I Am Pilgrim by Terry Hayes
We are delighted to welcome back thriller writer Terry Hayes to Omnimystery News.
Terry visited with us earlier this month to discuss his new espionage thriller I Am Pilgrim (Atria Books; May 2014 hardcover, audiobook and ebook formats) with us, and again last week when told us how he made the transition from screenwriter to novelist.
Today we'd like to introduce you to the book, with an excerpt, the first chapter.
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THERE ARE PLACES I'LL REMEMBER ALL MY life — Red Square with a hot wind howling across it, my mother's bedroom on the wrong side of 8-Mile, the endless gardens of a fancy foster home, a man waiting to kill me in a group of ruins known as the Theatre of Death.
But nothing is burned deeper in my memory than a walk-up in New York — threadbare curtains, cheap furniture, a table loaded with tina and other party drugs. Lying next to the bed are a handbag, black panties the size of dental floss and a pair of six-inch Jimmy Choo's. Like their owner, they don't belong here. She is naked in the bathroom — floating face down in a bathtub full of sulfuric acid, the active ingredient in a drain cleaner available at any supermarket.
Dozens of empty bottles of the cleaner — DrainBomb, it's called — lie scattered on the floor. Unnoticed, I start picking through them. They've all got their price tags still attached and I see that, in order to avoid suspicion, whoever killed her bought them at twenty different stores. I've always said it's hard not to admire good planning.
The place is in chaos, the noise deafening — police radios blaring, coroner's assistants yelling for support, an Hispanic woman sobbing. Even if a victim doesn't know anyone in the world, it seems like there's always someone sobbing at a scene like this.
The young woman in the bath is unrecognizable — the three days she has spent face-down in the acid have destroyed all her features. That was the plan I guess — whoever killed her had also weighed down her hands with telephone books. The acid has dissolved not only her fingerprints but almost the entire metacarpal structure underneath. Unless the forensic guys at the NYPD get lucky with a dental match, they'll have a helluva time putting a name to this one.
In places like this, where you get a feeling evil still clings to the walls, your mind can veer into strange territory. The idea of a young woman without a face made me think of a Lennon/McCartney groove from long ago — it's about Eleanor Rigby, a woman who wore a face that she kept in a jar by the door. In my head I start calling the victim Eleanor. The crime scene team still have work to do but there isn't a person in the place who doesn't think Eleanor was killed during sex: the mattress half off the base, the tangled sheets, a brown spray of decaying arterial blood on a bedside table. The really sick ones figure he cut her throat while he was still inside her. The bad thing is — they may be right. However she died, those that look for blessings may find one here — she wouldn't have realized what was happening, not until the last moment anyway.
Tina — crystal meth — would have taken care of that. It makes you so damn horny, so euphoric as it hits your brain that any sense of foreboding would have been impossible. Under its influence the only coherent thought most people can marshal is to find a partner and bang their back out.
Next to the two empty foils of tina is what looks like one of those tiny shampoo bottles you get in hotel bathrooms.
Unmarked, it contains a clear liquid — GHB I figure. It's getting a lot of play now in the dark corners of the web: in large doses it is replacing rohypnol as the date-rape drug of choice. Most music venues are flooded with it: clubbers slug a tiny cap to cut tina, taking the edge off of its paranoia. But GHB also comes with its own side effects — a loss of inhibitions and a more intense sexual experience. On the street one of its names is Easy Lay. Kicking off her Jimmy's, stepping out of her tiny black skirt, Eleanor must have been a rocket on the 4th of July.
As I move through the crush of people — unknown to any of them, a stranger with an expensive jacket slung over his shoulder and a lot of freight in his past — I stop at the bed. I close out the noise and in my mind I see her on top, naked, riding him cowgirl. She is in her early 20s with a good body and I figure she is right into it — the cocktail of drugs whirling her towards a crescendo of orgasms, her body temperature soaring thanks to the meth, her swollen breasts pushing down, her heart and respiratory rate rocketing under the onslaught of passion and chemicals, her breath coming in gulping bursts, her wet tongue finding a mind of its own and searching hard for the mouth below. Sex today sure isn't for sissies.
Neon signs from a row of bars outside the window would have hit the blonde highlights in her three hundred dollar haircut and sparkled off a Panerai diver's watch. Yeah, it's fake but it's a good one. I know this woman. We all do — the type anyway. You see them in the huge new Prada store in Milan, queuing outside the clubs in Soho, sipping skinny lattes in the hot cafes on the Avenue Montaigne — young women who mistake People magazine for news and a Japanese symbol on their backs as a sign of rebellion.
