The Forsaken (Quinn Colson Series #4)

The Forsaken (Quinn Colson Series #4)

4.3 7
by Ace Atkins
     
 

View All Available Formats & Editions

A Quinn Colson Novel from the New York Times bestselling author of The Broken Places

Thirty-six years ago, a nameless black man wandered into Jericho, Mississippi, with nothing but the clothes on his back and a pair of paratrooper boots. Less than two days later, he was accused of rape and murder, hunted down by a frenzied posse, and

Overview

A Quinn Colson Novel from the New York Times bestselling author of The Broken Places

Thirty-six years ago, a nameless black man wandered into Jericho, Mississippi, with nothing but the clothes on his back and a pair of paratrooper boots. Less than two days later, he was accused of rape and murder, hunted down by a frenzied posse, and lynched.

Now evidence of his innocence has surfaced, and county sheriff Quinn Colson sets out to identify the stranger’s remains and charge those responsible for the lynching. But as he starts to uncover old lies and secrets of corruption, he runs up against fierce opposition from those with the most to lose—and they’re not afraid to play dirty.

Soon Colson will find himself implicated in terrible crimes, and the accusations just might stick. As the two investigations come to a head, it is anybody’s guess who will prevail—or who will come out of it alive.

READERS GUIDE INSIDE

Editorial Reviews

The New York Times Book Review - Marilyn Stasio
A more focused plot would have been nice, but Atkins doesn't construct a cohesive narrative so much as chase down articulate characters who can contribute to his densely layered stack of stories. Johnny Stagg has a wonderfully filthy mouth, but Atkins finds his natural-born storytellers everywhere, from Mr. Jim's barbershop to a pancake breakfast at the V.F.W. Even a brute like Chester…who rides with the Born Losers, has a certain way with the few words in his limited vocabulary. It's all music to these ears.
Publishers Weekly
05/26/2014
Lean prose, solid pacing, and a compelling lead distinguish bestseller Atkins’s gritty fourth Quinn Colson novel. The aftermath of the violence that ended the previous entry, The Broken Places (2013), continues to enmesh Colson, the sheriff of Jericho, Miss., though the former U.S. Ranger also has two cold cases to unravel. On July 4, 1977, a driver stopped his car on a country road and accosted 17-year-old Diane Tull and her 14-year-old friend, Lori Stillwell. The stranger shot Lori to death after raping Diane. When Lori’s father urges the now middle-aged Diane to finally get the case reinvestigated, Quinn agrees to take on the job. Along the way, Quinn comes across a related unsolved murder that ends up striking close to home. That Quinn resembles the late Robert B. Parker’s Spenser—both are uncomplicated, principled men unafraid to use violence to protect themselves and others—isn’t surprising, since Atkins now writes the continuation of the Spenser series. Author tour. Agent: Esther Newberg, ICM. (July)
Kirkus Reviews
★ 2014-06-19
Cases both hot and cold force a Mississippi sheriff to confront issues from the past. For now at least, former Army Ranger Quinn Colson (All the Broken Places, 2013, etc.) is the sheriff of Tibbehah County. Hidden behind the county’s down-home atmosphere is a seething mass of corruption, drug dealing and violent crime. Quinn and his sharpshooting deputy, Lillie Virgil, are under investigation for shooting a crooked sheriff and stealing money. Former sheriff Johnny Stagg remains Tibbehah’s political power. His legitimate business is vastly overshadowed by his income from drugs and prostitution, and he aims to get the all-too-honest Quinn removed from office. Stagg has hired a tough new bodyguard because his nemesis, Chains LeDoux, a crazed biker who ran the Born Losers, is about to be released from prison. Quinn himself is preoccupied by crimes committed before he was born. Some time after Diane Tull was raped and her friend Lori Stillwell murdered, an unidentified man was found beaten, burned and hanged. But Diane, who knows the dead man wasn’t the rapist, asks Quinn to right that old wrong and find whomever killed the nameless victim. Lori’s father, Hank Stillwell, was part of the Born Losers. So was Quinn’s father, Jason, who got sucked into the biker gang on a visit home from his job as a Hollywood stuntman. Quinn’s mother would never reveal why Jason left his family. Now Quinn must investigate the father he hasn’t seen since childhood for murder. Meantime, Stagg, the Born Losers, and rival black and Mexican drug lords continue to fight for control of the lucrative drug market. Atkins is at the top of his game in Quinn’s fourth appearance, filled with nonstop action and moral ambiguities. The sheriff’s many flaws only enhance his human appeal.
From the Publisher
Praise for Ace Atkins and The Forsaken

“Ace Atkins’s killing honesty sets a new standard for Southern crime novels.”—Marilyn Stasio, The New York Times Book Review

“Quinn has a quick wit, a strong code of honor, and radiates sex appeal, but more importantly he knows the difference between law and order.”—Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

“Lean prose, solid pacing, and a compelling lead distinguish bestseller Atkins’s gritty fourth Quinn Colson novel.”—Publishers Weekly

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780399161797
Publisher:
Penguin Publishing Group
Publication date:
07/24/2014
Series:
Quinn Colson Series, #4
Pages:
384
Sales rank:
845,829
Product dimensions:
6.40(w) x 8.90(h) x 1.40(d)
Age Range:
18 Years

Related Subjects

Read an Excerpt

***This galley is from an advance uncorrected proof***

Copyright © 2014 Ace Atkins

2

I’ve always wondered, Quinn,” W. R. “Sonny” Stevens, attorney-at-law, said. “Did you ever see your daddy work, doing those stunts, up close and in person?”

“Caddy and I went out to Hollywood a couple times when we were really young, back in the eighties,” Quinn Colson said. “By then he was on Dukes of Hazzard, A-Team, and MacGyver. He let us hang out on set and see him race cars and flip them. It scared the hell out of my sister. But I kind of liked it. I once saw my dad run around for nearly a minute while completely on fire.”

Stevens leaned back into his chair, his office filled with historic photos of Jericho, Mississippi’s last hundred years, from its days as prosperous lumber mill and railroad town to the day last year when a tornado shredded nearly all of it. One of them was a picture of Jason Colson jumping ten Ford Pintos on his motorcycle back in ’77. The office seemed to have remained untouched since then, windows painted shut and stale air locked up tight, dust motes in the sunlight, the room smelling of tobacco, whiskey, and old legal books.

“Maybe the reason you joined the Army?” Stevens said, smiling a bit, motioning with his chin.

Quinn was dressed for duty, that being the joke of it for some: spit-polished cowboy boots, crisp jeans, and a khaki shirt worn with an embroidered star of the county sheriff. He wore a Beretta 9mm on his hip, the same gun that had followed him into thirteen tours of Iraq and Trashcanistan when he was with the Regiment, 3rd Batt. He was tall and thin, his hair cut a half-inch thick on top and next to nothing on the side. High and tight.

“You liked all that danger and excitement like your dad?”

“I liked the Army for other reasons,” Quinn said. “I think my dad just liked hanging out with movie stars, drinking beer, and getting laid. Not much to the Jason Colson thought process.”

Stevens smiled and swallowed, looking as if he really didn’t know what to say. Which would be a first for Stevens, known for being the best lawyer in Tibbehah County when he was sober. And the second-best when he was drunk.

He was a compact man, somewhere in his late sixties, with thinning white hair, bright blue eyes, and cheeks flushed red from the booze. Quinn had never seen him when he was not wearing a coat and a tie. Today it was a navy sport coat with gold buttons, a white dress shirt with red tie, and khakis. Stevens stared in a knowing, grandfatherly way, hands clasped on top of the desk, waiting to dispense with the bullshit and get on to the case.

“OK,” Quinn said. “How’s it look?”

“Honestly?” Stevens said. “Pretty fucked-up.”

“You really think they’ll take our case to the grand jury?” Quinn said. “I answered every question the DA had honestly and accurately. Never believed they’d run with it. I thought I’d left tribunals and red tape when I left the service.”

