The murder of a top detective is the tipping point in the entire story. The slayer, who has his own very special modus operandi, is smart enough to escape the nation (the United States of America) where he has committed several gruesome murders. He flees to Mexico, adopts a new identity, and assumes he will never be apprehended. On the other hand, the son of the murdered detective joins the famed Los Angeles Police Department, his sole goal being locating his dad’s killer and giving him what he deserves – a body without a soul. But does the young detective obtain what he hankers for? Or is his plan foiled? Well, that’s the part that will make you read the book, right? So, we’d better zip our lips for now!
Standing on his doorstep was Maisie Beck. It had been years since Samuel had seen her, but he recognized her straight away. She was standing a few steps back from the door. Her hair was untidy, and her mascara had run down her cheeks. Also, her lipstick looked smeared. She was wearing a short party dress and had streamers strewn over her shoulders. She was bleary-eyed and tottering on her high heels.
I saw up ahead the articulated trailer of a lorry jack-knife out in front of the scaffolding truck, the truck’s brake lights igniting in glowing red against the mist of spray. The roof of the scaffolding truck’s front cab crumpled against the trailer and the flapping high visibility jacket move slowly towards me, in my direct line of sight, as I pumped the brakes.
His appeals fell on deaf ears as the captain, having waded till the water was at his waist, hurled the boy into the sea and made his way back to the shore. The boy tried to follow, but a horridly disfigured entity emerged from behind him, wrapping its blue, tattooed arms around him and sinking its teeth into the boy’s neck. He wriggled and fought, screamed and cried as loud as he could, but as the blood drained from his body, he felt limp from one limb to the other, his voice choked back by the blood gurgling in his throat.
She took a moment to stare at herself in the reflection of the glass door of the car. The beat-up Volvo showed a pair of iridescent green eyes – the kind of eyes you would see on a lonely stretch of road, caught for the briefest second in the beams of a car before the animal darted off into the brush. Agatha blinked and her irises returned to their normal dark brown. Control was becoming to her like the quails that darted between the cacti of the Arizona desert irresistibly chase-able, inevitably elusive.