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Summary
Summary
From award-winning author Rick Riordan comes a dark and thrilling Tres Navarre mystery. Newly married and about to be a father, Tres gives up the dangerous life of a private detective. But while honeymooning on Rebel Island, he discovers a dead body that triggers memories of his own shady past. "Riordan's strong narrative voice . is alive and well in this thriller ."-Booklist
Author Notes
Rick Riordan was born on June 5, 1964, in San Antonio, Texas. After graduating from the University of Texas at Austin with a double major in English and history, he taught in public and private middle schools for many years.
He writes several children's series including Percy Jackson and the Olympians, The Kane Chronicles, and The Heroes of Olympus, Magnus Chase and the Gods of Asgard, and The Trials of Apollo. He also writes the Tres Navarre mystery series for adults. He has won Edgar, Anthony, and Shamus Awards for his mystery novels. .
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (2)
Publisher's Weekly Review
At the start of Edgar-winner Riordan's entertaining seventh crime novel to feature San Antonio, Tex., PI Tres Navarre (after 2005's Mission Road), Tres has just retired and married his longtime girlfriend Maia, who's eight-plus-months pregnant. Tres's wheelchair-bound older brother, Garret, has persuaded the couple to honeymoon together with him and other old friends on the Texas Gulf's Rebel Island, where Tres and Garret spent vacations with their dysfunctional parents. When U.S. Marshal Jesse Longoria, a character from earlier books, is killed, Tres gets a chance to work out some unfinished business. As the bodies begin piling up, a lethal hurricane approaches. Fans will enjoy the update on Tres's life as he prowls through secret passageways hunting down the ghostlike killer while the roof of the island's old hotel begins to shred and the seas begin to rise. (Sept.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Booklist Review
Fans of the old William Powell-Myrna Loy Thin Man movies will like what Riordan has done with Tres Navarre and his retinue. Garrett, the hand-walking amputee brother, surprises Tres and his eight-and-a-half-month-pregnant bride, Maia, with a honeymoon to a once-luxurious hotel on a subtropical island. The fly in the ointment is the hotel's owner, Garrett's old chum and Tres' nemesis, Alex Huff. Actually, there are two flies in the ointment. The second is a series of mysterious goings-on that Garrett thinks Tres may be able to unravel. They have hardly arrived when a Texas lawman of the take-em-out-to-the-chapparal-and-let-em-try-to-get-away school is murdered, and the desk clerk goes missing. Naturally, a supposedly harmless tropical depression morphs into a Category 4 storm, and the hunt for the murderer is complicated still further. Riordan's strong narrative voice, reminiscent of Randy Wayne White and James Lee Burke, is alive and well in this thriller, as he attempts to enlarge the genre by going back to something the early Dashiell Hammett might have tried.--Glassman, Steve Copyright 2007 Booklist
Excerpts
Excerpts
Chapter One We got married in a thunderstorm. That should've been my first warning. The Southwest Craft Center courtyard was festooned with white crepe paper. The tables were laden with fresh tamales, chips and salsa. Cases of Shiner Bock sweated on ice in tin buckets. The margarita machine was humming. The San Antonio River flowed past the old limestone walls. Maia looked beautiful in her cream bridal dress. Her black hair was curled in ringlets and her coppery skin glowed with health. The guests had arrived: my mother, fresh from a tour of Guatemala; my brother, Garrett, not-so-fresh from our long bachelor party in Austin; and a hundred other relatives, cops, thugs, ex-cons, lawyers--all the people who had made my life so interesting the past few decades. Then the clouds came. Lightning sparked off a mesquite tree. The sky opened up, and our outdoor wedding became a footrace to the chapel with the retired Baptist minister and the Buddhist monk leading the pack. Larry Cho, the monk, had a commanding early lead, but Reverend Buckner Fanning held steady around the tamale table while Larry the Buddhist had to swerve to avoid a beer keg and got blocked out by a couple of bail bondsmen. Buckner was long retired, but he sure stayed fit. He won the race to the chapel and held the door for the others as we came pouring in. I was last, helping Maia, since