2009, ISBN: 9780751533958

Hardcover

Pan. Good. 4.37 x 0.94 x 6.97 inches. Paperback. 2009. 400 pages. Cover worn.<br>FROM THE BESTSELLING, THRILLER AWARD-NO MINATED AUTHOR OF TRIAL JUNKIES HER MIND HOLDS THE SECRET..… More...

Pan. Good. 4.37 x 0.94 x 6.97 inches. Paperback. 2009. 400 pages. Cover worn.<br>FROM THE BESTSELLING, THRILLER AWARD-NO MINATED AUTHOR OF TRIAL JUNKIES HER MIND HOLDS THE SECRET... Ev er since a close call with death, FBI agent Anna McBride has been having strange visions of a kidnapped little girl... a little gi rl who is about to be murdered. Is Anna going crazy? When she's assigned to a multiple homicide case, Anna's visions recur with e ven fiercer frequency, and she can't shake the feeling that what she's seeing is somehow connected to this latest grisly crime. . ..TO FINDING HER OWN KILLER When Anna meets Daniel Pope, a hypno tist who's no stranger to the paranormal, he suggests the impossi ble: that the girl in her visions is Anna in a past life. But A nna refuses to believe Pope, until she finds herself face to face with the killer from her nightmares--a diabolical psychopath who won't rest until he kills her again... Suspenseful and gripping from the word go, this book will grab your attention and keep you on tenterhooks until the very end.~Shamilla Vaid, Tonight/Book V iews Browne's characters, dialogue and pacing are all spot-on and thriller ready.~Rick Kleffel, Bookotron Editorial Reviews Review Praise for Whisper in the Dark:A taut psychological thril ler with hints of the supernatural and an ending that will leave readers speechless...The deeply satisfying story moves at a furio us pace, packed with unexpected and original clues and plot twist s. --Publishers Weekly (starred review) Whisper in the Dark will have you on the edge of your seat. Magnificent! -TheTruthAboutBoo ks Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One The little girl was about to die. She knew this in stinctively, even though the man in the red baseball cap had neve r uttered so much as a word to her. It was as if she had crawled up inside his brain and could read his innermost thoughts. Thou ghts of darkness. And dead things. Lots of dead things. The l ittle girl wasn't a stranger to death herself. She'd seen it firs thand, at six years old, when Mr. Stinky got hit by a bus. A lot of the details were hazy now, but she remembered she was playing hopscotch with Suzie at the time, Mr. Stinky running circles arou nd them on the driveway, barking like crazy. Then, for some rea son, he had decided to dart out into the street. Saw a cat or som ething. And the city bus that usually came down their block at ni ne o'clock every morning came late that day, showing up out of no where as if it had been waiting for Mr. Stinky to make his move. The little girl had been waiting, too, waiting for Suzie to fin ish her turn, watching her friend skip from square to square, whe n she heard the roar of the bus and looked up to see its front bu mper smack Mr. Stinky right in the head. It knocked him into the air like one of her old stuffed animals, his legs flopping as he did a kind of slow-motion somersault, then landed on the blacktop . He didn't move after that. And the bus driver didn't stop. The little girl screamed and ran into the street, even though s he knew her mother would yell at her. And there was Mr. Stinky, l ying on the ground like a bag of broken toys, his glazed eyes sta ring up at her, as lifeless as the two black buttons on her favor ite Sunday School dress. There wasn't any blood, but she knew h e was gone, knew he was dead, and he would never come back to her no matter how much she begged him to as she cradled him in her a rms and cried and cried. That had been four years ago. But sh e still missed Mr. Stinky and sometimes wished she could be with him again, to feel him press his head against her arm, or put his paw on her knee, whenever he wanted her to pet him. Maybe she' d get that wish. Maybe he was up there in heaven somewhere, wai ting for her. Lying in the backseat of the car, her wrists and ankles bound, her mouth taped shut, the little girl stared up at that greasy red baseball cap and wondered where the man was takin g her. The road bumped beneath them, tree shadows flickering ac ross the ceiling, and from what little she could see of the darke ning sky, she thought they were headed into a forest of some kind . Not like the forest she'd camped in with her mom and dad, with the sun and a lake and fishing poles, but a dark and scary Hansel and Gretel kind of place, where kids like her are cooked and eat en. The little girl's stomach burned something awful, like that night not long ago when she ate too much lemon meringue pie. She wanted to throw up, wanted to release it all over the backseat, because she knew, without a doubt, that her time was almost up. T he end was near. That, just like Mr. Stinky, it was her turn to - Hey, McBride, you awake? Anna McBride blinked, then turned from the passenger window to look at her new partner. Ted Royer. He seemed to be speaking to her from the far end of a long, dark corridor. She blinked again and shook her head slightly, trying to clear her mind, a deep sense of dread bubbling in the pit of her stomach as the corridor finally widened, then disappeared alt ogether. The darkness, however, didn't. It was a little past on e a.m. Is that yes or no? Royer asked. Yes, Anna said, cleari ng her throat. I was thinking, is all. Daydreaming. But that wa sn't exactly the truth. The truth was much deeper than a simple d aydream. And certainly more frightening. Special Agent Anna McB ride was losing her mind. Let's get something straight right up front, Royer said. He was seated behind the wheel of their burea