The Wolf in the Clouds
Autor Ron Fausten Limba Engleză Paperback – 13 mai 2013
An isolated cabin high on a stormy Colorado mountain that becomes snowbound in a raging blizzard. A homicidal maniac with superb mountaineering skills and sharpshooting aim with a rifle. Two local forest rangers unaware of what they’re walking into—and the trio of college kids they have come to rescue. As the freezing temperatures drop even lower, and the snow on the mountain above them accumulates, the danger and the tension pick up nightmare speed.
| Toate formatele și edițiile | Preț | Express |
|---|---|---|
| Paperback (1) | 91.51 lei 3-5 săpt. | |
| Turner – 13 mai 2013 | 91.51 lei 3-5 săpt. | |
| Hardback (1) | 153.73 lei 3-5 săpt. | |
| Turner – 13 mai 2013 | 153.73 lei 3-5 săpt. |
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Specificații
ISBN-13: 9781620454268
ISBN-10: 1620454262
Pagini: 222
Dimensiuni: 140 x 216 x 13 mm
Greutate: 0.29 kg
Editura: Turner
ISBN-10: 1620454262
Pagini: 222
Dimensiuni: 140 x 216 x 13 mm
Greutate: 0.29 kg
Editura: Turner
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Recenzii
“The suspense here is high indeed . . . This is an edge-of-the-chair thriller.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
“A writer of enormous talent, a stylist to admire and a storyteller of great power.”
—Scott Turow, author of Presumed Innocent
“Faust writes beautifully . . . he reminds you of Hemingway and Peter Matthiessen. . . . Faust has it all: lyrical prose, complex characters and provocative plots.”
—Booklist
“Faust’s clear, unadorned prose and his deft, pure characterization ring with the force of Hemingway or Graham Greene.”
—Publishers Weekly
—San Francisco Chronicle
“A writer of enormous talent, a stylist to admire and a storyteller of great power.”
—Scott Turow, author of Presumed Innocent
“Faust writes beautifully . . . he reminds you of Hemingway and Peter Matthiessen. . . . Faust has it all: lyrical prose, complex characters and provocative plots.”
—Booklist
“Faust’s clear, unadorned prose and his deft, pure characterization ring with the force of Hemingway or Graham Greene.”
—Publishers Weekly
Notă biografică
RON FAUST is the author of fourteen previous thrillers. He has been praised for his “rare and remarkable talent” (Los Angeles Times), and several of his books have been optioned for films. Before he began writing, he played professional baseball and worked at newspapers in Colorado Springs, San Diego, and Key West.
Extras
“Pray!”
“Mister, mister, please help me I’m so sorry if you will only please . . . ” His voice went hoarse, then silent, but his lips continued to move.
Ralph swung his rifle toward the girl. “You, take off your clothes.”
“What?” she said. “Please, please, please.”
He aimed through the telescopic sight.
Karen moved sideways until our arms touched. She looked up at me; her eyes were round, and there was a tic pulling at the corner of her mouth. She seemed vague, sleepy.
Murphy, kneeling on the floor, his face lowered onto the upper edges of his locked palms, was softly muttering and crying, and praying again to his god Ralph.
“You,” Ralph said.
“Her name is Karen,” I said.
“You, take off your clothes!”
“Ralph,” I said, “her name is Karen. My name is Jack. The man on the floor is named Paul. We’re people, Ralph, for God’s sake!”
“You,” he said again.
The girl was whimpering. The tic was pulling violently at the comer of her mouth, and another tic had started on the lid of her left eye. She found my hand with hers, clasped it. Her hand was small and very cold.
“Bitch whore slut, take off your clothes.”
Karen Bright pulled her hand from mine and began undressing. She removed her jacket, her sweater, a turtle- neck jersey, her bra. She was crying. She moved slowly, with the shaky coordination of a very small child. Weeping, she bent over and unzipped her gaiters, unlaced and removed her boots, then pulled down her ski pants. When the pants were around her ankles she slipped and fell on the floor. She finished removing her ski pants and then, without rising, pulled off her long underwear bottoms. She sat on the floor and wept quietly.
“You,” Ralph said. “Stand up.”
Her motor control seemed gone; she moved her arms and legs, strained, but was unable to rise. I reached down and lifted her to her feet. She wavered, almost fell, but then managed to remain erect with my partial support.
Ralph stared at her. It was not a look of lust, or of appreciation; he was smug, contemptuous, silently laughing.
“You,” Ralph said to Murphy. “Now you take off your clothes.”
Murphy muttered, prayed—he was all alone now.
“Wake him up,” Ralph told me.
