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The Fireball on Cypress Island
The marsh breathes at night. I know this the way I know my own heartbeat—steady, ancient, always...
The Nighthawk's Voice
The phone rang at eleven forty-seven at night, which was already a bad sign, because in Los...
I found it in a shop on 125th Street, tucked behind a stack of Waterbury blues and a brass jukebox that played something without a name. The tuning fork was made of silver, heavier than it looked, and
I laughed. I was Julian Black, twenty-eight years old, poet and part-time piano player and...
The Seventh Recall
Dr. Edgar Thorne had not slept properly in forty-eight hours. This was not remarkable in...
The Sins of the Father
Thomas Calhoun had been a minister for thirty years, and in that time he had learned that the...