  | Book Details Title: When You See Me: A Novel (Detective D. D. Warren) |
Book DescriptionReview Praise for When You See Me“Lisa Gardner is a master of the psychological thriller that dives deep into the minds of characters that experience trauma and come out stronger from the experience.”–Associated Press“Gardner effortlessly…introduces and paints a number of characters…fast-paced and gripping.” —Columbus Dispatch“A stunner of a tale that finds [Gardner] at the top of her game…[a] relentlessly riveting psychological thriller that never lets up and never lets us down.”–Providence Journal“This is top-notch suspense by a best-selling master of the genre.”—Booklist (starred review)“An emotionally powerful page-turner. Fans of kick-ass female investigators will be well satisfied.”–Publishers Weekly “Gardner juggles multiple narratives…with ease. [A] sensitive exploration of trauma and its insidious, lasting effects.”--Kirkus Reviews“The forensic analysis of shallow graves can unearth a lot of clues, but When You See Me also looks at the ways evil is handed down from one generation to the next. It’s a mystery that will keep you up late at night, haunted by the events within its pages.”–Bookpage One of… PopSugar’s “31 New Thriller and Mystery Books to Look Out for in 2020” Bustle’s “35 Most Anticipated Books of January 2020” CrimeRead’s “10 Novels You Should Read in January” Mystery Tribune’s “16 Best Crime, Mystery, and Thriller Books of January 2020”Gardner continues to put her three best characters together, a proven winning recipe that again delivers a pulse-pounding reading experience.”—The Real Book Spy“This is a book rich in description, as well as delving into the motives and thoughts of each of the characters.”—The New York Journal of Books“Another edgy thriller from one of my favorite authors. The sinister factor starts early and builds quickly as Southern town charm gives way to deadly menace and dangerous secrets in this twist-a-minute novel. A string of murders, a crack FBI team and a voiceless girl desperate for revenge, When You See Me has it all.”—Karin Slaughter“When You See Me is another rocket-fuel-propelled thriller from Lisa Gardner. This culmination of her great talents sees the return of her finest characters (including my favorite, Flora Dane), who collide with an intrigue that starts out chillingly intimate and explodes into a sky-high denouement that will leave you breathless.”—Gregg Hurwitz, New York Times bestselling author of the Orphan X series“A twisty-turny psycho-thriller with a plot and characters that won’t let you go. Lisa Gardner is at the top of her game!”—Kathy Reichs, author of the Temperance Brennan Bones series Read more About the Author Lisa Gardner is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of twenty suspense novels, including The Neighbor, which won Thriller of the Year from the International Thriller Writers. An avid hiker, traveler and cribbage player, she lives in the mountains of New Hampshire with her family. Read more Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. PROLOGUEMy mother likes to hum. She stands at the stove, stirring this, tasting that, and humming, humming, humming. I sit in a chair by the table. I have a job. Grate the cheese. It’s an easy job. The queso blanco crumbles to the touch. But I’m proud to do my part. My mother says you do not have to be rich to eat like a king. It’s because she loves to cook so much. Everyone comes to my mother’s kitchen for her homemade salsa or special mole sauce, or my favorite, the little cinnamon churros dipped in chocolate. I am five years old, which is old enough to stir the chocolate as it melts on the stove. Lentamente, my mother says. But not too slow, or it will burn. Melted chocolate is hot. I stuck my little pinkie straight into the pot the first time, because I wanted a taste. First, I burned my finger. Then I licked at the thick chocolate and burned my mouth. My mother shook her head when I started crying. She used her apron to wipe my cheeks and she told me I was a silly chiquita and I must grow stronger and wiser so I do not stick my hand into bubbling pots. She brought me an ice cube to suck on and let me sit at the table and watch her fuss and hum over the steaming pans. I am my mother’s chiquita. She is my mamita. Our special names for each other. I love watching my mamita in the kitchen. When she’s there, she’s happy. No shadows on her face. She stands taller. She looks like my mami again, and not the sad woman who leaves in the morning in her dull gray maid’s uniform. Or worse, the scared woman who sometimes comes home in the middle of the day, shoves me in a closet, and tells me I must be very quiet. I always listen to my mami. Well, once I didn’t. I ran after a brown puppy because I wanted to pet his ears and the car roared by me so fast I felt the wind in my hair. Then my mother grabbed my arm and screamed at me, No, no, no, bad, bad, bad. She spanked me and that hurt. Then she sat in the red dirt and cried and rocked me against her and that hurt worse, like I had both a tummy ache and a chest ache at the same time. “You must listen to me, my love. We have only each other. So we must take extra care. You are mine and I am yours, always.” I wiped my mother’s cheeks that day. I lay my head against her trembling shoulder and promised to always be good. Now that I’m five, I walk to the school by myself, then come home by myself. I’m alone all afternoon, which is our secret, my mami says. Others might not like it. They might take me away. I don’t want to be taken away. So I’m a brave girl and I come home and turn on the little TV and watch cartoons and wait. Sometimes I draw. I love to color and paint. I’m always careful to clean up afterward. My mamita has a hard day, scrubbing and cleaning after others. Each day she leaves in a sharply pressed uniform with a crisp white apron. Every evening she returns exhausted, wrung out. And those are the good days. Sometimes, she comes home sad and scared, she must shed her drab uniform, pull on a colorful skirt, and head straight to her kitchen so she can smile again. It’s nighttime now. We are having burritos with slow roasted black beans and shredded chicken. It must be a special night, because we don’t always get chicken. Meat costs more and we must be smart about such things. But my mother is happy and stirring the beans, while the tortillas warm in the oven. Our kitchen is small but bright. Red tiles, green and blue paint. Pieces of pottery from my mother’s mother, who she had to leave a long time ago and will never see again. But my mother was blessed with these pieces so that her mami would always be with her, and one day, with me, as well. “You don’t need many things,” my mother likes to tell me. “You just need the right things.” I hear howling in the distance. The coyotes in the desert, singing to one another. The sound makes my mother shiver, but I like it. I wish I could throw back my head and make the same mournful cry. I practice my mother’s hum instead. Then, I play my favorite game. “Mamita,” I say. “Chiquita,” she answers. “Bonita mamita,” I say. She smiles. “Linda chiquita,” she answers. “Muy bonita mamita.” “Muy linda chiquita.” I giggle, because we are a pack, a little pack of two, and this is us, howling at each other. “You are a silly chiquita,” she says, and I giggle again and steal a piece of queso blanco and swing my feet beneath the chair with delight. “Dinner,” she declares, pulling out the tortillas. The coyotes howl again. My mother crosses herself. I think I’m glad that I am hers and she is mine, forever. The bad man comes after dinner. My mother is at the sink, washing. I stand on a stool beside her, drying. He knocks, heavy and hard. At the sink, my mamita freezes. The shadows come back to her face, but I don’t understand. I just know that she’s scared. And if she is scared, so am I. “The closet,” she whispers to me. But it’s too late. The back door bursts open. The man is there, filling the space. Our kitchen, which has always been perfect for a pack of two, is now tiny. No place to hide. I see his dark shadow as he lurches into the room, a giant, massive form, who appears more beast than human. “What did you do?” he asks. He talks to my mother directly. Not yelling. His voice is cold, calm. It makes me tremble and want to cross myself. “N-N-Nothing,” my mother tries. She’s shaking too hard. I know she’s lying and the Bad Man knows it, too. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out? Did you really think you could outsmart me?” My mother doesn’t answer. I stare at her a long time. Her face has gone blank, but in its smoothness, I realize whatever the man is accusing her of, she did it. And he found out. And now, something awful is going to happen. We are a pack of two. I want to reach for her hand. I want to be a brave girl for her. But my legs are shaking uncontrollably. On my little stool, I can’t move. Abruptly, my mother sets a pot into the sink, cutting the tension with a loud clatter. “Would you like some dinner? Burritos. Please, let me make you a plate.” Speaking of food, her voice calms. She moves slightly, placing her- self between the man and me. “Sure,” the man says, but there is something in his voice that makes me tremble again. I wish desperately I were in the closet. But I can’t duck in there now. Can’t go anywhere without him seeing. And some part of me, stubborn, foolish, stick-your-finger-into-hot-bubbling-chocolate stupid, doesn’t want to go, and leave this man-beast alone with my mother. She picks up the plate I have dried. She moves smoothly to the stove, where there are leftover tortillas and cold beans. She takes her time. Tortilla. A spoonful of beans. A sprinkle of queso. Folding the burrito. Placing it back in the oven. Finding the salsa, delivering it to the table. “Beer,” the man says. My mother crosses to the tiny fridge, removes one of the beers tucked in the back. She appears very composed, except for her hands, constantly crumpling her bright red skirt. “Sit with me,” the man says after she removes the burrito from the oven. “I must finish the dishes—” “Sit with me.” My mother sits. She shoots me a quick glance. There is something in her eyes, something she’s trying to tell me. Standing on my stool, I don’t understand. I don’t know where to go, what to do. We must take care, she said. But I don’t know how to take care of her now. I just want this Bad Man to go away, and for my mother to be alone with me in the kitchen again. The man eats his burrito. Bite by bite. He drinks his beer. He doesn’t speak, and the silence makes my tummy hurt. As the last forkful is scooped up, delivered to the Bad Man’s mouth, my mother exhales slightly. Her shoulders slump. She has made some kind of decision, but I don’t know what. The man glances in my direction. “She’s very pretty.” “She’s a baby,” my mother states coldly. She stands up. “We’ll go outside.” The man raises a brow. “Feisty, aren’t you?” “You want to talk? We go outside.” “I don’t know. I like your kitchen. It’s very cozy in here. Maybe you should clear this table. We could show your daughter what you’re really good at.” My mother stares at the man. Suddenly, she marches around the table, straight toward him. He flinches, caught off guard, and I’m proud of my mamita for making the Bad Man recoil. She hits his shoulder with her body as she passes, hard, pointedly. Then she grabs the back door and flings it open. Before the man can react, she’s outside. At last he stands up. He pauses, stares at me a long while. I don’t like the look in his eyes. “What’s your name, girl?” I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I am still shaking too hard. My mother calls from outside. He gives me a final glance, then moves for the doorway. “Stupid girl,” he mutters. I’m holding the dish towel. Alone now in the kitchen, I stare at it, wish I had something to dry. Wish the night would go backward and I could be sitting at the table, grating cheese and listening to my mother hum. Then, more noises. The man, his voice angry and booming. My mother. No, she says, over and over. Defiant, then stubborn, then pleading. A crack, a smack. I flinch. I know those sounds. He hit her. She speaks again, but her voice is so low I can barely hear it. I just recognize the tone. Broken. The Bad Man has hurt her, and my mamita is broken. The angry voices stop. Everything stops. The silence scares me worse. We are a pack. We have only each other. We must take care. I carefully step down from the stool. I walk to the open doorway. I head outside. My mother is on her knees. The man stands before her. He is holding something. A gun. He’s pointing a gun at my mother’s head. I don’t think. I bolt. I race to my mother, a blur of little arms and little legs. I fly like the wind, I want to believe. I hurtle myself into her arms. As my mother screams, “No! Get away! Run, chiquita, run!” She throws me from her, even as I try to clutch her arms. She tosses me behind her. “Run,” she yells again. “Run!” I see the tears pouring down her cheeks. I see the terror in her eyes. I don’t run. I can’t. I hold out my arms for my mother. We are two. We must take care— The Bad Man pulls the trigger. Later, I will dream of this, night after night. Later, this one moment will be all I have left. The last time I spoke. The last time I listened to my mother’s hum. The last time I held out my arms for the person who loved me. Now, the bullet tears through my mother’s throat. A spray of red. Her hand, belatedly coming up. Then the bullet continues on, slamming into my temple. I fly back. I land on red dirt. Dazed, hurt, confused. The Bad Man walks over to me. He reaches down, feels my neck. “Huh,” he says. Then, right before I pass out, the Bad Man lifts me up. I don’t fight him. A sheet of blood coats my eyes. I stare through it at my mother’s fallen form. And I feel the burn of the bullet that has gone from her to me. That has brought the last of my mamita into me. Our pack of two is no more. CHAPTER 1 “Water.” “Check.” “Granola bars.” “Check.” “Apples. PB and J sandwiches.” “Check, check.” Janet paused, looked up from the day packs opened on the B&B’s quilted bed. “How much water?” “I’m going to say two bottles apiece,” Chuck replied. He was lac‑ ing up his hiking boots, banging his heel against the hardwood floor to ensure a tight fit. “It’s really hot out,” Janet hedged. They’d fled Hotlanta for the weekend, heading north into the mountains only to discover the humidity was marginally better here than in the city they’d left behind. Just what they needed: a heat wave in Appalachia. Chuck considered the matter. “Better throw in three bottles apiece. We definitely want to stay hydrated.” “Sure,” Janet said, trying to keep from sounding sarcastic. As if they knew what they were doing. As if Chuck’s hiking boots hadn’t just come from a sporting goods superstore, while both backpacks had been dug out of the dusty bowels of his parents’ garage. Janet hadn’t even bothered with real boots, sticking with her tennis shoes. Chuck had already warned her about rolling an ankle on the trails. Seriously, she’d just wanted a romantic weekend at a B&B. She and Chuck had been dating nearly a year: short enough that they were still making the effort, long enough that a getaway weekend sounded fun. But hiking? That was Chuck’s idea of a good time. Personally, she would’ve gone with room service and sex, but given the way her boy‑ friend was now clomping around their quaint room with blatant hiking boot satisfaction, that wasn’t happening. Maybe at the end of the day. Assuming either of them could still move. “You have the map?” she asked him now, as she was a city girl and knew it. “Yep. Trail is marked. Four miles round‑trip, one‑thousand‑foot elevation gain. We can do this.” He stopped long enough to waggle an eyebrow at her, offer a