she couldn't move very quickly. Partly that was because of the wedding dress. Mostly it was because she was eight and a half months pregnant. I held a plastic bag over our heads as we plodded through the rain. "This was not in the forecast," she protested. "No," I agreed. "I'm thinking God owes us a refund." Inside, the chapel was dark and smelled of musty limestone. The cedar floorboards creaked under our feet. The crowd milled around, watching out the windows as our party decorations were barraged into mush. Rain drummed off the grass so hard it made a layer of haze three feet high. The crepe paper melted and watery salsa overflowed off the edge of the tables. "Well," Buckner said, beaming as if God had made this glorious moment just for us. "We still have a holy matrimony to perform." Actually, I was raised Catholic, which is why the wedding was half-Buddhist, half-Baptist. Maia had not been a practicing Buddhist since she was a little girl in China, but she liked Larry the Buddhist, and the incense and beads made her feel nostalgic. Buckner Fanning was the most respected Baptist minister in San Antonio. He also knew my mom from way back. When the Catholic priest had been reluctant to perform the ceremony (something about Maia being pregnant out of wedlock; go figure), my mom had recruited Buckner. For his part, Buckner had talked to me in advance about doing the right thing by getting married, how he hoped we would raise our child to know God. I told him we hadn't actually talked to God about the matter yet, but we were playing phone tag. Buckner, fortunately, had a sense of humor. He agreed to marry us. We were a pretty bedraggled crew when we reassembled in the old chapel. Rain poured down the stained-glass windows and hammered on the roof. I glanced over at Ana DeLeon, our homicide detective friend, who was toweling off her daughter Lucia's hair. Ana smiled at me. I gave her a wink, but it was painful to hold her eyes too long. It was hard not to think about her husband, who should have been standing at her side. Larry the Buddhist rang his gong and lit some incense. He chanted a sutra. Then Buckner began talking about the marriage covenant. My eyes met Maia's. She was studying me quizzically. Maybe she was wondering why she'd agreed to hook up with a guy like me. Then she smiled, and I remembered how we'd met in a bar in Berkeley fifteen years ago. Every time she smiled like that, she sent an electric charge straight down my back. I'm afraid I missed most of what Buckner had to say. But I heard the "I do" part. I said the vow without hesitation. Afterward, we waded through the well-wishers: my old girlfriend, Lillian Cambridge; Madeleine White, the mafia princess; Larry Drapiewski, the retired deputy; Milo Chavez, the music agent from Nashville; Messieurs Terrence and Goldman, Maia's old bosses from the law firm in San Francisco; my mom and her newest boyfriend, a millionaire named Jack Mariner. All sorts of dangerous rain-soaked people. We ate soggy wedding cake and drank champagne and waited for the storm to pass. As Maia talked with some of her former colleagues, Garrett cornered me at the bar. My brother was wearing what passed for wedding garb: a worn tuxedo jacket over his tie-dyed T-shirt. His scraggly beard and poorly combed hair looked like a wheat field after a hailstorm. His tuxedo pants were pinned up (since he didn't have legs) and he'd woven carnations through the spokes of his wheelchair. "Grats, little bro." He lifted his plate of tamales in salute. "Good eats." "You congratulating me on the tamales or the marriage?" "Depends." He belched into his fist, which was for him pretty darned discreet. "What you got planned for the honeymoon?" Right then, my internal alarms should've been ringing. I should've backed away, told him to get another plate of tamales and saved myself a lot of trouble. Instead, I said, "Nothing, really. Maia's pregnant, you may have noticed." Garrett waved his hand dismissively. "Doing nothing for your honeymoon don't cut it, little bro. Listen, I got a proposition." Maybe it was the joyous occasion, or the fact that I was surrounded by friends. Maybe it was just the fact that it was raining too hard to leave. But I was in the mood to think well of my brother. I would have plenty of time to regret that later. But that afternoon, with the rain coming down, I listened as Garrett told me his idea. From the Hardcover edition. Excerpted from Rebel Island by Rick Riordan 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.