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The Last Whisper in the Dark: A Novel (Terrier Rand Book 2) by [Tom Piccirilli]

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Tom Piccirilli

The Last Whisper in the Dark: A Novel (Terrier Rand Book 2) Kindle Edition

by Tom Piccirilli (Author) Format: Kindle Edition

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Book 2 of 2: Terrier Rand

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Professional thief Terrier Rand hasn’t gotten caught yet. It’s only his conscience chasing at his heels.

In the follow-up to Tom Piccirilli’s acclaimed novel The Last Kind Words, prodigal thief Terrier Rand has come home to the family that has lawbreaking in its blood. With generations of Rands keeping secrets from the outside world—not to mention from one another—Terry is sure of one thing: He owes it to the woman he loved and lost to make sure her husband stays alive.

Kimmy’s husband, Terry’s old friend Chub, hasn’t been seen since he supplied a getaway car for a heist that went wrong. When Terry investigates the ominous disappearance, he discovers that Chub was involved with a strange, violent gang of heavy hitters—guys who don’t take kindly to Terry asking questions. But before Terry can find his friend, a curvaceous divorcée takes him for a walk on the wild side, estranged relatives pull him into their horror movie empire, his sister Dale sets her sights on Hollywood after scoring a hit viral video, and his own uncle recruits Terry to rip off his partner.

In a world of larceny, grift, and fraud, no amount of loyalty—to friends, wives, or lovers—can compete with the Rand family drama. Terry just wants to bring Chub home to his wife and child. Instead, he’s dodging mobsters, moguls, and murderers . . . and the truth about one crime of his own.

The Last Whisper in the Dark takes readers on a wild, rollicking ride with an eclectic crowd of fascinating characters—from a well-mannered killer who drives needles into his victims’ brains to a young gangster struggling to live up to his father’s expectations. Bonds of honor, bonds of blood, and betrayals of both make this the most powerful read yet from the heralded Tom Piccirilli.

Praise for Tom Piccirilli’s The Last Kind Words

“Perfect crime fiction . . . a convincing world, a cast of compelling characters, and above all a great story.”—Lee Child

“A crime noir mystery as hard-boiled as any in recent memory, recalling the work of Chandler, Pelecanos and Connelly . . . Readers will be pinned to their seats until the last page is turned.”—Bookreporter

“At once a dark and brooding page-turner and a heartfelt tale about the ties that bind.”—Lisa Unger, New York Times bestselling author of Heartbroken

“[A] caustic thriller . . . The characters have strong voices and bristle with funny quirks.”—The New York Times Book Review

“[Piccirilli] deserves a breakout novel and this just might be it.”—Booklist (starred review)

“For the first time since The Godfather, a family of criminals has stolen my heart. This is a brilliant mix of love and violence, charm and corruption. I loved it.”—Nancy Pickard, bestselling author of The Scent of Rain and Lightning

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337 pages
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Publication date

July 9, 2013
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Editorial Reviews

From Booklist

*Starred Review* Few authors can write heroes as haunted, or prose as filled with the poetry of noir, as Piccirilli. Following The Last Kind Words (2012), Terry Rand, reluctant thief in a family of thieves, struggles to resist being pulled into what he calls “the underneath,” but the baggage of the past weighs heavily. Chub, the best friend who married Terry’s lost love, Kimmy, is running for his life after a bad mistake, and Terry swears to Kimmy that he’ll keep Chub safe—a promise he probably can’t keep. Meanwhile, his mother’s side of the family has surfaced, bringing plenty of problems with them. Piccirilli has produced another novel that ranks among his best yet. This is the opposite of a thriller where the hero races a ticking clock to solve a simple task: Terry battles personal history, bad decisions, family genetics, and a wrenching sense of mortality as he struggles (and often fails) to protect those he loves the most. Readers who love noirish atmosphere will be happily marinated in it. But it’s Terry’s fascinating family that is one of the biggest draws here. In a genre filled with loners, the sense of inescapable, twisted togetherness gives this an unparalleled depth of feeling. --Keir Graff --This text refers to the hardcover edition.

