A young American in Mexico becomes involved in a web of deceit and murder, and finds he can rely on no one but himself to save his life.
In the baking heat of a Mexican resort town, life is spare but satisfying for David Rhodes, American exile and tennis bum, who is content with his low-key existence. But when a young female American drifter is found raped and murdered at the bottom of the seaside cliffs, Rhodes, an illegal alien, is an easy target and an immediate suspect—particularly to the town’s sadistic police chief. David’s comfortable life explodes in a sudden hell of accusation, imprisonment, and flight that can only end in one final, nightmarish confrontation.
|Publisher:||Turner Publishing Company|
|Product dimensions:||5.40(w) x 8.40(h) x 0.70(d)|
About the Author
RON FAUST is the author of fourteen previous thrillers. He has been praised for his “rare and remarkable talent” ( Los Angeles Times ), and several of his books have been optioned for films. Before he began writing, he played professional baseball and worked at newspapers in Colorado Springs, San Diego, and Key West.
Read an Excerpt
The dogs, the goddamned dogs, he had forgotten about them! They stood nearby, motionless now on still legs, cautiously sniffing the air. One of them growled far back in its throat, rumbled. Rasputin, probably, the more aggressive of the two. Rasputin and Torquemada. Oh, my God! And Harry coming down through the darkness.
David got up and crashed blindly through the brush to the clearing. Still empty, coldly limned with moonlight. He hesitated for a moment, paralyzed, then turned and started down the path. Far ahead the lights of a house. Below, other lights, other houses, and the galaxy of town lights. He stumbled, partly recovered and staggered on a few paces, turned a corner and fell heavily. The dogs were on him immediately. Growls, hot breath, the musty, furry, slightly rotten canine smell.
He got up, resumed running. The dogs stayed with him, bounding alongside, ranging ahead and falling back, growling. The longer he ran the wilder the dogs became. They were excited by the chase; a game was rapidly turning into a primal reflex. They could smell his blood and fear-sweat, were aware that he ran with in unnatural motion. A big wounded mammal loping terror-stricken through the night forest. A few minutes ago they had been pets, but now they were fifty thousand years old and hunting.
What People are Saying About This
“A wonderful writer with a firm grip on character, setting and pace.”
—The Washington Times
“A writer of enormous talent, a stylist to admire and a storyteller of great power.”
—Scott Turow, author of Presumed Innocent
“Faust writes beautifully . . . he reminds you of Hemingway and Peter Matthiessen. . . . Faust has it all: lyrical prose, complex characters and provocative plots.”
“Faust’s clear, unadorned prose and his deft, pure characterization ring with the force of Hemingway or Graham Greene.”