied her hand and continue to frame her perfect, oval face. Her skin glowed, the flawless alabaster of fine porcelain, beauty personified. Eyeing her he wondered exactly as he'd done in the past, how his brother had been able to get a girl as lovely as her.Of course neither Reed nor Tim had known her beauty concealed the heart of a snake. Best to remember this now, he knew. Steeling himself, he cocked his head while he waited for her to speak."May I please have a glass of water?" she asked. "It's a long drive from Austin. I was afraid to stop more than once." She looked down. "I wasn't sure if I was being followed, so I had to take several evasive precautions.""Followed?" Shaking his head, he got up, fetched a plastic bottle of spring water from the fridge and handed it to her. "Here you go."He waited, trying not to stare while she drank, though the movement of her long slender throat drew his eye. He both hated and acknowledged it, aware he could use this edginess to keep him sharp and on his toes.When she'd finished drinking, she set the bottle down. "Thank you.""You're welcome." He inclined his head."Yes." She sighed. "Before I begin, you should know I can't stay long. This is the first place he'll look. If he finds me, he'll kill me and whoever I'm with. So you're putting yourself in danger by even talking to me.""A risk I'm willing to take, if what you say is true. Let's hear it."She winced. "It's a long story.""No. Make it short and to the point." He went so far as to glance at his watch before meeting her gaze again. "If you plan to lie to me, don't. I've had enough BS from you to last more than a lifetime."Her amazing eyes widened. "I've never lied to you.""Really." He couldn't resist. "Since you were my only alibi, I'd say the way you managed to disappear rather than show up in court is falsehood enough. I went to prison—innocent—for the death of my own brother. Because you couldn't take the time to tell the truth." Again, he felt the sharp, burning ache he always felt when he thought of the way his brother had been gunned down in cold blood."It's not what you think," she began."Be that as it may, Tim's dead." He managed to sound normal. "And you aren't. Now you're going to tell me what proof you have that Alex Ramirez killed him, and how."Back ramrod straight, Kaitlyn tried to draw on the sense of purpose that had propelled her the entire way to Anniversary. She'd expected hostility, after all.Still, some tiny, foolish part of her heart had hoped he'd understand. Maybe even be sympathetic, but she could hardly blame him. He'd spent the past three years believing her responsible for what he'd endured. She couldn't expect him to comprehend how badly she'd suffered herself.She wasn't here for sympathy, or to try and repair the broken pieces of a relationship that had been doomed from the start. She'd come to find justice. For not only Tim's murder and Reed's incarceration, but for what Alex Ramirez had done to her. He'd ruined three lives, as casually as another man would kill a fly. He deserved to pay.But would Reed believe her? He'd already made it clear what he thought. Worse, she didn't even have proof. Just her word against a powerful lieutenant governor.Raising her head, she saw Reed watched her, his gaze dark and intent. A shiver ghosted over her skin, making goose bumps rise. Prison had changed him some, sharpened the edges of his profile, and deepened the reserve in his eyes. Still, he was easy on the eyes, despite the hardship he'd endured. She'd always thought him beautiful, even back when she and his twin brother, Tim, had been an item. Though Reed and Tim had the same features, the same shock of thick, dark hair, something in the depths of Reed's hazel eyes had always called to her.The attraction that had simmered between the two of them had made her feel like a moth circling around a flame.Finally, unable to resist, she'd given in. And then the one evening of explosive passion they'd shared had been the night Tim had been murdered. She'd spent three years wondering if Reed would always associate her embrace with the brutal death of his brother."Well?" he prodded. "If you have something to say, say it.""When I left you, still asleep in my bed, I knew what I needed to do. So I scribbled a quick note to you and I went to find Tim." She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. She took a long drink of water, willing her voice to remain steady. "I intended to break it off with him."Surprise flashed across his rugged features, but he didn't comment.Briefly, she closed her eyes. Even after all this time, the horrible scene still had the power to paralyze her. "I walked in on him and Alex arguing. Of course, I didn't know who Alex was then." Her throat felt raw. This might be past history, but the memory of it still hurt."Go on," he urged.She tried to speak and couldn't."Alex Ramirez and Tim were arguing? And then what?""Yes. The instant Tim saw me, he looked afraid. He ordered me to leave, but Alex grabbed me. I knew from the expression on Tim's face that it wasn't good, but I didn't know how bad. Not yet."She took a deep, shaky breath, aware what she had to tell him next would be painful. Miserable, she tried to find the right words, then decided just to say it."Alex killed him." The words came out in a hoarse whisper. "He turned around, pulled out a pistol and shot Tim dead. Right there, right in front of me. And when I freaked out, he told me to calm down or he'd kill me, too."Reed swore. The dark shadow in his gaze spoke of his contempt for her, of the fact that he disbelieved her story. She told herself that didn't matter, that it was justified. Just like she'd actually come to believe she deserved to be treated the way Alex had abused her."And then Alex tied me up, put me in the trunk of his car, and took me back to his mansion." Such a simple sentence could not possibly convey the horror of what had happened. That night and for many days and nights after. Years, actually."And no one noticed you were gone?" He couldn't quite hide his disbelief."With everything that happened, I think they assumed I fled out of cowardice."Silence, while he considered this."How'd you escape?" Reed asked. "And when?"Heaven help her, her lower lip started quivering. She coughed, using her hand to try and cover it up. "Just now. Today. Despite knowing Anniversary is the first place Alex will look, I needed to come to you and try to make things right before I go on the run."The skepticism in his eyes made her feel sick. "I shouldn't have come here. I see that now.""Then why did you?" he asked quietly. "Really, why did you?"

