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Informationen zum Autor P.J. Tracy is the pseudonym of mother-daughter writing duo P.J. and Traci Lambrecht, winners of the Anthony, Barry, Gumshoe, and Minnesota Book Awards. Their first four novels, Monkeewrench , Live Bait , Dead Run , and Snow Blind have become national and international bestsellers. P.J. Lambrecht is a college dropout with one of the largest collections of sweatpants in the world. She was raised in an upper-middle class family of very nice people, and turned to writing to escape the hardships of such a life. She had her first short story published in The Saturday Evening Post when Traci was eight, still mercifully oblivious to her mother’s plans to eventually trick her into joining the family business. She has been a moderately successfully free-lance writer ever since, although she has absolutely no qualifications for such a profession, except a penchant for lying. Traci Lambrecht spent most of her childhood riding and showing horses. She graduated with a Russian Studies major from St. Olaf College in Northfield Minnesota, where she also studied voice. Her aspirations of becoming a spy were dashed when the Cold War ended, so she instead attempted briefly and unsuccessfully to import Eastern European folk art. She began writing to finance her annoying habits of travel and singing in rock bands, and much to her mother’s relief, finally realized that the written word was her true calling. They have been writing together ever since. Klappentext The FBI asks the ingenious Monkeewrench crew to help them find the chilling link between a dead bride found floating in the Mississippi and a series of gruesome murder videos posted anonymously on the Web- before the killer claims his next victim... Leseprobe Prologue From top to bottom and everywhere in between, Minnesota was a bleak and frigid place in January, whether you were shivering on a blizzard- swept western prairie or paralyzed under a foot of snow smack in the middle of Minneapolis. But there was no greater sense of winter desolation than on the north shore of Lake Superior, where the big water that looked like an ocean was forever pushing enormous blocks of sharded ice against one shore or another. The past two weeks had been particularly cruel to the lake. A parade of low- pressure systems had stalled, battling each other for command of the winds, freezing the great body of water almost to the horizon line. It was profoundly disturbing to see something so powerful completely subdued, like King Kong in chains on a Broadwaystage. Randy Coulter had a lot of empathy for the lake, because he knewwhat it felt like to be the helpless victim of a greater force, trappedby circumstances he was powerless to change. But that was the oldRandy— the new, improved Randy finally had the power to makethings happen. And if he could muster the guts, he’d make somethinghappen today. The trail on the edge of the cliff provided spectacular winterscapeviews for the snowshoers and cross- country skiers who frequentedthe winter resorts along the shore, and their numbers were legion inthe week between Christmas and New Year’s. City dwellers accustomedto the protective environment of crosswalks and guardrailsflocked to the north in a foolish fit of adventure, where you actuallyhad to rely on your own good sense instead of the nanny state tokeep you safe. Randy slipped out of his snowshoes and off the groomed trail,testing each step toward the edge of the cliff with a pole to makesure there was frozen earth beneath the windswept snow. Thecloser he got to the lip of eternity, the colder the wind that blewon his face. He began to despair, thinking that no would- be athletewould venture out on such a day, when the barometer rose and thetemperatures plummeted. They were all inside their cozy cabins andresort rooms, frolicking in hot tubs or drinking in front of a ...
