Deadly Cross (Alex Cross Book 28)

About the Author James Patterson is the world's bestselling author. The creator of Alex Cross, he has produced more enduring fictional heroes than any other novelist alive. He lives in Florida with his family. --This text refers to the hardcover edition. Review "[Patterson's] books don't pussyfoot around when it comes to the villains. These are bad, bad people." -- "Al Roker, praise for the author" "Patterson never, and I mean never, disappoints." -- "USA Today, praise for the author" "Patterson's novels are sleek entertainment machines, the Porsches of commercial fiction, expertly engineered and lightning fast." -- "Publishers Weekly, praise for the author" --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.

Cross Justice (Alex Cross Book 23)

About the Author James Patterson has had more New York Times bestsellers than any other writer, ever, according to Guinness World Records . Since his first novel won the Edgar Award in 1977 James Patterson's books have sold more than 300 million copies. He is the author of the Alex Cross novels , the most popular detective series of the past twenty-five years, including Kiss the Girls and Along Came a Spider . He writes full-time and lives in Florida with his family. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Review Narrator Ruben Santiago Hudson infuses Alex with his own blend of passion and vigor to make this presentation his own. As Alex's search for the real killer sends him deep into his own family's secrets, Hudson's voice peels back layers of raw and heartrending emotion. Jefferson Mays provides counterpoint to Hudson's performance with his skillful creation of the depraved killer. Together, the two narrators anchor the plot with enduring performances and bring Alex home at last. -- "AudioFile" Patterson's Alex Cross is back again in another crazy, suspenseful mystery that keeps readers on the edge of their seats. Patterson's writing style never disappoints, with his characters still seeming fresh even more than twenty novels in. No story is the same, and this book is as worthy a read as all the ones before it. -- "RT Book Reviews (4 stars)" --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.

Golden Prey (A Prey Novel Book 27)

The People vs. Alex Cross

About the Author James Patterson is one of the most popular writers of all time, with more than three hundred million copies of his books sold worldwide. He holds the record for most New York Times bestsellers and is the author of the two most popular detective series of the past decade, the Alex Cross novels and the Women's Murder Club. Patterson has won an Edgar Award, the mystery world's highest honor, and his novels Kiss the Girls and Along Came a Spider were made into feature films. His lifelong work to promote books and reading is reflected in his website ReadKiddoRead.com, which helps parents, grandparents, teachers, and librarians find the very best children's books for their kids. Patterson is a recipient of the Los Angeles Times' 2015 Innovator's Award. --This text refers to the mp3_cd edition. Review "Behind all the noise and the numbers, we shouldn't forget that no one gets this big without amazing natural storytelling talent--which is what James Patterson has, in spades. The Alex Cross series proves it." ― Lee Child "It's no mystery why James Patterson is the world's most popular thriller writer: his uncanny skill in creating living, breathing characters we truly feel for and seamless, lightning-fast plots. I do this for a living, and he still manages to keep me guessing from the first to last page. Simply put: Nobody does it better." ― Jeffrey Deaver "James Patterson is The Boss. End of."― Ian Rankin "The page-turningest author in the game right now."― San Francisco Chronicle "Patterson has mastered the art of writing page-turning bestsellers."― Chicago Sun-Times --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.

Ocean Prey (A Prey Novel Book 31)

