Its 1933 in East Texas and the Depression lingers in the air like a slow moving storm. When a young Harry Collins and his little sister stumble across the body of a black woman who has been savagely mutilated and left to die in the bottoms of the Sabine River, their small town is instantly charged with tension. When a second body turns up, this time of a white woman, there is little Harry can do from stopping his Klan neighbors from lynching an innocent black man. Together with his younger sister, Harry sets out to discover who the real killer is, and to do so they will search for a truth that resides far deeper than any river or skin color.
|Publisher:||Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group|
|Product dimensions:||8.48(w) x 11.70(h) x 0.75(d)|
About the Author
Lansdale has received the Edgar Award, eight Bram Stoker Awards, the Horror Writers Association Lifetime Achievement Award, the British Fantasy Award, the Grinzani Cavour Prize for Literature, the Herodotus Historical Fiction Award, the Inkpot Award for Contributions to Science Fiction and Fantasy, and many others.
A major motion picture based on Lansdale's crime thriller Cold in July was released in May 2014, starring Michael C. Hall (Dexter), Sam Shepard (Black Hawk Down), and Don Johnson (Miami Vice). His novella Bubba Hotep was adapted to film by Don Coscarelli, starring Bruce Campbell and Ossie Davis. His story "Incident On and Off a Mountain Road" was adapted to film for Showtime's "Masters of Horror." He is currently co-producing a TV series, "Hap and Leonard" for the Sundance Channel and films including The Bottoms, based on his Edgar Award-winning novel, with Bill Paxton and Brad Wyman, and The Drive-In, with Greg Nicotero.
Lansdale is the founder of the martial arts system Shen Chuan: Martial Science and its affiliate, Shen Chuan Family System. He is a member of both the United States and International Martial Arts Halls of Fame. He lives in Nacogdoches, Texas with his wife, dog, and two cats.
Read an Excerpt
I suppose there were some back then had money, but we weren't among them. The Depression was on. And if we had been one of those with money, there really wasn't that much to buy, outside of hogs, chickens, vegetables, and the staples, and since we raised the first three, with us it was the staples, and sometimes we bartered for them.
Daddy farmed some, and where we lived wasn't so bad for growing things. The wind had blown away most of North and West Texas, along with Oklahoma, but the eastern part of Texas was lush with greenery and the soil was rich and there was enough rain so that things grew quick and hardy. Even during dry periods the soil tended to hold some moisture, and if a crop wasn't as good as it might be, it could still turn out. In fact, when the rest of Texas was tired out and gone to dust, East Texas would sometimes be subject to terrific rainstorms and even floods. We were more likely to lose a crop to dampness than to dryness.
Daddy had a barbershop as well, and he ran it most days except Sunday and Monday, and was a community constable because nobody else wanted the job. For a time he had been justice of the peace as well, but he finally decided it was more than he wanted, and Jim Jack Formosa took on the justice of the peace position, and Daddy always said Jim Jack was a damn sight better at marrying and declaring people stone cold dead than he ever was.
We lived back in the deep woods near the Sabine River in a three-room white house Daddy had built before we were born. We had a leak in the roof, no electricity, a smoky wood stove, a rickety barn, a sleeping porch with a patchedscreen, and an outhouse prone to snakes.
We used kerosene lamps, hauled water from the well, and did a lot of hunting and fishing to add to the larder. We had about four acres cut out of the woods, and owned another twenty-five acres of hard timber and pine. We farmed the cleared four acres of sandy land with a mule named Sally Redback. We had a car, but Daddy used it mostly for his constable business and Sunday church. The rest of the time we walked, or me and my sister rode Sally Redback.
The woods we owned, and the hundreds of acres of it that surrounded our land, was full of game, chiggers, and ticks. Back then in East Texas, all the big woods hadn't been timbered out and we didn't have a real advanced Forestry Department telling us how the forest needed help to survive. We just sort of figured since it had survived centuries without us it could probably figure things out on its own. And the woods didn't all belong to somebody back then, though of course timber was a big industry and was growing even bigger.
But there were still mighty trees and lost places in the woods and along the cool shaded riverbanks that no one had touched but animals.
Wild hogs, squirrels, rabbits, coons, possums, some armadillo, and all manner of birds and plenty of snakes were out there. Sometimes you could see water moccasins swimming in a school down the river, their evil heads bobbing up like knobs on logs. And woe unto the fella fell in amongst them, and bless the heart of the fool who believed if he swam down under them he'd be safe because a moccasin couldn't bite underwater. They not only could, but would.