u transport, a black Ford Explorer. He drove with the casual self -assurance of a career brick agent, a man who had spent many year s in the field. If we're gonna be working together-and from all a ppearances it looks like we are-then I'm gonna need you to stay a lert and keep focused. You think you can manage that? There was an edge of impatience to his voice. Anna knew that this new part nership had not been his choice, that it was merely the luck of t he draw that had thrown them together. And she was pretty sure Ro yer considered it bad luck. But she didn't care about that righ t now. She had more pressing things to think about than an unstab le work relationship. Like an unstable mind. As much as she w anted to believe that she'd fallen asleep for a moment, had let t he hum of the engine lull her into the Land of Nod, she knew she' d been wide awake, and that what she'd just experienced had not b een a dream at all. Not this time. The question was, what exact ly was it? Yo, McBride. Am I getting through to you? Anna nod ded. Message loud and clear. Royer gave her a sideways glance. You're not gonna be one of those, are you? One of what? Smart -asses. He returned his gaze to the road, which seemed to stretch out forever into the desert darkness, all prairie brush and cact us. The view was as foreign to Anna as a lunar landscape. I'll te ll you right now, I've had my fill of smart-ass partners, always trying to be clever, but usually at the expense of good investiga tive work. Too busy listening to their own bullshit to notice any thing else. Anna was tempted to tell him she thought this might be a case of the kettle and the pot, but stopped just short of l etting the words fly. Instead she said, You don't have to worry a bout me. No bullshit. And I'll stay focused. This was an outrig ht lie, of course. Staying focused was not her strong suit these days. I'm not gonna kid you, Royer said. The truth is, none of us really want you here. I'm beginning to see that. Another s ideways glance. There you go with the smart-ass shit again. I'm s urprised they didn't ship you straight to South Dakota. Who'd you have to blow to get this assignment, anyway? Anna bit her tong ue. Anything she said right now would only egg Royer on and all s he wanted to do was shut him the hell up. The Glock 9 on her hip was calling out to her, but she resisted the urge to put a bullet in his brain. A feeling she'd been fighting since the moment she met him. She had arrived in Victorville two days ago, less tha n a week after the doctors had proclaimed her fit for duty, and a little over a month after the blowup in South San Francisco. S he didn't like thinking about that night, had known the moment it exploded in their faces that she would be the designated scapego at, as she should be. It was all her fault. But thinking about it had not turned out to be the problem. Ever since she'd jolted awake to a dark hospital room, a nasty set of stitches on the sid e of her face to remind her of the mistake she'd made, the majori ty of her mind's real estate had been occupied by only one thing: The vision. The dream. Nightmares so vivid they had her waking up in a cold sweat every night. Fleeting thoughts and images tha t all but disappeared the moment she opened her eyes. A little girl in trouble. A little girl who was about to die. Here's t he drill, Royer said. We get to Ludlow, you stand there and keep your mouth shut. These jurisdictional disputes can get a little t ricky, so I'll do all the talking. I thought they invited us in ? They did, but the request came from the County Under-sheriff himself, so it's unlikely the rank and file are gonna be too thri lled about a coupla feds sticking their noses in the pond. I've seen my share of pissed-off locals. I think I can handle myself. Yeah, Royer said, wagging his finger at her scar, which, despi te several sessions with CoverGirl, had proven impossible to hide . I can see that. This silenced her. It was her turn to shoot h im a glance, but his concentration was centered on the road ahead and he didn't seem to notice. Or did he? Was he baiting her? Hoping she'd give him an excuse to send her packing? The Victo rville Resident Agency-one of the bureau's L.A. satellite station s-wasn't any paradise, but Royer was right: She should be in Sout h Dakota. She'd only managed to stay in California because Daddy dear had connections in the Justice Department. But it was doub tful even South Dakota wanted her. Nobody did. I'll keep my m outh shut, she said, surrendering to Royer's contempt, knowing sh e'd have to swallow a lot of pride to make this partnership work. She'd spent a lifetime ramping toward a career that had unravele d in just a few short minutes, so she wasn't about to squander wh at was likely her one and only second chance, no matter how much it pained her. Besides, pride was the least of her concerns at the moment. The visions had obviously begun to escalate. They wer e coming during her waking hours now. And despite what the doctor s had told the Victorville Agent in Charge, she knew she wasn't e ven remotely fit for duty yet. And until she was, she'd simply have to fake ... About the Author Robert Gregory Browne has had a lifelong fascination with the near-death experience and the af terlife, which led to the plot of his first novel, Kiss Her Goodb ye. He was born in California but grew up in Honolulu, a city he considers his home. He now lives in Ojai, California. Visit his W eb site at www.robertgregorybrowne. From the Back Cover ON E WOMAN'S MIND HOLDS THE SECRET Ever since a close call with dea th, FBI Agent Anna McBride has been having strange visions of a k idnapped little girl... a little girl who is about to be murdered . Is she going crazy? When Anna is assigned to a multiple homicid e case, her visions recur with an even fiercer frequency...and sh e can't shake the feeling that what she's seeing is somehow conne cted to this latest grisly crime. TO FINDING HER OWN KILLER... When Anna meets Daniel Pope, a hypnotist who's no stranger to the paramormal, he suggests the impossible: that the girl in her vis ions is Anna in a past life. But Anna refuses to believe Pope -- until she finds herself face to face with the killer from her nig htmares. Now she must go into the dark recesses of her mind and r elive the horrors of her past to find a diabolical psychopath who won't rest until he kills her again... This is a writer whose n ame will soon be a household word.