2019, ISBN: 9781146500579

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Ballantine Books. Very Good. Mass Market Paperback. 2007. 384 pages. <br>Award-winning author Cherry Adair broke thrilling new ground with On Thin Ice-her stunning romantic suspens… Plus…

Ballantine Books. Very Good. Mass Market Paperback. 2007. 384 pages. <br>Award-winning author Cherry Adair broke thrilling new ground with On Thin Ice-her stunning romantic suspense hardco ver debut. Now Cherry's turning up the temperature, amping up the action, and raising the degree of danger and desire to irresisti bly hot new heights. Diamonds-jewels of every kind, in fact-are Taylor Kincaid's best friends. The only thing she enjoys more is the challenge of stealing them, at which she excels like few othe rs in the world. And specializing in plundering precious stones f rom wealthy international criminals just makes it all the more sa tisfying . . . and dangerously exciting. So for Taylor, there's n o resisting the double allure of snatching the elusive Blue Star diamonds-a prize she has pursued across three continents-from the South American stronghold of the murderous Morales terrorist org anization. The heist goes down without a hitch. Until Taylor dis covers she has made off with more than she bargained for, namely the secret security-system codes that provide access to a South A frican diamond mine-packed with enough gems to sink a battleship. Suddenly, Taylor's no longer just an ultrachic freelance jewel t hief, but a reluctant player in a high-stakes cat-and-mouse game against elite global trouble-shooters and bloodthirsty terrorists . There's nothing reluctant, however, about Huntington St. John, the top T-FLAC operative who's hot on Taylor's trail. And in Tay lor's opinion, just plain hot. The feeling, emotional and otherwi se, is very mutual. Though they're on opposite sides of the law, Hunt and Taylor swiftly come to appreciate each other's well-hone d skills. But since ecstasy is fleeting, and diamonds are forever , Taylor soon slips from the sheets and hits the streets . . . to reclaim the jewels she stashed overseas. And true to his name, H unt is close behind-but this time, he's after more than the codes . With the clock ticking, and two groups of terrorists closing fa st, they'll have to mix pleasure with some very risky business. I f they can survive danger at every turn, outwit the ultimate high -tech security system, and somehow conquer each other . . . they just might get everything they desire. Editorial Reviews Review PRAISE FOR CHERRY ADAIR A breathtaking ride . . . I couldn't tu rn the pages fast enough! No one does hot romance, ice-cold villa ins and nonstop adventure better. -Mariah Stewart, author of Dead Even, on On Thin Ice Sexy, funny, and wild! Hang on and enjoy t he ride! -Andrea Kane, author of Scent of Danger, on In Too Deep A thrilling, mysterious, sexy read. -Stella Cameron, author of K iss Them Goodbye, on Hide and Seek A sexy, snappy roller-coaster ride! -Susan Andersen, author of Shadow Dance, on Kiss and Tell About the Author USA Today bestselling author Cherry Adair has g enerated numerous awards for her innovative action-adventure nove ls, which include On Thin Ice, Out of Sight, In Too Deep, Hide an d Seek, and Kiss and Tell. A favorite of reviewers and fans alike , she lives in the Pacific Northwest. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by pe rmission. All rights reserved. One August 10 San Cristóbal South America Dressed in black, shrouded by the night, T-FLAC opera- tive Huntington St. John melded with the darkness of the fetid al ley behind the adobe jail. Night vision glasses made it possible to observe every inch of the inky interior of the cell through a narrow barred window high in the wall. Empty. Where in the hell was the prisoner? It had taken six long, bloody months to disco ver this woman's identity. Six months, and the considerable resou rces of the counterterrorist organization Hunt worked for. It had n't been easy, by God, and he was not leaving without her. He ne eded a thief. Someone resourceful, cunning, and unscrupulous. Som eone at the top of his game. Hunt wanted the best. Nothing less w ould do. Determined to find the right thief, T-FLAC's crack team had scrutinized past burglary victims for the last five years. L imiting their search to individuals, or companies, with collectio ns of fine gems who had the most sophisticated, advanced security systems. They'd compiled lists comprising thousands upon thousan ds of names. They'd cross-matched friends of the victims, relativ es, staff, and lifestyle to find a common denominator. Three hun dred names had cross-matched, and 118 people appeared on more tha n six lists. A deep background check on those suspects turned up an interesting anomaly. Seventeen of the women had identical, or nearly identical, backgrounds. Or, rather, one woman had seventee n identities. No one, other than himself and a few select T-FLAC operatives, even knew the thief was a woman. They'd finally conn ected the dots. Hunt had his thief. But where the hell was she? An hour after ascertaining who she was, and with an educated gu ess, where she might be, he was wheels up and headed for South Am erica. It was highly suspect that she just happened to be in the very city he needed her to be in. San Cristóbal. In flight he'd knew she'd robbed José Morales followed by a quick arrest minutes before he touched down in San Cristóbal. So, it was a fait acco mpli. A quick, thorough search of her hotel room revealed nothin g. Not a hint, not a clue. No surprise there. She never left clue s. Ever. Which is why it had been so fucking hard to discover who she was in the first place. This woman wasn't merely extraordin arily good at what she did, she was a phenomenon. And fearless. She was the one he wanted. And by God, he'd have her. Even if, as he suspected, she'd been hired by someone else. Despite intel t o the contrary, her absence from the cell could be explained by o ne of three options: she'd been moved to another location, the ot her party had already extracted her, or she'd been killed. Now t hat would be bloody inconvenient all around. He'd already investe d enough time and energy. He wasn't about to start looking for so meone else now. Suddenly, footsteps echoed down a hallway. Clear , loud, deliberate. Two pairs-heavy, booted. And the odd, incongr uous sound of chains rattling, like something out of a bad horror film. One of the guards kicked open the cell door. It slammed a gainst the adobe wall and let in muted light from the hallway to illuminate the cramped cell. This time, bruja, the jailer threate ned in Spanish, you will not get free. Hunt's mouth flattened in to a thin line as he took in the tableau in the doorway. Trussed up in chains, the woman couldn't brace herself as the guards flu ng her through the open door and onto the floor with a thud. Her head bounced on the cement and she let out a startled grunt of pa in. Hunt bit back a curse. This was precisely why he disliked wo men involved in missions. They were vulnerable and easily broken. He hated like hell seeing someone soft and delicate hurt. The c hains wrapped around her sounded almost musical as she rolled acr oss the floor, until, stopped by the opposite wall, she lay still . The two guards observed their prisoner for a few minutes from the doorway, speculating in rapid-fire Spanish as to whether the woman was a witch. Or worse. So, she'd attempted an escape, had s he? He shook his head. Nice try, but no cigar, sweetheart. This p rison built on the outskirts of town housed political prisoners, as well as the dregs of humanity. No one, including apparently a pro like her, had ever escaped. Hunt was about to change that. Listening to the conversation between the guards, Hunt shook his head. She'd given it her best shot five times. 