Deer roamed the woods too. Maybe fewer than now, as people grow them like crops these days and harvest them on a three-day drunk during season from a deer stand with a high-powered rifle. Deer they've corn-fed and trained to be like pets so they can get a cheap free shot and feel like they've done some serious hunting. It costs them more to shoot the deer, ride its corpse around in a pickup, and mount its head than it would cost to go to the store and buy an equal amount of beefsteak. Then there's those who like to smear their faces with the blood after the kill and take photos, as if this makes them some kind of warrior. You'd think the damn deer were armed and dangerous.
But I've quit talking, and gone to preaching. I was saying how we lived. And I was saying about all the game. Then too, there was the Goat Man. Half goat, half man, he liked to hang around what was called the Swinging Bridge. Up until the time I'm telling you about I had never seen him, but sometimes at night, out possum hunting, I thought maybe I heard him, howling and whimpering down there near the cable bridge that hung bold over the river, swinging with the wind in the moonlight, the beams playing on the metal cables like fairies on ropes.
He was supposed to steal animals and children, and though I didn't know of any children that had been eaten, some farmers claimed the Goat Man had taken their livestock, and there were kids I knew claimed they had cousins taken off by the Goat Man, never to be seen again.
It was said he didn't go as far as the main road because Baptist preachers traveled regular there on foot and by car, making the rounds, and therefore making the road holy. We called it the Preacher's Road.
It was said the Goat Man didn't get out of the woods that made up the Sabine bottoms. High land was something he couldn't tolerate. He needed the damp, thick leaf mush beneath his feet, which were hooves.
Dad said there wasn't any Goat Man. That it was a wives' tale heard throughout the South. He said what I heard out there was water and animal sounds, but I tell you, those sounds made your skin crawl, and they did remind you of a hurt goat. Mr. Cecil Chambers, who worked with my Daddy at the barbershop, said it was probably a panther. They showed up now and then in the deep woods, and they could scream like a woman, he said.
Me and my sister, Tomwell, Thomasina, but we all called her Tom 'cause it was easier to remember and because she was a tomboyroamed those woods from daylight to dark. That wasn't unusual for kids back then. The woods were darn near a second home to us.
We had a dog named Toby that was part hound, part terrier, and part what we called feist. Toby was a hunting sonofagun. But the summer of nineteen thirty-three, while rearing up against a tree so he could bark at a squirrel he'd tracked, the oak he was under lost a rotten limb and it fell on him, striking him so hard he couldn't move his back legs or tail. I carried him home in my arms. Him whimpering, me and Tom crying.
Daddy was out in the field plowing with Sally Redback, working the plow around a stump that was still in the field. Now and then he chopped at its base with an axe and set fire to it, but it was stubborn and remained.
Daddy stopped his plowing when he saw us, took the looped lines off his shoulders and dropped them, left Sally Redback standing in the field hitched up to the plow. He walked part of the way across the field to meet us, and we carried Toby out to him and put him on the soft plowed ground and Daddy looked him over.
Unlike most farmers, Daddy never wore overalls. He always wore khaki pants, work shirts, work shoes, and a brown felt hat. His idea of dressing up was a clean white shirt with a thin black tie and the rest of him decked out in khakis and work shoes and a less battered hat.
This day he took off his sweat-ringed hat, squatted down, and put the hat on his knee. He had dark brown hair and in the sunlight you could see it was touched with streaks of gray. He had a slightly long face and light green eyes that, though soft, seemed to look right through you.
Daddy moved Toby's paws around, tried to straighten his back, but Toby whined hard when he did that.
After a while, as if considering all possibilities, he told me and Tom to get the gun and take poor Toby out in the woods and put him out of his misery.
"It ain't what I want you to do," Daddy said. "But it's the thing has to be done."
"Yes sir," I said, but the words crawled out of my throat as if their backs, like Toby's, were broken.
These days that might sound rough, but back then we didn't have many vets, and no money to take a dog to one if we wanted to. And all a vet would have done was do what we were gonna do.
Another thing different then was you learned about things like dying when you were quite young. It couldn't be helped. You raised and killed chickens and hogs, hunted and fished, so you were constantly up against it. That being the case, I think we respected life more than some do now, and useless suffering was not to be tolerated.
In the case of something like Toby, you were expected to do the deed yourself, not pass on the responsibility. It was unspoken, but it was well understood that Toby was our dog, and therefore our responsibility. And when it got right down to it, as the oldest, it was my direct responsibility, not Tom's.