Review “Entertaining. . . Fans will enjoy seeing the two old buddies and their cohorts wading into dangerous [sic] waters.”— Publishers Weekly About the Author John Sandford is the pseudonym for the Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist John Camp. He is the author of twenty-nine Prey novels; four Kidd novels; twelve Virgil Flowers novels; three YA novels coauthored with his wife, Michele Cook; and three other books. --This text refers to the paperback edition. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. The Muggers Lucas Davenport used his phone's flashlight to illuminate the cut through the knee-high wall, and from there, to the path that led down to Fort Lauderdale Beach. Early-morning traffic down Beach Boulevard was quiet, the subdued hum of small SUVs and sedans. The cars turning left off Sunrise Boulevard played their headlights across his back as he walked, throwing his shadow on the white sand. Out on the Atlantic, he could see a bare hint of the coming dawn. Lucas walked across the sand until he was a dozen feet from the water, where the smell of seaweed pressed against his face like a hand. He sat down, took off his shoes and socks. He sat there for a while, as the eastern horizon grew brighter. Not much was going through his head-the light, the smell of the seaweed, the sound of salt water breaking up the beach. A breeze sprang up with the dawn, but was barely strong enough to push the six-inch rollers ashore. After a while, he noticed that the world was beginning to light up. His phone rang. He dug it out of his jacket pocket and turned it off without answering, or even looking at it. At some point, the rim of the sun broke the edge of the horizon, a brilliant arc throwing rippling orange slashes across the water. A sportfishing boat went by, a half mile out. Then the muggers showed up. Two men, one Anglo, one Hispanic, both thin, dark-haired, wearing worn dark clothing, their faces weathered from life on the street, like driftwood boards. Lucas knew they were muggers by the way they approached, a certain crablike walk, a phony confidence, an attitude that could turn in a moment from friendliness to naked aggression and then possibly to retreat, if Lucas should turn out to be something unexpected. They checked him out, a guy in a sport coat barefoot on the sand, maybe shaking off a drunk? A gold watch on the left wrist, right hand in his lap. He looked at them and said, "Hey, guys." The Anglo said, "Nice watch you got." Lucas: "Got it from my wife for my birthday. A Patek Philippe. Twenty-eight thousand dollars, if you can believe that. I told her we should have sponsored some hungry kids somewhere. She said that we already did that and I should have some nice things." The guy in back stopped and hooked his friend's elbow to slow down his approach; the feral sense that something was not right. "You okay?" the lead mugger asked. Lucas said, "No." He slipped his right hand out of his lap, and held it straight up in front of his nose; he was gripping a black Walther PPQ. One of the muggers said, "Whoa." "Why were you guys going to mug me? Don't bullshit me, tell me the truth," Lucas said. "You gonna stick something in your arm? Stick something up your nose? Or what?" They stuttered around for a moment, looking like they might run, but there was no place to hide on the empty beach and running through the sand would be slow. Much slower than a bullet. The Anglo guy said, "Mostly looking for something to eat. Ain't had nothing to eat since yesterday morning." "Okay." Lucas sat motionless for a few seconds, the muzzle of the gun straight up to the sky, between his hands, as though he were praying, and then he fished in his jacket pocket for his wallet, extracted a bill, folded it into quarters, and tossed it across the sand. "Pick it up," he said. The Anglo looked at his friend, then eased carefully forward, stopped, and picked up the bill. "Fifty bucks." "Fifty bucks," Lucas said. "Go get something to eat." They backed away, watching him, then turned and moved away more quickly. Before they were out of earshot, Lucas called, "Hey. Guys." They stopped and looked back. "When I get up from here and walk down the beach, if I see you jumping someone, I'll fuckin' kill both of you. You understand?" The Hispanic guy said, "Yes, sir." And the two of them hotfooted it down the beach path to the street and out of sight. Lucas looked back out at the ocean. The sun was halfway above the horizon now, the orange burning off, going to yellow. Another day. Wasn't going to be a good one. July Chapter One Five years earlier, the high school guidance counselor sat Barney Hall down and said, "Barney, you're bright enough, but you're not college material. Not yet." He was looking over Hall's standard test scores and other accumulated records from thirteen years in the Lower Cape May Regional School District. "You're not mature for your age. If you hadn't been sent to detention once a week, you wouldn't have done any studying at all." Hall was a cheerful, good-looking, middle-sized kid with broad shoulders and bright white teeth, who must have said a hundred times in his life, "Watch this-and hey, hold my beer, willya?" He had a girlfriend named Sue, whom he'd known since fourth grade, who was happy to hold his beer, most of the time, and then apply the bandages afterward. Hall worked after school and all summers as a mechanic in his dad's yacht salvage yard, or junkyard, depending on who was doing the talking. "I'm trying to do better, sir," he told the counselor. "Don't bullshit me, son. Would I be correct in believing that you were drinking beer at Toby Jones's wedding last weekend and got drunk and fell off the dock and damn near drowned?" "I'm a good swimmer, sir. There was no danger." "That's not the point, Barney. Anyway, if you want to do anything in life, you need to get serious, and right quick. Knowing you, looking at these records, I'm thinking your best course would be the military. The military would give you responsibility from day one. If you don't come through, they'll slap your ass in the brig. You need that discipline. Mind, I'm not saying the Marine Corps. You're way too smart for that." "I wasn't thinking college, not right away," Hall said. "I've been talking with Sue, and . . . how about the Coast Guard, sir? There're some Coasties that hang out at my dad's place and I like listening to them talk. I've been on the water and working on boats all my life." The counselor poked a finger at him: "That's the smartest thing I ever heard you say, Barney. You do a few years in the Coast Guard, get yourself some rank and responsibility and they'll even send you to college when you're ready. God help me, you could wind up an officer." "Whoa. That'd be awesome, sir." "And do me a favor, son. Get rid of that T-shirt." The T-shirt featured a basketball-sized, full-color image of a bantam rooster, with the legend, everything's bigger in texas. Hall looked down at the T-shirt. "It's just a chicken, sir." "It's a cock," the counselor said. "You know it and I know it. I don't want to see it in this school again." Hall married Sue the June after high school graduation, joined the Coast Guard at the end of a glorious summer, and after boot camp and advanced training, was stationed in Fort Lauderdale. Sue Hall went to Broward College and became a registered nurse and started working on a bachelor's degree in nursing. Hall found the boatyards of Marina Mile to be the most amazing places he'd ever been. When Sue got pregnant with their first one, he got off-duty work rebuilding diesel engines in one of the Marina Mile engine shops. The extra work would get them childcare money so Sue could finish her BS degree. At night, they'd drink PBR under palm trees in their trailer park, until Sue got pregnant, when they switched to ginger ale, and she'd say, "Barnes, we're gonna do good in life. I can feel it coming on." The owner of the engine shop had a pile of old boats out back, which he couldn't sell, and Hall kept looking at a 1999 Boston Whaler 260 Outrage that had been stripped of the twin outboards and had a hole in the hull, and now sat derelict atop a tandem trailer with two flat tires on each side, overgrown with weeds. After some talk, the owner agreed to give Hall the boat along with two badly abused, but salvageable, Merc 225s and the trailer-all Hall had to do was work five additional unpaid hours a week, in the evenings and on weekends, on top of his regular weekend shift, for two years, and the boat was his. Plus, he could use the shop and its tools to rehab the trailer and the Mercs and do whatever fiberglass work the boat needed. The boat was solid, except for the hole, which could be fixed. ThatÕs the entire backstory as to why Hall, Sue, and their first boy, Lance, almost a one-year-old, were trolling down the debris line on the outer reef south of Pompano Beach, Florida, looking for dorado-mahi-mahi-when Hall spotted something unusual happening with a snazzy-looking Mako center console a half mile ahead of them. He said, ÒSue, hand me the glasses.Ó The Mako had two white outboards hanging off the back, which Hall recognized as big 350s, giving the boat seven hundred horses with which to get across the ocean. "What's out there, Barnes?" Sue asked. She was a rangy young woman, would have been a cowgirl in Texas, sunburnt, fighter-pilot blue eyes, her rose-blond hair frizzy from salt water. "Something strange going on, babe. I've been watching him, 'cause that's a sharp boat. All of a sudden it slowed down and stopped and it looks like it picked up a diver in the middle of the ocean. I mean, who was already in the middle of the ocean before they got there. Went right to him." "You don't see that every day," Sue said. Hall was still on the glasses. "He's, uh, looks like they've got some lift bags coming over the side . . . in the middle of the ocean." "Maybe picking up some bugs?" She was referring to spiny lobsters. "From a guy they left in the middle of the ocean?" Sue said, with a sudden urgency, "Barnes, I've got a bad feeling about this. Let's turn around. Bring the boat back north." "Yeah." That seemed like a good idea. Hall turned the boat in a wide fisherman's semicircle and headed back north, but kept watching the Mako through the glasses. He was careful to be standing behind the center console when he used the binoculars, because he'd learned early in his Coast Guard training that if you saw somebody whose arms, head, and chest formed an equilateral triangle, they were looking at you through binoculars-and every few minutes, one of the men on the Mako would check them out with binoculars. Twenty minutes after it stopped, the sleek-looking craft lurched forward and headed south. Hall got his cell phone, called in to the watch officer at the Coast Guard station at Fort Lauderdale. "Sir, this is Barney Hall. I'm south of Pompano Beach in my own boat, but I saw something strange out here. There's a black-and-white Mako 284 heading toward Port Everglades. We saw him picking up something from the middle of the ocean. He was running fast, then stopped, and there was a diver waiting for him right there in the water. There were no other boats around, no dive flag. They were using lift bags . . ." "Can you stay with him, Hall?" "No, sir, not entirely, he's running fast. I can keep him in sight until he makes the turn. I'll be a mile back of him by then." "He looked suspicious?" "Yes, he did, sir. If I was on duty, I'd stop him, for sure." "We'll do that, then. We'll have somebody waiting for him inside." Hall told Sue to put on her life jacket and bring in the fishing lines; the baby was already wrapped in a fat orange PFD. He turned the boat and they tracked the Mako until it made the turn into the Port Everglades cut. Hall got back on his phone and called the watch officer and said, ÒItÕs Hall, sir, heÕs making the turn.Ó "We're on it, Hall. Good job." The Mako was ambushed by a Coast Guard RIB-rigid inflatable boat-which had orange inflatable tubes wrapped around a hard-shell hull. The petty officer second class who was running the boat got on channel 16 and called, ÒMako 284 Chevere, this is the United States Coast Guard coming up behind to make a courtesy inspection. Cut your speed to five knots and hold your course. WeÕll board you from the starboard side.Ó Coast Guard inspection boats were usually larger RIBs with pilothouses; the boat that had been scrambled to intercept the Mako was smaller, three men aboard, no pilothouse. The Coast Guard boat pulled up behind the Mako and the petty officer in the bow saw two men waiting in the stern-bulky guys, dressed like sport fishermen, bright-colored shirts and shorts, sunglasses, and billed hats. Then, as they were a few feet off, ready to board, one of the men on the stern of the Mako lifted up a heavy long-nosed black rifle with a red-dot sight. With a motion that was practiced and almost graceful, he shot the two Coast Guardsmen in the bow, and then twice shot the PO2 who was running the boat. The four shots together took no more than two seconds. The gun barked, rather than banged, a flat noise because of the suppressor on the barrel; the gunshots were loud, but not especially audible over the sound of the boat engines. The PO2 had killed the boat's speed for the boarding and when he saw the rifle come up he reached forward to hit the accelerator, but a bullet took him in the throat and then another in the chest, and the slugs turned him away and he fell into the bottom of the boat, dying, blood spreading around him on the wet floor, a purple flood. The Coast Guard boat turned into a slow circle across the wide port and the Mako accelerated away. As the Mako left, Hall, Sue, and the baby nosed through the cut in their rehabbed Whaler and saw the Coast Guard boat turning away from it. Hall watched for a moment, then said, "There's something wrong, Sue." "Get over there," Sue said. "That Mako's running like a thief in the night. I'll get the gun." They kept a .38 Special in a waterproof can down an equipment hatch. --This text refers to the paperback edition. Read more

Triple Cross: The Greatest Alex Cross Thriller Since Kiss the Girls

About the Author James Patterson is the world's bestselling author. The creator of Alex Cross, he has produced more enduring fictional heroes than any other novelist alive. He lives in Florida with his family. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.

