Repulse Monkey: 2
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Stated First Edition. A near fine copy in a fine dust jacket. Soiling to the edges of the book's upper page block. Review copy with publisher's folded, 8 1/2" x 11" letter laid in. Rubbing along the upper edges of the letter.
Paused, waited, and then said, “There was that one other man, younger and more substantial than you, who didn’t introduce himself either. Well, later this afternoon I was visited by a detective from the Cambridge police, who did. Detective Sergeant Trevisone told me that the person who plowed over Caroline was murdered last night. He said he was visiting not so much as a part of his investigation, but as a courtesy. Yet my sense was that he wanted to know whether someone might have been exacting.
Barnacle-encrusted one to boot. He wondered how many other times it had been enunciated, sotto voce, over this same slippery table, by men or women whose fingertips traced, as his did, circles of diluted bourbon on the black Formica top. He envied the piano player, whose dry fingers glided brilliantly over shiny keys. The pianist, Meredith had said, was playing a song cycle by Franz Peter Schubert. Alex hadn’t been able to identify the composer, though he could have said it was a European who.
Suzanne-by-Sunday threat, and anyway he’d done his best to turn her in. “And another thing,” he added. “I’m in New Hampshire for the weekend, I might as well give you the number. And, um, when are you leaving for the weekend, by the way?” Laura said they were leaving as soon as they could Friday afternoon, and why? “It’s just I’m a little worried about her being freaked out by all this. Could you pick her up from school tomorrow afternoon? Instead of her coming home on the bus, by herself?”.
Graham Johnston’s sights. He grabbed both handlebars, advanced the throttle with his thumb, and suddenly was roaring down the trail. Johnston, in his silver robot suit, looked up. He tried to duck back into the woods, and fell wallowing in snow in his haste. Alex bore down, watching Johnston recover and rise to a sitting position, watching the barrel of the shotgun come up. He hung on to the handlebars while dropping to his knees behind the windscreen. The gunpowder boom clashed with the.
Whizzed by. He found himself squeezing the brake lever and wrenching the handlebars in an effort to straighten out the steering skis. Then he was lying on his side in the snow. He jumped, panic-stricken, but the shotgun lay two yards in front of him. Graham Johnston was crawling off, a silver armadillo, his fat behind waving in the air. The snowmobile rested sideways, with its treads up against one birch and its skis snapped off against another. He picked up the gun, which felt heavy in his.