I thought of appealing to Mama, who was out at the henhouse gathering evening eggs, but I knew it wouldn't do any good. She'd see things same as Daddy.
Me and Tom cried awhile, then got a wheelbarrow and put Toby in it. I already had my twenty-two for squirrels, but for this I went in the house and swapped it for the single-shot sixteen-gauge shotgun so there wouldn't be any suffering. Kids back then grew up on guns and were taught to respect and use them in the manner they were meant. They were as much a part of life as a hoe, a plow, and a butter churn.
Our responsibility or not, I was nearly twelve and Tom was only nine. The thought of shooting Toby in the back of the head like that, blasting his skull all over creation, was not something I looked forward to. I told Tom to stay at the house, but she wouldn't. She said she'd come on with me. She knew I needed someone to help me be strong. I didn't try hard to discourage her.
Tom got the shovel to bury Toby, put it over her shoulder, and we wheeled old Toby along, him whining and such, but after a bit he quit making noise. He just lay in the wheelbarrow while we pushed him down the trail, his back slightly twisted, his head raised, sniffing the air.
In a short time he started sniffing deeper, and we could tell he had a squirrel's scent. Toby always had a way of turning to look at you when he had a squirrel, then he'd point his head in the direction he wanted to go and take off running and yapping in that deep voice of his. Daddy said that was his way of letting us know the direction of the scent before he got out of sight. Well, he had his head turned like that, and I knew what it was I was supposed to do, but I decided to prolong it by giving Toby his head.
We pushed in the direction he wanted to go, and pretty soon we were racing over a narrow trail littered with pine needles. Toby was barking like crazy. Eventually we ran the wheelbarrow up against a hickory tree.
Up there in the high branches two big fat squirrels played around as if taunting us. I shot both of them and tossed them in the wheelbarrow with Toby, and darned if he didn't signal and start barking again.
It was rough pushing that wheelbarrow over that bumpy ground, but we did it, forgetting all about what we were supposed to do for Toby.
By the time Toby quit hitting on squirrel scent, it was near nightfall and we were down deep in the woods with six squirrelsa bumper cropand we were tuckered out.
There Toby was, a cripple, and I'd never seen him work the trees better. It was like Toby knew what was coming and was trying to extend things by treeing squirrels.
We sat down under a big old sweet gum and left Toby in the wheelbarrow with the squirrels. The sun was falling through the trees like a big fat plum coming to pieces. Shadows were rising up like dark men all around us. We didn't have a hunting lamp. There was just the moon, and it wasn't up good yet.
"Harry," Tom said. "What about Toby?"
"He don't seem to be in pain none," I said. "And he treed six squirrels."
"Yeah," Tom said, "but his back's still broke."
"Reckon so," I said.
"Maybe we could hide him down here, come every day, feed and water him."
"I don't think so. He'd be at the mercy anything came along. Darn chiggers and ticks would eat him alive." I'd thought of that because I could feel bites all over me and knew tonight I'd be spending some time with a lamp and tweezers, getting them off all kinds of places, bathing myself in kerosene, then rinsing. During the summer me and Tom ended up doing that near every evening. In fact, ticks were so thick they gathered on weed tops awaiting prey in such piles they bent the weed stalks over. Biting blackflies were thick in the woods, especially as you neared the river, and the chiggers were plentiful and hungry. Sometimes, late in the afternoon, the mosquitoes rose up in such a gathering they looked like a black cloud growing up from the bottoms.
To ward off the ticks and chiggers we tied kerosene-soaked rags around our ankles, but I can't say it worked much, other than keeping the bugs off the rags themselves. The ticks and chiggers found their way onto your clothing and body, and by nightfall they had nested snugly into some of the more personal areas of your person, sucking blood, raising up red welts.
"It's gettin' dark," Tom said.
I looked at Toby. There was mostly just a lump to see, lying there in the wheelbarrow covered by the dark. While I was looking he raised his head and his tail beat on the wooden bottom of the wheelbarrow a couple of times.
"Don't think I can do it," I said. "I think we ought to take him back to Daddy, show how he's improved. He may have a broke back, but he can move his head and even his tail now, so his whole body ain't dead. He don't need killin'."
"Daddy may not see it that way, though."
"Reckon not, but I can't just shoot him without trying to give him a chance. Heck, he treed six squirrels. Mama'll be glad to see them squirrels. We'll just take him back."
