È appena uscito negli Stati Uniti il nuovo romanzo di Patricia Cornwell, Red Mist.
Kay Scarpetta sta indagando sulla morte di Jack Fielding, il suo ex vicecapo assassinato sei mesi prima. Si reca al carcere femminile della Georgia, dove una detenuta ha informazioni non solo su Fielding, ma anche su una serie di macabri omicidi.
Elementi che sembrano fra loro indipendenti hanno invece una correlazione, come lo sterminio di una famiglia ad Atlanta, avvenuto anni prima, una giovane donna nel braccio della morte e le inspiegabili morti di gente senza fissa dimora.
Scarpetta scopre il legame fra questi elementi, che la costringe a rivedere le sue congetture sulla morte di Fielding che, assieme all’attentato alla sua vita, si rivelano l’inizio di qualcosa di più distruttivo: cospirazione e terrorismo internazionale.
Estratto di Red Mist
Iron rails the rusty brown of old blood cut across a cracked paved road that leads deeper into the Low country. As I drive over train tracks, it enters my mind that the Georgia Prison for Women is on the wrong side of them and maybe I should take it as another warning and turn back. It’s not quite four p.m., Thursday, June 30. There’s time to catch the last flight to Boston, but I know I won’t.
This part of coastal Georgia is a moody terrain of brooding forests draped with Spanish moss and mudflats etched with convoluted creeks that give way to grassy plains heavy with light. Snowy egrets and great blue herons fly low over brackish water, dragging their feet, and then the woods close in again on either side of the narrow tar-laced road I’m on. Coiling kudzu strangles underbrush and cloaks forest canopies in scaly dark leaves, and giant cypress trees with thick gnarled knees rise out of swamps like prehistoric creatures wading and prowling. While I’ve yet to spot an alligator or a snake, I’m sure they are there and aware of my big white machine roaring and chugging and backfiring.
How I ended up in such a rattletrap that wanders all over the road and stinks like fast food and cigarettes with a whiff of rotting fish, I don’t know. It’s not what I told my chief of staff , Bryce, to reserve, which was a safe, dependable, mid-size sedan, preferably a Volvo or a Camry, with side and head airbags and a GPS. When I was met outside the airport terminal by a young man in a white cargo van that doesn’t have air-conditioning or even a map, I told him there had been an error. I’d been given someone else’s vehicle by mistake. He pointed out the contract has my name on it, Kate Scarpetta, and I said my first name is Kay, not Kate, and I didn’t care whose name was on it. A cargo van wasn’t what I ordered. Lowcountry Concierge Connection was very sorry, said the young man, who was quite tan and dressed in a tank top, camo shorts, and fishing shoes. He couldn’t imagine what happened. Obviously a computer problem. He’d be glad to get me something else, but it would be much later in the day, possibly tomorrow.
- Red Mist di Patricia Cornwell
- Casa editrice: Penguin
- 512 pagine
- 6 dicembre 2011