An Unquiet Grave by P.J. Parrish | Paperback | Barnes & Noble
An Unquiet Grave (Louis Kincaid Series #7)

An Unquiet Grave (Louis Kincaid Series #7)

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by P. J. Parrish

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Not Every Soul Rest in Peace

In a remote corner of the Michigan woods, behind rusted iron gates and crumbling stone walls, lie one of the country's most notorious sanitariums and its forgotten cemetery. The sprawling ruin is empty now, and the bulldozers have come to raze it. But as they do, a terrifying secret begins to emerge.

The body in Claudia Olsen's


Not Every Soul Rest in Peace

In a remote corner of the Michigan woods, behind rusted iron gates and crumbling stone walls, lie one of the country's most notorious sanitariums and its forgotten cemetery. The sprawling ruin is empty now, and the bulldozers have come to raze it. But as they do, a terrifying secret begins to emerge.

The body in Claudia Olsen's grave is that of a stranger who died horribly. This much Louis Kincaid knows. But what happened to the woman who should be buried there? It's a question no one will answer, one that leads Kincaid to the long, dark tunnels below the asylum and crimes of unimaginable depravity. . .

Now, in a place where the walls are stained with secrets, the air thick with the lingering history of screams, Louis Kincaid is on his darkest journey yet, matching wits with a monster whose work will not be silenced. . .

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Bestseller Parrish's gripping and atmospheric new Louis Kincaid novel (after A Killing Rain) is a quality read that will remind many of Dennis Lehane. The Florida PI's Thanksgiving plans with his significant other are derailed when Kincaid's foster father, Phillip, asks for his help with a delicate problem. The body of Phillip's youthful love, Claudia Olsen, has disappeared from her coffin, a travesty unearthed in the course of the demolition of the Michigan mental institution where Claudia was committed. Kincaid's search for the missing remains crosses paths with a journalist's pursuit of rumors that a serial killer, who was also a patient at the facility, is still alive and on the loose. Parrish manages to make what could be a formulaic plot fresh, both through her gift at creating sympathetic main and secondary characters and through her skill at creating suspense and sustaining a mood. The author's ability to raise goose bumps puts her in the front rank of thriller writers. (Feb.) Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.

Product Details

Publication date:
Louis Kincaid Series, #7
Sales rank:
Product dimensions:
4.15(w) x 6.70(h) x 1.08(d)

Read an Excerpt

An Unquiet Grave

By P. J. Parrish


ISBN: 0-7860-1607-8

Chapter One

The Christmas lights were already up. He had the top down on the Mustang and he could see them as he drove up, a cluster of small white lights that someone had strung on the coconut palm in his yard. A stiff breeze was blowing in from the gulf, moving the fronds and sending the lights bobbing and dancing like fireflies on a hot summer night.

Louis Kincaid turned off the engine and just sat there, looking at the lights.

Fireflies. July Fourth. Michigan.

But there were no fireflies here. It was November, not July. And he was in South Florida.

His mind was playing tricks on him.

He reached over and popped the glove box, pulling out his Glock. Grabbing his overnight bag, he got out and headed to the cottage.

Maybe he was just tired. The job up in Tampa had been dull and drawn out. Surveillance of a woman who was suing a big trucking company because a semi had clipped her Honda and left her "permanently disabled and in extreme mental stress." He had spent four days tailing her with a video camera, finally getting a shot of her banging her car floor mats against the fender of her car-after she had come home from the beauty salon. The film was played in court. The woman got two grand for medical bills. He got five grand for his pay. Good money for a P.I., he supposed. At least it was enough to keep him in grouper sandwiches at Timmy's Nook for the next few months.

The mailbox was stuffed. He dugout the fliers and envelopes and opened the door.

"Honey, I'm home," he said, throwing down his bag.

Issy came trotting out of the bedroom. The cat looked up at him, its tail swishing on the terrazzo.

"Okay, okay," he said with a sigh.

