Haunted (Hannah Smith) - Hardcover

White, Randy Wayne

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0399169768 ISBN 13: 9780399169762

Verlag: Putnam Pub Group, 2014

Inhaltsangabe

Hannah Smith returns in the stunning new adventure in the New York Times–bestselling series from the author of the Doc Ford novels.

The house is historic, some say haunted. It is also slated to be razed and replaced by condos, unless Hannah Smith can do something about it. She’s been hired by a wealthy Palm Beach widow to prove that the house’s seller didn’t disclose everything he knew about the place when he unloaded it, including its role in a bloody Civil War skirmish (in which two of Hannah’s own distant relations had had a part), and the suicides—or were they murders?—of two previous owners.

Hannah sees it as a win-win opportunity: She can stop the condo project while tracking her family history. She doesn’t believe in ghosts, anyway. But some things are more dangerous than ghosts. Among them, as she will learn, perhaps fatally, is human obsession.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorinnen und Autoren

Randy Wayne White is the author of twenty-one Doc Ford novels, most recentlyBone Deep; the Hannah Smith novels Gone and Deceived; and four collections of nonfiction. He lives on Sanibel Island, Florida, where he was a light-tackle fishing guide for many years.

Randy Wayne White is the author of twenty-one Doc Ford novels, most recentlyBone Deep; the Hannah Smith novels Gone and Deceived; and four collections of nonfiction. He lives on Sanibel Island, Florida, where he was a light-tackle fishing guide for many years.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

1
In Florida, hundred-year-old houses have solid
walls, so I guessed wrong when I heard my friend Birdy Tupplemeyer
make a bleating noise downstairs. I figured she’d snuck a
man into her room, which was unfair of me, even though Birdy
admits to being free-minded when it comes to romance.

On windy October nights my imagination prefers love to spiders,
I guess. That is my only excuse.

I was in a hammock on the second floor in what had once been
a music room. Birdy, who lacks camping experience, had chosen a
downstairs room for her air mattress because it was closer to the
front door.

“I’d have to hang off the balcony to pee,” she had reasoned,
which made sense even before the wind freshened and the moon
rose. The house was abandoned; no electricity or water, and the
spiral staircase was in bad shape. I myself, after too much tea by
the fire, was debating whether to risk the balcony or those wobbly
steps when, through the floor, I heard a thump, another thump,
and then a mewling wail that reminded me of a cat that had found
companionship.

She’s with that archaeologist, I thought, and buried my face in a
pillow, but not my ears—a guilty device. My curiosity has always
had an indecent streak. I also had a reason. That afternoon we
had met Dr. Theo Ivanhoff, an assistant professor with shaggy
black hair: late twenties, khakis low on his skinny hips and wearing
a Greek fisherman’s cap. He was on the property mapping
artifacts from a Civil War battle that had taken place before the
house was built. Theo had struck me as an aloof know-it-all and a
tad strange, but it had been a month since Birdy’s last date so her
standards had loosened. Later, by the campfire, the two of us sitting
with tea and marshmallows, she had shared some bawdy remarks
including “hung like a sash weight” and “Professor Boy
Toy,” referring to a man only a few years younger than us.

Naturally, I felt supportive of my friend, not alarmed. Until I
heard: “My god . . . what is that?” which could have meant any
number of things.

Guilt battled my curiosity. I turned an ear to the floor just to be
on the safe side. Then shattering glass and a shattering scream
tumbled me out of the hammock and I was on my knees, feeling
around for a flashlight that had tumbled with me.

Birdy’s voice again, more piercing: “Bastard . . . get off.”

Panic, not passion. I ran for the stairs. Thank heavens I was
barefoot, so I knew it was a flashlight I kicked across the room.
Bending to grab the thing, I clunked my head, then stubbed my
toe going out the door. In the hall, the flashlight’s white beam
bounced among cobwebs and a dusty piano while Birdy screamed
my name.

“Hannah . . .”

I hollered back, “I’ve got a gun!” which was true, but the gun
was locked in my SUV, not in my hand. Then I put too much
weight on the banister as I catapulted down the stairs—a brittle
pop; the banister fell. I spiraled down a few steps on my butt,
caught myself, then raced the banister to the bottom. The banister
won. I shoved it aside and was soon standing outside Birdy’s door,
which was locked. That scared me even more.

