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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 "Chalk up another winner for [John Sandford] and his all-too-human hero" (Richmond Times-Dispatch) in the #1 New York Times bestselling Prey series. After one troubled college-age student disappears and two are found slashed to death, Lucas Davenport finds himself hunting what appears to be a modern-day Jack the Ripper. Unfortunately the clues aren't adding up-and then there's the young Goth girl who keeps appearing and disappearing. Where does she come from? Where does she go every night? And why does Lucas keep getting the sneaking suspicion that there is something else going on here? Something very bad, very dark, and as elusive as a phantom… 1 Something wrong here, a cold whisper ofevil. The house was a modernist relic, glass and stoneand redwood, sixty years old and gone creaky; not allhaunted houses were Victorian. Sometimes at night,when she was alone, she’d feel a sudden coolness, asthough somebody, or some thing , had just slipped by.This was different. She couldn’t pin it down, but it waspalpable. She thought about stepping back into the garage. “Who’s there?” she called. She got nothing back butan echo. The house was dark, except for desk lamps in thefront room and in the study, which were triggered byphotocells at dusk. She could hear the furnace running.Nothing else—but the hair on her forearms and theback of her neck stood upright. Some atavistic sensewas picking up a threat. She looked to her right. The arming light on thesecurity panel was steady, so the security system hadbeen disarmed. That was decisive. The house shouldbe empty, the security system should be armed. She stepped back, moving quickly, around the noseof the Jaguar to the Mercedes. She yanked open thedriver’s-side door, reached under the front seat to thestorage bin, popped the lid, and lifted out the Ladysmith.38. Stood listening again, the gun cool in her hand, andheavy. Couldn’t even hear the furnace, now. The Mercedes’sengine pinged, cooling down. The overhead garagelights were still on and she watched the door to thehouse. Something wrong, but the house felt empty. Her nose twitched. She could smell exhaust fromthe car, but when she’d stepped through the door tothe house, there’d been something else. A subtlestink that shouldn’t have been there. Not sweat, notbody odor, not perfume, not flatulence, but somethingorganic. Meat? She had her purse over her shoulder, her cell phoneright there. Call the police? What would she tell them?That something was not right? That something smelleda litt...