Criss Cross (Alex Cross Book 27)

Review "Alex is racing from crime scene to crime scene, spotting familiar details linked to Cross family secrets and knowing his life is on the line." -- "Library Journal" --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. About the Author James Patterson is the world's bestselling author. The creator of Alex Cross, he has produced more enduring fictional heroes than any other novelist alive. He lives in Florida with his family. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

Bloody Genius (A Virgil Flowers Novel Book 12)

Review “[A] smartly plotted mystery.”— New York Times Book Review More Praise for Bloody Genius “Sandford is a terrific storyteller who can spin an intriguing tale without having to fill it with death-defying mayhem. . . Armchair sleuths who are intent on solving the crime for themselves will need to be on their toes.”— Minneapolis Star Tribune “Compulsively readable. . . Readers who like a bit of unrepentant wiseass in their sleuths will find Flowers fits the bill. Sandford makes blending humor and mystery look easy.”— Publishers Weekly “Flowers remains one of the great modern fictional detectives, and Sandford, as always, supplies amazing secondary characters, sharp dialogue, and plots that confound and amaze. A near-perfect crime novel.”— Booklist (starred review) “[A] fast-paced, intensifying adventure. As always, the investigation is intricately plotted, while details of Flowers's family life are included for fans of the character. . . The irreverent humor and language is perfect for the unconventional law officer in the darkly entertaining series.”— Library Journal (starred review) “[Sandford] appears to have no shortage of story ideas. More impressively, he continues to execute them brilliantly. . . Another dazzling whodunit.”— The Real Book Spy “Steadily absorbing revelations of all manner of malfeasance, beautifully handled.”— Kirkus Reviews About the Author John Sandford is the pseudonym for the Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist John Camp. He is the author of twenty-nine Prey novels; four Kidd novels; twelve Virgil Flowers novels; three YA novels coauthored with his wife, Michele Cook; and three other books. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One Barthelemy Quill led his companion through the murk and up the library stairs toward his personal study carrel. Though Quill was normally restrained to the point of rigor mortis, she could hear him breathing, quick breaths, excited. They'd been there before, and the woman found the experience both weird and interesting. She was a step behind him, and lower, and she reached out and stroked his thigh. But at the top of the stairs, Quill put out a hand, pressing it back against her chest, and whispered, "Shh. There's a light." The library was never entirely dark, not even in the middle of the night, but there'd never before been a moving light. She could see one now, no brighter than an iPhone, dancing like a ghost through the bookshelves. Not a security guard. It was an iPhone, she thought. Not the flashlight, but the much weaker screen light. Quill moved away from her and closer to the light-he was wearing gray dress slacks, a gray knit dress shirt, and a black sport coat, so he was basically invisible in the dark. The woman felt a chill crawl up her arms and she stepped sideways into the book stacks. She'd learned well the lesson of trusting her instincts about trouble. She turned a corner on one of the stacks and crouched, listening in the silence. Then Quill's voice: "Hey! Hey! Where'd you get . . . I'm calling the police! You stay right where you're at." Then a wet Whack! And, after a second, another. Whack! The sound was heavy and violent, as if delivered with a crowbar. The whacks were followed by a couple of bumps. And not another word from Quill. The woman crunched herself up, made herself smaller, opened her mouth wide to silence her breathing, a trick she'd learned in another life while taking singing lessons. Like Quill, she'd dressed in dark clothing, as their entry into the library was unauthorized and possibly illegal. Before this moment, that had added another thrill to their clandestine meetings. Now . . . Something terrible had happened, she thought. After the whacks and subsequent bumps, there was a deep silence, as though the iPhone user were listening. That was followed by shuffling noises, more bumps, a door closed and a locked turned, and then the weak iPhone light reappeared. She never saw the person with the phone but kept her arms over her face and her head down: faces shine in the dark, and eyes are attracted to eyes. She heard light footsteps fading away, risked a look up and saw the iPhone light disappearing around the corner toward the stairs. The killer was just as stunned. Quill had come out of nowhere, as the killer stood by the open carrel door, laptop in hand. QuillÕs face had been twisted with anger. HeÕd shouted, ÒHey! Hey!Ó and something else, then, ÒIÕm calling the police!Ó Quill'd turned away, and, without thinking, panicking, the killer had lifted the laptop computer and brought it down on Quill's head. After the first blow, Quill had said, "Ah!" and gone down, and his forehead had hit the edge of the carrel desk and his head had turned. His gray eyes jerked to the assailant, but had already begun to dim, as he sank to his hands and knees. The killer swung the notebook again and this time Quill went flat on the floor. The DreamBook Power P87 made an excellent weapon, not because of its Intel Xeon i7 processor, or its 64 gigs of RAM, or its high-definition display, but because it weighed more than twelve pounds and had sharp corners. By comparison, an Irwin Tools fiberglass-handled general purpose claw hammer, an otherwise excellent weapon, weighs only sixteen ounces, a pound. When the killer sank the computer into the back of QuillÕs head, the professor smacked the desk with his forehead, his head turned, and his eyes twisted toward his assailant, and he dropped to his hands and knees like a poleaxed ox, if oxen have hands and knees. A blow followed, a downward chop like that of a guillotine blade. The later autopsy suggested the first blow had been sufficient enough to kill, if the assailant had been willing to wait a minute. He hadn't. The second impact certainly finished the job, and Quill lay sprawled across the floor and partially under the carrel desk, leaking both blood and cerebrospinal fluid. Quill never felt much pain, only an awareness of the blows and his beginning to fall. The lights went out, and he dropped into a darkness deeper than any sleep. The library carrel had been his own personal cubbyhole, renewed semester by semester over the years. Strictly speaking, that shouldn't have been the case, but Quill was rich and handsome and famous for his research into innovative therapies for spinal nerve injuries. So he got by with it. And it had become a go-to place for his late-night sexual assignations, away from all eyes. The killer had a thousand thoughts raging through his head. Near the top, however, was: Get out! And: DNA! And: Fingerprints! The library was nearly silent, broken only by the vague clicks and hums of any building at night with heaters and fans. The killer stood listening, then looked down at the body, licked his lips once, thinking. The laptop came with a soft plastic cover. He used it to wrap one of his hands and then dragged Quill's leg from the doorway into the carrel, where, with the door closed, the body couldn't be easily seen through the narrow translucent window. His heart was pumping hard, he was breathing like a steam engine. He tried to calm himself, took a moment, stepped on something. The fob to Quill's BMW lay on the floor where he'd dropped it, along with his cell phone. The killer picked up the cell, the keys, and the murder weapon, took another moment to listen. As expected, the library was empty and dead silent: it closed at six o'clock, and he'd murdered Quill at the stroke of midnight. The killer left the carrel at three minutes after midnight, pulled his black ball cap farther down over his eyes and tilted his head down to defeat any cameras. He locked the carrel door and started toward the stairs. The hair on the back of his neck suddenly bristled, like from the chill you'd get walking past a cemetery. He stopped. Was he alone? He listened, heard nothing. He walked slowly and quietly down the stairs to the first floor, creeping through it on his soft-soled running shoes, and out the door. The river was right there. He went to the walkway running alongside it, stopped under a light to separate the professor's keys from their fob and threw the fob in the river. The keys went in his pocket; he might find a use for them. He continued across a bridge to the other side, saw no one. He stopped to put the computer and its soft cover in his backpack. The cell phone went into a "Mission Darkness" Faraday bag with a see-through window, along with his own. Quill had begun making a call to 911 when he was killed, so the killer had access to the phone's operation and could keep it working with the occasional poke. Back inside the library, QuillÕs companion waited, frozen in place, for what seemed like hours-maybe ten minutes. After the iPhone light disappeared, she had not heard another thing. Taking a chance, she dug silently in her purse and found the switchblade she'd purchased in Iowa, where they were legal, as personal protection. She wrapped the knife in the tail of her jacket and pushed the button that popped open the razor-sharp four-and-seven-eighths-inch serrated blade, the mechanical unlatching muffled by the cloth. She listened for another moment, then crawled down the aisle between the book stacks, got to her knees, then to her feet, and slipped over to the carrel. The door had a small, vertical-slit window, but with translucent glass. She muttered, "Shit," and waited, and waited, listening, tried the door, but it was locked. She turned on her iPhone's flashlight and directed it down through the window but couldn't see anything at all through the cloudy pane. Nothing was moving inside. Quill, she thought, might be dead. He was probably badly hurt, at the least. She should call the police; but she wasn't the type. The thought held her for a moment. She didn't owe Quill. He'd brought her into this. If he was still alive, and survived, she could tell him that she ran away and never knew that he'd been hurt. The decision made, she turned off the light and slipped through the library, her lips moving in a prayer that wasn't a prayer, because she didn't know any, but simply a Please! Please! Please! addressed to any god who might be tuned in. She made it down the stairs and out into the river air, the Mississippi curling away beneath the bridge with anything but innocence: it had seen more murders than any single man or woman ever would. A half block from the library, the woman folded the knife but kept it in her hand, her thumb on the spring release. On the far side of the bridge, she was swallowed up by the night. Because he was murdered on a Friday night and had no firm appointments over the weekend, and missed only one day at the lab, QuillÕs body wasnÕt found until Tuesday, when an untoward odor began leaking under the carrelÕs locked door. Definitely not coffee. Inquiries were made, a second key was found, the door was opened, the cops were called. Quill had lived alone since his third wife moved out. Neither of his first two wives, nor his estranged third, made any secret of the fact that they thoroughly disliked him. A two-week investigation produced baffled cops. The cops didn't think they were baffled-not yet, anyway-but the Star Tribune and local television stations agreed that they were. And who do you believe, the cops or the mainstream media? When no suspect had been produced after two weeks, Quill's well-connected sister, co-heir to their father's wildly successful company, Quill Micro-Sprockets, called her old friend and a major political donee, the governor of Minnesota. The governor called the commissioner of the Department of Public Safety; the commissioner called the director of the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension; the BCA director called one of his supervisory agents; the supervisory agent, after a comprehensive course of vulgarity, obscenity, and profanity, made a call of his own. At the end of the daisy chain was a Flowers. Chapter Two Virgil Flowers walked out of a cafŽ in Blue Earth, Minnesota, slightly bilious after a dinner of brown slices of beef and brown gravy over brown potatoes and dead green beans, coconut cream pie on the side, with a pointless Diet Coke. He had to quit all that; he knew it, but hadn't yet done it. He burped and the burp tasted . . . brown. He'd taken three steps out the door before he noticed a motley group of twenty people standing in the parking lot, staring up at the sky to the south. When he turned to look, he saw the UFO. There was no question about it, really. The alien craft was obviously far away, but still appeared to be more than half the size of a full moon. It was motionless, hovering over the countryside like a polished dime, brilliantly lit, alternating gold and white light, almost as bright as the setting sun, and hard to look at without squinting. A man dressed like a farmer, in mud-spattered jeans and muddier gum boots, said wisely, "It only appears to be motionless. It's probably a jumbo jet headed into the Twin Cities, flying low and right toward us. The sun's hitting it at just the right angle, and we're getting a reflection." A pale woman with orange-blond dreadlocks, and the voice of a high school teacher, said, "No, it's not a jet. It's not moving. Line it up with that phone pole and you see it's not moving." Virgil and the farmer edged sideways to line the UFO up with the telephone pole, and the woman was right; the UFO wasn't moving. The farmer exhaled heavily, and said, "Okay. I got nothin'." More people were coming out of the cafŽ, attracted by the crowd in the parking lot. A man in a plaid sport jacket said, "This could be the start of something big." "Like an invasion," the dreadlocks lady said. She mimed a shudder. "Like in Cloverfield. You don't know exactly what it is, but it's coming and it's bad." "Wouldn't they invade Washington or someplace like that?" a thin man asked. "Why would they invade Iowa?" A jocko-looking guy said, "Not because they're recruiting for a pro football team," and he and a jocko friend, who was wearing a red University of Minnesota jacket, exchanged high fives. Somebody said, "I left my camera at home. Wouldn't you know it? Probably see Bigfoot on the way back." A short, fat mail carrier: "I saw a show where the aliens completely wasted LA, but it turned out everything was being controlled from one central bunker, and when the Army hit that, all the aliens' tanks and shit quit working." "Independence Day," somebody said. "Where they nuked the mother ship, and then the fighters could get through the force fields?" "No, I saw that one, too, but this was a different movie," the letter carrier said. "Ground troops in LA. Got the aliens with a bazooka or something." A young man with black-rimmed glasses and slicked-back dark hair said, with the voice of authority, "Battle: Los Angeles. Thirty-five percent on the Tomatometer. The ground squad lit them up with a laser indicator so American fighters could target the alien HQ. Or maybe they called in the artillery, I don't precisely recall." A young woman in a jewel-blue nylon letter jacket that matched her eyes said, "I hope they don't get us pregnant with those monster things like in Aliens. You know, that ate their way out of your womb when they hatched." "I don't think that was Aliens," the authoritative young man said. "But just in case, maybe you oughta get a lotta good lovin' before they arrive." Jewel Blue, the voice of scorn: "Dream on, Poindexter." Virgil scratched his chin, momentarily at a loss. He was a tall, thin, blue-eyed man, with blond hair curling well down over his ears. He was wearing a canvas sport coat over a ÒMoon TaxiÓ T-shirt and jeans, with cowboy boots and a blue ball cap. As an official law enforcement officer of the state of Minnesota-LÕƒtoile du Nord-he thought he should do something about an alien invasion but didnÕt know exactly what. Call it in maybe? --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Read more