reassuring kiss. She acquiesced while leaning all the way into him. He could be charming, with his mop of brown hair, thick lashes, and dark puppy dog eyes. And he was fit, an up‑and‑coming ADA who burned away his courtroom frustrations running half marathons. Given how much she enjoyed every inch of that runner’s body . . . Fine, she would hike. For love, people had done worse. She stepped back, hefted up the first pack, grunted a little at the weight. “We’re going to earn those water bottles,” she said. Chuck swung the second pack onto his own back as if it were nothing. “We got this,” he said. “Promise to carry me?” “I don’t want to use up all my strength. I still have some plans for us, end of day. I’ve heard the views are excellent from the trailhead. But I’m kind of wondering”—he leaned closer, whispered in her ear—“if sex on a mountaintop won’t be even better.” “Sweaty and pine needly,” she told him, but he had her attention now. Hiking. Huh. She didn’t even like gyms. But the great outdoors, coupled with the promise of the right reward . . . “We got this,” she agreed hoarsely. Then, after fighting with the straps of her pack, she followed her lanky, cute‑as‑sin boyfriend out the door. First mistake: Chuck set the pace. He was a cardio freak, and steep winding mountain trails were no problem for him. Janet was gasping almost immediately and transitioning from romantic thoughts to murderous plots. One woman on the jury, she figured. That’s all she’d need to be acquitted of Chuck’s impending demise, if he didn’t slow down for his obviously suffering girlfriend. Second mistake: Chuck wore new boots. One mile up, he developed a hitch in his stride. Shortly after that, he was wincing. Janet worked as a vet tech, which made her the medical expert even when it came to humans. Meaning she was the one who had to forcefully halt Chuck’s determined death march, sit his ass on a boulder, and demand that he remove the boot. The heel of his left sock was already spotted with blood. “Gee,” she couldn’t resist saying, “so much for my crappy tennis shoes.” He glared at her, and she could tell he was also making the transition from sex to bodily harm. Some things sounded like more fun than they really were. Hiking, Janet had already decided, was one of them. She had Chuck gingerly pull off his extra‑thick hiking sock. Even sitting in the shade, they were both drenched in sweat and breathing hard. Janet was never leaving air‑conditioning again. She rummaged through her pack till she found the first aid kit, another purchase still bearing tags. She inspected the bare‑bones offerings. Neosporin and Band‑Aids it was. Chuck flinched when she touched his heel, then made little whimpering noises in his throat. So much for the take‑no‑prisoners assistant district attorney. He considered himself to be the intense one, while she was his breath of fresh air. She hadn’t the heart to tell him he had no idea how much courage it took to help wounded animals, and just how tough you had to be to realize when medical intervention wouldn’t be enough, and that last, final step was all you could offer the sweet, trusting eyes staring back up at you. She let him have his man pride now, trying not to sigh too loudly as she gently dabbed the antibiotic cream on his raw heel, then covered it with a Band‑Aid. Not a perfect fix, she already knew, as his stiff boots would continue to rub. “We should go back,” she suggested. “No way. Not this close.” “We still have a mile to the summit, not to mention the hike back down.” “I can do it. It’s just a blister.” “Didn’t you once say blisters are the worst enemy of the long‑ distance runner?” “This isn’t a long distance.” “You’re crazy.” “That’s why you love me.” “I thought it was the puppy dog eyes.” “I don’t have puppy dog eyes!” He was already working his sock back on. “Puppy dog hair?” she suggested, giving up the battle she already knew she would lose. She returned the first aid kit to her pack, looking off in the distance as he slid his foot back into his boot. He was gritting his teeth, hard. Janet rose to standing, watching Chuck lace up his boot, then hobble about as if he were magically all better. She retrieved her water bottle from the side pouch for a long drink. It didn’t help. She was hot, sweaty, and completely done with the great outdoors. Chuck resumed the hike. He was going to destroy his own foot, no doubt about it. Would rub off all the skin and be in pain for days to come. And she’d get to hear about it. Again and again. Like the man‑ flu, except for feet. New objective: Get to the top, take in the view, snap a selfie, retreat. Then, never speak of this day again. Chuck’s limping grew more and more pronounced. Janet trudged along, waiting, waiting . . . “I want a stick,” Chuck announced abruptly. He stopped and she nearly ran into him. “A stick?” she said. “Like a walking stick. I think it will help.” “Sure.” Because a wooden staff would stop his foot from rubbing against his brand‑new boot? But Chuck was now a man with a plan. They’d come to a turn in the trail. A slightly flatter spot, but up this high, the trees were shorter and Janet didn’t see much in the way of fallen branches. Chuck shrugged out of his pack. She followed suit, grateful for the break even if she didn’t completely understand the mission. They set their packs beside a boulder, then Chuck took the first step off the trail, heading deeper into the shade of the trees. Janet wasn’t sure she liked this but found herself following. There were low leafy shrubs everywhere; Janet hadn’t a clue what anything was called. But a thin path seemed to wind between the underbrush. Chuck hobbled forward, eyes peeled for the right stick, branch, something. Janet kept casting glances back where they’d left the trail. Isn’t this how people died? Wandering off trail, never to be seen again? Chuck came to a small clearing. The ground was flatter and rockier here. They were definitely off the beaten path, this area covered in layers of decaying leaves. It smelled of mold, Janet thought, crinkling her nose. But ahead was a huge, broadleaf tree and around it, yes, a scattering of debris. Chuck limped to the base of the tree. Started looping around. Janet stayed put, one eye still on the exit route behind them. “Hey, look at this!” Chuck emerged from the other side of the tree trunk, carrying a bleached‑out stick. Janet frowned. “Isn’t that too short?” “Yeah, yeah. But just look at it. The silver gray tone, and it’s so smooth.” He ran his hand along its length. “Not a trace of bark and so perfectly weathered. But still hard as a rock. I wonder how long this stick has been here? How many years to achieve this perfect degree of fossilization?” He was closer to her now, that grin back on his face. Like a dog with a toy, she thought. Which is when she got her first true look at his prize. “Chuck . . .” “What?” He came to a halt beside her. “That’s not a stick.” He hefted it up. Long, weathered, and smooth, just as he’d de‑ scribed it. With two distinctly round knobs at the end. Janet did not want to say what she had to say next. “What?” he demanded again. “Chuck, that’s a bone. A femur bone, if I had to guess. And given the length and width, not any animal I know of. Which leaves . . .” Chuck dropped it. And there went Janet’s romantic weekend, as her badass boyfriend began to scream. Things take time, longer than most realize. First the local sheriff’s department had to hike in and secure the scene. Then the state’s forensic anthropologist was summoned to confirm that the remains were indeed human and begin the painstaking task of exhumation. Sketches were made. Dirt sifted for trace evidence. The search zone widened as it became clear scavengers had been raiding the site and not all pieces of the skeleton remained intact. Smaller bones were recovered farther off. Many more remained missing. Eventually, the forensic anthropologist and the heavily weathered skeleton