Review

Praise for Tom Piccirilli’s The Last Kind Words

“Perfect crime fiction . . . a convincing world, a cast of compelling characters, and above all a great story.”—Lee Child

“A crime noir mystery as hard-boiled as any in recent memory, recalling the work of Chandler, Pelecanos and Connelly . . . Readers will be pinned to their seats until the last page is turned.”—Bookreporter

“At once a dark and brooding page-turner and a heartfelt tale about the ties that bind.”—Lisa Unger, New York Times bestselling author of Heartbroken

“[A] caustic thriller . . . The characters have strong voices and bristle with funny quirks.”—The New York Times Book Review

“[Piccirilli] deserves a breakout novel and this just might be it.”—Booklist (starred review)

“For the first time since The Godfather, a family of criminals has stolen my heart. This is a brilliant mix of love and violence, charm and corruption. I loved it.”—Nancy Pickard, bestselling author of The Scent of Rain and Lightning --This text refers to the hardcover edition.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

The first whisper in the dark.

Terrier, I’m pregnant.

I dreamed a desperate dream of Kimmy. It was a vivid memory fueled by my own unhinged fantasies. When I was on the ranch the other hands gave me a wide berth and made me sleep in a fruit cellar converted to a one-man bunk room. I had a habit of lashing out. I talked and shouted in my sleep. I heard myself speaking and tried to answer. I saw her sitting on the edge of my bed, crying, her face turned away from me. I’d reach for her and snap awake covered in sweat, my head ringing.

Terrier, I’m--

I had the dream and the dream had me for the fourth night in a row.

We were in the Commack Motor Inn, one of the pay-by-the-hour motels we used to stop into for a little alone time. Intimacy and privacy weren’t among the benefits of living in a large house with a criminal family. My father had retired from the bent life by then but never went anywhere. My mother watched over my baby sister Dale, and Old Shep, my grandfather, who was starting to lose himself to Alzheimer’s, his personality seeping out an old gunshot wound in the back of his head. My uncles Mal and Grey stuck close to home with their schemes and grifts. My brother Collie was the only one with enough respect to work his bad deeds day and night elsewhere. And Kimmy’s parents hated my guts and kept watch for me like retirees guarding the So Cal coastline from the Japanese in ’42.

We were catching our breath, lying back in each other’s arms, holding tight. Her wet hair raked my cheek. I lit a cigarette and took a long drag. I blew out a stream of smoke and offered the butt to her. She took it and ground it out against the side of the scarred nightstand. She pressed her lips to my ear.

“Terrier, I’m pregnant.”

The blinds had been drawn halfway against the parking lot lights. The air conditioner cranked away on high doing a shitty job. It was dark in our room and I couldn’t quite make out the expression on her face. A couple of sparks still clung to the nightstand, glowing red. Her voice was steady, but I couldn’t tell if she was happy or anxious or both. Neither of us had hit twenty yet.

I said, “We’re not naming her after a fucking dog.”

It made Kimmy laugh, a sound that eased the tension that was always inside me. I never knew it was there until she relieved me of it, and then I let out a breath and my muscles loosened and ached.

“Her?” she said. “So you want a girl?”

“I suppose I do.”

“Why?”

I didn’t even have to think about it. “I like the idea of saying, ‘I’m going home to my girls.’”

My ghosts caught up to me again. I couldn’t move without inviting them along. They came and went and judged. My eyes opened in the pale dawn and they were with me. My dead brother, my dead uncles, they stood nearby, ready to resume their action. My best friend Chub was there too. He was going to die if I didn’t help him. A part of me wanted it to happen. The rest knew that he and I were bound by our shared history. If I couldn’t save him I wouldn’t be able to save myself. He watched me steadily. Blood bubbled from his lips as he said, I’m still alive, you prick.

We were on death watch again. My brother Collie’s had lasted more than five years before he’d been walked down that insanely white prison corridor. After a brief inevitable show of defiance, kicking and brawling with the screws, he’d forgone his last words, been strapped down to a table and given the needle.

I watched as his blood turned to poison, hoping he might try to connect with me in those final seconds and explain why he’d gone on his killing spree. But his hateful gaze said nothing and showed no remorse. He sneered right up to the moment that the second plunger depressed and his lungs grew paralyzed. His eyes were stone but I could forgive him that. He was taking his last breath in front of an audience of witnesses who all wanted him in hell.

When he went down he left the rest of the family reeling, and despite all our stoic resolve we were unable to take any more loss. My uncle Mal had been murdered a few days beforehand, knifed in the backyard. My uncle Grey, so far as my parents knew, had gone on the long grift and was living the sweet life somewhere full of sex and satin, maybe in A.C. or Reno.

