“You surrender yourself…King engulfs you…and carries you away to 4am page-turning.”
—A.P. Wire
“Thoroughly exciting…scary and real.”
—Chicago Tribune
“A spellbinding piece of literature.”
—Library Journal
“Haunting and touching…a literary event.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“In a special and startling way, King has created a small American gem of a story.”
—Chicago Tribune
“A tour de force…vastly entertaining.”
—The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“A literary triumph…Read this book.”
—Milwaukee Journal
“King is a master storyteller.”
—Seattle Times
“Superbly crafted…extraordinary.”
—Booklist
“His writing has a lyricism, an evocative descriptive sweep…It’s a gift.”
—The Columbia State
“Dazzlingly well written.”
—The Indianapolis Star
“Faultlessly paced…continuously engrossing.”
—Los Angeles Times
“King is a terrific storyteller.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
“A knockout thriller…brilliant, compelling…grips you by the throat.”
—Flint Journal
“The pages turn and you’re snared by his web.”
—Baton Rouge Advocate
“King possesses an incredible sense of story…note 1 a gifted writer of intensely felt emotions, a soulful writer in control of a spare prose that never gets in the way of the story…I, for one (of millions), wait impatiently to see where this king of storytellers takes us next.”
—Ridley Pearson
“There came a morning in the spring—April, it would have been—when they spied a man sitting out on Hammock Beach. You know, just on the outskirts of the village.”
Stephanie knew it well.
“He was just sittin there with one hand in his lap and the other—the right one—lying on the sand. His face was waxy-white except for small purple patches on each cheek. His eyes were closed and Nancy said the lids were bluish. His lips also had a blue cast to them, and his neck, she said, had a kind of puffy look to it. His hair was sandy blond, cut short but not so short that a little of it couldn’t flutter on his forehead when the wind blew, which it did pretty much constant.
“Nancy says, ‘Mister, are you asleep? If you’re asleep, you better wake up.’
“Johnny Gravlin says, ‘He’s not asleep, Nancy.’
“Johnny reached down—he had to steel himself to do it, he told me that years later—and shook the guy’s shoulder. He said he knew for sure when he grabbed hold, because it didn’t feel like a real shoulder at all under there but like a carving of one. He shook twice. First time, nothing happened. Second time, the guy’s head fell over on his left shoulder and the guy slid off the litter basket that’d been holding him up and went down on his side. His head thumped on the sand. Nancy screamed and ran back to the road, fast as she could…He caught up to her and put his arm around her and said he was never so glad to feel live flesh underneath his arm. He told me he’s never forgotten how it felt to grip that dead man’s shoulder, how it felt like wood under that white shirt…”
Note1
He is
