When a petty argument with an arrogant stranger deep in a Wisconsin forest over who killed a deer escalates to murder, playwright Andrew Neville’s life becomes a tangled web of deceit—and self-deception. Back in hometown Chicago, Neville attends the funeral of the man he’s murdered and meets his widow, Claudia, and her 3-year-old son. Neville gradually insinuates himself into the widow’s confidence and conceives a plan to seize the victim’s life—his wife, his son, his work, his wealth, and even his persona and appearance. Neville will become he man he killed. It appears nothing can stop him—except the obnoxious Chicago PI who’s determined to prove that Neville and Claudia murdered her husband together.
|Publisher:||Turner Publishing Company|
|Product dimensions:||5.40(w) x 8.40(h) x 0.80(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
I washed my hands with clean snow, removed the silver flask from the man’s back pocket, and sipped the brandy. Skoal. Well, it was done, permanent, eternal. I could not expect to deal with the moral and philosophical aspects now. That might require the remaining years of my life. But at this moment I felt nothing. My act was without meaning, as incoherent and purposeless as a child’s impulsive cruelty to a kitten.
I emptied the flask, wiped it clean, and dropped it into the snow. My knife went back into its sheath. Did I have everything? Each article of clothing, my wallet, wristwatch, the bow and quiver of arrows. Were any buttons missing from my coat? Hat, muffler. Wait—the arrow I had shot into the deer. I must retrieve that. I circled the dead man and saw that the shaft sticking out of the deer was milled aluminum with red vanes. The arrows in the man’s quiver were aluminum with red vanes. Mine were old, of grainy wood, and the vanes were yellow. And now I saw that this deer was smaller than mine and his rack had fewer points. So then, my deer had run into the brushy country to the north, was probably still there, dead or dying.
It was only ten minutes to ten. Snow was still coming down hard and would last, covering my tracks, the deer, the dead man, the blood, my crime.
The filthy crows mocked me until I vanished from the clearing.
What People are Saying About This
“A tidy Hitchcockian tale that will be widely enjoyed. Recommended.”
“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.”