Review
"An ingenious, diabolical debut that calls into question all our easy moral assumptions. Desert Places is a genuine thriller that pulses with adrenaline from start to finish. Blake Crouch is one of the most exciting new writers I've read in years."
- Val McDermid, author of The Last Temptation
"Blake Crouch's terrific but harrowing first novel, Desert Places, is deeply disturbing and troubling but hard to put down. In the end, Mr. Crouch's book reminded me of a whacked out combination of Stephen King and Cormac McCarthy."
- Pat Conroy, author of My Losing Season
"A harrowing, compulsively readable novel, Desert Places throws a spotlight on humans' ability to administer--and withstand--psychological and physical pain. Crouch's taunt, muscular prose and expert plotting make this one tough to set down. You'll read it in a sitting--I certainly did."
- Gregg Hurwitz, author of The Kill Clause
"Gritty, sometimes gruesome, and always gripping. Blake Crouch looks into the dark places inside our heads - you may not always like what you see there, but you won't be able to tear yourself away. An exciting, heartpounding debut."
- Tony Strong, author of The Death Pit
"Crouch shows real talent"
- Publishers Weekly
"Desert Places displays the careful craftsmanship of a talented newcomer to the mystery genre. The interplay between the protagonist and the villain is crisp and clever, and the plot development is relentless. Can't wait for the sequel!"
- Bookpage
"A disturbing tale . . . not for the easily frightened or those with weak stomachs. Crouch writes vivid and horrific scenes that will linger in the consciousness long after the book is read. [His] carefully crafted characters make the story immediate, intense and thoroughly believable."
- Denver Post
"Blake Crouch has every intention of putting the screaming oogies in your nightmares. . . . He takes you on a twisting ride that contains enough depravity and graphic violence to send Stephen King to the liquor cabinet for a stiff one."
- Rocky Mountain News (Denver, CO)
"The fastest, meanest read I've had in quite a while. Blake Crouch clamps on and propels you forward, even though you're not at all sure you want to go into the disturbing places where he's taking you. Those looking for the next Hannibal might have a good time, and Crouch proves to be a writer who can get your attention."
- The Capital Times (Milwaukee, WI)
"Desert Places starts with a bang and doesn't let up. . . you won't be able to put it down."
- Midwest Book Review
"This book is dark and a bit deranged, and I loved every minute of it. Reading it is like driving in the rain at 90 MPH with your eyes closed, sheer adrenaline. Write this name down, Blake Crouch is here to stay."
- Mystery One Bookstore
"This first novel by up-and-coming new talent Blake Crouch will set you on the edge of your chair. . . Crouch will handcuff you, blindfold you, throw you in the trunk of a car, and drag you kicking and screaming through a story so intense, so gruesome, and so emotionally packed, that you will walk away stunned - and with a choice to make. You will have to decide, in your own heart, whether Crouch is a super-talented writer with an immense imagination, or one sick puppy. Read the story and you will come to a deeper understanding of that."
- Relish, Winston-Salem Journal
"[Crouch's] writing is sick, and I mean that in the very best way. If Desert Places is any indication of what we can expect from Crouch in the future, be prepared to see his name on the bestseller lists. And just as his protagonist has had books turned into movies, Crouch may soon have a producer knocking at his door."
- Ottawa Sun (Canada)
"A complex, cleverly constructed novel of motive. . . Crouch is an author to watch."
- The Globe and Mail (Toronto, Canada)
"This is an odd, creepy and disturbing book. And I mean that as a compliment."
- The Daily Camera (Boulder, CO)
"Crouch maintains a roller-coaster pace, with twists that leave you blinking."
- Charlotte Observer
"Fast-paced. . . vivid scenes. . . the story is so good. . . that even readers who aren't drawn to psychological cat-and-mouse game plots won't be able to put it down."
- Durango Telegraph
"Twisted. . . surprises around every turn. . . don't climb in if you have a heart condition, high blood pressure, might be pregnant, or are under four feet tall."
- Iredell Citizen
"Will scare the bejeepers out of you, but you'll love it anyway. Surprises lurk on every page of this thriller, so here's a reminder: Keep breathing."
