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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 of Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist John Camp. He is the author of the Prey novels, the Kidd novels, the Virgil Flowers novels, The Night Crew , and Dead Watch . He lives in New Mexico Klappentext Lucas Davenport, "one of the best hard-case cops on the crime scene today" ( Houston Post ) returns in John Sandford's #1 New York Times bestselling Prey series... Lieutenant Davenport's sanity was nearly shattered by two murder investigations. Now he faces something worse...Two killers. One hideously scarred. The other strikingly handsome, a master manipulator fascinated with all aspects of death. The dark mirror of Davenport's soul...This is the case that will bring Davenport back to life. Or push him over the edge. With a New Introduction by John Sandford 1 Carlo Druze was a stone killer. He sauntered down the old, gritty sidewalk with its cracked, uneven paving blocks, under the bare-branched oaks. He was acutely aware of his surroundings. Back around the corner, near his car, the odor of cigar smoke hung in the cold night air; a hundred feet farther along, he’d touched a pool of fragrance, deodorant or cheap perfume. A Mötley Crüe song beat down from a second-story bedroom: plainly audible on the sidewalk, it had to be deafening inside. Two blocks ahead, to the right, a translucent cream-colored shade came down in a lighted window. He watched the window, but nothing else moved. A vagrant snowflake drifted past, then another. Druze could kill without feeling, but he wasn’t stupid. He took care: he would not spend his life in prison. So he strolled, hands in his pockets, a man at his leisure. Watching. Feeling. The collar of his ski jacket rose to his ears on the sides, to his nose in the front. A watch cap rode low on his forehead. If he met anyone—a dog-walker, a night jogger—they’d get nothing but eyes. From the mouth of the alley, he could see the target house and the garage behind it. Nobody in the alley, nothing moving. A few garbage cans, like battered plastic toadstools, waited to be taken inside. Four windows were lit on the ground floor of the target house, two more up above. The garage was dark. Druze didn’t look around; he was too good an actor. It wasn’t likely that a neighbor was watching, but who could know? An old man, lonely, standing at his window, a linen shawl around his narrow shoulders . . . Druze could see him in his mind’s eye, and was wary: the people here had money, and Druze was a stranger in the dark. An out-of-place furtiveness, like a bad line on the stage, would be noticed. The cops were only a minute away. With a casual step, then, rather than a sudden move, Druze turned into the darker world of the alley and walked down to the garage...