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Most helpful customer reviews

1 of 1 people found the following review helpful. loved the action, and suspense, with a dash of romance By paula legate This book was hard for me to put down. The suspense of the story kept me engrossed in the pages of the book.Years ago Kaitlyn, and Reed gave into passion. This was a night that neither of them will ever forget, for it changed their life forever. Hours afterwards Reeds brother was murdered, and Kaitlyn disappeared. Reed was framed for his brother's murder, and went to jail.Once he got out of jail, the town treated him really bad. Reed was also harassed by the police. He was shocked to find Kaitlyn on his door step. She told him she had been kidnapped, and held against her will for many years. Is it true? can he trust her?Reed, and Kaitlyn are thrown together in a deadly game of cat and mouse. Alex is rich and powerful, and will stop at nothing to get Kaitlyn back. Kaitlyn may have been held against her will for years, but that does not make her weak. I loved her strength, and how brave she was throughout the story. She was set to reclaim her freedom, her life, and make Alex pay for all that he has done.The sparks still sizzled between Reed, and Kaitlyn. The two grew to really care for one another. I could feel the love they had for one another. This was a great book filled with action, suspense, and romance.

2 of 3 people found the following review helpful. Good book with plenty of action as well as romance. By S. Frank Three years earlier, Reed had given in to the attraction between himself and Kaitlyn. While he was asleep, his brother was murdered and Kaitlyn disappeared. Reed is sent to prison for his brother's murder when his only alibi, Kaitlyn, can't be found.Three years later, Reed has been released on appeal, due to the lack of evidence that he did the crime. Most of the townspeople still think he did it and treat him accordingly. One of the local deputies is constantly harassing him. Reed does his best just to stay out of everyone's way. The last person he expects to see at his door is Kaiitlyn.Kaitlyn shows up at Reed's to tell him she knows he's innocent but can't stay around to prove it. She claims she witnessed the murder and has been held captive ever since by the man who did it. She knows that he will not give up trying to find her because of what she knows, so she is going on the run. Reed convinces her to stay, and that he will protect her until they can bring the killer down.I liked both Reed and Kaitlyn. Reed is honest about the effect that being in prison had on him, and the changes it made in the way he looks at things. He is disbelieving on Kaitlyn's story until she shows him the scars she bears because of it. After spending three years hating her for disappearing, it takes him a little bit to readjust his thinking. One thing that didn't change was his attraction to her, which is just as strong as it was. I liked Kaitlyn's strength of will. To have gone through what she did, and still have the ability to get away was amazing. I liked her sense of fairness that made her come to Reed and tell him what had happened. Her fears about staying around were real, as she knew exactly what the killer was capable of, but she came to trust that Reed would protect her. The danger they were in increased the intensity of their emotions, and each realized they were in love with the other. But both of them had to be willing to take a risk and confess their feelings. I loved the ending and seeing the two of them open up.The suspense of the story was good. We know who the bad guy is early on. The suspense is in how Kaitlyn and Reed can avoid being caught and killed. There are several places where it gets very intense, when it is unknown who is a good guy and who is working for the bad guy. I loved Kaitlyn's strength and ingenuity as she managed her second escape. Reed also had his chance to help with taking the bad guy down and pulled it off quite well. The ending confrontation had me riveted until it was done, as I waited to see how it turned out.

0 of 0 people found the following review helpful. Four Stars By Amazon Customer Good read.

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The Assassin (An Isaac Bell Adventure), by Clive Cussler, Justin Scott

The Assassin (An Isaac Bell Adventure), by Clive Cussler, Justin Scott

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The Assassin (An Isaac Bell Adventure), by Clive Cussler, Justin Scott

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A New York Times Bestselling Author As Van Dorn private detective Isaac Bell strives to land a government contract to investigate John D. Rockefeller's Standard Oil monopoly, the case takes a deadly turn. A sniper begins murdering opponents of Standard Oil. Soon the assassin kills Bell's best witness, a brave and likable man, then detonates a terrible explosion that sets the victim's independent refinery ablaze. Who is this assassin and for whom did he kill?

The Assassin (An Isaac Bell Adventure), by Clive Cussler, Justin Scott

• Amazon Sales Rank: #2085171 in Books
• Brand: Cussler, Clive/ Scott, Justin
• Published on: 2015-03-04
• Format: Large Print
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Dimensions: 1.10" h x 5.70" w x 8.70" l, .0 pounds
• Binding: Hardcover
• 527 pages

The Assassin (An Isaac Bell Adventure), by Clive Cussler, Justin Scott

Review Praise for THE ASSASSIN “Another action-movie-paced entertainment from Cussler's historical-thriller series.” — Kirkus Reviews Praise for THE BOOTLEGGER   “The Isaac Bell series continues to tell compelling stories. Tidbits of history are sprinkled throughout the narrative, and it’s fun to filter out fictional characters and events from historical facts.”—Associated Press   “Cussler and Scott have written another wonderful page-turner . . . This is historical action-adventure fiction at its rip-roaring best!”—Library Journal (starred review)   “As always in this series, the novel is very exciting, with excellent pacing and some very well drawn characters. With his combination of mental and physical prowess, Isaac Bell could easily become a sort of superhero (imagine a blending of Sherlock Holmes and Doc Savage), but the authors do a nice job of keeping him from crossing that line. Another fine entry in a strong series. Cussler is a perennial A-lister, popularity-wise, and his Isaac Bell novels are the pick of his prodigious litter.”—Booklist   “[A] laudable historical action novel.”—Publishers Weekly   Praise for THE STRIKER   “[Might] be the best yet in the series by Clive Cussler and Justin Scott . . . The history of the unions in early 20th-century America along with the hazardous working conditions of the coal mines would be fascinating reading. Add a James Bond style flair with sabotage and villainy and the end result is a great action thriller.”—Associated Press   “Fans of the Isaac Bell series will note the same exciting storytelling and vivid early twentieth-century setting, but they’ll also note something different: even though it’s set only four years earlier than the first Bell novel (2008’s The Chase), the book features a much different Isaac: younger, more impetuous, less calmly analytical . . . this origin story (every hero needs one) will give Bell’s fans a fresh look at their favorite private investigator.”—Booklist

