Days of Rage - Hardcover

Kris Nelscott lives on the Oregon coast. The first Smokey Dalton novel, A Dangerous Road, won the Herodotus Award for Best Historical Mystery and was shortlisted for the Edgar Award for Best Novel; the second, Smoke-Filled Rooms, was a PNBA Book Award Finalist; the third, Thin Walls, was one of the Chicago Tribune's best mysteries of the year; the fourth, Stone Cribs, was honored by the Wisconsin Library Association as one of the best books of 2005, and it and the fifth, War at Home, were both shortlisted for the Oregon Book Award. Visit her Web site at www.kristinekathrynrusch.com.

Praise for the Novels of Kris Nelscott

War at Home
"A gripping read . . . As with the best of Mosley and Chandler, Dalton's fifth outing leaves us eagerly anticipating the next one."
--Entertainment Weekly

"Nelscott excels at setting a scene, and her evocation of student unrest during that unsettled time is sharp and memorable."
--The Seattle Times

Stone Cribs
"Kris Nelscott can lay claim to the strongest series of detective novels now being written by an American author."
--Salon.com

Thin Walls
"A triumphant series . . . Gripping . . . Nelscott's books about Dalton have already been compared favorably to Walter Mosley's Easy Rawlins series. The big difference is that Easy Rawlins has bought into the Los Angeles land-owning dream, while Smokey Dalton, a more militant avenging angel, mostly wants to stay alive and right the terrible wrongs he has seen."
--Chicago Tribune

Smoke-Filled Rooms
"Nelscott brings it all back, and it's hair-raising."
--The Washington Post

"Superb . . . This series has all the passion and precision of Walter Mosley's early Easy Rawlins novels, but it is not derivative. Smokey just may be a more compelling character than the celebrated Easy."
--Booklist (starred review)

A Dangerous Road
"Nelscott has an absorbing story to tell, and she does it justice."
--The Philadelphia Inquirer

It s 1969 and the city of Chicago is in turmoil. The celebrity trial of the Chicago Eight---charged with inciting a riot at the 1968 Democratic National Convention---has begun. Protests abound over the trial and the conflict has caught the attention of everyone from the Black Panthers to city gangs to local trade unions.

Meanwhile, African-American P.I. Smokey Dalton and his adopted son, Jimmy, are keeping a low profile. They ve been on the run from their native Memphis since Jimmy witnessed the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., but have slowly settled into a steady life in Chicago. Smokey continues to accept cases and to inspect property for Sturdy Investments, the real-estate company owned by Laura Hathaway, his on-again, off-again girlfriend.

But the delicate balance in Smokey s daily life is threatened when he makes a horrible discovery in a house he s inspecting. Does what they ve found have any connection to Laura s business, and her father, who used to run it? Is it evidence of a long-ago killer, and if so, how has it remained buried for so long? Or is it something that could threaten Smokey---and Jimmy, and Laura---today? Smokey must answer all these questions before the truth about what he s found is discovered by someone willing to kill to keep it secret, while the violent chaos surrounding the trial of the century whirls around them.

Chapter One

I parked the police car in the trees, along the dirt access road. I shut off the headlights and let out a small breath.

My eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness.

A few blocks away, I could hear the rumble and clangs from the Ford Motor Plant. The air smelled of rotten eggs and sewage, the stink so thick it made my eyes water.

My heart was pounding. I had to force myself to take deep, even breaths despite the smell. For five long minutes, I sat in the car, staring out the windows, checking the rearview, hoping no one followed me.

When it became clear that no one had, I got out, closing the door carefully so that it didn't slam. I could see my breath. My back ached, and blood still trickled down the side of my face. I swiped at it with my arm, staining the sleeve of my coat.

At least I had the presence of mind to bring my gloves.

I walked down the dirt road to the construction site. Spindly trees rose up around me, their leaves scattered on the road. The noise from the Ford Plant covered the crunch of my feet along the path.

Equipment sat along the edge of the canal, ghostly shapes against the darkness. I stopped short of the edge.

They had finished dredging this section last year when someone had deemed the canal deep enough.

The water glinted, black and filthy, its depth impossible to see. Some lights from the nearby industrial plants reflected thinly on the water's surface, revealing a gasoline slick and bits of wadded up paper.

I let out a small breath, hating this moment, seeing no other choice.

Then I went back to the cop car. I pushed on the trunk, making sure the latch held. Then I opened the back passenger door, rolled down the window, and went to the front passenger door, doing the same. I saved the driver's window for last.

I crawled back inside the car just as the radio crackled, startling me. The thin voice coming across the static talked about a fight at the Kinetic Playground, which had nothing to do with me.

Still, my heart pounded harder.

I started the car. It rumbled to life, the powerful engine ready to go.

I was shaking.

I kept the car in park, then I pushed the emergency brake. I reached across the seat and picked up my gloves and the blood-covered nightstick.

I released the emergency brake, got out of the car, and leaned inside the door. Carefully, I wedged the nightstick against the accelerator, making sure that thing flattened against the floor.

The car's engine revved, echoing in that grove of too-thin trees.

I braced my left hand on the car seat, grabbed the automatic gearshift, and shoved the car into drive. Then I leapt back, sprawling in the cold dirt as the car zoomed down the road.

The car disappeared over the bank, and I braced myself for a crash of metal against concrete---a crash that meant I had failed.

A half-second later, I heard a large splash. I ran to the edge of the road and stared down the embankment.

The car tipped, front end already lost to the canal. The brackish water flowed into the open windows, sinking it even faster.

The trunk went under last, disappearing in a riot of bubbles. I could almost imagine it popping open at the last moment, the bodies emerging, floating along the surface like the gasoline slick, revealing themselves much too soon.

But the bubbles eventually stopped, and the car vanished into the canal's depths.

I took off the bloody gloves and tossed them on top of the filthy water. No one would connect them to the car.

No one would ever know.

Except me.

Copyright © 2006 by White Mist Mountain, Inc.