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On Edge Mass Market Paperback – Nov 26 2002

4.6 out of 5 stars 5 customer reviews

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Harry Potter and the Cursed Child
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Product Details

  • Mass Market Paperback: 288 pages
  • Publisher: Dell (Nov. 26 2002)
  • Language: English
  • ISBN-10: 0440237513
  • ISBN-13: 978-0440237518
  • Product Dimensions: 10.6 x 1.9 x 17.5 cm
  • Shipping Weight: 159 g
  • Average Customer Review: 4.6 out of 5 stars 5 customer reviews
  • Amazon Bestsellers Rank: #3,516,516 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
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Product Description

From Publishers Weekly

Konstantin Slovo, a Chicago cop with a dark past and an even darker attitude, gets swept up in the investigation of several child murders when he visits the eerie town of Brimsport, Maine, in Fister's unsettling debut. Upon arriving in the coastal town, a vacationing Slovo is promptly handcuffed and shuffled downtown to answer questions concerning a recent abduction. He's just as quickly released when the local police chief learns he's a cop, but his subsequent discovery of the child's mutilated remains and a flare-up of a recent injury lead him to linger in town for a while. The chief's daughter, Ruth, and Hari Chakravarty, the doctor who treats him in the hospital, befriend him and fill him in on Brimsport's sordid past-which involves previous incidents of child molestation and ritualistic abuse-but this information hardly prepares him for the life-threatening investigation that follows. The brutal nature of the crimes will weed out the faint of heart, but Fister wisely refrains from sensationalizing her subject matter. Though Slovo isn't the most personable protagonist, his hard-edged personality suits the story's serious atmosphere and grim intensity.
Copyright 2002 Reed Business Information, Inc.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1

I was waiting for the sun to rise.

Earlier I had watched fishing boats pull out, boxy craft with lobster traps piled on deck, others with nets gathered up like folded wings. It was silent after they left except for the occasional cry of a gull. I sat in my car, the window open to let the cold air keep me awake, as the sky slowly filled with light the same milky color as the sea. I closed my eyes and smelled brine and seaweed, heard waves slap against the pilings.

Then I sensed a wall of body heat near my open window. "Damn," I muttered, blinking in the brightness of the sun on the water.

"Sleeping it off?" A man in a leather jacket rested his arm on the roof of my car. His short-cropped hair was white, but his build was still solid with muscle. He hadn't shaved and looked bone weary, but his eyes were sharp and watchful. Two uniformed officers stood nearby, one with his hand tensed on the butt of the .38 holstered at his side.

"Didn't mean to fall asleep. I wanted to see the sun come up over the water." I shifted and rubbed my stiff leg.

"Missed it. Been up for a while. See you have Illinois plates. What are you doing here?"

"In Maine?"

"In this town. On this harbor."

"Guess I ran out of land."

"Guess you're some kind of smart-ass. Let's see some ID."

I reached for my wallet and pulled out my license, still sticking out from when I debated the definition of "complete stop" with a state trooper in Vermont. A crumpled citation lay on the dashboard to remind me who won the argument.

His eyes flicked between me and my picture. "Chicago, huh?"

"Hog butcher for the world," I told him. "My kind of town."

He handed the license back and I stowed it. When I looked up again his eyes were fixed on the backseat. His casual stance had tightened. "What's that?"


"That stain there?" I didn't say anything. He jerked the door open. "Step out of the car, sir. Hands where we can see them."

"All right. Don't get excited." I showed them my palms, but when I turned to get out my right leg wouldn't cooperate.

"Come on, come on." One of the uniforms now had his weapon in both hands, yelling, "Out of the car."

"Give me a chance." Without thinking, I reached a hand down to shift my leg. They misunderstood my intentions and yanked me out of the car. The one with the .38 shoved me down across the hood and held me there as someone else snapped on cuffs and patted me down. Gulls called, disturbed by the commotion.

The white-haired cop paced around the car, ducking his head to check out the stains on the backseat. "So, where'd all that blood come from?"

I looked at the sunlight breaking up on the water, followed the course of a gull as it swooped up into the bright sky. The one with the gun leaned over me. "He asked you a question."

"Back off, asshole," I said through my teeth.

He jerked me up abruptly, making red streaks of heat tear across my skull. The barrel of his weapon trembled inches from my chest.

"Neil? Easy," the old man said, locking eyes with the cop holding my collar twisted in his fist. After a moment's standoff, Neil released me and holstered his gun. "Tell us about the blood," the old man said softly.

"It's old. Check it out."

"You're giving us permission to search your car?"

"Be my guest. Can you take the cuffs off? I'm unarmed, I can't run."

He nodded. Neil looked away in disgust as the other uniform, a round-faced kid, took the cuffs off.