5-0 wasn't a great track record, but it sure took guts. No wonder the men were piss ed. No wonder they had a mile of bicycle chain wrapped around her body, and God only knew how many gleaming new padlocks fastened down her back. She'd be lucky to draw in an unrestricted breath, let alone stand. The metal door clanged shut and the key ground harshly in the lock. Sorry to disappoint, hombres, but she's mine . He listened to the guards' footsteps retreat down the hallway t oward the front of the jail. The crunch of tires on gravel drift ed between the buildings down the narrow alley where he waited. H eadlights strobed over the single-story structures as cars and tr ucks pulled into the unseen parking lot of the seedy nightclub ac ross the alley behind the jail. Vehicle doors slammed. Glass cli nked. Laughing voices rose. A band tuned up their instruments. Th e door of the dive opened and slammed. Opened and slammed. Opened , letting out the raucous sounds of the crowd warming up for the evening. All music to Hunt's ears. He knew the bar would soon be packed to the rafters. The band would be loud enough to deafen a nyone within a hundred yards, and the secondhand smoke would make a five-pack-a-day smoker look like a piker. This was almost too easy. The night air felt thick and oppressive. Not even a glimme r of a star broke the blackness of the sky overhead. San Cristóba l in midsummer was not for the fainthearted. He'd been here sever al years ago on another op. The sprawling city on the edge of the rain forest was too damn crowded for his liking. Known for its t opless beaches and raunchy night life, it wasn't one of Hunt's fa vorite places. The atmosphere was a South American version of sp ring break-noise, people, skin, and excessive drinking. The combi nation usually turned things ugly before midnight. It was a quart er till. In the distance, a dog's barks turned to mournful howls . A car backfired. Lights continued strafing the roofline as more vehicles turned into the parking lot of the club. A steel guitar riffed in a jangle of bad chords, followed by the thump of stick s on the drum as the band continued its warm-up. The chains wrap ped around the woman chinked. Good. If she could move, she wasn't too badly hurt. As far as Hunt was concerned, as long as she cou ld talk and think long enough to tell him what he wanted to know, that was sufficient. In theory, he had no problem with her capt ivity. She was where thieves belonged. But not where he needed her to be for the moment. Oblivious to the muggy heat causing hi s dark shirt to stick to his back, he gave a quick tug to the cla mps he'd hooked to the bars earlier, making sure they were secure . A clever T-FLAC invention, the device, small enough to fit in h is pocket, it consisted of a complex series of pulleys and thin m etal cable, and needed very little pressure to act as a fulcrum. The band segued into their first number. What the group lacked i n talent they made up for in volume. The ruckus from the club wou ld drown out all but an atomic bomb. Thanks, Hunt muttered dryly as he exerted the small hand movement necessary to activate the tool. Inside the cell the chinking of the chains abruptly stopped . He stepped aside as window frame, bars, and chunks of plaster came out of the old adobe wall with a grinding thunk. Two San C ristóbal What, the icy voice in Theresa Smallwood's ear dripped fury, do you mean there was nothing there? You arranged for the a rrest immediately when she got back to her hotel, like I told you , didn't you? Sweat pooled in the small of Theresa's back as she pressed the receiver against her ear. The sound of the long-dist ance-distorted voice crawled over her skin like the tiny feet of a dozen spiders. The cramped phone booth stunk of pee, sweat, and fear. Theresa was responsible for two out of the three. She shu ddered, knuckles white as she clenched the receiver, and forced h erself to respond. Forced her voice to remain steady. Competent. No more than three seconds, she assured her boss. She prayed she didn't sound as scared as she felt. They both knew how important this assignment was. How dare that fucking thief put her life i n danger? Theresa thought, still shaken with anger. She'd asked t he girl to work for her. She'd offered to pay her, and pay her we ll, to retrieve the contents of Morales's safe. Which, for Christ 's sake, she was going to do anyway. The girl refused Theresa fla t out. Smallwood? Theresa swallowed fear-thick spit. She'd bare ly closed the door when the Federales grabbed her. She hadn't had a chance to hide anything. And Christ knew, she was too damn sli ck to have gone to all that trouble to hand it over to the police . Theresa had waited a few minutes to make sure no one saw her, then tossed the hotel room. Politely. Professionally. No-one-woul d-suspect carefully. Nothing. Not a fucking thing. Nada. Zip. Th en you have what I want, the voice said smoothly in her ear. Not a question. Never a question. Theresa's armpits prickled with dr ead and her mouth went bone dry. She needed a drink, she needed o ne bad. I'll meet with our Rio contact as planned. Tomorrow, she said with utmost conviction, the answer implicit. The air seemed to vibrate menacingly around Theresa as the silence on the other end of the phone lengthened. When she heard a click instead of t he ass-reaming she expected, she let the phone drop and slumped b ack against the bullet-riddled glass of the phone booth as though she were a puppet with her strings cut. She'd find the bitch if it was the last thing she did. She exited the phone booth, then strode across the gravel lot of the abandoned gas station to the rental car. Oh, she'd find the girl all right. She'd find the g irl, retrieve what she'd stolen, and then slice her skin from her skinny body in one long ribbon like peeling a fucking apple. The resa hadn't gotten where she was by letting emotions get in the w ay of business. Business was brutal. If she had to screw the bra ins out of every cop in this godforsaken city to find out where t he woman was being held, she vowed she'd do it. Theresa was prou d of the small elegant black rose tattooed on the small of her ba ck. One day soon she would have more petals added, and she'd be t he Black Rose. Until then she'd do her job, and do it well. And w hen the time came, she'd carve that full-blown rose tattoo off th e current Black Rose's skin. She opened the car door, slid behin d the wheel, and buckled up for safety as she pulled out of the d ark lot. For more immediate gratification, she thought of the thi ef's big black eyes, that smooth, dusky skin, and decided she'd l eave the girl's face for last. Three Hear me now, do you, sweet heart? a man said softly in the darkness. Well, yeah. He'd just k nocked down the wall and his, Ballantine Books, 2007, 3, Atria Books. Very Good. 24 x 16cm. Hardcover. 2007. 