journeyed back to Atlanta and the comfort of the lab, where the bones were given their own box and a case ID number. Several experts, not to mention some grad students, stopped by to check it out. Everyone was impressed by the quality of the find. No one had immediate answers. More weeks passed. Then a couple of months, given the case backlog. Finally, progress. A local artist reconstructed the face using modeling clay. Photos were taken. Images loaded into a nationwide database—and at last, a possible match. The forensic anthropologist conducted additional studies, cross‑referencing age, gender, then the presence of an old childhood injury (broken arm) to the corresponding humerus. Confirmation was made, and finally the skeleton had a name. Which was when SSA Kimberly Quincy received the call, as her name was flagged in the missing persons case file. According to the forensic anthropologist, the remains of Lilah Abenito, missing fifteen years, had been recovered in the mountains of Georgia. Cause of death, undetermined, but injuries to the hyoid bone were consistent with strangulation. Kimberly hung up the phone. Absorbing. Thinking. Absorbing some more. She’d been waiting for this call for so many years, it felt faintly impossible. But at long last, Lilah Abenito had been found. Which meant . . . ? Kimberly took a deep breath in, long breath out. Then she knew exactly what to do. Read more Customers Review: I have followed Lisa Gardner’s D.D. Warren series right from the get go and have loved every second of every book. They seem to get better and better as she goes along.I love D.D.’s kick ass, take no prisoners attitude and sometimes wish I could be more like her! The additional characters are well rounded and give even more of a boost to the protagonist.I read a lot, being permanently disabled and in a lot of pain. I truly believe that losing myself in a terrific story like this helps me keep my sanity.I’m already looking forward to the next book in the series.Lisa Gardner, YOU ROCK!!!!! | |
Selasa, 02 Juni 2020
[PDF] Download When You See Me: A Novel (Detective D. D. Warren) by Lisa Gardner | Free EBOOK PDF English
334 reviews [PDF] Download In the Shadow of Vesuvius: A Lady Emily Mystery (Lady Emily Mysteries) by Tasha Alexander | Free EBOOK PDF English
 | Book Details Title: In the Shadow of Vesuvius: A Lady Emily Mystery (Lady Emily Mysteries) |
Book DescriptionReview “Tasha Alexander brings both eras to life through meticulous research, and the dual stories come together in a chilling finale. Scenes set among the ruins of Pompeii and in the city pre-disaster have such depth that it feels like we’re walking directly into them…an urbane thriller with a big heart.” ―Bookpage“A captivating story of Pompeii… engaging.” ―Kirkus Reviews“[Evokes] the setting’s rich history…lovers of classical culture should be pleased.” ―Publishers Weekly Praise for Uneasy Lies the Crown:“Engrossing…English history lovers will be enthralled.”―Publishers Weekly“Readers are in the author’s trustworthy hands, and the working out of the puzzle will delight mystery and history buffs alike.” ―BooklistPraise for Death in St. Petersburg:“Alexander is at the top of her game…(her) impeccable research and smart storytelling keep readers on the edge of their seats…A gripping tale by a grand mistress of the genre.”―RT Book Reviews (Top Pick)Praise for the Lady Emily Mysteries:“Tasha Alexander has created Victorian London’s most colorful and delightfully eccentric sleuth.” ―Jacqueline Winspear, New York Times bestselling author of the Maisie Dobbs Series“Consistently witty, smart, and entertaining.”―Booklist Read more About the Author TASHA ALEXANDER, the daughter of two philosophy professors, studied English Literature and Medieval History at the University of Notre Dame. She and her husband, novelist Andrew Grant, live on a ranch in southeastern Wyoming. She is the author of the Lady Emily mystery series, including And Only to Deceive and Uneasy Lies the Crown. Read more Customers Review: Loved the history in both stories… a big fan of this series… BUT so disappointed in the decline of morality so easily accepted, situational ethics excuses all around and forcing women’s rights at every turn… and the final picture left at the end… really…plus unrealistic in its optimism going forward … not my favorite and fear direction of the series going forward … so bummed … read most of the others at least twice…love the blending of accurate history and good mystery… read in 2 days…not what I hoped for … Colin with a teenage daughter… made me sad… other parts and attitudes too…so may be my last one… | |
[PDF] Download Lord of All the Dead: A nonfiction novel by Javier Cercas | Free EBOOK PDF English
 | Book Details Title: Lord of All the Dead: A nonfiction novel |
Book DescriptionReview “Cercas keeps his readers curious to the end, and Lord of All the Dead is arguably even more important than its predecessor [Soldiers of Salamis] as a contribution to healing the wounds that remain open in Spain to this day.” —John Hooper, New York Times Book Review“Powerful . . . Painted with vivid and arresting specificity . . . Lord of All the Dead will neither flatter liberal pieties nor assuage feelings of collective guilt. It may help Spaniards, and people farther afield, to better understand the lure of Fascism, a pressing task in today’s world. Franco is still dead, but the need to monitor his condition has never been more urgent.” —Giles Harvey, The New Yorker“A remarkable act of personal history: brave, revelatory and unflinchingly honest.” —William Boyd “A book of reportage through which the dead walk with all the vibrancy of the living . . . Fact-based but also imaginative . . . A meditation about personal history and family history, as well as an interrogation about whether it is ever possible to truly escape the past.”—Elliot Ackerman, The Wall Street Journal“Remarkable . . . I fell into this dream-like experience of reading this gorgeous book over two days. I could not put it down . . . I just loved this book. It’s beautifully written. It’s reportage as well as a deep emotional connection to the time and to the people of this small town.” —Bill Goldstein, NBC Weekend Today in New York“Magnificent . . . Cercas is a marvelous writer, and his character studies of the elusive Mena are masterly. Ultimately, grappling with the enormously nuanced, continuing story of sacrifice, passion, and dishonor allowed for significant forgiveness and release. A beautiful, moving story that must have been extremely difficult for the author to write. Thankfully for readers, he persisted.” —Kirkus Reviews (starred) “Cleverly crafted.” —Publishers Weekly (starred)“A fascinating, complicated portrait of a young soldier driven to action by the crises of his time.” —Booklist “Cercas reconstructs a life with a novelist’s finesse.” —Library Journal Selections from the international reviews: U.K.