-Bookfinds Screenwriter Ro bert Gregory Browne knows [the] rules of creating a compelling pl ot.-Mystery Scene Magazine </div From the Back Cover ONE WOMAN' S MIND HOLDS THE SECRET Ever since a close call with death, FBI Agent Anna McBride has been having strange visions of a kidnapped little girl... a little girl who is about to be murdered. Is she going crazy? When Anna is assigned to a multiple homicide case, her visions recur with an even fiercer frequency...and she can't shake the feeling that what she's seeing is somehow connected to this latest grisly crime. TO FINDING HER OWN KILLER... When Ann a meets Daniel Pope, a hypnotist who's no stranger to the paramor mal, he suggests the impossible: that the girl in her visions is Anna in a past life. But Anna refuses to believe Pope -- until sh e finds herself face to face with the killer from her nightmares. Now she must go into the dark recesses of her mind and relive th e horrors of her past to find a diabolical psychopath who won't r est until he kills her again... This is a writer whose name will soon be a household word.-Bookfinds Screenwriter Robert Gre gory Browne knows [the] rules of creating a compelling plot.-Myst ery Scene Magazine </div ., Pan, 2009, 2.5, Allen & Unwin Pty., Limited (Australia). Very Good. 152 x 230mm. Paperback. 1999. 239 pages. <br>A serial killer is on the loose in a small coastal town near Melbourne. Detective Inspector Hal Challis and his tea m must apprehend him before he strikes again. But first Challis m ust contend with the editor of a local newspaper, who undermines his investigation at every turn. Editorial Reviews From Publish ers Weekly Australian author Disher delivers an intelligent, atmo spheric police procedural, the first of a new series. A serial ki ller targeting young women along the isolated Old Peninsula Highw ay has baffled Detective Inspector Hal Challis and his staff. Him self a resident of the Peninsula, as the locals call the sleepy c omma of land hooking into the sea south-east of Melbourne, Challi s leads a solitary life. We soon learn that his wife Angela has s pent the last seven years in prison for conspiring with her lover to murder him. Nicknamed the dragon man, Challis in his spare ti me obsessively restores a vintage airplane, a Dragon Rapide. Inde ed, as we meet the other police officers, it becomes clear that t hey're as interesting, not to mention as complex and morally ambi guous, as any of the criminals they seek. Pam Murphy, for instanc e, is an idealistic young constable recovering from a car crash a nd a nervous breakdown, and Sergeant Kees van Alphen raids the ev idence locker for cocaine, which he trades for sex. Fans of such gritty yet cerebral crime novelists as Ian Rankin and Jack Harvey should be well pleased. Copyright ® Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. From Booklist A serial killer targeting young women is on the lo ose on the Old Peninsula Highway, located on a comma-shaped penin sula jutting into the sea, southeast of Melbourne. Detective Insp ector Hal Challis is in charge of the investigation, along with a rash of burglaries and arson cases. Two women have been murdered , and a third has disappeared, leading the locals to worry that n egative publicity will keep tourists from enjoying the peninsula as their holiday spot. Although the plot centers on the serial ki ller, other officers work other crimes, including the case of a m ysterious woman, part of a witness-protection program, who is ter rified when her mailbox is set alight. The beautifully described setting lets the reader feel the oppressive heat of a December su mmer in Australia, and the characters are well drawn and distinct . Challis himself is a likable, honorable police officer fighting his own demons along with corrupt colleagues and inept superiors . A solid new series from genre vet Disher. Sue O'Brien Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Review An intelligent, atmospheric police procedural...Fans of su ch gritty yet cerebral crime novelists such as Ian Rankin and Jac k Harvey should be well pleased. Publishers Weekly The Dragon Man is unquestionably Disher's masterpiece, an astonishingly told ca per that's tough, tender, poignant and totally captivating. Age A straightforward police story with a terrific plot, nuanced chara cters and solid procedures, served up on refreshing new turf. Don e with smooth, assured mastery. New York Times Challis is a fine creation: strong and resourceful, yet with enough human frailty t o satisfy the tastes of readers raised on Connelly, Rankin or Pat ricia Cornwell. This is intelligent, well-crafted fare, enlivened by a sharp awareness of society and the dark undercurrents benea th it. West Australian --This text refers to an out of print or u navailable edition of this title. About the Author Garry Disher grew up in South Australia. In 1978 he was awarded a creative wri ting fellowship to Stanford University, where he wrote his first short-story collection. A full-time writer for many years, he is the author of more than forty titles--fiction, children's books, anthologies, history textbooks, and books about the craft of writ ing. With considerable local and international success--including the prestigious German Crime Fiction Prize for Dragon Man--Dishe r is one of Australia's most exciting and diverse writers. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this ti tle. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Ch apter One Detective Inspector Hal Challis showered with a bucket at his feet. He kept it economical, but still the bucket overflow ed. He toweled himself dry, dressed, and, while the espresso pot was heating on the bench-top burner in his kitchen, poured the bu cket into the washing machine. Couple more showers and he'd have enough water for a load of washing. Only 19 December but already his rainwater tanks were low and a long, dry summer had been fore cast. He didn't want to buy water again, not like last summer. Th e coffee was ready. As he poured he glanced at an old calendar pi nned to the corkboard above his bench. He'd bought the calendar b y mail order three years ago, and kept it opened at March. The vi ntage airplane for that month was a prototype of the de Havilland DH84 Dragon. Then the toaster pinged and Challis hunted for the butter and the jam and finally took his toast and coffee on to th e deck at the rear of his house. The early sun reached him throug h the wisteria with the promise of a hot day ahead. He felt bone- tired. A suspected abduction on the Old Peninsula Highway two nig hts ago--the investigation ultimately dumped into his lap. Franks ton uniforms had taken the call, then referred it to the area Sup erintendent, who'd rung at 1 a.m. and said, Maybe your boy's stru ck a second time, Hal. Challis had spent the next four hours at t he scene, directing a preliminary search. When he'd got home agai n at 5 a.m. yesterday there hadn't seemed much point in going bac k to bed, and he'd spent the rest of the day in the car or on the phone. A little four-stroke engine was chugging away on the bank of his neighbor's dam. Cows once drank there. Now the cows were gone and the hillside stretched back in orderly rows of vines. Ch allis couldn't spot his neighbor among the vines, but the man was there somewhere. He usually was, weeding, pruning, spraying, pic king. Challis thought of the insecticide spray, of the wind carry ing it to his roof, where the rain would wash it into his undergr ound tank, and he tossed out his coffee. He stepped down from the verandah and made a circuit of his boundary fence. Half a hectar e, on a dirt lane west of the Old Peninsula Highway, tucked in am ong orchards, vineyards and a horse stud, and Challis made this w alk every morning and evening as a kind of check on his feelings. Five years now, and still the place was his port in a storm. As he collected the Age from his mailbox on the dirt lane at the fro nt of his property, a voice called from the next driveway, Hal, h ave you got a minute? The man from the vineyard was walking towar d him. Small, squint-eyed from the angling sun, about sixty. Chal lis waited, gazing calmly, as he did with suspects, and sure enou gh the man grew edgy. Challis stopped himself. The fellow didn't deserve his CIB tricks. What can I do for you? Look, I realize it 's nothing, but you know the ornamental lake I've got, over near the house? Yes. Someone's been fishing in it, the neighbor said. After the trout. The thing is, they're scaring the birds away. Ib is, herons, a black swan, moorhens. Challis had watched them for half an hour one day, from a little hide the man had constructed in the reeds. Do you know who? Probably kids. I found a couple of tangled lines and fishhooks, half a dozen empty Coke cans. Chall is nodded. Have you informed the local station? I thought, you be ing an inspector-- Inform the local station, Challis said. They'l l send a car around now and then, make their presence felt. Can't you . . . I'm very sorry, but it would look better if you lodged the complaint. Challis left soon after that. He locked the house , backed his Triumph out of the garage and turned right at his ga te, taking the lane in bottom gear. In winter he negotiated potho les, mud and minor flooding; in summer, corrugations and treacher ous soft edges. He drove east, listening to the eight o'clock new s. At five minutes past eight he turned on to the Old Peninsula H ighway, meeting it quite near the abduction scene, and headed sou th, toward the town of Waterloo, hearing the screams the dying le ave behind them. He could have been more helpful to the neighbor . He wondered what the man thought of him, a detective inspector and New Peninsula. The Peninsula. People talked about it as if it were cohesive and indivisible. You only did that if you didn't k now it, Challis thought. You only did that if you thought its dis tinctive shape--a comma of land hooking into the sea southeast of Melbourne--gave it a separate identity, or if you'd driven throu gh it once and seen only beaches, farmland and quiet coastal town s. Not that it covered a large area--less than an hour by road fr om top to bottom, and about twenty minutes across at its widest p oint--but to a policeman like Challis there were several Peninsul as. The old Peninsula of small farms and orchards, secluded count ry estates, some light industry and fishing, and sedate coastal t owns populated by retirees and holidaying families, was giving wa y to boutique wineries, weekender farms, and back roads populated with bed-and-breakfast cottages, potteries, naturopathy clinics, reception centers, tearooms and galleries. Tourism was one of th e biggest industries, and people