Summary
The rules never mattered much to Frank Corso, rogue reporter, successful true crime writer, and honorable loner with a dangerous edge. The fact that two Texas troopers have a warrant with his name on it means nothing to him -- except run -- which he does in the company of photojournalist Meg Dougherty, his former lover and perhaps one true friend. But the running stops when a furious Midwestern blizzard sends their car crashing to the bottom of an icy hill, and they are forced to seek an escape from the storm in an abandoned Wisconsin house of horrors.
In a shed outside their temporary shelter a shocking discovery awaits Meg and Corso: human bones -- a lot of them -- the grisly remains of Eldred Holmes and his family. A hideous crime undetected for fifteen years is about to become a top priority for the understaffed local law, who want Corso to investigate. His first move will be to somehow locate the one family member who escaped the carnage, Eldred's wife, Sissy, whose skeleton is not among the others ... and whose face has been neatly scissored from every picture in the Holmes family album.
With only eight days to solve a multiple homicide, Corso begins a hunt that will carry him halfway across the country and through a chilling history of violence, terror, and bloodshed that spreads from the small town of Avalon, Wisconsin, to the remote farmlands of New York State. And his single-minded pursuit will make Corso a marked man -- the target of a rage- driven maniac, a master of cunning reinvention -- as he draws closer to the shocking truth that's hidden away in an isolated mountain community, where no law protects the innocent.
Author Notes
Gerald M. Ford was born on July 9, 1945, in Everett, Massachusetts. He received his B.A. from Hawthorne College, a M.A. in English from Adelphi University, and a second M.A., this one in political science, from the University of Washington.
Ford taught English and communications at colleges in Oregon and Washington for twenty years. He often thought he would like to write a detective story himself. In 1995, his first mystery, Who in Hell Is Wanda Fuca?, part of his Leo Waterman Series, was published, and since then he has also written Cast in Stone (1996), The Bum's Rush (1997), Last Ditch, and Slow Burn. Ford is also the author of the Frank Corso Series.
Ford has been nominated for the Anthony Award, the Shaumus Award, and the Lefty Dilys Award.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Publisher's Weekly Review
The bestselling true-crime writer Frank Corso and his tattoo-covered Girl Friday, Meg Dougherty, literally fall into the hunt for a bizarre serial killer in this suspenseful fun-and-gun adventure from Ford (Fury; Black River). Snowed in for days at O'Hare, Corso impulsively decides to rent an SUV and drive out of the storm zone, but when he gets to Avalon, Wis., he plunges off the icy road and over a cliff. Tearing up the flooring for firewood in the abandoned farm they take refuge in, Corso uncovers the corpses of a family, merely one set of victims in a killing spree spanning 30 years. Following in the tradition of John D. MacDonald and the Travis McGee romps, Ford's eclectic plot sends his hero from state to state, from an inbred mountain enclave in New Jersey to a nunnery with a murder. Deep into the book, he pointedly has a cop say, "This is like something out of science fiction." Corso and Dougherty alternate between acting like ruthless hard cases and giddy teenagers sneaking a joint-any excuse for a good scene, an entertaining moment (such as the guy who "looked like he'd been captured by vampires and was being kept as a pet"). When Corso falls into the hands of the killer and faces torture, though, Ford achieves fever pitch ("Corso began to make noises in his chest like a gored animal"). This is a thrill ride, sure to please readers looking for fast-paced suspense. (July 1) Forecast: Popular within the mystery community, Ford often serves as toastmaster at conventions. A blurb from Dennis Lehane won't hurt, but it remains to be seen whether he can leap into a higher sales bracket. That Black River won the Spotted Owl award given to mysteries set in the Northwest suggests he's due for a national award nomination. (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Excerpts
