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Free download or read online Darker Than Amber pdf (ePUB) (Travis McGee Series) book. The first edition of the novel was published in January 1st 1966, and was written by John D. The book was published in multiple languages including English, consists of 283 pages and is available in Paperback format. The main characters of this mystery, fiction story are,. The book has been.

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A Purple Place for Dying

Author: John Dann MacDonald
Publsiher: Random House Incorporated
Total Pages: 223
Release: 2013-02-12
ISBN 10: 0812983939
ISBN 13: 9780812983937
Language: EN, FR, DE, ES & NL

From a beloved master of crime fiction, A Purple Place for Dying is one of many classic novels featuring Travis McGee, the hard-boiled detective who lives on a houseboat. Travis McGee’s taking his retirement in installments while he’s still young enough to enjoy it. But sooner or later, his money runs out and he has to work. This time McGee’s lured out West to a strangely secretive meeting with a woman in trouble, in a place whose beauty hides some ugly, dangerous secrets. “John D. MacDonald created a staggering quantity of wonderful books, each rich with characterization, suspense, and an almost intoxicating sense of place.”—Jonathan Kellerman Mona is in love with a poor, young college professor and married to a wealthy man whom she is convinced is stealing from her trust fund. So she does what any self-respecting girl would do: She hires someone to steal her money back so she can run away with the love of her life. Travis isn’t sure he wants to help out until he sees Mona getting shot and killed out on the cliffs near her cabin. Now he’s a lead suspect in a plot to help her escape, and to clear his name, he needs to get to the bottom of things. But the murders just keep mounting, and for Travis, even working with Mona’s husband doesn’t seem to help matters. Will he be able to uncover the complex plot in time to save his own skin? Features a new Introduction by Lee Child

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A Purple Place for Dying

Author: John D. MacDonald
Publsiher: Fawcett
Total Pages: 305
Release: 1995
ISBN 10: 0449224384
ISBN 13: 9780449224380
Language: EN, FR, DE, ES & NL

While on vacation in the Southwest, Travis McGee reluctantly agrees to help Mona Yeoman retrieve her estate from a wayward husband, only to become an eyewitness to her sudden death. Reissue.

The Deep Blue Good By

Author: John Dann MacDonald
Publsiher: Random House Incorporated
Total Pages: 222
Release: 2013
ISBN 10: 0812983920
ISBN 13: 9780812983920
Language: EN, FR, DE, ES & NL

He's a self-described beach bum who won his houseboat in a card game. He's also a knight errant who's wary of credit cards, retirement benefits, political parties, mortgages, and television. He only works when his cash runs out and his rule is simple: he'll help you find whatever was taken from you, as long as he can keep half....

The Quick Red Fox

Author: John Dann MacDonald
Publsiher: Random House Incorporated
Total Pages: 209
Release: 2013-03-12
ISBN 10: 0812983947
ISBN 13: 9780812983944
Language: EN, FR, DE, ES & NL

Originally published: New York: Fawcett, 1964.

A Purple Place for Dying

Author: John Dann MacDonald
Publsiher: Unknown
Total Pages: 173
Release: 1973
ISBN 10:
ISBN 13: OCLC:317658460
Language: EN, FR, DE, ES & NL

The Color Purple

Author: Alice Walker
Publsiher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Total Pages: 288
Release: 2003
ISBN 10: 9780156028356
ISBN 13: 0156028352
Language: EN, FR, DE, ES & NL

The Pulitzer Prize-winning novel that tells the story of two sisters through their correspondence. With a new Preface by the author.

A Deadly Shade of Gold

Author: John Dann MacDonald
Publsiher: Random House Incorporated
Total Pages: 401
Release: 2013-03-12
ISBN 10: 0812983963
ISBN 13: 9780812983968
Language: EN, FR, DE, ES & NL

Originally published: United States: Fawcett, 1965.

One Fearful Yellow Eye

Author: John D. MacDonald
Publsiher: Random House
Total Pages: 304
Release: 2013-01-08
ISBN 10: 0307826694
ISBN 13: 9780307826695
Language: EN, FR, DE, ES & NL

'To diggers a thousand yeasrs from now...the works of John D. MacDonald would be a treasure on the order of the tomb of Tutankhamen.' Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. How to you extort $600,000 from a dying man? Someone had done it very quietly and skilfully to the husband of Travis McGee's ex-girlfriend. McGee flies to Chicago to help untangle the mess and discovers that although Dr. Fortner Geis had led an exemplary life, there were those who'd take advantage of one 'indiscretion' and bring down the whole family. McGee also discovers he likes a few members of the family far too much to let that happen....