Sonny Stevens got up and stretched, right hand in his trouser pocket jingling some loose change, and walked to a bank of windows above Doris’s Flower Shop & Specialties. The office had a wide, second-story porch and a nice view of the town square, most of it under construction right now as a good half was ripped apart by that tornado. There were concrete trucks and contractors parked inside what had been a city park and veterans’ memorial. Now it was a staging area for the workers who were trying to rebuild what was lost. “I just wish you’d called me earlier,” Stevens said. “The DA has had a real time turning a pretty simple, straightforward story into one of intrigue and corruption. I might could’ve stopped this shit from the start. But now? Politically, it’s gone too far.”

“What’s to study on?” Quinn said. “Deputy Virgil and I met those men to get my sister and my nephew back. A sniper up in the hills killed two men, and when we looked to get out, Leonard Chappell and his flunky tried to kill me.”

“And you shot them?” Stevens said, staring out the window.

“I shot Leonard. Lillie shot the other officer.”

“Can you step back a little, Quinn?” Stevens said. “Tell it to me again, as straight and simple as possible. The cleanest and easiest version is the one a jury will believe. Start with Jamey Dixon. How’d you end up driving out to that airfield with him?”

“That convict Esau Davis kidnapped my sister and nephew, Jason,” Quinn said. “Jason was four. Davis had sunk an armored car in a bass pond before he was incarcerated. He blamed Dixon for beating him to the car and taking the money.”

“Did he?”

“Yes, sir,” Quinn said. “Those two convicts had bragged to Dixon about all that money they stole and hid. You know Dixon was a chaplain at Parchman? He came out of there a full ordained minister.”

“And started that church out in the county,” Stevens said. “The one in the barn. The River?”

“Dixon used their confessions and told Johnny Stagg about that armored car, who used some of that money for Dixon’s pardon and took the rest for his trouble.”

“But that part can’t be proved,” Stevens said. “Just stay with the basics. Two escaped convicts kidnapped your sister, who was Jamey Dixon’s girlfriend, and her young son.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And those convicts demanded their money back?”

“One convict,” Quinn said. “The other one got killed while on the run.”

“So that one convict, Esau Davis, wanted to exchange cash for your sister and nephew? You were scared as hell they might be harmed.”

“Yes, sir,” Quinn said. “Lillie found a vantage point in the hills by that old landing strip. She was to provide cover if Davis started shooting. You know Dixon only had twenty grand on him? And that wasn’t from the bank job. That was from donations after the tornado.”

“And how did Chief Chappell and his officer figure into this?”

“They were waiting for all of us to show,” Quinn said. “They knew about the exchange and came for the money and to protect Stagg’s interests. They also had a sniper in the hills on the opposite side of Lillie who took out Dixon and Davis. When the shooting started, that’s when Chappell and his man turned on me.”

“Me and you both know Leonard Chappell was a joke as police chief and the head stooge for Johnny Stagg,” Stevens said. “But one lawman killing another lawman makes for bad press and lots of political pressure on the DA.”

“Leonard had no reason to be there but to steal that cash.”

“Of course,” Stevens said. “But the story the DA will tell is that they came to save the goddamn day and that you and Lillie killed them both to cover y’all’s ass. That way all that money was yours without witnesses.”

“Bullshit,” Quinn said. “They had another man up in the hills. He killed the two men there to make the money exchange. No one seems to be wondering who killed those convicts, Dixon and Davis.”

“They’re going to say it was Lillie Virgil.”

“Guns didn’t match,” Quinn said. “State tests prove it.”

“They’ll say she brought another gun.”

“That’s insane.”

“You bet,” Stevens said. “But you better prepare for that part of their story.”

Stevens swallowed and moved from the window. He reached for a cutglass decanter at a small bar near his desk and motioned to Quinn. Quinn declined. It was two in the afternoon. Stevens poured some bourbon into a coffee mug and swished it around a bit. He was deep in thought, looking across his old office, with all those barrister bookshelves and faded certificates, Citizen of the Year and Outstanding Ole Miss Alumnus, as he sipped.

“They can twist the story as they please,” Stevens said. “We got two dead lawmen, two dead convicts, and a shitload of cash, flying wild and free, after this all went down. They claim nearly ten thousand is still unaccounted for.”

