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When Boston private investigator Patrick Kenzie meets Karen Nichols, she strikes him as an innocent from a protected upbringing. But six months later when Karen takes her own life, Patrick is left wondering what can change so drastically and so quickly that suicide seems the only option?
Through the final weeks of a stifling summer, and with the help of his ex-partner, Angela Gennaro, and his friend, the lethally unbalanced Bubba Rogowski, Patrick enters into psychological warfare with a brilliant sociopath who, instead of merely killing his victims, prefers to make them wish they were dead.
As the stakes grow higher and more personal, they find themselves fighting a losing battle with an enemy the law can't touch, who is always one step ahead, who is gradually discovering their weaknesses, their loves, and is determined to tear their world apart.
Prayers for Rain is another superior thriller from Dennis Lehane, the bestselling and acclaimed author of Mystic River, Shutter Island, and Gone, Baby, Gone.
375 pages, Mass Market Paperback
First published May 19, 1999
"You wanted to play? Well, hide-and-seek is over. Let the real game begin, motherfucker."
"Twenty miles, and it took us only an hour and fifteen minutes. Welcome to Boston; we just fucking live for traffic"
"For a while I tried the Zen trick of ignoring them, willing my body to seem unattractive. After a few hundred bites or so, though, I thought, fuck Zen. Confucius never lived in ninety-eight percent humidity on a ninety-two-degree day. If he had, he'd have hacked off a few heads and told the emperor he was fresh out of peppy bromides until someone outfitted the palace with AC"
"Angie's with me," I said.
"No shit. Where?"
"Back Bay. We need a delivery man."
"Bomb?" He sounded excited, like a had a few lying around he needed to get rid of.
"Ah, no. Just a tape recorder."
"Oh." He sounded bored."
"There's nothing but me left there. And white sheets. White sheets and those fucking birds and it hurts, and all I can do is close my eyes and lie there and wish I didn't feel like dying."
You wanted to play? Well, hide-and-seek is over. Let the real games begin, motherfucker.
I drank some more Beck's, fingered the cardboard coaster, felt a grin fighting to break across my face. I glanced at Angie. The corners of her mouth twitched, too.
"Don't look at me," she said.
"Why not?"
"I'm telling you-" She lost the battle and closed her eyes as the smile broke across her cheeks.
Mine followed about a half second later.
"I don't know why I'm smiling," Angie said.
"Me, either."
"Prick."
"Bitch."
She laughed and turned on her chair, drink in hand. "Miss me?"
Like you can't imagine.
"Not a bit," I said.
"You don't kill a guy for trashing a woman's car."
"Yeah?" Bubba said. "Where's that written?"
I have to admit he had me there.
"Plus," Bubba said, "you know, he gets the chance he'll rape her."
I nodded.
"I hate rape-os," Bubba said.
"Me, too."
"It'd be cool if he never did it again."
I turned in my seat. "We're not killing him."
Bubba shrugged.
She pulled her hand back, stuffed it in her pocket as if it were burning.
"I-"
She stepped back from whatever she saw in my face. "Don't say it."
I shrugged. "Okay. I do, though."
"Shh." She put a finger to her lips, smiled around it, but her eyes shimmered with moisture. "Shh," she said again.
"Do you hate my hair?" Angie whispered.
"No. It's just..."
"Short?" She smiled.
"Yeah. I don't love you because of your hair, though."
She shifted slightly, turned her shoulder into the holes between rungs.
"Why do you love me?"
I chuckled. "You want me to count the ways?"
She didn't say anything, just watched me.
"I love you, Ange, because...I don't know. Because I always have. Because you make me laugh. A lot. Because..."
"Because since you left I have these dreams that you're sleeping beside me. And I wake up and I can still smell you, and I'm still half dreaming, but I don't know it, so I reach for you. I reach across to your pillow, and you're not there. And I gotta lie there at five in the morning, with the birds waking up outside and you not there and your smell just fading away. It fades and there's-" I cleared my throat. "There's nothing but me left there. And white sheets. White sheets and those birds and it hurts, and all I can do is close my eyes and lie there and wish I didn't feel like dying."
The clerk behind the counter, far from being the dweeby, bespectacled, balding type one would expect to meet in a tax assessor's office, was tall, well built, blond, and judging by Angie's furtive glances at him, something of a male babe.
Himbos, I swear. There ought to be a law that keeps them from ever leaving the beach.