Destroyer angel

Review by New York Times Review

NEVADA BARR has been brooding about the primal bonds between man and nature ever since her first mystery, "Track of the Cat," came out more than 20 years ago. While respectfully acknowledging the forces of nature (the rampaging forest fire in "Firestorm" comes to mind, as does the harsh terrain of "Winter Study"), she has always found humans to be the more savage. In destroyer ANGEL (Minotaur, $26.99), Barr takes this insight to a disturbing new level by allowing her series detective, the National Park Service ranger Anna Pigeon, to test her belief that "animals were better people than people." In order to survive, can she revert to her own animal nature, hunting and killing other human beings? That question never came up when Anna and her female friends - "two teenaged girls, a slightly mad scientist, a paraplegic" - set out on a camping trip along an Iron Range river in northern Minnesota. For Leah Hendricks, who designs camping gear for the disabled, the excursion is an opportunity to test how well Heath Jarrod can manage her customized wheelchair. But for Anna, it's a chance to slip away from time to time for a solitary float down the river, which is why she's not around when four hired killers ("pure nasty humanity") descend on the camp, intent on kidnapping Leah and her 13-year-old daughter, Katie. And why, you may ask, did these city rats not wait until they were back in civilization? The logistics are fuzzy, but good enough to set up an excruciatingly suspenseful wilderness adventure in which Heath almost drowns crossing a river, Katie is nearly raped and Anna rescues her "pack" by becoming a killer. In embracing her inner animal, "humanness slipped away," and after her first kill she throws back her head and howls like a wolf. Unnervingly, the wolves answer back. Anna isn't the only soldier in this woman warrior adventure. The mothers and their daughters prove to be brave, resourceful and remarkably ingenious at befuddling the goons while Anna, the silent hunter lurking in the woods, picks them off one by one. Only the principal villain poses a real threat, but in the end he'd rather believe some supernatural being is killing his posse than acknowledge a woman can be capable of such coldblooded man's work. To his narrow mind, "Demonic possession made more sense." IN BAUDELAIRE'S REVENGE (Pegasus, $25.95), the Belgian author Bob Van Laerhoven (in league with his blasé translator, Brian Doyle) presents a view of Paris that would cause most romantics to hurl themselves into the Seine. It's 1870, the eve of the Franco-Prussian War. The poor are living in misery and the working classes are growing desperate, but the intellectuals and aristocrats ("people without soul or conscience") are avidly pursuing their debaucheries and an artistic killer is embellishing his obscene handiwork with verses from "Les Fleurs du Mal." This bizarre case appeals to the dissolute sensibility of Commissioner Paul Lefèvre, whose own twin passions are poetry and women of "sinister unpredictability and uncivilized morals." Lefèvre's philosophical discussions with artists and poets and a creepy Belgian dwarf are fascinating, but by the end of this decadent tale the sadomasochistic vibe has become so stupefying, it's almost a relief when the Prussians arrive at the gates. Elizabeth haynes has written romantic suspense novels and psychological thrillers, but UNDER A SILENT MOON (Harper, $25.99) is her first police procedural and it's quite a departure from anything she's done before. The case itself is solid genre fare: Everyone in a close-knit village on the outskirts of London comes under suspicion when a promiscuous beauty who works on a horse farm is murdered on the same night a neighbor woman dies in an apparent suicide dive into a quarry. The detectives are familiar types, even the gutsy D.C.I. who's heading up her first big case. But Haynes has gone out of her way to establish a realistic working model for the investigation by loading the narrative with detailed source documents: intelligence reports, witness statements, forensic results, call logs, interoffice memos and analytical graphs and charts that should give puzzle fiends plenty to chew on. Honestly, though, if you cleared away all that data and just got on with the story, you wouldn't miss a thing. THE INCESSANT RAINS of autumn are driving people mad in the day OF THE DEAD (Europa Editions, paper, $18), the fourth in a series of seasonal mysteries by Maurizio de Giovanni (in a stylish translation by Antony Shugaar) set in Naples during the regime of Benito Mussolini. The autumn of 1931 may be a jolly time for the rich and powerful, but not for the melancholy Commissario Luigi Alfredo Ricciardi, who is cursed with the ability to see those lost souls who have died a violent death and to hear their last words. As if bearing witness to the unhappy dead weren't depressing enough, Il Duce is coming to Naples and Ricciardi has been ordered to abandon his inquiry into the lonely demise of a street urchin lest an unsolved crime investigation spoil Mussolini's visit to "the ideal Fascist city." De Giovanni's slashing wit cuts deeply into his cameo portraits of the high and mighty, even as his elegant style ennobles the wretched lives he views with such compassion.