Nightmare in Pink

Author: John Dann MacDonald
Publsiher: Random House Incorporated
Total Pages: 206
Release: 2013-02-12
ISBN 10: 0812983955
ISBN 13: 9780812983951
Language: EN, FR, DE, ES & NL

Originally published: New York: Fawcett Gold Medal, 1964.

Seven

Author: John D. MacDonald
Publsiher: Orion
Total Pages: 224
Release: 2014-09-18
ISBN 10: 1471913376
ISBN 13: 9781471913372
Language: EN, FR, DE, ES & NL

A choice collection of seven short stories by one of America's foremost storytellers and the author of the best-selling Travis McGee series. Featuring 'Dear Old Friend', 'The Annex', Quarrel', 'Double Hannenframis', 'The Random Noise of Love', The Willow Pool and 'Woodchuck', this collection displays MacDonald at his classic best. Starring a cast of immoral broads, hedonistic thrill-seekers, naïve victims and profligate playboys, these seven short stories showcase the writing that propelled John D MacDonald to success.

Life as We Knew it

Author: Susan Beth Pfeffer
Publsiher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Total Pages: 347
Release: 2008
ISBN 10: 0152061541
ISBN 13: 9780152061548
Language: EN, FR, DE, ES & NL

Through journal entries, sixteen-year-old Miranda describes her family's struggle to survive after a meteor hits the moon, causing worldwide tsunamis, earthquakes, and volcanic eruptions.

Bright Orange for the Shroud

Author: John D. MacDonald
Publsiher: Random House
Total Pages: 304
Release: 2013-01-08
ISBN 10: 0307826678
ISBN 13: 9780307826671
Language: EN, FR, DE, ES & NL

'McGee has become part of our national fabric.' SEATTLE POST INTELLIGENCER Usually women came to take refuge aboard The Busted Flush. But this time a man stumbled on board, a walking zombie who fell into bed. Turned out poor Arthur Wilkinson was the latest victim of a fragile-looking blonde sexpot who used the blackest arts of love to lure unsuspecting suckers into a web of sordid schemes. Travis had thought he'd have a quiet summer. Instead he took on the most cunning, heartless, vicious con artists he'd ever met....

Half of a Yellow Sun

Author: Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
Publsiher: Vintage Canada
Total Pages: 560
Release: 2010-10-29
ISBN 10: 0307373541
ISBN 13: 9780307373540
Language: EN, FR, DE, ES & NL

With her award-winning debut novel, Purple Hibiscus, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie was heralded by the Washington Post Book World as the “21st century daughter” of Chinua Achebe. Now, in her masterly, haunting new novel, she recreates a seminal moment in modern African history: Biafra’s impassioned struggle to establish an independent republic in Nigeria during the 1960s. With the effortless grace of a natural storyteller, Adichie weaves together the lives of five characters caught up in the extraordinary tumult of the decade. Fifteen-year-old Ugwu is houseboy to Odenigbo, a university professor who sends him to school, and in whose living room Ugwu hears voices full of revolutionary zeal. Odenigbo’s beautiful mistress, Olanna, a sociology teacher, is running away from her parents’ world of wealth and excess; Kainene, her urbane twin, is taking over their father’s business; and Kainene’s English lover, Richard, forms a bridge between their two worlds. As we follow these intertwined lives through a military coup, the Biafran secession and the subsequent war, Adichie brilliantly evokes the promise, and intimately, the devastating disappointments that marked this time and place. Epic, ambitious and triumphantly realized, Half of a Yellow Sun is a more powerful, dramatic and intensely emotional picture of modern Africa than any we have had before.

Evermore

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Author: Alyson Noël
Publsiher: St. Martin's Griffin
Total Pages: 320
Release: 2009-02-03
ISBN 10: 9781429918688
ISBN 13: 1429918683
Language: EN, FR, DE, ES & NL

Don't miss Evermore, the first book in Alyson Noël's #1 New York Times bestselling The Immortals series. Enter an enchanting new world where true love never dies. . . After a horrible accident claimed the lives of her family, sixteen-year-old Ever Bloom can see people's auras, hear their thoughts, and know someone's entire life story by touching them. Going out of her way to avoid human contact and suppress her abilities, she has been branded a freak at her new high school—but everything changes when she meets Damen Auguste. Damen is gorgeous, exotic and wealthy. He's the only one who can silence the noise and random energy in her head—wielding a magic so intense, it's as though he can peer straight into her soul. As Ever is drawn deeper into his enticing world of secrets and mystery, she's left with more questions than answers. And she has no idea just who he really is—or what he is. The only thing she knows to be true is that she's falling deeply and helplessly in love with him.

