By David J. Schow
Storms raging outside and within the brain of the protagonist create a maelstrom of threat during this sinuous mental mystery by means of Schow (The Kill Riff; The Shaft). A whopper of a storm is barreling up the California coast, and renegade architect paintings Latimer is making plans to journey it out and try out the structural integrity of his self-designed dream domestic. whilst, he's suffering to batten down robust emotions approximately his spouse, Lorelle, whose loss of life years earlier than despatched him into an emotional tailspin. because the typhoon intensifies, a string of surprising studies recommend that the rules of his truth are wobbling. He unearths an previous bottle washed up at the seashore containing a cryptic message that speaks eerily to him. Then he's visited by way of a long-lost pal who mysteriously disappears with out a hint from the premises. in the meantime, a wild residence social gathering is underway down the seashore and host rate, a steely manipulator who employs medicines and humiliation to regulate his site visitors, schemes to exploit the typhoon as conceal for enjoying sinister brain video games with artwork. Schow works suspenseful sleight-of-hand together with his tale components, skillfully underplaying the importance of clues and deftly handling personality viewpoints to direct what the reader sees. His kinetic orchestration of events-action sequences, moments of relocating intimacy and the richly symbolic tempest outside-and vibrant hardboiled prose push the plot to a thunderclap climax that during much less guaranteed palms would appear farfetched yet here's a degree of coolly calculated audacity.
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Extra info for Bullets of Rain: A Novel of Suspense
You gotta get home to Ruthie,” he wheezed as sweat glossed his waxy face. “Yeah, yeah,” Abe said, pouring himself a stiff one from the bottle in his desk. The radio droned the barely cogent reportage of nerve-wracked correspondents attempting to articulate what was happening throughout the five boroughs—not to mention the entire globe. Abe took a tentative sip of the whisky, then downed it as he sauntered over to the window to catch an eyeful of uncorked chaos below. As he peered down, three taxis collided, the driver of one bursting through his windshield like a meat torpedo.
Stragglers who’d broken off from the herd shuffled back and forth, having breached the gate that someone in a panic must have left unlocked. Mike cleared his throat and a couple looked up, their dulled eyes twitching in recognition of something delicious. One let out a faint but audible gasp and began to limp in Mike’s direction. “Be careful,” Ellen said as Mike leaned out further, bent at the midriff. “It’s like you actually care,” Mike threw back at her, but when he did so, he smiled. Ellen sidled up to her husband and put her hand on his back, feeling guilty about pushing his buttons, especially so early in the day.
Now he was grateful for them—except the scented ones. He’d learned that lesson the hard way. The fresh, fruity, cinnamony, flowery aromas reawakened his dormant sense of smell, unfamiliar odors rousing the olfactory receptors, which in turn refreshed the revulsion from the overwhelming tang of rot outside. It had only taken one Apples ’n’ Spice candle to teach him his lesson. He’d lit the wick, basked for a moment in the delicious bouquet, and then puked from a crushing whiff of the ceaseless alfresco parade of putrescence.
Bullets of Rain: A Novel of Suspense by David J. Schow