John Sandford - Mind Prey
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- Book:Mind Prey
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- Year:2008
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Sandford has always known how to twist his readers into knots and with Mind Prey hes in top form.
Chicago Tribune
John Sandfords acclaimed Prey novels have plunged readers into the darkest recesses of the criminal mind. Now, his ingenious detective, Lucas Davenport, knows he has met his matcha nemesis more intelligent, and more depraved, than any he has tracked before. A pure, wanton killer who knows more about mind games than Lucas himself.
Sandford conjures up the high anxiety his [Prey novels] are known forThis lone psychopath is among Sandfords most chilling.
The San Francisco Examiner
Crackling, page-turning tensiongreat scary fun.
New York Daily News
Impossible to put down.
Houston Chronicle
Relentlessly swiftgenuinely suspensefulexcellent.
Los Angeles Times
Sandford is a writer in control of his craft.
Chicago Sun-Times
Excellentcompellingeverything works.
USA Today
Grip-you-by-the-throat thrillsa hell of a ride.
Houston Chronicle
Crackling, page-turning tensiongreat scary fun.
New York Daily News
One of the most engaging characters in contemporary fiction.
The Detroit News
Positively chilling.
St. Petersburg Times
Just right for fans of The Silence of the Lambs.
Booklist
One of the most horrible villains this side of Hannibal.
Richmond Times-Dispatch
Ice-pick chillsexcruciatingly tensea double-pumped roundhouse of a thriller.
Kirkus Reviews
Dead Watch
Rules of Prey
Shadow Prey
Eyes of Prey
Silent Prey
Winter Prey
Night Prey
Mind Prey
Sudden Prey
Secret Prey
Certain Prey
Easy Prey
Chosen Prey
Mortal Prey
Naked Prey
Hidden Prey
Broken Prey
Invisible Prey
The Night Crew
THE KIDD NOVELS
The Empress File
The Fools Run
The Devils Code
The Hanged Mans Song
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
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Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
MIND PREY
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright 1995 by John Sandford.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 1-101-14749-0
BERKLEY
Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
The B design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
T HE STORM BLEW up late in the afternoon, tight, gray clouds hustling over the lake like dirty, balled-up sweat socks spilling from a basket. A chilly wind knocked leaves from the elms, oaks, and maples at the waters edge. The white phlox and black-eyed Susans bowed their heads before it.
The end of summer; too soon.
John Mail walked down the floating dock at Irvs Boat Works, through the scents of premix gasoline, dead, drying minnows and moss, the old man trailing behind with his hands in the pockets of his worn gabardines. John Mail didnt know about old-style machinerychokes, priming bulbs, carburetors, all that. He knew diodes and resistors, the strengths of one chip and the weaknesses of another. But in Minnesota, boat lore is considered part of the genetic pattern: he had no trouble renting a fourteen-foot Lund with a 9.9 Johnson outboard. A drivers license and a twenty-dollar deposit were all he needed at Irvs.
Mail stepped down into the boat, and with an open hand wiped a film of water from the bench seat and sat down. Irv squatted beside the boat and showed him how to start the motor and kill it, how to steer it and accelerate. The lesson took thirty seconds. Then John Mail, with his cheap Zebco rod and reel and empty, red-plastic tackle box, put out on Lake Minnetonka.
Back before dark, Irv hollered after him. The white-haired man stood on the dock and watched John Mail putter away.
When Mail left Irvs dock, the sky was clear, the air limpid and summery, if a little nervous in the west. Something was coming, he thought. Something was hiding below the treeline. But no matter. This was just a look, just a taste.
He followed the shoreline east and north for three miles. Big houses were elbow to elbow, millions of dollars worth of stone and brick with manicured lawns running down to the water. Professionally tended flower beds were stuck on the lawns like postage stamps, with faux-cobblestone walks snaking between them. Stone swans and plaster ducks paddled across the grass.
Everything looked different from the water side. Mail thought hed gone too far, but he still hadnt picked out the house. He stopped and went back, then circled. Finally, much farther north than he thought it would be, he spotted the weird-looking tower house, a local landmark. And down the shore, one-two-three, yes, there it was, stone, glass and cedar, red shingles, and, barely visible on the far side of the roof, the tips of the huge blue spruces that lined the street. A bed of petunias, large swirls of red, white, and blue, glowed patriotically from the top of a flagstone wall set into the slope of the lawn. An open cruiser crouched on a boat lift next to the floating dock.
Mail killed the outboard and let the boat drift to a stop. The storm was still below the trees, the wind was dying down. He picked up the fishing rod, pulled line off the reel and threaded it through the guides and out the tip. Then he took a handful of line and threw it overboard, hookless and weightless. The rats-nest of monofilament drifted on the surface, but that was good enough. He looked like he was fishing.
Settling on the hard bench seat, Mail hunched his shoulders and watched the house. Nothing moved. After a few minutes, he began to manufacture fantasies.
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