“Javier Cercas’s last book, The Impostor, is, in its compassion and generosity, one of the most accomplished books I’ve ever read. His new novel is even better . . . Moving . . . Beautifully achieved . . . There is no one writing in English like this: engaged humanity achieving a hard-won wisdom. It is powerful stuff.” —The Sunday Times “Poignant and memorable . . . A lucid and immensely human study not only of the pity and futility of war but also of the enduring wounds it leaves in a society . . . Lord of All the Dead is a virtuoso performance from a writer who is able to be both a historian and novelist simultaneously . . . A powerful and strikingly original portrait of a country whose history is a nightmare from which it cannot wake.” —Times Literary Supplement“A brave political and family history . . . One of the strengths of Lord of All the Dead is the breadth of its subject matter . . . In this elegant and penetrating narrative Cercas shows us how important it is that Mena’s life is not forgotten . . . Superb.” —The Herald (Scotland)“A subversive and disenchanted view of war in general and the Spanish conflict in particular, in a fine translation by Anne McLean . . . It can be moving, unexpectedly funny, racy, demotic, or deadpan.” —Spectator “Cercas’s candid wranglings with how to tell this tale, his own deep discomfort and the grave maturity with which he acknowledges he can’t feel morally superior to Mena make him a wonderfully warm and wise guide.” —The TimesSpain “Only Cercas could have written a novel like this, at the peak of his maturity as a writer; he is one of the best we have.” —ABC “A brave, persuasive novel.” —El PaÃs “An excellent novel . . . fascinating both in its exploration of the past and in the playful creativity of its own narrative.” —El Cultural “An admirable novel, truly unique.” —La Marea “A book that moves, intrigues, and lucidly questions—along with offering answers—the collective importance of our most fateful, dramatic decisions as individuals.” —La Razón France “A magisterial book on the hazardous trajectory of one man.” —La Croix “The new apex of an already fascinating body of work.” —Lire “A book even more radical, daring, and important than anything this greatest contemporary Spanish writer has ever attempted before.” —Les Inrockuptibles “A magnificent book.” —Historia Read more About the Author JAVIER CERCAS was born in 1962. He is a novelist and columnist, and he has received numerous international awards. His books include Soldiers of Salamis (which sold more than a million copies worldwide), The Anatomy of a Moment, The Tenant and The Motive, The Speed of Light, and The Impostor. His books have been translated into more than thirty languages. He lives in Barcelona.TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH BY ANNE MCLEAN. Read more Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter 1His name was Manuel Mena, and he died at the age of nineteen in the Battle of the Ebro. It was September 21, 1938, towards the end of the Spanish Civil War, in a Catalan village called Bot. He was an enthusiastic supporter of Franco, or at least an enthusiastic Falangist, or at least he was at the beginning of the war: that was when he enlisted in the Third Bandera of the Cáceres Falange, and the following year, having recently attained the rank of provisional second lieutenant, he was posted to the First Tabor of Ifni Riflemen, a shock unit belonging to the Corps of Regulars. Twelve months later he died in combat, and for years he was the official hero of my family.He was my mother’s uncle on her father’s side, and she has told me his story countless times since I was a boy, or rather his story and his legend, so often that even before I was a writer I thought I would have to write a book about him one day. I discarded the idea as soon as I became a writer; the reason is that I felt that Manuel Mena was the exact paradigm of my family’s most onerous legacy, and telling his story would not only mean taking on his political past but also the political past of my whole family, which was the past that most embarrassed me. I did not want to take that on, I did not see any need to, and much less to discuss it at length in a book: it was enough to have to learn to live with it. Besides, I wouldn’t have even known how to start telling that story: should I have stuck strictly to reality, to the truth of events, supposing that such a thing were possible and that the passing of time had not opened impossible-to-fill gaps in Manuel Mena’s story? Should I have mixed reality and fiction, to plug up the holes inevitably left by the former? Or should I have invented a fiction out of reality, even though everyone might believe it was true, or in order for everyone to believe it was true? I had no idea, and my ignorance of the form seemed to be an endorsement of my decision on the content: I should not write the story of Manuel Mena.A few years ago, however, that old refusal seemed to enter into a crisis. By then my youth was far behind me. I was married and had a son; my family was not going through a great time: my father had died after a long illness and, after five decades of marriage, my mother was still having difficulty adjusting to the thankless stage of widowhood. My father’s death had accentuated my mother’s natural propensity to melodramatic, resigned, and catastrophic fatalism (“Oh, son,” was one of her most well-worn maxims, “may God not send quite as many sorrows as we’re able to bear”), and one morning a car struck her on a crosswalk; the accident was not particularly serious, but my mother got a bad scare and found herself forced to remain seated in an armchair for several weeks with her body covered in bruises. My sisters and I urged her to leave the house, took her out for meals and excursions and took her to her parish church for Mass. I won’t forget the first time I went with her. We had walked the hundred yards between her house and the Sant Salvador parish church, and, when we were about to cross the street at the crosswalk, she squeezed my arm.“Son,” she whispered, “blessed are those who believe in crosswalks, for they shall see God. I was just about to.”During that convalescence I visited more frequently than usual. I often even stayed overnight, with my wife and son. The three of us would arrive on Friday afternoon and stay until Sunday evening, when we went back to Barcelona. During the day we talked or read, and in the evening we watched films or television programmes, especially Big Brother, a reality show my mother and I loved. Of course, we talked about Ibahernando, the village in Extremadura from which my parents had moved to Catalonia in the sixties, as so many people from Extremadura did in those years. I say, “of course,” and I understand I have to explain why I say that; it’s easy: because there is no event as significant in my mother’s life as emigration. I say there is no event as significant in my mother’s life as emigration, and I understand I should also explain why I say that; this is not so easy. Twenty years ago I tried to explain it to a friend by saying that overnight my mother went from being the privileged daughter of a patrician family in small-town Extremadura, where she was everything, to being not much more than a proletarian or a little less than a petit-bourgeois housewife overwhelmed with children in a Catalan city, where she was nobody. As soon as I had formulated it, the answer struck me as valid but insufficient, so I wrote an article titled “The Innocents,” which still seems the best explanation I know how to give of this matter; it was published on December 28, 1999, Feast Day of the Innocents and thirty-third anniversary of the date my mother arrived in Gerona. It goes like this:The first time I saw Gerona was on a map. My mother, who was very young then, pointed to a faraway spot on a paper and said that was where my father was. A few months later we packed our bags. There was a very long trip, and at the end a rustic, crumbling station, surrounded by sad buildings wrapped in a mortuary light and mistreated by the pitiless December rain. My father, who was waiting for us there, took us out for breakfast and told us that in that impossible city they spoke a language different from ours, and he taught me the first sentence I ever spoke in Catalan: “M’agrada molt anar al col•legi” (I really like going to school). Then we all piled into my father’s Citroën 2CV and, as we drove to our new home through the hostile desolation of that foreign city, I am sure that my mother thought and did not say a phrase she thought and said every time the anniversary of the day we packed our bags came around: “¡Menuda Inocentada!” (What a dirty trick!) It was the Feast Day of the Innocents, Holy Fools’ Day, and she must have felt like a practical joke had been played on her, thirty-three years ago.The Tartar Steppe is an extraordinary novel by Dino Buzzati. It is a slightly