2010, ISBN: 9780553579697

Hardcover

Grosset & Dunlap. As New with No dust jacket as issued. 1949. Hardcover. Hardy Boys; Vol. 28; 11 oz.; 178 pages; Unread/Unmarked HC no DJ as issued. Hardy Boys #28. With only the sle… More...

Grosset & Dunlap. As New with No dust jacket as issued. 1949. Hardcover. Hardy Boys; Vol. 28; 11 oz.; 178 pages; Unread/Unmarked HC no DJ as issued. Hardy Boys #28. With only the slender clue of an arrow-shaped tie clasp, Frank and Joe Hardy pick up the trail of a cunning gang of thieves responsible for a wave of jewelry-store holdups. But their investigations are interrupted when a desperate plea for help comes from their widowed cousin who lives on a cattle ranch in New Mexico. Frank, Joe, and their pal Chet fly there immediately, and manage to put an end to the trouble at the ranch and solve the jewelry-store robberies. ., Grosset & Dunlap, 1949, 5, Viking Juvenile. Good. Hardcover. 2006. 288 pages. Cover worn. <br>Fascinated by forensics, seventeen-yea r-old Cameryn Mahoney persuades her father, the county coroner in sleepy Silverton, CO, to take her on as his assistant. But she n ever expects her first case to involve the death of a friend! Rac hel Geller, a beautiful young waitress, is found strangled in a f ield with a Christopher medal around her neck--clearly marking he r as the fourth victim of a serial killer. Cameryn is determined to help find Rachel's killer, and attending the autopsy gives her the first clue. But as she follows her instincts and gets closer to the killer, Cameryn suddenly finds herself on the verge of be coming his fifth victim! Editorial Reviews From School Library Journal Grade 9 Up-When aspiring forensic pathologist Cameryn Mah oney convinces her father, the county coroner of Silverton, CO, t o hire her as his assistant, she has no idea that one of the firs t deaths she will investigate will be that of her friend, Rachel Geller. Rachel is the fourth victim of a serial killer who strang les his victims and leaves a St. Christopher medal on their bodie s. The teen must put aside her emotional response to the murder i n order to evaluate the information clinically. In her relentless pursuit of the truth, Cameryn puts herself in danger of becoming the fifth victim of the Christopher Killer. Teachers and librari ans who are trying to reach their television-junkie reluctant rea ders should look no further; this novel reads like an episode of CSI. Each scene lends itself to a mental picture straight from so me crime-fighting show. The narrative gallops through a story lin e that is as engaging as it is implausible. Suspension of disbeli ef is made easy by the well-researched scientific tidbits sprinkl ed throughout the text, lending an air of credibility. There is t he sense that this is a pilot episode with people that readers wi ll see again as the series progresses, so the characters feel int roduced rather than fully developed. Despite these flaws, this is an enjoyable read that teens will appreciate.-Heather M. Campbel l, Philip S. Miller Library, Castle Rock, CO Copyright ® Reed Bu siness Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights r eserved. From Booklist Gr. 7-10. Ferguson's latest mystery-thril ler introduces 17-year-old Cameryn Mahoney, who has the annoying habit of challenging her elders (most of whom seem to deserve it) . She also has the unshakable desire to be a forensic pathologist --and a very strong stomach. The latter comes in handy during the autopsy of a friend, the latest victim of a serial killer whose signature is a St. Christopher's medal left with each body. The v ivid autopsy scenes are surprising, given the fairly routine stor y line and agreeable, though certainly not complex, characters. I t's Cammie's energy and chutzpa that really propel the story, and readers will sympathize with her as she struggles to decide whet her to keep faith with science or be sucked in by a charismatic p sychic. This is worlds away from the Nancy Drew college series in terms of gore, but CSI fans won't blink twice. Stephanie Zvirin Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved Ab out the Author Alane Ferguson is the author of numerous novels an d mysteries, including the Edgar Award-winning Show Me the Eviden ce. She does intensive research for her books, attending autopsie s and interviewing forensic pathologists as she delves into the f ascinating world of medical examiners. Ms. Ferguson lives with h er family near the foothills of the Colorado Rockies. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter Five YOU GUYS DON'T HAVE TO wait here with me, Cameryn said, drumming the steering wheel nervously. The bell's going to ring any second, a nd . . . I don't know, I just . . . She didn't finish the sentenc e. It felt like she couldn't string her words together, or worse, her thoughts. It was hard to make anything inside her head line up. Instead, her syllables spun like autumn leaves caught in a wh irligig of air. It was all the crazy talk of Jewel that was makin g her think sideways. She had to pull herself together. Don't wo rry about me; I don't care if I'm late, Adam announced from the b ackseat. I mean, I'm still trying to take it all in. Somebody's d ead. He shook his head and exclaimed, Man. It's just like Jewel s aid last night. We don't know that--right now we don't know anyt hing except someone died. And, you guys know not to say anything to anyone at school, right? Cameryn said for the third time. Reme mber, my dad said he didn't want reporters showing up. It's still a crime scene. We've got to get it all sorted out. We already p romised we wouldn't say a word, Lyric replied. Don't worry, we'll keep our mouths shut. But, you do realize this is going to be a Christopher killing. When the media catches wind of what happened , it's going to get crazy. You need to prepare yourself. It's no t the Christopher Killer, Cameryn said, her voice sharp. Okay, it 's a possible murder--and I say possible because we haven't even been to the scene yet to know for sure--but that doesn't mean it' s the murder. I mean, you just made a huge leap in logic. I want to stick to facts. The fact is this--a murdered girl in the moun tains is just what Dr. Jewel saw in his vision, Lyric told her ca lmly. The orange soil. The body by water. I don't care if you bel ieve me now or not, because you will believe as soon as you get t here. But Cameryn would hear none of it. Statistically, there ha ve been lots of murders since Jewel made his prediction. And by t he way, where was Dr. Jewel when he 'saw' all this, anyway? New Mexico, Adam answered. From his coat pocket he pulled out a cigar ette and rolled it between his hands. Cameryn turned in her seat so she could watch him. You're not going to light that, are you? she asked. Adam shook his head. See, right now Jewel's holding a live psychic convention down there in Santa Fe. But you can't le t the distance throw you, because with mediums, space and time an d all of those existential limitations no longer exist. It's stil l hard to get my head around this. I knew Jewel had power, but I got to admit this is freaking weird. He stopped rolling his cigar ette and looked up through his curtain of hair. Do you think the dead girl is someone from Silverton? Her heart skipped a beat. N o way, she said. Cameryn didn't know why she was so sure, but she was. It's got to be a tourist. We've still had a lot of people c oming up on the train since the weather's been so good. It'll be an out-of-towner. And I'm getting out of the car--I think I need some air. As if on cue, the three of them spilled out of the car . It was harder for Adam. He exited legs-first, unfolding himself , piece by piece, as though he were a piece of collapsible gear t hat needed to be reassembled outside its box. Lyric reached aroun d him to grab her backpack, and when she did, she accidentally bu mped against him. Sorry, she said softly. Crossing her arms, Cam eryn leaned against the side of the Jeep and waited. It was only eight thirty and already the air was warming up. October weather in Silverton could be schizophrenic. The last few days had brough t cool temperatures in the mornings and evenings only, when the s ky was still purple-blue and the stars mere pricks of pale light. The middle of the day, however, had been uncharacteristically wa rm. The higher than normal temperatures, she knew, would make her father's job--her job--that much harder. She knew a body would decompose fast in the heat. Insects, especially blowflies, honed in on their mark within hours and laid their eggs into any availa ble flesh. That was the science of it. A short while later maggot s would emerge, a wriggling white mass capable of stripping a cor pse to the bone within weeks, depending on temperature and humidi ty levels, which meant precious evidence could be lost quickly. And that wasn't even factoring in the animal activity that would inevitably occur when a body was left in the wild. Mentally she t ried to prepare herself for what