with professions--like Challis h imself--were flocking to buy rural hideaways. Some local firms ma de a good living from erecting American-style barns and installin g pot-belly stoves, and costly four-wheel drives choked the local townships. But although there was more money about, it wasn't ne cessarily going to more people. A community center counsellor fri end of Challis's had told him of the growing number of homeless, addicted kids she dealt with. Industries and businesses were clos ing, even as families were moving into the cheap housing developm ents that were spreading at the fringes of the main towns, Waterl oo and Mornington. The shire council, once one of the biggest emp loyers, was cutting expenses to the bone, using managers whose se nse of humanity had been cut to the bone. The adjustments were ne ver forewarned or carried out face to face. Challis's counsellor friend now sold home-made pickles and jams at fairs and markets. There had been a letter, telling her she was redundant, her whole unit closed down. Just three days' notice, Hal. It was happening everywhere, and the police were usually the ones to pick up the pieces. Which didn't mean that the Peninsula wasn't a pleasant pl ace to live in. Challis felt as if he'd come home, finally. And t he job suited him. In the old days of murder or abduction investi gations he'd been sent all over the state, city and bush, with a squad of specialists, but the Commissioner had introduced a new s ystem, intended to give local CIB officers experience in the inve stigation of serious crimes alongside their small-time burglaries , assaults and thefts. Now senior homicide investigators like Cha llis worked a specific beat. Challis's was the Peninsula. Althoug h he had an office in regional headquarters, he spent most of his time in the various Peninsula police stations, conducting invest igations with the help of the local CIB, calling in the specialis ts only if he got derailed or bogged down. It was a job that enta iled tact, and giving as much responsibility to the local CIB as possible, or the fallout was resentment and a foot-dragging inves tigation. He didn't expect that from the Waterloo CIB. He'd worke d with them before. Challis drove south for twenty kilometers. T he highway ran down the eastern side of the Peninsula, giving him occasional glimpses of the bay. Then the Waterloo refinery came into view across the mangrove flats, bright oily flames on the ch imneys, and glaring white tanks. There was a large tanker at anch or. The highway became a lesser road, bisecting a new housing est ate, the high plank fences on either side hiding rooftops that va ried greatly but were never more than a meter apart. He crossed t he railway line and turned right, skirting the town, then left on to a main road that took him past timber merchants, boat yards, Peninsula Cabs, crash repairers, an aerobics center, the Fiddlers Creek pub and a corner lot crammed with ride-on mowers and small hobby tractors. The police station and the adjacent courthouse w ere on a roundabout at the end of High Street, opposite a Pizza H ut. Challis glanced down High Street as he turned. The water glit tered at the far end; frosted Santas, reindeer, sleighs, candles, mangers and bells swung from lampposts and trees. He parked in t he side street opposite the main entrance to the police station, got out, and walked into trouble. That windscreen's not roadworth y. A uniformed constable, who had been about to get into a divisi onal van that idled outside the station with a young woman consta ble at the wheel, had changed his mind and was approaching Challi s, flipping open his infringement book and fishing in his top poc ket for a pen. He's going to book me, Challis thought. I've order ed a new windscreen. Not good enough. The Triumph was low-slung. On the back roads of the Peninsula, it was always copping stones and pebbles, and one had cracked the windscreen on the passenger side. This your car? It is. A snapping of fingers: License. Chall is complied. The constable was large--tall and bigboned, but also carrying too much weight. He was young, the skin untested by tim e and the elements, and his hair was cut so short that his scalp showed through. Challis had an impression of acres of pink flesh. Quickly, quickly. A classic bully, Challis thought. Then the con stable saw the name on Challis's license, but, to his credit, did not flinch. Challis. Inspector Challis? Yes. Sir, that windscree n's not roadworthy. It's also dangerous. I realize that. I've ord ered a new one. The constable watched him for a long moment, then nodded. He put his book away. Fair enough. Challis hadn't wanted to be booked, and telling the constable to follow the rules and book him would have been an embarrassment and an irritation for b oth of them, so he said nothing. The constable turned and made fo r the van. Chal, Allen & Unwin Pty., Limited (Australia), 1999, 3, Minotaur Books. Very Good. 5.5 x 0.88 x 8.5 inches. Paperback. 2007. 