My father had lost three of the most significant people in his life within a matter of a week, and now his best friend lay dying under the kitchen table.

It had been three days since JFK had eaten or sipped any water. He was ten and his muzzle was thick with gray fur. He was still massive and muscular, with a flat broad forehead and fierce features that hadn’t lost any of their intensity.

He didn’t seem to be in any serious pain as he continued to grow weaker. We huddled around him on the kitchen floor like our ancestors squatting in front of a fire trying to keep the terrors of the night away.

JFK would occasionally look around the room, his glance landing on each of us in turn. Every time his eyes settled on my mother she whispered his name and stroked him between the ears. My father, a reticent man at best, tried to keep up a stream of buoyant chatter for JFK’s sake. I barely recognized his contrived, cheerful voice. My sister Airedale kept petting JFK’s haunches, saying, “That’s our boy, that’s our boy.” His dry tongue fell from his mouth as he struggled to lift his head in an effort to kiss each of us. He let out a sigh every now and again, his nubby tail wagging once or twice, before settling back to try to sleep.

“That’s our boy.”

It was time to put him down. We all knew it. Even my old man knew it. But my father, always a cool realist in all other matters, refused to discuss bringing JFK to the vet. My mother argued softly and begged him to change his mind. He wouldn’t. I sided with him at first because like him I was weak when it mattered most.

It was the cruelty of love. Dale, with a tight resolution marring her beauty, said, “Daddy, it’s time.” She gripped his stubbled cheek roughly, trying to snap him from his daze. He was short and wiry and Dale towered over him now, but his terrible staunchness made itself known. It was the thing inside him that couldn’t be moved or persuaded.

My father’s thousand-yard stare looked through all of us. Every muscle in his body stood out rigid and straining. His silence brought a barometric pressure to the room, like the hushed anxious period before a storm hit.

Old Shepherd sat in his wheelchair in the corner of the living room, in front of the television watching cartoons. JFK’s slow dying had managed to reach through his cognitive fog where almost everything else had failed. He now had odd moments of lucidity where he called to the dog, asking if he wanted to go for a walk in the park. Gramp sounded childlike, overly eager, and a little frightened.

By the fourth day JFK’s breathing had grown much rougher. He wheezed all morning long and about noon let out a little puddle of urine with blood in it. I went to the shed and got a shovel and dug a hole under the apple tree where JFK sometimes lay out in the sun. When I stepped back inside my mother was on her knees cleaning the floor with a towel. My old man was pretending he was somewhere else.

She said, “Pinscher, this has to stop.” She stood and put her hand to his powerful arm and I saw the tendons and veins in her wrist bulging as she squeezed and squeezed harder to try to gain his attention. “You can’t let it go on. He’s in pain. He’s in terrible pain.”

My father wouldn’t look at her. He stood in the front door with a chill autumn breeze blowing in through the screen. He seemed to be admiring the veranda. He’d spent a few thousand nights out there staring into the neighboring woods, looking over the arch of his life, with JFK curled at his feet.

I had to travel deep to discover what remained of my courage and mercy. There didn’t seem to be a whole lot left anymore. “We have to take him in.”

“Pinscher?”

“I’m not putting him down. We . . . we don’t have the right. I wouldn’t want anyone to steal my last remaining hours. Not even a minute. I won’t rob him of his.”

Anyone else might have found that ironic, my father being a career thief and an excellent second-story man before he retired to sit on his porch and drink beer, bored out of his fucking head.

But he wasn’t talking about himself or the dog. He was thinking of Collie’s victims, especially the kids.

“You think that’s wrong?” he asked me.

“Yes.”

He nodded once, his expression shifting from stonewall to slightly annoyed and back again. He sat at the table directly above JFK and looked everywhere except at the dog.

My mother tried one last time to make him see reason. Her anger was beginning to break through. “Pinscher, he’s in agony. Let’s give him a little peace and respect.”

“You think that’ll make any difference?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I know you don’t, but you’re wrong.”

My old man shrugged at that. I noticed how his hair swung back and forth into his eyes as he lifted his shoulders. He’d always worn a crew cut but he’d been letting his hair grow out the last couple of months. It was a small sign that he was changing inside and it worried me.

He asked me to get him a beer. I pulled one from the fridge and sat the bottle in front of him. He emptied half of it in one pull.

