2010, ISBN: 9780007127221

Hardcover

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 Da… More...

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, Arrow. Very Good. 4.33 x 1.06 x 7.01 inches. Paperback. 1999. 505 pages. <br>MysteryLarge Print Edition*A New York Times Bestse ller*A Literary Guild Selection*A Doubleday Book Club Selection*A Mystery Guild SelectionThe nation is seized by fear. A terrorist attack on a military convoy leaves scores of soldiers dead as tr uckloads of highly volatile weapons fall into the hands of an ult ra-right-wing militia. Worse yet, a fanatical preacher known as B rother Transgressor joins forces with the radical group. Now the President is demanding swift legal action against the militia and turns to attorney Martin Vail with the impossible task of nailin g the terrorists in their tracks a mission that soon explodes int o a personal nightmare for Vail as his nemesis Aaron Stampler ret urns to enact a vengeance that could bring Vail to his knees. Ed itorial Reviews From Library Journal 'So Pennington trades his war years for a ticket to the White House and Engstrom plans the second American Revolution,' Vail said. This is the premise behin d Diehl's (Show of Evil, LJ 4/15/95) new Martin Vail novel. Illin ois state attorney general Vail is called upon by President Lawre nce Pennington to seek a trial case against one of the largest mi litia outfits in the country. The leader of this outfit, Gen. Jos hua Engstrom, just happens to be an old adversary of the presiden t, putting Vail in the middle of a dangerous situation. Vail must also relive the past when unwillingly faced with his nemesis fro m years ago, serial killer Aaron Stampler, who has now become bli nd Brother Transgression. The meshing of these storylines is intr icate yet easily followed as the tension mounts. Diehl's exciting mystery teaches the reader never to think that it is over?until it is really over. Recommended for all public libraries. -?Stacey Reasor, ITT Technical Inst. Lib.,Tampa, Fla. Copyright 1997 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to the hardcover e dition. From the Back Cover William Diehl stunned readers with P rimal Fear and Show of Evil, the national bestsellers featuring C hicago lawyer Martin Vail. Now, in his gripping new novel of susp ense, Diehl enters uncharted territory, pushing Vail and the lega l system he represents to the brink of destruction. After an ult ra-right-wing militia seizes truckloads of highly volatile weapon s, the president turns to Illinois attorney general Martin Vail. His job: nail the terrorists in their tracks. Vail plunges into h is new, near-impossible mission, one that soon explodes into a pe rsonal nightmare as his most chilling adversary, Aaron Stampler, returns -- seemingly from the dead -- to exact a vengeance that c ould bring Vail to his knees.... --This text refers to the hardco ver edition. About the Author William Diehl is the author of the bestselling Sharky's Machine, Thai Horse, Hooligans, Chameleon, The Hunt (formerly titled 27), Primal Fear, and Show of Evil. He lives on St. Simons Island, Georgia, with his wife, Virginia Gunn , and his daughter, Temple. --This text refers to the hardcover e dition. From Kirkus Reviews Veteran thriller writer Diehl pits s crappy Chicago lawyer Martin Vail against Bible-thumping militia maniacs and Vail's old adversary, psychokiller Aaron Stampler, in a mindless plotboiler that never fails to please. Having succeed ed fabulously as a defense attorney (Primal Fear, 1993) and then as a district attorney (Show of Evil, 1995), crusading, street-sm art Vail is now promoted to the lofty, politically turbulent offi ce of Illinois State Attorney General. Between passionate trysts with his previous courtroom opponent, Jane Venable, Vail can't ke ep his paws (speaking of same) off corrupt politicians. Having co mmitted his too-good-to-be-billable talents to the public weal, h e effortlessly sends a pack of scalawags to jail using the RICO s tatute. He then finds himself tapped by US Attorney General Marga ret Castaigne to draw up a RICO indictment against General Joshua Engstrom, a right-wing militia commander whose wacko religious o rder, the Sanctuary, may have been behind a terrorist attack on a n Army convoy in Montana. Vail rapidly learns of Engstrom's hatre d for his former Army buddy Lawrence Pennington, now President of the United States. Before you can say Ruby Ridge all over again, Diehl tosses in Arnold Stampler, Vail's homicidal former client and nemesis, as a fundamentalist preacher who feigns blindness an d spouts marginally comprehensible hate sermons on Engstrom's rad io station. From here on, Diehl's forced and foolish story hurtle s on at full throttle, never stopping to question itself or the p reposterousness of its plot. Vail staggers from one contrived cli ffhanger to another until almost everyone is blown up except Stam pler and Vail himself, who takes a bullet through his heart but h as enough chutzpa to insult the President and thumb his nose at a federal judgeship. What a guy! Fizzy male wish-fulfillment that bulges with Clancyesque histrionics, frothing fundamentalist fome nt, and more than you want to know about hate groups and RICO ind ictments. (Literary Guild main selection/Mystery Guild selection; author tour) -- Copyright ®1997, Kirkus Associates, LP. All righ ts reserved. --This text refers to the hardcover edition. Excerp t. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One: J une 12 The dusty RV wailed along the flat interstate, its tires whining on the hot pavement. Behind the wheel was a gaunt, reed-t hin driver, his thinning black hair whipping in the furnace of ho t air that streamed through the open window. He sucked on a bottl e of water to keep from dozing, arcs of sweat staining his white shirt. It had been unmercifully hot since they left Omaha, headin g south and then due west on Interstate 80, with towns and small cities--Kearney, Cozad, Gothenburg--blurring past them as they pa ralleled the river. He drove straight into the sun, into the hot June afternoon, whizzing past the Nebraska farms and fields, uncl uttered, lonely, and dull in their sameness. As was his wont, he bitched to himself as he drove. What's the use havin' air-condi tionin' if he don't let me turn it on? A few miles later. Shakin g his head. Never knew nobody loved the heat like this one. Must be a hunerd-ten out there, he wants the damn window open. Anoth er couple of miles. Nobody t'talk to. Won't let me play the radi o when he's sleepin'. One of these days I'm gonna just doze off . .. Nodding to himself. ... bug off the road, we'll both end up wrapped in this RV in the middle of godforsakennowhere ... Tappi ng the flat of his hand on the steering wheel. ... damn buzzards eatin' our eyes out. Brother T was stretched out on a futon spr ead across two seats.He was uncomfortable sleeping in the main su ite, as he called it, while the RV was on the highway, preferring instead the double seat behind the driver. He was napping, getti ng his strength together for the confront. That's what he called the meetings, confronts. What we're doin', Mordie, we're confron tin' the devil, he would say. Gonna whip that fire-scald, son-bit ch to his knees again t'night, he would say. Praise God, praise J EE-sus. Like they were going to war or somedamnthing. But the d river wasn't complaining. It was the best job he ever had, even t hough he hated driving the flat plains where you could close your eyes for ten minutes then open them and appear to be in the same place you were when you shut them. Suddenly he perked up. Shhh ew, he said under his breath. There was a sign far ahead, dancin g among dervish heat monkeys. He squinted through his sunglasses: Brady two miles. Thank you Jay-sus, he said aloud, mimicking hi s boss in his own rolled-out south Georgia accent. Behind him, B rother T stirred. He leaned up on one elbow and craned and twiste d his neck, popping the muscles, a husky man with long blond hair that hung down to his shoulders and a heavy beard. Where we at? he asked in a voice that was low as a whisper and harsh as a fil e. Smack dab in the middle of the Lord's oven. Brother T cupped the palms of both hands under his jaws, raised his eyebrows, and very lightly rubbed the sleep from the corners of his eyes with the forefinger of each hand. Sometimes I think Gawd jes' took te n square acres of Kansas, Xeroxed 'em, and laid 'em out end on en d all over the whole damn middle of the country. Sounds like you 're flirtin' with blasphemy there, Mordie. Flirtin' with the tru th, what I'm doin', Mordachai answered, coming to a stop and turn ing right onto a narrow two-lane blacktop. What's the name of th is place again? Brady. 'Bout twenty miles this side a North Plat te. That doesn't tell me a thing. We've driven a little over tw o hunerd miles. Over halfway 'cross Nebraska since we left Omaha. It's flat, hot, and I ain't seen another car for at least an hou r. Brother T opened his eyes and stared through orbs the color o f milk. Stared at absolutely nothing. You ought to feel right at home. Sounds like south Georgia. No trees. Nothin' but hay growi n' everywhere. Wheat, Mordie, wheat. Hay is what it becomes afte r it's shorn from the bosom of the land. I'll trade a hunerd mil es of whateveryacallit for one tall pine tree. Unhappy, Mordie? Brother T admonished gently. Jes' bitchin'. Brother T chuckled. Good for the soul. And I'm soppin'. Since you never sweat, I dr ip fer the both of us. Jesus is the great leveler. Easy fer you t'say, you ain't the dripper. True. Cold's more your fashion. B rother T shivered involuntarily at the thought, rubbed his arms, then felt around the floor for the ice cooler. He snapped it open , took out a can of Coke, bent the tab under, and took a long swi g. Ahhh, he said. My mouth was as dry as stale toast. Near the cooler on the floor were four flat, varnished boxes. A sound came from one of them. Briefly. Like a babe in its sleep rolling agai nst a rattle. Easy, children, Brother T said softly, leaning ove r and brushing his fingertips across the smooth top of one of the boxes. Curl up and go back to sleep. Then to Mordachai: What are my arrangements? You're staying with one'a the preachers, name' s Harmon Jasper. Got a room fixed up in his barn for a farmhand b ut the feller quit and moved to Lincoln. Any family? Wife. Chi ldren? Mordachai paused for an instant. Mordachai ... Daughter in high school. How old? The driver stared uncomfortably at Br other T in the rearview mirror before he said, I dunno. Fifteen, sixteen. The preacher took a swig of Coke. Then he stroked his l ong blond locks with one hand and smiled. All the publicity you been gettin' on the radio, Mordachai said, and the state papers, we could maybe see a hunerd er two hunerd folks tonight. But out here in the middle a nowhere, hell, we won't scratch doodley. Tim es're so bad, nobody's got two nickels to rub t'gether. He paused for a moment, then added, If we'd a stayed outside Omaha a coupl e nights, bet we woulda had a thousand people every night, maybe took in four, five, maybe even ten thousand a night. You know I don't like the big towns. Press is too nosy. People don't give t wo hoots 'bout that. You got apostles, T, apostles. They know lie s when they read 'em. I appreciate your ardor. The preacher lean ed back and took another deep swig from the can. Besides, we've h ad some good one, two thousand dollar nights lately. He leaned ba ck in his seat, his glazed eyes flicking sideways occasionally. T ell me what you see. A drought. Fields all wilted, ground cracke d and dusty, heat squigglin' off everything ... farmhouse off the left, coupla oak trees givin' it shade and behind it's the barn, got a advertisement for chewin' tobacca painted on the side ... can't tell what kind, it's all faded and cracked. How picturesqu e. Everybody out here's hard-timin'. Ya might throw in a word fo r some rain, t'night. Excellent idea. Brother T leaned his head back, like a wolf baying, and his voice rose suddenly, still har sh and tormented, but quivering with emotion. I beseech you, swee t Jee-sus, in the name of my suffering brothers and sisters ... b athe this thirsty dust with your tears ... and give life to its p arched earth and wilted fruit. Amen, Lord, a-men! Which Book's t hat from? My very own treasury of injunctions, Brother T answere d, and chuckled. The Jasper place was a pleasant if somewhat spa rtan white frame farmhouse, boxed by the porch that surrounded it . A dusty red Chevy pickup was parked beside it, and a sturdy bar n that looked recently painted stood behind it. Fifteen or twenty skinny pigs rooted and wallowed in a sty at one side of the barn . Behind all that, a field of scorched grain spread across the fl at land toward the town of Brady, a few miles away, a large clust er of low buildings surrounded on four corners by silos, which fr om a distance, in the clear but heat-heavy air, looked like senti nels guarding a prairie fortress. The big tent was stretched out , fifty yards or so from the house at the edge of a parched field , its canvas side flaps rolled up and tied. A vague and inadequat e breeze stirred the grass around it. Nearby, several vehicles of all makes and models were parked haphazardly along the road and on the grounds. There was a sense of revelry here, of people esc aping from the moment in anticipation of comradery and redemption : a dozen women and children scurried about, chatting and laughin g and setting out plastic plates and eatingware on four long tabl es; a young teenage girl in a blue dress spun around and danced t o a song in her head; a small boy sat on the ground staring mutel y at a squirrel in one of the oaks, while other children played t ag around one of the larger trees; two men in shirtsleeves attend ed pieces of chicken sizzling over charcoal on twenty-gallon drum s that were halved and perched on sections of old train rails; fo ur women fussed over a table abounding with bowls of biscuits, co leslaw, baked beans, corn on the cob, chocolate layer cakes, and pitchers of freshly made lemonade. At the edge of the dirt road leading to the farmhouse, a mobile sign announced: Revival Meeti ng 7:30 p.m. tonight BROTHER TRANSGRESSOR Pastor, Church of Chr ist Wandering Preparing for Parousia All you can eat country di nner, 3$ 6:00-7:30 Mordachai walked across the hard earth, flap ping his damp shirt against his chest. He asked someone where he could find Jasper and was pointed to a short, r, Arrow, 1999, 3, London: HarperCollins Publishers. Good. 18 11cm. Paperback. 2004. 422 pages. <br>279 pages ; 24 cm It is night in Manhattan. The P resident of the United States is scheduled to have dinner with an old friend, but in the building across the street, a man has dis abled the security and stands at a window, a rifle in his hand. F ortunately, his attempt is not successful-but this is only the be ginning. Someone is recruiting a shadowy network of agents with t he intention of creating terror. Their range is broad, their iden tities masked, their methods subtle. White House operative Blake Johnson and his counterpart in British intelligence, Sean Dillon, set out to trace the source of the havoc, but behind the first m an they find another, and behind the second another still. And th at last man is not pleased by the interference. Soon he will targ et them all: Johnson, Dillon, Dillon's colleagues. And one of the m will fall ., HarperCollins Publishers, 2004, 2.5<

