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About Silent Prey
Product Description Make noise for a new Prey package and new author introduction! Dr. Mike Bekker, a psychotic pathologist, is back on the streets, doing what he does best—murdering one helpless victim after another. Lucas Davenport knows he should have killed Bekker when he had the chance. Now he has a second opportunity—and the time to hesitate is through. Review Praise for John Sandford’s Prey Novels “Relentlessly swift...genuinely suspenseful...excellent.”— Los Angeles Times “Sandford is a writer in control of his craft.”— Chicago Sun-Times “Excellent...compelling...everything works.”— USA Today “Grip-you-by-the-throat thrills...a hell of a ride.”— Houston Chronicle “Crackling, page-turning tension...great scary fun.”— The New York Daily News “Enough pulse-pounding, page-turning excitement to keep you up way past bedtime.” —Minneapolis Star Tribune “One of the most engaging characters in contemporary fiction.”— Detroit News “Positively chilling.”— St. Petersburg Times “Just right for fans of The Silence of the Lambs.”— Booklist “One of the most horrible villains this side of Hannibal.” —Richmond Times-Dispatch “Ice-pick chills...excruciatingly tense...a double-pumped roundhouse of a thriller.” —Kirkus Reviews About the Author John Sandford is the pseudonym of Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist John Camp. He is the author of the Prey novels, the Kidd novels, the Virgil Flowers novels, The Night Crew, and Dead Watch. He lives in New Mexico. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. 1A thought sparked in the chaos of Bekker’smind. The jury. He caught it, mentally, like a quick hand snatching a flyfrom midair. Bekker slumped at the defense table, the center of thecircus. His vacant blue eyes rolled back, pale and wide as aplastic baby- doll’s, wandering around the interior of thecourtroom, snagging on a light fixture, catching on an electricaloutlet, sliding past the staring faces. His hair hadbeen cut jail house short, but they had let him keep the wildblond beard. An act of mercy: The beard disguised the tangledmass of pink scar tissue that crisscrossed his face. Inthe middle of the beard, his pink rosebud lips opened andclosed, like an eel’s, damp and glistening. Bekker looked at the thought he’d caught: The jury.House wives, retirees, welfare trash. His peers, they calledthem. A ridiculous concept: He was a doctor of medicine.He stood at the top of his profession. He was respected.Bekker shook his head. Understand . . . ? The word tumbled from the judge- crow’s mouth andechoed in his mind. “Do you understand, Mr. Bekker?” What . . . ? The idiot flat- faced attorney pulled at Bekker’s sleeve:“Stand up.” What . . . ? The prosecutor turned to stare at him, hate in her eyes.The hate touched him, reached him, and he opened hismind and let it flow back. I’d like to have you for five minutes,good sharp scalpel would open you up like a goddamn oyster: zip,zip. Like a goddamn clam. The prosecutor felt Bekker’s interest. She was a hardwoman; she’d put six hundred men and women behind bars.Their petty threats and silly pleas no longer interested her.But she flinched and turned away from Bekker. What? Standing? Time now? Bekker struggled back. It was so hard. He’d let himselfgo during the trial. He had no interest in it. Refused to testify.The outcome was fixed, and he had more serious problemsto deal with. Like survival in the cages of the HennepinCounty Jail, survival without his medicine. But now the time had come. His blood still moved too slowly, oozing through his arterieslike strawberry jam. He fought, and simultaneouslyfought to hide his struggle. Focus. And he started, so slowly it was like walking throughpaste, trudging back to the courtroom. The trial had lastedfor twenty- one days, had dominated the papers and the television newscasts. The cameras had ambushed him, morningand night, hitting him in the face with their