she might see, but how could she steel her insides for what lay at Smith Fork? Was it only last w eek that she'd seen the man in the bathtub? It seemed like a life time ago that she'd retched from the smell. Today, Cameryn realiz ed, could be much, much worse. Adam lit his cigarette with a pla stic lighter, politely blowing the smoke away from Cameryn. His s moking irritated her. She wished the two of them would leave, but at the same time she liked them there with her--just one more co ntradictory set of emotions to sort through. The warning bell ran g, followed by the bell signaling the start of school, and still her father had not come. What's taking your dad so long? Lyric a sked, tapping her foot into the dirt. I thought he was rushing ri ght over to pick you up. Cameryn shrugged. He might have stopped to get a white body bag. They're supposed to use white ones when it's a murder. That's what the books say, anyway. Why white? Ada m asked. Already he was working on a second cigarette. A bit of p aper had stuck to his bottom lip, which he carefully pinched off. Because evidence left inside the bag is easier to spot. Adam n odded. He took a drag and exhaled. Man, how do you know this stuf f? I read, she answered. I study. I focus on things you can see, taste, smell, and test. Then I throw in a rosary for Mammaw and I'm good to go. And they say I'm twisted. At that moment Patric k's station wagon whipped around the corner and into the parking lot. From the way he clutched the steering wheel she could tell h e was upset. Dad! she cried, waving frantically. Over here! When he saw her he flipped a U-turn in front of the school, so close his wheel bounced up on the curb. He slowed down as he approached them. The passenger-side window was already down, and he scooped the air with his hand, ordering her in. Come on, they're waiting for us! A jolt of electricity shot through Cameryn as she hoppe d inside the car and buckled up. Adam and Lyric gave a wave as th e station wagon pulled away. She watched them as they grew smalle r in the distance, Adam, as tall and thin as a poplar tree next t o Lyric's full evergreen frame. Lyric's backpack slumped between them like a tired dog. The station wagon turned onto Greene, and soon the car was heading south along the Million Dollar Highway, so named because it cost the state well over a million dollars t o carve it into the high mountains. Patrick said nothing; his pos ture behind the wheel was ramrod straight, and his head grazed th e ceiling of the car, bending his hair back like the bristles of an old scrub brush. I'm sorry to make you miss school, he said. I almost didn't call you, but since it's a murder, well, I need a ll the help I can get. It's okay, Dad. You know I've got all As. So do they know who it is? she asked. Patrick shook his head. N ot yet. With all the tourists running around it's most likely one of them and . . . well, it's bad no matter who it is, right? Jac obs said the victim appears young. Shaking his head, he looked as though he were trying the clear his thoughts. But we've got to g et to business. I've brought two cameras--one'll take color and t he other black and white. So here's what I want you to do: I want you to photograph the body from every conceivable angle using bo th the cameras--color first. That'll be important. He rubbed a ha nd over his chin. It's been years since I've done homicide and I' m trying to remember every single step. The cameras and other sup plies are in that knapsack in the back. Can I put you in charge? Cameryn nodded. She'd taken many photographs in her life, just n ever of something so grim. Good. I've got to admit it, I'm glad you're with me. He wore a long-sleeved plaid shirt beneath a navy bomber jacket. Patrick tugged at the collar of his shirt and the n, with one hand, unfastened the top button. The way you handled yourself with Robertson, Cam, well, you were a real professional. I have total faith in you. And it sure doesn't hurt that you've been reading up on forensics. I could use some of that expertise. If she hadn't been so preoccupied with the murder she might hav e cringed at the compliment. When faced with Robertson's body the second time around she'd been able to hold her emotions in check . The difference was in knowing what was in front of her, of bein g mentally steeled. Stone-faced, she'd photographed the body, and both her father and Jacobs thought her a natural investigator, w hich she'd let them believe. And Justin, true to his promise, nev er said a word. But that was a different death, a different reaso n. This was a murder. Now they fell into silence. She looked out of the station wagon, to the pines that marched straight up the granite mountain in an endless evergreen army. The trees were thi ck at Smith Fork, and Cameryn suddenly wondered if there was bloo d there. And if that blood soaked into the earth to disappear lik e water into sand, what then? Were they supposed to dig it out? H er books hadn't told her anything about that--they probably hadn' t told her about a lot of things. She pictured blood and suddenly she had a strange thought: What happened to the blood they could n't reach? Would the tree roots drink up the blood molecules? If the roots leeched the blood, then the victim might become part of the trees themselves and live again, like the circle of life tha t Lyric always talked about. Or was it like her mammaw told her-- when you died, your spirit soared to heaven and you lived on stre ets paved with gold? Or were you just dead, like the deer she saw strapped to big pickup trucks that rumbled through Silverton eve ry fall. Robertson had looked plain dead. The old lady had looke d peaceful, sleeping, and thinking of that face Cameryn could bel ieve in some kind of angelic rest. But what happened with a murde r, when a soul was ripped out of a body and the person wasn't rea dy? Cameryn squeezed her eyes shut; it seemed as though her mind was jumping sideways again. She had to get a grip, to think clini cally instead of emotionally. She'd be no good at all if she didn 't get her thoughts clear. On her right she saw a sheet of water weeping from slick rock, and past that a wall of stone where the mountain had bee, Viking Juvenile, 2006, 2.5, Speak. Good. 0.9 x 8.4 x 5.5 inches. Paperback. 2010. 320 pages. Cover worn.<br>The critically acclaimed, bestselling n ovel from Gayle Forman, author of Where She Went, Just One Day, a nd Just One Year. Soon to be a major motion picture, starring Ch loe Moretz! In the blink of an eye everything changes. Seventeen ­year-old Mia has no memory of the accident; she can only recall what happened afterwards, watching her own damaged body being ta ken from the wreck. Little by little she struggles to put togethe r the pieces- to figure out what she has lost, what she has left, and the very difficult choice she must make. Heartwrenchingly be autiful, this will change the way you look at life, love, and fam ily. Now a major motion picture starring Chloe Grace Moretz, Mia' s story will stay with you for a long, long time. Editorial Revi ews Review Beautifully written.--Entertainment Weekly A beautif ul novel.--Los Angeles Times A do-not-miss story of love, friend ship, family, loss, control, and coping.--Justine Magazine The b rilliance of this book is the simplicity.-- The Wall Street Journ al A touching and thought-provoking novel.--Romantic Times Abou t the Author Gayle Forman is an award-winning, internationally be stselling author and journalist. Her #1 New York Times bestsellin g novel If I Stay was adapted into a film starring Chloë Grace Mo retz. Gayle is also the author of several other bestselling novel s, including Where She Went, I Was Here, the Just One series, I H ave Lost My Way, and Leave Me. She lives in Brooklyn, New York, w ith her husband and daughters. CONNECT WITH GAYLE: Website: Gayle Forman.com Twitter: @GayleForman Instagram: @GayleForman Facebook : Facebook.com/GayleFormanAuthor Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permiss ion. All rights reserved. 