- Working Mother Magazine
About the Author
Blake Crouch is a recent Phi Beta Kappa graduate of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. He lives with his wife in Durango, Colorado, where he is at work on the sequel to Desert Places.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
On a lovely May evening, I sat on my deck, watching the sun descend upon Lake Norman. So far, it had been a perfect day. I'd risen at 5:00 a.m. as I always do, put on a pot of French roast, and prepared my usual breakfast of scrambled eggs and a bowl of fresh pineapple. By six o'clock, I was writing, and I didn't stop until noon. I fried two white crappies I'd caught the night before, and the moment I sat down for lunch, my agent called. Cynthia fields my messages when I'm close to finishing a book, and she had several for me, the only one of real importance being that the movie deal for my latest novel, Blue Murder, had closed. It was good news of course, but two other movies had been made from my books, so I was used to it by now.
I worked in my study for the remainder of the afternoon and quit at 6:30. My final edits of the new as yet untitled manuscript would be finished tomorrow. I was tired, but my new thriller, The Scorcher, would be on bookshelves within the week. I savored the exhaustion that followed a full day of work. My hands sore from typing, eyes dry and strained, I shut down the computer and rolled back from the desk in my swivel chair.
I went outside and walked up the long gravel drive toward the mailbox. It was the first time I'd been out all day, and the sharp sunlight burned my eyes as it squeezed through the tall rows of loblollies that bordered both sides of the drive. It was so quiet here. Fifteen miles south, Charlotte was still gridlocked in rush-hour traffic, and I was grateful not to be a part of that madness. As the tiny rocks crunched beneath my feet, I pictured my best friend, Walter Lancing, fuming in his Cadillac. He'd be cursing the drone of horns and the profusion of taillights as he inched away from his suite in uptown Charlotte, leaving the quarterly nature magazine Hiker to return home to his wife and children. Not me, I thought, the solitary one.
For once, my mailbox wasn't overflowing. Two envelopes lay inside, one a bill, the other blank except for my address typed on the outside. Fan mail.
Back inside, I mixed myself a Jack Daniel's and Sun-Drop and took my mail and a book on criminal pathology out onto the deck. Settling into a rocking chair, I set everything but my drink on a small glass table and gazed down to the water. My backyard is narrow, and the woods flourish a quarter mile on either side, keeping my home of ten years in isolation from my closest
cf0neighbors. Spring had not come this year until mid-April, so the last of the pink and white dogwood blossoms still specked the variably green interior of the surrounding forest. Bright grass ran down to a weathered gray pier at the water's edge, where an ancient weeping willow sagged over the bank, the tips of its branches dabbling in the surface of the water.
The lake is more than a mile wide where it touches my property, making houses on the opposite shore visible only in winter, when the blanket of leaves has been stripped from the trees. So now, in the thick of spring, branches thriving with baby greens and yellows, the lake was mine alone, and I felt like the only living soul for miles around.
I put my glass down half-empty and opened the first envelope. As expected, I found a bill from the phone company, and I scrutinized the lengthy list of calls. When I'd finished, I set it down and lifted the lighter envelope. There was no stamp, which I thought strange, and upon slicing it open, I extracted a single piece of white paper and unfolded it. In the center of the page, one paragraph had been typed in black ink:
Greetings. There is a body buried on your property, covered in your blood. The unfortunate young lady's name is Rita Jones. You've seen this missing schoolteacher's face on the news, I'm sure. In her jeans pocket you'll find a slip of paper with a phone number on it. You have one day to call that number. If I have not heard from you by 8:00 p.m. tomorrow (5/17), the Charlotte Police Department will receive an anonymous phone call. I'll tell them where Rita Jones is buried on Andrew Thomas's lakefront property, how he killed her, and where the murder weapon can be found in his house. (I do believe a paring knife is missing from your kitchen.) I hope for your sake I don't have to make that call. I've placed a property marker on the grave site. Just walk along the shoreline toward the southern boundary of your property and you'll find it. I strongly advise against going to the police, as I am always watching you.
A smile edged across my lips. I even chuckled to myself. Because my novels treat crime and violence, my fans often have a demented sense of humor. I've received death threats, graphic artwork, even notes from people claiming to have murdered in the same fashion as the serial killers in my books. But I'll save this, I thought. I couldn't remember one so original.
I read it again, but a premonitory twinge struck me the second time, particularly because the author had some knowledge regarding the layout of my property. And a paring knife was, in fact, missing from my cutlery block. Carefully refolding the letter, I slipped it into the pocket of my khakis and walked down the steps toward the lake.