464 pages. <br>In nineteen minutes, you can mow the front lawn, c olor your hair, watch a third of a hockey game. In nineteen minut es, you can bake scones or get a tooth filled by a dentist; you c an fold laundry for a family of five....In nineteen minutes, you can stop the world, or you can just jump off it. In nineteen minu tes, you can get revenge. Sterling is a small, ordinary New Hamp shire town where nothing ever happens -- until the day its compla cency is shattered by a shocking act of violence. In the aftermat h, the town's residents must not only seek justice in order to be gin healing but also come to terms with the role they played in t he tragedy. For them, the lines between truth and fiction, right and wrong, insider and outsider have been obscured forever. Josie Cormier, the teenage daughter of the judge sitting on the case, could be the state's best witness, but she can't remember what ha ppened in front of her own eyes. And as the trial progresses, fau lt lines between the high school and the adult community begin to show, destroying the closest of friendships and families. Ninet een Minutes is New York Times bestselling author Jodi Picoult's m ost raw, honest, and important novel yet. Told with the straightf orward style for which she has become known, it asks simple quest ions that have no easy answers: Can your own child become a myste ry to you? What does it mean to be different in our society? Is i t ever okay for a victim to strike back? And who -- if anyone -- has the right to judge someone else? Editorial Reviews Amazon.c om Review Best known for tackling controversial issues through ri chly told fictional accounts, Jodi Picoult's 14th novel, Nineteen Minutes, deals with the truth and consequences of a smalltown hi gh-school shooting. Set in Sterling, New Hampshire, Picoult offer s reads a glimpse of what would cause a 17-year-old to wake up on e day, load his backpack with four guns, and kill nine students a nd one teacher in the span of nineteen minutes. As with any Picou lt novel, the answers are never black and white, and it is her ex ceptional ability to blur the lines between right and wrong that make this author such a captivating storyteller. On Peter Hough ton's first day of kindergarten, he watched helplessly as an olde r boy ripped his lunch box out of his hands and threw it out the window. From that day on, his life was a series of humiliations, from having his pants pulled down in the cafeteria, to being call ed a freak at every turn. But can endless bullying justify murder ? As Picoult attempts to answer this question, she shows us all s ides of the equation, from the ruthless jock who loses his abilit y to speak after being shot in the head, to the mother who both b lames and pities herself for producing what most would call a mon ster. Surrounding Peter's story is that of Josie Cormier, a forme r friend whose acceptance into the popular crowd hangs on a strin g that makes it impossible for her to reconcile her beliefs with her actions. At times, Nineteen Minutes can seem tediously ster eotypical-- jocks versus nerds, parent versus child, teacher vers us student. Part of Picoult's gift is showing us the subtleties o f these common dynamics, and the startling effects they often hav e on the moral landscape. As Peter's mother says at the end of th is spellbinding novel, Everyone would remember Peter for nineteen minutes of his life, but what about the other nine million? --Gi sele Toueg From Publishers Weekly Starred Review. Bestseller Pi coult (My Sister's Keeper) takes on another contemporary hot-butt on issue in her brilliantly told new thriller, about a high schoo l shooting. Peter Houghton, an alienated teen who has been bullie d for years by the popular crowd, brings weapons to his high scho ol in Sterling, N.H., one day and opens fire, killing 10 people. Flashbacks reveal how bullying caused Peter to retreat into a wor ld of violent computer games. Alex Cormier, the judge assigned to Peter's case, tries to maintain her objectivity as she struggles to understand her daughter, Josie, one of the surviving witnesse s of the shooting. The author's insights into her characters' dee p-seated emotions brings this ripped-from-the-headlines read chil lingly alive. (Mar.) Copyright ® Reed Business Information, a di vision of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. From Publisher s Weekly Starred Review. Bestseller Picoult (My Sister's Keeper) takes on another contemporary hot-button issue in her brilliantly told new thriller, about a high school shooting. Peter Houghton, an alienated teen who has been bullied for years by the popular crowd, brings weapons to his high school in Sterling, N.H., one d ay and opens fire, killing 10 people. Flashbacks reveal how bully ing caused Peter to retreat into a world of violent computer game s. Alex Cormier, the judge assigned to Peter's case, tries to mai ntain her objectivity as she struggles to understand her daughter , Josie, one of the surviving witnesses of the shooting. The auth or's insights into her characters' deep-seated emotions brings th is ripped-from-the-headlines read chillingly alive. (Mar.) Copyr ight ® Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc . All rights reserved. From Bookmarks Magazine Nobody does 'ripp ed from the headlines' better than Picoult, claims the Christian Science Monitor, and in her 14th book she takes on the sensitive, disturbing topic of school shootings. This is a raw subject for many, and reviewers were quick to note that this intense novel is not for the squeamish. Fans of Picoult (My Sister's Keeper,***1/ 2 July/Aug 2004) will recognize the setting, some of the characte rs, and her trademark, jaw-dropping plot twists as she explores t he events leading up to and following the tragedy. Reviewers appl auded her ability to make readers sympathize as much with the sho oter as with his targets, blending the lines of aggressor and vic tim with ease. Those who dare to venture into such dark territory will be richly rewarded. Copyright © 2004 Phillips & Nelson Med ia, Inc. From Booklist Popular and prolific Picoult (My Sister's Keeper, and The Tenth Circle , 2006) now tackles the troubling t opic of a school shooting. Picoult considers the tragedy--in 19 q uick minutes, 10 are dead and 19 are wounded--from several differ ent perspectives, including that of the shooter, a troubled boy n amed Peter, who was mercilessly picked on at school. The small to wn of Sterling is rocked by the carnage. Alex Cormier is the supe rior court judge planning to hear the case, but her daughter, Jos ie, Peter's only friend during childhood but now a member of the in crowd, was in the midst of the melee. Peter spared Josie, but killed her boyfriend. Two characters from previous Picoult novels are also involved. Charismatic detective Patrick DuCharme rushes into the school and apprehends Peter, and Jordan McAfee agrees t o defend the young killer. Every bit as gripping and moving as Pi coult's previous novels, Nineteen Minutes will no doubt garner co nsiderable attention for its controversial subject and twist endi ng. Kristine Huntley Copyright © American Library Association. Al l rights reserved Review A master of the craft of storytelling. -- AP Newswire Picoult spins fast-paced tales of family dysfunct ion, betrayal, and redemption.... [Her] depiction of these rites of contemporary adolescence is exceptional: unflinching, unjudgme ntal, utterly chilling. -- The Washington Post Jodi Picoult's bo oks explore all the shades of gray in a world too often judged in black and white. -- St. Louis Post-Dispatch About the Author Jo di Picoult received an AB in creative writing from Princeton and a master's degree in education from Harvard. The recipient of the 2003 New England Book Award for her entire body of work, she is the author of twenty-six novels, including the #1 New York Times bestsellers House Rules, Handle With Care, Change of Heart, and M y Sister's Keeper, for which she received the American Library As sociation's Margaret Alexander Edwards Award. She lives in New Ha mpshire with her husband and three children. Visit her website at JodiPicoult.com. From The Washington Post