By Nevada Barr
Park Ranger Anna Pigeon returns to stand her such a lot duplicitous foe—human nature—in Nevada Barr's New York Times bestseller, Hunting Season.
The quiet fantastic thing about autumn on Mississippi’s Natchez hint is speedily shattered while Anna solutions a decision to Mt. Locust, as soon as a operating plantation and resort, now a vacationer spot. however the guy Anna unearths in an outdated bed room is not any vacationer in misery. He’s approximately bare, and intensely dead—his physique bearing marks in keeping with intercourse video games long past awry. On a writing desk within reach is an open Bible with ominous passages rotated in red.
There are secrets and techniques that widespread males during this God-fearing kingdom desire to maintain lower than wraps—and Anna has stumbled right into a nest of them.
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Additional info for Anna Pigeon 10 Hunting Season
Eyes. Anna was not a big fan of the eyes of the dead. Never was it clearer that they were the windows of the soul than when, looking into them, one saw only emptiness, a place devoid of hope or humanity. Once she'd seen eyes like that on a living person, a boy of eleven in a psych ward she'd visited. He'd been mutilating the family pets. His parents finally brought him in when he'd tried the same thing on his little sister. These dead eyes were rolled back slightly, as if their owner had been looking out the sash window above his head, trying to catch a last glimpse of the stars before he died.
Bondage," he said, shaking his head slowly. " Anna asked, knowing she sounded about as sensitive and ethnically diverse as a hitching post. Jones looked startled, then laughed. A big cackle, like that of a gargantuan hen with a whole clutch of new eggs, made the windows of Grandma Polly's room rattle with the ghosts of better times. "No. No," he said, a rill of liquid merriment still running beneath the words. "We got the Internet, satellite TV and the Playboy Channel. New evils for the new millennia.
Gates was only African-American by the dictates of a culture that had once been proud of the premise that one teaspoon of black blood made a person black—and this was a bad thing—a form of insanity groups of northern white supremists were trying to keep alive. Gates was a product of what Anna hoped was intermarriage but was probably generations of rape. Regardless of how the man's gene pool had been filled, he'd turned out very pretty. Not as pretty as Harry Belafonte, but close. By the back tilt of his head and the set of his shoulders, she guessed he was also proud unto arrogance.