0---
As the sun cascaded through the hazy sky, beams of light drained like spilled paint across the western horizon. Looking at the lacquered lake suffused with deep orange, garnet, and magenta, I stood by the shore for several moments, watching two sunsets collide.
Against my better judgment, I followed the shoreline south and was soon tramping through a noisy bed of leaves. I'd gone an eighth of a mile when I stopped. At my feet, amid a coppice of pink flowering mountain laurel, I saw a miniature red flag attached to a strip of rusted metal thrust into the ground. The flag fluttered in a breeze that curled off the water. This has to be a joke, I thought, and if so, it's a damn good one.
As I brushed away the dead leaves that surrounded the marker, my heart began to pound. The dirt beneath the flag was packed, not crumbly like undisturbed soil. I even saw half a footprint when I'd swept all the leaves away.
I ran back to the house and returned with a shovel. Because the soil had previously been unearthed, I dug easily through the first foot and a half, directly below where the marker had been placed. At two feet, the head of the shovel stabbed into something soft. My heart stopped. Throwing the shovel aside, I dropped to my hands and knees and clawed through the dirt. A rotten stench enveloped me, and as the hole deepened, the smell grew more pungent.
My fingers touched flesh. I drew my hand back in horror and scrambled away from the hole. Rising to my feet, I stared down at a coffee brown ankle, barely showing through the dirt. The odor of rot overwhelmed me, so I breathed only through my mouth as I took up the shovel again.
When the corpse was completely exposed, and I saw what a month of putrefaction could do to a human face, I vomited into the leaves. I kept thinking that I should have the stomach for this because I write about it. Researching the grisly handiwork of serial killers, I'd studied countless mutilated cadavers. But I had never smelled a human being decomposing in the ground, or seen how insects teem in the moist cavities.
I composed myself, held my hand over my mouth and nose, and peered again into the hole. The face was unrecognizable, but the body was undoubtedly that of a short black female, thick in the legs, plump through the torso. She wore a formerly white shirt, now marred with blood and dirt, the fabric rent over much of the chest, primarily in the vicinity of her heart. Jean shorts covered her legs down to the knees. I got back down on all fours, held my breath, and reached for one of her pockets. Her legs were mushy and turgid, and I had great difficulty forcing my hand into the tight jeans. Finding nothing in the first pocket, I stepped across the hole and tried the other. Sticking my hand inside it, I withdrew a slip of paper from a fortune cookie and fell back into the leaves, gasping for clean lungfuls of air. On one side, I saw the phone number; on the other: "you are the only flower of meditation in the wilderness."
In five minutes, I'd reburied the body and the marker. I took a small chunk of granite from the shore and placed it on the thicketed grave site. Then I returned to the house. It was quarter to eight, and there was hardly any light left in the sky.
Two hours later, sitting on the sofa in my living room, I dialed the number on the slip of paper. Every door to the house was locked, most of the lights turned on, and in my lap, a cold satin stainless .357 revolver.
I had not called the police for a very good reason. The claim that it was my blood on the woman was probably a lie, but the paring knife had been missing from my kitchen for weeks. Also, with the Charlotte Police Department's search for Rita Jones dominating local news headlines, her body on my property, murdered with my knife, possibly with my fingerprints on it, would be more than sufficient evidence to indict me. I'd researched enough murder trials to know that.
As the phone rang, I stared up at the vaulted ceiling of my living room, glanced at the black baby grand piano I'd never learned to play, the marble fireplace, the odd artwork that adorned the walls. A woman named Karen, whom I'd dated for nearly two years, had convinced me to buy half a dozen pieces of art from a recently deceased minimalist from New York, a man who signed his work "Loman." I hadn't initially taken to Loman, but Karen had promised me I'd eventually "get" him. Now, $27,000 and one fiancee lighter, I stared at the ten-by-twelve-foot abomination that hung above the mantel: shit brown on canvas, with a basketball-size yellow sphere in the upper right-hand corner. Aside from Brown No. 2, four similar marvels of artistic genius pockmarked other walls of my home, but these I could suffer. Mounted on the wall at the foot of the staircase, it was Playtime, the twelve-thousand-dollar glass-encased heap of stuffed ani...
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