By Light We Knew Our Names

Review "In these wonderful stories, Anne Valente shows again and again her talent for extracting the obsessions and anxieties and wonder of childhood, then extrapolating them across the whole of a life: Here feelings manifest as objects, relationships exist as gifts physically given, and every page contains a thrilling combination of sadness and joy, humor and loss, science and mystery and magic. By Light We Knew Our Names is a striking debut, reminiscent of Aimee Bender and Lorrie Moore, but with a bright promise all its own." —Matt Bell, author of In the House Upon the Dirt Between the Lake and the Woods "In general, issues trump characterization in these stories; well-crafted and perhaps overly solemn, they are the kind of fare that used to appear in the 'better' women’s magazines. Valente’s territory may be small, but she covers it with insight and depth." — Publishers Weekly About the Author Anne Valente's fiction appears in Hayden's Ferry Review, Ninth Letter, The Journal and Redivider, among others, and her essays appear in The Washington Post and The Believer. She is also the author of the fiction chapbook, An Elegy for Mathematics (Origami Zoo Press, 2013). Winner of Copper Nickel's 2012 Fiction Prize, her work was listed as notable in Best American Non-Required Reading 2011. Originally from St. Louis, she currently lives in the Midwest.

The Adventures of Miki the Narwhal: Miki's Long Journey

Royals of Villain Academy 6: Foul Conjuring


Defining Dulcie

About the Author Paul Acampora lives in Quakertown, Pennsylvania.Paul Acampora lives in Quakertown, Pennsylvania.

Now and Always

From the Back Cover Very few things distract Katie Addison when she's on a mission, whether it's opening her home to abused women, rehabilitating injured horses, or helping tall, gorgeous Warren Tate mend his broken heart. But when financial difficulties pile up for her, Katie hesitantly admits she herself may need help. Since his fiance left him, Warren is done with women---especially independent women, which he'd guess describes Katie Addison to a tee. Reluctantly he agrees to help Katie with her financial troubles. But when his budget doesn't include Katie's daily lattes, Warren realizes he may have a challenging client on his hands. Meanwhile, Sheriff Ben O'Keefe can't seem to get Katie's attention. Everyone in town knows he has had a longstanding crush on her. But to Katie, Ben is just Ben. When mysterious events turn Katie to him for help, is it the chance Ben has been waiting for? About the Author Lori Copeland is a bestselling author whose books includde Now and Always, Simple Gifts, Unwrapping Christmas, and Monday Morning Faith, which was a finalist for the 2007 Christy Awards. Lori was inducted into the Springfield Writers Hall of Fame in 2000 and lives in the beautiful Ozarks with her husband and family.

