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Summary
Summary
First there were roses and the notes in her mailbox signed simply, "Admirer." Then, the accident. One minute Chris Callaway was one of Hollywood's brightest rising stars, starting a new picture that could send her career skyrocketing; the next, she was falling from the unfinished deck of her beautiful new Malibu beach house . . . waking up blind, uncertain whether she would ever see again.
An optimist and a fighter, Chris is determined not to let anyone know she can barely see. But neither Danny Devere, her hairdresser and confidant, nor Jon Larsen, the handsome young detective from LAPD's special stalker squad, can stop the notes that escalate into a chilling obsession. And only a clever trap can stop the madman from stalking her--with beautiful Chris Callaway as the deadly bait.
Author Notes
Stuart Woods was born in Manchester, Georgia on January 9, 1938. He received a B. A. in sociology from the University of Georgia in 1959. He worked in the advertising business and eventually wrote two non-fiction books entitled Blue Water, Green Skipper and A Romantic's Guide to the Country Inns of Britain and Ireland. His first novel, Chiefs, was published in 1981. It won an Edgar Award and was made into a TV miniseries starring Charlton Heston. His other works include the Stone Barrington series, the Holly Barker series, the Will Lee series, the Ed Eagle series, the Rick Barron series and the Teddy Fay series. He won France's Prix de Literature Policiere for Imperfect Strangers. His autobiography, An Extravagant Life, was published in June 2022. Stuart Woods died on July 22, 2022, at his home in Lichfield, Connecticut. He was 84.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (4)
School Library Journal Review
YA-Rising movie star Chris Callaway has it all: youth, good looks, a blossoming career, and a generous income. She also has an increasingly ardent fan whose anonymous attentions are beginning to alarm her. They take the form of daily deliveries of roses and little notes. After being temporarily blinded in an accident at the construction site of her unfinished new house, she contacts the police about the mysterious watcher. Enter Beverly Hills Police Detective Jon Larsen, an expert on stalkers. Almost simultaneously, Chris's admirer becomes more aggressive. As she struggles to maintain a sense of normalcy, she also discovers a growing attraction between herself and Larsen. The tension builds as the emboldened stalker moves against both Larsen and Chris's best friend. The exciting conclusion is reached when a trap is set for the villain with the actress herself as bait. Employing skills learned both before and after her accident, she contributes significantly to her own rescue during the climactic fight scene. YA mystery lovers will enjoy the plot twists and Woods's energetic writing style.-Carolyn E. Gecan, Thomas Jefferson Sci-Tech, Fairfax County, VA (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Publisher's Weekly Review
``The first letter arrived on a Monday.'' So begins the masterfully paced thriller from the author of Palindrome , Santa Fe Rules , etc. Young Hollywood actress Chris Callaway is poised at the brink of stardom when her world collapses. Shortly after she begins receiving disquieting letters signed ``Admirer,'' she is nearly blinded in a fall at the construction site of her new Malibu home. As Admirer becomes a menacing stalker, sending gifts and a gruesome photo and calling on the phone, Chris is stoutly guarded by her best friend and confidant, hairdresser Danny Devere. Also on duty is Beverly Hills police detective and stalker expert Jon Larsen. The Admirer soon targets the threesome in escalating attacks that become grisly and, then, murderous. Meanwhile, Larsen races to investigate the sinister suspects that emerge from the cadre of subcontractors on the Malibu construction team. Woods's style is lean and staccato, if unsubtle, and he's a pro at turning up the suspense, which is increased here as romance blooms between the cop and the rising star. 100,000 first printing; major ad/promo; author tour. (Jan) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Kirkus Review
A blind actress is tormented by a stalker--in another slick but uninspired thriller by Woods (L.A. Times, p. 332, etc.), who himself seems in the dark about how to capitalize on his melodramatic premise. Chris Callaway, 31, is climbing the ladder to stardom when she falls from her half-built Malibu beachhouse to the rocks 20 feet below--an accident that leaves her able to see only vague shapes, though her sight should return to near-normal anytime within two years. Compared to this career setback, the annoying flowers and letters Chris has been getting from a fan who calls himself ``Admirer'' don't seen very important, but the day after she returns home from the hospital--with her best pal, gay hairdresser Danny Devere, in tow--she senses an intruder and calls the cops: Enter hunky Detective Jon Larsen, who takes Chris under his wing and, soon, into his bed. But despite Larsen's attentiveness--he teaches Chris to use a gun and bucks his superior by devoting himself to her case--he can't nail Admirer, even though clues point him toward a creepy security expert as the stalker. Meanwhile, Admirer invades Chris's home again, overpowering her and tattooing her hand; causes Danny to crash his car; burns down Chris's old house; sends the actress a dog's head in a gift box; and decapitates another woman, placing the headless body in Larsen's house--with all this escalating mayhem prompting Larsen, Chris, and Danny to trap Admirer at Chris's now-completed beachhouse in an abrupt finale that yanks a twist ending out of left field but fails to deliver the extended climactic stalking--or, perhaps, the return of Chris's sight--that readers will be expecting. Smooth running, but shallow characters (the villain is a total cipher) and lack of dramatic payoffs leach suspense: Wait Until Dark this isn't. (First printing of 100,000)