Kafkaesque fable in which a young lieutenant named Giovanni Drogo is posted to a remote fortress besieged by the steppe and the Tartars who inhabit it. Thirsting for glory and battles, Drogo waits in vain for the arrival of the Tartars, and his whole life is spent waiting. I’ve often thought that this hopeless fable is an emblem of the fates of many of those who packed their bags. As many did, my mother spent her youth waiting to go home, which always seemed imminent. Thirty-three years went by like that. As for others among those who packed their bags, things weren’t so bad for her: after all, my father had a salary and a fairly secure job, which was much more than many had. I think that my mother, all the same, never accepted her new life and, shielded by her all-consuming work of raising a large family, lived in Gerona doing as much as possible not to notice that she lived in Gerona, rather than in the place where she’d packed her bags. That impossible illusion lasted until a few years ago. By then things had changed enormously: Gerona was a cheerful and prosperous city, and its station a modern building with very white walls and immense windows; apart from that, some of my mother’s grandchildren barely understood her language. One day, when none of her children lived at home anymore and she could no longer protect herself from reality behind her all-consuming work as a housewife, nor evade the evidence that, twenty-five years later, she was still living in a city that even now was foreign to her, she was diagnosed with depression, and for two years all she did was stare dry-eyed and silently at nothing. Perhaps she was also thinking, thinking of her lost youth and, like Lieutenant Drogo and like many of those who packed their bags, of her life used up in futile expectation and perhaps also—she, who has not read Kafka—that all this was a huge misunderstanding and that this misunderstanding was going to kill her. But it didn’t kill her, and one day when she was beginning to emerge from the pit of the years of depression and was going to see the doctor with her husband, a gentleman opened a door and held it for her, saying, “Endavant,” which means “after you” in Catalan. My mother said: “To the doctor.” Because my mother had understood “¿Adónde van?,” “Where are you going?” in Spanish. My father says that at that moment he remembered the first sentence that, more than twenty-five years earlier, he had taught me to say in Catalan, and also that he suddenly understood my mother, because he understood that she had spent twenty-five years living in Gerona as if she were still living in the place where she had packed our bags.At the end of The Tartar Steppe the Tartars arrive, but illness and old age prevent Drogo from satisfying his long-postponed dream of confronting them. Far from the combat and the glory, alone and anonymous in the dingy room of an inn, Drogo feels the end approaching and understands that this is the real battle, which he had always been waiting for unwittingly; then he sits up a little and straightens his military jacket a little, to face death like a brave man. I don’t know if those who pack their bags ever go home again; I fear not, among other reasons because they will have understood that return is impossible. I don’t know either whether they sometimes think that life has passed them by as they waited, or that this has all been a terrible misunderstanding, or that they’ve been deceived or, worse, that someone has deceived them. I don’t know. What I do know is that in a few hours, as soon as she gets up, my mother will think and maybe say the same phrase she’s been repeating for thirty-three years on this same day: “¡Menuda Inocentada!” That’s how my article ended. More than a decade after it was published my mother still hadn’t left Ibahernando even though she was still living in Gerona, so it is logical that our foremost pastime during the visits we paid her to alleviate her convalescence consisted of talking about Ibahernando: more unexpected was that on one occasion our three foremost pastimes converged into one and the same. It happened one night when we all watched L’Avventura, an old Michelangelo Antonioni film. The film is about a group of friends on a yacht trip, during which one of them goes missing; at first everyone searches for her, but they soon forget about her and the excursion goes on as if nothing had happened. The static density of the film quickly defeated my son, who went to bed, and my wife, who fell asleep in her chair in front of the television; my mother, however, outlasted the almost two and a half hours of black-and-white images and dialogues in Italian with Spanish subtitles. Surprised by her endurance, when the film ended I asked her what she’d thought of what she’d just seen.“It’s the film I’ve most enjoyed in my whole life,” she said.If it had been anyone else, I might have thought it was a sarcastic answer; but my mother does not do sarcasm, so I thought the lack of incidents and endless silences of Big Brother had trained her perfectly to enjoy the endless silences and lack of incidents of Antonioni’s film. What I thought was that, since she was accustomed to the slowness of Big Brother, L’Avventura had seemed as frenetic as an action movie. My mother must have noticed my astonishment, because she hurried to try to dispel it; her clarification did not entirely belie my conjecture.“Of course, Javi,” she explained, pointing to the television. “What happened in that film is what always happens: someone dies and the next day nobody remembers him. That’s what happened to my uncle Manolo.”Her uncle Manolo was Manuel Mena. That very night we talked about him again, and the following weekends we barely changed the subject. As long as I can remember I’ve heard my mother talk about Manuel Mena, but only during those days did I come to understand two things. The first is that Manuel Mena had been much more than an uncle for her. According to what she told me then, during her childhood she had lived with him in her grandmother’s house, a few feet from the house of her parents, who’d sent her there because their first- and second-born daughters had died of meningitis and they harboured a reasonable fear that the third would catch the same illness. It seems my mother had been very happy in that big, bustling widow’s house belonging to her grandmother Carolina, accompanied by her cousin Alejandro and spoiled by a boisterous army of bachelor uncles. None of them spoiled her as much as Manuel Mena; for my mother, none could compare to him: he was the youngest, the most cheerful, the liveliest, the one who always brought her gifts, the one who made her laugh most and the one who played with her most often. She called him Uncle Manolo; he called her Blanquita. My mother adored him, so his death represented a devastating blow to her. I have never seen my mother cry; never: not even during her two years of depression, not even when my father died. My mother, simply, does not cry. My sisters and I have speculated a lot about the reasons for this anomaly, until one of those nights after her accident, while she was telling me for the umpteenth time about the arrival of Manuel Mena’s body in the village and she remembered she’d spent hours and hours crying, I thought I found the explanation: I thought that we all have an allotment of tears and on that day hers ran out, and since then she simply had no tears left to shed. Manuel Mena, in short, was not just my mother’s uncle: he was like an older brother to her; he was also her first death. Read more Customers Review: Wonderful! As much a philosophical study of history, as a well paced detective novel, unfolding the notes, and memories, and documents, and legends, and histories leading to the remarkable conclusions. I had little detailed knowledge of the Spanish Civil War, thus the book was very enlightening in understanding the origins of that sad conflict.