320 pages. <br>Winner of the Swedish Crime Academy Award for Best Crime Novel, The Princess of Burundi introduces American readers to Kjell Eriksson--a crime writer who has quickly become an inte rnational sensation. This spellbinding new thriller opens when a young father fails to show up for supper on a snowy night just b efore Christmas. His is not the only sinister disappearance, and before the final breathtaking climax, a secret killer terrorizes an entire frightened town. Despite being on maternity leave, Ins pector Ann Lindell is determined to find John's murderer. The cru el cat-and-mouse game that follows leads Ann to a deadly confront ation with a treacherous killer. Ann must decide whether to take a huge risk that could result in many more dead bodies in the sno w, including hers and that of her unborn child. Editorial Review s Review Riveting . . . The Princess of Burundi resembles the b ooks of Maj Sjowall and Per Wahloo, not to mention those of the m odern master Henning Mankell. ?The Wall Street Journal Stunning . . . haunting . . . can chill you to the bone. ?Marilyn Stasio, The New York Times Terrific . . . subtly brilliant . . . compell ingly suspenseful. ?San Francisco Chronicle Reminiscent of Ed Mc Bain's 87th Precinct series. Don't miss it. ?Library Journal (sta rred review) Ingenious . . . a chillingly well-drawn psychotic. . . . Very satisfying. ?Los Angeles Times A deeply insightful ps ychological thriller. ?Midwest Book Review Suspenseful, intellig ent, and perceptive . . . terrific. ?Publishers Weekly About th e Author KJELL ERIKSSON is the award-winning and internationally bestselling Swedish author of The Ann Lindell Mystery series. His debut won the Swedish Crime Academy award for Best First Novel a nd The Princess of Burundi later won for Best Crime Novel. Erikss on is also a gardener, and now living in Brazil. Ebba Segerberg is a translator of Swedish literature with a focus on Swedish cri me fiction. Her translations include several installments of the Wallander series by Henning Mankell and Let Me In by John Ajvide Lindqvist. She has worked in a variety of other genres and format s including biography, short stories, and screenplays. She holds a PhD in Swedish literature and film studies from the University of California at Berkeley, and currently lives in Saint Louis, Mi ssouri. About the Author KJELL ERIKSSON is the award-winning and internationally bestselling Swedish author of The Ann Lindell My stery series. His debut won the Swedish Crime Academy award for B est First Novel and The Princess of Burundi later won for Best Cr ime Novel. Eriksson is also a gardener, and now living in Brazil. Ebba Segerberg is a translator of Swedish literature with a foc us on Swedish crime fiction. Her translations include several ins tallments of the Wallander series by Henning Mankell and Let Me I n by John Ajvide Lindqvist. She has worked in a variety of other genres and formats including biography, short stories, and screen plays. She holds a PhD in Swedish literature and film studies fro m the University of California at Berkeley, and currently lives i n Saint Louis, Missouri. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. The Princess of Burundi By Eriksson, Kjell S t. Martin's Minotaur Copyright ©2007Eriksson, Kjell All right res erved. ISBN: 9780312327682 Chapter One The plate trembled, knocki ng over the glass. The milk flowed out over the waxed tablecloth like a white flower. Typical-we have almost no milk left, she tho ught. She quickly righted the glass and wiped up the milk with a dishrag. When is Dad coming home? She twirled around. Justus was leaning up against the doorpost. I don't know, she said, throwing the dishrag into the sink. What's for dinner? He had a book in h is hand, his index finger tucked in to mark the page he was readi ng. She wanted to ask him what it was, but then she thought of so mething and walked over to the window. Stew, she said absently. S he looked out at the parking lot. It had started to snow again. M aybe he was working. She knew he had talked to Micke. He always n eeded extra workers for his snow-removal crew, and it had been co ming down for days now. John wasn't afraid of heights, either. Be rit smiled at the memory of how he had climbed the drainpipe to h er balcony long ago. It was only on the second floor, but still. He could have broken his neck if he had fallen. Just like his fat her, she thought, and her smile faded. She had been furious with him, but he had just laughed. Then he had scooped her up in a tig ht embrace, with a strength you would never have thought John's s lender body was capable of. Later-clearly flattered-she liked to tell the story of his climb and his persistence. It was their ear liest and most important shared memory. Snow removal. A small tra ctor drove across the parking lot and pushed even more snow up ov er the heavily laden bushes by the edge of the lot. Harry was the driver. She recognized him by his red cap. Harry was the one who had set Justus to work, giving him a summer job when no one else was hiring. Lawn mowing, clearing out trash, weeding. Justus com plained, but he had been bursting with pride at his first paychec k. Berit's gaze followed the snowplow. Snow was falling thickly. The orange signal light revolved on the roof of the tractor. Dark ness settled in over the buildings and the parking lot. The light was flung to the far corners of the grounds. Harry was certainly busy. How many hours had he had to work the past few days? This weather's going to send me to the Canary Islands, he had shouted to her the other day when they met outside the front door. He had leaned on his shovel and asked her about Justus. He always did. She turned and meant to say hello from Harry but Justus had alrea dy gone. What are you doing? she cried out into the apartment. No thing, Justus yelled back. Berit assumed he was sitting in front of the computer. Ever since August, when John had dragged home th e boxes, Justus had sat glued to the screen. The kid has to have a computer. He'll be left behind otherwise, John had said when sh e complained at the extravagance. How much did it cost? I got it cheap, he had told her, and quickly showed her the receipt from t he electronics store when he caught her look. That accusing look, the one he knew so well. She looked around the kitchen but there was nothing else to be done. Dinner was ready. She went back to the window. He had said he would be back around