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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 Klappentext For twenty years, John Sandford's novels have been beloved for their "ingenious plots, vivid characters, crisp dialogue and endless surprises" (The Washington Post) , and nowhere are those more in evidence than in the sudden twists and shocks of Wicked Prey.Out of Lucas Davenport's past comes a psycho nursing a violent grudge. But why go after Davenport for revenge when Davenport's young daughter is so close-and so vulnerable? Leseprobe Randy Whitcomb was a human stinkpot, a red-haired cripple with a permanent cloud over his head; a gap-toothed, pock-faced, paraplegic crank freak, six weeks out of the Lino Lakes medium-security prison. He hurtled past the luggage carousels at Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport, pumping the wheels of his cheap non-motorized state-bought wheelchair, his coarse red hair a wild halo around his head. "Get out of the way, you little motherfucker," he snarled at a blond child of three or four years. He zipped past the gawking mother and tired travelers and nearly across the elegant cordovan shoe-tips of a tall bearded man. "Out of the way, fuckhead," and he was through the door, the anger streaming behind him like coal smoke from a power plant. The bearded man with the elegant cordovan shoes, which came from a shop in Jermyn Street in London, leaned close to his companion, a dark-haired woman who wore blue jeans and a black blouse, running shoes and cheap oversized sunglasses with unfashionable plastic rims. He said, quietly, in a cool Alabama accent, "If we see yon bugger again, remind me to crack his skinny handicapped neck." The woman smiled and said, "Yon bugger? You were in England way too long." Brutus Cohn, traveling under the passport name of John Lamb, tracked the wheelchair down the sidewalk. There was no humor in his cold blue eyes. "Aye, I was that," he said. "But now I'm back." Cohn and the woman, who called herself Rosie Cruz, walked underground to the short-term parking structure, trailing Cohn's single piece of wheeled luggage. As they went out the door, the heat hit them like a hand in the face. Not as bad as Alabama heat, but dense, and sticky, smelling of burned transmission fluid, spoiled fruit and bubble gum. Cruz pushed the trunk button on the remote key and the taillights blinked on a beige Toyota Camry. "Ugly car," he said, as he lifted the suitcase into the trunk. Cohn disliked ugly cars, ugly clothes, ugly houses. "The best-selling car in America, in the least attention-getting color," Cruz said. She was a good-looking woman of no particularly identifiable age, who'd taken care to make herself mousy. She wore no makeup, had done nothing with her hair. Cohn had once seen her in Dallas, where women dressed up, and she'd astonis...
