As a massive hurricane approaches the Eastern Seaboard, FBI consultant Jake Cole returns to Montauk to care for his father, a formerly brilliant painter deep in the grip of Alzheimer’s.
But soon after his arrival, another malevolent force descends on the community—a monstrous serial killer—and a brutal double homicide teaches Jake that even though he has forgotten about the past, it has not yet forgotten about him.
As the killer goes after everything Jake holds sacred, he is forced to balance his efforts between protecting his family and finding a psychopath who seems as unstoppable as the storm hammering the community. Pinned between the two forces of nature, Jake learns that old secrets never really die.
Published in twelve countries, Rob Pobi’s brilliant debut thriller, formerly published as Bloodman, is twisted, gritty, and utterly compelling.
Two hundred feet below the rolling metal surface of the Atlantic, a handful of ghosts skittered along the ocean floor in a jerky seesaw roll, furling and unfurling in a diluvial ballet. They were dragged forward by the storm that raged overhead, still together after miles of progress across the rock-strewn bottom. Soon the gentle slope of the sea floor would change pitch, the earth would drop away into black, and the ghosts would tumble down into the deep. There they would be picked up by the Gulf Stream to be dragged up the Eastern Seaboard, past Massachusetts, finally washing out into the North Atlantic. Maybe they would be consumed by the creatures that swam in the dark world of the cold waters—maybe they would simply decay and be forgotten—but it was certain they would never be touched by daylight or warmth again.
Debris littered the ocean floor around them and the sounds of the world coming apart at the seams echoed overhead. An army of lawn furniture, scabs of roofing tiles, plywood, tires, an old Barbie doll, golf bags, a dented refrigerator, oil paintings, a battered Dodge Charger—banged along in the current with them, heading straight out to sea. Of all the detritus, the Charger moved the slowest, tumbling over and over on its side, one door gone, the lights somehow still glimmering like the eyes of a dying robot. Barbie moved quickest, staying upright with the help of her buoyant plastic injection-molded breasts and the bubble of air trapped in her ancient, empty head.
The ghosts were given no special treatment, no consideration by the storm; they collided with appliances, snagged on rocks, were inelegantly covered with weeds and plastic bags and rips and tears in their skin like the rest of the garbage.
But unlike the other flotsam being herded out to sea, they were not the product of the hurricane; they had been created by something much more malevolent, and much less predictable, than weather.
Rob Pobi is an internationally bestselling novelist whose books have been sold in fifteen countries. He does most of his writing at an isolated cabin in the mountains. He divides his time between Montreal, Northern California, and Florida. Visit him at RobertPobi.com.
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