By Matthew F. Jones
After the lack of his relatives farm, John Moon is a determined guy. A grasp hunter, his skill to poach online game in-season or out is the one factor that stands among him and the soup kitchen line. until eventually Moon trespasses at the improper land, hears a rustle within the brush, and fires a unmarried fateful shot.
Following the bloody path, he comes upon a surprising scene: an unlawful, deep woods campground choked with medicines, bundles of money and the physique of a useless younger girl, killed via Moon's stray bullet.
Faced with an final issue, Moon has to select: does he take the cash and forget about his accountability for the girl's dying? Or confess?
But sooner than he has an opportunity to come to a decision, Moon reveals himself at the run, pursued through those that imagine the cash is theirs. males who don't care approximately correct and unsuitable and who wish just one factor from John Moon: his physique, face down in a ditch.
Matthew F. Jones' A unmarried Shot is an extraordinary, visionary mystery equivalent to the paintings of Tom Franklin, Ron Rash, Daniel Woodrell, and Cormac McCarthy.
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Extra info for A Single Shot
Tell Mrs. Darien I’m on my way,” Scarpetta said. “I need about fifteen minutes to check a few things and look at the paperwork. ” Off the lobby to the left was the administrative wing she shared with Dr. Edison, two executive assistants, and the chief of staff, who was on her honeymoon until after the New Year. In a building half a century old with no space to spare, there was no place to put Scarpetta on the third floor, where the full-time forensic pathologists had their offices. When she was in the city, she parked herself in what was formerly the chief’s conference room on the ground level, with a view of the OCME’s turquoise-blue brick entrance on First Avenue.
The sink was empty and clean, a sponge and bottle of Dawn liquid detergent, no crumbs on the counter, no food stains, the hardwood floor spotless. Marino opened the cabinet under the sink, finding a small garbage can lined with a white plastic bag. Inside were a banana peel that was brown and smelled pungent, a few withered blueberries, a soy milk carton, coffee grounds, a lot of paper towels. He shook open a few of them, detecting what smelled like honey and citrus, like lemon-scented ammonia, maybe furniture and glass cleaners.
Mother wants a burial, but the father wants cremation. ” Touching the dead body again, as if it were part of the conversation. “Then they started blaming each other for everything you can think of. At one point Dr. ” He was the chief medical examiner and Scarpetta’s boss when she worked in the city. It was still a little hard getting used to being supervised, having been either a chief herself or the owner of a private practice for most of her career. But she wouldn’t want to be in charge of the New York OCME, not that she’d been asked or likely ever would be.