He headed to the kitchen, tossing the stack of mail on the counter. He shook a bag of Tender Vittles into the bowl on the floor. The other bowl was filled with clean water. At least his weasel landlord Pierre had been taking care of things like he promised. He had half expected to come home and see a cat carcass lying on the floor.

He pulled open the fridge. One Heineken and a carton of Chinese takeout probably left over from the Ice Age. He stood there for a moment, letting the col air wash over his sweaty face, then grabbed the beer and closed the fridge.

There was one lamp on in the living room, but the small cottage seemed dark and stale from being closed up. He went to the TV and punched the remote, unleashing a rainbow of light and sitcom laughter into the shadows. Finally, after a moment, he muted the sound and tossed the remote aside. He cranked open the jalousie windows, and the warm gulf breeze wafted in. He stood there, breathing in the salt and night-blooming jasmine, holding the cold beer bottle against his forehead.

He still wasn't used to it-even after three years of living in Florida. September would come and he would be waiting for that cool kiss in the air, yet the temperature stayed in the nineties. October would come and he would be expecting the first frost on the windows, but there was nothing but the cloud of humidity. And then came November, when the trees should have been turning brown and gaunt. But here ... here in Florida, everything was green and lush and sultry.

He hated the holidays. Thanksgiving and Christmas. Back-to-back reasons to give in to that small but powerful part of him that wanted to slide into silence and solitude.

His eyes drifted to the answering machine on the counter. The red light was blinking. Ten messages. He rewound the tape.

The first one was a time-share come-on. Three hang-ups. A man wanting to hire him to spy on his "whore wife." Two more hang-ups. Then a familiar voice with its unmistakable Mississippi drawl.

"Oh! My ... a machine! I didn't know you finally got one. Oh dear ... how much time do I have? Louis, this is Margaret."

Louis took a drink of beer.

"I'm calling to invite you to Thanksgiving dinner. We're fixing to have a real feast this year-I'm making my sweet potato pie-and I know you don't have any family to go to-"

Louis could hear Sam Dodie yelling in the background, telling his wife what to say. She hung up, forgetting to leave a number. But Louis knew the Dodies' number by heart; he had spent many an evening at their table, eating Margaret's cooking, listening to Sam's war stories. Now that his ex-boss had retired to Florida, Sam Dodie's need to talk about his years spent as a Mississippi sheriff seemed to grow. It was either listen to it or go fishing.

The next voice came on, the thin soft voice of a boy.

"Hi, Louis. It's me. I guess you're not home yet."

Louis leaned closer to the machine.

"I wish you could come over for Thanksgiving, but Ma says we gotta go see Grandma Cockran up in St. Augustine. Chewbaca is getting real big, but Ma says he can't sleep with me 'cause I got allergies." A long pause. "Okay, I gotta go. I love you. See ya!"

Louis smiled. Chewbaca was one of Issy's kittens, conceived last winter during Ben's kidnapping. Ben had needed a lot of time to recover from his experience, and Louis believed the kitten somehow helped him do that. He still worried about the boy, worried about him being twelve and not having a father in his life, worried about his being able to ever trust people again. That was why he tried to see Ben as often as he could. But work had been demanding lately and there didn't seem to be enough time.

The last message. Another familiar voice. Female, deep, deeply familiar.

"Hey there. It's me. Just wanted to let you know I pulled some strings and got Thanksgiving and Friday off. I've got two Swanson's turkey dinners and a good bottle of French Chablis on ice, so get your sweet ass over here as soon as you can. Call me as soon as you get in."

She hung up.

Louis just sat there, staring at the machine. He took a drink of the beer, then replayed her message just to hear her voice.

He hadn't seen Joe in weeks. She was a homicide detective for Miami PD. He had met her when she came over to help work the homicides connected with Ben's kidnapping. They had started an intense affair, and for Louis, it was just what he needed.

Louis finished off the beer. Two invitations to Thanksgiving dinner. Not bad. But now he had to choose. A great feast at Margaret Dodie's table. Or two days in bed with Joe. A slow smile came to his face. Well, maybe Margaret would save him some leftovers.


Excerpted from An Unquiet Grave by P. J. Parrish Excerpted by permission.
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