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Zusatztext Praise for The Golem of Paris “A compelling mix of adventure! crime! and horror with paranormal and historical elements. The Golem of Paris is a fascinating and frightening glimpse into an imagined religious supernatural subcult [as well as] an engaging crime-solving tale.”— Kirkus Reviews “A classically constructed detective story featuring the tormented hero of a previous book ( The Golem of Hollywood ) that morphs into a supernatural thriller combining elements of Jewish legend! religious mysticism! and pagan mythology.”— New York Times Book Review “I don’t know how one might define ‘magic’ in the literary sense! but I can give you an example of it: The Golem of Paris. It is ostensibly a mystery! but it slides across genre boundaries—romance! supernatural! historical! liturgical- and obliterates them. It is a wonderful! haunting tale...Read! wonder! and enjoy for yourself.”—Bookreporter.com Informationen zum Autor Jonathan Kellerman, Jesse Kellerman Klappentext From two #1 bestselling masters of crime fiction comes an extraordinary thriller about family, murder, and secrets. It's been more than a year since LAPD detective Jacob Lev learned the remarkable truth about his family, and he's not coping well. He's back to drinking, the LAPD Special Projects Department continues to shadow him, and the memory of a woman named Mai haunts him. And while Jacob has tried to build a bridge to his mother, she remains imprisoned inside her own tattered mind. Then he comes across the file for a gruesome unsolved murder that brings the two halves of his life into startling collision. Finding the killer will take him halfway around the world, to Paris. It's a dangerous search for truth that plunges him into the past. And for Jacob Lev, there is no place more frightening. Chapter One. Bohnice Psychiatric Hospital Prague, Czechoslovak Socialist Republic December 17, 1982 “The patient will wake up.” The Russian’s voice is soft and careful, handling the words in Czech like an unfamiliar weapon. She has taught herself deafness. How else to sleep in this deranged place, its nights clotted with moans and prayers to a God that does not exist, cannot exist, for the State has declared him dead. The State is correct. Proof of God’s death is all around her. Senseless, trying to hide. She cowers just the same as the Russian kneels to unlock her cage, his greatcoat opening like a pair of dark wings. The cell door stands ajar, admitting a sickly fan of light from the grease-smeared bulb that smolders in the corridor. “The patient will stand, please.” She will be punished. Her cellmates want none of it. Fat Irena pretends to snore, blowing white balloons. Olga’s fingers are knotted in the hollow of her belly. The fourth bed is empty. “Little bird,” the Russian says. “Do not make me ask again.” She swings her feet to the freezing concrete, finds her paper slippers. They step into the low, broad passageway known as Bulvár šílenci. Lunatics’ Boulevard. While the Russian finds the correct key, she assumes the mandatory posture, kneeling with forehead to the linoleum. Along the corridor, a feverish racket is stirring. The other inmates have heard jangling. They want to know. Who is leaving? Why? “The patient may stand.” She rises, using the wall for support. He leads her down the Boulevard, past the staff room, where orderlies doze in armchairs under heavy doses of self-prescribed sedatives. Past physicians’ offices, exam rooms, Hydrotherapy and Electroshock and rooms unmarked except for numbers. Rooms that cannot be labeled truthfully. The women’s ward ends at two consecutive locked doors, gray paint peeling to reveal steel th...