Goose Chase

From Publishers Weekly Kindl (Owl in Love) once again takes flight, this time proffering an engaging gaggle of a dozen geese and the orphaned Goose Girl who tends them. Eschewing a "once upon a time" opening, the spunky narrator sets the novel's tone: "What do I care for custom? 'Tis my own story I am telling and I will tell it as I please." Goose Girl addresses the audience from the high tower in which she is trapped by a king and prince (from dueling kingdoms), both of whom covet her hand, her golden tresses (which yield gold dust) and her tears (which turn to diamonds), not to mention her beauty the latter three were gifts from a mysterious old woman to whom the girl showed some kindness. Luckily, her 12 charges evade the royals and organize their keeper's rescue. Kindl draws on a wealth of fairy tale lore to describe what follows. The geese deposit Goose Girl in a dilapidated cottage, where a trio of ogresses reside and promptly take her captive; the prince tracks her down, and Baba Yaga fans will recognize a few of the heroine's tricks that help her escape. Next, Goose Girl and the prince are cast into a dungeon belonging to an ally of the aforementioned king (that initial high tower of entrapment is not the only reference to Rapunzel Goose Girl's hair here comes to her aid). Those familiar with the Brothers Grimm's "The Six Swans" may not be surprised by the ending, but it's how Kindl gets there, tying up all loose ends along the way, that will hold readers' attention. Ages 10-14. Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information, Inc. From School Library Journal Gr 6-9-When an orphaned Goose Girl gives bread to an old beggar woman, the hag rewards her with a spell that makes her beautiful and rich, with her tears crystallizing into diamonds and gold dust falling from her hair. The desirable young woman then attracts a tyrannical king and a seemingly dim-witted prince, both of whom want to marry her. Determined to stay single, Alexandria Aurora Fortunato endures imprisonment in a tower; an escape that finds her in the valley of the grave-stealing, cannibalistic yet bumbling ogresses; and other dangers before she learns that she is a princess and that the 12 geese she tended are, in fact, her sisters. Her many adventures, while amusing, bog down the story a bit, leaving readers ready for a resolution. Still, Alexandria is a witty, feisty, no-nonsense feminist, and her tale is told with tongue in cheek and lots of laugh-out-loud humor. While the story bares only slight resemblance to the classic "Goose Girl," other tales are added to the mix: the girl's magical hair grows very long and she wears glass slippers. Kindl's writing is full of imagery and alliteration, and is peppered with old-fashioned and nonsense words that add to the fun. With its touch of romance, this coming-of-age story will appeal to teens who enjoy fantasy based on fairy tales.-Connie Tyrrell Burns, Mahoney Middle School, South Portland, ME Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information, Inc. From Booklist Gr. 6-9. Trapped in a tower until she chooses between two equally ghastly suitors--an evil king and an insipid prince--Goose Girl needs a quick miracle. Enter her faithful, magical geese, which transport her away from the wedding dilemma and set in motion a classic adventure-chase that turns into a delightful, witty fairy-tale spoof. It seems Goose Girl's kindness to a shriveled old woman resulted in a reward: Goose Girl can form gold dust in her hair, cry tears of diamonds, and become a ravishing beauty--talents that have brought about her marriage predicament: "In the future I shall know precisely what to do if another old beggar woman comes pestering me while I'm herding my geese in the high meadow." Not easily discouraged, the dull prince pursues his darling and nearly becomes a meal for a hilariously disgusting trio of ogresses, who just happen to have captured his ladylove. After more escapes and perilous flights, Goose Girl falls into the clutches of the evil king. Just as the wedding is about to take place, the beggar woman arrives on the scene and works her magic. It seems the bold heroine was a princess all along, and the geese, when restored to their real form, are her older sisters. Kindl's humor, the strong characterizations, and vibrant action give the story wings. A happy ending is, of course, understood. Anne O'Malley Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved About the Author Patrice Kindl's first novel, Owl in Love, was an ALA Notable Book for Children, an ALA Best Book for Young Adults, and an SCBWI Golden Kite Award Honor Book. She lives in Middleburgh, New York. Read more

Mine Is the Night: A Novel (Here Burns My Candle Series)

Review New York Times bestseller Praise for Mine Is the Night “ Mine Is the Night was everything I hoped it would be—the crown of the series! I loved the historical setting, the details, the love stories, the characters who change and grow. The pace and storylines kept me turning pages; I couldn’t put it down.” —Francine Rivers, best-selling author of Redeeming Love “Few authors stir my emotions more deeply than Liz Curtis Higgs. One does not merely read her novels; one forges a bond so deep with her characters that reader and story become one, embarking on a journey that both inspires and transforms. But be warned— Mine Is the Night will steal your night from the first page to the last, and never will hours be better spent. It was an absolute pleasure to read.” —Julie Lessman, author of A Hope Undaunted “Liz Curtis Higgs has once again combined her extraordinary skill as a storyteller with her elegant writing style to weave a grand Scottish tale, one that transports us back to the past in an emotional and unforgettable journey. Beautifully crafted and clearly written from the heart, Mine Is the Night just took its place among my other favorite novels from one of our most gifted historical authors. I was reluctant to see the story of the Kerr women end—but what an ending it is!” —BJ Hoff, author of The Emerald Ballad “Liz Curtis Higgs brings the book of Ruth to life in Jacobite Scotland with Mine Is the Night, a page-turning, emotionally intense, gloriously researched, and soul-stirring read. I was in eighteenth-century Scotland with characters I did not want to leave. Simply brilliant.” —Linda Windsor, author of Healer “Liz Curtis Higgs does it again! Mine Is the Night delivers a compelling story of intrigue, adventure, and love. With extreme attention to detail and historical accuracy, Liz creates a love story to last the ages. Her ability to weave Bible story, historical culture, and fiction into a rich tapestry is sure to delight you and leave you longing for more.” —Tracie Peterson, best-selling author of Embers of Love “Stunning from start to finish! Sharply witty, charming, romantic, captivating. Liz Curtis Higgs delivers a finale that satisfies in every way. Her best yet!” —Tamera Alexander, author of Beyond This Moment About the Author Liz Curtis Higgs is the author of twenty-eight books with three million copies in print, including her armchair travel guide to Scotland, My Heart’s in the Lowlands, and her best-selling Scottish historical novels, Thorn in My Heart, Fair Is the Rose , Christy Award–winner Whence Came a Prince, Grace in Thine Eyes , and Here Burns My Candle, the riveting prequel to Mine Is the Night. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. The distant hoofbeats were growing louder.Elisabeth Kerr quickly pushed aside the curtain and leaned out the carriage window. A cool spring rain, borne on a blustery wind, stung her cheeks. She could not see the riders on horseback, hidden by the steep hill behind her. But she could hear them galloping hard, closing the gap. Her mother-in-law seemed unconcerned, her attention drawn to the puddle forming at their feet. A frown creased her brow. “Do you mean for us to arrive in Selkirk even more disheveled than we already are?” Three long days of being jostled about in a cramped and dirty coach had left MarjoryKerr in a mood as foul as the weather.“’Tis not the rain that concerns me.” Elisabeth resumed her seat, feeling a bit unsteady. “No ordinary traveling party would ride with such haste.”Marjory’s breath caught. “Surely you do not think—”“I do.”Had they not heard the rumors at every inn and coaching halt? King George’s men were scouring the countryside for anyone who’d aided bonny Prince Charlie in his disastrous bid to reclaim the British throne for the long deposedStuarts. Each whispered account was worse than the last. Wounded rebel soldiers clubbed to death. Houses burned with entire families inside. Wives and daughters ravished by British dragoons.Help us, Lord. Please. Elisabeth slipped her arm round her mother-in-law’s shoulders as she heard the riders crest the hill and bear down on them.“We were almost home,” Marjory fretted.“The Lord will rescue us,” Elisabeth said firmly, and then they were overtaken.A male voice cut through the rain-soaked air, and the carriage jarred to a halt.Mr. Dewar, their round-bellied coachman, dropped from his perch and landed by the window with a grunt. He rocked back on his heels until he found his balance, then yanked open the carriage door without ceremony. “Beg yer pardon, leddies. The captain here would have a wird with ye.”Marjory’s temper flared. “He cannot expect us to stand in the rain.”“On the contrary, madam.” A British dragoon dismounted and rolled into view like a loaded cannon. His shoulders were broad, his legs short, his neck invisible. “I insist upon it. At once, if you please.”With a silent prayer for strength, Elisabeth gathered her hoops and maneuvered through the narrow carriage doorway. She was grateful for Mr. Dewar’s hand as she stepped down, trying not to drag her skirts through the mud. Despite the evening gloom, her eyes traced the outline of a hillside town not far south. Almost home.The captain, whom Elisabeth guessed to be about five-and-forty years, watched in stony silence as Marjory disembarked. His scarlet coat was drenched, his cuffed, black boots were covered with filth, and the soggy brim of his cocked hat bore a noticeable wave.He was also shorter than Elisabeth had first imagined. When she lifted her head, making the most of her long neck, she was fully two inches taller than he. Some days she bemoaned her height but not this day.By the time Marjory joined her on the roadside, a half-dozen uniformed men had crowded round. Broadswords hung at their sides, yet their scowls were far more menacing.“Come now,” Mr. Dewar said gruffly. “Ye’ve nae need to frighten my passengers. State yer business, and be done with it. We’ve little daylight left and less than a mile to travel.”“Selkirk is your destination?” The captain seemed disappointed. “Not many Highland rebels to be found there.”“’Tis a royal burgh,” Marjory told him, her irritation showing. “Our townsfolk have been loyal to the crown for centuries.”Elisabeth shot her a guarded look. Have a care, dear Marjory.The captain ignored her mother-in-law’s comments, all the while studying their plain black gowns, a curious light in his eyes. “In mourning, are we? For husbands, I’ll wager.” He took a brazen step toward Elisabeth, standing entirely too close. “Tell me, lass. Did your men give their lives in service to King George? At Falkirk perhaps? Or Culloden?”She could not risk a lie. Yet she could not speak the truth.Please, Lord, give me the right words.Elisabeth took a long, slow breath, then spoke from her heart. “Our brave men died at Falkirk honoring the King who has no equal.”He cocked one eyebrow. “Did they now?”“Aye.” She met the captain’s gaze without flinching, well aware of which sovereign she had in mind. I am God, and there is none like me. She’d not lied. Nor had the dragoon grasped the truth behind her words: by divine right the crown belonged to Prince Charlie.“No one compares to His Royal Highness, King George,” he said expansively.“Though I am sorry for your loss. No doubt your men died heroes.”Elisabeth merely nodded, praying he’d not ask their names. A list of royalist soldiers killed at Falkirk had circulated round Edinburgh for weeks. The captain might recall that Lord Donald and Andrew Kerr were not named among the British casualties. Instead, her handsome husband and his younger brother were counted among the fallen rebels on that stormy January evening.My sweet Donald. However grievous his sins, however much he’d wounded her, she’d loved him once and mourned him still.Her courage bolstered by the thought of Donald in his dark blue uniform, Elisabeth squared her shoulders and ignored the rain sluicing down her neck. “My mother-in-law and I are eager to resume our journey. If we are done here—”“We are not.” Still lingering too near, the captain inclined his head, measuring her. “A shame your husband left such a bonny widow. Though if you fancy another soldier in your bed, one of my men will gladly oblige—”“Sir!” Marjory protested. “How dare you address a lady in so coarse a manner.”His dragoons quickly closed ranks. “A lady?” one of them grumbled. “She sounds more like a Highlander to my ear.”The captain’s expression darkened. “Aye, so she does.” Without warning he grasped the belled cuff of Elisabeth’s sleeve and turned back the fabric.“Where is it, lass?Where is your silk Jacobite rose?”“You’ve no need to look.” Elisabeth tried to wrest free of him. “I haven’t one.”Ignoring her objections, he roughly examined the other cuff, nearly tearing apart the seam. “The white rose of Scotland was Prince Charlie’s favorite, was it not? I’ve plucked them off many a Highland rebel.”“I imagine you have.” Elisabeth freed her sleeve from his grasp. “Are you quite satisfied?”“Far from it, lass.” The captain eyed the neckline of her gown, his mouth twisting into an ugly sneer. “It seems your flower is well hidden. Nevertheless, I mean to have it.” Read more