"Mind if I sit while you do this?" I asked. Neil ignored me, but the rookie put me into the backseat of one of the cruisers. Then the three of them donned gloves, started the search. They took up the floor mats, went through the shirts and underwear in my duffel bag, looked in the trunk. The rookie got excited when he opened the glove compartment and saw the Glock. The old man slid into the passenger side to examine the gun before putting it back. Then he poked through the ashtray with a pencil and picked up a cup from the floor that bore the logo of a diner on Route 1 where I'd picked up coffee last night. He found the ticket on the dashboard, smoothed it out, and looked at it.

The squad car I was sitting in had seen better days. Foam leaked through tears in the seat and a pine-tree-shaped air freshener didn't counter the stale smell of too many fast-food meals. The town these cops served wasn't flush with tourist dollars. No effort had been made to improve the waterfront with T-shirt shops and ice cream stands. The buildings were weathered and sagging as if the nor'easters that scoured across the Gulf of Maine over the years had beaten them into a state of resentful submission.

I heard the trunk of the Mustang creak as it was lowered. The old cop opened the cruiser door and squatted down to my eye level. He handed me the cane he'd taken from my car. "What happened to your leg?"

"Workplace injury. Nothing to do with whatever's been keeping you up nights."

"Still want to talk to you. Let's head up to the station house."

"You got coffee there?"

He suppressed a sigh. "I can get you coffee." All the eager tension, that bright, jumping hope he'd been barely holding in check, was gone. He knew as well as I did that whoever they were looking for was still out there.

Three men in camo stood in front of the dispatcher's counter. As we came in, they looked over at us, but the old man ignored them. "Anything?" he asked the dispatcher. Two of the men looked away, disappointed.

"No news, Chief."

The third man scowled at me. Apparently he held me responsible for not being the guy they were looking for.

The chief led the way to a room with a battered table, four wooden chairs, a Coke machine, and coffeemaker. The carafe was dry, rings of brown marking previous high tide marks. The walls were dingy industrial beige, decorated with posters on gun safety and first aid for choking victims. "Neil, keep him company. Bobby? Got a job for you."

I sat. Neil took up position beside the door. "How about we start a fresh pot of coffee?" I suggested.

He acted as if I hadn't spoken. I felt for my cigarettes, but there was a hand-lettered sign taped to the wall: This Is a Smoke-Free Building. I sighed and sat back to wait.

The chief appeared ten minutes later and murmured to Neil, "They didn't find anything out at the old quarry."

"I didn't think they would."

"They want to do the fields up by Northhaven next. Go on out there, keep it under control. Just the fields. Not the old school; the owner hasn't got back to us yet. Don't want anyone charged with trespassing."

"That would be real serious, wouldn't it."

"Neil." There was some kind of warning in his tone, a line being drawn. The back of Neil's neck bloomed with red patches as he stalked out.

"Who's missing?" I asked.

"A kid." The chief pulled a chair out and sat. He waited, giving me an opportunity to break down and confess to something. "What did you say you were doing here?"

"I didn't say."

"So, tell me."

"I have some time off. Thought I'd take a trip. Didn't you mention something about coffee?"

"Brimsport isn't on the beaten path. What brought you here?"

"I was heading east on Route One. I wanted to see the sun rise over the water, so I took the turnoff." I remembered the highway unrolling hypnotically in front of my headlights, the lights flashing over a blurred name on a sign barely glimpsed, but familiar somehow. When the road curved inland I turned onto a road headed toward the water and within two miles saw the name again: Entering Brimsport, Pop. 12,320. Past sleeping houses, down a hill, through a silent, darkened business district, finally rolling to a stop where the road ended.

"Where were you early Wednesday morning?"

"What's today?"


"Let's see." I pulled out my wallet, took out receipts. "This is . . . nope. Here's one from last night. Got gas in . . . Can you read that?" I passed it over. "Shit. Why do I save all this garbage? I got a receipt from last year here. Okay, I filled up at a Starvin' Marvin in South Bend. Tuesday night, near midnight. And I stopped at this bar after. They probably remember me."

He took the two receipts from me, spread out the wrinkles and read them over carefully. "You have a lot of drugs in your car," he said, finally, his frown thoughtful, like he really wanted to give me a chance to explain.

"Drugs? I don't . . . oh, the Percocet."

"Five bottles, fifty each. That's a lot of Schedule Two controlled substances."

I took the sixth bottle out of my pocket and shook two pills out. "I got extra for the trip, that's all." There didn't seem to be much chance of coffee anytime soon, so I swallowed them dry. I knew it would be a while before they kicked in. Nicotine, now, that wouldn't take long. I could taste the cigarette I couldn't light up in here.

"Look, you're going to have to explain that blood in your car."

"It isn't connected to this kid you got missing."