We got up to go. It was then that it settled on us. We were lost. We had been so busy chasing those squirrels, following Toby's lead, we had gotten down deep in the woods and we didn't recognize anything. We weren't scared, of course, least not right away. We roamed these woods all the time, but it had grown dark, and this immediate place wasn't familiar.
The moon was up some more, and I used that for my bearings. "We need to go that way," I said. "Eventually that'll lead back to the house, or the road."
We set out, pushing the wheelbarrow, stumbling over roots and ruts and fallen limbs, banging up against trees with the wheelbarrow and ourselves. Near us we could hear wildlife moving around, and I thought about what Cecil had said about panthers, and I thought about wild hogs and wondered if we might come up on one rootin' for acorns, and I remembered that Cecil had also said this was a bad year for the hydrophobia, and lots of animals were coming down with it, and the thought of all that made me nervous enough to feel around in my pocket for shotgun shells. I had three left.
As we went along, there was more movement in the thicket next to us, and after a while I realized whatever it was it was keeping stride with us. When we slowed, it slowed. We sped up, it sped up. And not the way an animal will do, or even the way a coach whip snake will sometimes follow and run you. This was something bigger than a snake. It was stalking us, like a panther. Or a man.
Toby was growling as we went along, his head lifted, the hair on the back of his neck raised.
I looked over at Tom, and the moon was just able to split through the trees and show me her face and how scared she was.
I wanted to say something, shout out at whatever it was in the bushes, but I was afraid that might be like some kind of bugle call that set it off, causing it to come down on us.
I had broken open the shotgun earlier for safety sake, laid it in the wheelbarrow and was pushing it, Toby, the shovel, and the squirrels along. Now I stopped, got the shotgun out, made sure a shell was in it, snapped it shut and put my thumb on the hammer.
Toby had really started to make noise, had gone from growling to barking.
I looked at Tom, and she took hold of the wheelbarrow and started pushing. I could tell she was having trouble with it, working it over the soft ground, but I didn't have any choice but to hold on to the gun, and we couldn't leave Toby behind, not after what he'd been through.
Whatever was in those bushes paced us for a while, barely cracked the leaves it stepped on, then went silent. We picked up speed, and didn't hear it anymore. And we didn't feel its presence either.
I finally got brave enough to break open the shotgun and lay it in the wheelbarrow and take over the pushing again.
"What was that?" Tom asked.
"I don't know," I said.
"It sounded big."
"The Goat Man?"
"Daddy says there ain't any Goat Man."
"Yeah, but he's sometimes wrong, ain't he?"
"Hardly ever," I said.
We went along some more, found a narrow place in the river, crossed, struggling with the wheelbarrow. We shouldn't have crossed, but here was a good spot to do it, and I was spooked and wanted to put some space between us and it.
We walked along a good distance, and eventually came up against a wad of brambles that twisted in amongst the trees and scrubs and vines and made a wall of thorns. It was a wall of wild rosebushes. Some of the vines on them were thick as well ropes, the thorns like nails, and the flowers smelled strong and sweet in the night wind, almost sweet as sorghum syrup cooking.
The bramble patch ran some distance in either direction, and encased us on all sides. We had wandered into a maze of thorns too wide and thick to go around, too high and sharp to climb over; they had wound together with low-hanging limbs, making a thorny ceiling above.
I thought of Brer Rabbit and the briar patch, but unlike Brer Rabbit, I had not been born and raised in a briar patch and it wasn't what I wanted.
I dug in my pocket, got a match I had left over from when me and Tom tried to smoke some corn silk cigarettes and grape vines, struck the match with my thumb and waved it around, saw a wide path had been cut into the brambles.
I bent down, poked the match forward. I could see the brambles were a kind of tunnel, about six feet high and six feet wide. I couldn't tell how far it went, but it was a good distance.
I shook the match out before it burned my hand, said to Tom, "We can go back, or we can take this tunnel."
Tom studied the brambles. "I don't want to go back because of that thing. And I don't want to go down that tunnel neither. We'd be like rats in a pipe. Maybe whatever it is knew it'd get us boxed in like this, and it's just waitin' at the other end, like that thing Daddy read to us about. The thing that was part man, part cow."
"Part bull, part man," I said. "The Minotaur."
"Yeah. It could be waitin' on us, Harry."
I had, of course, thought about that. "I think we ought to take the tunnel. It can't come from any side on us that way. It has to come from front or rear."
"Can't there be other tunnels in there?"
That I hadn't considered. There could be openings cut anywhere. And if it grew tight in there, all a person, animal, Minotaur had to do, was reach out and grab me or Tom.
