It was Friday the thirteenth, not destined to be a good day in the eyes of many overly superstitious fishermen on the dock. It was a gloomy day. The sky was scattered with dark clouds and a misty fog hung over the ocean. Doom and gloom again, said Captain John Carl Thomason unenthusiastically, as he watched his crew unload the catch onto the dock. The price is in the toilet again. What happened to the way things used to be around here? Probably gone along with his mind, muttered a short balding man who looked worthless in every respect. Shut your trap, Remi, snapped John Carl. Yes Cap, said Remi. He sounded like he had memorized the responses he gave to his captains commands. John Carl Thomason looked as though he would be very good looking if it were not for the fact that he always looked as though he was having the worst day of his life. Is that a banana youre eating, Remi? asked John Carl casually. Yes Cap, said Remi automatically. Well, guess what, mate? said John Carl, his voice colder now. What? asked Remi, not catching his captains cold tone. Bananas are bad luck, thats what, yelled John Carl. He grabbed the banana out of Remis hand and shoved it in his face. DO YOU- REALIZE -WHAT -TODAY IS? he yelled, pronouncing each word with deadly emphasis. No sir, spluttered Remi, who looked quite the idiot with banana all over his face. ITS FRIDAY THE THIRTEENTH, YOU WORTHLESS IDIOT, roared John Carl. We have enough bad luck without you making things worse with your stinking slimy banana. The Captain threw the banana peel on the dock and stormed away, swearing loudly. Remi stumbled towards the truck, carrying a large box. He stepped on the banana peel and fell flat on his face. Hey, Remi, called a young man named Sono, how long does it take from when you step on the peel to when you hit the dock? One banano-second! There was a roar of laughter from the other crewmembers on the dock. Nice one, Sono, said another young man called Browen. Sono and Browen were brothers, ages nineteen and eighteen. They looked very much alike and had very similar personalities. They seemed to be able to read each others thoughts, and were, therefore, exceptional liars. They could always talk their way out of anything, even with their captain, who was not easily fooled. Remi was not a challenge for them. They had taken the job working on the boats because neither of them was very academically inclined. They were, however, very good at making jokes, pulling pranks, and having as much fun as possible while on the job. They stopped at nothing to insult anyone who displayed a lack of intelligence or physical prowess. Remi Nelson was a short, chubby, balding man, who had never really been able to make anything of his life, or at least it never seemed like he had. He was thirty-five, but looked forty-five, at best. Sono and Browen thought he was at least fifty. Everyone always made fun of Remi, but he still seemed to feel important and useful. This only seemed to make things worse for him, although he never seemed to understand that. Just imagine being stupid enough to eat a banana in front of Cap on Friday the thirteenth, said Sono loudly. Imagine being stupid enough to slip on the peel and fall flat on your face, said Browen. Imagine doing this job till youre fifty, said Sono. Im thirty-five, snapped Remi, who had stood up and was wiping banana off his face. Really? said Sono mockingly. I had no idea guys went bald and got beer bellies that soon. You might want to tell Cap to get a move on, he must be at least thirty or thirty-five. I dont see him looking like that. Looks arent everything, you know, muttered Remi. Clearly, or you wouldnt even be alive, sneered Sono. Get to work, snapped John Carl coming up behind them. Yes Cap, said Remi immediately Sorry sir, said Browen emphasizing the last

Crime historian Lizzie Stuart goes to Gallagher, Virginia for a year as a visiting professor at Piedmont State University. She is there to do research for a book about a 1921 lynching that her grandmother, Hester Rose, witnessed when she was a twelve-year-old child. Lizzie's research is complicated by her own unresolved feelings about her secretive grandmother and by the disturbing pres­ence of John Quinn, the police officer she met while on vacation in England. When an arrogant but brilliant faculty member of Piedmont State University is murdered, Lizzie begins to have more than a few sleep­less nights. A Dead Man’s Honor is a haunting story that will keep you awake nights, too. Praise for Frankie Y. Bailey “She has a tremendous eye and ear.” —The Times Union, Albany, New York

‘A woman priest at St Margaret’s? Over my dead body!’ Dolly Topping, head of the national organisation ‘Ladies Opposed to Women Priests’ and wife of one of the churchwardens, feels that strongly about it. It is unfortunate, therefore, that Father Julian, the well-loved curate of the Pimlico church, should have been killed in a burglary gone wrong. And doubly unfortunate that the Vicar, upwardly-aspiring William Keble Smythe, should choose to appoint a woman to replace him. From the moment that Rachel Nightingale enters the serene Anglo-Catholic world of St Margaret’s, tempers and emotions run high; Christian charity is not much in evidence, even among those who espouse it loudly. Then another ‘accidental’ death unites the parishioners in new heights of hypocrisy, and leaves some crying ‘murder’. But David Middleton-Brown is sceptical – until he learns about Father Julian’s death. With the encouragement of the Archdeacon, David and Lucy Kingsley embark on a search for the truth about the ‘dead man out of mind’, and discover more than they ever wanted to know about greed, hypocrisy, ambition – and the cost of love.