Reviewed by Frances T aliaferro Early in Nineteen Minutes, Detective Patrick Ducharme walks through a deserted crime scene. Artifacts have been left be hind: the Wonder-bread sandwiches scarred by only one bite; the t ub of Cherry Bomb lip gloss . . . the salt-and-pepper composition notebooks filled with study sheets on Aztec civilization and mar gin notes about the current one: I luv Zach S!!! It's eerily ordi nary -- until you notice the dead bodies. This is the cafeteria of Sterling (N.H.) High School, shortly after a gunman has killed 10 people and wounded many others. His rampage lasted 19 minutes . As the prosecutor will later point out, In nineteen minutes, yo u can mow the front lawn, color your hair, watch a third of a hoc key game. You can bake scones or get a tooth filled by a dentist. You can fold laundry for a family of five. Or . . . you can brin g the world to a screeching halt. There's never any doubt that t he gunman was Peter Houghton, a 17-year-old student. Hundreds of witnesses confirm it. Now, justice must be accomplished -- proper ly, and not by an angry mob. It won't be easy in this small town where everybody is connected. Peter's mother, for instance, is th e midwife who delivered Josie Cormier. Peter and Josie were best friends until puberty hit and Josie became a cool girl while Pete r remained a nerd. Matt Royston, Josie's dazzling boyfriend, was Peter's last victim. Josie's mother, Alex Cormier, is the judge w ho will try Peter's case -- unless she can be brought to recuse h erself. And these are only the most salient connections. Dozens o f others must be traced as the authorities piece together why the shooting happened. Parent-child relationships are central to Ni neteen Minutes. When you're a teenager, the fact of parents is un avoidable, even when they're not very good at being parents. For Josie's single mother, it's easy to be a judge and hard to be a m other; everything she says comes out wrong. To Peter, his parents seem equally inept and obtuse. But then, most adolescents find t heir parents wanting; so how does a normal teenage worldview turn into a homicidal one? As Picoult answers this question, the soc iology of Sterling High School comes to life: nerds and jocks and brains, adults from another planet, school as heaven or hell. Fo r many of us, high school meant self-discovery complicated by acn e, prom anxiety and the perfidy of other teenagers. Though we've never been homecoming queen or most valuable player, we've made o ur peace with our own uncoolness. But at Sterling, a nerd doesn't have that relief. Bullying doesn't officially exist -- ask any g rown-up -- but if you're a nerd, you know what to expect. At the very least, cool girls will look at you as if you were a bug on t he windshield. If you're lucky, the abuse will be verbal: The guy s will call you freak or homo or retard. On a bad day, they'll cr ush your glasses or stuff you into a locker. Torment could come f rom any direction at any time, and you live in the adolescent ver sion of post-traumatic stress disorder. For some adult characters in the novel, this diagnosis is news, but no teenager would be s urprised to hear it. Certainly the reader is not surprised to he ar about HIDE-N-SHRIEK, the video game Peter created, in which th e underdog gets a chance to annihilate the bullies with weapons f ound in any school building. Peter's ingenuity is appalling and p athetic and almost valiant; like Josie, he's a person of moral co mplexity. The adult characters, however, tend to be one-sided a nd given to making snappy comebacks with a frequency that's enter taining but not plausible. The judge has such gumption and good s ense that her refrain of maternal inadequacy just doesn't ring tr ue. Picoult is the author of 13 other novels, most of them widel y popular, but I came to Nineteen Minutes with no previous Picoul t experience. It's absorbing and expertly made. On one level, it' s a thriller, complete with dismaying carnage, urgent discoveries and 11th-hour revelations, but it also asks serious moral questi ons about the relationship between the weak and the strong, quest ions that provide what school people call teachable moments. If c ompassion can be taught, Picoult may be just the one to teach it. Copyright 2007, The Washington Post. All Rights Reserved. Ex cerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Nineteen Minutes A novelBy Jodi Picoult Atria Copyright © 2007Jodi Picou lt All right reserved. ISBN: 9780743496728 March 6, 2007 In nine teen minutes, you can mow the front lawn, color your hair, watch a third of a hockey game. In nineteen minutes, you can bake scone s or get a tooth filled by a dentist; you can fold laundry for a family of five. Nineteen minutes is how long it took the Tenness ee Titans to sell out of tickets to the play-offs. It's the lengt h of a sitcom, minus the commercials. It's the driving distance f rom the Vermont border to the town of Sterling, New Hampshire. I n nineteen minutes, you can order a pizza and get it delivered. Y ou can read a story to a child or have your oil changed. You can walk a mile. You can sew a hem. In nineteen minutes, you can sto p the world, or you can just jump off it. In nineteen minutes, y ou can get revenge. As usual, Alex Cormier was running late. It took thirty-two minutes to drive from her house in Sterling to th e superior court in Grafton County, New Hampshire, and that was o nly if she speeded through Orford. She hurried downstairs in her stockings, carrying her heels and the files she'd brought home wi th her over the weekend. She twisted her thick copper hair into a knot and anchored it at the base of her neck with bobby pins, tr ansforming herself into the person she needed to be before she le ft her house. Alex had been a superior court judge now for thirt y-four days. She'd believed that, having proved her mettle as a d istrict court judge for the past five years, this time around the appointment might be easier. But at forty, she was still the you ngest judge in the state. She still had to fight to establish her self as a fair justice -- her history as a public defender preced ed her into her courtroom, and prosecutors assumed she'd side wit h the defense. When Alex had sub, Atria Books, 2007, 3, Penguin. Very Good. 6.1 x 1.22 x 9.21 inches. Paperback. 2005. 320 pages. <br>Clive Cussler debuted his new series, The Oregon F iles, with the incredible adventure of Golden Buddha. Now he foll ows that triumph with Sacred Stone, a rollicking new tale featuri ng the enigmatic captain of The Oregon, Juan Cabrillo. In the rem ote wastelands of Greenland, an ancient artifact possessing catas trophic radioactive power is unearthed. But the astounding find p uts the world at risk. Caught between two militant factions bent on wholesale slaughter, Juan Cabrillo and his network of spies kn own as The Corporation must fight to protect the stone - and prev ent the outbreak of World War III... Editorial Reviews From Pub lishers Weekly Eric the Red's A.D. 1000 discovery of a radioactiv e meteorite has present-day life-or-death ramifications in Cussle r and Dirgo's second novel (after Golden Buddha) featuring the Or egon, a state-of-the-art warship disguised as a rusty tramp steam er and manned by some of the world's finest ex-military and intel ligence operatives. Known collectively as the Corporation, the me n and women of the Oregon--mercenaries with a conscience--offer t heir services to various countries and individuals with specializ ed security and military needs. The Corporation's chairman, serie s hero Juan Cabrillo, has several pressing concerns: supply secur ity for the emir