I imagine the killer's hand on her breast, touching a jeweled nipple ring. The guy takes it between his fingers and yanks it, pulling her closer. She cries out, revved — everything is hyper-sensitive now, especially her nipples. But she doesn't mind — if somebody wants it rough, it just means they must really like her. Perched on top of him, the headboard banging hard against the wall, she would have been looking at the front door — locked and chained for sure. In this neighborhood that's the least you could do.
A diagram on the back shows an evacuation route — she is in a hotel but any resemblance to the Ritz-Carlton pretty much ends there. It is called the Eastside Inn — home to itinerants, back-packers, the mentally lost and anybody else with twenty bucks a night. Stay as long as you like — a day, a month, the rest of your life — all you need is two ID's, one with a photo.
The guy who had moved into Room 89 had been here for a while — a six-pack sits on a bureau, a stereo and a few CDs are on a nightstand and I glance through them. He had good taste in music, at least you could say that. The closet, however, is empty — it seems like his clothes were about the only thing he took with him when he walked out, leaving the body to liquefy in the bath. Lying at the back of the closet is a pile of trash: discarded newspapers, an empty can of roach killer, a coffee-stained wall calendar. I pick it up — every page features a black and white photo of an ancient ruin — the Coliseum, a Greek temple, the Library of Celsus at night. Very arty. But the pages are blank, not an appointment on any of them — except as a coffee mat, it seems like it's never been used and I throw it back.
I turn away and — without thinking, out of habit really — I run my hand across the nightstand. That's strange, no dust. I do the same to the bureau, bed-head and stereo and get the identical result — the killer has wiped everything down to eliminate his prints. He gets no prizes for that but as I catch the scent of something and raise my fingers to my nose, everything changes. The residue I can smell is from an antiseptic spray they use in intensive care wards to combat infection. Not only does it kill bacteria but as a side effect it also destroys DNA material — sweat, skin, hair. By spraying everything in the room and then dousing the carpet and walls, the killer was making sure that the NYPD needn't bother with their forensic vacuum cleaners.
With sudden clarity I realize that this is anything but a by-the-book homicide for money or drugs or sexual gratification. As a murder, this is something remarkable.
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Photo provided courtesy of
Terry Hayes
Terry Hayes, a former journalist and screen-writer, began his career at The Sydney Morning Herald and later wrote the screenplay for Road Warrior/Mad Max 2 with George Miller. His other credits in Australia as co-producer and writer include Dead Calm, Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome and a host of mini-series — among them The Dismissal, Bodyline, Vietnam and Bangkok Hilton.
In the US, he has written or co-written Payback with Mel Gibson, From Hell starring Johnny Depp, and Vertical Limit with Chris O'Donnell. He has also done un-credited writing on many other movies including Reign of Fire, Cliffhanger and Flightplan.
Terry lives in Switzerland with his wife, Kristen, and their four children.
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I Am Pilgrim
Terry Hayes
An Espionage Thriller
Pilgrim is the code name for a world class and legendary secret agent. His adversary is a man known only to the reader as the Saracen. As a young boy, the Saracen barely sees his dissident father beheaded in a Saudi Arabian public square. But the event marks him for life and creates a burning desire to destroy the special relationship between the US and the Kingdom. Everything in the Saracen's life from this moment forward will be in service to jihad.
The story opens with woman lying face down in a pool of acid, features melted off her face, teeth missing, fingerprints gone. The room has been sprayed down with DNA-eradicating antiseptic spray. All the techniques are pulled directly from Pilgrim's book, a cult classic of forensic science written under a pen name.
In offering the NYPD some casual assistance with the case, Pilgrim gets pulled back into the intelligence underground. What follows is a thriller that jockeys between astonishingly detailed character study and breakneck globetrotting. The author shifts effortlessly from Pilgrim's hidden life of leisure in Paris to the Saracen's squalid warrior life in Afghanistan, from the hallways of an exclusive Swiss bank to the laboratories of a nefarious biotech facility in Syria.
The inevitable encounter between Pilgrim and the Saracen will come in Turkey, around the murder of a wealthy American, in a thrilling, twisting, beautifully orchestrated finale.
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