Booklist Review
With several best-sellers and a miniseries or two to his credit, Woods has proven his ability to manipulate the ingredients of the formula thriller. All the pieces are once again in place in his latest effort: glamorous Hollywood setting, beautiful heroine, strong hero, romance, sex, light humor, and plenty of suspense. Actress Chris Callaway is being stalked by someone who calls himself Admirer. At first, Admirer's notes and gifts are flattering, but soon his constant attention starts to seem threatening, especially when Chris temporarily loses her sight in a fall and can't defend herself against his unwelcome advances. When a bloody dog's head arrives, it's clear that Admirer is no ordinary fan. Jon Larsen, the police detective assigned to the case, finds himself not only determined to find the stalker, but also romantically attracted to the sightless but nonetheless chipper and gutsy actress. Frankly, Woods' success is a bit puzzling. Like many of his earlier books, this novel works as mindless airplane reading--and eventually could become a suitably melodramatic miniseries--but as a thriller, it's riddled with weaknesses: the plot is inane, the dialogue is all syrup and schmaltz, the characters are stereotypical, and the climax is utterly predictable. None of that, however, will keep Woods' fans away. (Reviewed Dec. 1, 1993)0060177152Emily Melton
Excerpts
Excerpts
Dead Eyes Chapter One The first letter arrived on a Monday. Chris Callaway was annoyed when her secretary told her it had been in the mailbox. It was unstamped. The tone was friendly, not too worshipful, not too familiar. Dear Ms. Callaway, Your work has given me such a lot of pleasure that I felt I had to write to you. Somehow I had missed your films until last week, when I saw Heart of Stone on late-night television. I was so impressed that I saw Valiant Days in Westwood the following night. I have since rented the videos of Mainline and Downer , and I was impressed with your very high standard of work in all of them. Have you ever had the experience of meeting someone and feeling that you had known him for a long time? I have that feeling about you. Thank you again for your fine work. You'll be hearing from me. Admirer When Chris had bought this house, she had taken a lot of trouble to keep the address strictly private. All her bills went to her manager's office, and when she found it necessary to give an address, she used a box number. Her friends sent their Christmas cards to the box, damn it, she thought, and now some fan had found her. She handed the letter back to Melanie, her secretary. "Answer it cordially, and refer him to the box number." "There's no return address," Melanie said, turning over the envelope. Chris felt oddly frustrated at not being able to reply to the writer. Many of the actors she knew didn't answer their fan mail at all or referred it to a service for handling, but she had always replied to everything, and it amounted to twenty or thirty letters a month, jumping to a hundred after the release of a new film. Melanie wrote the replies, and Chris signed them. "Then call the security patrol and ask them to keep a watch on my mailbox." Melanie gave her the "you-can't-be-serious" look. "Chris, don't you think you're overreacting? It's a letter, not a bomb." Chris laughed. "You're right." Jesus, she thought, why am I letting a little thing like this get to me? Melanie glanced at her watch. "You're due at Graham Hong's in twenty minutes for your class, and Danny's doing your hair here at one." "Right, I'd better get going." Chris grabbed her duffel and entered the garage through the study door. A moment later, she was driving down Stone Canyon, past the Bel-Air Hotel, toward Sunset in the Mercedes 500SL convertible. It amused her that in Bel-Air and Beverly Hills, there were so many of the flashy little cars that she could think of hers as anonymous. Graham Hong turned out to be big for an Asian--over six feet and well-muscled, yet lithe. He taught in his home and it was nothing like a gym, more of a teahouse. Hong greeted Chris with a cup of tea and asked her to sit down. "Have you ever had any martial arts training?" he asked. His voice was accentless California; no trace of anything Asian. "None," she replied. He beamed at her. "I'm so glad." "Why?" she asked. "Any dance experience?" "I started as a dancer, in New York." "Very good. Do you work out with a trainer?" "No, I have a little gym at home. I'm in good shape." "Good, then you will not tire easily." "Graham," she said, "if I tired easily I wouldn't be an actress." He laughed appreciatively. "Why is dance training better than martial arts?" "I've read the script," he said. "What we want