of Qatar, who is attending a conference in Icela nd; track down a nuclear bomb that has gone astray; and pick up t he aforementioned meteorite, which has just been found ensconced in a mysterious shrine. These jobs become dangerously complicated when industrialist Halifax Hickman, a man fueled by revenge and hatred, enters the picture. The meteorite, the atomic bomb and a vial of plague are to be used in attacks on holy sites--Israel's Dome of the Rock and Saudi Arabia's al-Haram mosque--and at an El ton John concert. It's a deadly game, but the brilliant Cabrillo is a master player, moving his pieces at lightning speed on sever al boards until he outmaneuvers his opposition in this action-pac ked page-turner. Copyright Reed Business Information, a divisio n of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. --This text refers t o an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Review J ust About the Best Storyteller in the Business. --This text refer s to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. From Booklist This is the second novel in the Oregon Files series feat uring Juan Cabrillo as the chairman of the Corporation, a group o f ex-military and intelligence operatives who hire themselves out to countries and individuals needing specialized services--a pri vate army of mercenaries with a conscience. The Oregon is a 500-f oot-long cargo steamer with a state-of-the-art communications and command center and a helicopter. The group's mission is to pick up a meteorite and deliver it to the CIA. It might be made of iri dium, and iridium can be used to construct a dirty bomb. Muslim t errorists who have stolen a nuclear device may use the radioactiv e material in the meteorite to vaporize a large Western city. Ano ther group, led by a demented industrialist, seeks to destroy the Islamic world. As always, the plot covers many locales around th e world, and the dialogue contains lots of military jargon. The l arge cast of characters includes Elton John and Eric the Red (yes , the legendary explorer). Even though the good guys always win, Cussler fans will remain engaged. George Cohen Copyright America n Library Association. All rights reserved --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. About the Author Clive Cussler is the author of numerous New York Times bes tsellers. He splits his time between Telluride, Colorado and Para dise Valley, Arizona. Craig Dirgo has been special projects dire ctor on many NUMA® expeditions since 1987 and now serves as a tru stee. He also cowrote The Sea Hunters series. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. From Au dioFile In another of Cussler's high-tech potboilers, a small ban d of heroes rushes from one intricate crisis to another in an eff ort to save the world and the Islamic religion. The latter is pre sented with objectivity: Some Muslims are terrorists; some are am ong the good guys; most just go about their business. The artifac ts of Islam occupy a central role in the story. The jacket blurb describes J. Charles as having more than forty years of experienc e in entertainment, but his voice reminds one of emerging younger narrators such as Scott Brick. Charles distinguishes the players skillfully through accent and cadence. This is a fun listen. D.R .W. AudioFile 2005, Portland, Maine-- Copyright AudioFile, Port land, Maine --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Excerpt. Reprinted by permission. All ri ghts reserved. Chapter One LIEUTENANT CHRIS HUNT rarely talked about his past, but the men he served with had gathered a few clu es from his demeanor. The first was that Hunt had not grown up in some backwoods hillbilly haven and used the army to see the worl d. He was from Southern California. And, if pressed, Hunt would v olunteer he was raised in the Los Angeles area, not wanting to di sclose that he grew up in Beverly Hills. The second thing the men noticed was that Hunt was a natural leader-he was neither patron izing nor put on an air of superiority, but neither did he try to hide the fact that he was competent and smart. The third thing the men found out today. A chill wind was blowing down from th e mountains into the Afghanistan valley where the platoon under H unt's command was breaking camp. Hunt and three other soldiers we re wrestling with a tent they were folding for storage. While the men were bringing the ends together longways, Sergeant Tom Agnes decided to ask about the rumor he had heard. Hunt handed him the side of the tent so Agnes could fold it into halves. Sir, Agne s said, rumor has it you graduated from Yale University-that true ? All the men were wearing tinted ski goggles but Agnes was clo se enough to see Hunt's eyes. A flicker of surprise, followed by resignation, flashed quickly. Then Hunt smiled. Ah, he said qui etly, you've found out my terrible secret. Agnes nodded and fol ded the tent in half. Not exactly a hotbed for military recruitin g. George Bush went there, Hunt said. He was a navy pilot. I thought he was in the National Guard, Specialist Jesus Herrara, w ho was taking the tent from Agnes, said. George Bush Senior, Hu nt said. Our president also graduated from Yale, and yes, he was a National Guard jet pilot. Yale, Agnes said. If you don't mind me asking, how did you end up here? Hunt brushed some snow fro m his gloves. I volunteered, he said, just like you. Agnes nodd ed. Now let's finish breaking down this camp, Hunt said, pointi ng to the mountain nearby, and head up there and find that bastar d who attacked the United States. Yes, sir, the men said in uni son. Ten minutes later, with fifty-pound packs on their backs, they started up the mountain. IN A TOWN where beautiful women a bound, at age forty-nine Michelle Hunt still caused men to turn t heir heads. Tall, with hazel hair and bluegreen eyes, she was ble ssed with a figure that required neither constant dieting nor end less exercise to appear trim. Her lips were full and her teeth st raight, but it was her doelike eyes and flawless skin that gave t he strongest visual impression. And while she was a beautiful wom an, that was as common in Southern California as sunshine and ear thquakes. What drew people closer to Michelle was something tha t cannot be created by a surgeon's knife, honed through dress or manicure, or developed through ambition or change. Michelle had t hat thing that made both men and women like her and want to be ar ound her-she was happy, content and positive. Michelle Hunt was h erself. And people flocked to her like bees to a flower in bloom. Sam, she said to the painter who had just finished the walls i n her art gallery, you do such nice work. Sam was thirty-eight years old and he blushed. Only my best for you, Ms. Hunt, he sa id. Sam had painted her gallery when it had opened five years b efore, her Beverly Hills house, her condo in Lake Tahoe and now t his remodel. And every time she made him feel appreciated and tal ented. You want a bottle of water or a Coke or something? she a sked. I'm okay, thanks. Just then an assistant called from th e front of the gallery that she had a telephone call, and she smi led, waved and began to walk away. That's a lady, Sam said unde r his breath, a lady. Walking to the front of the gallery, wher e her desk faced out onto Rodeo Drive, Michelle noticed that one of the artists she represented was coming through the front door. Here her amiability had also paid off in spades-artists are a fi ckle and temperamental lot, but Michelle's artists adored her and rarely changed galleries. That and the fact that she had started her business fully funded had contributed greatly to her years o f