Relentless: A Novel

Relentless: A Novel

Dean Koontz

Language: English

Pages: 464

ISBN: 055359172X

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


Literary critic Shearman Waxx can kill a good book with just a few acidly worded bon mots. And as one unlucky author is about to discover, that’s not all he’s prepared to kill. . . .

From #1 New York Times bestselling master of suspense Dean Koontz comes a mesmerizing thriller about the battle of wills that ensues when a successful author and likable family man confronts a reclusive sociopath who wields an all-too-deadly poison pen. Respect Shearman Waxx’s opinion and you might escape with your career intact. Cross him and he’ll destroy you, your family, and everything you hold dear. For the title “America’s most feared critic” isn’t one Waxx takes lightly. He takes it literally. And now Cubby Greenwich, his wife, Penny, their brilliant six-year-old Milo, and their uniquely talented non-collie, Lassie, are all about to learn the true meaning of “culture war.”

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“No, I’ve figured it out.” “Share with me.” “I didn’t want you to talk me out of going.” “You knew better than to confront him.” She wasn’t angry, just disappointed in me. I wished that she would get angry instead. “I didn’t confront him,” I assured her. “Seems like something must have happened.” “I just wanted to get a look at him. He’s so reclusive.” Her blue gaze is as direct as the aim of an experienced bird hunter in his blind, her double-barreled eyes tracking the truth. My

“Call the cops,” she insisted. “He’ll say we made it up, to get back at him for his review.” “He didn’t review me. Why am I going to lie about him?” “For me. That’s what they’ll say. You know the media—if you give them a stick, they love to knock you down.” I couldn’t say there was an event in my past about which I never told her. If I made accusations about Waxx that he denied, tabloid TV would start digging. They probably wouldn’t be able to learn who I had been, as a child, but I didn’t

the man or spoken with him on the phone, but I had corresponded with him, exchanging perhaps a dozen long letters. He had written novels that I much admired. More than three years ago, he told his publisher he wished to cancel the remaining book on his contract. He intended never to write again. In publishing circles, the assumption was made that he had a terminal disease and wished to keep his struggle private. I wrote him again, but he did not reply. I’d heard that he and his family—his wife,

target for destruction because of the letter he had written to Waxx’s editor and that I had earned a promise of doom merely by conspiring to get a look at the great man in Roxie’s Bistro. Waxx’s assaults on John and on us were no less psychotic but a great deal more logical, strategically and tactically, if we assumed that he had planned to kill us and our families before he published reviews of our novels. Harder to credit was that his violation of our house twice, the planting of sophisticated

continued: “Eleven months ago, three months after the publication of his book, Tom Landulf tortured and killed his wife, tortured and killed his three-year-old daughter, and committed suicide.” Her piercing blue gaze had never been more compelling, and I was constrained to meet her eyes as long as she required. “That’s why the name rang a bell,” I said. “Must have been a two-day sensation on the news, so I heard a little about it.” Because I am squeamish, my custom is to avoid watching or

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