A Blind Eye A Novel Chapter One "I see." The woman sighed and forced her face into an uncomfortable smile. "You haven't been listening to me, have you, sir?" "I've been listening," Corso said. "Then you've heard me saying noon tomorrow, sir." She hesitated. "At the very earliest." "I really need to get out of here." She stopped fanning the pile of tickets and reluctantly made eye contact. "As I've told you before, sir, all flights are canceled indefinitely." "I've been stuck in this ... this ... facility for two days." She sighed. "Sir ... pleeease. It's inconvenient for all of us, sir, but I assure you there's absolutely nothing that can be done about it." She gestured toward the windows, shook her head disgustedly, and again used her square white fingernails to pick through the paperwork. Corso jammed his hands into his pants pockets, turned away from the Courtesy Desk, and walked to the window. Outside, a thin curtain of snow and ice blew in from the west at a thirty-degree angle. Nothing moved. Daylight's footprints and tire tracks lay buried beneath yet another foot of freshly fallen snow, leaving the tarmac a solid, wind-whipped blanket of white. Inside, O'Hare International Airport looked like a refugee camp. Every flat surface held either a stranded traveler or his baggage. Fifty yards away, at the far end of the concourse, a pair of soldiers, automatic weapons slung over their shoulders, crisscrossed the floor, stopping here and there to check a lock or gaze into the face of a sleeping citizen. The helmets turned in unison as Meg Dougherty came striding around the corner, her tall laced boots clicking over the floor and her black cape fanning out behind her like a pair of ebony wings. She said something to the boys, but Corso couldn't make it out. The taller of the two gave her a small salute and then dug an elbow into his buddys ribs. The buddy leaned over and whispered something in his partner's ear. They smiled and bumped shoulders as she walked past. In the harsh overhead lights, she looked like a vampire queen. Or maybe the angel of death. Pure Goth. Black all over. Cape, tights, boots, nails, lips, and hair. Better than six feet. Betty Paige on steroids, she cut through the artificial air like an arrow. A muffled groan pulled Corso's attention to the window ledge on his right, where an elderly woman stirred in her sleep, sliding her wrinkled cheek into the small puddle of drool her mouth had deposited onto the side of her plaid Samsonite suitcase. Dougherty came to a stop at Corso's side. She looked out the window at the winter wonderland. Then turned and threw an angry gaze Corso's way. He noticed, averted his eyes, and began to survey the icy night with renewed interest. "You enjoy your little jaunt?" he asked. "Nothing like a jog around an airport to clear the lungs." He walked three steps closer to the giant pane of glass separating them from the blizzard. Put his hand to the surface for a moment. She followed him. "It was a most informative interlude. It really was." Something in her tone alerted him. "How so?" he asked. "Well, first off, I found out we're probably not going anywhere." Corso eyed her. "Since when are you the weatherman?" "Weather person." "Whatever." "Since I met a meteorologist in the bar." "Oh, really." "Nice guy ... namea Jerry." "Jerry?" "Says this weather pattern is what they call a static low-pressure inversion. Says it's got Chicago surrounded." "Hmmm." "Says the weather pattern is stalled right here over the Midwest." "That so?" "Yep. According to Jerry, the storm's about a hundred miles across and not moving a muscle anytime in the foreseeable future." "A hundred miles, huh?" "That's what he said." Corso turned and walked back to the Courtesy Desk. The woman's eyes were weary and rimmed with red. "You're not going to be a problem, now are you, sir?" "What kind of a problem?" "I'm not going to have to call security, am I?" "Why would you want to do that?" "Because, sir, you seem to be the only one having difficulty understanding the situation." "I've got to get out of here." Her face said she didn't give a shit. "As I've told you every fifteen minutes for the past six hours" -- she shrugged, showed her palms -- "nobody is going nowhere." Corso opened his mouth, but the woman cut him off. "Unless, of course, you'd like to discuss the matter with security." "Why do you keep bringing up security?" "What with the terrorism and the increase in vigilance and all," she said, nodding at the approaching soldiers, "I'm given to understand that security checks can be quite lengthy and unpleasant these days." Corso heard the scratch of boots and felt the presence of the soldiers. A voice asked, "Trouble here, Annie?" She put on a wry smile and looked to Corso for an answer. Corso held up both hands in surrender. "No trouble," he said. She arched an ironic eyebrow at the soldiers and then turned back to Corso. "Then what can I do for you, sir?" "I just wanted to ask a question." "What question is that, sir?" "Where's the nearest airport that's still flying?" She set the pile of paperwork on the counter and began clicking on the keyboard. Each of her thick white nails had a different Christmas design painted on it. A Santa. A Christmas tree. A candy cane. A reindeer. And a wreath. "Madison," she said after a moment. "How far away is that?" "Coupla hundred miles," she said. Corso thanked her and walked back over to the window where Meg stood, gazing out at nature's carnage. The old woman on the ledge stirred again ... A Blind Eye A Novel . Copyright © by G.M. Ford. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold. Excerpted from A Blind Eye by G. M. Ford All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
