Post by account_disabled on Dec 20, 2023 4:30:46 GMT -5
Red MistPatricia Cornwell's new novel , Red Mist , has just been released in the United States . Kay Scarpetta is investigating the death of Jack Fielding, her former deputy boss who was murdered six months earlier. She travels to the Georgia women's prison, where an inmate has information not only on Fielding, but also on a series of grisly murders. Elements that seem independent of each other instead have a correlation, such as the extermination of a family in Atlanta, which occurred years earlier, a young woman on death row and the inexplicable deaths of homeless people. Scarpetta discovers the link between these elements, which forces her to review her conjectures about Fielding's death which, together with the attempt on his life, turn out to be the beginning of something more destructive: conspiracy and international terrorism.
Red Mist Extract 1 Iron rails the rusty Special Data brown of old blood cut across a cracked paved road that leads deeper into the Low country. As I drive over train tracks, it enters my mind that the Georgia Prison for Women is on the wrong side of them and maybe I should take it as another warning and turn back. It's not quite four pm, Thursday, June 30. There's time to catch the last flight to Boston, but I know I won't. This part of coastal Georgia is a moody terrain of brooding forests draped with Spanish moss and mudflats etched with convoluted creeks that give way to grassy plains heavy with light. Snowy egrets and great blue herons fly low over brackish water, dragging their feet, and then the woods close in again on either side of the narrow tar-laced road I'm on. Coiling kudzu strangles underbrush and cloaks forest canopies in scaly dark leaves, and giant cypress trees with thick gnarled knees rise out of swamps like prehistoric creatures wading and prowling.
While I've yet to spot an alligator or a snake, I'm sure they are there and aware of my big white machine roaring and chugging and backfiring. How I ended up in such a rattletrap that wanders all over the road and stinks like fast food and cigarettes with a whiff of rotting fish, I don't know. It's not what I told my chief of staff, Bryce, to reserve, which was a safe, dependable, mid-size sedan, preferably a Volvo or a Camry, with side and head airbags and a GPS. When I was met outside the airport terminal by a young man in a white cargo van that doesn't have air-conditioning or even a map, I told him there had been an error. I'd been given someone else's vehicle by mistake. He pointed out the contract has my name on it, Kate Scarpetta, and I said my first name is Kay, not Kate, and I didn't care whose name was on it. A cargo van wasn't what I ordered.
Red Mist Extract 1 Iron rails the rusty Special Data brown of old blood cut across a cracked paved road that leads deeper into the Low country. As I drive over train tracks, it enters my mind that the Georgia Prison for Women is on the wrong side of them and maybe I should take it as another warning and turn back. It's not quite four pm, Thursday, June 30. There's time to catch the last flight to Boston, but I know I won't. This part of coastal Georgia is a moody terrain of brooding forests draped with Spanish moss and mudflats etched with convoluted creeks that give way to grassy plains heavy with light. Snowy egrets and great blue herons fly low over brackish water, dragging their feet, and then the woods close in again on either side of the narrow tar-laced road I'm on. Coiling kudzu strangles underbrush and cloaks forest canopies in scaly dark leaves, and giant cypress trees with thick gnarled knees rise out of swamps like prehistoric creatures wading and prowling.
While I've yet to spot an alligator or a snake, I'm sure they are there and aware of my big white machine roaring and chugging and backfiring. How I ended up in such a rattletrap that wanders all over the road and stinks like fast food and cigarettes with a whiff of rotting fish, I don't know. It's not what I told my chief of staff, Bryce, to reserve, which was a safe, dependable, mid-size sedan, preferably a Volvo or a Camry, with side and head airbags and a GPS. When I was met outside the airport terminal by a young man in a white cargo van that doesn't have air-conditioning or even a map, I told him there had been an error. I'd been given someone else's vehicle by mistake. He pointed out the contract has my name on it, Kate Scarpetta, and I said my first name is Kay, not Kate, and I didn't care whose name was on it. A cargo van wasn't what I ordered.