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[PDF] Download In Their Own Words by Terry Turchie,Donagh Bracken | Free EBOOK PDF English
 | Book Details Title: In Their Own Words |
Book DescriptionReview “In Their Own Words” is a chilling account of how our society is swerving far left into a socialist form of Government, where liberty and due process give way to socialist agendas. Corrupting the Department of Justice and the FBI is a step in the process. The authors have done a masterful job of plotting this dangerous course. We stand in the Abyss.— -(Danny O. Coulson, Deputy Assistant Director, FBI, Retired).“In Their Own Words does a superb case of linking the violent communist/socialist philosophy that people like Bernie Sanders and others are giving legitimacy. I was a Bombing Coordinator in the FBI’s Washington, D.C. Field Office when the Weather Underground was tied to the U.S. Capitol bombing. Many Americans compartmentalize these past and present violent acts as singular events- not thinking they are part of a long term strategy driven by a philosophical belief that is evangelized by some Democratic Party politicians and media pushing communism/socialism forward with no end in sight. In Their Own Words shows these violent events are part of a larger movement stemming from the revolutionary violence of the 1960’s and 1970’s. I saw these same people racing down Pennsylvania Avenue back then, bent on destruction of government buildings. The only thing that stopped them was a line of DC policemen who exhibited remarkable bravery and restraint- the same policemen who some politicians and media personalities now hold up as targets of hate, derision and racism. It wasn’t true then-and it’s not true now.” -(Donald E. Stukey, Head of the Soviet Counterintelligence Section, (Decade of the Spy-the 1980’s), FBI Senior Executive Service, Retired).v”Terry Turchie had a tremendously impactful career as an FBI Agent dedicated to combatting hostile intelligence and terrorist operations against the United States. He is easily within the top one percent of Agents most respected by his peers. His continuing passion for the well-being and security of our nation is evident in his latest book In Their Own Words.” –Kevin R. Brock, former Assistant Director for Intelligence, FBI, and Principal Deputy Director, National Counterterrorism Center, Retired. Read more About the Author Terry Turchie spent thirty years in the FBI- first, as a clerical support employee from 1972-1976, and then as an FBI agent from 1976 until his retirement in May 2001, as the Deputy Assistant Director of the FBI’s Counterterrorism Division. He received many promotions, Letters of Commendation, and Incentive Awards during his career, including the FBI Director’s Award for Management and Attorney General’s Award for Distinguished Service. In 1986, he and his partners arrested Gennady Zacharov a Soviet KGB officer in New York City, for espionage. The Assistant Director of the FBI, New York called him, “a key figure in the Soviet Division and our effort to neutralize Soviet intelligence services.” He led the UNABOM investigation from 1994 to 1998, drafting the search warrant for the cabin of Theodore Kaczynski. The FBI Director appointed him as the Inspector in Charge of the fugitive hunt for Eric Robert Rudolph, who detonated a bomb at the 1996 Summer Olympics in Atlanta and murdered a police officer in Birmingham, Alabama in January 1998. In March 2000, he traveled overseas with former FBI Director Louis Freeh to facilitate joint investigations of international terrorism and al-Qaeda in the Far East. Upon his retirement from the FBI in 2001, he went to work at the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory, as the head of the counterintelligence program.Donagh Bracken is a native New Yorker born in Manhattan and raised in the Bronx. He went to Manhattan Prep (Manhattan College High School) in Riverdale, then walked across the campus and attended Manhattan College earning a B.B.A… After graduation, he fulfilled his Cold War military obligation and entered the United States Army. He was assigned to the Tenth Infantry at the Combat Development Experimentation Center (CDEC) in California and worked on the development of nuclear warfare tactics. Following his military experience, he was inspired by John F. Kennedy to enter the political world and entered the Democratic Party in suburban New York. His drive and inclinations resulted in his co-ordination of campaigns for candidates on the local and congressional levels; his last, the successful 28th CD re-election of Congressman John Dow the sole congressman in an unsafe district to vote against the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution. Family illness intervened and he turned to the interpretation of the American Civil War through computer technology co-editing the Historyscope Series a computerized display of the 384 major battles of the Civil War compiled by the National Park Service. He also brought the sounds of the Civil War to the present day by using the old recorded battle cry of Confederate veterans to recreate a combat battlefield situation. also wrote “The Words of War, “contrasting the Civil War reportage of “The New York Times” and “The Charleston Mercury.” Read more Customers Review: As a spoiler alert I am a retired Agent of the FBI and served under Terry Turchie. I can count senior former members of the FBI I know personally and would feel comfortable sitting down and drinking a beer with on one finger. That would be Terry and it would not be my middle finger. Terry went up the chain of command of the FBI without ever losing touch with the people he worked with on his way up. He is a man of integrity and like the old E. F. Hutton commercial when he talks what he has to say is worth listening to. Or something like that. Jerry Webb | |
[PDF] Download Leaders of the Pack: A Werewolf Anthology by Ray Garton,Jeff Strand,David Wellington | Free EBOOK PDF English
 | Book Details Title: Leaders of the Pack: A Werewolf Anthology |
