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When a hurricane-chasing plane is downed on a Caribbean island, TV meteorologist Perry Stuart barely escapes with his life. But he can't escape what he saw on the island--and if the people who've tracked him back to England have their way, Stuart will have a zero percent chance of survival.
a glow in the house. Round cozy Robin held a handgun pointing motionlessly where it could do me terminal damage. “I’m Perry,” I said. “I was swimming.” “Come forward where I can see you. And come slowly, or I’ll shoot.” If he hadn’t so obviously been speaking the simple truth, I might have joked; instead I slowly stepped forward until the house lights shone into my eyes. “What are you doing out here?” Robin asked blankly, lowering the gun to point at my feet. “I couldn’t sleep. Can I put my
people you want for friends.”—Detroit News and Free Press “[Francis] has the uncanny ability to turn out simply plotted yet charmingly addictive mysteries.”—The Wall Street Journal “A rare and magical talent ... who never writes the same story twice ... Few writers have maintained such a high standard of excellence for as long as Dick Francis.” —The San Diego Union-Tribune “Each Francis novel seems to be his best.” —The Sunday Oklahoman “[The] master of crime fiction and
it, they did bring me back here safely. Whatever they were doing there, it’s none of my business.” Michael and Amy smiled broadly with evident approval. I didn’t tell them I knew for a certainty that three of my captors /rescuers had been Michael and Amy themselves, and Robin Darcy too. I didn’t thank them for working out how to get me back to civilization without my seeing their faces. though I was pleased they had done it. I didn’t say that I’d had ages to memorize the aircraft’s
spine between me and his (possibly) future wife. They went off contentedly, for once, for a sandwich, nicely asking me to join them, but relaxed that I didn’t. I stayed near the weighing room looking out unhurriedly for Robin the Round. I wished after all I’d gone for the sandwich when Glenda and her loud Lancashire voice advanced like a storm surge and smothered me with her theories. Her dyed-blonde shiny hair was of Andy Warhol explicit brashness. Forty-eight identical Glendas haunted one’s
sleep. Don’t think of going home. You look far too frail for climbing all those very steep stairs.” I never entirely disobeyed her but I wasn’t bad at finding ways to modify the format, so that when I asked to borrow her warm deep-pocketed Edwardian Sherlock Holmes look-alike cloak, all she said was “Take some gloves” and “Come back safe.” Nothing, I was encouraged to hear, about heebies orjeebies. I kissed her on her forehead, our tiredness mutual, and traveled with Jett in her car to