2004, ISBN: 0007127227

[EAN: 9780007127221], Gebraucht, guter Zustand, [PU: HarperCollins Publishers, London], DILLON,SEAN (FICTITIOUS CHARACTER) -- FICTION,SEAN CHARACTER),TERRORISM PREVENTION FICTION,INTELLIG… More...

[EAN: 9780007127221], Gebraucht, guter Zustand, [PU: HarperCollins Publishers, London], DILLON,SEAN (FICTITIOUS CHARACTER) -- FICTION,SEAN CHARACTER),TERRORISM PREVENTION FICTION,INTELLIGENCE OFFICERS OFFICERS,TERRORISM PREVENTION,LONDON (ENGLAND) FICTION,ENGLAND LONDON, 422 pages. 279 pages ; 24 cm It is night in Manhattan. The P resident of the United States is scheduled to have dinner with an old friend, but in the building across the street, a man has dis abled the security and stands at a window, a rifle in his hand. F ortunately, his attempt is not successful-but this is only the be ginning. Someone is recruiting a shadowy network of agents with t he intention of creating terror. Their range is broad, their iden tities masked, their methods subtle. White House operative Blake Johnson and his counterpart in British intelligence, Sean Dillon, set out to trace the source of the havoc, but behind the first m an they find another, and behind the second another still. And th at last man is not pleased by the interference. Soon he will targ et them all: Johnson, Dillon, Dillon's colleagues. And one of the m will fall, Books<

2004, ISBN: 9780007127221

London: HarperCollins Publishers. Good. 18 11cm. Paperback. 2004. 422 pages. <br>279 pages ; 24 cm It is night in Manhattan. The P resident of the United States is scheduled to ha… More...

London: HarperCollins Publishers. Good. 18 11cm. Paperback. 2004. 422 pages. <br>279 pages ; 24 cm It is night in Manhattan. The P resident of the United States is scheduled to have dinner with an old friend, but in the building across the street, a man has dis abled the security and stands at a window, a rifle in his hand. F ortunately, his attempt is not successful-but this is only the be ginning. Someone is recruiting a shadowy network of agents with t he intention of creating terror. Their range is broad, their iden tities masked, their methods subtle. White House operative Blake Johnson and his counterpart in British intelligence, Sean Dillon, set out to trace the source of the havoc, but behind the first m an they find another, and behind the second another still. And th at last man is not pleased by the interference. Soon he will targ et them all: Johnson, Dillon, Dillon's colleagues. And one of the m will fall ., HarperCollins Publishers, 2004, 2.5<

2004, ISBN: 0007127227

[EAN: 9780007127221], Gebraucht, guter Zustand, [PU: Harpercollins UK 16.08.2004.], 288 Seiten kleine Lagerspuren am Buch, Inhalt einwandfrei und ungelesen 231133 Sprache: Englisch Gewich… More...

[EAN: 9780007127221], Gebraucht, guter Zustand, [PU: Harpercollins UK 16.08.2004.], 288 Seiten kleine Lagerspuren am Buch, Inhalt einwandfrei und ungelesen 231133 Sprache: Englisch Gewicht in Gramm: 385 23,0 x 14,8 x 3,2 cm, Taschenbuch, Books<

2004, ISBN: 9780007127221

HarperCollins, 2004-08-16. Paperback. Good. Book is in good condition. All pages are intact and unmarked. Creasing to the cover., HarperCollins, 2004-08-16, 2.5