"I got the gun," I said. "If you can push the wheelbarrow, Toby can sort of watch for us, let us know something's coming. Anything jumps out at us, I'll cut it in two."
I picked up the gun and made it ready. Tom took hold of the wheelbarrow handles, wiggled it through the split in the briars, and me and her went on in.
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
I¿ve been aware of Joe R. Lansdale as a writer of short stories and novels for over fifteen years; but, until a few days ago, I¿d never read anything by him. I¿m not sure what drew me to THE BOTTOMS. Maybe it was the fact that this novel won the Edgar Award for 2000, or possibly it was the large number of positive reviews that were written about it. Whatever the reason, my curiosity was peaked to the extent that I wanted to read the novel now, in hardcover, rather than wait another month for the Trade paperback to come out. I wasn¿t even sure if I¿d like the book; yet, I felt compelled to buy it. Now, let me say that over the last forty-two years, I¿ve probably read somewhere in the neighborhood of 3,000 novels. Though there have been hundreds of books I¿ve enjoyed over the years, few have managed to capture my heart and soul in such a way as to leave me with a profound sense of what it means to be a human being. This is a rare experience, but when it happens, I know that it¿s something that will stay with me for many years to come. THE BOTTOMS by Joe R. Lansdale is one of those miracles of writing that had such an affect, and what troubles me is that only a small audience of people is actually aware of this book. I hope my review will help alleviate this to a certain degree. THE BOTTOMS is the story of eleven-year-old Harry Crane and the tragedy that transpired between the years of 1933 and 34 in the small East Texas town of Marvel Creek. It began on a normal summer day when Harry and his younger sister, Thomasina, were out hunting squirrels along the Bottoms with their dog, Toby, and accidentally discovered the tortured body of a dead black woman. On their way back home to get their father, Jacob, who is the town¿s constable, they are stalked through the darken woods by something or someone that could be the legendary Goat Man. The two kids make it back home safe and sound, but just barely. When Jacob Crane is told about the body, he recovers it the next day and begins an investigation that few white people seem to care about. Eventually more bodies are discovered and the town realizes that it has a demented killer within its midst. It isn¿t, however, until a woman, who is partially black and white, is murdered that the ¿good¿ citizens of Marvel Creek decide to take matters into their own hands. Because of a careless error on Jacob¿s part, an innocent man is lynched, and he must come to grips with the totality of his mistake, as well as his failure to stop the hanging. It¿s a burden that can weigh heavily on the shoulders of a decent person. As the killings continue and someone very special to young Harry is brutally murdered, he and his sister take it upon themselves to solve the mystery of the Goat Man and find out who the killer really is. Of course, the killer knows that the two Crane children are hunting him and has plans of his own for dealing with them in a very special way. THE BOTTOMS is a morality tale in the grandest sense, dealing with the deep roots of racism and how people can close their eyes to prejudice and injustice. It¿s also a story about life itself and how human beings (both and bad) choose to live it, probing the emotions of guilt and shame like an open wound, while at the same time depicting heart-felt acts of courage and redemption. Filled with difficult questions concerning love, friendship, what its means to be a man, and doing the right thing when the odds are clearly stacked against you, Mr. Lansdale offers no easy answers and doesn¿t pull his punches when delving into the dark side of human nature. All of the characters in this novel resonate with a life force of their own, luring the reader into their world, making you believe each and every word that¿s written. I was there at night, in the woods, when the Goat Man stalked Harry and Thomasina, feeling their terror in the pit of my stomach. I breathed in the close friendships that Harry had with old man Mose and Miss Ma
Told from a child's viewpoint of his bi-racial town, this story shows the influence of the boy's parents' moral stand on issues confronting them in the wake of serial murders. Compelling!
