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I've been a house painter, dishwasher, broiler cook, private detective, military intelligence analyst, and I spent nearly 40 years as a reporter covering crime, 26 of them for the San Francisco Chronicle. These days I write science fiction, fantasy, horror and crime fiction, and I blog about books, films and crimes that don't receive sufficient attention from the mainstream media. I would like to be Elmore Leonard, Raymond Chandler, Ross MacDonald, Dashiell Hammett or George V. Higgins, but all of them are dead so I'll just stick with what I am already doing. . .

Saturday, April 27, 2013

Hey, Barnes and Noble "Nook" Readers!

Little Nightmares is now a Nook Book!




From "Obeah:"

The horseman leaned back in the saddle, still wearing his cadaverous grin. “I robbed the banks in Fortnight, Emery and Twin City,” he said. “My gang did, anyway, and I played my own  part in the mischief. We also robbed the mail train east of Riverton in February, just before the big snowstorm. We stuck up the stagecoach outside Wellington four weeks ago. I personally killed a Wells Fargo agent during that raid.”
Tyler tightened his grip on his six-gun. “You’ve been a busy man, Mr. Claymore,” he said mildly. “Why are you telling me all this?”
“Because,” the outlaw said, nodding curtly at the building behind Tyler’s chair, “I want you to arrest me and lock me up inside that jail of yours.”
With that, he closed his eyes and toppled off his mount, falling to the ground almost as lightly as a gunny sack full of bones.


From: "Scratchers:"


            The only source of light left in the house was the single stubby votive candle that sputtered on the saucer before him, right next to the yellow legal pad he had almost filled with his last, desperate words. At best the candle would continue to burn another hour or two.
            Perfect that it’s a votive candle, he thought, absently. At this point, there’s really nothing left to do but pray.
            The thought of spending his final hours alone in the inky farmhouse sent a chill through him. Long before the first rays of dawn became visible, the scratchers would be back, the sound of their needle-pointed legs faint at first, but growing louder as they gathered in the corners, watching and waiting. Then they would start singing their hideous song, that high-pitched chittering that set Hankins’s teeth on edge. He knew they would return; there was no question of it. After all, they had done so every night for the last three weeks.
            The light had been his only salvation. Without it, there was nothing standing between Hankins and the damned scratchers. Nothing at all.
            This time, Hankins would face them in the darkness, alone; this time, they would be coming for him.

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