Book DescriptionSince the dawn of time, across almost every culture, there have been legends of shapeshifters. Men who turn into beasts and prey upon anyone unfortunate enough to cross their path. Of the shapeshifter tales, none invokes as much terror as the legend of the werewolf. The stories of men who become wolves persisted through the centuries from campfire folk tales to the modern age, where we are still thrilled and horrified by tales of bloodthirsty predators in our midst. Twelve of the most successful authors of werewolf fiction in the 21st Century have returned to their worlds and characters, to bring you a truly blood-soaked collection of werewolf horror. Jeff Strand: Ivan’s Night Out Ray Garton: Outside of Nowhere David Wellington: Hunters Moon Jonathan Janz: The Kiss of Divna Antonov Glenn Rolfe: The Dead Brother Situation Graeme Reynolds: Blood Relations Paul Kane: Lifeline Thomas Emson: The Hunt David Watkins: The Original T W Piperbrook: The Great Storm Nick Stead: Bloodlines Matt Serafini: Evernight Circle Customers Review: When I saw that Graeme Reynolds and Glenn Rolfe, not to mention Jonathan Janz, were in this book, I knew I had to have it. Reynolds’ High Moor series are the best werewolf books ever written, while Glenn’s Blood and Rain come close to matching them. So I had high expectations. And let me tell you – – they not only met them, they exceeded them. This is a book for folks who like their werewolves bloody and raw, werewolves who, if they saw a sparkling vampire, they’d eat them. Don’t miss out. | |
[PDF] Download Ambush: A Military SciFi Thriller (Sector 64 Book One) by Dean M Cole | Free EBOOK PDF English
 | Book Details Title: Ambush: A Military SciFi Thriller (Sector 64 Book One) |
Book DescriptionReview What the Critics are Saying KirkusReviews “Cole tackles the first-contact scenario with bombastic flair. [He] delivers the high-resolution imagery of a Hollywood blockbuster … A technologically riveting dream for sci-fi action fans.” AudiobookReviewer “SECTOR 64: Ambush was a highly imaginative action-packed apocalyptic assault on your mind.” IndieReader “SECTOR 64: AMBUSH is an engaging book from the very first page to the final words of the Epilogue.” Audiobook-Heaven “His descriptions of aerial battle and military procedure are accurately detailed and his knowledge of the aircraft themselves fascinated me … Sector 64: Ambush is a great read.” Read more Customers Review: This book must have been written for high school range intellects. The author is an award winner? For teen readers I’m sure. The prose and dialog are simple and easy to follow. Made it easy to skim through instead of actually read. Why? Because the story was hackneyed, cliche, and juvenile. The dialog read like a Hardy Boys book and the story was simple. This booked sucked. I was annoyed I bought it and i read it because I was annoyed I spent the money to buy it. There is a reason that going to a book store is a good idea when choosing books. That way, you can read excerpts and decide if it’s worth the effort. Clearly, this one is not. Instead, go with any of the James Corey or Richard Fox books for sci fi…
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[PDF] Download The Feather Bender's Flytying Techniques: A Comprehensive Guide to Classic and Modern Trout Flies by Barry Ord Clarke | Free EBOOK PDF English
 | Book Details Title: The Feather Bender’s Flytying Techniques: A Comprehensive Guide to Classic and Modern Trout Flies |
Book DescriptionReview Flyfishing and Flytying magazine Oct 2019A big handsome book, quality printing and paper, loads of colour photographs. The book is nicely laid out, a preamble through ‘How to use this book’, tips and tricks, materials etc. Then into the flies, each pattern illustrated with stage by stage pictures of the fly being tied. And each fly comes with a Youtube code to that same fly being tied as a video. I can’t recall another project like this crossing my desk. His flies are carefully planned and executed with taste. Having both stills and video works surprisingly well, I tend to watch the video and tie to the stills. The tying is both straightforward and at times quite technically challenging… modern tying explained and demonstrated in an exceptionally approachable way. A third and distinct aspect of this project… I have access to the author through his Youtube channel, so if I really need to know something, I can ask him. This is the sort of access to the author is exceptional. Highly recommended.Flydresser magazine, October 2019 issueThis book has been long awaited. Barry is a talented photographer and each of the flies is clearly illustrated in a step by step format. However, the most innovative aspect of this volume is that they all have a. QR code and by simply scanning this with your phone, you have the video of the fly being tied by Barry. This is the first book that links print and digital media in this way. For anyone who follows thefeatherbender.com Barry’s regular blog and flytying videos on YouTube, this book is an essential addition. For those who don’t know Barry’s work, this would be a great introduction to someone who I consider to be amongst the world’s best modern fly tyers.Orvis September 2019With a mission to explain, Barry’s book doesn’t focus on flies to tie for the sake of tying, but rather those we use day in, day out – the Klinkhamer, Pheasant Tail Nymph, and Midge, to name three of his 28. Naturally he has his own take on each, but in addition to the beautiful photographs, Barry has enlisted modern technology. Use your mobile phone to scan the QR code on the relevant page and up will pop a video showing Barry tying the very pattern.Today’s Flyfisher Winter 2019World class fly tyer Barry Ord Clarke has put together a superb and unique fly tying book which brings the traditional hard back book into the 21st century by linking to modern day technology. This is a ground-breaking book where you can follow the tying sequences for the patterns shown in the book by using the QR code or YouTube link to follow online! This publication is pure quality – a well thought-out tying book with 28 excellent patterns. And if that isn’t enough there is an online link to Barry if you run into any problems when tying the flies! What more can you ask for! Read more About the Author Barry Ord Clarke is an English-born fly tyer, photographer, and writer who has won multiple awards for his exquisite fly tying. In 2016 he won the prestigious Claudio D’Angelo Award for Best International Fly Tyer, which he won at SIM Fly Festival. He has written a number of books on fly tying, including The International Guide to Fly-Tying Materials and Flies for Pike. He lives in Norway. Read more Customers Review: I own a lot of fly tying books and this one is the BEST one I’ve ever seen. If you can only get one book, get this one. Good for beginners and seasoned tyers alike. Great info on tools, materials and techniques. Excellent photography and the scannable codes to the author’s tying videos is genius. | |