Remembering back to the days of the Great Depression in East Texas, Harry Crane recalls his father Jacob was always working. To eke out a living, Jacob toiled on the family farm, at the barbershop, or as the local constable. In 1933, thirteen year old Harry accompanied by his younger sister Thomasina finds the mutilated body of a black woman. The victim, a prostitute, was tied to a tree with barbed wire. Jacob begins making inquiries and quickly learns form the black doctor performing a quick and dirty autopsy that this is third black whore viciously killed in eighteen months. No one but Jacob seems to care until a white hooker is murdered. In spite of Jacob¿s efforts to stop the hostility, a mob lynches an elderly black man, but that fails to stop a fifth death. No one does rural noirs quite like Joe R. Lansdale does. His latest tale, THE BOTTOMS, initially sounds like a historical mystery, a period piece, or even a coming of age story. None of the above is fully accurate and yet all three describe the plot. That is the charm of the unpredictable Mr. Lansdale, who fits no filing cabinet yet consistently provides a fabulously feral novel. The story line is taut, as readers can taste the racial hatred and the impact of the Depression on the charcaters. The cast is fully developed, especially the siblings passing time by wandering the nearby woods, THE BOTTOMS. Fans who don¿t mind a FREEZER BURN by visiting Texas heritage of BAD CHILI need to tumble into the dark rumbling world of Mr. Lansdale. Harriet Klausner
Joe R. Lansdale can hold your interest in a story like few others. The Bottoms is hard to leave after you start reading so you better get set for a long sit. The setting is east Texas during the Depression. The main plot is about a murder but this is much more than a murder mystery. You get a deep feeling for the family that the story is about. There is also a little bit of a horror story here as well as a whole lot of racial turmoil from the 30s. If you have never read Joe R. Lansdale, this is a great book to start with and if you are a returning fan, you may very well think this is his best work ever.
To Kill A Mockingbird set in Texas. It was a hell of a read!
This book will pull you in and stay with you long after your through. Mr. Lansdale is a true master. I am a constant reader and after 6 of his books he has become my favorite author.
Being an avid book reader, I visit my local library often and glancing at the new book titles the other day I spotted this one and thought that I would give it a try. All I can say is that it was an excellent choice.The story pulls you in and doesn't let go. I finished this one in one sitting and can't wait to try some of the authors other works.Just an excellent book all around. I recommend this to anyone.
I loved this book! This is one of those stories that I didn't want to end. The story is narrated by Harry Collins, who is in a nursing home, reflecting back upon his youth, the years 1933-34, during The Great Depression. He and his family lived in East Texas, where he and his little sister Tom ran wild and played in The Bottoms, an area close to their home, alongside the Sabine River. There was a legendary creature called The Goat Man, and Harry and Tom were always looking for him, hoping to catch a glimpse of this legendary creature. When a series of murders occur, Harry is almost sure it is the work of The Goat Man. What ensues is something that no one in this small town could ever imagine. This is a GREAT read!
Even though it covers ground already done (and done very well) by other authors, The Bottoms is a very good book. Lansdale's considerable story telling talent shines through and his character development is outstanding. There have been many comparisons to To Kill a Mockingbird, and rightly so given the storyline and comparable characters. However, as is the case with Lansdale's books, this is a much darker story. While I wouldn't recommend some of Lansdale's books to everyone, I would recommend this to anyone.
I agree with everything written by timdt below--well put. For me, I was a little disappointed with this Lansdale work, having enjoyed the Hap and Leonard books so much. If this tale had been a little more "original," or if perhaps the dialogue had been snappier like what I am used to from Lansdale, I would have given it more that 3 and half stars. It is, as with all Lansdale works, very well written and excellent at absorbing you into time and place.
E-book - This was a good read. There is a lot about racial prejudice in this book - so I was surprised I finished this book. I don't understand racial prejudice and it makes me angry, so usually I do not read books that deal with that. But the story/mystery really grabbed me and I wasn't able to stop.
The vibe here was pretty close to that in "A thin dark line," so it felt like I'd read about these people before and it seemed a bit like a re-run ... and the bit around "arresting" the Mose character didn't ring true ... I expected more from an Edgar Award winner.
Since I am not a mystery fan, I did not give this book 5 stars but I must say this is one of the best books I have read this year . . . easy to see why it was an Edgar Award winner. The story is told by Harry, an old man in a nursing home, as he recalls a particular summer when he was an eleven-year-old boy. It could be that many things Lansdale includes in the story struck me as being so true to life at the time. Harry and his sister Tomasina, everybody calls her Tom, live near the Sabine River bottoms in east Texas with mom and dad in 1933. A series of grisly murders occur. Now can anybody solve them? Sounds like any other murder mystery, right? But do not be misled . . . it is amazingly written. Best of all it is a quick, easy read. I found the last few pages especially interesting as Harry tells you what happened later in life to some of the main characters in the story . . . in fact, the last few paragraphs were moving enough to bring tears to my eyes . . . a fine book.
This author captures the reader from the first word. Highly recommended. The novel includes murder, heartbreak, racial tension, cruelty, poverty, evil, a lovely family, a injured dog, a hard as nails grandmother, and more. Outstanding book! It deserves an A++++