“You know how many people went out into the hills after this happened?” Quinn said. “Families went there on weekends with butterfly nets and duffel bags. That money was found but never turned in.”

“However this goes, it’ll destroy your name,” Stevens said. “They’ll destroy Lillie’s, too. They’ll ask questions about y’all’s relationship, relationships she might have with other, um, individuals. You got an election in April.”

“You saying I should make a deal?”

“No, sir,” Stevens said, sipping a bit more from the mug. His light blue eyes and red cheeks brightened a bit, him inhaling deeply as things were getting settled. “There’s no deal to make. Not yet. Just preparing you for the shitstorm as we go into an election year. I don’t think that fact is lost on anyone, particularly not Johnny Stagg.”

“Mr. Stevens, how about we not discuss Johnny Stagg right now,” Quinn said. “I just ate lunch.”

“Whiskey makes it a little easier,” he said. “Soothes the stomach. Stagg’s been running the supervisors for a long while. I’ve gotten used to the fact people like him walk among us.”

“Lillie saved my ass,” Quinn said. “I shot Leonard Chappell because he was about to kill me. But Jamey Dixon and Esau were killed by someone else.”

“Could’ve been any one of Stagg’s goons.”

“This individual wasn’t a goon,” Quinn said. “This person was a pro, a hell of a precise shot at a distance.”

“You see anything at all?”

“Hard to look around when you hit the ground and crawl under a pickup truck.”

“Imagine so,” Stevens said. “And Lillie?”

“No, sir,” Quinn said. “But you need to ask her.”

“How could you be sure Leonard wanted you dead?”

“He was aiming a pistol straight at my head,” Quinn said. “This was an ambush.”

Stevens turned and leaned back against the windowsill and stared out at the rebuilding of downtown Jericho. Among the piles of brick, busted wood, and torn-away roofs, all that remained standing on that side of downtown after the storm was the old rusted water tower by the Big Black River. Now they were even repainting the tower from a rusted silver to a bright blue. New sidewalks. New roads. The Piggly Wiggly had reopened, with the Dollar Store not long to follow. There was word that Jericho might even be getting a Walmart.

“Did you hear Stagg is going to cut the ribbon when they reopen the
Square?” Stevens asked.

“I did.”

“To read about it in the papers, he is the sole person responsible for the rebirth of this town with the grants and handshakes he’s made in Jackson.”

“I guess anyone can be a hero.”

“We’ll get this matter straight, Quinn,” Stevens said, “don’t you worry. Just keep doing your job. Lots of folks appreciate all you done for this place since coming home from the service.”

“And what can I do while we wait to hear from the DA?”

“Not much,” Stevens said. “But if they indicate for a moment this goes beyond just an inquiry, you better have my ass on speed dial.”

In Memphis, Johnny Stagg slid into a booth at the Denny’s on Union, across from the Peabody Hotel and down the street from AutoZone Park. He accepted the menu but shut it quick, telling the waitress a cup of coffee and ice water would be just fine, smacking his lips as he watched her backside sway in the tight uniform. His new man, Ringold, took a seat up at the bar near the kitchen, giving Stagg a little space for when Houston arrived. Houston had called the meeting, saying it was about time, as Stagg always had someone else talking business, making the exchanges, and figuring out just what in Memphis was black and what was white. Stagg had relayed one message since Bobby Campo was put in prison: All of Memphis was nothing but green.

Stagg toasted Ringold with his coffee mug. Ringold nodded back. Man probably didn’t weight a hundred eighty pounds or stand much higher than five foot ten. He was plain and bland as Wonder Bread, with a shaved head and stubbled black beard, his blue eyes almost translucent. While you wouldn’t notice Ringold in a crowd, he probably had hundred ways to kill a man with a salad fork.

Ringold had come to him that summer, not long after the storm, looking for work and laying out credentials that made him smile. He was three years out of uniform, a former Special Forces soldier, Blackwater operator, and all-around bad dude with a gun. Stagg had made some calls to some people Ringold had worked for and they couldn’t say enough about how he handled himself. Stagg figured losing Leonard had been a damn blessing. He’d traded out a goddamn Oldsmobile for a Cadillac.