My mother shot me a look. I knew what it meant. We were going to have to buck him. I was going to have to carry JFK to the backseat of my car and take him to the vet on my own. I knew my father wouldn’t try to stop me. His conscience was already in a frenzy and I wondered if he’d hold it against me forever. We Rands didn’t forgive easily. We Rands had long memories until Alzheimer’s turned our brains to tapioca.

JFK moaned groggily as I lifted him. I shouldered through the screen door and carried him down the walk to my car. My mother followed. She sat in back with him, using her thumbs to clear her tears away. After a few seconds my father climbed into the passenger seat. He stared ahead through the windshield, arms crossed over his chest, the black veins crawling across the backs of his powerful hands.

My mother said, “If you’re going with Terry then I’ll stay here with Gramp.”

“I’m going with Terry,” my father said.

“All right.”

JFK slept the entire ride to the vet’s. I found myself hoping he would die before we arrived. I wanted him to go naturally without losing a minute of his allotted time. I didn’t want him to struggle to his very last breath. I didn’t want him to have to get the hot shot like Collie had.

When we arrived at the vet’s office JFK’s eyes were open and he was peering at me. His tail thumped twice, tongue hanging. My father led the way inside the place. He looked like he was about to knock over a bank.

I carried JFK in, hugging him to me, his face turned against my chest and bloody urine leaking over my shirt. I didn’t sign anything or talk to anyone at the front counter, I just lugged him directly into the examining room and told the lady vet tech that it was time to put him down. Her name tag read Missy. She asked questions about his age, eating habits, stool density, vomiting, and pet insurance. I wondered why any of that shit mattered now. My father said nothing. Missy started to slowly back out of the room with a patronizing smile smeared across her face. I finally managed to explain the situation.

Missy repeated her questions and I answered as best I could. She said the vet would be in to see us soon. JFK weakened further while we waited.

I patted his side and wished him an easier death. I said, “It’s okay, boy, it’s all right.” My father knew what I really meant and covered my hand with his, forcing me to stop.

The vet had an even bigger name tag the size of a sheriff’s badge. Dr. George Augustyn. It was authoritative, a name to impress. I’d met him before but hadn’t seen him in over five years. Dr. George had the beefcake good looks of a B actor who’d made it in the biz on the strength of his smile and chin dimple.

He kept calling JFK “Johnny” and tried to get him to sit up. JFK was always eager to please and made a hell of an effort, whining as he attempted to clamber to his feet on the slippery metal counter surface. He couldn’t make it. Dr. George made notations and listened to the dog’s chest and belly. I kept a hand on JFK’s front paw, rubbing my thumb back and forth across the pad of his sole. It felt like I stood there doing that for hours. I couldn’t stop.

George had a code of ethics to follow. He refused to give JFK the shot without giving him a full examination first.

I noticed that on the paperwork in JFK’s folder they had his breed down as “pit bull.” I almost corrected them by explaining that he was an American Staffordshire terrier. I realized how stupid it was to care about something like that right now and kept my mouth shut. But a moment later it seemed like the most important thing in the world.

I squawked, “You’ve got it wrong. He’s an American Staffordshire.” I wagged my chin as if to clear my head, but it wasn’t helping. Luckily, everyone ignored me anyway.

My thumb kept sliding back and forth across JFK’s paw. Dr. George told Missy that they needed to do X-rays. The two of them, wearing scrubs covered in dancing kittens, managed to heft JFK into their arms. My father and I began to file out and follow them. The vet said “Stay here” with a commanding note. --This text refers to the hardcover edition.

About the Author

Tom Piccirilli is the award-winning author of The Last Kind Words, Shadow Season, The Cold Spot, The Coldest Mile, A Choir of Ill Children, and other titles. He has won two International Thriller Writers Awards and four Bram Stoker Awards, and has been nominated for the Edgar, the World Fantasy Award, the Macavity, and Le Grand Prix de l’Imaginaire. A native of Long Island, New York, he lives in Colorado. --This text refers to the hardcover edition.

