Matthew F. Jones
"'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.
you made that up.” “The great artist, for example, who can’t balance his checkbook?” Levy smirked. “Or the Wall Street genius who gets bilked by a palm reader?” Abbott turned right onto the two-lane road which from there to Dane proper ran through ten miles of mostly abandoned farmland dotted by clusters of new or partially constructed tract houses and crisscrossed three or four times by single-lane roads winding east or west through the hills. “Look, Mike, if Follett wants to hire an Albany
hats crouched for hours in camouflaged blinds to spot some rare species. To Hannah, the intrigue lay not in the birds’ rarity but in their mirroring—if you studied them long enough—of common human behavior. Except for the most obvious, such as blue jays and cardinals, she couldn’t identify them, but was fascinated watching at the feeder outside the Folletts’ kitchen window the many varieties bicker, cajole, attack, and manipulate one another. A quarter mile down the road to Hannah’s left, its
his entrance into the shadowy room, where, three-quarters shrouded by the bed’s covers, the little girl sat sucking a peppermint lollipop to give her courage and a sweet taste. “I’m scared,” she said in a barely audible whisper. “Say again?” “Frightened”—she panted—”that you might. . . .” “Louder.” “I’ve never . . .” The man impatiently put a finger to his lips. “That’s enough.” The girl clamped her teeth around the candy. The man slowly unbuckled his pants, dropped them to his ankles,
away as if he were a fly at a picnic. Levy cautiously approached her. “They weren’t human—those bones!” She glanced up, hyperventilating. “You’re no goddamn paleontologist, Levy!” “I recognize a dismembered calf carcass when I see one! So would you if it hadn’t been so close to the other—” “Jesus, Levy!” “Put it out of your head!” “My God—I really thought . . . !” Levy glanced down at the book bag. “I know. Me too, at first.” “I don’t want to know about these things! I’m sorry! I just
finger on an object beneath it. Cursing, he hastily pushed aside the last of the camouflaging leaves to reveal a thick cylindrical dead bolt, much newer than the rusted flashing securing it. Afraid to hesitate or even think, Abbott yanked back the bolt, then pushed against the chimney, hinged to a metal-reinforced wood slab, which, after declining toward the roof, crashed loudly onto it, creating in the sap house ceiling a three-foot-square breach, emanating a dull light and exposing a rope