four and it was c lose to six now. He usually called if he was delayed, but that ha d been mostly when he was doing a lot of overtime at the workshop . He had never liked to work late, but his boss, Sagge-Agne Sagan der-had a way of asking that made it hard to say no. It always so unded as if the order in question were going to make or break the company. He had grown more quiet after he was fired. John had ne ver been one to talk much, of course-Berit was the one who suppli ed the conversation-but he became even less talkative after he wa s let go. He had cheered up only this fall. Berit was convinced t hat it had to do with the fish, the new aquarium he had been talk ing about for years and that had become a reality at last. He had needed all that work with the fish tank, had spent a couple of w eeks in September on it. Harry had given him a hand with the fina l assembly. He and Gunilla had come to the grand opening. Berit h ad thought it silly to inaugurate a fish tank but the party had b een a success. Their closest neighbor, Stellan, had looked in, as had John's mom, and Lennart had been sober and cheerful. Stellan , who was normally quite reserved, had put an arm around Berit an d said something about how cute she looked. John had just smiled, though he usually was sensitive about things like this, especial ly when he had had a drink or two. But there was no reason to be jealous of Stellan. Harry had finished clearing the parking lot. The flashing orange signal flung new cascades of light across the path to the laundry facilities and communal rooms. Snow removal. Berit had only a vague idea of what this task involved. Did they still climb up on the roof like in the old days? She could remem ber the bundled-up men from her childhood with their big shovels and ropes slung in great loops over their shoulders. She could ev en recall the warning signs they posted in the courtyard and on t he street. Was he over at Lennart's? Brother Tuck, as John called him. She didn't like it. It reminded her of the bad old days. Sh e never knew what to make of it: Lennart's loquacious self-assura nce and John's pressed silence. Berit was only sixteen when the t hree of them met. First she got to know John, then Lennart. The b rothers appeared inseparable. Lennart, tossing his long black hai r off his face, unpredictable in his movements, always on the go, picking nervously, chattering. John, blond, thin-lipped, and wit h a gentleness about him that had immediately appealed to her. A scar across his left eye created an unexpected contrast with the pale skin in his slightly androgynous face. The scar was from a m otorcycle accident. Lennart had been driving. Berit had been unab le to understand how John and Lennart could be brothers. They wer e so different, both in appearance and in manner. Once she had go ne so far as to ask Aina, their mother, about it. It had been tow ard the end of the crayfish party, but she had only smiled and jo ked about it. It didn't take long for Berit to figure out that th e brothers didn't always make their money in traditional ways. Jo hn worked at the workshop off and on, but it seemed to Berit that this was more to keep up appearances, especially with regard to Albin, his father. John had a criminal bent. Not because he was e vil or greedy, but simply because a conventional lifestyle didn't seem to be quite enough for him. It was something he had in comm on with many of the people around him, teenagers who appeared wel l adjusted on the surface but who drifted around the eastern part s of Uppsala most evenings and nights in anxious herds. They pick ed pockets, snatched purses, stole mopeds and cars, broke into ba sements, and smashed shopwindows as the spirit moved them. A few, like John and Lennart, were permanent fixtures. Others came and went, most of them dropping out after six months or a year. Some took classes at the Boland School in order to become painters, co ncrete workers, mechanics, or whatever other professions were ope n to working-class youths in the early seventies. Others took job s straight out of middle school. None of them continued with more formal academic subjects at the high school level. They had neit her the will nor the grades for that. Most of them lived at home with their parents, who were not always the ideal people to preve nt substance abuse, theft, and other illegal activities. They had enough of their own problems and often stood by, quite powerless to do anything to stop their offspring. They were awkward and em barrassed when dealing with the welfare workers, psychologists, a nd other social officials, confused by the bureaucratic language, their own inadequacies, and their intense sense of shame. If I h adn't had them, it would all have gone to hell, John had said onc e. It was only when he was getting regular work at the factory th at he started to move away from life on the streets and the gangs . Regular work, a new sense of being appreciated, decent wages, a nd then Berit. Lennart delivered groceries by day and hung out at the pool hall in Sivia at night. John was there too. He was the better player of the two, though that hardly bothered Lennart, wh o spent most of his time on the flipper machines down below. That was where Berit met them. She had come with a girl named Anna-Le na, who was in love with a boy who frequented the place. She fell in love with John at first sight. He snuck around the pool table with the cue in his hand and played with intense concentration, something that appealed to Berit. He rarely said anything. His ha nds were slender. She studied his fingers splayed on the green ma t, his gaze focused along the stick, serious. It was the seriousn ess she noticed. And eyelashes. His