7:09 A.M. Everyone thinks it was becau se of the snow. And in a way, I suppose that's true. I wake up t his morning to a thin blanket of white covering our front lawn. I t isn't even an inch, but in this part of Oregon a slight dusting brings everything to a standstill as the one snowplow in the cou nty gets busy clearing the roads. It is wet water that drops from the sky-and drops and drops and drops-not the frozen kind. It i s enough snow to cancel school. My little brother, Teddy, lets ou t a war whoop when Mom's AM radio announces the closures. Snow da y! he bellows. Dad, let's go make a snowman. My dad smiles and t aps on his pipe. He started smoking one recently as part of this whole 1950s, Father Knows Best retro kick he is on. He also wears bow ties. I am never quite clear on whether all this is sartoria l or sardonic-Dad's way of announcing that he used to be a punker but is now a middle-school English teacher, or if becoming a tea cher has actually turned my dad into this genuine throwback. But I like the smell of the pipe tobacco. It is sweet and smoky, and reminds me of winters and woodstoves. You can make a valiant try , Dad tells Teddy. But it's hardly sticking to the roads. Maybe y ou should consider a snow amoeba. I can tell Dad is happy. Barel y an inch of snow means that all the schools in the county are cl osed, including my high school and the middle school where Dad wo rks, so it's an unexpected day off for him, too. My mother, who w orks for a travel agent in town, clicks off the radio and pours h erself a second cup of coffee. Well, if you lot are playing hooky today, no way I'm going to work. It's simply not right. She pick s up the telephone to call in. When she's done, she looks at us. Should I make breakfast? Dad and I guffaw at the same time. Mom makes cereal and toast. Dad's the cook in the family. Pretending not to hear us, she reaches into the cabinet for a box of Bisqui ck. Please. How hard can it be? Who wants pancakes? I do! I do! Teddy yells. Can we have chocolate chips in them? I don't see wh y not, Mom replies. Woo hoo! Teddy yelps, waving his arms in the air. You have far too much energy for this early in the morning , I tease. I turn to Mom. Maybe you shouldn't let Teddy drink so much coffee. I've switched him to decaf, Mom volleys back. He's just naturally exuberant. As long as you're not switching me to decaf, I say. That would be child abuse, Dad says. Mom hands me a steaming mug and the newspaper. There's a nice picture of you r young man in there, she says. Really? A picture? Yep. It's ab out the most we've seen of him since summer, Mom says, giving me a sidelong glance with her eyebrow arched, her version of a soul- searching stare. I know, I say, and then without meaning to, I s igh. Adam's band, Shooting Star, is on an upward spiral, which, i s a great thing-mostly. Ah, fame, wasted on the youth, Dad says, but he's smiling. I know he's excited for Adam. Proud even. I l eaf through the newspaper to the calendar section. There's a smal l blurb about Shooting Star, with an even smaller picture of the four of them, next to a big article about Bikini and a huge pictu re of the band's lead singer: punk-rock diva Brooke Vega. The bit about them basically says that local band Shooting Star is openi ng for Bikini on the Portland leg of Bikini's national tour. It d oesn't mention the even-bigger-to-me news that last night Shootin g Star headlined at a club in Seattle and, according to the text Adam sent me at midnight, sold out the place. Are you going toni ght? Dad asks. I was planning to. It depends if they shut down t he whole state on account of the snow. It is approaching a blizz ard, Dad says, pointing to a single snowflake floating its way to the earth. I'm also supposed to rehearse with some pianist from the college that Professor Christie dug up. Professor Christie, a retired music teacher at the university who I've been working w ith for the last few years, is always looking for victims for me to play with. Keep you sharp so you can show all those Juilliard snobs how it's really done, she says. I haven't gotten into Juil liard yet, but my audition went really well. The Bach suite and t he Shostakovich had both flown out of me like never before, like my fingers were just an extension of the strings and bow. When I' d finished playing, panting, my legs shaking from pressing togeth er so hard, one judge had clapped a little, which I guess doesn't happen very often. As I'd shuffled out, that same judge had told me that it had been a long time since the school had seen an Ore gon country girl. Professor Christie had taken that to mean a gua ranteed acceptance. I wasn't so sure that was true. And I wasn't 100 percent sure that I wanted it to be true. Just like with Shoo ting Star's meteoric rise, my admission to Juilliard-if it happen s-will create certain complications, or, more accurately, would c ompound the complications that have already cropped up in the las t few months. I need more coffee. Anyone else? Mom asks, hoverin g over me with the ancient percolator. I sniff the coffee, the r ich, black, oily French roast we all prefer. The smell alone perk s me up. I'm pondering going back to bed, I say. My cello's at sc hool, so I can't even practice. Not practice? For twenty-four ho urs? Be still, my broken heart, Mom says. Though she has acquired a taste for classical music over the years-it's like learning to appreciate a stinky cheese-she's been a not-always-delighted cap tive audience for many of my marathon rehearsals. I hear a crash and a boom coming from upstairs. Teddy is pounding on his drum k it. It used to belong to Dad. Back when he'd played drums in a bi g-in-our-town, unknown-anywhere-else band, back when he'd worked at a record store. Dad grins at Teddy's noise, and seeing that, I feel a familiar pang. I know it's silly but I have always wonde red if Dad is disappointed that I didn't become a rock chick. I'd meant to. Then, in third grade, I'd wandered over to the cello i n music class-it looked almost human to me. It looked like if you played it, it would tell you secrets, so I started playing. It's been almost ten years now and I haven't stopped. So much for go ing back to sleep, Mom yells over Teddy's noise. What do you kno w, the snow's already melting. Dad says, puffing on his pipe. I g o to the back door and peek outside. A patch of sunlight has brok en through the clouds, and I can hear the hiss of the ice melting . I close the door and go back to the table. I think the county overreacted, I say. Maybe. But they can't un-cancel school. Hors e is already out of the barn, and I already called in for the day off, Mom says. Indeed. But we might take advantage of this unex pected boon and go somewhere, Dad says. Take a drive. Visit Henry and Willow. Henry and Willow are some of Mom and Dad's old music friends who'd also had a kid and decided to start behaving like grown-ups. They live in a big old farmhouse. Henry does Web stuff from the barn they converted into a home office and Willow works at a nearby hospital. They have a baby girl. That's the real rea son Mom and Dad want to go out there. Teddy having just turned ei ght and me being seventeen means that we are long past giving off that sour-milk smell that makes adults melt. We can stop at Boo kBarn on the way back, Mom says, as if to entice me. BookBarn is a giant, dusty old used-book store. In the back they keep a stash of twenty-five-cent classical records that nobody ever seems to buy except me. I keep a pile of them hidden under my bed. A colle ction of classical records is not the kind of thing you advertise . I've shown them to Adam, but that was only after we'd already been together for five months. I'd expected him to laugh. He's su ch the cool guy with his pegged jeans and black low-tops, his eff ortlessly beat-up punk-rock tees and his subtle tattoos. He is so not the kind of guy to end up with someone like me. Which was wh y when I'd first spotted him watching me at the music studios at school two years ago, I'd been convinced he was making fun of me and I'd hidden from him. Anyhow, he hadn't laughed. It turned out he had a dusty collection of punk-rock records under his bed. W e can also stop by Gran and Gramps for an early dinner, Dad says, already reaching for the phone. We'll have you back in plenty of time to get to Portland, he adds as he dials. I'm in, I say. It isn't the lure of BookBarn, or the fact that Adam is on tour, or that my best friend, Kim, is busy doing yearbook stuff. It isn't even that my cello is at school or that I could stay home and wa tch TV or sleep. I'd actually rather go off with my family. This is another thing you don't advertise about yourself, but Adam get s that, too. Teddy, Dad calls. Get dressed. We're going on an ad venture. Teddy finishes off his drum solo with a crash of cymbal s. A moment later he's bounding into the kitchen fully dressed, a s if he'd pulled on his clothes while careening down the steep wo oden staircase of our drafty Victorian house. School's out for su mmer . . . he sings. Alice Cooper? Dad asks. Have we no standard s? At least sing the Ramones. School's out forever, Teddy sings over Dad's protests. Ever the optimist, I say. Mom laughs. She puts a plate of slightly charred pancakes down on the kitchen tab le. Eat up, family. 8:17 A.M. We pile into the car, a rusting B uick that was already old when Gran gave it to us after Teddy was born. Mom and Dad offer to let me drive, but I say no. Dad slips behind the wheel. He likes to drive now. He'd stubbornly refused to get a license for years, insisting on riding his bike everywh ere. Back when he played music, his ban on driving meant that his bandmates were the ones stuck behind the wheel on tours. They us ed to roll their eyes at him. Mom had done more than that. She'd pestered, cajoled, and sometimes yelled at Dad to get a license, but he'd insisted that he preferred pedal power. Well, then you b etter get to work on building a bike that can hold a family of th ree and keep us dry when it rains, she'd demanded. To which Dad a lways had laughed and said that he'd get on that. But when Mom h ad gotten pregnant with Teddy, she'd put her foot down. Enough, s he said. Dad seemed to understand that something had changed. He' d stopped arguing and had gotten a driver's license. He'd also go ne back to school to get his teaching certificate. I guess it was okay to be in arrested development with one kid. But with two, t ime to grow up. Time to start wearing a bow tie. He has one on t his morning, along with a flecked sport coat and vintage wingtips . Dressed for the snow, I see, I say. I'm like the post office, Dad replies, scraping the snow off the car with one of Teddy's pl astic dinosaurs that are scattered on the lawn. Neither sleet nor rain nor a half inch of snow will compel me to dress like a lumb erjack. Hey, my relatives were lumberjacks, Mom warns. No making fun of the white-trash woodsmen. Wouldn't dream of it, Dad repl ies. Just making stylistic contrasts. Dad has to turn the igniti on over a few times before the car chokes to life. As usual, ther e is a battle for stereo dominance. Mom wants NPR. Dad wants Fran k Sinatra. Teddy wants SpongeBob SquarePants. I want the classica l-music station, but recognizing that I'm the only classical fan in the family, I am willing to compromise with Shooting Star. Da d brokers the deal. Seeing as we're missing school today, we ough t to listen to the news for a while so we don't become ignoramuse s- I believe that's ignoramusi, Mom says. Dad rolls his eyes an d clasps his hand over Mom's and clears his throat in that school teachery way of his. As I was saying, NPR first, and then when th e news is over, the classical station. Teddy, we will not torture you with that. You can use the Discman, Dad says, starting to di sconnect the portable player he's rigged to the car radio. But yo u are not allowed to play Alice Cooper in my car. I forbid it. Da d reaches into the glove box to examine what's inside. How about Jonathan Richman? I want SpongeBob. It's in the machine, Teddy s houts, bouncing up and down and pointing to the Discman. The choc olate-chip pancakes dowsed in syrup have clearly only enhanced hi s hyper excitement. Son, you break my heart, Dad jokes. Both Ted dy and I were raised on the goofy tunes of Jonathan Richman, who is Mom and Dad's musical patron saint. Once the musical selectio ns have been made, we are off. The road has some patches of snow, but mostly it's just wet. But, Speak, 2010, 2.5, Crimeline. Good. 4.2 x 0.66 x 6.88 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 2000. 304 pages. <br>Sometimes tragedies come in waves. First Eric, irr epressible, indestructible, climbing alone. Second Joey choking, drunk - though not much more so than usual - the night after his great triumph. But then there was the statistician, overdosing on Flatliners he thought were something else. Three is a series, no t a coincidence: three men dead, three colleagues with a shared p ast. A past that is shared by the one person Kellen Stewart would trust with her life, pathologist Lee Adams. Suspect number one. Editorial Reviews Excerpt. ? Reprinted by permission. All right s reserved. Eric was on the ledge at the top of the fourth pitch, three-quarters of the way up the cliff. It was a good place to b e: high and airy with a clear view of the sea and the gulls and t he islands, an ideal spot to sit and watch the sun slide down beh ind the mountains of Jura, or to wait for two climbers on their w ay up from sea level, aiming for just that point on the ledge. We were not expecting him to be there, had made no arrangements to meet, but Eric was ever one for surprises and there's no reason, even now, to suppose it would have made the climb any faster if w e'd known he was there. It certainly wouldn't have made it any ea sier. No one said it would be easy. She didn't want it to be eas y. All the way through the winter, reading the maps and the tide tables, hanging off abseil ropes in the pouring rain, bribing fis hermen to take her closer in to the rock than any sane human bein g would want to go, Lee Adams was not looking for a climb that wa s easy. Just one step this side of impossible and no more, otherw ise what's the point? And all through winter, sitting at the top of the cliff catching the falls, driving the car to the jetty, go ing out to buy one more bottle of Scotch for a skipper who needed half a year drying out more than he ever needed another drink, I listened, as we all did, with half an ear to the moves and the h olds and the nightmare of a chimney at the base of the crack and I knew that, when the time came for her to choose a partner to cl imb it with her, she would ask Eric. Of all of us, he was the onl y one who came close to climbing at the level she climbed. He was the only one who made sense. But then, Lee doesn't climb to mak e sense. I was waiting by the car on the jetty at Tarbert on a wi nd-blown, rain-sodden Saturday afternoon less than a month ago wh en she made the last boat trip out to the cliff: one final attemp t to find a way in to the base of the crack that wasn't going to get her drowned before she ever started the climb up. I remember the sight of her, soaked and scratched and decorated in odd place s with algal streaks as she came up the path from the boat. I pul led a rucksack from the boot and passed her a T-shirt as she reac hed the car. There was no real need to ask how it went--her whole body was alive with the buzz of it, like a horse before a race, fighting the pull of the bit. She sat on the sill of the boot, st aring out to sea, her focus on something a long way out of sight. And so?' I asked. Will it go?' It's good, sometimes, to get the details. It'll go.' She nodded, chewing her bottom lip. There's only one place the boat can put in with any chance of getting ou t again in one piece and it's a real bitch of a traverse from the re along to the crack. Sixty foot of blank rock with bugger all t o hold on to but the seaweed.' She waited, expectant, as if I was supposed to have some kind of opinion on that. Traverses are no t really my thing. I haven't done enough of them to comment. I th ought there was the ledge?' I said. Sort of.' She threw the wrec ked remains of her old shirt into the boot and there was a pause as she pulled the fresh one over her head. The dry, laundered sme ll of it mellowed the ranker smells of rain and sea. It breaks up in places, but it's better than nothing,' she said. We'll be fin e as long as we time the tide right. Bearing in mind how much you hate the sea, the least I can do is see that you keep your feet dry before we get to the crack.' There was another gap then, fil led by the wind and the flapping of old newspaper on the tarmac o f the jetty. I looked out to the sea and back again. She sat on t he boot, her head cocked to one side, watching me. My feet?' I a sked. Your feet,' she agreed. Her smile was indulgent; maddening ly so. What about Eric? I thought you were going to do it with h im?' Only if you turn me down.' She stood up, then ducked back i nto the lee of the boot as a westerly gust threatened to knock us both flat. We'll find something with more of a challenge in it f or him later. This one is for you and me. Unless you're going to tell me now you really don't want to do it?' Maybe I should have done. I have known Lee Adams for over half my life and I know ju st where her limits are: a long way past mine in almost everythin g we do, especially on the rock. But the rain was easing and the wind was fresh and we had spent all winter planning for this one. I thought I knew where the worst bits were. Besides, in that mom ent, I really did want to do it. OK.' I pulled the car keys from my pocket and flipped then the two feet through the air to her w aiting hand. If you're sure I can do it.' I'm not sure of anythi ng. I'm not even sure I can do it. That's what we're here to find out.' She tossed the keys high up in the air and caught them aga in on the downswing. Just don't forget to trust your feet. If you can hang on to that, you'll be fine.' You hate the sea. I don't hate it. I am terrified of it. There is a difference. Not normal ly, in everyday life, I'm not afraid of it then. I can walk along the shore and breathe in the salt and feel the power of it and b e inspired with the rest of them. I respect it. I admire it. I wi sh I could paint it, or photograph it, or do something else to ca tch the extraordinary, restless beauty of it and take it home. I am not afraid of it. But put me on a two-inch tightrope of sea-gr eased rock with the water kissing the soles of my climbing shoes, with barnacles the size of walnuts knifing the palms of my hands and leathered ribbons of weed draping themselves like malign ban dages over my eyes so that the rock and the sea and the rope are all flashes seen in the darkness, then I can reach a level of ter ror that knows no bounds. ., Crimeline, 2000, 2.5<