The World’s Greatest Detective must try to inhabit the mind of a murder victim to solve a case-without filling the empty grave next to those of his parents. Can Batman imagine the life of a corpse with a half-eaten face without dying himself? Warren Ellis and Bryan Hitch, one of the most legendary creative partnerships of the modern age, reunite in this maxiseries about life, death and the questions most are too afraid to ask.The World’s Greatest Detective must try to inhabit the mind of a murder victim to solve a case-without filling the empty grave next to those of his parents. Can Batman imagine the life of a corpse with a half-eaten face without dying himself? Warren Ellis and Bryan Hitch, one of the most legendary creative partnerships of the modern age, reunite in this maxiseries about life, death and the questions most are too afraid to ask.

The Wilson mansion loomed against the autumn sky like a dying thing, its Victorian turrets piercing the low-hanging clouds. Located miles from the nearest town, the estate's wrought-iron gates were perpetually rusted half-open, as if eternally inviting – or warning away – visitors. Local teenagers whispered stories about the place, about the screams that sometimes echoed across the overgrown grounds on moonless nights. But Dr. Clive Wilson paid no attention to such tales. In his basement laboratory, surrounded by humming machines and walls of mysterious equipment, he was on the verge of something unprecedented. The doctor's hands, once steady enough to perform the most delicate surgeries, now trembled with excitement as he reviewed his notes for the thousandth time. The formulas, the calculations, the precise measurements of electrical current needed to bridge the gap between life and death – it was all there, waiting to be proven. His daughter Maria watched him from the doorway of his study, her dark eyes filled with concern. At twenty-four, she had inherited her late mother's ethereal beauty – pale skin, raven hair, and features that seemed almost too perfect to be real. But lately, living alone in this massive house with only her increasingly obsessed father for company had taken its toll. Dark circles had formed under her eyes, and her once-vibrant smile had faded to something more haunted. "Father," she said softly, "you need to rest. You've been at this for days." Dr. Wilson barely looked up from his notes. "Just a little longer, dear. The alignment of the electromagnetic fields must be perfect. One miscalculation and..." He trailed off, lost again in his work. Maria sighed and retreated to her room, where she spent hours staring out the window at the family cemetery that dotted the far corner of the property. The marble mausoleum stood like a sentinel among the weathered headstones, holding generations of Wilsons in its cold embrace. She often wondered if her mother's spirit wandered those grounds, and if so, what she would think of what her husband had become. When Derrick Stevens answered the advertisement in the newspaper, it seemed like fate. He appeared at their door one crisp morning, his blonde hair catching the autumn sun like a halo. Maria felt her heart stop when their eyes met – his were the color of a summer sky, bright and clear and full of life. But there was something else there too, a shadow of desperation that made her want to reach out and comfort him. Dr. Wilson's eyes lit up for entirely different reasons when he saw Derrick. Here was his perfect subject – young, healthy, and most importantly, alone in the world. The doctor's questions during the interview were precise, calculated: No living relatives? No close friends in the area? Perfect. What Dr. Wilson didn't count on was the way Derrick and Maria gravitated toward each other. During the preliminary tests, they would steal glances across the laboratory. When Dr. Wilson was absorbed in his work, they would meet in the garden, walking among the dying roses and sharing pieces of their lives. Derrick told her about the car crash that took his parents, about bouncing between foster homes, about his failed modeling career and mounting debts. Maria shared her own loneliness, her mother's death, her father's growing obsession with his work. The mansion seemed less oppressive with Derrick there. For the first time in years, laughter echoed through its halls. But Dr. Wilson noticed the change in his daughter, saw the way she looked at Derrick, and something dark began to grow in his heart. The thought of losing his only child to this penniless drifter, of being truly alone in his great house of shadows, was unbearable. When Dr. Wilson's old colleague, Dr. Steve Timmons, arrived to witness the experiment, the tension in the mansion was palpable. Timmons was a cautious man, his years of medical practice having taught him that playing God always came with a price. He watched with growing unease as Dr. Wilson explained the procedure – how Derrick would be technically dead for precisely three minutes before being brought back through a specific sequence of electromagnetic pulses, activated by a series of taps on the control panel. "Three taps, pause, two taps," Dr. Wilson demonstrated, his fingers drumming on his desk with practiced precision. "The sequence must be exact." Derrick had done this before, multiple times, each successful resurrection building Dr. Wilson's confidence. But this time was different. Just before the experiment began, Maria burst into the laboratory, her face glowing with joy, an engagement ring sparkling on her finger. "Derrick and I are getting married!" she announced. The look that crossed Dr. Wilson's face in that moment was something Dr. Timmons would never forget – a flash of such primal rage and fear that it transformed his features

"Harrison's poems succeed on the basis of an open heart and a still-ravenous appetite for life."—The Texas Observer The title Dead Man's Float is inspired by a technique used by swimmers to conserve energy when exhausted, to rest up for the long swim to shore. In his fourteenth volume of poetry, Jim Harrison presents keen awareness of physical pains, delights in the natural world, and reflects on humanity's tentative place in a universe filled with ninety billion galaxies. By turns mournful and celebratory, these fearless and exuberant poems accomplish what Harrison's poems always do: wake us up to the possibilities of being fully alive. "Forthright and unaffected, even brash, Harrison always scoops us straight into the world whether writing fiction or nonfiction. This new collection [Dead Man's Float] takes its cue from a technique swimmers use to conserve energy in deep water, and Harrison goes in deep, acknowledging our frailness even as he seamlessly connects with a world that moves from water to air to the sky beyond."—Library Journal “Harrison pours himself into everything he writes… in poems, you do meet Harrison head-on. As he navigates his seventies, he continues to marvel with succinct awe and earthy lyricism over the wonders of birds, dogs, and stars as he pays haunting homage to his dead and contends with age’s assaults. The sagely mischievous poet of the North Woods and the Arizona desert laughs at himself as he tries to relax by imagining that he’s doing the dead man’s float only to sink into troubling memories…Bracingly candid, gracefully elegiac, tough, and passionate, Harrison travels the deep river of the spirit, from the wailing precincts of a hospital to a “green glade of soft marsh grass near a pool in a creek” to the moon-bright sea.”—Donna Seaman, Booklist "Harrison doesn't write like anyone else, relying entirely on the toughness of his vision and intensity of feeling."—Publishers Weekly Warbler This year we have two gorgeous yellow warblers nesting in the honeysuckle bush. The other day I stuck my head in the bush. The nestlings weigh one twentieth of an ounce, about the size of a honeybee. We stared at each other, startled by our existence. In a month or so, when they reach the size of bumblebees they'll fly to Costa Rica without a map. Jim Harrison, one of America's most versatile and celebrated writers, is the author of over thirty books of poetry, fiction, and nonfiction—including Legends of the Fall, the acclaimed trilogy of novellas. With a fondness for open space and anonymous thickets, he divides his time between Montana and southern Arizona.

#1 NATIONAL BESTSELLER • A profoundly moving spiritual journey through our system of capital punishment and an unprecedented look at the human consequences of the death penalty • "Stunning moral clarity.” —The Washington Post Book World • Basis for the award-winning major motion picture starring Susan Sarandon and Sean Penn "Sister Prejean is an excellent writer, direct and honest and unsentimental. . . . She almost palpably extends a hand to her readers.” —The New York Times Book Review In 1982, Sister Helen Prejean became the spiritual advisor to Patrick Sonnier, the convicted killer of two teenagers who was sentenced to die in the electric chair of Louisiana’s Angola State Prison. In the months before Sonnier’s death, the Roman Catholic nun came to know a man who was as terrified as he had once been terrifying. She also came to know the families of the victims and the men whose job it was to execute—men who often harbored doubts about the rightness of what they were doing. Out of that dreadful intimacy comes a profoundly moving spiritual journey through our system of capital punishment. Here Sister Helen confronts both the plight of the condemned and the rage of the bereaved, the fears of a society shattered by violence and the Christian imperative of love. On its original publication in 1993, Dead Man Walking emerged as an unprecedented look at the human consequences of the death penalty. Now, some two decades later, this story—which has inspired a film, a stage play, an opera and a musical album—is more gut-wrenching than ever, stirring deep and life-changing reflection in all who encounter it.

The third novel starring Montana's fly fisherman-cum-detective Sean Stranahan, for fans of C. J. Box and Craig Johnson Wolves howl as a riderless horse returns at sunset to the Culpepper Dude Ranch in the Madison Valley. The missing woman, Nanika Martinelli, is better known as the Fly Fishing Venus, a red-haired river guide who lures clients the way dry flies draw trout. As Sheriff Martha Ettinger follows hoof tracks in the snow, she finds one of the men who has fallen under the temptress’s spell impaled on the antler tine of a giant bull elk, a kill that’s been claimed by a wolf pack. An accident? If not, is the killer human or animal? With painter, fly fisherman, and sometimes private detective Sean Stranahan’s help, Ettinger will follow clues that point to an animal rights group called the Clan of the Three-Clawed Wolf and to their svengali master, whose eyes blaze with pagan fire. In their most dangerous adventure yet, Stranahan and Ettinger find themselves in the crossfire of wolf lovers, wolf haters, and a sister bent on revenge, and on the trail of an alpha male gone terribly wrong.

Chicago, 1928. In the stifling summer heat, three disturbing events take place: A clique of city leaders is poisoned in a fancy hotel; a white gangster is found mutilated in an alleyway in the Blackbelt; and a famous heiress vanishes without a trace. Pinkerton detectives Michael Talbot and Ida Davis are hired to find the missing heiress by the girl’s troubled mother. But it soon proves harder than expected to find a face that is known across the city, and Ida must elicit the help of her friend, Louis Armstrong. While the police take little interest in the Blackbelt murder, Jacob Russo—crime scene photographer—can’t get the dead man’s image out of his head, leading him to embark on his own investigation. And Dante Sanfelippo—rum-runner and fixer—is back in Chicago on the orders of Al Capone, who suspects there’s a traitor in the ranks and wants Dante to investigate. But Dante is struggling with his own problems, as he is forced to return to the city he thought he’d never see again . . .