By James Sallis
As this story opens, Turner, ex-cop, ex-con, and ex-psychotherapist, is still at the lam in rural Cypress Grove, Tennessee, escaping the demons of prior lives in Memphis, yet he's commencing to mend. there is a constructing courting with Val Bjorn, instructor and kingdom musician; there is the looks of his daughter from Seattle; and there is the truth that he has pop out of hibernation to simply accept the task as deputy sheriff of Cypress Grove. Then his boss, the kindly sheriff, is assaulted via a gang of mobbed-up toughs within the act of breaking certainly one of their very own out of the small-town prison. Turner pursues the thugs to Memphis, confronting his prior and giving vent to his suppressed blood lust. each motion activates a response, even if, and shortly the thugs go back to Cypress Grove trying to find a few blood in their personal. Sallis tells the violent story quietly, successfully utilizing bounce cuts, flashbacks, and flashforwards to generate either suspense and, at the same time, a feeling of inevitability.
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Additional info for Cripple Creek
Had in hand a sack of goodies with a gift bow threaded through the paper handles—candy, cookies, cheese and water biscuits, thumb-sized salamis, and summer sausage. " he said as the door opened. Puffy face, sclera gone red. Wearing shorts and T-shirt. The foot on his good leg was bare; a shoe remained on the other. Van Morrison playing back in the depths. " he said again. " "Officer Turner. Came in with a GSW long about August. " "Sorry, mate. " Motion behind him became a body moving towards us.
I'd grown up with relatives much like Nathan. We'd see them once or twice a year maybe. On a Sunday, pack ourselves into the cream-over-green Dodge with green plastic shades above the windshield and forward of the wing windows, and drive along narrow highways that let onto blacktop roads flanked on either side by cotton fields, bolls white and surprising as popcorn, sometimes a biplane dipping to spew double barrels of insecticide; then down dirt roads to a rutted offload by Madden Bay where pickups and empty boat trailers sat waiting, and where Louis or Monty would wave as he throttled down the outboard coming into shore, finally kill it and, paddle tucked under an armpit, tracing figure eights, ease the boat back to ground.
New policy. " "Sorry. Thought you were awake, but obviously you're not quite. " "You said to wake you around noon. Coffee's almost fresh and Cafe Val's open for business. " "Oatmeal? " She did, and I did, and within the hour, following shower, shave, oatmeal breakfast, and a change of clothes, I pulled in by city hall. The Chariot and Don Lee's pickup were still there, along with June's Neon. Blinds were closed. Those blinds never get closed except at night. And the door was locked. If I hadn't been fully awake before, I was now.
Cripple Creek by James Sallis