Stagg sucked a tooth, turned the Denny’s fork, and grinned a good long while when Houston and his four thugs walked into the restaurant. Ringold stopped the thugs and motioned Houston to go take a seat in that back booth facing across the alley to the Rendezvous rib joint. Houston was black, short and muscular, wearing a flat-billed St. Louis Cardinals ball cap and hexagonal rose-colored glasses.

Houston didn’t look happy when he joined Stagg at the booth or when he said, “No offense, Johnny, but we a package deal. My fucking boys don’t sit at no kids’ table.”

“C’mon, Mr. Houston,” Stagg said, grinning. “You’re the one that wanted to meet. Come on. I’ll buy you and your boys whatever you want. Grand Slam breakfast? Santa Fe Skillet, Banana Caramel French Toast?”

“I wouldn’t let my dog eat that shit,” Houston said. “And he licks his ass.”

“How about coffee, then?”

“Don’t drink coffee,” Houston said. “I don’t smoke. I don’t do drugs.”

“Ain’t that something?” Stagg said. “What some folks might call ironic.”

“It’s my fucking religion,” Houston said. “I made it out. What I heard, you made it out, too. Where you get your start? You don’t look like you came from no trust fund, coming out the cooch with a silver spoon.”

Stagg just grinned at him, bony hands warming up on his coffee mug. He wore the tattersall shirt he’d bought on the Oxford Square during football season, with a red Ole Miss sweater-vest and pleated navy pants. He wasn’t ashamed to say he’d spent nearly three hundred dollars on a pair of handwoven moccasins to be worn with fancy socks. Stagg recalled when his momma made him and his brother exchange underwear on different days of the week because she hated doing wash. Stagg brushed at his chapped, reddened cheek, motioning away the waitress with the nice backside for a few moments while they discussed all the options Denny’s, America’s Favorite Diner, offered them.

“My people from Marshall County,” Houston said. “You heard of R. L. Burnside, the blues player? He was my great-uncle. Man could rip the shit out of a guitar. Women in France would rip their bras off and hand them over just to hear him play.”

“Sure.”

“You don’t know him?”

Stagg sucked on his tooth, rotating the warm mug in his hand. “I don’t listen to nigger music, Mr. Houston.”

Houston grinned wide, showing some gold teeth. Stagg knew the man would like him to cut through the shit, get right to the point, that this wasn’t about them becoming buddies and pals, but just how they would keep the goddamn Mexicans out of the city and keep a good thing going. There really wasn’t much to consider. Stagg moved it. Houston sold it. Now Houston wanted more of a cut and that wasn’t exactly surprising to Stagg. What was surprising is that Houston would want to be seen anywhere near Stagg, as you could bet sure as shit that the DEA or FBI or ATF or who the hell ever would be bugging their Banana Caramel French Toast this morning, wanting Stagg to follow his old pal and mentor Bobby Campo to the Cornhole Suite at the federal pen.

“You got kids?” Houston said.

“I got one.”

“Boy or girl?”

“Boy,” Stagg said. “Don’t see that it matters.”

“I got twelve kids,” Houston said. “I got two of them with a Mexican woman I met when hiding out from Johnny Law down in Mexico. You ever been with a Mexican woman? Whew. Damn straight, with all that sweet brown skin and black hair. I’d live down there if those motherfuckers hadn’t decided they wanted to have me killed.”

“Those Mex sonsabitches mean business,” Stagg said. “We had some of those boys in Tibbehah a year or so ago. They found out this local boy was trying to screw them out of a gun deal. Lord have mercy, they rode into Jericho like they was Pancho Villa wanting to fill him full of a million holes.”

“They kill him?” Houston asked.

Stagg shook his head. “Gave himself up to the Feds. I’m still waiting to read about him getting shanked by ole Speedy Gonzales in the shower.”

Houston nodded. “Man, you a trip.”

Stagg studied him, tilting his head a bit. “Son, are you wearing two watches?”

“Yep,” Houston said. “One is platinum and one is gold. East Coast and Central.”

“May I ask why?”

“’Cause I’m expanding.”