2000, ISBN: 9780553579697

Paperback

Dell Publishing Company, Inc, 9/1/1995. Mass Market Paperback. Very Good. 000-176: VG+ copy. Paperback with 387 pages. Light spine reading creases and tiny corner crease, ow/ a beautifu… More...

Dell Publishing Company, Inc, 9/1/1995. Mass Market Paperback. Very Good. 000-176: VG+ copy. Paperback with 387 pages. Light spine reading creases and tiny corner crease, ow/ a beautiful, square, tight copy with clean, unmarked pages. Appears that book was gently read one time. A novel of Life, Love, and everyday Acts of Mercy. First Paperback Edition 1995., Dell Publishing Company, Inc, 9/1/1995, 3, Dell Publishing Company, Inc, 9/1/1995. Mass Market Paperback. Very Good. 000-005: Paperback with 387 pages. Faint spine reading crease and light foxing on page edges. Appears book was very gently read on time. A beautiful, square, tight copy with clean, unmarked pages. A Novel of Life, Love, and Everyday Acts of Mercy. Movie Tie-In Edition starring Meryl Streep, Renee Zellweger, and William Hurt. Color Photo Covers. First Movie Tie-In Edition (tenth printing) 1998. Published by Dell Books., Dell Publishing Company, Inc, 9/1/1995, 3, Dell Publishing Company, Inc, 9/1/1995. Mass Market Paperback. Very Good. 000-005: Paperback with 387 pages. A few light spine reading creases, tiny edge wear, and light foxing on page edges. A beautiful, square, tight copy with clean, unmarked pages. A Novel of Life, Love, and Everyday Acts of Mercy. 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 First Paperback Edition September 1995. Published by Dell Books., Dell Publishing Company, Inc, 9/1/1995, 3, This book has been read, very minor wear to front and back covers, spine intact but one main crease, previous owner signed first page.Readers adored James Herriot's tales of his life as a Yorkshire animal doctor in All Creatures Great and Small and All Things Bright and Beautiful. Now here's a third delightful volume of memoirs rich with Herriot's own brand of humor, insight, and wisdom. In the midst of World War II, James is training for the Royal Air Force, while going home to Yorkshire whenever possible to see his very pregnant wife, Helen. Musing on past adventures through the dales, visiting with old friends, and introducing scores of new and amusing character--animal and human alike--Herriot enthralls with his uncanny ability to spin a most engaging and heartfelt yarn. Millions of readers have delighted in the wonderful storytelling and everyday miracles of James Herriot in the over thirty years since his delightful animal stories were first introduced to the world.James Herriot is the pen name of James Alfred Wight, OBE, FRCVS also known as Alf Wight, an English veterinary surgeon and writer. Wight is best known for his semi-autobiographical stories, often referred to collectively as All Creatures Great and Small, a title used in some editions and in film and television adaptations. In 1939, at the age of 23, he qualified as a veterinary surgeon with Glasgow Veterinary College. In January 1940, he took a brief job at a veterinary practice in Sunderland, but moved in July to work in a rural practice based in the town of Thirsk, Yorkshire, close to the Yorkshire Dales and North York Moors, where he was to remain for the rest of his life. The original practice is now a museum, "The World of James Herriot". Wight intended for years to write a book, but with most of his time consumed by veterinary practice and family, his writing ambition went nowhere. Challenged by his wife, in 1966 (at the age of 50), he began writing. In 1969 Wight wrote If Only They Could Talk, the first of the now-famous series based on his life working as a vet and his training in the Royal Air Force during the Second World War. Owing in part to professional etiquette which at that time frowned on veterinary surgeons and other professionals from advertising their services, he took a pen name, choosing "James Herriot". If Only They Could Talk was published in the United Kingdom in 1970 by Michael Joseph Ltd, but sales were slow until Thomas McCormack, of St. Martin's Press in New York City, received a copy and arranged to have the first two books published as a single volume in the United States. The resulting book, titled All Creatures Great and Small, was an overnight success, spawning numerous sequels, movies, and a successful television adaptation. In his books, Wight calls the town where he lives and works Darrowby, which he based largely on the towns of Thirsk and Sowerby. He also renamed Donald Sinclair and his brother Brian Sinclair as Siegfried and Tristan Farnon, respectively. Wight's books are only partially autobiographical. Many of the stories are only loosely based on real events or people, and thus can be considered primarily fiction., Pan Books, 1999, 2.5, Crimeline. Good. 4.2 x 0.66 x 6.88 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 2000. 304 pages. <br>Sometimes tragedies come in waves. First Eric, irr epressible, indestructible, climbing alone. Second Joey choking, drunk - though not much more so than usual - the night after his great triumph. But then there was the statistician, overdosing on Flatliners he thought were something else. Three is a series, no t a coincidence: three men dead, three colleagues with a shared p ast. A past that is shared by the one person Kellen Stewart would trust with her life, pathologist Lee Adams. Suspect number one. Editorial Reviews Excerpt. ? Reprinted by permission. All right s reserved. Eric was on the ledge at the top of the fourth pitch, three-quarters of the way up the cliff. It was a good place to b e: high and airy with a clear view of the sea and the gulls and t he islands, an ideal spot to sit and watch the sun slide down beh ind the mountains of Jura, or to wait for two climbers on their w ay up from sea level, aiming for just that point on the ledge. We were not expecting him to be there, had made no arrangements to meet, but Eric was ever one for surprises and there's no reason, even now, to suppose it would have made the climb any faster if w e'd known he was there. It certainly wouldn't have made it any ea sier. No one said it would be easy. She didn't want it to be eas y. All the way through the winter, reading the maps and the tide tables, hanging off abseil ropes in the pouring rain, bribing fis hermen to take her closer in to the rock than any sane human bein g would want to go, Lee Adams was not looking for a climb that wa s easy. Just one step this side of impossible and no more, otherw ise what's the point? And all through winter, sitting at the top of the cliff catching the falls, driving the car to the jetty, go ing out to buy one more bottle of Scotch for a skipper who needed half a year drying out more than he ever needed another drink, I listened, as we all did, with half an ear to the moves and the h olds and the nightmare of a chimney at the base of the crack and I knew that, when the time came for her to choose a partner to cl imb it with her, she would ask Eric. Of all of us, he was the onl y one who came close to climbing at the level she climbed. He was the only one who made sense. But then, Lee doesn't climb to mak e sense. I was waiting by the car on the jetty at Tarbert on a wi nd-blown, rain-sodden Saturday afternoon less than a month ago wh en she made the last boat trip out to the cliff: one final attemp t to find a way in to the base of the crack that wasn't going to get her drowned before she ever started the climb up. I remember the sight of her, soaked and scratched and decorated in odd place s with algal streaks as she came up the path from the boat. I pul led a rucksack from the boot and passed her a T-shirt as she reac hed the car. There was no real need to ask how it went--her whole body was alive with the buzz of it, like a horse before a race, fighting the pull of the bit. She sat on the sill of the boot, st aring out to sea, her focus on something a long way out of sight. And so?' I asked. Will it go?' It's good, sometimes, to get the details. It'll go.' She nodded, chewing her bottom lip. There's only one place the boat can put in with any chance of getting ou t again in one piece and it's a real bitch of a traverse from the re along to the crack. Sixty foot of blank rock with bugger all t o hold on to but the seaweed.' She waited, expectant, as if I was supposed to have some kind of opinion on that. Traverses are no t really my thing. I haven't done enough of them to comment. I th ought there was the ledge?' I said. Sort of.' She threw the wrec ked remains of her old shirt into the boot and there was a pause as she pulled the fresh one over her head. The dry, laundered sme ll of it mellowed the ranker smells of rain and sea. It breaks up in places, but it's better than nothing,' she said. We'll be fin e as long as we time the tide right. Bearing in mind how much you hate the sea, the least I can do is see that you keep your feet dry before we get to the crack.' There was another gap then, fil led by the wind and the flapping of old newspaper on the tarmac o f the jetty. I looked out to the sea and back again. She sat on t he boot, her head cocked to one side, watching me. My feet?' I a sked. Your feet,' she agreed. Her smile was indulgent; maddening ly so. What about Eric? I thought you were going to do it with h im?' Only if you turn me down.' She stood up, then ducked back i nto the lee of the boot as a westerly gust threatened to knock us both flat. We'll find something with more of a challenge in it f or him later. This one is for you and me. Unless you're going to tell me now you really don't want to do it?' Maybe I should have done. I have known Lee Adams for over half my life and I know ju st where her limits are: a long way past mine in almost everythin g we do, especially on the rock. But the rain was easing and the wind was fresh and we had spent all winter planning for this one. I thought I knew where the worst bits were. Besides, in that mom ent, I really did want to do it. OK.' I pulled the car keys from my pocket and flipped then the two feet through the air to her w aiting hand. If you're sure I can do it.' I'm not sure of anythi ng. I'm not even sure I can do it. That's what we're here to find out.' She tossed the keys high up in the air and caught them aga in on the downswing. Just don't forget to trust your feet. If you can hang on to that, you'll be fine.' You hate the sea. I don't hate it. I am terrified of it. There is a difference. Not normal ly, in everyday life, I'm not afraid of it then. I can walk along the shore and breathe in the salt and feel the power of it and b e inspired with the rest of them. I respect it. I admire it. I wi sh I could paint it, or photograph it, or do something else to ca tch the extraordinary, restless beauty of it and take it home. I am not afraid of it. But put me on a two-inch tightrope of sea-gr eased rock with the water kissing the soles of my climbing shoes, with barnacles the size of walnuts knifing the palms of my hands and leathered ribbons of weed draping themselves like malign ban dages over my eyes so that the rock and the sea and the rope are all flashes seen in the darkness, then I can reach a level of ter ror that knows no bounds. ., Crimeline, 2000, 2.5<

2000, ISBN: 9780553579697

Marion, OH: Davis Publications, 1988. Magazine. Good. closed tear in front cover, some light edge wear, bit of wrinkling; Volume 12 Number 8, Whole No. 133. Novella: "Waiting for… More...

