By F. G. Cottam
One other masterpiece of suspense from the writer of the acclaimed the home of misplaced Souls It's the proper seashore village—no crime, nobody from the town. whilst issues begin to get it wrong for James Greer in London, Brodmaw Bay appears to be like calling him and his kin. There's an ideal apartment, first-class schools—and welcoming associates who guarantee the Greers that they'd be extremely joyful to have a few new blood within the Bay. yet maybe the village isn't lots welcoming them as luring them, to whatever historic and evil.
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Extra info for Brodmaw Bay
He did not know about the fish that exist in trenches, living their lives and dying their deaths without ever seeing the sun. He did not know that there are both fish and men whose bete notre is not pressure but the lack of it. He only knew that he had been under an unbreakable compulsion to buy those bonds, to paste a target on his own forehead. Now he was due to meet with bond representatives of five large banking corporations at the Prudential Center in Boston. There would be much comparing of notes, much speculation about the future of the world bond market, much discussion about the buys of the last sixteen months and the result of those buys.
Neither of them noticed Crew-Neck looking at them with glittering, feverish eyes. Now Crew-Neck took the in-flight magazine from the seatpocket in front of him, pulled off the cover, and began to tear it in long, slow strips. He let them flutter to the floor, where they joined the shreds of the cocktail napkin around his brown loafers. His lips were moving soundlessly. 2 Had Albert been a student of the New Testament, he would have understood how Saul, that most zealous persecutor of the early Christians, must have felt when the scales fell from his eyes on the road to Damascus.
This was the equivalent of dialing 911 in Manhattan and getting a recording which said everyone had left for the weekend. When you called for help on the emergency band, you always got a prompt response. Until now, at least, Brian thought. He switched to UNICOM, where private pilots obtained landing advisories at small airports. No response. He listened ... and heard nothing at all. Which just couldn't be. Private pilots chattered like grackles on a telephone line. The gal in the Piper wanted to know the weather.
Brodmaw Bay by F. G. Cottam