Product details

ASIN ‏ : ‎ B00B0LP5FI
Publisher ‏ : ‎ Bantam (July 9, 2013)
Publication date ‏ : ‎ July 9, 2013
Language ‏ : ‎ English
File size ‏ : ‎ 2724 KB
Text-to-Speech ‏ : ‎ Enabled
Screen Reader ‏ : ‎ Supported
Enhanced typesetting ‏ : ‎ Enabled
X-Ray ‏ : ‎ Not Enabled
Word Wise ‏ : ‎ Enabled
Sticky notes ‏ : ‎ On Kindle Scribe
Print length ‏ : ‎ 337 pages

Best Sellers Rank: #1,031,728 in Kindle Store (See Top 100 in Kindle Store)
- #5,223 in Psychological Fiction (Kindle Store)
- #7,181 in Psychological Thrillers (Kindle Store)
- #10,967 in Psychological Fiction (Books)

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Tom Piccirilli

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Tom Piccirilli is the author of more than twenty-five novels including A CHOIR OF ILL CHILDREN, SHADOW SEASON, THE COLD SPOT, and THE LAST KIND WORDS. He's a four-time winner of the Stoker Award, two-time winner of the International Thriller Award, and has been nominated for the World Fantasy Award, and twice for the Edgar Award. Marilyn Stasio of The New York Tims Book Review called THE LAST KIND WORDS, “A caustic thriller...the characters have strong voices and bristle with funny quirks.” New York Times bestselling thriller writer Lee Child said of Tom’s work, “Perfect crime fiction...a convincing world, a cast of compelling characters, and above all a great story” And Publishers Weekly extols, "Piccirilli’s mastery of the hard-boiled idiom is pitch perfect, particularly in the repartee between his characters, while the picture he paints of the criminal corruption conjoining the innocent and guilty in a small Long Island community is as persuasive as it is seamy. Readers who like a bleak streak in their crime fiction will enjoy this well-wrought novel.” Keir Graff of Booklist wrote, “There's more life in Piccirilli's THE LAST KIND WORDS (and more heartache, action, and deliverance) than any other novel I've read in the past couple of years." And Kirkus states, "Consigning most of the violence to the past allows Piccirilli (The Fever Kill, 2007, etc.) to dial down the gore while imparting a soulful, shivery edge to this tale of an unhappy family that’s assuredly unhappy in its own special way.”

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Larry Hoffer

Tom Piccirilli once again proves he should be a household name with this terrific book...

Reviewed in the United States 🇺🇸 on September 12, 2013

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Every time I read one of Tom Piccirilli's books, I think two things. First, he is a fantastic writer. And second, why isn't this man a household name? So many of Piccirilli's books deftly mesh terrifically complex characters, whip-smart dialogue, movie-worthy action, and great suspense. If you've not read one of his books and you're a fan of crime novels (or just damned good writing), pick one of them up and you'll be hooked.

The Last Whisper in the Dark is a follow-up to the equally fantastic The Last Kind Words. Terrier "Terry" Rand (yes, his family are all named after dog breeds, which feels less idiosyncratic in this book) is a thief, descended from a long line of thieves among members of the Rand family. He desperately wants a "normal" life but the obligations of family and the urge that is in his blood. He knows the path down which his genetics will lead him, but he isn't sure whether fighting it is the right thing to do.

When he fled his Long Island home and his family years before, he broke a promise to Kimmy, the woman he loved. And even though she married his former best friend, Chub, and had a daughter, Terry can't stop thinking about how this should be his life. He can't stop him from watching over Chub, although he's not sure whether he wants Chub to run the straight and narrow, or screw up so he might have another chance with Kimmy. But when he discovers that Chub has gotten in over his head, he promises Kimmy he'll bring her husband home, no matter what it does to him.

Meanwhile, the pull of family becomes even stronger for Terry, as he tries to save his younger sister, Dale, an aspiring actress, from destroying her life through her involvement in a dangerous Web series; as he tries to figure out where his brooding father goes at night; and when he is recruited by estranged family members he never knew he had--once-famous film executives turned horror movie producers--to right some wrongs in their business. But while Terry laments his past and fears his future, he is compelled to focus on the here and now, no matter how dangerous it may prove to him.

I am just so taken with the characters in this book as well as its predecessor. Terry Rand is so complicated, so compelling, one of those people you shouldn't like because of what they do but you can't help but be drawn to them. He is unapologetic about the way he lives his life, even as it's tearing him up inside (and sometimes outside), even though this life has taken such a toll on his family through the years, and this book is as much about that gravitational pull toward wrong than anything else. But at the same time, this is a book about family loyalty, family secrets, and how family can both draw you in and send you running (and reeling).