success. I knew today was going to be good, she said to the b earded man. I just didn't know it would be because my favorite ar tist would be paying me a visit. The man smiled. Just let me take this telephone call, she said, and we'll talk. Her aide co rralled the artist toward an area with couches and a wet bar off to one side. As Michelle slid into her desk chair and reached for the telephone, the aide took the artist's drink order and a few seconds later began packing ground espresso into the machine to d raw him a cappuccino. Michelle Hunt. It's me, a gravelly voic e said. The voice was one that needed no introduction. He had s wept her off her feet when she was a young woman of twenty-one, f reshly arrived from Minnesota, seeking a new life of fun and sun in 1980s Southern California. After an on-again, off-again relati onship, necessitated both by his inability to be bound to a relat ionship, as well as his frequent absences for business, she had b orne his son at age twenty-four. And though his name never appear ed on the birth certificate-nor had Michelle and he actually live d together before or since-the pair had remained close. At least as close as the man allowed anyone ever to come. How are you? s he asked. I've been okay. Where are you? It was the standar d question she asked him to break the ice. Over the years the ans wers had ranged from Osaka to Peru to Paris to Tahiti. Hang on, the man said easily. He stared at a moving map on a forward wall near the cockpit of his jet. Six hundred and eighty-seven miles from Honolulu on the way to Vancouver, British Columbia. Going skiing? she asked. The sport was something they had enjoyed toget her. Building a skyscraper, he answered. You're always up to something. True, he noted. Michelle, I called because I heard o ur boy has been sent to Afghanistan, he said quietly. Michelle had been unaware-the deployment was still secret and Chris had no t been able to disclose his destination when he'd been dispatched . Oh my, she blurted, that's not good. That's what I thought you'd say. How'd you find out? Michelle asked. I'm always amaze d by your ability to ferret out information. It's not magic, th e man said. I have so many senators and other politicians in my p ocket I've had to buy larger pants. Any word on how it's going? I guess the mission is proving harder than the president envis ioned, he said. Chris is apparently leading a hunter-killer squad to locate the bad guys. Limited contact so far-but my sources cl aim it is cold and dirty work. If he doesn't contact you for a wh ile, don't be surprised. I'm afraid for him, Michelle said slow ly. Do you want me to put in a fix? the man asked. Have him pul led out and sent stateside? I thought he made you agree never t o do that. He did, the man admitted. Then don't. I'll call you when I know more. Are you going to be down this way soon? M ichelle asked. I'll call you if I am, the man said. Now I'd bet ter go-I'm starting to get static on the satellite line. Must be sunspots. Pray our boy is safe, she said. I might do more tha n that, the man said as the call ended. Michelle replaced the r eceiver in its cradle and sat back. Her ex-beau was not one to sh ow worry or fear. Still, his concern for his son had been palpabl e and personal. She could only hope his worry was misplaced, and that Chris would come home soon. Rising from the desk, she walk ed toward the artist. Tell me you have something good, she said e asily. Outside in the van, the artist said, and I think you'll like it. FOUR HOURS AFTER sunrise, one thousand feet higher up the ridge from the camp where they had spent the night, Hunt's pl atoon met a determined enemy. The fire came from a series of cave s just above and to the east. And it came all at once. Rifle fire , rocket-propelled grenades, mortars, handgun fire rained down. T he enemy dynamited the mountain to create rock slides, pelting th e ground below, and they had mined the ground where Hunt's troops sought refuge. The enemy's goal was to wipe out Hunt's team al l at once-and they would come close. Hunt had taken refuge behi nd a series of boulders. Bullets were ricocheting off the rocks t o all sides, sending chips flying through the air and striking hi s men. There was nowhere to hide, no way to advance, and their re treat had been cut off by a rock slide. Radio, Hunt shouted. Half his team was twenty yards ahead, another quarter ahead and t o the left. Luckily, his radio operator had stayed close to the l ieutenant. The man edged toward Hunt on his back to protect the r adio. For his effort he received a wound to his kneecap when a bu llet grazed his raised knee as the man pushed himself closer. Hun t dragged him the rest of the way. Antencio, Hunt shouted to a man a few feet away, take care of Lassiter's wound. Antencio sc urried over and began cutting away the radio operator's pants. He found the opening was not deep and began to wrap a bandage aroun d the knee as Hunt flicked on the radio and adjusted the dial. You're going to be okay, Lassiter, he said to the radio operator. I'm going to get us some help in here posthaste. Then we'll have you medevaced. The fear in the soldiers' faces was obvious. Fo r most of them, as for Hunt, this was their first time in battle. As their leader, he needed to take control and form a plan. Co ntrol, Control, Advance Three, Hunt y, Penguin, 2005, 3, Vintage Books. Very Good. 5.08 x 1.62 x 7.79 inches. Paperback. 2006. 618 pages. <br>What is it to be human? This question, as in Birds ong, is at the heart of Human Traces. The story begins in Britta ny where a young, poor boy somehow passes his medical exams and g oes to Paris, where he attends the lectures of Charcot, the Paris ian neurologist who set the world on its head in the 1870s. With a friend, he sets up a clinic in the mysterious mountain district of Carinthia in south-east Austria. If The Girl at the Lion d'O r was a simple three-movement symphony, Birdsong an opera, Charlo tte Gray a complex four-movement symphony and On Green Dolphin St reet a concerto, then Human Traces is a Wagnerian grand opera. F rom the Hardcover edition. Editorial Reviews Review Faulks is b eyond doubt a master. -Financial Times One of the most impressiv e novelists of his generation. -Sunday Telegraph From the Hardco ver edition. About the Author Sebastian Faulks is best known for his French trilogy, The Girl at the Lion d'Or, Birdsong and Char lotte Gray. He has also worked extensively as a journalist. From the Hardcover edition. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. I An evening mist, salted by the western sea, w as gathering on the low hills - reed-spattered rises running up f rom the rocks then back into the gorse- and bracken-covered count ry - and on to the roads that joined the villages, where lamps an d candles flickered behind the shutters of the grey stone houses. It was poor country - so poor, remarked the Curé, who had recent ly arrived from Angers, that the stones of the shore called out f or God's mercy. With the mist came sputtering rain, made invisibl e by the extinguished light, as it exploded like flung gravel at the windows, while stronger gusts made the shivering pine trees s hed their needles on the dark, sanded earth. Jacques Rebière lis tened to the sounds from outside as he looked through the window of his bedroom; for a moment, a dim moon allowed him to see cloud s foaming in the darkness. The weather reminded him, often, that it was not just he, at sixteen years old, who was young, but all mankind: a species that took infant steps on the drifts and fault s of the earth. Between the ends of his dirtied fingers, Jacques held a small blade which, over the course of several days, he ha d whetted to surgical sharpness. He pulled a candle closer. From downstairs he could hear the sound of his father's voice in reluc tant negotiation. The house was at the top of a narrow street th at ran off the main square of Sainte Agnès. Behind it, the villag e ended and there were thick woods - Monsieur Rebière's own prope rty - where Jacques was meant to trap birds and rabbits and preve nt other villagers doing likewise. The garden had an orchard of p ear and apple trees whose fruits were collected and set to keep i n one of the outbuildings. Rebière's was a house of many stores: of sheds with beaten earth underfoot and slatted wooden shelves; of brick-floored cellars with stone bins on which the cobwebs clo sed the access to the bottles; of barred pantry and latched larde r with shelves of nuts and preserved fruits. The keys were on a r ing in the pocket of Rebière's waistcoat. Although born no more t han sixty years earlier, he was known as 'old Rebière', perhaps f or the arthritic movement of his knees, when he heaved himself up from his chair and straightened the joints beneath his breeches. He preferred to do business standing up; it gave the transaction a temporary air, helping to convince the other party that bargai ning time was short. Old Rebière was a forester who worked as th e agent for a landowner from Lorient. Over the years he had done some business on his own account, acquiring some parcels of land, three cottages that the heirs did not want to keep, some fields and woodland. Most of his work was no more than that of bailiff o r rent collector, but he liked to try to negotiate private deals with a view to becoming a businessman in his own right. Born in t he year after Waterloo, he had lived under a republic, three king s and an emperor; twice mayor of the local town, he had found it made little difference which government was in Paris, since so fe w edicts devolved from the distant centre to his own Breton world . The parlour of the house had smoke-stained wooden panelling an d a white stone chimneypiece decorated with the carved head of a wild boar. A small fire was smouldering in the grate as Rebière a ttempted to conclude his meeting with the notary who had come to see him. He never invited guests into his study but preferred to speak to them in this public room, as though he might later need witnesses to what had passed between them. His second wife sat in her accustomed chair by the door, sewing and listening. Rebière' s tactic was to say as little as possible; he had found that sile nce, accompanied by pained inhalation, often induced nervousness in the other side. His contributions, when they were unavoidable, were delivered in a reluctant murmur, melancholy, full of a wear iness at a world that had obliged him to agree terms so self-woun ding. 'I am not a peasant,' he told his son. 'I am not one of th ose men you see portrayed at the theatre in Paris, who buries his gold in a sock and never buys a bonnet for his wife. I am a busi nessman who understands the modern world.' From upstairs, Jacque s could still hear his father's business murmur. It was true that he was not a peasant, though his parents had been; true too, tha t he was not the miser of the popular imagination, though partly because the amount of gold he had to hoard was not great enough: forty years of dealing had brought him a modest return, and perha ps, thought Jacques, this was why his father had forbidden him to study any further. From the age of thirteen, he had been set to work, looking after the properties, mending roofs and fences, cle aring trees while his father travelled to Quimper and Vannes to c ultivate new acquaintances. Jacques looked back to his table, no t wanting to waste the light of the wax candle he had begged from Tante Mathilde in place of the dingy ox-tallow which was all his father would allow him. He took the blade and began, very carefu lly, to make a shallow incision in the neck of a frog he had pinn ed, through its splayed feet, to the untreated wood. He had never attempted the operation before and was anxious not to damage wha t lay beneath the green skin, moist from the saline in which he h ad kept it. The frog was on its front, and Jacques's blade travel led smoothly up over the top of its head and stopped between the bulging eyes. He then cut two semicircular flaps to join at the n ape of the neck and pushed back the pouches of peeled skin, with their pearls of eyes. Beneath his delicate touch he could see now that there was little in the way of protection for the exposed b rain. He took out a magnifying glass. What is a frog's fury? he thought, as he gazed at the tiny thinking organ his knife had exp osed. It was beautiful. What does it feel for its spawn or its ma te or the flash of water over its skin? The brain of an amphibian is a poor thing, the Curé had warned him; he promised that soon he would acquire the head of a cow from the slaughterhouse, and t hen they would have a more instructive time. Yet Jacques was happ y with his frog's brain. From the side of the table he took two c opper wires attached at the other end to a brass rod that ran thr ough a cork which was in turn used to seal a glass bottle coated inside and out with foil. 'Jacques! Jacques! It's time for dinne r. Come to the table!' It was Tante Mathilde's voice; clearly Ja cques had not heard the notary depart. He set down the electrodes and blew out the candle, then crossed the landing to the top of the almost-vertical wooden staircase and groped his way down by t he familiar indentations of the plaster wall. His grandmother cam e into the parlour carrying a tureen of soup, which she placed on the table. Rebière and his wife, known to Jacques as Tante Mathi lde, were already sitting down. Rebière drummed his knife impatie ntly on the wood while Grandmère ladled the soup out with her sha king hand. 'Take a bowl out to . . .' Rebière jerked his head in the direction of the door. 'Wait,' said Grand-mère. 'There's so me rabbit, too.' Rebière rolled his eyes with impatience as the old woman went out to the scullery again and returned with a seco nd bowl that she handed to Jacques. He carried both dishes carefu lly to the door and took a lantern to light his way out into the darkness, watching his feet on the shiny cobbles of the yard. At the stable, he set down the food and pulled back the top half of the door; he peered in by the light of the flame and felt his nos trils fill with a familiar sensation. 'Olivier? Are you there? I 've brought dinner. There's no bread again, but there's soup and some rabbit. Olivier?' There was a sudden noise from the horse, like the rumbling clatter of a laden table being overturned, as s he shifted in the stall. 'Olivier? Please. It's raining. Where a re you?' Wary of the horse, who lashed out with her hind legs if frightened, Jacques freed the bolt of the door himself and made his way into the ripe darkness of the stable. Sitting with his b ack to the wall, his legs spread wide apart on the dung-strewn gr ound, was his brother. 'I've brought your dinner. How are you?' Jacques squatted down next to him. Olivier stared straight ahea d, as though unaware that anyone was there. Jacques took his brot her's hand and wrapped the fingers round the edge of the soup bow l, noticing what could be smears of excrement on the nails. Olivi er moved his head from side to side, thrusting it back hard again st the stable wall. He muttered something Jacques could not make out and began to scrape at his inner forearm as if trying to rid himself of a bothersome insect. Jacques took a spoonful of the s oup and held it up to Olivier's face. Gently, he prised open his lips and pushed the metal inwards. It was too dark to see how muc h went into his mouth and how much trickled down his tangled bear d. 