World of Trouble: The Last Policeman Book III (The Last Policeman Trilogy)

World of Trouble: The Last Policeman Book III (The Last Policeman Trilogy)

Ben H. Winters

Language: English

Pages: 320

ISBN: 1594746850

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


"[The] weird, beautiful, unapologetically apocalyptic Last Policeman trilogy is one of my favorite mystery series."—John Green, author of The Fault in Our Stars and Paper Towns

Critically acclaimed author Ben H. Winters delivers this explosive final installment in the Edgar Award winning Last Policeman series. With the doomsday asteroid looming, Detective Hank Palace has found sanctuary in the woods of New England, secure in a well-stocked safe house with other onetime members of the Concord police force. But with time ticking away before the asteroid makes landfall, Hank’s safety is only relative, and his only relative—his sister Nico—isn’t safe. Soon, it’s clear that there’s more than one earth-shattering revelation on the horizon, and it’s up to Hank to solve the puzzle before time runs out . . . for everyone.

The French Powder Mystery (Ellery Queen, Book 2)

You are Dead (Roy Grace, Book 11)

Known to Evil (Leonid McGill, Book 2)

Gray Justice (A Tom Gray Novel, Book 1)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There’s a church spire and another one, there’s the fat onion bulb of a water tower with the word ROTARY painted in mile-high letters in the classical small-town style. Autumn dogwoods along the sidewalk, leaves orange and red, branches drooping with rain. No people, no sign of people. It’s got to be here: towns like this one still have hardware stores, or they did until last year, the mom-and-pop operations, beloved by the locals, losing money every year. There will be a sledgehammer at the

it high as if considering the weight. Houdini’s eyes follow the squawking, flapping victim. This Amish guy, Sandy says, Billy encountered down in Rotary proper. “He was in town, putting up signs, basically. Odd jobs, concrete work. Will work for food, you know.” She looks at me, sees my intent expression—concrete work, I’m thinking, just two little words, concrete work—she keeps talking. “It was funny, actually, I was just telling Billy we had to make ourselves a coop for these damn things, and

washing down my face; my forehead must have split on a stone on the path. This is bad. This is a problem. Blood on my face from a cut in my head, blood choking up to drown me from my insides. Blood on the knives and in the sink. The man takes the pitchfork down off his back, jabs me in the chest with one curving prong, like a cop rousting a drunk. It’s definitely more than one rib. I can feel them, clawing my insides like spiny fingers. “You must leave,” he says again. “Wait, though,” I

and my eyes find him a little space away in the corn, stumbling and rising, stumbling and rising, shaking raindrops from his dirty coat. The big man walks to the saddlebag, unbuttons it and takes out a small sack. He dumps out the contents, charcoal briquettes, and they fall with a series of horse-manure thuds onto the gravel path. “Sir?” He lifts the bag above me, and I flinch. It’s such an archaic word, saddlebag. When did I even learn that word? The world has become so strange. “You

and I can see them both as soon as I get in there, frozen in place across from each other in the tiny space. Jean with a handgun clenched between two hands, held out directly in front of her small body and aimed at his stomach: Astronaut, a.k.a. Anthony Wayne DeCarlo, a.k.a. Big Pharma, in a flapping-open terry-cloth bathrobe and nothing else, unconcerned about his paunchy nakedness, unconcerned about the woman with the gun, seemingly unconcerned about anything. The room is the size of an

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