Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
The sun was rising over Moat County, Florida, when Sheriff Thurmond Call was found on the highway, gutted like an alligator. A local redneck was tried, sentenced, and set to fry.
Then Ward James, hotshot investigative reporter for the Miami Times, returns to his rural hometown with a death row femme fatale who promises him the story of the decade. She's armed with explosive evidence, aiming to free--and meet--her convicted "fiancÚ."
With Ward's disillusioned younger brother Jack as their driver, they barrel down Florida's back roads and seamy places in search of The Story, racing flat out into a shocking head-on collision between character and fate as truth takes a back seat to headline news...
dropped a little, not to meet any of ours. He put his hands on his hips and cocked his head a little, waiting. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said to me, sounding strangely formal, “you’ll have to excuse me to do my work.” The man nodded, as if he were not quite satisfied with that, even though it was the right answer. “You belong out there in the other room,” I said. “No, sir, I don’t,” she said, and she walked away. I understood she was afraid, and didn’t follow her any farther. I looked at the man
came through on their way to and from the great beaches to the south. This remodeling was commissioned in spite of the fact that the café and the street and the county itself had nothing to do with castles but were all named for Luther Moat, a slave trader who had once owned the land which the town occupies. The transformation of the Moat Cafe into a castle was abandoned perhaps halfway through, and the single finished area—a tower whose roofline resembled a dunce cap—had created a small room
from the perimeter, made notes on the football player’s expensive shoes, his car, the houses that lined the street where his parents lived. His ten-dollar haircut. In the story that appeared in the paper, these details and details of the appearance and belongings of other members of the fraternity—the piece begins with a description of a parking lot full of Jeeps and Mustang convertibles—occupy a place of importance that seems, on examination, to outweigh even the details of the drowning itself.
leaned into it, gradually moving closer to the page, as if the print were disappearing, then turning the pages to get farther into the story. Occasionally, he stopped as he read, marking his place with his finger as he rocked back and looked at the ceiling, savoring some detail that struck him as particularly exquisite. When he had finished, he returned to the top of the front page, moving from there to the middle of the paper, estimating the size of the story, considering its placement, and
than my brother. “If we’ve got a problem,” he said, “I want to know it.” The Sunday editor cleared his throat, drawing the publisher’s attention. Before he could speak, however, Yardley Acheman interrupted him. “There’s no problem, R.E.,” he said. It is a curiosity of newsrooms that, top to bottom, everyone is called by first names. Yardley was leaning back into his chair, more relaxed than anyone except the publisher himself. “All we’ve got here is a few loose ends, that’s all.” The publisher