Piccirilli's writing is simply electrifying at times. There's enough action to get your blood pumping, and enough soul-searching to challenge you. I can't wait to see what he comes up with next, although I wouldn't mind a return to the Rand family.

Reviewed in the United States 🇺🇸 on July 20, 2013

Vine Customer Review of Free Product( What's this? )Verified Purchase

I'm going to put this right up front so everyone know: You have to read The Last Kind Words before you read this book!

Tom Piccirilli's current work reads more like one long novel chopped into pieces. There is no easy access except at the beginning of the books. The Last Whisper In The Dark continues the story of Terrier Rand coming back to his family. I'm assuming this is the middle book of at least a trilogy, so it stands to reason that this novel regroups and spins out multiple storylines based on the preceding book. It definitely does that.

Terry is taking on problems from all sides. There's still the fallout from his brother Collie who turned into a spree killer, and added to the mix is his mother's family, whom he had never had contact with, the fact that his uncle's body is not buried far enough away, his father is dealing with the same dementia that has claimed Old Shep (Terry's grandfather), his sister is involved with a semi-criminal enterprise that is going to get her twisted up with the law, and then there's Chub, his ex-best friend who happens to be married to Terry's old girlfriend that he's still crushing on.

This novel is bleaker and harder than its predecessor. I didn't get many laughs through this one, an occasional turn of phrase or situation, but mostly I was brought down by everything Terry is dealing with. I think the family development is great and probably as true to life as it gets, but the Rand family must be related to Job with all the baggage they have to carry.

It actually takes Piccirilli a while to get all the pieces put together, kind of like stacking all the Jenga pieces so the game can begin. But once the stack is made and you get down to the point where any piece can bring the whole thing down, everything goes really fast. You have to be on your toes to keep up with everything.

This isn't just a middle ground book that goes through the paces, though. Major characters die. Big life changes are made. Deep realizations shift the stakes constantly. There's also a great cast of characters that get deepened as alliances are made over, threatened, or get ended.

Piccirilli is mining deep emotional ground and readers need to be prepared for an onslaught of darkness. I don't know where he's getting this stuff, but I truly hope he's making it up and not using biographical pieces.

I'm hoping he's got a third book in the works soon.

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Kindle Customer

a great follow up to "The Last Kind Words"

Reviewed in the United States 🇺🇸 on September 15, 2013

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The Rand family continues to work in the mobbed up world while not actually being a full part of it. Terry continues to try to fix everything for family and friends but each fix branches off into more trouble for them and him. Is it possible that some things just can't be made right? Terry seems destined to find out the hard way that no matter whether his motives are noble or selfish, he may not be able to make things right and his version of right may not be right for all.

Reviewed in the United States 🇺🇸 on June 25, 2014

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Before you read this novel you must read THE LAST KIND WORDS by Mr. Piccirilli. If not, the LAST WHISPER does not provide background that makes both so facinating. Together, these novels bring you into the world of the Rand family; three generations of professional thieves, in one house, who live the "bent life". Set in modern day, the life style is still 50 yrs. in the past. The characters have depth and authenticity. The writing is crafty and brilliantly off edge. The first person narratives and actions of Terrier Rand will take you on an 100 mph ride you won't want to stop.

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St3v3n

Read all of his books.

Reviewed in the United States 🇺🇸 on December 11, 2013

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First off Tom Piccirilli might just might be a mad man. I've read into the double digits of his novels and I have very good reason to be questioning his sanity at this point and probably my own for recommending him to everyone who asks me "Whose an author I haven't heard of and should try"? Well he is always one of the Two-headed monster of that answer I go with, (the other being a Duane Swierczyski or whatever his name is). I don't really like reviewing books as much as just giving praise to an Author. That's what this was.

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Top reviews from other countries

rick

do not miss

Reviewed in the United Kingdom 🇬🇧 on August 17, 2013

Verified Purchase

even better than his " Last Kind words " After what to me were slightly false starts in his earlier novels , these two show magificent form: beautifully written and in the best film noir tradition reveal the power of destiny over a thief who sneaks into your heart .

Mrs. W. D. Doleman

he tells such a good story

Reviewed in the United Kingdom 🇬🇧 on February 10, 2016

Verified Purchase

I really like Tom Piccirilli and have only just found out he has died so am trying to collect all his work

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The Last Whisper in the Dark: A Novel (Terrier Rand Book 2) Kindle Edition

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