With Naked Prey, John Sandford proved again that his writing is as fresh and compulsively readable as ever. "This is vintage Sandford, which is to say all but impossible to put down," said The Washington Post. "Sprawling, suspenseful, tough-minded [and] sheer fun." Six months ago, Lucas Davenport tackled his first case as a statewide troubleshooter, and he thought that one was plenty strange enough. But that was before the Russian got killed. On the shore of Lake Superior, a man named Vladimir Orslov is found shot dead, three holes in his head and heart, and though nobody knows why, everybody-the local cops, the FBI, and the Russians themselves-has a theory. And when it turns out he had very high government connections, that's when it hits the fan
With Naked Prey, John Sandford proved again that his writing is as fresh and compulsively readable as ever. "This is vintage Sandford, which is to say all but impossible to put down," said The Washington Post. "Sprawling, suspenseful, tough-minded [and] sheer fun." -- PUBLISHERS WEEKLY.
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May 10, 2004
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Excerpt from Hidden Prey by John Sandford
THE TAG END of summer, in the very heart of the night.
Annabelle Ramford sat on a soggy piece of carpet, in a patch of goldenrod on the southernmost shore of Lake Superior, a huge butterball moon rising to the east. A bottle of New York pinot noir was wedged securely between her thighs. She was warm, comfortable, at peace, and a little drunk, bathed in the odors of dead fish and diesel exhaust, ragweed, and the rancid sweat of her unwashed cotton shirt.
Annabelle's friends, if they were friends, called her Trey. She had shoulder-length reddish-blond hair, which hung straight and close to her skull because of the dirt in it; a deeply weathered face with feral green eyes; a knife-edged nose; and a too-slender, square-shouldered body, with the bones showing through. On her chin she carried what she thought of as her identifying mark -- as in "Police said the body carried an identifying mark."
The mark was a backwards-C-shaped scar, the product of a fight at the mission in Albuquerque. A bum named Buddy had bitten her, and when she'd gotten up off the floor, she was dripping blood and missing a piece of chin. Buddy, she believed, had swallowed it. She almost sympathized: when you're a bum, you get your protein where you can.
Like Buddy, Annabelle Ramford was a bum.
Or maybe a bummess.
A long and exceptionally strange trip, she thought, growing philosophical with the wine. She'd grown up well-to-do and thoroughly educated -- had sailed boats on Superior, which was why she returned to Duluth in the summer. After private schools in St. Paul, she'd gone to the University of Minnesota, where she'd majored in sociology, and then on to law school, where she'd majored in marijuana and gin-and-tonic. She'd graduated, though, and her father's influence had gotten her a job with the Hennepin County public defender's office, interviewing gang-bangers at the height of the crack plague.
Crack. She could close her eyes and feel it lifting her out of herself. She'd loved crack as she'd loved no human being. Crack had cost her first the job, then all her square friends, and finally her parents, who'd given her up for lost. Even at the end, even when she was fucking the crack man, it had seemed like a reasonable trade.
When she finally woke up, four years after she went on the pipe, she had no life and three STDs, though she'd somehow avoided HIV. She'd been traveling ever since.