Stagg laughed. Even through all that black shuck-and-jive bullshit that never made any sense to him, Stagg liked the boy. He liked that he’d called the meet, liked that he was going to ask for a larger cut, and liked that he’d crawled up from a world of shit to control his future. Stagg had been born to a manure salesman out of Carthage. Houston had come from a goddamn inner ring of hell in the Dixie Homes housing project.

“Sure you don’t want breakfast?” Stagg said. “It’s on me.”

“OK,” Houston said. “Maybe some of that French toast shit.”

“With the fruit or without?”

“All the way.”

“Figured that’s what we got.”

“Or maybe I want some of that goddamn Moon Over My Hammy,” Houston said. “But that don’t mean I’m gonna eat the whole thing. You can have your half and a few extra bites. I ain’t asking to go equal on this shit. Just give me a little of that ole Hammie and maybe some hash browns and shit and a sip of Coke.”

“I know,” Stagg said, holding up his hand, “ain’t nobody that goddamn stupid. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t in agreement.”

Houston snapped shut his menu. The waitress arrived and he told her that he just wanted pancakes and hash browns and to bring a bottle of ketchup.

“A whole bottle?”

“You know, Mr. Stagg, you ain’t at all like Bobby Campo.”

Stagg nodded. “Appreciate that, sir.”

“I never sat down at the table with Bobby Campo.”

“He made a lot of mistakes,” Stagg said. “He was reckless. A fuckup.”

Houston readjusted his rose-colored shades and grinned. Two of his teeth were gold with diamonds inlaid. He smiled some more, adjusting each watch on each wrist. “Who you got up there by the door?” Houston said. “He don’t look old enough to shave.”

Stagg sipped some coffee. Put down the mug, warmed his hands as the heat curled up to his face. “Oh, just a new friend.”

“Funny how you being all cool with the meet and greet and all that shit.”

“Me and you got a good thing going,” he said. “If someone were to try and break it up, I just want to make sure he knows he ain’t invited.”

“I think you and me gonna make a fine team,” Houston said. “Don’t let anyone fuck with my people.”

“Good to hear that, Mr. Houston,” Stagg said. “Much appreciated.”

What People are saying about this

From the Publisher
Praise for The Forsaken
 
“Articulate characters [and] a densely layered stack of stories. Atkins finds his natural-born storytellers everywhere. It’s all music to these ears.”—Marilyn Stasio, The New York Times Book Review

“Atkins excels in solid pacing, effective dialogue and compelling characters . . . [he] shapes Quinn not as a superman, but as a flawed man who wants to do the right thing for his hometown . . . The excellent Quinn Colson novels, as illustrated in "The Forsaken," are the true showcase for Atkins' storytelling skills.”—Associated Press

“A darkly exciting thrill ride.”—Tampa Bay Times

“Quinn is facing a seemingly impossible string of complications in this fourth series installment, but somehow all these layers of catastrophe make sense together, a testament to Atkins’ ability to capture small-town life. The dive into Jericho’s dark past makes for great reading as Atkins rolls through a handful of perspectives, propelling the story’s threads toward an adrenaline-laced, Wild West–style conclusion.”—Booklist (starred review)

“Atkins is at the top of his game in Quinn’s fourth appearance, filled with nonstop action and moral ambiguities. The sheriff’s many flaws only enhance his human appeal.”—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

“Lean prose, solid pacing, and a compelling lead distinguish bestseller Atkins’s gritty fourth Quinn Colson novel . . . That Quinn resembles the late Robert B. Parker’s Spenser—both are uncomplicated, principled men unafraid to use violence to protect themselves and others.”—Publishers Weekly
 
Praise for The Broken Places
 
“Ace Atkins’ killing honesty sets a new standard for Southern crime novels.”—Marilyn Stasio, The New York Times Book Review
 
“Ace Atkins’ Quinn Colson novels have been exceptional from the start . . . whether readers are new to the series or fans from the start, The Broken Places will touch them the way all great novels do, profoundly.”—Shelf Awareness
 
“The action is stark and gripping, the Southern locale suitably atmospheric and the bevy of characters convincing.”—The Houston Chronicle
 
