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Zusatztext Praise for BONE DEEP “White keeps the action churning forward as Doc encounters both human and animal foes! but the real interest here is the archaeological backdrop. Masterfully seeding the plot with information on Florida’s ancient natural history—and its contemporary environmental challenges—White delivers a novel that perfectly blends story and landscape. We often say that fine nonfiction has the narrative drive of a good thriller! but we rarely have occasion to say that a fine thriller has all the mind-boggling fascination of compelling nonfiction.”–– Booklist (starred review) “A descent into the world of overzealous and unethical fossil collectors leads to a boat-napping! stolen artifacts! and increasingly dire threats . . . White does a fine job detailing Florida’s unique history and geography.”–– Publishers Weekly Praise for NIGHT MOVES “ Fans will still be riveted by Ford and Hannah’s tango-like mating dance. And the climax is a corker! too. Over his last several Doc Ford novels! White has vaulted to mainstream bestseller status. This one is likely to maintain the pattern.”— Booklist “Captivating . . . [an] intriguing installment.”— Publishers Weekly “ White weaves in and out of the two mysteries — the murder attempt and Flight 19 — telling the story with the same tight! vivid prose his fans have come to expect. The result is another strong addition to one of crime fiction’s most consistent series.”—Associated Press “Drawing on his usual mix of science! ecology and Florida lore! White reels in an exciting story in "Night Moves” . . . [the novel] illustrates why! after 20 novels! Ford's double life and White's attention to the Florida scenery continue to intrigue readers.”— South Florida Sun-Sentinel Informationen zum Autor Randy Wayne White is the author of twenty-one previous Doc Ford novels; the Hannah Smith novels Gone! Deceived! and Haunted ; and four collections of nonfiction. He lives on Sanibel Island! Florida! where he was a light-tackle fishing guide for many years. 1 At sunrise in November, Marion D. Ford, wearing shorts and jungle boots, jogged the tide line where Sanibel Island crescents north, and finally said, “Screw it,” tired of wind and pelting sand. To his right were colorful cottages—red, yellow, green—The Castaways, a popular resort during season, but this was Tuesday and a slow time of year. He went to the outdoor shower, thinking he’d hide his boots and swim through the breakers. He was ten pounds overweight and sick of his own excuses. A porch door opened: a woman backlit by clouds of cinnamon, the sun up but not hot enough to burn through. “Want some coffee?” She cupped her hands to be heard. “Your dog’s welcome, if he’s sociable.” No idea who the woman was. Wearing a sweatshirt, with an articulate, strong voice that suggested Midwestern genetics: a descendant of dairymaids good at sports and baking pies. Late thirties, a rental compact in the drive, only one pair of sandals outside the door: a woman on a budget vacationing alone. Ford said, “Can’t. I’m punishing myself.” The woman replied, “You, too?” and walked toward him, started to speak but stopped, got up on her toes, focusing on something out there in the waves. “What in the world . . . is that someone drowning?” Beyond the sandbar, Ford saw what might have been a barrel but one thrashing appendage told him was not. He removed his glasses. “A loggerhead, I think. This isn’t mating season, so it must be hurt.” “Logger-what?” “A sea turtle.” Ford handed her his glasses, jogged to the breakers, and duck-dived, still wearing his damn boots. The dog, which was a retriever but not a Lab or golden, swam after him. That was a mistake, too. The turtl...
