The New York Times bestseller-now in paperback. The case that pushes FBI agents Sherlock and Savich to the edge...
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June 14, 2004
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Excerpt from Blowout (An FBI Suspense Thriller Series: #9) by Catherine Coulter
NEAR BLESSED CREEK, PENNSYLVANIA
IT WAS DARKER than Savich was used to, what with no city lights within fifty miles. The moon was a sharp sickle, cutting in and out of bloated black clouds. He rolled down the window and sniffed the air. Snow was coming, he thought, lots of it, more than enough to build a snowman with Sherlock and Sean in the morning; then the three of them could tramp through the beautiful woods filled with spruce and pine to Lake Klister.
Savich started singing one of his favorite country-western songs, written by his friend James Quinlan, as he drove the straight road with snowcapped boulders and stands of thick trees on his left and a guardrail on his right. "A blameless life ain't no fun at all. I robbed that bank, laughin' till my belly hurt, till I--"
When there was a sudden pop, loud as a shotgun blast, he flung himself to the side in automatic reaction. The pop was followed by the hard slap of rubber against the asphalt. A blowout, a damned blowout. The Subaru's steering wheel jerked in his hands as the car's back end lurched wildly to his left. He gently eased the car into the skid and let up on the accelerator, but the Subaru's momentum lunged it into a snowbank. Despite his seatbelt, his head slammed against the steering wheel, stunning him for a moment. Then everything was quiet. Savich raised his head, shook it, hoped he hadn't hurt himself, and slowly climbed out of the car. The back driver's-side tire had blown.
All in all, he preferred the snowbank to going through the guardrail. He buttoned up his coat, wrapped his scarf tight about his neck, and cleared snow from beneath the left front wheel. Satisfied, he climbed back in and put the gear in reverse. The Subaru hardly hesitated, just backed right out, leaning heavily to the left. Savich climbed out again and collected the spare tire and jack. He called Sherlock, told her what had happened, told her he'd be about twenty minutes late.
The grocery bag from Lew's Friendly Staples, in the small town of Blessed Creek, had spilled over. Lew's Staples, he thought, was really for tourists; Lew was expensive, but his little store was open nearly 24/7 and that was what counted for everyone from out of town, that and the fact that the cabin where he, Sherlock, and Sean were staying for a long weekend was only ten miles away. He picked up a bunch of wizened carrots off the passenger-side floor, for the snowman's nose. The quart of two-percent milk for Sean hadn't burst open, unlike the lovely big watermelon, an unexpected find in the middle of January, in a nearly empty produce bin in a grocery store the size of his dining room. It had splatted open, drenching the microwave-popcorn box.