Hard-edged, evocative, brilliantly paced, James Swain€™s novels of crime and punishment in South Florida delve into a shadowy realm where criminals, victims, and cops share the same truths, the same lies, and sometimes even the same nightmares.Abb Grimes is famous. Just ask the ghoulish tourists who flock to his former home to take photographs. Years ago, Grimes killed eighteen women, some never found. As the head of the Broward County Missing Persons Unit, Jack Carpenter was intimately involved in the Grimes case. Now, days away from execution, the notorious serial killer reaches out to ex-cop Carpenter with a surprising request.Abb Grimes€™ grandson was lured from his home. The cops are convinced the boy€™s father€“Abb€™s troubled son, Jed€“is behind the boy€™s disappearance, but Jack€™s not so sure. With a personal connection to the kidnapped child, Carpenter takes the case, and that€™s when the situation goes from terrifying to fa "What crime fiction fan can resist a guy who isn't afraid to knock a few slime-bag heads when no one is watching? In Swain's fine second suspense novel to feature South Florida PI Jack Carpenter (after Midnight Rambler ), imprisoned serial killer Abb Grimes hires the tough, unrelenting ex-cop to find his kidnapped grandson, Sampson Grimes. The chief suspect is the child's father, Jed Grimes, but Jack thinks Jed is innocent, even though the evidence suggests otherwise. There's plenty of action and intelligent sleuthing, but it's Jack's uncompromising character and Swain's equally uncompromising writing that will keep readers turning pages and eager for the next installment: “I'd visited many prisons, and the smell was always the same: a choking mixture of piss, shit, fear, and desperation, wiped down by harsh antiseptics.” The winner of France's Prix Calibre 38, Swain is also the author of Deadman's Bluff and six other books in his Tony Valentine gambling series." - Publishers Weekly Praise for James Swain’s Midnight Rambler “Midnight Rambler kept me up all night long. . . . The only problem with Swain’s riveting thrillers is they end.” –Tess Gerritsen, author of The Keepsake “A sturdy thriller . . . [Swain] uses language with such blunt force he could be hammering in nails.” –The New York Times Book Review “Immensely satisfying . . . [Hero Jack Carpenter evokes] memories of Will Graham, the FBI profiler in Thomas Harris’ brilliant Red Dragon.” –The Providence Journal “Easily one of the best thrillers of the year, Swain’s tense, gritty tale is virtually impossible to put down.” –Lansing State Journal “Moves like a bullet train on overdrive.” –Michael Connelly James Swain, winner of the prestigious Prix Calibre 38 for Best American Crime Fiction, is the bestselling author of eight previous novels. He lives with his wife, Laura, in Florida, where he is currently at work on his next novel. www.jimswain.com CHAPTER ONE Noise was one of the few things that moved freely inside a prison. The haunting echo of my own footsteps followed me down the long, windowless corridor inside the maximum security wing of Florida State Prison in Starke. I’d visited many prisons, and the smell was always the same: a choking mixture of piss, shit, fear, and desperation, wiped down by harsh antiseptics. Walking through an electronically operated steel door, I was pat­ted down by two stone-faced guards. Satisfied that I was not carry­ing weapons or contraband, they passed me off to a smirking inmate with a hideous purple birthmark on the side of his face. He took off at a brisk pace, and I followed him into the cellblock that housed death row inmates. “What’s your name?” I asked. “Garvin,” he replied, not breaking stride. “What are you in for?” “I shot up my family during Thanksgiving dinner.” I walked past the cells in death row with my eyes to the floor, feel­ing their occupants’ presence like a fist pounding on my back. When we arrived at an empty cell, Garvin slid back the door, and stepped to one side. “Wait inside here,” he said. “What if no one comes?” I asked. “Make some noise, and I’ll come get you.” I entered the cell, a ten-by-ten concrete square with two wood benches anchored to the floor, and a small wood table. Garvin slammed the door behind me, making me jump. He chuckled as he walked away. I took the bench nearest the door, and stuck a piece of gum into my mouth. I chewed so hard it made my jaw ache. I’d put scores of bad guys into Starke, and I didn’t want to be here any longer than I had to. I stared at the table. Inmates were not supposed to have anything sharp, but the table said otherwise. Names and dates and ugly epi­thets were carved into every inch of wood. One name stood out over the others. Abb Grimes I had been involved in Abb’s case, and I knew his story. A Fort Lauderdale native, he’d quit high school at seventeen, done a stint in the navy, gotten married and had a kid, and gone to work driving a newspaper delivery truck–an ordinary guy, except that