Robert Ludlum:The Aquitaine Progression
- Taschenbuch 1999, ISBN: 9780586052778
Island Books. Good. 4.1 x 1 x 6.8 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 1999. 416 pages. Cover worn.<br>One of the best novels of the year from one of the very best writers at work today.… Mehr…
Island Books. Good. 4.1 x 1 x 6.8 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 1999. 416 pages. Cover worn.<br>One of the best novels of the year from one of the very best writers at work today.--Rocky Mountain News The townspeople of New Iberia, Louisiana, didn't crucify Megan Flynn's father. They just didn't catch whoever pinned him to a ba rn wall with sixteen-penny nails. Decades later, Megan, now a wo rld-famous photojournalist, has come back to the bayou, looking f or cop Dave Robicheaux. It was Dave who found the body of labor l eader Jack Flynn. The sight changed the boy, shaped him as a man. And after forty years, Robicheaux is still haunted by the bizarr e unsolved slaying. Now Megan's return has stirred up the ghosts of the long-buried past, igniting a storm of violence that will rip apart lives of blacks and whites in this bayou country. And f or a good cop with bad memories, hard desire, and chilling nightm ares, the time has come to uncover the truth. Editorial Reviews Review Splendidly atmospheric...with dialogue so sharp you can s have with it.--People One of the best novels of the year from on e of the very best writers at work today.--Rocky Mountain News E ngrossing...a vivid, violent fable...James Lee Burke outshines hi mself in Sunset Limited.--Daily News (N.Y.) America's best novel ist.--The Denver Post Top-drawer work...James Lee Burke just kee ps getting better...Burke writes of the bayous, their people and their violence with electrical luminescence. The dialogue crackle s like heat lightning and the story races from conflict to confli ct. Robicheaux, a modern-day tragic hero, continues to grow as on e of crime fiction's major figures.--San Antonio Express-News Bu rke's dialogue sounds true as a tape recording; his writing about action is strong and economical. . . . Burke is a prose stylist to be reckoned with.--Los Angeles Times Book Review Burke flies miles above most contemporary crime novelists.--The Orlando Senti nel Among writers in the genre, only Tony Hillerman's novels abo ut the Navajo tribal police match Burke's ability to write evocat ively about the natural world. . . . It's hard to imagine readers not bolting it down like a steaming plate of crawfish etouffee.- -Entertainment Weekly Burke writes prose that has a pronounced s treak of poetry in it.--The New York Times James Lee Burke isn't simply a crime writer--he's the Graham Greene of the bayou.--New York Daily News If you haven't already discovered Burke's novel s, find one!--Chicago Tribune James Lee Burke can write some of the best scenes of violence in American literature. He can also t oss out a metaphor or a brief descriptive phrase that can stop a reader cold.--The Washington Post Book World It has become appar ent that not since Raymond Chandler has anyone so thoroughly rein vented the crime and mystery genre as James Lee Burke.--Jim Harri son, author of Legends of the Fall If you haven't read Burke, ge t going.--Playboy Nobody working in the genre holds us more comp ellingly than Mr. Burke, or with such style and ferocity. He stan ds all but alone in the invention of character.--The New Yorker One of our most compelling novelists.--New York Newsday Few writ ers in america can evoke a region as well as Burke.--The Philadel phia Inquirer Robicheaux is a detective to be reckoned with, mor e interesting than Spenser, more complex and satisfying than Trav is McGee . . . James Lee Burke is a writer to be remembered.--USA Today Burke writes prose as moody and memory-laden as his regio n.--Time Burke tells a story in a style all his own; language th at's alive, electric; he's a master at setting mood, laying in at mosphere, all with quirky, raunchy dialog that's a delight.--Elmo re Leonard It's hard to deny the powerful impact of Mr. Burke's hard-boiled poetics.--The Wall Street Journal From the Inside Fl ap aked with sin, Dave Robicheaux is dueling with killers, ghosts , and a woman's revenge.... The townspeople of New Iberia, Louis iana, didn't crucify Megan Flynn's father. They just didn't catch whoever pinned him to a barn wall with sixteen-penny nails. Dec ades later, Megan, now a world-famous photojournalist, has come b ack to the bayou, looking for cop Dave Robicheaux. It was Dave wh o found the body of labor leader Jack Flynn. The sight changed th e boy, shaped him as a man. And after forty years, Robicheaux is still haunted by the bizarre unsolved slaying. Now Megan's retur n has stirred up the ghosts of the long-buried past, igniting a s torm of violence that will rip apart lives of blacks and whites i n this bayou county. And for a good cop with bad memories, hard d esires, and chilling nightmares, the time has come to uncover the truth. From the Back Cover In a land soaked with sin, Dave Robi cheaux is dueling with killers, ghosts, and a woman's revenge.... The townspeople of New Iberia, Louisiana, didn't crucify Megan Flynn's father. They just didn't catch whoever pinned him to a ba rn wall with sixteen-penny nails. Decades later, Megan, now a wo rld-famous photojournalist, has come back to the bayou, looking f or cop Dave Robicheaux. It was Dave who found the body of labor l eader Jack Flynn. The sight changed the boy, shaped him as a man. And after forty years, Robicheaux is still haunted by the bizarr e unsolved slaying. Now Megan's return has stirred up the ghosts of the long-buried past, igniting a storm of violence that will rip apart lives of blacks and whites in this bayou county. And fo r a good cop with bad memories, hard desires, and chilling nightm ares, the time has come to uncover the truth. About the Author J ames Lee Burke is the author of sixteen previous books, including the New York Times bestsellers Cimarron Rose, Cadillac Jukebox, Burning Angel, and Dixie City Jam. He lives with his wife in Miss oula, Montana, and New Iberia, Louisiana. Excerpt. ® Reprinted b y permission. All rights reserved. The jailer, Alex Guidry, lived outside of town on a ten-acre horse farm devoid of trees or shad e. The sun's heat pooled in the tin roofs of his outbuildings, an d grit and desiccated manure blew out of his horse lots. His oblo ng 1960s red-brick house, its central-air-conditioning units roar ing outside a back window twenty-four hours a day, looked like a utilitarian fortress constructed for no other purpose than to rep el the elements. His family had worked for a sugar mill down tow ard New Orleans, and his wife's father used to sell Negro burial insurance, but I knew little else about him. He was one of those aging, well-preserved men with whom you associate a golf photo on the local sports page, membership in a self-congratulatory civic club, a charitable drive that is of no consequence. Or was ther e something else, a vague and ugly story years back? I couldn't r emember. Sunday afternoon I parked my pickup truck by his stable and walked past a chain-link dog pen to the riding ring. The dog pen exploded with the barking of two German shepherds who carome d off the fencing, their teeth bared, their paws skittering the f eces that lay baked on the hot concrete pad. Alex Guidry cantere d a black gelding in a circle, his booted calves fitted with Engl ish spurs. The gelding's neck and sides were iridescent with swea t. Guidry sawed the bit back in the gelding's mouth. What is it? he said. I'm Dave Robicheaux. I called earlier. He wore tan ri ding pants and a form-fitting white polo shirt. He dismounted and wiped the sweat off his face with a towel and threw it to a blac k man who had come out of the stable to take the horse. You want to know if this guy Broussard was in the detention chair? The an swer is no, he said. He says you've put other inmates in there. For days. Then he's lying. You have a detention chair, though, don't you? For inmates who are out of control, who don't respond to Isolation. You gag them? No. I rubbed the back of my neck and looked at the dog pen. The water bowl was turned over and fli es boiled in the door of the small doghouse that gave the only re lief from the sun. You've got a lot of room here. You can't let your dogs run? I said. I tried to smile. Anything else, Mr. Robi cheaux? Yeah. Nothing better happen to Cool Breeze while he's in your custody. I'll keep that in mind, sir. Close the gate on yo ur way out, please. I got back in my truck and drove down the sh ell road toward the cattle guard. A half dozen Red Angus grazed i n Guidry's pasture, while snowy egrets perched on their backs. T hen I remembered. It was ten or eleven years back, and Alex Guidr y had been charged with shooting a neighbor's dog. Guidry had cla imed the dog had attacked one of his calves and eaten its entrail s, but the neighbor told another story, that Guidry had baited a steel trap for the animal and had killed it out of sheer meanness . I looked into the rearview mirror and saw him watching me from the end of the shell drive, his legs slightly spread, a leather riding crop hanging from his wrist. Monday morning I returned to work at the Iberia Parish Sheriff's Department and took my mail out of my pigeonhole and tapped on the sheriff's office. He tilt ed back in his swivel chair and smiled when he saw me. His jowls were flecked with tiny blue and red veins that looked like fresh ink on a map when his temper flared. He had shaved too close and there was a piece of bloody tissue paper stuck in the cleft in hi s chin. Unconsciously he kept stuffing his shirt down over his pa unch into his gunbelt. You mind if I come back to work a week ear ly? I asked. This have anything to do with Cool Breeze Broussard 's complaint to the Justice Department? I went out to Alex Guidr y's place yesterday. How'd we end up with a guy like that as our jailer? It's not a job people line up for, the sheriff said. He scratched his forehead. You've got an FBI agent in your office ri ght now, some gal named Adrien Glazier. You know her? Nope. How' d she know I was going to be here? She called your house first. Your wife told her. Anyway, I'm glad you're back. I want this bul lshit at the jail cleared up. We just got a very weird case that was thrown in our face from St. Mary Parish. He opened a manila folder and put on his glasses and peered down at the fax sheets i n his fingers. This is the story he told me. Three months ago, u nder a moon haloed with a rain ring and sky filled with dust blow ing out of the sugarcane fields, a seventeen-year-old black girl named Sunshine Labiche claimed two white boys forced her car off a dirt road into a ditch. They dragged her from behind the wheel, walked her by each arm into a cane field, then took turns raping and sodomizing her. The next morning she identified both boys fr om a book of mug shots. They were brothers, from St. Mary Parish, but four months earlier they had been arrested for a convenience store holdup in New Iberia and had been released for lack of evi dence. This time they should have gone down. They didn't. Both had alibis, and the girl admitted she had been smoking rock with her boyfriend before she was raped. She dropped the charges. La te Saturday afternoon an unmarked car came to the farmhouse of th e two brothers over in St. Mary Parish. The father, who was bedri dden in the front room, watched the visitors, unbeknown to them, through a crack in the blinds. The driver of the car wore a green uniform, like sheriff's deputies in Iberia Parish, and sunglasse s and stayed behind the wheel, while a second man, in civilian cl othes and a Panama hat, went to the gallery and explained to the two brothers they only had to clear up a couple of questions in N ew Iberia, then they would be driven back home. It ain't gonna t ake five minutes. We know you boys didn't have to come all the wa y over to Iberia Parish just to change your luck, he said. The b rothers were not cuffed; in fact, they were allowed to take a twe lve-pack of beer with them to drink in the back seat. A half hou r later, just at sunset, a student from USL, who was camped out i n the Atchafalaya swamp, looked through the flooded willow and gu m trees that surrounded his houseboat and saw a car stop on the l evee. Two older men and two boys got out. One of the older men wo re a uniform. They all held cans of beer in their hands; all of t hem urinated off the levee into the cattails. Then the two boys, dressed in jeans and Clorox-stained print shirts with the sleeve s cut off at the armpits, realized something was wrong. They turn ed and stared stupidly at their companions, who had stepped backw ard up the levee and were now holding pistols in their hands. Th e boys tried to argue, holding their palms outward, as though the y were pushing back an invisible adversary. Their arms were olive with suntan, scrolled with reformatory tattoos, their hair spike d in points with butch wax. The man in uniform raised his gun and shouted an unintelligible order at them, motioning at the ground . When the boys did not respond, the second armed man, who wore a Panama hat, turned them toward the water with his hand, almost g ently, inserted his shoe against the calf of one, then the other, pushing them to their knees, as though he were arranging manikin s in a show window. Then he rejoined the man in uniform up the ba nk. One of the boys kept looking back fearfully over his shoulder . The other was weeping uncontrollably, his chin tilted upward, h is arms stiff at his sides, his eyes tightly shut. The men with guns were silhouetted against a molten red sun that had sunk acro ss the top of the levee. Just as a flock of ducks flapped across the sun, the gunmen clasped their weapons with both hands and sta rted shooting. But because of the fading light, or perhaps the na ture of their deed, their aim was bad. Both victims tried to ris e from their knees, their bodies convulsing simultaneously from t he impact of the rounds. The witness said, Their guns just kept popping. It looked like somebody was blowing chunks out of a wate rmelon. After it was over, smoke drifted out over the water and the shooter in the Panama hat took close-up flash pictures with a Polaroid camera. The witness used a pair of binoculars. He says the guy in the green uniform had our department patch on his sle eve, the sheriff said. White rogue cops avenging the rape of a b lack girl? Look, get that FBI agent out of here, will you? He lo oked at the question in my face. She's got a broom up her ass. H e rubbed his fingers across his mouth. Did I say that? I'm going to go back to the laundry business. A bad day used to b, Island Books, 1999, 2.5, Panther. Good. 120 x 180mm. Paperback. 1985. 854 pages. Cover worn.<br>It begins in Geneva. There American law yer Joel Converse meets a man he hasn't seen in twenty years, a c overt operative who dies violently at his feet, whispering words that hand Converse a staggering legacy of death: THE GENERALS... THEY'RE BACK...AQUITAINE! Suddenly Converse is running for his li fe, alone with the world's most shattering secret. Pursued by ano nymous executioners to the dark corners of Europe, he is forced t o play a game of survival by blood rules he thought he'd long lef t behind. One by one, he traces each thread of a deadly progressi on to the hear of every major government-- a network of coordinat ed global violence that no one believes possible. No one but Conv erse and the woman he once loved and lost. The only two people on earth who can wrest the world from the iron grasp of Aquitaine. ., Panther, 1985, 2.5<