About the Author Clive Cussler is the author of dozens of New York Times bestsellers, most recently Ghost Ship, The Eye of Heaven, and Havana Storm. He lives in Arizona. Justin Scott’s novels include The Shipkiller and Normandie Triangle; the Ben Abbott detective series; and modern sea thrillers published under his pen name Paul Garrison. He is the coauthor, with Clive Cussler, of six previous Isaac Bell novels. He lives in Connecticut.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. PROLOGUE1899PENNSYLVANIA“Do I hear a train?” asked Spike Hopewell.“Two trains,” said Bill Matters. The heavy, wet Huff! of the Pennsylvania Railroad’s 2-8-0 freight locomotives carried for miles in the still night air. “They’re on the main line, not here.”Spike was nervous. It made him talkative. “You know what I keep thinking? John D. Rockefeller locked up the oil business before most people were born.”“To hell with Rockefeller. To hell with Standard Oil.”Bill Matters had found their Achilles’ heel. After thirty years fighting the “Standard,” thirty years of getting driven into the mud, he was finally going to break their pipe line monopoly.Tonight. Under a sky white with stars, in a low-lying hayfield in the foothills of the Allegheny Mountains. Wooded slopes ringed the field. Pennsylvania Railroad tracks crossed it, bridging the dip in the hills on a tall timber trestle.Spike Hopewell was going along with the scheme, against his better judgment. Bill had always been susceptible to raging brainstorms that verged on delirium, and they were getting worse. Besides, when it came to driving independents out of business, John D. Rockefeller had personally invented every trick in the book.“Now!” Bill drew his big old Remington six-cylinder and fired a shot in the air.Whips cracked. Mules heaved in their harness. Freight wagons full of men and material rumbled across the field and under the train trestle—a framework of braced timbers that carried the elevated tracks above the low ground.Pipe lines that Matters and Hopewell had already laid stopped just inside the woods at either edge of the field. The west trunk stretched two hundred miles over the Allegheny Mountains to Pennsylvania’s oil fields. The east continued one hundred eighty miles to their seaboard refinery in Constable Hook, New Jersey, where oceangoing tank steamers could load their kerosene. Pumps and breakout tanks were installed every thirty miles, and all that remained to join the two halves was this final connection on land they had purchased, under the railroad.Spike would not shut up. “You know what the president of the Penney said? He said, ‘Imagine the expense I would save on locomotives, Pullman cars, and complaints if only I could melt my passengers and pump them liquefied through pipes like you pump oil.’”“I was there,” said Matters. In Philadelphia, at Pennsylvania Railroad headquarters high above the Broad Street Station, asking, hat in hand, to lease a right-of-way. The president, high-toned owner of a Main Line estate, had looked down his Paris-educated nose at the oil field rowdies.“I envy you gentlemen. I would love to own a pipe line.”Who wouldn’t? Just ask Rockefeller. Shipping crude direct from the well to the refinery beat a train hands down. Instead of laboriously loading and unloading barrels, barges, and tank cars, you simply opened a valve. And that was just the beginning. A pipe line was also a storehouse; you could stockpile crude in your pipes and tanks until supply dropped and the price rose. You could lend money like a bank and charge interest on credit backed by the same oil in your pipes that the producer was paying you to deliver. Best of all—or worst of all, depending on your morals—when you owned a pipe line, you set the shipping rate to favor your friends and gouge your enemies. You could even refuse to deliver at any price, a Rockefeller specialty to bust independent refineries; Matters and Hopewell’s Constable Hook refinery was sitting idle, dry as a bone, because the Standard declined to pipe them crude.Spike laughed. “Remember what I told him? ‘We’ll melt your passengers in our refinery, but it’s your job to make ’em solid again.’”The president of the railroad had granted Spike’s joke a thin smile and their lease a death blow: “You can’t pay me enough to let your pipe cross my tracks.”“Why not?”“Orders straight from the Eleventh Floor.”In the year 1899, there was only one “Eleventh Floor” in the United States of America—Rockefeller’s office at Standard Oil’s Number 26 Broadway headquarters in New York—and it packed more punch than the White House and Congress combined.Tonight, Bill Matters was punching back.Sixty men piled out of the wagons with picks and shovels and tongs and pipe jacks. Working by starlight, they dug a shallow trench across the field and under the trestle. Tong hands wrestled thirty-foot-long eight-inch steel pipes off the wagons, propped them on jacks over the trench, and screwed the lengths together.The distant train sounds they had heard earlier suddenly grew loud.Matters saw a glow in the trees and realized, too late, he had misjudged their distance. They were indeed on this branch line, not far away, but steaming slowly, quietly, one from the north, one from the south.Ditchdiggers and tong men looked up.Headlamps blazed. The monster H6 Baldwin 2-8-0 locomotives burst from the wooded hills and rumbled onto the trestles.“Keep working!” shouted Bill Matters. “We own this land. We got every right! Keep working.”The ninety-ton engines thundered overhead and stopped on the trestle, nose to nose, cowcatchers touching, directly above Matters and Hopewell’s just-laid pipe. One was hauling a flatcar crammed with railroad cops, the other a wreck train with a hundred-ton crane. The railroad cops shoved the locomotive firemen from their furnaces, threw open the fire doors, and snaked hoses from the locomotive boilers.A giant mounted the front of the wreck train. The glaring headlamps lit a hard, hot-tempered face and a mammoth chest and belly. Matters recognized Big Pete Straub, a towering Standard Oil strikebreaker, with a company cop star pinned to his vest, a gun on his hip, and a pick handle in his fist.“Drop your tools!” Straub shouted down at the men in the field.“Stand your ground!” yelled Matters. “Back to work.”“Run!” roared Straub.“Law’s on our side. We got every right!”“Let ’em have it, boys!”The railroad cops scooped burning coals from the furnaces and whirled opened steam valves. Fire and boiling water rained down on Matters’ workmen.“Stand your ground!”Burned and scalded, they fled.Matters intercepted the stampede and waded in with both fists, knocking men down as they tried to get away.Spike grabbed his arm. “Ease off, Bill. Let ’em go. They’re outgunned.”Matters smashed a ditchdigger’s ribs and knocked another man cold with single blow. “Cowards!”A burning coal sailed down from the starry sky trailing sparks.It set Matters’ coat sleeve on fire. Hot coals fanned his cheek. The stink of singed hair seared his nostrils. He jerked his Remington from his coat, ran straight at the trestle, and climbed the pier.Spike charged back into the battle zone and grabbed his boot. “Are you nuts? Where you going?”