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Manitou Canyon
Large print edition.
Physical Description:
539 pages (large print) ; 23 cm.
General Note:
Sequel to: Windigo Island.
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Local Subject:
Cork O'Connor has always considered November to be the cruelest of months, yet his daughter has chosen this dismal time of year in which to marry. When a man camping in Minnesota's Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness goes missing, Cork is asked by the man's family to stay on the case. The wedding is fast approaching, the weather looks threatening, but Cork doesn't return from the search. Locating Cork's campsite, they find blood-- a lot of it.


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A New York Times Bestselling AuthorAn Edgar Award-winning AuthorA Cork O'Connor MysteryIn the new Cork O'Connor thriller, the lives of hundreds of innocent people are at stake when Cork vanishes just days before his daughter's wedding. Manitou Canyon has everything Krueger's readers love: a dramatic Northwoods setting, an intriguing view of the Ojibwe culture, an enigmatic crime, masterful storytelling, and more than a few surprises.

Author Notes

William Kent Krueger grew up in the Cascade Mountains of Oregon. A former logger, construction worker, freelance journalist, & researcher in childhood development, he is the author of two other acclaimed Cork O'Connor novels, "Iron Lake" & "Boundary Waters".

(Publisher Provided) William Kent Krueger was born in Torrington, Wyoming on November 16, 1950. He attended Stanford University for one year before losing his academic scholarship for participation in a takeover of the president's office in protest of what he saw as the University's complicity in weapons production during the Vietnam War. He wrote short stories and sketches for many years. His first novel, Iron Lake, won the Anthony Award for Best First Novel, the Barry Award for Best First Novel, the Minnesota Book Award, and the Loft-McKnight Fiction Award. He writes the Cork O'Connor series. In 2005 and 2006, he won back-to-back Anthony Awards for best novel. Ordinary Grace won the Edgar Award for Best Novel in 2014.

(Bowker Author Biography)

Reviews 3

Publisher's Weekly Review

In Edgar-winner Krueger's uneven 15th Cork O'Connor thriller (after 2014's Windigo Island), Lindsay Harris and her brother, Trevor, hire the ex-sheriff turned PI to find their architect grandfather, John Harris, who recently vanished from Minnesota's Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness. Winter is coming, and Cork's daughter is getting married soon, but the siblings' plea is compelling and Harris was a childhood friend, so Cork accompanies Lindsay into the wilderness to see what Tamarack County Search and Rescue might have missed. When the pair fails to return, friends and family investigate. Meanwhile, Cork and Lindsay fight for their lives. Honorable and courageous yet full of self-doubt, Cork seeks not only Harris but also redemption for past failures. By contrast, most of Krueger's female characters lack depth and act only out of love for-or lack of love from-men. References to Ojibwe culture and an extraordinary sense of place provide color and texture, but deliberate pacing and an anticlimactic conclusion undercut an intriguing setup and the plot's inherent tension. Agent: Danielle Egan-Miller, Browne & Miller Literary Associates. (Sept.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

Booklist Review

This is a mystery made up of several shiver-inducing levers: survival story, hostage situation, man tracking man. The setting for most of the action is the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness that stretches between Minnesota and Canada for a million acres, filled with recreational, escapist, and murderous opportunities. In this, the fifteenth in Krueger's Cork O'Connor series, a wealthy entrepreneur goes missing on a camping trip with his two twentysomething grandchildren. The grandchildren brother and sister seek O'Connor's help. O'Connor, part Irish, part Ojibwe, was the former Tamarack County sheriff and now runs a Northwoods burger joint and does security and investigative work on his own. He has a deep knowledge of the Boundary Waters and agrees to search for the grandfather with his granddaughter. They quickly learn that they are being hunted. All of O'Connor's wilderness skills are put to the test in a plot that keeps tightening around O'Connor and the granddaughter and the reader's nerves. A first-rate addition to this series, with Krueger's usual inclusion of Northwoods atmosphere and Ojibwe tradition.--Fletcher, Connie Copyright 2016 Booklist

Library Journal Review

In his 15th adventure (after Windigo Island), Cork O'Connor reluctantly returns to Minnesota's Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness for his daughter's November wedding: it's the month when his wife, father, and dear friend all died tragically. While awaiting the festivities, Cork learns that rescue workers have exhausted their efforts to find missing friend John Harris, who had built the nearby Manitou Canyon dam. Harris's relatives beg Cork to continue the search. When Cork fails to return, his family send a floatplane out to search for him-only to find Harris's blood-soaked campsite but no bodies. Meanwhile, Cork, in his hunt for Harris, has encountered an angry group of Ojibwe people who threaten to blow up the dam. Verdict Once again, Krueger has written a suspenseful outdoors thriller that incorporates family drama, evocative settings, and fascinating Native American lore. [See Prepub Alert, 2/29/16.]-Jerry P. Miller. Cambridge, MA © Copyright 2016. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.