I yelled, “Birdy . . .?” and pounded.

“Get in here!”

“Open the door.”

“It’s jammed! Oh . . shit, Hannah, hurry.”

I wrenched the knob and used my shoulder. The door gave way
on the second try and I fell into the room, which was dark but for
moonlight reflecting off broken glass on the floor. I got to my feet
and, once again, had to hunt for the flashlight. My friend, dressed
in T-shirt and shorts, had her back to me and was dancing around
as if fighting cobwebs or in the midst of a seizure. “Get it off, get
it off!” she yelled, then winced when she turned, blinded by my
arrival.

I lowered the flashlight, relieved. I’d feared an attacker, but she
was alone. I rushed across the room and put a hand on Birdy’s arm
to stop her contortions. “Hold still,” I had to tell her twice while
I scanned her up and down. Finally I stepped back. “I don’t see
anything.”

“It was in my hair.”

“What?”

“How the hell should I know?” Birdy added some F-bombs
and bowed her head for an inspection. I used my free hand, the
light close, to comb through her thick ginger hair, which was
darker at the roots, Birdy saying, “I was almost asleep when something
landed on my face. Something with legs. It crawled up my
forehead, then stung me on the neck—I’m sure there was more
than one. I tried to run, but the damn door wouldn’t open.”

“Where on your neck?”

I moved the light, but Birdy hollered, “Finish with my hair
first!” That told me the sting could wait.

“Probably a palmetto bug. They don’t sting, so you probably
imagined that.”

“Imagined, my ass.” Birdy pulled her T-shirt up, ribs showing,
a petite woman addicted to jogging who didn’t get much sun because
of her freckles and red hair.

I checked her back and down her legs. “Where’s your flashlight?”


“Goddamn bugs on my face, I must’ve dropped it or something.
I don’t know. I’d just found the switch when one bit the hell
out of me. Anybody would have lost it after that.”

I said, “That explains the broken window.”

“What broken window?”

Birdy Tupplemeyer is a high-strung, energetic woman, but normally
steady in her behavior, as you would expect of a deputy sheriff
with two years’ experience. I had never seen her so upset. “You
didn’t hear the glass break? You must have thrown that light
pretty hard. I’m glad you weren’t waving your gun around when I
came through the door.”

I bent to check the back of her neck, but first took a look
around the room, seeing glass on the pine flooring, the shattered
window, a moon-frosted oak tree outside, and my friend’s air mattress,
a double-wide with cotton sheets, her overnight bag open in
the corner, clothes folded atop it.

“My pistol’s under the pillow,” she countered. “Don’t worry
about getting shot. Worry about the damn bugs—this freaking
room is infested.” She shuddered and swore.

I pushed my flashlight into her hands. “I’m not a nurse. Check
inside your own pants.”

Light in hand, Birdy pulled her shorts away from her hips, then
disappeared down her baggy T-shirt, the shirt glowing like a tent
until she reappeared. “For once, I’m glad to be flat-chested. Those
sons of bitches sting. Here . . . look for yourself.”

She lifted her head, the light bright on a welt that was fiery red
on her freckled throat. My heart had stopped pounding, but now
I was concerned.

“Give me that,” I said, taking the light. “Does it hurt?”

“Burns like hell.”

“Is it throbbing?”

Birdy heard the change in my voice. “Do you think it was a
spider? I hate spiders. Maybe I should go to the E-R. What time
is it?”

“Stop squirming,” I said, but that’s exactly why I was concerned.
I grew up camping, hiking, and fishing in the Florida
backcountry with my late uncle, Capt. Jake Smith, who became a
well-known guide after being...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Putnam Pub Group
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2014
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0399169768
• ISBN 13: 9780399169762
• Einband: Gebundene Ausgabe
• Anzahl der Seiten: 333
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: G.P. Putnam's Sons; https://www.penguin.com/putnam/; ; 1745 BROADWAY Attn: Madison Forsander; NEW YORK; NY; 10019; USA
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar