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Acts of Nature by Jonathon King

By Jonathon King

Hailed for his “extraordinary” writing (Publishers Weekly) and his “incisively chiseled characters” (The big apple Times), Jonathon King returns with a chilling new mystery that includes Max Freeman, the main considerate, well-read, and multilayered deepest eye hero considering the fact that Spenser” (Booklist, starred review). yearning a few quiet time jointly, Max Freeman and Detective Sherry Richards retreat to Max’s shack deep within the Florida Everglades. No tv. No cellphones. No buddies. it kind of feels just like the excellent getaway till a violent typhoon rips via South Florida, obliterating every thing in its direction. and that's just the start of the nightmare. With Sherry seriously injured and no solution to demand support, the couple starts a treacherous journey again to civilization in basic terms to discover that the hurricane’s devastation is the least in their concerns. The isolation they sought turns into a dangerous enemy as undesirables invade the Glades. a few have come to pillage and loot what is still, whereas others are wanting to guard secrets and techniques. All are prepared to kill to get what they got here for, and Max and Sherry are smack within the line of fireside. Evoca- tive and gripping, Acts of Nature strains their race opposed to time and the weather to flee sooner than it’s too overdue.

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Wow,” Sherry said as we got close. I was pleased to have brought her on a venture that coaxed such pleasure from her twice in one day. We were about fifty yards out when we both saw the resident horned owl appear from his nesting spot under the bunkhouse eaves and soar out over the Glades with our interruption of his personal space. “Look. We chased the mousetrap away,” Sherry said. She had not been pleased after spotting a mouse in my riverside shack but I had promised that there were no such mammals out here.

She took another sip of late morning coffee and acted like she was pondering the possibilities. “Sold,” she finally said, stretching out her long legs, flexing and showing the hard cut in the muscles of her thighs. ” We packed up a cooler of food and plenty of water. The plan was to stay a couple of nights, maybe three, at the Snows’ fishing camp and then make it back for a final day at the shack before returning to civilization. I was digging around in my duffle bag for the small GPS unit on which I had recorded the coordinates of the Snows’ place.

An entrance stream actually looked cold to me and not in a way that beckoned one out of the heat. I kept paddling. “Shame to be out here and not take advantage of the view,” Sherry said as we passed. I checked the reading on the GPS and dipped an oar, catching a back current and spinning us north. “That’s not going to be a problem at the Snows’ place, I promise,” I said, changing the mood. ” Maybe having a specific time to the journey’s end challenged the athlete in her, but Sherry began to dig her paddle in earnest and I tried to keep pace.

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