for this picture is not anything ritualistic, but simply dirty fighting. Your dance experience will help greatly with your balance, and ultimately, it will make you more graceful." He stood. "If you've finished your tea, let's begin." He slid back a screen, revealing a good-sized room furnished only with a wall-to-wall mat and a canvas dummy. One wall was mirrored, with a ballet barre. "First, some basics," Hong said. "Let's say that you find yourself in a fight--a fight with a man who is larger and heavier than you. How would you approach this fight?" "I'd kick him in the crotch," Chris replied. "Why?" "Because I've been led to believe that would disable him." "It might, if you caught him unawares. You might have more success kicking him in the shin, or better, the knee." "Why there, instead of the crotch?" "The idea is to inflict as much pain as possible with your first strike. It is the pain that is disabling. There is nothing in the testicles that is inherently disabling, except the pain caused when they are struck. If you are wearing hard shoes, you can inflict disabling--or at least, very distracting--pain in the shin. But if you kick in the knee, you can actually disable, even while barefoot or wearing soft shoes. The knee is a complex and vulnerable structure." "Very interesting," Chris said. "I would not recommend that, in a street scuffle, you kick someone in the knee, simply because you are likely to inflict such damage that lawsuits and serious medical expenses could result. However, if someone attacked you with a weapon or other deadly force, the knee would be an excellent choice." Hong took her by the shoulders and stood her in the center of the room. "Relaxed, weight on both feet, slightly forward, arms at the sides. This is the position from which to either attack or defend." Chris held her hand up in a boxing stance. "Not like this?" "That is a defensive stance," Hong said, "unless you are in a formal boxing match. In a street fight, you would only be telling your opponent that you were thinking of hitting him. If you, a woman, are up against a man, surprise must be your first weapon. Watch; this is slow-motion." Hong stood facing her, lifted his left foot, and gently pushed against the inside of her right knee. It buckled, and she fell to that knee. Hong helped her up. "Now you try, in slow motion. Simply put your left instep to the inside of my right knee." Chris followed his instructions, and Hong fell to his knee. "Now," he said from the floor. "This is what you have done. First, if you have kicked me really hard, you have damaged my knee, perhaps so badly that I cannot walk on it again without surgery. Second, because you have buckled the joint and made me fall, I am on one knee and vulnerable to further attack. Third, simply by falling with my weight on my knee, I may have damaged it even further. Someone with experience, when kicked in this manner, would avoid falling on his knee, then roll and come up with his weight on the other leg. Of course, if you have done your work well, he would have to stand on one leg only and would be very vulnerable indeed." "Gotcha," Chris said. "Now, can you kick above your head?" Hong asked. Chris turned and did a high kick for him. "Very good. What would work very well in your first fight scene would be simply to kick him in the face." He stood facing her and, again in slow motion, demonstrated. "I can do that," Chris said." "Then do it," Hong replied. "I want you to kick me in the face as quickly and as hard as you can. Leave it to me to protect myself." Chris, who was standing ready, whipped out a leg and sent her instep at Hong's chin. To her astonishment, she connected solidly, and Hong flew backward. She rushed to his side. "Jesus, Graham, did I hurt you?" Hong lifted his head and shook it. "I did not believe you could be so fast," he laughed, spitting out blood. "You are a ruthless woman, and I will not underestimate you again." When Chris got home there was another unstamped letter in the mailbox. Look at this," Chris said, handing Danny Devere the two letters. "Can you believe it?" Danny was brushing Chris's thick brunette hair, shaping it around her shoulders. He put down his hair dryer and picked up a letter. "Well, Sweets," he said feigning a lisp, "looks like you got yourself a fella." "Not that one," Chris said. "Read the second one." Danny read the second letter and quoted, "'You're certainly athletic. I'd hate to come up against you in a dark alley.' What the hell does that mean?" "I just came back from Graham Hong's house; he's training me for the new film. We had this little session and I accidentally--well, not exactly accidentally--but inadvertently dumped him on his ass." " You dumped Graham Hong on his ass?" "He asked me to kick him in the face, and I did. He just didn't get out of the way fast enough." Danny hooted with laughter. "God, I'd give anything to have seen that!" "The point is, Danny, whoever wrote this letter saw it. The sonofabitch followed me this morning." Danny read the letter again. "I think you're jumping to conclusions. This guy's just seen you in the movies. Remember when you hit the guy with the bottle in . . . what was it?" Dead Eyes . Copyright © by Stuart Woods. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold. Excerpted from Dead Eyes by Stuart Woods All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.