Manitou Canyon CHAPTER 1 In the gray of early afternoon, the canoes drew up to the shoreline of the island. The paddles were stowed. The woman in the bow of the first canoe and the kid in the bow of the second stepped onto the rocks. They held the canoes steady while the men in the stern of each disembarked and joined them. The kid grabbed a rifle from the center of the canoe he'd come in, then lifted a pack. He studied the island and the great stand of red pines that grew there. "Where to?" he said. "First, we hide the canoes," the man who was the oldest and tallest said. They carried the crafts from the lake a dozen yards into the trees. The tall man in the lead and the woman with him set their canoe behind a fallen pine, and the kid and the other man did the same. "Want to cover them with boughs or something?" the kid asked. "Break off boughs and someone will know we were here," the tall man said. "This'll do." They returned to the shore where they'd left their gear. The kid grabbed his rifle and reached for a pack. The woman said, "I'll carry that. You see to your rifle." She shouldered the pack, and the tall man started toward the interior of the island. The others followed, wordless and in single file. On some maps, the island was called by its Ojibwe name: Miskominag. On others, it was called Raspberry. Words in different languages that meant the same thing. They walked inland through the pines, passed bushes that in summer would have been full of berries, but it was the first day of November, and all the plants except the evergreens were bare. They came to a great upthrust of rock, a kind of wall across the island, and the tall man began to climb. The others spread out and found their own ways up. The top of the outcropping stood above the crowns of the trees. From there, they could see the whole of the lake, a two-mile-long, horseshoe-shaped body of water three-quarters of a mile across at its widest point. The water of the lake was the same dismal color of both the sky above them and the rock outcropping on which they stood. The gray of despair. "Where will he come from?" the kid asked, his eyes taking in all that water and shoreline. "The south," the tall man said. "Over there." He pointed toward a spot across the lake. The kid looked and said, "All I see is trees." "Try these." The tall man unshouldered the pack he'd carried, set it down, and drew out a pair of binoculars. He handed them to the kid, who spent a minute adjusting the lenses. "Got it. A portage," the kid said. He returned the binoculars to the man. "What now?" "We wait." The others unburdened themselves of their packs. The shorter of the two men--he had a nose that was like a blob of clay plopped in the middle of his face--took a satellite phone from his pack and walked away from the others. The woman said to the kid, "Hungry?" "Famished." She pulled deer jerky and an orange from her pack and offered them. "Wouldn't mind some hot soup," the kid said. "No fires," the tall man told him. "He won't be here for a long time," the kid said. "The smoke would be visible for miles. And the smell would carry, too," the tall man said. The kid laughed. "Think there's anybody besides us way the hell out here this time of year?" "Out here, you never know. Enjoy your jerky and orange." The tall man walked away, studying the whole of the lake below. The wall fell off in a vertical cliff face, a tall palisade several hundred yards long. A few aspen had taken root and clung miraculously to the hard, bare rock, but they didn't obscure the view. There was nowhere on the lake that wasn't visible from that vantage. The woman followed him. "He's too young," she said with a note of gall. "I told you." "He's strong in the right ways. And a far better shot than me or you, if it comes to that." He looked back at the kid, who'd already eaten his jerky and was peeling the orange while intently studying the place along the shoreline where the trees opened onto the portage. The woman was right. He was young. Seventeen. He'd never killed a man, but that's what he was there for. To do this thing, if necessary. "When the time comes," the tall man said, "if he has to do it, he'll be fine." He turned from the woman and rejoined the others. The man with the formless nose said, "Sat phone's a problem. These clouds." "Did you get through?" "Only enough to say we made it. Then I lost the signal." "That'll do." The kid sat on a rock and cradled his rifle in his lap. He leaned forward and looked at the lake, the trees, the shoreline, the place where the man would come. "Does he have a name?" the kid asked. "What difference does it make?" the woman said. "I don't know. Just wondered." "Everyone has a name," the woman said. "So what's his?" "Probably better you don't know. That way, he's just a target." The tall man said, "His name's O'Connor. Cork O'Connor." The kid lifted his rifle, sighted at the shoreline. Behind him, the woman whispered, "Bang." Excerpted from Manitou Canyon by William Kent Krueger All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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