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Zusatztext Praise for John Sandford’s Prey Novels “Relentlessly swift...genuinely suspenseful...excellent.”— Los Angeles Times “Sandford is a writer in control of his craft.”— Chicago Sun-Times “Excellent...compelling...everything works.”— USA Today “Grip-you-by-the-throat thrills...a hell of a ride.”— Houston Chronicle “Crackling! page-turning tension...great scary fun.”— The New York Daily News “Enough pulse-pounding! page-turning excitement to keep you up way past bedtime.” —Minneapolis Star Tribune “One of the most engaging characters in contemporary fiction.”— 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 chills...excruciatingly tense...a double-pumped roundhouse of a thriller.” —Kirkus Reviews Informationen zum Autor John Sandford is the pseudonym for the Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist John Camp. He is the author of the Prey novels; the Kidd novels; the Virgil Flowers novels; three YA novels co-authored with his wife, Michele Cook; and three other books. Klappentext "The stakes are high, the characters rich, the action relentless" (Publishers Weekly) in this Lucas Davenport novel from #1 New York Times bestselling author John Sandford. The crime spree should have ended when Lucas Davenport killed the female bank robber during the shoot-out. But it's just beginning, because the woman's husband isn't about to let Lucas-or anyone he loves-escape retribution. INCLUDES A NEW INTRODUCTION BY THE AUTHOROne Through the speakers above his head, little children sang in sweet voices, O holy night, the stars are brightly shining, it is the night of the dear Savior's birth... The man who might kill Candy LaChaise stood in the cold and watched her through the glass doors. Sometimes he could see only the top of her head, and sometimes not even that, but he never lost track of her. Candy, unaware, browsed through the lingerie, moving slowly from rack to rack. She wasn’t really interested in underwear: her attention was fixed on the back of the store, the appliance department. She stopped, pulled out a black bustier, held it up, cocked her head like women do. Put it back, turned toward the doors. The man who might kill her stepped back, out of sight. A minivan pulled to the curb and a chunky woman in an orange parka hopped out and pushed back the van’s side door. An avalanche of dumpling-like children spilled onto the sidewalk. They were of both sexes, all blond, and of annual sizes: maybe four, five, six, seven, eight and nine years old. The van headed for a parking space, while the woman herded the kids toward the doors. The man took a bottle from his pocket, stuck his tongue into the neck, tipped it up and faked a swallow or two. The woman hustled the kids past him, shielding them with her body, into the store and out of sight. That was what he wanted; he put the bottle away, and looked back through the doors. There she was, still in lingerie. He looked around, and cursed the season: the Christmas decorations, the dirty piles of hard, frozen snow along the streets, the wind that cut through his woolen gloves. His face was thin, unshaven, the skin stretched like parchment on a tambourine. Nicotine had stained his teeth as yellow as old ivory. He lit a Camel, and when he put the cigarette to his lips, his hands trembled with the cold. When he exhaled, the wind snatched away the smoke and the steam of his breath, and made him feel even colder than he was. An oily baritone, a man who’d never be Bing Crosby:...Let nothing you dismaaay, Remember Christ our ...