“Kill Straub.”“He’s got twenty years on you and fifty armed men. Run!”Spike Hopewell outweighed Bill Matters. He dragged him off the trestle.Fire and steam drove them out of range. Bill Matters aimed his horse pistol at Straub. Spike knocked it out of his hand, snatched it from the mud, and tucked it in his coat.Matters watched with helpless fury. The hundred-ton crane lowered an excavator bucket down from the trestle. Its jutting spike teeth bit into the freshly dug soil like the jaws of Tyrannosaurus rex. Steam hissed. The jaws crushed shut. The crane clawed pipes out of the ground and dropped them in a welter of bent and broken metal.A pair of dim lights bounced slowly across the starlit field. The county sheriff pulled up in a Pittsburgh gasoline runabout. A scared-looking deputy was seated beside him.Bill Matters and Spike Hopewell demanded protection for their workmen. Matters shouted that they had a legal right to route an independent pipe line under the railroad’s right-of-way because they had bought this low-lying farm where the elevated tracks crossed on tall trestles.“The railroad can’t block us! We own this land free and clear.”Here was their deed.Matters shook the parchment in the dim glow of the runabout’s headlamp.The sheriff glanced down from his steering tiller. He answered too quickly, like a man who had been ordered to read a copy days ago. “Says on your deed that the Pennsylvania Railroad leased their right-of-way across this farm.”“Only for track and trestles.”“Lease says you mustn’t damage their roadbed.”“We’re not hurting their road. We’re trenching between the trestle piers.”Matters shoved more paper into the light. See their engineer’s report! See their attorney’s brief asserting their case! See this court case precedent!“I’m no lawyer,” said the sheriff, “but everybody knows that Mr. Rockefeller has a mighty big say in how they run the Pennsylvania Railroad.”“But we own—”The sheriff laughed. “What made you think you can fight Standard Oil?”A coal-black Pittsburgh sky mirrored Bill Matters’ despair.“Business is business,” his banker was droning. Mortgaged to the hilt to build a pipe line they could not finish, they had to sell for pennies on the dollar to Standard Oil. “No one else will make an offer. My advice is to accept theirs and walk away clean.”“They tricked us into building it for them,” Matters whispered.“What about the Hook?” asked Spike.“Constable Hook?” asked the banker. “Part of the package.”“It is the most modern refinery in the world,” said Matters.“There’s no deal without the refinery. I believe Standard Oil intends to expand it.”“It’s made to grow. We bought the entire hill and every foot of waterfront.”“The Standard wants it.”“At least we won’t owe much,” said Spike.“We planted,” said Matters. “They’ll reap.”The banker’s voice tube whistled. He put it by his ear. He jumped to his feet. “Mr. Comstock is here.”The door flew open. In strode white-haired Averell Comstock, one of John D. Rockefeller’s first partners from back in their Cleveland refinery days. Comstock was a member of the trust’s innermost circle, the privileged few that the newspapers called the Standard Oil Gang.“Excuse us,” he said to the banker.Without a word, the man scuttled from his office.“Mr. Rockefeller has asked me to invite you gentlemen to join the company.”“What?” said Spike Hopewell. He looked incredulously at Matters.Comstock said, “It is Mr. Rockefeller’s wish that you start as co-directors of the Pipe Line Committee.”Matters turned pale with anger. His hands trembled. He clenched them into fists and still they shook. “Managing the pipe line monopoly we tried to beat? Bankrupting wildcatter drillers? Busting independent refiners out of business?”The tall, vigorous Comstock returned a steely gaze. “Standard Oil wastes nothing. We make full use of every resource, including—especially including—smart, ambitious, hard-driving oil men. Are you with us?”“I’d join Satan first,” said Spike Hopewell.He jammed his hat on his head and barreled out the door. “Let’s go, Bill. We’ll start fresh in Kansas. Wildcat the new fields before the octopus wraps its arms around them, too.”Bill Matters went home to Oil City, Pennsylvania.His modest three-story mansion stood on a tree-lined street cheek by jowl with similar stuccoed and shingled houses built by independents like him who had prospered in the early “oil fever” years before the Standard clamped down. The rolltop desk he used for an office shared the back parlor with his daughters’ books and toy theaters.The paper models of London and New York stage sets that the girls had preferred to dollhouses occupied every flat surface. Rendered in brightly colored miniature, Juliet loved Romeo from her balcony. Hamlet walked the parapet with his father’s ghost. Richard III handed the death warrant to murderers.Nellie and Edna found him there with tears in his eyes. He was cradling the Remington he had bought from a Civil War vet. The “faithful friend” had won shoot-outs with teamsters who had gathered in mobs at night to smash his first pipe line—a four-miler to Oil Creek—that put their wagons out of business.The two young women acted as one.Nellie threw her arms around him and planted a kiss on his cheek. Edna wrested the gun from his hands. He did not resist. He would die himself before he let harm come to either of them. Edna, his adopted stepdaughter, a cub reporter for the Oil City Derrick who had just graduated from Allegheny College, was the quiet one. The younger, outgoing Nellie usually did the talking. She did now, cloaking urgency with good-humored teasing.“Whom do you intend to shoot, Father?” she joshed in a strong voice. “Do burglars lurk?”“I came so close,” he muttered. “So close.”“You’ll do better next time.”Matters lifted his head from his hands and raised his gaze to the clear-eyed, slender young women. The half sisters looked nearly alike, having inherited their mother’s silky chestnut hair and strong, regular features, but there the similarity ended. One was an open book. One a vault of secrets.“Do you know what Rockefeller did?” he asked.“If he drowned in the river, they’d find his body upstream,” said Edna. “JDR is the master of the unexpected.”“I wish he would drown in the river,” said Nellie.“So do I,” said Matters. “More than ever.” He told them about Rockefeller’s invitation to join Standard Oil. “Head of the Pipe Line Committee, no less.”Nellie and Edna looked at the pistol that Edna was still holding, then locked eyes. They were terrified he would kill himself. But would giving up his lifelong fight for independence kill him, too? Only more slowly.“Maybe you should take it,” said Nellie.“Father is better than that,” said Edna.His glistening eyes flickered from their faces to the toy theaters and settled on the gun. Edna drew it closer to her body. A queer smile crossed Matters’ grim face. “Maybe I could be better than that.”“You are,” they chorused. “You are.”Their helpless expressions tore him to pieces. “Go,” he said. “Leave me. Keep the gun. Ease your silly minds.”