I stepped forward and kicked Murphy lightly on his back. He sobbed.
“Wake him up,” Ralph said.
I kicked Murphy again.
Murphy slowly lifted his head. “What? What?
“Take off your clothes,” Ralph said.
“Pardon, sir?”
“Take-off-your-clothes!”
Murphy slowly began undressing.
The girl was shivering. I could feel the pimpled flesh on her upper arm, where I held her, and I could hear the light chattering of her teeth.
Murphy and Karen Bright were finished. Ralph had established his dominance; he had, in a real way, hypnotized them. They had surrendered their minds and bodies to him, and if he’d asked they probably would have cut their own throats. He owned them. They were not individuals anymore; they had become extended fragments of Ralph’s will, his tools. I could feel my own self going too, leaking out of me like water out of a cracked basin. I wanted to sleep, too. It would be so easy to surrender completely and die in a foggy dream. I hoped I would be able to recognize that last instant when I still retained the power of choice, so that I could at least avert the final horror of collaborating with my murderer. When the time came I wanted to run, shouting defiantly, into the muzzle of his rifle.
“Mister, mister, please help me I’m so sorry if you will only please . . . ” His voice went hoarse, then silent, but his lips continued to move.
Ralph swung his rifle toward the girl. “You, take off your clothes.”
“What?” she said. “Please, please, please.”
He aimed through the telescopic sight.
Karen moved sideways until our arms touched. She looked up at me; her eyes were round, and there was a tic pulling at the corner of her mouth. She seemed vague, sleepy.
Murphy, kneeling on the floor, his face lowered onto the upper edges of his locked palms, was softly muttering and crying, and praying again to his god Ralph.
“You,” Ralph said.
“Her name is Karen,” I said.
“You, take off your clothes!”
“Ralph,” I said, “her name is Karen. My name is Jack. The man on the floor is named Paul. We’re people, Ralph, for God’s sake!”
“You,” he said again.
The girl was whimpering. The tic was pulling violently at the comer of her mouth, and another tic had started on the lid of her left eye. She found my hand with hers, clasped it. Her hand was small and very cold.
“Bitch whore slut, take off your clothes.”
Karen Bright pulled her hand from mine and began undressing. She removed her jacket, her sweater, a turtle- neck jersey, her bra. She was crying. She moved slowly, with the shaky coordination of a very small child. Weeping, she bent over and unzipped her gaiters, unlaced and removed her boots, then pulled down her ski pants. When the pants were around her ankles she slipped and fell on the floor. She finished removing her ski pants and then, without rising, pulled off her long underwear bottoms. She sat on the floor and wept quietly.
“You,” Ralph said. “Stand up.”
Her motor control seemed gone; she moved her arms and legs, strained, but was unable to rise. I reached down and lifted her to her feet. She wavered, almost fell, but then managed to remain erect with my partial support.
Ralph stared at her. It was not a look of lust, or of appreciation; he was smug, contemptuous, silently laughing.
“You,” Ralph said to Murphy. “Now you take off your clothes.”
Murphy muttered, prayed—he was all alone now.
“Wake him up,” Ralph told me.
I stepped forward and kicked Murphy lightly on his back. He sobbed.
“Wake him up,” Ralph said.
I kicked Murphy again.
Murphy slowly lifted his head. “What? What?
“Take off your clothes,” Ralph said.
“Pardon, sir?”
“Take-off-your-clothes!”
Murphy slowly began undressing.
The girl was shivering. I could feel the pimpled flesh on her upper arm, where I held her, and I could hear the light chattering of her teeth.
Murphy and Karen Bright were finished. Ralph had established his dominance; he had, in a real way, hypnotized them. They had surrendered their minds and bodies to him, and if he’d asked they probably would have cut their own throats. He owned them. They were not individuals anymore; they had become extended fragments of Ralph’s will, his tools. I could feel my own self going too, leaking out of me like water out of a cracked basin. I wanted to sleep, too. It would be so easy to surrender completely and die in a foggy dream. I hoped I would be able to recognize that last instant when I still retained the power of choice, so that I could at least avert the final horror of collaborating with my murderer. When the time came I wanted to run, shouting defiantly, into the muzzle of his rifle.
Descriere
An isolated cabin high on a stormy Colorado mountain that becomes snowbound in a raging blizzard. A homicidal maniac with superb mountaineering skills and sharpshooting aim with a rifle. Two local forest rangers unaware of what they’re walking into—and the trio of college kids they have come to rescue. As the freezing temperatures drop even lower, and the snow on the mountain above them accumulates, the danger and the tension pick up nightmare speed.