By David J. Schow
Storms raging open air and within the brain of the protagonist create a maelstrom of threat during this sinuous mental mystery through Schow (The Kill Riff; The Shaft). A whopper of a typhoon is barreling up the California coast, and renegade architect paintings Latimer is making plans to trip it out and try the structural integrity of his self-designed dream domestic. while, he's suffering to batten down robust emotions approximately his spouse, Lorelle, whose dying years earlier than despatched him into an emotional tailspin. because the typhoon intensifies, a string of surprising stories recommend that the principles 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 through a long-lost pal who mysteriously disappears and not using a hint from the premises. in the meantime, a wild condo get together is underway down the seashore and host expense, a steely manipulator who employs medicinal drugs and humiliation to manage his visitors, schemes to take advantage of the typhoon as disguise for enjoying sinister brain video games with paintings. Schow works suspenseful sleight-of-hand along with his tale parts, skillfully underplaying the importance of clues and deftly coping with 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 arms would appear farfetched yet here's a degree of coolly calculated audacity.
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Extra resources for Bullets of Rain: A Novel of Suspense
It's a dream. it A dream. I sat The odor was overwhelming. up. so as to cover bloodstain my nose, and on one edge. saw the blood now. a dream, I pulled up the sheet saw that there was a growing looked over the side of the bed and I was siphoning up from underneath. Just It told myself I I A sheet, leaned over the side dream, a dream. There was a dead rooster on been slit. That was where there was a strange yanked away the I of the bed, and peered all down there. had coming from. And a silver platter.
Not — " 34 SOMTOW S. P. realizing that right then. your nightmare was a dream within a dream. All I'll just ride out. It can't be that bad. It's a dream. it A dream. I sat The odor was overwhelming. up. so as to cover bloodstain my nose, and on one edge. saw the blood now. a dream, I pulled up the sheet saw that there was a growing looked over the side of the bed and I was siphoning up from underneath. Just It told myself I I A sheet, leaned over the side dream, a dream. There was a dead rooster on been slit.
I did not want to confess to myself that everything I had ever held to be inviolate truth was fast becoming falsehood. do not up love adventure; with the I latest installment ture of a sort love to curl of the in front I fire of some penny-dreadful. Yet adven- me unsought. Not darkest AfHca, me was to be my undiscovered was coming to but the mundane world about coimtry. Like the shepherds at the Nativity, I was sore And yet there was this burning curiosity. And so I asked Mr. Whitman: "You seem .