“Are you sure you’ll be all right?”“Give me until morning to get used to getting beat.”He ushered them out and closed the door. Wild thoughts were racing through his mind. He could not sit still. Father is better than that?He prowled his office. Now and then he paused to peer into the toy theaters. Twice a year he would take the girls on the train to plays in New York. And after the Oil City skating rink was converted to an opera house, they attended every touring company that performed. Shakespeare was their favorite. Romeo loving Juliet. Hamlet promising his father’s ghost revenge. Richard III instructing his henchmen. Secret promises. Secret revenge. Secret plots.Could he bow his head and accept Rockefeller’s invitation to join the trust?Or could he pretend to bow his head?What do you say, Hamlet? Make up your mind. Do you want revenge? Or do you want more? A tenth of Standard Oil’s colossal profits would make him one of the richest man in America. So what? How many meals could a man eat? In how many beds could he sleep?A tenth of the Standard’s power would crown a king.What do you say, Richard? How many plots have you laid? What secret mischief?Even Richard was surprised how blind his enemies were.Matters calculated the odds by listing his enemy’s weaknesses.The all-powerful monopoly was like a crack team of strong horses. But seen through Bill Matters’ clear and bitter eye, those horses were blinkered, hobbled, and hunted: hobbled by fear of change; hunted by government prosecutors and Progressive reformers determined to break their monopoly; blinded by Standard Oil’s obsession with secrecy.Could they be done in like Romeo and Juliet by the confusion of secrets?The Standard’s systemized secrecy, the secret trusts and hidden subsidiaries that shielded the corporation from public scrutiny, bred intrigue. On the occasions he’d been summoned to the Standard’s offices, he had never been allowed to see another visitor. Who knew what private deals were struck in the next room?Richard was the man to beat the Standard, the plotter of “secret mischiefs.”But where were his henchmen? Who would help him? Who could he count on? Spike wouldn’t be worth a damn. His old partner was a two-fisted brawler, but no conspirator, and too sunny a soul to kill when killing entered the plot. He needed henchmen with hearts of ice. Book OneBulletsSix years laterKANSAS 1A tall man in a white suit, with a handsome head of golden hair, an abundant mustache, and fierce blue eyes, stepped off an extra-fare limited at Union Depot and hurried forward to collect his Locomobile from the express car. He traded jokes with the railroad freight handlers easing the big red auto down the ramp, lamented Kansas City’s loss of first baseman Grady to the St. Louis Cardinals, and tipped generously when the job was done.Could they recommend a fast route to Standard Oil’s Sugar Creek refinery?Following their directions, he drove out of the rundown, saloon-lined station district, when two wagons suddenly boxed him into a narrow street. The men who jumped off were dressed more like prizefighters than teamsters. A broad-shouldered giant swaggered up, and he recognized Big Pete Straub, whom he had seen board the train at St. Louis.Straub flashed a badge.“Standard Oil Refinery Police. You Isaac Bell?”Bell stood down from his auto. He was as tall as Straub, well over six feet, but lean as wire rope on a one-hundred-seventy-five-pound frame. A head held high and a self-contained gaze signified life at full tide.Straub guessed his age at around thirty. “Go back where you came from.”“Why?” Bell asked nonchalantly.“There’s nothing for you in Kansas. We’ll fire any man who talks to you, and they know it.”Bell said, “Move your wagon.”A haymaker punch flew at his face.He slipped it over his shoulder, stepped in to sink left and right fists deep, and stepped back as quickly. The company cop doubled over.“Get him!” Straub’s men charged.An automatic pistol with a cavernous muzzle filled Bell’s hand, sudden as a thunderbolt. “Move your wagon.”They sold gasoline in the freight yards. A hardware store supplied spare tubes and tires, a towrope, cans for water, motor oil, and extra gasoline, a bedroll, and a lever-action Winchester repeating rifle in a scabbard, which Bell buckled to the empty seat beside him.He stopped at a butcher to buy a beefsteak to grill on an open fire when he camped for the night, and a slab of ham, coffee beans, and bread for breakfast in the morning. Downtown Kansas City was jammed with trolleys, wagons, and carriages and fleets of brand-new steam, electric, and gasoline autos. Finally clearing the traffic at the edge of the suburbs, he headed south and west, crossed the state line into Kansas, opened the Locomobile’s throttle and exhaust pipe cutouts, and thundered onto the prairie. 2No caress was gentler, no kiss softer, than the assassin’s finger on the trigger.Machined by a master gunsmith to silken balance, the Savage 99 lever-action rifle would reward such a delicate union of flesh and steel with deadly precision. Pressure as light as a shallow breath would fire the custom-loaded, high-velocity smokeless powder round that waited in the chamber. The telescope sight was the finest Warner & Swasey instrument that money could buy. Spike Hopewell appeared near and large.Spike was pacing the cornice atop an eighty-foot oil derrick that stood on the edge of a crowd of a hundred rigs operated by independent wildcat drillers. They towered over the remnants of a small hamlet at a remote Kansas crossroads forty miles north of Indian Territory. Since he had struck oil, a horde of newcomers seeking their fortunes, had renamed the place Hopewell Field.Houses, stables, picket fences, and headstones in the churchyard were stained brown from spouters that had flung oil to the winds. Crude storage tanks, iron-sided, wood-topped affairs eighty feet wide and twenty high, were filled to the brim. Pipes linked the tanks to a modern refinery where two-hundred-barrel stills sat on brick furnaces in thickets of condensing pipe. Their chimneys lofted columns of smoke into the sky.A boomtown of shacks and shanties had sprung up next door to feed and entertain the oil workers, who nicknamed it Hope-Hell. They slept in a “rag town” of tents. Saloons defied the Kansas prohibition laws just as in Wichita and Kansas City. Housed in old boxcars, they were not as likely to be attacked by Carrie Nation swinging her hatchet. Behind the saloons, red brakeman’s lanterns advertised brothels.Railroad tracks skirted the bustling complex. But the nearest town with a passenger station was ten miles away. Investors were selling stock to build an electric trolley.The refinery reeked of gasoline.The assassin could smell it seven hundred yards away.A red Locomobile blazed across the Kansas plain, bright as fire and pluming dust.Spike Hopewell saw it coming and broke into a broad smile despite his troubles. The auto and the speed fiend driving like a whirlwind were vivid proof that gasoline—once a notorious refining impurity that exploded kerosene lamps in peoples’ faces—was the fuel