'They want me to come, they keep telling me. But why should I go, when they know everything already?' 'Who, Olivier? Who does ?' Their eyes met. Jacques felt himself summed up and dismissed from Olivier's mental presence. 'Are you cold? Do you want more blankets?' Olivier became earnest.'Yes, yes, that's it, you've g ot to keep warm, you've to wrap up now the winter's coming. Look. Look at this.' He held up the frayed horse blanket beneath which he slept and examined it closely, as though he had not seen it b efore or had suddenly been struck by its workmanship. Then his v igour was quenched again and his gaze became still. Jacques took his hand. 'Listen, Olivier. It's nearly a year now that you've b een in here. Do you think you could try again? Why don't you come out for a few minutes? I could help.' 'They don't want me.' 'Y ou always say that. But perhaps they'd be happy to have you back in the house.' 'They won't let me go.' Jacques nodded. Olivier was clearly talking of a different 'they', and he was too frighte ned to contradict or to press him. He had been a child when Olivi er, four years the older, started to drift away from his family; it began when, previously a lively and sociable youth, he took to passing the evenings alone in his room studying the Bible and dr awing up a chart of 'astral influences'. Jacques was fascinated b y the diagrams, which Olivier had done in his clever draughtsman' s hand, using pens he had taken from the hôtel de ville, where he worked as a clerk. Jacques's experiences had usually come to hi m first through the descriptions of Olivier, who naturally antici pated all of them. Mathematics at school were a jumble of pointle ss signs, he said, that made you want to cry out; being beaten by the master's ruler on the knuckles hurt more than being kicked o n the shin by the broody mare. Olivier had never been to Paris, b ut Vannes, he told Jacques, was so huge that you got lost the mom ent you let your concentration go; and it was full of women who l ooked at you in a strange way. When changes came to your body, Ol ivier said, you noticed nothing, no hairs bursting the skin, no w rench in your voice; the only difference was that you felt urgent , tense, all the time, as though about to leap a stream or jump f rom a high rock. Olivier's chart of astral influences therefore looked to Jacques like another early glimpse of a universal human experience granted to him by his elder brother. Olivier had been right about everything else: in Vannes, Jacques kept himself ori entated at all times, like a dog sniffing the wind; he liked math ematics, though he saw what Oliver had meant. He avoided the mast er's beatings. 'Where is God in this plan?' he had said, pointin g with his finger. 'I see the planets and their influence and thi s character, here, whatever his name is. But in the Bible, it say s that-' 'God is here, in your head.And here.' Olivier pointed t o the chart. 'But it's a secret.' 'I don't understand,' said Jac ques. 'If this is Earth here, this is Saturn, and here are the ri ngs of Jupiter and this is the body you've discovered, the one th at regulates the movements of people, then what are these lines h ere? Are these the souls of the dead going up to Heaven?' 'Those are the rays of influence. They emanate from space, far beyond a nything we can see. These are what control you.' 'Rays?' 'Of co urse. Like rays of light, or invisible waves of sound. The univer se is bombarded with them.You can't hear them.You can't see them. ' 'Does everyone know about them? All grown-ups?' 'No.' 'How d o you know about them? Who told you?' 'I have been told.' Jacqu es looked away. Over the weeks, he discovered that Olivier's syst em of cosmic laws and influences was invulnerably cogent; there w as in fact something of the weary sage in his manner when he answ ered yet another of Jacques's immature questions about it, while its ability to adapt made it imperme, Vintage Books, 2006, 3, Paperback. New. ...one of Clinton's best novels.... ""Gripping recounting of the first Kidnapping for Ransom...."" ""My heart was moved in this story. Entertaining...tough...historical and educational...."" Ripped-from-the-headlines of 1874, little Charley Ross was abducted in front of his home in Philadelphia. The nation was riveted as it followed the search of a city that expanded to the nation. Would their child be next? Who would steal a child in an effort to extort his parents? It was the first kidnapping for ransom in the United States. This historical event is central to this Midnight Marauder adventure. John Crudder is once again summoned to Washington DC by the President. He is commissioned as a special agent to the president to find the kidnapped boy. The Midnight Marauder's help is needed to solve the kidnapping and hopefully recover the boy. This historical novel closely follows the facts of that case. Review by Red Headed Book Lover 5 stars Candy Man by Roy Clinton ties our stomachs in knots as the president calls on the Midnight Marauder to hopefully return the boy safely to his fearful family. John Crudder is a remarkable western hero, following the trail for what is right and just, we are drawn into the investigation and the harrowing ordeal the Ross family suffered. Candy Man is a sensational novel that will have any reader trembling with excitement to see if John Crudder, the Midnight Marauder, can solve the case in time to save a stolen child. Roy Clinton brings the past back to glorious life in his Midnight Marauder series. Infusing the urgency and facts of the real-life 1874 case into the marrow of Candy Man narrative which pulls us back in time. Roy Clinton is a fantastically talented historical fiction author. He is an author, unlike any other whose work will ensnare any reader and leave them satiated from the robust tales he has to tell! Candy Man by Roy Clinton is an exciting western novel until the shocking end. I found myself unable to tear my eyes away from the compelling pages, thrilled by every breathtaking twist and turn Roy Clinton's Candy Man takes us on! Unlike many historical fiction novels that loosely base themselves in history, Roy Clinton takes great care to preserve the details of the case of abduction for ransom while John Crudder leads the investigation, which in part is what makes Candy Man A Midnight Marauder Adventure so engaging. I truly could feel the authenticity that oozes from the pages as I became wholeheartedly invested in the characters and their outcome, vehemently praying for that happy ending. With assurity and great delight, I unequivocally and passionately award Candy Man A Midnight Marauder Adventure by Roy Clinton five stars! Be sure to read the other novels in the Midnight Marauder Series: Midnight Marauder Return of Midnight Marauder Revenge of Midnight Marauder Midnight Marauder and the President of the United States Love Child Bad to the Bone Candy Man Also be sure to read Lost, about a modern-day cowboy, Clint Hazard, who succeeds in making an absolute mess of his life. But he finds hope....| Author: Roy Clinton| Publisher: Independently Published| Publication Date: Aug 09, 2019| Number of Pages: 265 pages| Language: English| Binding: Paperback| ISBN-10: 1099455987| ISBN-13: 9781099455988, 6, Nabu Press, 2010-03-05. Paperback. Good., Nabu Press, 2010-03-05, 2.5<

2010, ISBN: 9781146500579

Nabu Press, 2010-03-05. Paperback. Good., Nabu Press, 2010-03-05, 2.5