Marion, OH: Davis Publications, 1988. Magazine. Good. closed tear in front cover, some light edge wear, bit of wrinkling; Volume 12 Number 8, Whole No. 133. Novella: "Waiting for the Olympians" by Frederik Pohl. Novelettes: "Do Ya, Do Ya, Wanna Dance" by Howard Waldrop; "El Vilvoy de las Islas" by Avram Davidson. Short Stories: "The Great Martian Railroad Race" by Eric Vinicoff; "Them and Us" by Judith Moffett; "Evening Shadow" by Stephen Leigh; "The Grandfather Problem" by Andrew Weiner; "The Color Winter" by Steven Popkes; "Retrovision" by Robert Frazier; "Flatline" by Walter Jon WIlliams. Features: Editorial: "Acrophobia" by Isaac Asimov, 2nd Annual Readers' Award Results, Letters, Gaming by Matthew J. Costello, On Books by Baird Searles, and The SF Conventional Calendar by Erwin S. Strauss. Poem by Bruce Boston., Davis Publications, 1988, 2.5, Crimeline. Good. 4.2 x 0.66 x 6.88 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 2000. 304 pages. <br>Sometimes tragedies come in waves. First Eric, irr epressible, indestructible, climbing alone. Second Joey choking, drunk - though not much more so than usual - the night after his great triumph. But then there was the statistician, overdosing on Flatliners he thought were something else. Three is a series, no t a coincidence: three men dead, three colleagues with a shared p ast. A past that is shared by the one person Kellen Stewart would trust with her life, pathologist Lee Adams. Suspect number one. Editorial Reviews Excerpt. ? Reprinted by permission. All right s reserved. Eric was on the ledge at the top of the fourth pitch, three-quarters of the way up the cliff. It was a good place to b e: high and airy with a clear view of the sea and the gulls and t he islands, an ideal spot to sit and watch the sun slide down beh ind the mountains of Jura, or to wait for two climbers on their w ay up from sea level, aiming for just that point on the ledge. We were not expecting him to be there, had made no arrangements to meet, but Eric was ever one for surprises and there's no reason, even now, to suppose it would have made the climb any faster if w e'd known he was there. It certainly wouldn't have made it any ea sier. No one said it would be easy. She didn't want it to be eas y. All the way through the winter, reading the maps and the tide tables, hanging off abseil ropes in the pouring rain, bribing fis hermen to take her closer in to the rock than any sane human bein g would want to go, Lee Adams was not looking for a climb that wa s easy. Just one step this side of impossible and no more, otherw ise what's the point? And all through winter, sitting at the top of the cliff catching the falls, driving the car to the jetty, go ing out to buy one more bottle of Scotch for a skipper who needed half a year drying out more than he ever needed another drink, I listened, as we all did, with half an ear to the moves and the h olds and the nightmare of a chimney at the base of the crack and I knew that, when the time came for her to choose a partner to cl imb it with her, she would ask Eric. Of all of us, he was the onl y one who came close to climbing at the level she climbed. He was the only one who made sense. But then, Lee doesn't climb to mak e sense. I was waiting by the car on the jetty at Tarbert on a wi nd-blown, rain-sodden Saturday afternoon less than a month ago wh en she made the last boat trip out to the cliff: one final attemp t to find a way in to the base of the crack that wasn't going to get her drowned before she ever started the climb up. I remember the sight of her, soaked and scratched and decorated in odd place s with algal streaks as she came up the path from the boat. I pul led a rucksack from the boot and passed her a T-shirt as she reac hed the car. There was no real need to ask how it went--her whole body was alive with the buzz of it, like a horse before a race, fighting the pull of the bit. She sat on the sill of the boot, st aring out to sea, her focus on something a long way out of sight. And so?' I asked. Will it go?' It's good, sometimes, to get the details. It'll go.' She nodded, chewing her bottom lip. There's only one place the boat can put in with any chance of getting ou t again in one piece and it's a real bitch of a traverse from the re along to the crack. Sixty foot of blank rock with bugger all t o hold on to but the seaweed.' She waited, expectant, as if I was supposed to have some kind of opinion on that. Traverses are no t really my thing. I haven't done enough of them to comment. I th ought there was the ledge?' I said. Sort of.' She threw the wrec ked remains of her old shirt into the boot and there was a pause as she pulled the fresh one over her head. The dry, laundered sme ll of it mellowed the ranker smells of rain and sea. It breaks up in places, but it's better than nothing,' she said. We'll be fin e as long as we time the tide right. Bearing in mind how much you hate the sea, the least I can do is see that you keep your feet dry before we get to the crack.' There was another gap then, fil led by the wind and the flapping of old newspaper on the tarmac o f the jetty. I looked out to the sea and back again. She sat on t he boot, her head cocked to one side, watching me. My feet?' I a sked. Your feet,' she agreed. Her smile was indulgent; maddening ly so. What about Eric? I thought you were going to do it with h im?' Only if you turn me down.' She stood up, then ducked back i nto the lee of the boot as a westerly gust threatened to knock us both flat. We'll find something with more of a challenge in it f or him later. This one is for you and me. Unless you're going to tell me now you really don't want to do it?' Maybe I should have done. I have known Lee Adams for over half my life and I know ju st where her limits are: a long way past mine in almost everythin g we do, especially on the rock. But the rain was easing and the wind was fresh and we had spent all winter planning for this one. I thought I knew where the worst bits were. Besides, in that mom ent, I really did want to do it. OK.' I pulled the car keys from my pocket and flipped then the two feet through the air to her w aiting hand. If you're sure I can do it.' I'm not sure of anythi ng. I'm not even sure I can do it. That's what we're here to find out.' She tossed the keys high up in the air and caught them aga in on the downswing. Just don't forget to trust your feet. If you can hang on to that, you'll be fine.' You hate the sea. I don't hate it. I am terrified of it. There is a difference. Not normal ly, in everyday life, I'm not afraid of it then. I can walk along the shore and breathe in the salt and feel the power of it and b e inspired with the rest of them. I respect it. I admire it. I wi sh I could paint it, or photograph it, or do something else to ca tch the extraordinary, restless beauty of it and take it home. I am not afraid of it. But put me on a two-inch tightrope of sea-gr eased rock with the water kissing the soles of my climbing shoes, with barnacles the size of walnuts knifing the palms of my hands and leathered ribbons of weed draping themselves like malign ban dages over my eyes so that the rock and the sea and the rope are all flashes seen in the darkness, then I can reach a level of ter ror that knows no bounds. ., Crimeline, 2000, 2.5<

2000, ISBN: 9780553579697

Crimeline. Good. 4.2 x 0.66 x 6.88 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 2000. 304 pages. <br>Sometimes tragedies come in waves. First Eric, irr epressible, indestructible, climbing alone.… More...