He put his hands flat on the table and leaned toward me. "Just tell me about it." The eyes fixed on me were an unusual color, almost golden. They seemed to shimmer with a smoldering glow like hot embers.

The young cop with the round face tapped the doorframe. "What?" the old man barked,...

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Format: Mass Market Paperback
I found it very difficult to decide how much I like this mystery. In the end, I settle for a compromise. The book has plusses: the plot is always marching forward, and not going in circles as even some classic whodunits are known to do; the protagonist, Konstantin Slovo, is so angry and impulsive he becomes a most fault-ridden hero whom it is nevertheless impossible to dislike; the book, if all else doesn't work for you, lives up to its title: The whole story is on edge. There is nothing of a non-edgy disposition on any page, unless you count Slovo's romantic downtime with Ruth, who is then quickly on edge when she finds out a distressing secret Slovo has been keeping.
So the book's greatest strength is that which is most likely to turn off many readers. It is disturbing and at times disgusting, as Slovo attempts to stop a child-murderer in Brimsport, Maine. Brace for awful descriptions of the victims' remains--though it's fair to say that the horrid nature of the deaths, and how the young victims' bodies are left, is not really presented in a gratuitous manner. And there is no actual depiction of a murder; but like in the movie Seven, it's what the local cops, the FBI, and Slovo find after the fact. The narrative also repeats descriptions of the dead a few times, as photos are mulled over, facts are reviewed, and suspects are questioned. So the sickening flavour of the story, at times, merely comes from the same gruesome details being mentioned over and over, where it concerns the three dead children.
The living population of Brimsport, at least the ones Slovo comes into contact with as he tries to prevent the impending death of a fourth child, are enough to set the rest of the narrative on edge.
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By A Customer on Jan. 18 2003
Format: Mass Market Paperback
In detective Konstantin Slovo, Barbara Fister has created an interesting off-center character, one whom I hope will appear in sequels. One of the joys of reading mysteries is that of observing someone who thinks differently from the way we usually do, in a way that inspires us to want to observe things more carefully (a la Sherlock Holmes) or to perceive human motivations less naively--and more realistically--than we customarily do (a la any of the hardboiled private eyes). Detective Slovo offers what I found to be a fascinating variation: he has an ability, displayed repeatedly, to adapt himself to the worldviews and emotional concerns and priorities of the people surrounding him, the better to draw out from them, as a kindred spirit, information they'd never volunteer to anyone who wasn't immediately perceived as being on their own psychological wavelength. (I wish I were as articulate in describing this as Fister is in demonstrating it!) It's something we can see him doing after he's already into the process--that is, after he's picked up on the "signs" the other character are giving him, in a way that you or I would have overlooked to begin with. This chameleon adaptation ability is the kind of thing that left me wishing, "Gee--I wish I could do that, and maybe I really _could_ if I were just more perceptive to other people's little signals"--analogous to the resolutions one forms after reading a Sherlock Holmes story. That result, to me, is the prime mark of an interesting detective--about whom I wish to read more. I am not, however, doing justice to Fister's detective in reducing him to this one remarkable trait, for this book is much more of a novel, a literary work with real insights into the dark regions of human character, than your basic "paperback mystery.Read more ›
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Konstantin Slovo just had to get away from the mess his life has become. A Chicago police detective, he and his partner were setup in a trap with Robin getting killed and Konstantin very badly injured. To make matters worse, Slovo's gun was missing from the scene of the crime and he is being investigated to see if it was his gun that killed his partner. Without asking permission, he leaves Chicago for Maine where he becomes involved in another brutal investigation.
Three young girls over the last few months in Brimsport, Maine were abducted, sexually abused, and murdered. Slovo, through a strange set of circumstances, finds the latest body and immediately becomes under suspicion from a town that is on the verge of hysterical erupting. Vigilantes break into Konstantin's room and try to beat a confession out of him, making Slovo all the more determined to find the perpetrator before another child is killed.
ON EDGE is a dark gritty noir novel that is graphic in violence and profanity. One has to feel sorry for the protagonist, a beleaguered honest police officer who has to defend himself from those who want to take him down, which seems to be everyone. The perpetrator is the last person anyone would suspect; thus making this book better than most police procedural novels.
Harriet Klausner
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You've already read the plot reports, so I needn't repeat them. I'd rather advise you to put this on the top of your reading pile. Barbara Fister is a writer to watch. She will soon be at the top of the charts. Be the first on your block to discover her. Her protag, Slovo, is one of a kind-a refreshing consideration these days when beleagured cops seem to be so popular. Slovo is real-his baggage is genuine and he takes us on a great ride as he fights to keep his head straight. Val McDermid is one of my favorite authors-she still is-but now Barbara Fister is nudging her over.
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