By G.M. Ford
Underneath the rotting floorboards of an deserted shed are human bones -- plenty of them -- the final issues a runaway rogue true-crime author and his photojournalist ex-lover anticipated to discover after they took look after from a vicious Wisconsin snowfall. The grisly nightmare Frank Corso and Meg Dougherty have exposed is not anything they could flip a blind eye to. The hideous slaughter of a kin, undetected for fifteen years, has to be avenged, because the hunt for a killer contains Corso midway around the nation, and during a chilling heritage of violence, terror, and bloodshed. yet changing into an tool of justice has made him a objective of a rage-driven maniac -- and it truly is resulting in ashocking fact hidden in an remoted position the place demise lives ... and the place no legislation protects the blameless.
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Additional info for A Blind Eye: A Novel
Unable to raise his head, he experienced a moment of doubt, wondering if perhaps he hadn’t died and gone to hell. He was still pondering this possibility and trying to move his extremities when the ebony wings folded around him and again the world turned black. Second time he opened his eyes, dawn had begun to trickle in the side windows. He was able to raise his head far enough to prop it with his hand. His head felt as if someone were driving a sixteen-penny nail between his eyes, with measured rhythmic strokes, driving the point deeper and deeper into his brain.
He rubbed his hands together. For as far as the eye could see, the only marks on the surface of the snow were a ragged trail of footsteps leading to a leaning barn thirty yards north of the house. He walked slowly, lifting his knees high, trying not to jostle his head. Above him, boxcar clouds raced across a bright blue sky. The air twinkled with windblown snow crystals. It was more of a shed than a barn. No more than a dozen feet across. Listing heavily to starboard. A rusted split rim and a broken rake hung from the righthand wall.
The tufts of brown hair still stuck to the skull. The empty eye sockets staring back at him. He brought a hand to his mouth and turned away as his stomach turned over. He moved carefully, making his way outside. The machine was right in his face now, idling as the driver popped open the door and began to climb down. He was a round-faced little guy wearing orange thermal coveralls and a red plaid hat with earflaps. One look at Corso stopped his descent. His satchel face folded itself into a frown, and then, without a word, he climbed back into his seat.