Crimeline. Good. 4.2 x 0.66 x 6.88 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 2000. 304 pages. <br>Sometimes tragedies come in waves. First Eric, irr epressible, indestructible, climbing alone. Second Joey choking, drunk - though not much more so than usual - the night after his great triumph. But then there was the statistician, overdosing on Flatliners he thought were something else. Three is a series, no t a coincidence: three men dead, three colleagues with a shared p ast. A past that is shared by the one person Kellen Stewart would trust with her life, pathologist Lee Adams. Suspect number one. Editorial Reviews Excerpt. ? Reprinted by permission. All right s reserved. Eric was on the ledge at the top of the fourth pitch, three-quarters of the way up the cliff. It was a good place to b e: high and airy with a clear view of the sea and the gulls and t he islands, an ideal spot to sit and watch the sun slide down beh ind the mountains of Jura, or to wait for two climbers on their w ay up from sea level, aiming for just that point on the ledge. We were not expecting him to be there, had made no arrangements to meet, but Eric was ever one for surprises and there's no reason, even now, to suppose it would have made the climb any faster if w e'd known he was there. It certainly wouldn't have made it any ea sier. No one said it would be easy. She didn't want it to be eas y. All the way through the winter, reading the maps and the tide tables, hanging off abseil ropes in the pouring rain, bribing fis hermen to take her closer in to the rock than any sane human bein g would want to go, Lee Adams was not looking for a climb that wa s easy. Just one step this side of impossible and no more, otherw ise what's the point? And all through winter, sitting at the top of the cliff catching the falls, driving the car to the jetty, go ing out to buy one more bottle of Scotch for a skipper who needed half a year drying out more than he ever needed another drink, I listened, as we all did, with half an ear to the moves and the h olds and the nightmare of a chimney at the base of the crack and I knew that, when the time came for her to choose a partner to cl imb it with her, she would ask Eric. Of all of us, he was the onl y one who came close to climbing at the level she climbed. He was the only one who made sense. But then, Lee doesn't climb to mak e sense. I was waiting by the car on the jetty at Tarbert on a wi nd-blown, rain-sodden Saturday afternoon less than a month ago wh en she made the last boat trip out to the cliff: one final attemp t to find a way in to the base of the crack that wasn't going to get her drowned before she ever started the climb up. I remember the sight of her, soaked and scratched and decorated in odd place s with algal streaks as she came up the path from the boat. I pul led a rucksack from the boot and passed her a T-shirt as she reac hed the car. There was no real need to ask how it went--her whole body was alive with the buzz of it, like a horse before a race, fighting the pull of the bit. She sat on the sill of the boot, st aring out to sea, her focus on something a long way out of sight. And so?' I asked. Will it go?' It's good, sometimes, to get the details. It'll go.' She nodded, chewing her bottom lip. There's only one place the boat can put in with any chance of getting ou t again in one piece and it's a real bitch of a traverse from the re along to the crack. Sixty foot of blank rock with bugger all t o hold on to but the seaweed.' She waited, expectant, as if I was supposed to have some kind of opinion on that. Traverses are no t really my thing. I haven't done enough of them to comment. I th ought there was the ledge?' I said. Sort of.' She threw the wrec ked remains of her old shirt into the boot and there was a pause as she pulled the fresh one over her head. The dry, laundered sme ll of it mellowed the ranker smells of rain and sea. It breaks up in places, but it's better than nothing,' she said. We'll be fin e as long as we time the tide right. Bearing in mind how much you hate the sea, the least I can do is see that you keep your feet dry before we get to the crack.' There was another gap then, fil led by the wind and the flapping of old newspaper on the tarmac o f the jetty. I looked out to the sea and back again. She sat on t he boot, her head cocked to one side, watching me. My feet?' I a sked. Your feet,' she agreed. Her smile was indulgent; maddening ly so. What about Eric? I thought you were going to do it with h im?' Only if you turn me down.' She stood up, then ducked back i nto the lee of the boot as a westerly gust threatened to knock us both flat. We'll find something with more of a challenge in it f or him later. This one is for you and me. Unless you're going to tell me now you really don't want to do it?' Maybe I should have done. I have known Lee Adams for over half my life and I know ju st where her limits are: a long way past mine in almost everythin g we do, especially on the rock. But the rain was easing and the wind was fresh and we had spent all winter planning for this one. I thought I knew where the worst bits were. Besides, in that mom ent, I really did want to do it. OK.' I pulled the car keys from my pocket and flipped then the two feet through the air to her w aiting hand. If you're sure I can do it.' I'm not sure of anythi ng. I'm not even sure I can do it. That's what we're here to find out.' She tossed the keys high up in the air and caught them aga in on the downswing. Just don't forget to trust your feet. If you can hang on to that, you'll be fine.' You hate the sea. I don't hate it. I am terrified of it. There is a difference. Not normal ly, in everyday life, I'm not afraid of it then. I can walk along the shore and breathe in the salt and feel the power of it and b e inspired with the rest of them. I respect it. I admire it. I wi sh I could paint it, or photograph it, or do something else to ca tch the extraordinary, restless beauty of it and take it home. I am not afraid of it. But put me on a two-inch tightrope of sea-gr eased rock with the water kissing the soles of my climbing shoes, with barnacles the size of walnuts knifing the palms of my hands and leathered ribbons of weed draping themselves like malign ban dages over my eyes so that the rock and the sea and the rope are all flashes seen in the darkness, then I can reach a level of ter ror that knows no bounds. ., Crimeline, 2000, 2.5<

2000, ISBN: 055357969X

[EAN: 9780553579697], Gebraucht, guter Zustand, [PU: Crimeline], MYSTERY & DETECTIVE - TRADITIONAL BRITISH,FICTION,FICTION MYSTERY/ DETECTIVE,MYSTERY/SUSPENSE,FIC,FIC022000,MYSTERY WOMEN … More...

[EAN: 9780553579697], Gebraucht, guter Zustand, [PU: Crimeline], MYSTERY & DETECTIVE - TRADITIONAL BRITISH,FICTION,FICTION MYSTERY/ DETECTIVE,MYSTERY/SUSPENSE,FIC,FIC022000,MYSTERY WOMEN SLEUTHS,FICTION / GENERAL,MYSTERY GENERAL,MURDER,MEDICAL FICTION, 304 pages. Sometimes tragedies come in waves. First Eric, irr epressible, indestructible, climbing alone. Second Joey choking, drunk - though not much more so than usual - the night after his great triumph. But then there was the statistician, overdosing on Flatliners he thought were something else. Three is a series, no t a coincidence: three men dead, three colleagues with a shared p ast. A past that is shared by the one person Kellen Stewart would trust with her life, pathologist Lee Adams. Suspect number one. Editorial Reviews Excerpt. ? Reprinted by permission. All right s reserved. Eric was on the ledge at the top of the fourth pitch, three-quarters of the way up the cliff. It was a good place to b e: high and airy with a clear view of the sea and the gulls and t he islands, an ideal spot to sit and watch the sun slide down beh ind the mountains of Jura, or to wait for two climbers on their w ay up from sea level, aiming for just that point on the ledge. We were not expecting him to be there, had made no arrangements to meet, but Eric was ever one for surprises and there's no reason, even now, to suppose it would have made the climb any faster if w e'd known he was there. It certainly wouldn't have made it any ea sier. No one said it would be easy. She didn't want it to be eas y. All the way through the winter, reading the maps and the tide tables, hanging off abseil ropes in the pouring rain, bribing fis hermen to take her closer in to the rock than any sane human bein g would want to go, Lee Adams was not looking for a climb that wa s easy. Just one step this side of impossible and no more, otherw ise what's the point? And all through winter, sitting at the top of the cliff catching the falls, driving the car to the jetty, go ing out to buy one more bottle of Scotch for a skipper who needed half a year drying out more than he ever needed another drink, I listened, as we all did, with half an ear to the moves and the h olds and the nightmare of a chimney at the base of the crack and I knew that, when the time came for her to choose a partner to cl imb it with her, she would ask Eric. Of all of us, he was the onl y one who came close to climbing at the level she climbed. He was the only one who made sense. But then, Lee doesn't climb to mak e sense. I was waiting by the car on the jetty at Tarbert on a wi nd-blown, rain-sodden Saturday afternoon less than a month ago wh en she made the last boat trip out to the cliff: one final attemp t to find a way in to the base of the crack that wasn't going to get her drowned before she ever started the climb up. I remember the sight of her, soaked and scratched and decorated in odd place s with algal streaks as she came up the path from the boat. I pul led a rucksack from the boot and passed her a T-shirt as she reac hed the car. There was no real need to ask how it went--her whole body was alive with the buzz of it, like a horse before a race, fighting the pull of the bit. She sat on the sill of the boot, st aring out to sea, her focus on something a long way out of sight. And so?' I asked. Will it go?' It's good, sometimes, to get the details. It'll go.' She nodded, chewing her bottom lip. There's only one place the boat can put in with any chance of getting ou t again in one piece and it's a real bitch of a traverse from the re along to the crack. Sixty foot of blank rock with bugger all t o hold on to but the seaweed.' She waited, expectant, as if I was supposed to have some kind of opinion on that. Traverses are no t really my thing. I haven't done enough of them to comment. I th ought there was the ledge?' I said. Sort of.' She threw the wrec ked remains of her old shirt into the boot and there was a pause as she pulled the fresh one over her head. The dry, laundered sme ll of it mellowed the ranker smells of rain and sea. It breaks up in places, but it's better than nothing,' she said. We'll be fin e as long as we time the tide right. Bearing in mind, Books<