of the future.His brand-new refinery was making oceans of the stuff, boiling sixteen gallons of gasoline off every barrel of Kansas crude. Fifty thousand gallons and just getting started. If only he could ship it to market.The assassin waited for a breath of wind to clear the smoke.You could not ignore wind at long range. You had to calculate exactly how much it would deflect a bullet and you had to refine your calculations as impetus slowed and gravity took its toll. But you couldn’t shoot what you couldn’t see. The old oil man was a murky presence in the telescope sight, obscured by the smoke that rose thick and black from a hundred engine boilers and refinery furnaces.Hopewell stopped pacing, planted his hands on the railing, and stared intently.A breeze stirred. The smoke thinned.His head crystallized in the powerful glass.Schooled in anatomy, the assassin pictured bone and connecting fibers of tendon and muscle and nerve under his target’s skin. The brain stem was an inch wide. To sever it was to drop a man instantly.Spike Hopewell moved abruptly. He turned toward the ladder that rose from the derrick floor. The assassin switched to binoculars to inspect the intruder in their wider field of vision.A man in a white suit cleared the top rung and bounded onto the cornice. The assassin recognized the lithe, supple-yet-contained fluid grace that could only belong to another predator—a deadly peer—and every nerve jumped to high alert.Instinct, logic, and horse sense were in perfect agreement. Shoot the threat first.Reckless pride revolted. No one—no one!—interferes with my kill. I shoot who I want, when I want.Isaac Bell vaulted from the ladder, landed lightly on the derrick cornice, and introduced himself to Spike Hopewell with an engaging smile and a powerful hand.“Bell. Van Dorn Detective Agency.”Spike grinned. “Detecting incognito in a red Locomobile? Thought you were the fire department.”Isaac Bell took an instant liking to the vigorous independent, by all reports a man as openhearted as he was combative. With a knowing glance at the source of Spike’s troubles—a mammoth gasoline storage tank on the far side of the refinery, ninety feet wide and twenty high—Bell answered with a straight face.“Having ‘detected’ that you’re awash in gasoline, I traded my horse for an auto.”Hopewell laughed. “You got me there. Biggest glut since the auto was invented . . . Whatcha doing here, son? What do you want?”Bell said, “The government’s Corporations Commission is investigating Standard Oil for violating the Sherman Anti-Trust Act.”“Do tell,” said Hopewell, his manner cooling.“The commission hired the Van Dorn Agency to gather evidence of the Standard busting up rivals’ businesses.”“What’s that got to do with me?”“Fifty thousand gallons of gasoline you can’t ship to market is the sort of evidence I’m looking for.”“It’s sitting there in that tank. Look all you want.”“Can you tell me how your glut filled it?”“Nope. And I won’t testify either.”Isaac Bell had expected resistance. Hopewell had a reputation for being tough as a gamecock and scrappy as a one-eyed tom. But the success of the Van Dorn investigation hinged on persuading the independent to talk, both in confidence and in public testimony. Few oil men alive had more experience fighting the monopoly.Age hadn’t slowed him a bit. Instead of cashing in and retiring when he struck enormous oil finds in Kansas, Spike Hopewell had built a modern refinery next to the fields to process crude oil for his fellow independent drillers. Now he was in the fight of his life, laying a tidewater pipe line to ship their gasoline and kerosene to tank steamers at Port Arthur, Texas.Standard Oil was fighting just as hard to stop him.“Won’t testify? The Standard flooded the courts with lawyers to block your line to the Gulf of Mexico.”Spike was no slouch in the influence department. “I’m fighting ’em in the State House. The lawmakers in Topeka know darned well that Kansas producers and Kansas refineries are dead unless I can ship their product to European markets that Standard Oil don’t control.”“Is that why the railroad untied your siding?”There were no tank cars on the refinery siding. A forlorn-looking 0-6-0 switch engine had steam up, but it had nowhere to go and nothing to do except shuttle material around the refinery. A quarter mile of grass and sagebrush separated Hopewell’s tracks from the main line to Kansas City. The roadbed was graded, and gravel ballast laid, and telegraph wire strung. But the connecting spur for the carloads of material to build the refinery had been uprooted. Switches, rails, and crossties were scattered on the ground as if angry giants had kicked it to pieces.Hopewell said, “My lawyers just got an injunction ordering the railroad to hook me up again.”“You won a hollow victory. Standard Oil tied up every railroad tank car in the region. The commission wants to know how.”“Tell ’em to take it up with the railroad.”A wintery light grayed the detective’s eyes. His smile grew cool. Pussyfooting was getting him nowhere. “Other Van Dorn operatives are working on the railroad. My particular interest is how the Standard is blocking your tidewater pipe line.”“I told you, son, I ain’t testifying.”“With no pipe line,” Bell shot back, “and no railroad to transport your products to market, your wells and refinery are worthless. Everything you built here will be forced to the wall.”“I’ve been bankrupt before—before you were born, sonny—but this time, I just might have another trick up my sleeve.”“If you’re afraid,” Bell said, “the Van Dorn Agency will protect you.”Spike’s manner softened slightly. “I appreciate that, Mr. Bell. And I don’t doubt you can give an account of yourself.” He nodded down at the Locomobile eighty feet below. “That you think to pack a towrope to cross open country tells me you’re a capable hand.”“And enough extra parts to build a new one to pull the old one out of a ditch,” Bell smiled back, thinking they were getting somewhere at last.“But you underestimate Standard Oil. They don’t murder the competition.”“You underestimate the danger.”“They don’t have to kill us. You yourself just said it. They’ve got lobbyists to trip us up in the legislature and lawyers to crush us in court.”“Do you know Big Pete Straub?” Bell asked, watching for Hopewell’s reaction.“Pete Straub is employed by Standard Oil’s industrial service firm. That’s their fancy name for refinery cops, strikebreakers, and labor spies. He smashed my pipe line back in Pennsylvania.”“I bumped into Straub only yesterday in Kansas City.”The older man shrugged, as if monumentally unconcerned. “Standard Oil has no monopoly on private cops and strikebreakers. You’ll find Big Petes bulldozing union labor in coal mines, railroads, and steel mills. For all you know, he’s on his way to Colorado to bust up the miners union. Heck, Rockefeller owns half the mines out there.”“He’s not in Colorado. He’s in Kansas. Last time Straub visited Kansas, independent refiners bucking the Standard turned up dead in Fort Scott and Coffeyville.”“Accidents,” Spike Hopewell scoffed. “Reed Riggs fell under a locomotive—drunk, if he held to pattern—and poor Albert Hill was repairing an agitator when he tumbled into a tank.” Hopewell shot Bell a challenging look. “You know what an agitator is, Mr. Detective?”“The agitator treats crude gasoline distillate with sulfuric acid, washes away the acid with water, neutralizes it with caustic soda, and separates the water.”Hopewell nodded. “You’ve done your homework. In that case, you know that the fumes’ll make you lightheaded if you’re not careful. Albert tended not to be.”“I’m not one hundred percent sure both were accidents.”“I’m sure,” Hopewell fired back.Bell turned on him suddenly. “If you’re not afraid, why won’t you testify?”Hopewell folded his ample arms across his chest. “Tattling goes against my grain.”“Tattling? Come on, Spike, we’re not schoolboys. Your work’s at grave risk, everything you built, and maybe even your life.”“It’ll take your commission years, if ever, to change a damned thing,” Spike retorted. “But folks in Kansas are itching for a fight right now. We’ll beat the Standard in the State House—outlaw rebates and guarantee equal shipping rates for all. And if the Standard don’t like it, Kansas will build its own refinery—or, better yet,” he added with a loud laugh, “buy this one from me so I can focus my thoughts on my pipe line.” Isaac Bell heard a false note in that laugh. Spike Hopewell was not as sure of himself as he boasted.Could you snipe a man in the neck at seven hundred yards?Ask the winner of the gold medal for the President’s Match of 1902.Could you even see him a third of a mile away?Read the commendatory letter signed by Theodore Roosevelt in which TR, the hero of San Juan Hill, saluted the sharpshooter who won the President’s Match for the Military Rifle Championship of the United States.Doubt me?Read about bull’s-eyes riddled at a thousand yards.Did President Roosevelt shout Bully! the assassin smiled, when the champion took “French leave”?But who’d have had the nerve to tell Teddy that the deadliest sniper in the Army deserted his regiment?“Mr. Hopewell,” said Isaac Bell, “if I can’t persuade you to do the right thing by your fellow independents, would you at least answer some questions about one of your former partners?”“Bill Matters.”“How did you know I meant Matters? You’ve had many partners, wildcat drilling partners, pipe line partners, refinery partners.” Bell named three.Hopewell answered slowly and deliberately as if addressing a backward child. “The commission that hired your detective agency is investigating Standard Oil. Bill took up with the Standard. He sits to lunch with their executive committee in New York. Lunch—Mr. Anti-Trust Corporations Commission Detective—is where they hatch their schemes.”Bell nodded, encouraging Hopewell to keep talking now that he had gotten him wound up. His investigation so far had been a study in how the mammoth corporation fired imaginations and spawned fantasies. Standard Oil had been at the top of the heap since before most people were born. It seemed natural that the trust would possess mystical powers.“Were you surprised?”“Not when I thought about it. The Standard spots value. Oil, land, machinery, men. They pay for the best. Bill Matters was the best.”“I meant were you surprised when Bill Matters changed sides?”Spike Hopewell raised his eyes to look Bell straight in the face. Then he surprised the detective by speaking softly, with emotion. “You spouted the names of a few of my partners. But Bill and I were different. We started together. We fought men, shoulder to shoulder, and we beat ’em. Teamsters that made grizzlies look gentle. We beat them. We thought so alike, we knew ahead of time what the other was thinking. So when you ask was I surprised Bill went with the Standard, my answer is, I was until I thought it over. You see, Bill was never the same after he lost his boy.”“I don’t understand,” said Bell. “What boy? I’m told he has daughters.”“The poor little squirt ran off. Bill never heard from him again.”“Why did you say ‘poor little squirt.’ An unhappy child?”“No, no, no. Smiley, laughy little fellow I never thought was unhappy. But all of a sudden—poof—he was gone. Bill never got over it.”“When did he leave?’“Must be seven or eight years ago.”“Before Bill joined the Standard?”“Long before. Looking back, I realize that the boy running off broke him. He was never the same. Harder. Hard as adamantine—not that either of us was choirboys. Choirboys don’t last in the oil business. But somewhere along the line, Bill got his moral trolley wires crossed and—”Hopewell stopped abruptly. He stared past Bell at the gasoline storage tank. His jaw worked. He seemed, Bell thought, to be reconsidering.“But if you want to understand the oil business, Mr. Detective, you better understand that Bill Matters was not the first to give in to Standard Oil. Half the men in their New York office were destroyed by Rockefeller before he hired them. John D. Rockefeller, he’s the devil you should be after.”“What if I told you I suspect that one of those newer men like Bill Matters can lead me to him?”“I’d tell you that no man in his right mind would bite the hand feeding him like he’s feeding Bill.”“Would you have switched sides if the Standard asked?”The oil man drew himself erect and glared at Isaac Bell. “They did ask. Asked me the same time they asked Bill.”“Obviously you declined. Did you consider it?”“I told them to go to blazes.”Bell asked, “Can’t you see that I’m offering you an opportunity to help send them there?”He pointed down at the orderly rows of tanks and the belching furnaces, then across the forest of derricks looming over the roofs of what must have been a peaceful town. A gust of wind swept the smoke aside. Suddenly he could see clear to the farthest of the wooden towers.“You built your refinery to serve independents. That’s where your heart lies. Wouldn’t you agree, sir, that you owe it to all independent oil men to testify?”Hopewell shook his head.Bell had one card left. He bet the ranch on it. “How much did the Standard pay for a barrel of crude when you drilled two years ago.”“A dollar thirty-five a barrel.”“How much are they paying now? Provided you could deliver it.”“Seventy cents a barrel.”“They raised the price artificially high, nearly doubled it, to encourage you to drill. You and your fellow wildcatters did the Standard’s exploratory work for them, at your own expense. Thanks to your drilling, they know the extent of the Kansas fields and how they stack up against the Indian Territory and Oklahoma fields. They suckered you, Mr. Hopewell.”“More homework, Mr. Bell?” said Spike Hopewell. “Is that the Van Dorn Detective motto: ‘Do your homework’?”“The Van Dorn motto is ‘We never give up! Never!’”Hopewell grinned. “That’s my motto, too . . . Well, it’s hard to say no to a man who’s done his homework. And damned-near impossible to a man who won’t give up . . . O.K., put ’er there!”Spike Hopewell thrust a powerful hand into Bell’s. “What do you want to know first?”Bell stepped closer to take it, saying, “I’m mighty curious about those tricks up your sleeve.”Hopewell stumbled backward, clutching his throat.

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22 of 23 people found the following review helpful. Isaac and the Great One By J. Link How can you not love another Clive Cussler book, especially one with Isaac Bell and supporting characters? That said, the story starts off rather vanilla for Isaac's reputation, seemingly somewhat out of order in Isaac's chronology of life. And you think, wow, has Clive Cussler lost his touch allowing us to figure it all out early on? But with this episode, Isaac tasked to protect John D Rockefeller, you get an amazing view into that gentleman's life, not to mention quite an adventure. Hang in there, Isaac rises to the occasion as usual, and there are some unexpected turns that are surprising, even in their unexpectedness. And that chronology issue...it gets cleared up as well. Oh how I love the Isaac Bell stories...and Captain Juan Cabrillo along with the crew of the Oregon...next story up, hopefully.

17 of 20 people found the following review helpful. Bravo By Jan Another great read in this series. Mr. Cussler and Mr. Scott out did themselves, I compare these works to Mr. Cussler Dirk Pitt series which are great. I like the the historical background which is incorporated into the stories and make them more exciting.

15 of 18 people found the following review helpful. Amazing Read When you thought it just another book in the series.... It will be on the bestseller list in 2 weeks By TA Just when you think another Clive Clusler book with Justin Scott would it be using Cussler name to sell book. No, this is good as his first Dirk Pitt novels. I could not put it down.

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The Assassin (An Isaac Bell Adventure), by Clive Cussler, Justin Scott