gaze, the intense gaze. She w asn't sure what made her start thinking about the pool hall. It h ad been years since she had been there. It was probably because s he had been thinking about Brother Tuck, and about how John was p robably with him. She didn't want to call. They were probably dri nking. Sometimes John felt he had to have a real session with Len nart. It didn't happen very often nowadays, but when his mind was made up nothing could stop him. Not even Justus. The boy knew it , knew his father deep under the skin, and his protests were neve r particularly loud or long-lived. Once, when Justus was about tw elve, John let himself be talked out of it and came home. Justus had called his uncle himself and demanded to speak to his father. Berit was not allowed to listen; Justus had locked himself in th e bathroom with the portable phone. John came home after half an hour. Staggering, but he came home. It was as if these occasional evenings with his brother functioned as a temporary return to hi s former existence. These drinking sessions kept the brothers clo se. Berit had no idea what they talked about. Old times, their ch ildhood in Almtuna, or something else? They didn't have much comm on ground. They cleaved to each other because of their shared pas t. Berit sometimes felt something akin to jealousy when confronte d with this world that was largely foreign to her. Their childhoo d, the early years, appeared to be the only source of joy when th ey were talking. Even Lennart's voice, normally void of emotion, grew warm. And Berit stood outside all of this. Her life with Joh n didn't count, or so it seemed to her. She entered his life when everything turned, when his childhood reached a definitive end. She wasn't there in the early, light-filled days, the happy years that would be remembered and retold. When is he coming? Soon, sh e replied, shouting. She was grateful that Justus was in his bedr oom. He's probably clearing snow somewhere. I've never seen anyth ing like it. She expected him to say something else, but he didn' t. She wanted to hear his voice, but he didn't say anything. What is he doing, thinking? Did she dare leave the kitchen and go to his room? But the half-darkness of the kitchen was all she could handle. No light, no quick flickering characters on a computer sc reen, no questioning looks from Justu, Minotaur Books, 2007, 3, NY: St. Martin's Press, 1998. BCE/BOMC. Hardcover_boards. Fine/Fine. 5.75"x8.5" 336 pgs. Black boards w/gold foil letters to spine. Book designed by Kathryn Parise. DJ design by Julia Kushnirsky. Jacket photo by Susan Daboll. Author photo by John Earle. Spine straight, binding tight, pages clean w/soft tone. Not x-library, unclipped (no price) & unmarked. GIFT QUALITY. Secure ship w/track #. Eighteen years ago, a girl shot down a rapist while her father's lawnmower sputtered in the yard outside. Somewhere in the heat and shadows of that day, Alexandra Rafferty took on the burden of her deed, and forged a bond of silence with her cop father. But now Alexandra's husband has left, her father is clinging to his health, and a Miami serial killer is leaving behind death scenes that go beyond the horrific. For Alexandra, her life and work are exploding--exposing the truth about the killer she seeks, the lover she's choosing, and one summer afternoon that has never gone away... Body Language is one of James W. Hall's greatest Thorn mysteries--a heartfelt and gripping thriller. Source: Publisher., St. Martin's Press, 1998, 5, -: Warner Books, 2001. None. Paperback. Good. -. The brutal murder of Jinx McLennan in her Kensington home, shocks the neighbours and triggers a police inquiry that delves into her colourful past. The trail goes cold until, shockingly, the murder turns out to be a case of mistaken identity. Somewhere is a crazed killer with unfinished business. --> Genre: Crime Mystery, Warner Books, 2001, 2.5, -: Time Warner , 2003. None. Paperback. Good. -. It was a vicious, calculated murder. The killer selected his victim at Euston station, followed her home on the tube, strangled her to death in front of her child. At the same time, killed in the same way, a second body is discovered at the back of King`s Cross station. It is a grisly coincidence that eerily echoes the murder of two other women, stabbed to death months before on the same day. It is DI Tom Thorne who sees the link and comes to the horrifying conclusion. This is not a serial killer the police are up against. This is two of them. Finding the body used to be the worst part of the job. Not any more. Now each time a body is found, Thorne must live with the knowledge that somewhere out there is a second victim, waiting to be discovered. But whilst the methods might be the same Thorne comes to realise that he is hunting two very different killers. One is ruthless and in control, while his partner in crime is submissive, compliant, terrified. Thorne must catch a man whose need to manipulate is as great as his need to kill; a man, who will show him that the ability to inspire terror is the deadliest weapon of all., Time Warner, 2003, 2.5<

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[EAN: 9780751533958], Gebraucht, sehr guter Zustand, [PU: TIME WARNER PAPERBACKS], Einband leichte Lagerspuren, leichte Lesespuren Murder thriller from the author of "Sleepyhead". "Sleepyhead" has sold over 100,000 copies. Campaign to include national press advertising, and rail posters. "Assured and shocking thriller" "Guardian". "A cunning variation on the serial murder theme" "Sunday Telegraph". In englischer Sprache. pages. 34x109x177 mm, Books<

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ISBN: 9780751533958

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