“Atkins continues to combine sturdy character studies with an action-packed tale about the contemporary issues of war veterans and small-town corruption . . . The Broken Places again shows what a powerful storyteller Atkins is.”—Tulsa World
 
“[Atkins] scores again . . . Readers new to Atkins will see why Robert B. Parker's estate chose him to continue Parker's celebrated Spenser series.”—USA Today
 
“Atkins just gets better and better . . . I will throw down against anyone who disagrees with the statement that Atkins is one of our best American authors.  Period . . . No matter what literary genre you might favor, The Broken Places is a book you should read and will not forget.”—bookreporter.com
 
“Atkins’ voice is graceful and tense . . . Atkins’ habit-forming series [shares] a tremendous sense of (rural) place and powerfully nuanced characterization with those of James Lee Burke, Craig Johnson, and C. J. Box.”—Booklist
 
“A high-tension thriller with a hero to rival Jack Reacher.”—Kirkus
 
“Supercool. ‘Manly’ writing akin to Elmore Leonard’s Detroit Westerns.”—Library Journal
 
“Amid the full-throttle plot, Atkins never loses sight of his characters’ sensitivities.”—Publishers Weekly

Meet the Author

Ace Atkins, a former Pulitzer Prize–nominated journalist, has written fourteen previous novels, including The Broken Places, The Lost Ones, and The Ranger in his Edgar Award–nominated Quinn Colson series. In 2011, he was selected by the Robert B. Parker estate to continue the iconic Spenser series, which he has done with the bestsellers Robert B. Parker’s Lullaby, Robert B. Parker’s Wonderland, and Robert B. Parker’s Cheap Shot. His previous works include the historical crime novels White Shadow, Wicked City, Devil’s Garden, and Infamous, and the Nick Travers series. 

Customer Reviews

Average Review:

Write a Review

and post it to your social network

     

Most Helpful Customer Reviews

See all customer reviews >

The Forsaken 4.3 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 7 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Exceptional installment in a pitch-perfect series.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Kittyb1 More than 1 year ago
This series is one of the best to come along in a long time. Quinn Colson is a former Ranger who takes his job as sheriff seriously. Breathtaking action, steamy sex, perfect depiction of the Mississippi locales and people who inhabit them. Hope we see another book with Sheriff Colson in the very future.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I enjoy Atkins' writing style but sometimes I find it difficult to stay with as he flitters from one episode to the next. I do not enjoy his free use of profanity as if it adds to his novels but only serves to detract from the story being told. He has somewhat of a rough edge when it comes to writing. He can be enjoyable and then with the jumping around and profanity he can get old quickly. I have all the Quinn Colson novels but I often wonder if I can continue to read his books.
tedfeit0 More than 1 year ago
It seems as if nothing is relatively normal in the small Mississippi county in which Quinn Colson serves as sheriff. Or is more like the proverbial corrupt Huey Long Louisiana with politicians on the take and a blind eye to all sorts of shenanigans, including lynching and murder, motorcycle gangs and drugs. All take place in this third novel in the series and then some. Carrying over from the previous entry in the series, Quinn and his chief deputy Lillie are facing possible murder charges for the killing a a former sheriff in a shootout that climaxed the previous book. This prospect hangs over them as they are confronted with a cold case which arises from the rape of one teenager and murder of another 37 years before. At the time, a black man was beaten up and lynched. The survivor, now a prominent citizen, told Quinn’s uncle, who was sheriff at the time, the wrong man was murdered since she saw the perpetrator two weeks later. Now, Quinn and Lillie undertake to find out the truth. This brings Quinn into the uncomfortable position of contacting his long estranged stuntman father who rode with the motorcycle gang in the period, giving he author the opportunity of inserting italicized introductions to succeeding chapters with historical information, providing the basis for current investigations. Colson is developing into one of the more interesting protagonists. A former ranger with a deep, inherent feeling for honesty and fairness, he exhibits the sense that law and its practical application is necessary to keep order in the unruly town dominated by q shady board of supervisors. Atkins has created a Faulkner-like collection of believable characters populating suspenseful plots. Recommended.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago