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Cutter's Run

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"The fifteenth Brady Coyne mystery reaffirms Tapply's reputation for sound plotting, sterling dialogue, and poignant glimpses into the heart of a lonely man. While Matt Scudder, Nameless, Spenser, and other series heroes move toward a degree of contentment in their personal lives, Brady Coyne -- the most likable of the bunch -- returns to his bayside condo alone. We'll keep rooting for him, and we'll be coming back until he gets it right."
--Booklist

Excerpted from Chapter One:

I'd picked up my GLOBE at Leon's store and was bumping over a Maine dirt road on a Saturday morning in late August, taking the long way back to Alex's house, when I spotted the woman shuffling along up ahead of me. Her head was bent forward and her shoulders were humped over, and she moved painfully slowly. She wore high-top canvas sneakers and a loose-fitting brown dress that hung to her ankles. A patch of sweat made a dark patch between her shoulder blades, and her long black hair was tied loosely back with a pink ribbon.

When I pulled up beside her, I saw that she was hugging a yellow dog against her chest. I stopped and leaned over to the open window on the passenger side of my second-hand Jeep Wrangler. "Can I give you a lift?" I said.

When she turned and lifted her head to look at me, I saw that she had skin the color of dark Maine maple syrup and cheekbones like Lena Horne. I admit I was a bit startled. Stereotypic thinking, maybe. But I didn't recall ever before seeing an African-American of any description in the western Maine countryside, never mind one who was quite beautiful.

She gazed straight into my eyes. Hers were the color of hot fudge, wide-set and slightly uptilted, with tiny crinkles at the corners. She had a narrow aristocratic nose and a wide mouth. She was, I guessed, around forty.

After a moment of taking my measure, she nodded. "My dog's sick," she said softly. "Thank you." In her voice I heard the hills of western Carolina, or maybe Tennessee, not the sandy back roads of Maine.

I yanked up the emergency brake, got out of the Jeep, and went around to hold the door for her. I braced her elbow and helped her climb in, closed the door, then went around and got behind the wheel.

She was bowing over the dog on her lap, whispering to it. It was about the size of a springer spaniel, a mongrel with a long pointy nose and floppy ears. It lay limply on her lap, panting rapidly with its tongue lolling out and its eyes half-closed.

I reached over, patted its head, then touched its nose, which felt dry and hot. I've been told that a healthy dog's nose should be cool and moist, although that may be a myth.

"His name's Jack," said the woman. "He's just a puppy."