So Not Happening (The Charmed Life)

From School Library Journal Grade 6–9—Isabella Kirkwood is a popular, privileged Manhattan socialite who is in for a big awakening when her mother remarries, and the teen is forced to move to Oklahoma farm country. Shortly after starting at her new school, she posts a blog on her former New York private academy's Web site insulting everything and everyone in her new town. Almost immediately, her new classmates find out about it, and Isabella becomes a social pariah. The series is labeled Christian fiction, but other than scattered references to prayers and church attendance, there is little in the story to indicate any kind of spiritual awakening or growth on the part of the main character. In addition, a number of situations stretch the bounds of plausibility, such as when Isabella accepts a reporting assignment requiring her to sit for hours in a Dumpster in order to "investigate" the school's lack of recycling. Her stepfather is secretly training to be a pro-wrestler, and one of her classmates attempts to burn down her house while she is babysitting her stepbrother, and later holds her at gunpoint. Although much of the story is predictable, there are also some genuinely humorous moments mixed in. This is an additional purchase for libraries seeking chick-lit series that are free of sexual content and coarse language.— Jessica Marie, Renton Public Library, WA Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

The Amethyst Heart

Crimilia

Princess Academy

Review The most compelling, believable, poignant love story I have read in many a year. Shannon Hale is already, after only a few books, one of our best writers of fantasy. She is also one of those rare storytellers who can bring a jaded old reviewer like me to well-earned tears. ( Orson Scott Card, New York Times bestselling author )Shannon Hale writes deft, lyrical, wonderful fantasy. ( Holly Black, author of The Spiderwick Chronicles and Tithe )When it comes to contemporary classics, Shannon Hale has the makings of someone whose books will be read and reread for decades to come. ( The 2006 Newbery Committee ) Princess Academy is the strong, well-written story of one girl's determination to show that even a small mountain flower can be as valuable as a gold crown. ( Teenreads.com )[A] magical read! ( Discovery Girls )An unalloyed joy. ( Kirkus Reviews, starred review )This is not a fluffy, predictable fairy tale . . . Instead, Hale weaves an intricate, multilayered story about families, relationships, education, and the place we call home. ( School Library Journal, starred review ) About the Author Shannon's mother says she was a storyteller from birth, jabbering endlessly in her carriage as the two strolled through the neighborhood; once she could form complete sentences, she made up stories, bribing her younger siblings to perform them in mini plays. When she was ten, she began writing books, mostly fantasy stories where she was the heroine, and she continued writing secretly for years while pursuing acting in stage and improv comedy. After detours studying in Mexico, the U. K., and Paraguay, Shannon earned a bachelor's degree in English from the University of Utah and a Masters in Creative Writing from the University of Montana. In the interim, she submitted short stories and novels to magazines and publishers, saving all her rejection letters which she has since laminated into one continuous 60-foot roll which she proudly unfurls to audiences as a testament to her dedication and determination. Since the publication of her first book, The Goose Girl , in 2003, Shannon has become a beloved author to young readers as well as booksellers and educators. Her third novel, Princess Academy , earned her a Newbery Honor and is a The New York Times , Book Sense, and Publishers Weekly bestseller. Shannon has also written two books for adults, Austenland and The Actor and the Housewife . Shannon lives in Salt Lake City, Utah, with her husband, Dean, their children, and their pet, a small plastic pig. www.shannonhale.com

A Hand Reached Down to Guide Me: Stories and a novella

Review “Gates offers all the pleasures to be found in Edward St. Aubyn, and more, because where the English writer is formal and elegant, Gates brings a loping, loose-limbed, colloquial American rhythm to his fiction. . . I doubt there is a better writer of conversational dialogue at work in America.” —James Wood, The New Yorker “Brutal, viciously intelligent, and full of reckless, difficult love for its characters. These are gripping, sophisticated, gasp-inducing stories.” —Ben Marcus, The New Yorker “Knowing and frank stories. . . a smart book about smart, articulate people who get in their own way again and again [with] not a lazy phrase on view.” —Ron Carlson, The New York Times Book Review “This is David Gates at his best. . . . It’s a book of fiction about people you’ll never believe aren’t real.” —Dana Varinsky, Time Out New York “This novella-plus-stories is by turns tragic and hilarious and has a deadpan quality that makes me think of masters like Updike and Cheever.” —Sara Nelson, Amazon“Gates is a master of variation [and] how good this book is, how craftily conversational the prose is, how often seemingly tossed-off lines produce that coveted spine tingle.” —Dylan Hicks, The Minneapolis Star Tribune “He’s really, really funny about failure.  Nobody writes about failure better than David Gates.” —Lorin Stein, NPR“David Gates is a wonderful  writer. The stories in A Hand Reached down to Guide Me are fully realized, entertaining, gripping, astute, painful, wise, outrageous and  funny—all at the same time.” —Geoff Dyer “This novella-plus-stories is by turns tragic and hilarious and has a deadpan quality that makes me think of masters like Updike and Cheever.” —Sara Nelson, Amazon“Remarkable. . .  Gates turns a clear yet compassionate eye on a motley crew of characters who cheat, drink, snort, and lie their way through the autumn of their lives [and] the result is a moving account of flawed existence.” — The New Yorker “Stories with crystalline urgency. . . Gates is one of the writers keeping the classic American short story alive [and he] gets his people right, both men and women. . . . His first collection in fifteen years carries the weight of maturity; of being more acquainted with the impulses and compromises one makes over the course of a lifetime.” —Jana Martin, Chronogram “The collection is really good [but] I’m surprised more isn’t made of his comic talents. There’s a caustic wit at work on nearly every page; empathy and misanthropy match stride for stride in a way that recalls Cheever at his best. In ‘Banishment’—a previously unpublished novella about a spectacularly bad marriage—it sometimes seems there’s an act of casual betrayal on every page, each designed to puncture another set of social mores.” —Dan Piepenbring, The Paris Review “Gates [has] staked out a territory, the anxieties of a particular corner of the middle class: artsy, at one time hip or (even slightly) radical, aspirational [in] creativity or spirit. That these aspirations have crumbled is part of the point, as his characters reckon with the compromises, physical and emotional, that living brings [as well as] the tension between the profane and the sacred, between the height of our ambitions and the depths of our desires. . . .These [stories] capture a floating insubstantiality we can’t help but recognize because it also belongs to us.”  —David L. Uhlin, The Los Angeles Times “Malice and goodness duke it out in the dark hearts of David Gates's characters. . . . [He] isn't one to pass judgments.  He just sends devastatingly original dispatches from the heart of darkness. . . . It broadens the spectrum of truthfulness and emotion for which he is known [and] captures both the unfettered love and flashes of rage.” — Janet Maslin, The New York Times “Deliciously wicked... The naughty musings most of us choose to ignore compel Gates’s characters to act . . . . These people mock their demons and, when called to account, exhibit such complexity, humor and intelligence that you'll savor every page.” —Kristy Davis, More magazine“Where has David Gates been all of my life? How is it that I’ve missed a writer who transforms all our failures and foibles into tales so gripping they read like great mystery novels? A Hand Reached Down To Guide Me is as unflinching as fiction gets, one of those books that feels like a discovery from the first page to the last.” —Adam Ross Acclaim from the U.K. “The irreverent and confident prose of this American writer is bewitching…Gates’s landscapes are deliciously detailed - you can feel the sofa fabric, read the newspapers, smell the bourbon - but his tours de force are his sublime characters … You will fall in love with (or hate) every damn sexy, well-read, disillusioned one of them.” — Daily Mail “Whether you read the nicely poised conclusion of A Hand Reached Down to Guide Me as defeated or optimistic, the narrator speaks with the authentic voice of hard-won experience: "I can still sing," he notes. "Having some age on me, maybe I sound more like the real thing." This could be Gates' own 68-year-old hand reaching down. For he is the real thing, as is illustrated on every page of this sad, hilarious and unflinchingly brilliant book.” —The Independent “It is an absolute delight to be back in his masterful hands. Reading David Gates is far from an uncomplicated experience; his writing is dark, bitter, hilarious, truthful and complex, full of emotional turmoil and damaged characters, deeply flawed people doing pretty unspeakable things to themselves and others, and yet the self-aware flickers of humour, the knowing nods to the frailty of human existence, make him utterly compulsive…On the evidence of the new book, Gates remains a formidable and important writer for our times. And Jernigan retains its crazed power as a novel. Read them both.” — Independent on Sunday “Gates’s 1991 novel, Jernigan …charted its eponymous anti-hero’s descent into alcoholism in a perfect balancing act of horror and hilarity. Like that memorable debut, all 12 stories in A Hand Reached Down to Guide Me are set in the north-eastern US, where references to the Puritan past form an ironic contrast to the insatiable appetites of the present. Whatever “lane” Gates lures his characters down, you can be sure it will lead through the Valley of Humiliation — although the prospect of perdition at the end is, just occasionally, tempered with surprising glimmers of redemption.” — Financial Times “Gates is a technically excellent writer who can brilliantly illuminate the insides of his characters’ heads. There’s a truthfulness to this book that is both the best and most depressing thing about it.” — Glasgow Herald “Gates is a truly formidable talent, but you’d be wary of having him over to dinner: you’d wonder what he was thinking.” — Sunday Times “While David Gates’ style is different, the tone edgier, he shares Richard Ford’s understanding of the self-desctructive aspects of human nature…Gates’ strengths are sharp, witty dialogue, sexual tension and subtlety. Also, a non-judgmental tone, even when his characters do something devastatingly cruel…In each story, we witness humanity in their weakest, most shameful moments: ‘I went back to working...until—God, must we? Until I was able to sell my father’s house’ ( A Hand Reached Down ). I suspect it is this—shall we call it courage? — that attracts readers.” — Irish Examiner “Gates’ brilliance is all the more surprising given the seemingly restricted nature of his milieu…Gates unearths hard-won truths and makes sure they’re funny, too.” — Metro “Ferociously talented…this new collection of stories…is a testament to his singular genius.” — Catholic Herald About the Author DAVID GATES lives in Missoula, Montana, and Granville, New York. He teaches at the University of Montana and in the Bennington Writing Seminars, and was a writer and editor at Newsweek, where he specialized in music and books. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. The day after we’d had dinner, he called me at the paper, to thank me and my young man for coming out with him, then waited a week to call again. He happened to be on his way north from the city, and did I have time for a quick drink? I could hear my husband typing in the next cubicle. “That sounds fine,” I said. “Wonderful. You’re welcome to bring your young man along, but I don’t think he likes me much.” “Right,” I said. “That’s probably not necessary.”  “Even better then. Five thirty too early for you?”  “I don’t think so.”  “And what’s a good place? I don’t really know this town.”  The typing stopped. “It’s hard to say just now.” “Surely there must be—ah. God, I’m a little slow today. You’re not alone.” “Exactly.” “Okay, let me think. I passed an Applebee’s coming in on Route Nine. You know where it is? We can go someplace from there.” “Right,” I said. “Well, thanks.”  “Copy desk giving you shit?” my husband said.  “No, just something I needed to find out about.”  “It was that guy.”  “For Christ’s sake,” I said. “Is that why you’ve been so weird?”  “I was going to ask you the same thing.”  “This is too stupid to even discuss,” I said. “Anyway—” I nodded over at the editor, who was talking on the phone.  “Then what time are you coming home?” he said.  “Not late,” I said. “I was supposed to meet somebody for a quick drink. Probably seven, seven thirty? We could order in and maybe have a little date night after.” “Who are you meeting?” “Andrea,” I said. As soon as I said it, I realized it would have been more in character for me to resent being questioned. “I used to work with her at Newsweek? She’s taking the train up.” “Mind if I come along?” “It’s going to be a lot of girl talk. But sure, if you want.” Worst case, I could get away and call the man, then take my husband to a bar and keep checking my watch. Andrea’s such a flake—that’s what I’d say. How could he not believe in Andrea? “No, on second thought I think I’ll bag it.”  “You weren’t testing me, were you?”  “What would be the use?” he said.  The man was waiting outside the Applebee’s in his truck, his window down, reading the Times. I’d put on a halter top that morning—it was such a hot day, and I hadn’t thought I’d have to see anybody. Now I wished I’d had time to drive home and change. “Let’s just go here,” I said. “I shouldn’t stay long.” “I suppose their liquor’s the same as anybody else’s,” he said. “You’ll have to provide the ambience.” He opened his door, stood up on tip- toes and stretched his arms over his head. His T-shirt came up and exposed an inch of still-lean waistline, which might have been the idea. “It’s certainly the last place anybody’d come looking for you.” “My husband doesn’t spy on me. If that’s what you mean.” “No, I can’t imagine your putting up with that. Still, a booth might be in order.” “You’re making this sound like something it isn’t,” I said. “Good for you,” he said. “You’ve spared us the preliminaries.” He put a palm on my bare shoulder blade. Up to that point, I hadn’t thought I was seriously considering this man. “Suppose we go in and talk about it.” When the waitress had set down our drinks and moved off, he said, “Since you’re pressed for time—cheers, by the way. It’s obvious that I’ve taken a shine to you, and it’s obvious that I’m much too old, and of course you have your young man—my God, you look like you’ve just been shot. This is much more embarrassing for me.” “You don’t seem that embarrassed,” I said. “I’m not, oddly enough. The situation is embarrassing, yes. But basically you’re either going to tell me to go peddle my papers or you’re not. Which should be clarifying. My position is just that I’d like some time with you.” “That would be difficult,” I said.  “Hmm,” he said. “I’ve heard stronger expressions of outrage.”  “I’ll bet you have.”  “Oh sure, you can typecast me if you want to. You might take it as a compliment that I’m not trying to sneak up on you. Just one person to another.” “Except that I’m married.” “As was I.”  “And I love my husband.”  “I’d think the worse of you if you didn’t. I’m not trying to make your life any harder.” He picked up the glossy menu, with color photos of steaks. “God, this place is what hell’s going to be like.” “Why would you think my life is hard?” I said. “ ‘Getting through the day’? Isn’t that what you said? Sounds like joy unbounded.” “So what would we do? If I could spend time with you? Apparently you’re good at sitting around and drinking.” “Not much escapes you, does it?” he said. “I was thinking that what we did would be entirely up to us. We could start out just being kind to each other.” Read more

Steves' Review of Nuclear Medicine Technology: Preparation for Certification Examinations

Coming Alive from Nine to Five: A Career Search Handbook


Rainbows (Amazing Sights of the Sky)

About the Author Martha E. H. Rustad is the author of more than one hundred nonfiction children's books, on topics ranging from baby ducks to black holes to ancient Babylon. She lives with her family in Brainerd, Minnesota.

The History of Constitution: A History Book for New Readers (The History Of: A Biography Series for New Readers)

Review “As a middle school teacher, I am always looking for books that bring history alive for students. Despite the popularity of the musical Hamilton, the United States Constitution can be a rather dry subject for many young people. Trusiani manages to make the topic sing. The Constitution is a living document, indeed!” —Charlotte Agell, middle school teacher and author/illustrator “This comprehensive, engaging read answers all the questions a young reader may have regarding the Constitution—why, how, when, where, and what does it mean for today. Trusiani writes with the reader in mind, clearly and thoroughly. A great read and a great resource!” —Jennifer Meserve, first grade teacher About the Author LISA TRUSIANI has written hundreds of comics stories and nonfiction books for children. Her work has received the iParenting Media HOT Award, National Parenting Center Award, NAPPA Parenting Publishing GOLD Award, several Parents’ Choice Awards, and the Lupine Honors Award from the Maine Library Association.

The Everything Kids' Soccer Book, 5th Edition: Rules, Techniques, and More about Your Favorite Sport!

Review “A nice resource.” — World Soccer Talk About the Author Carlos Folgar has been a soccer coach for over ten years across many age groups. In 2016, he founded the Wolf Pack Soccer Academy in Concord, MA where he is still the head coach and owner. He has earned an Advanced National Diploma from the National Soccer Coaches Association of America as well as state, regional, and national goalkeeper diplomas. He is currently the head coach for the boys U12 and U18 teams for the Global Premier Soccer Club in Waltham, Massachusetts.Deborah W. Crisfield is a veteran soccer coach and author of more than thirty books, including The Everything Kids’ Soccer Book, 3rd Edition and many other sports and reference books. She lives in Summit, New Jersey.

The Story of Jane Goodall: A Biography Book for New Readers (The Story Of: A Biography Series for New Readers)

About the Author Susan B. Katz is an author, National Board-Certified Teacher, and educational consultant. She has taught for more than 25 years and has five published books, including My Mama Earth and All Year Round . Visit her online at SusanKatzBooks.com.

The Story of Neil Armstrong: A Biography Book for New Readers (The Story Of: A Biography Series for New Readers)

About the Author Sarah L. Thomson has published more than 30 books, including prose and poetry, fiction and nonfiction, picture books, and novels. She worked as an editor at HarperCollins and Simon & Schuster before becoming a full-time writer. She lives in Portland, Maine. Learn more about her work at SarahLThomson.com.

Hanover House (Evelyn Talbot Chronicles)

Leading the Charge: Leadership Lessons from the Battlefield to the Boardroom

From Publishers Weekly Zinni, former special envoy to the Middle East, and Koltz (coauthors of The Battle for Peace ) turn their focus to what they regard as a profound leadership crisis in America. Leaders—in politics, the military and business—have failed to evolve with the times, say the authors, who identify 11 core elements of new (and effective) managers, including developing a strong ethical sense and honing listening and decision-making skills. The authors dedicate entire chapters to each of these elements and explore what it takes to shepherd nations, companies and families in times of crisis as well as how to nurture and train future leaders. Zinni's principles of governance—applicable to parents as well as presidents—touches everything from the Spitzer scandal to U.S. policies in the Middle East and dispenses practical guidelines with particular relevance and resonance. (Aug.) Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. Review “Gen. Anthony Zinni (Ret.) in drawing upon a lifetime of competition on the battlefield and in corporate boardrooms has issued a call to action to restore American leadership and greatness. This is a must read for anyone who is concerned about what has happened to our country.” ― William Cohen, former Secretary of Defense “From one of America's most respected and experienced military leaders and strategic thinkers comes a real, unvarnished, thorough examination of leadership. General Zinni lays out not only lessons of leadership but the leadership that will be required for America's future. This book should be high on the list of important reading for our citizens, educators, leaders in every sphere of our society… and especially our next generation of leaders.” ― Senator Chuck Hagel “As only a true leader can, Tony Zinni goes straight to the root of our challenges today. For too long, leadership and its attendant qualities have been undervalued. Tony's clear-eyed observations and advice on this topic come at a time when they are sorely needed and certainly from a person who well understands the necessary elements of leadership – vision, execution, and accountability.” ― Richard L. Armitage, former Deputy Secretary of State “ Leading the Charge is a thoughtful and evocative lesson plan on leadership which is equally applicable to business leaders as well as military and political leaders. In today's ‘briar patch' complex environment where borders do not exist and politics, economics, and military and social issues intertwine, he has artfully detailed the strategy, tactics and logistics that are required for leaders to be successful. From ‘knowing the sea you swim in' to the importance of balance to building a good organization, General Zinni methodically takes today's and tomorrow's leaders through a self reflective, inspiring exercise.” ―Thomas J. Campbell, President, DC Capital Partners “General Zinni lays out a comprehensive approach to leadership which is insightful and forward looking. He highlights key lessons which should be invaluable for professionals in all walks of life. He is a powerful role model and his philosophy reminds us of the critical difference that great leadership can make.” ― Robert Kaplan, Professor of Management Practice, Harvard Business School and former Vice Chairman, Goldman Sachs “Leading the Charge is an insightful, highly useful guide to meeting the challenges in today's world. We highly recommend that readers put Leading the Charge on their 'must read-must buy' list and add it to their personal libraries. This former 4-star Marine general's outstanding book is a '5-star' guide to leadership -- we rate this book '5 STARS,' our highest rating.” ― Col. Jerry D. Morelock (ret.), Armchair General “Dispenses practical guidelines with particular relevance and resonance.” ― Publishers Weekly “This book makes it clear that General Zinni not only has absorbed good leadership traits from his multifaceted life, but also has studied it deeply. He has tried to share that deep understanding with others, in the Marines, in business and in academic settings. This may be the best of all examples of true leadership.” ― Semper Fi, the Magazine of the Marine Corps League About the Author General Tony Zinni (Ret.) was commander in chief of CENTCOM and special envoy to the Middle East. He has appeared on The Daily Show and Meet the Press among others. He is currently chairman of the board at BAE Systems, Inc. Tony Koltz co-authored Tom Clancy's Into the Storm and Battle Ready as well as The Battle for Peace , a New York Times bestseller. Read more

Laugh-Out-Loud Jokes for Kids Book: One of The Most Funniest Joke Books for Kids from World Famous Kids Authors. Marvellous Gift for All Young Fun Lovers! (Knock Knock, The Funniest Laugh out Loud)