Matthew F. Jones
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"'Blind Pursuit' is a nail-bitingly suspenseful police procedural...muscular, Elmore Leonard-esque crime tale of a terrifying abduction...relentless, lean-and-mean page-turner plotting and a grimly satisfying ending." - Kirkus Reviews
"Jones is unpredictable and, therefore, terrifying. If you say yes to his use of language (like deciding to read poetry) you will not be able to shake him. He is a surgeon throughout the novel (reminiscent of Hitchcock)." - Susan Salter Reynolds, The Los Angeles Times Book Review
"Blind Pursuit" stoops to little of the crude button-pushing typical of child-kidnapping thrillers. As in "A Single Shot", Jones's 1996 novel about a hunter who accidentally shoots a teenage runaway, the interior story is as gripping as the exterior plot, both unfolding with an awful inexorability." - Gary Krist, Salon
"'Blind Pursuit' is the kind of novel the phrase "a page-turner" might have been invented for, an extremely well constructed (and sometimes quite moving) mystery." - David Pitt, Booklist
"If you read novels for the sheer beauty created from a talented writer's mind's eye, 'Blind Pursuit' is a must." - Pocono Record
When eight-year-old Jennifer Follett doesn't return home from school one day, the rigidly ordered lives of Edmund and Caroline Follett--a power couple with an expensive house outside Albany, New York--are suddenly upended. First comes the waiting; next comes the dread; finally, they are forced to think the unthinkable, as a wayward twelve-year-old boy admits that he watched from the woods as their daughter, whom they expected to board a school bus at the bottom of the driveway, got into a black sedan instead.
Although the Folletts' eccentric young nanny, Hannah, is less than forthcoming about why she let Jennifer out of her sight, police investigators soon begin to suspect another husband-and-wife pair: Gerald and Claire Sandoval, casual acquaintances of the Folletts who own a black LTD. But why would the model churchgoing couple kidnap a young girl? While they grow more and more convinced that the Sandovals are involved, the police are unable to find as much evidence to back up their suspicions. Frustrated by the law's presumed innocent safeguards, the Folletts determine to do whatever is necessary to get Jennifer back. Meanwhile, the well-meaning but incautious investigators go far beyond the call of duty in their desire to solve the crime. In their "blind pursuit," the search for Jennifer draws them deep into the upstate New York woods and into a chilling physical and psychological confrontation with evil.
her laugh at anything—the chirping of a bird, the falling snow—was more intoxicating to Edmund than any drug he could take. He’d often wished he could bottle the pure joy he felt in simply watching her, a potion for him to open and consume when the world of adults became too oppressive. The realization abruptly struck him that the hours he’d actually spent with her had been far fewer than those he’d spent thinking of her while doing other things. He’d not heard her first word, seen her first
weren’t.” “Do you think we would even have considered hiring you had we the slightest idea that—” “I’m quite positive,” plainly interjected Hannah, “you’d have selected an applicant simpler to condone.” Not replying, Caroline stared even more smolderingly. Firmly placing on his wife’s wrist a hand she seemed not cognizant of, Edmund to Hannah said, “The other referen— woman—I spoke to over the phone in Schenectady—the one we’ve learned is—” “Schizophrenic,” Hannah placidly interrupted. “Your
me to require some explanation on your part.” He pushed the button for the first floor. “The municipality’s paying a couple of evidence technicians overtime to finish up with your car before morning. If all goes well, maybe you can drive it home.” “I assume that’s a joke,” said Bagge. Levy didn’t laugh or even remotely smile. In the upstairs interrogation room, they sat at a metal table, Sandoval and Bagge facing the one-way mirror, Levy with his back to it. Bagge blustered, “My client is here
on the strip of lighted grass outside the window. The voice firmly barking, “Stop!,” occasioning Abbott to jump reactively backward and the shadow to freeze in the puddle of light, where it gently swayed from side to side like a rolling ship. “Now stay!” The man walked again, deeper into the building. Another door opened. An object of some kind clattered onto the floor. What might have been a knee joint cracked. A brusque fart sounded, then a mumbled obscenity. The footsteps returned. A horse
unwavering confidence; his mental and corporeal attitude of earthly superiority. He tossed aside the pitchfork, got down on his knees above the spot he’d cleared, and swiped at it with his hands. Then he pulled from his pants pocket a small object, which he studiously applied to a task on the floor, obscured to Abbott. A moment later he half stood, then, forcefully grunting, straightened up, raising with him a large slab of hinged floor until it formed a right angle to the rest. With a powerful