A #1 New York Times Bestseller Virgil Flowers investigates a miracle--and a murder--in the wickedly entertaining new thriller from the master of "pure reading pleasure" ( Booklist ). Wheatfield, Minnesota: a metropolis of six hundred souls and change, for which the word "moribund" might have been invented. Nothing ever happened there and nothing ever would--until the mayor of sorts (campaign slogan: "I'll Do What I Can") and his precocious teenage buddy come up with a scheme to put Wheatfield on the map. Should something dramatic occur--say, that the apparition of the Virgin Mary miraculously appeared at the local Catholic Church--the whole town would be turned into a shrine, attracting thousands of pilgrims. And all those pilgrims needed food, shelter, all kinds of crazy things. The town would get rich! What could go wrong? Then the shootings begin. And as they--and Virgil Flowers--are about to discover, that's only the beginning of their troubles. . . . Praise for Holy Ghost “John Sandford’s madly entertaining Virgil Flower mysteries are more fun than a greased-pig-wrestling contest. The plots outlandish; the characters peculiar; and the best bits of dialogue are largely unprintable.”—Marilyn Stasio, The New York Times Book Review "Another winner."— Washington Post  “Holy smoke, Holy Ghost is a hot one! . . . The dialogue is sometimes biting and always witty, and the entire book is at once wicked and sublime.”— Booklist (starred review) “Wickedly enjoyable . . . Sandford’s trademark sly humor shines throughout.”— Publishers Weekly (starred review)   Praise for Deep Freeze   “Along the way to the satisfying ending, Virgil displays the rough humor and rough justice that make him such an appealing character.”— Publishers Weekly “The ride, as always in a Sandford novel, surprises and delights....Add a gripping storyline, a generous helping of exquisitely conceived characters and laugh-out-loud humor that produce explosive guffaws, not muted chuckles, and you’re in for the usual late-night, don’t-even-think-of-stopping treat when Flowers hits town.” — Richmond Times-Dispatch John Sandford is the pseudonym for the Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist John Camp. He is the author of twenty-eight Prey novels, most recently Twisted Prey ; four Kidd novels, eleven Virgil Flowers novels, and six other books, including three YA novels coauthored with his wife, Michele Cook. Chapter One               Wardell Holland, the mayor of Wheatfield, Minnesota, was sitting in the doublewide he rented from his mother, a Daisy match-grade pellet rifle in his hands, shooting flies. His mother suspected he let the flies in on purpose, so he could shoot at them. He denied it, but he was lying.             He was tracking a bull-sized bluebottle when the doorbell croaked. Like most other things in the place, there was something not quite right with the doorbell, but not quite wrong enough to fix. In this case, the doorbell probably indicated that the beer had arrived. The kid had taken his own sweet time about it; school had been out for an hour.             “Come in,” he shouted.             The fly tracked out of the bedroom and lazily circled through the living room and toward the kitchen. He picked it up over the sights and the kid outside yelled, “Don’t go shooting—”             POP! A clear miss. The fly juked as the pellet whipped past, then circled around the sink and out of sight. The pellet ricocheted once and stuck in the fiberboard closet door by the entrance.             “Hey! Hey! You crazy fuckin’ pillhead, you’re gonna put my eye out.”             Holland shouted, “He’s gone, you can come in.”             John Jacob Skinner edged through the door, keeping an eye on Holland, who was sprawled on the couch, his prosthetic foot propped up on the arm, the rifle lying across his stomach. Skinner, who was seventeen, said, “Goddamnit, Wardell...”             “I won’t shoot, even if I see him... though he is a trophy-sized beast.”             Skinner eased into the room, carrying a six-pack of Coors Light. “You want one now or you want it in the refrigerator? They’re cold.”             “Now, of course. I shoot better with a little alcohol in me.”             “Right.” Skinner pulled loose two cans, tossed one to Holland, put four in the refrigerator, popped the top on the last one, and took a drink.             Skinner resembled his name: he was six-foot-three, skinny, with long red hair that never seemed overly clean, a razor-thin face, prominent Adam’s apple, and bony shoulders and hips. He had about a billion freckles.             He’d shown a minor talent for basketball in junior high, but had quit the game when he’d went to high school. He’d told friends that he needed non-school time to think, since it was impossible to think when he was actually in school.             The coach had asked, “Now what in the Sam Hill do you want to think for, Skinner? Where’s that gonna get