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [April 20, 2014]

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Review by Booklist Review

When her friend Heath (Hard Truth, 2005), a paraplegic, agrees to road test a wheelchair poised to revolutionize the sports-gear market, park-ranger Anna Pigeon guides Heath; her daughter, Elizabeth; the chair's designer, Leah; and Leah's daughter on a trek in Minnesota's Iron Mountains. It's all fresh air and fireside chats until four armed men suddenly appear and abduct the hikers. Anna returns from a canoe jaunt to discover her friends held at gunpoint and stays hidden so that she can track them, seizing every opportunity to help her friends. Meanwhile, Heath struggles to survive the off-trail hike and protect the girls. With no cellular reception, Anna's cunning strikes are the only hope for rescue, and she ferociously, sometimes savagely, harnesses the rules of the wild to even the odds. Anna Pigeon's eighteenth adventure is equal parts psychological thriller and wilderness-survival tale sure to please series followers with a darker, no-holds-barred look at the emotional impact of Anna's survival instinct, while beckoning newcomers with top-tier white-knuckle suspense. HIGH-DEMAND BACKSTORY: When publishers use the phrase National One-Day Laydown, they are not calling for universal nap time. The term is reserved for all-out sales blitzes (a la Harry Potter) in which a new book is made available simultaneously throughout the country. It's a testament to Barr's popularity that her new novel will be getting the one-day laydown treatment. Move your blankie, Rowling; Barr wants a nap, too.--Tran, Christine Copyright 2010 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Bestseller Barr's gripping 18th Anna Pigeon novel (after 2012's The Rope) takes the National Park Service ranger on an autumn camping trip along the Fox River of the Iron Range in upstate Minnesota. Anna's first vacation since her honeymoon three years earlier doubles as a get-together with Heath Jarrod, a paraplegic; Heath's daughter, Elizabeth; Leah Hendricks, who designs outdoor gear; and Leah's daughter, Katie. For Leah, the trip also is a "shakedown cruise" to test a new line of equipment to make the outdoors accessible to the handicapped. On their second night, four armed men invade the campsite while Anna is on a solo canoe float. Barr touches again on her recurring theme, that man is the biggest threat in nature, as Anna works unseen to disarm the thugs and free her friends. Barr's gift for depicting breathtaking scenery elevates the story, as does Anna's complex, ever-evolving personality. Agent: Dominick Abel, Dominick Abel Literary Agency. (Apr.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

On a vacation from her job in Rocky Mountain National Park, park ranger Anna Pigeon anticipates a serene camping trip in Minnesota's North Woods with her friend Heath Jarrod; Heath's daughter, Elizabeth; Leah, a designer of outdoor equipment for the disabled; and her daughter Katie. Instead, Anna finds herself in an unreal, almost supernatural battle against the forces of evil as she races against time and the elements of nature to save her friends and truly be "her sister's keeper." Pushing through the woods without equipment or supplies, Anna draws upon all her wilderness knowledge and training to follow the three women who have been kidnapped by armed men moving them toward an airstrip. But why? All the women face their weaknesses and gain new awareness of their own strengths as they fight the evils that hold them captive. (Readers will remember Heath, a paraplegic woman who befriended Anna in Hard Truth.) VERDICT Once again, Barr lays down a riveting mystery and permeates the pages with scrupulous descriptions of Anna's struggle with the cold, with the night, and with the terror and fear of not rescuing her friends. [See Prepub Alert, 10/20/13; library marketing.]-Patricia Ann Owens, formerly with Illinois Eastern Community Colls., Mt. Carmel (c) Copyright 2014. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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ONE Hands thrust deep in the pockets of the absurd checkered hunter's coat--protective coloration in northern Minnesota--Charles stared at the campground. Gray ash, blown into ripples, exposed an old campfire ring. On the edges of the clearing the ash melded into gray hills, low and still in death. Black spikes, the last rebellion of living trees, thrust up through the misery of destruction. Giving God the finger, Charles thought. Never a good idea. Like most Catholics, Charles prayed to Jesus and Mother Mary when he bothered to pray. Jesus was in the redemption business. Not God; God was in the smiting business. "What're we gonna do, Dude?" Charles slid his eyes toward the Fox River. The fire had been stopped by the water. Its final act of destruction was the campground. On the far bank, vegetation was a lush mockery; verdant greens, rich golds, and loud reds thrust out over the water like so many jeering faces. "What're we gonna do, Dude?" repeated the goon, slouching between Charles and the river. Known facts automatically played in Charles's mind: Sean Ferris, small-time muscle. Philadelphia, Chicago, then Detroit. Served three years for rape. Obedient, loyal. Attack dog. Ferris was old for this work, and fat. The black leather coat and pointed-toe boots stuck him in the sixties, too overdone even to pass for retro. Charles took his cell phone from the pocket of the blanket coat and pushed the number three. "Calling Mr. Big?" asked another of the goons Bernie had stuck him with. James R. Spinks, forty-one years of age, out of Detroit, Michigan, connected to what passed for Mafia. Scum for hire. IQ of 84. Went by the name Jimmy. Grown men who liked to be called by little boys' names needed to be hung by their tiny dicks, Charles thought. Bernie picked up on the second ring. The fool must be hunched over the phone, waiting for news of his cunning foray into crime. "Campground is burned," Charles said. "Nothing to acquire." The job was supposed to be a clean smash-and-grab. Bernie, Mr. Big, hadn't done his homework. The fool actually believed Charles had no idea who was the so-called brains behind this caper. Bernard Iverson, forty-six, Edmondson, Canada, marine equipment, massively overextended, net worth five million dollars and still not worth the bullet it would take to kill him. "One second, please," Bernie said. Unblinking, Charles waited, listening to a clatter that suggested Bernie was using his cell phone as a hockey puck. He gritted his teeth, his jaw muscles bunched into hard knots. This was the only outward show of emotion he allowed himself. Humans were masters at reading faces. A second's hesitation, a flick of the eyes, a smile at the wrong time telegraphed weakness. Even people who didn't understand what they were seeing retained enough feral instinct to home in on any chink in the armor. From that day forth they hammered at it until the chink became a crack and the crack a break. Once the soft flesh was exposed they went for the entrails with talons and tongues as sharp as harpies'. The only earth the meek inherited was six feet down and capped by a stone. A final scrimmage and Bernie was back. "There's a second campsite about four miles north on the same side of the river. It looks like it didn't burn. They probably stopped there." Charles kept waiting. Four miles, no trail, probably: not good enough. The whole setup was Mickey Mouse. Bernie didn't know Charles, but Charles knew him. Michael had once said the so-called Mr. Big was nickel and dime, undermining unions, cutting corners, slighting on materials. That was why they'd bought him out. When it came to fundamental criminal activities, Charles doubted if he could steal a peek at a nudist camp. Given half a day, Charles could have come up with a better crew than Bernie's bottom-feeders. "I'll get a bird's-eye's and call you back," Bernie said finally. Charles punched the disconnect. Jimmy, dressed in a coat identical to the one Charles wore, but with a matching hat and earflaps, spit a stream of tobacco juice into the ash. Mostly into the ash; a drop or two of spittle remained in the Ted Kaczynski-style beard he sported. "What's the deal?" Jimmy asked. His teeth were stained brown. Charles looked away. "The target may be four miles upriver. The pilot's doing a flyby. We wait here until we have a positive ID." "Then what?" This from Reg. Reginald Waters, African American, thirty-one, Detroit. Ex-gangbanger, low-end drug dealer, con man. Into bookies for a hundred and seventy-three grand. Last call for repayment before the bad boys came for him. "If the target is located, we move to acquire it," Charles said without looking at Waters. Eye contact was an invitation to intimacy. Flee, fight, fornicate, or, Charles's least favorite, ask stupid questions. Open honest intercourse was not a paradigm for leadership that appealed to him. "Even with others he works alone." Charles's brother had said that. A photograph of Michael clicked onto the screen in Charles's mind, the black-and-white glossy taken for his senior yearbook. Next to it appeared the picture of the target lifted from the Internet. Payback is going to be a bitch, Charles promised his little brother. Copyright © 2014 by Nevada Barr Excerpted from Destroyer Angel by Nevada Barr All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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