Acclaim For the Work of JOHN FARRIS!
“Few writers have Mr. Farris’s talent for masterfully devious plotting, the shattering, effective use of violence, and in-depth characterization.”
—The New York Times
“A whirlpool of suspense, dread, and thrills, but also fiction of meaning and substance — phenomenal, first-rate.”
—Dean Koontz
“Inventive, sexy, and intricately plotted... superbly engrossing.”
—Publishers Weekly
“John Farris is the godfather of thriller writers.”
—F. Paul Wilson
“Farris is a real master.”
—Peter Straub
“His paragraphs are smashingly crafted and images glitter like solitaires.”
—The Philadelphia Inquirer
“Farris has the remarkable ability to jab his literary ice pick to the bone marrow.”
—Brian Garfield
“Farris puts [readers] on the edge of their seats via compelling characterization and ratcheting up the tension at every turn of a well-crafted plot.”
—Booklist
“Strong, lip-smacking suspense.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Well-drawn characters... graceful and gripping story-telling... another winner from a legendary writer.”
—Fangoria
“Farris has marvelous skill.”
—The Associated Press
“It’s amazing... The characters are as vivid as any I’ve ever read, and Mr. Farris constantly surprised me with the twists and turns of the plot. Mr. Farris is a master storyteller.”
—Larry Bond
“John Farris is more than a giant, he’s... the Tyrannosaurus Rex of thriller writers.”
—Douglas Preston
I heard it again — the sound of someone walking stealthily toward me in the sand. I rolled on my belly, gathered my legs beneath me and dived at an indistinct figure five feet away. We went down. There was a muffled sound of surprise. My hand slid along a smooth curved thigh, touched rounded breasts and full nipples. I was holding a woman as naked as I was, and holding her damned tight, the weight of my body pinning her to the sand. I backed away from her fast and she sat up. She cried out again, reached toward her breasts with protective hands.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You shouldn’t have come up behind me like that.”
“It’s... all right,” she said in a strained voice. “I’m sorry I... startled you.” Her hands came away from her breasts slowly and dropped to her knees. She sat very still, apparently looking toward me. I hadn’t held her long, but long enough for her to be perfectly aware I wasn’t dressed either. Not that it made any difference, in the dark.
“Who are you?” I said.
“I’m Diane. You... must be Pete Mallory.”
“That’s right. How did you know?”
“Macy’s talked about you. He brought you here to find the person who’s going to kill him.”
“Yes.”
She was silent for a moment. Then she stretched, rising to her toes, and relaxed. Her voice was calm again.
“Macy will tell you about me,” she said. “I’m supposed to be a little bit crazy.”
“Are you?”
She laughed girlishly. “I suppose so. I suppose I am...”
SOME OTHER HARD CASE CRIME BOOKS
YOU WILL ENJOY:
GRAVE DESCEND by John Lange
THE PEDDLER by Richard S. Prather
LUCKY AT CARDS by Lawrence Block
ROBBIE’S WIFE by Russell Hill
THE VENGEFUL VIRGIN by Gil Brewer
THE WOUNDED AND THE SLAIN by David Goodis
BLACKMAILER by George Axelrod
SONGS OF INNOCENCE by Richard Aleas
FRIGHT by Cornell Woolrich
KILL NOW, PAY LATER by Robert Terrall
SLIDE by Ken Bruen and Jason Starr
DEAD STREET by Mickey Spillane
DEADLY BELOVED by Max Allan Collins
A DIET OF TREACLE by Lawrence Block
MONEY SHOT by Christa Faust
ZERO COOL by John Lange
SHOOTING STAR/SPIDERWEB by Robert Bloch
THE MURDERER VINE by Shepard Rifkin
SOMEBODY OWES ME MONEY by Donald E. Westlake
NO HOUSE LIMIT by Steve Fisher
Baby
MOLL
by John Farris
WRITING AS ‘STEVE BRACKEEN’
A HARD CASE CRIME BOOK
(HCC-046)
Chapter One
We had fun that day, the day Rudy Mask turned up in Orange Bay to reweave the net that held me to the past. In the morning Elaine and I took the boat through the calm waters of the pass and hunted south along the coast for snook, and, later, when the chest was full, for a beach and growth of trees where we could rest and swim.
I decided on a curved narrow piece of island three or four hundred yards from the shoreline, and edged the boat into the beach. Elaine slipped over the side into shallow water to guide the keel against the sand.
“Catch me,” I said, then jumped over the side, splashing water on her swimsuit.
“Pete!” she wailed.
“So what?” I chided. “That’s what it’s for, isn’t it? To get wet?”
She backed away and waded indignantly out of the water. I followed with towels and the basket of lunch. She was good to watch. A tall girl with long legs, a smooth straight walk. She wore a blue bathing suit, cut high at the firm thighs, fitting snugly over the slender curve of waist and small breasts. Made to run, quick and laughing, along the beaches, to lie in the sun that nourished her slender strength. I had found her on a beach, and had known the ache of wanting something so much that the long months of waiting were almost unendurable.
I spread the beach towels when Elaine indicated a desirable spot. “We eat?” I said.
She turned her face to me. “Not yet.” She took off her seaman’s cap, harshly white against the glistening black of her hair, flipped at her bangs with a knuckle. Her lips formed the slanted grin I liked. “You stink of fish, mister. Bathe yourself.”
“You come too.”
“No. I—”
I took her wrist. “Come on.”
“Pete, I don’t — ” She brought the edge of her wrist up against my thumb, breaking the hold. “Don’t go cave man on me. I really don’t want to swim—”
I beat on my chest, Tarzan fashion, and made a grab for her. She choked back laughter, squirmed out of reach. I chased her toward the water, running full tilt. She stopped suddenly, ducked, stuck out a foot. I tumbled into the water, came up gasping.