Mark Z Danielewski s House of Leaves

Author: Mark Z. Danielewski,Zampanò
Publsiher: Pantheon
Total Pages: 709
Release: 2000
ISBN 10: 0375420525
ISBN 13: 9780375420528
Language: EN, FR, DE, ES & NL

A family relocates to a small house on Ash Tree Lane and discovers that the inside of their new home seems to be without boundaries

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly

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Author: Jean-Dominique Bauby
Publsiher: Knopf Group E-Books
Total Pages: 146
Release: 2008-03-06
ISBN 10: 0307454835
ISBN 13: 9780307454836
Language: EN, FR, DE, ES & NL

A celebration of the liberating power of consciousness—a triumphant book that lets us witness an indomitable spirit and share in the pure joy of its own survival. In 1995, Jean-Dominique Bauby was the editor-in-chief of French Elle, the father of two young childen, a 44-year-old man known and loved for his wit, his style, and his impassioned approach to life. By the end of the year he was also the victim of a rare kind of stroke to the brainstem. After 20 days in a coma, Bauby awoke into a body which had all but stopped working: only his left eye functioned, allowing him to see and, by blinking it, to make clear that his mind was unimpaired. Almost miraculously, he was soon able to express himself in the richest detail: dictating a word at a time, blinking to select each letter as the alphabet was recited to him slowly, over and over again. In the same way, he was able eventually to compose this extraordinary book. By turns wistful, mischievous, angry, and witty, Bauby bears witness to his determination to live as fully in his mind as he had been able to do in his body. He explains the joy, and deep sadness, of seeing his children and of hearing his aged father's voice on the phone. In magical sequences, he imagines traveling to other places and times and of lying next to the woman he loves. Fed only intravenously, he imagines preparing and tasting the full flavor of delectable dishes. Again and again he returns to an 'inexhaustible reservoir of sensations,' keeping in touch with himself and the life around him. Jean-Dominique Bauby died two days after the French publication of The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. This book is a lasting testament to his life.

Ways To Live Forever

Author: Sally Nicholls
Publsiher: Scholastic Inc.
Total Pages: 224
Release: 2013-03-01
ISBN 10: 0545365791
ISBN 13: 9780545365796
Language: EN, FR, DE, ES & NL

From award-winning author Sally Nicholls, her debut novel about a boy's last months with leukemia. 1. My name is Sam. 2. I am eleven years old. 3. I collect stories and fantastic facts. 4. I have leukemia. 5. By the time you read this, I will probably be dead. Living through the final stages of leukemia, Sam collects stories, questions, lists, and pictures that create a profoundly moving portrait of how a boy lives when he knows his time is almost up.

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The Purple Balloon

Author: Chris Raschka
Publsiher: Schwartz & Wade
Total Pages: 32
Release: 2012-06-27
ISBN 10: 0307983633
ISBN 13: 9780307983633
Language: EN, FR, DE, ES & NL

When a child becomes aware of his pending death (children tend to know long before the rest of us even want to consider it), and is given the opportunity to draw his feelings, he will often draw a blue or purple balloon, released and unencumbered, on its way upward. Health-care professionals have discovered that this is true, regardless of a child's cultural or religious background and researchers believe that this is symbolic of the child's innate knowledge that a part of them will live forever. . . . In disarmingly simple and direct language, accompanied by evocative potato print illustrations, Raschka in conjunction with Children's Hospice International (CHI), creates a moving, sensitive book that is also a phenomenally useful tool to talk about death. The message of the book is clear: talking about dying is hard, dying is harder, but there are many people in your life who can help. Children's Hospice International (CHI), a nonprofit organization founded in 1983, is paving the way for the establishment of children's hospice and related services worldwide.

The Lonely Silver Rain

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Author: John Dann MacDonald
Publsiher: Random House Incorporated
Total Pages: 255
Release: 2013
ISBN 10: 0812984129
ISBN 13: 9780812984125
Language: EN, FR, DE, ES & NL

Someone linked to southern Florida's drug traffickers is trying to kill Travis McGee, and in order to save his own life, McGee must detonate a drug war.

Beloved

Author: Toni Morrison
Publsiher: Vintage Books
Total Pages: 321
Release: 2004
ISBN 10: 1400033411
ISBN 13: 9781400033416
Language: EN, FR, DE, ES & NL

Sethe, an escaped slave living in post-Civil War Ohio with her daughter and mother-in-law, is haunted persistently by the ghost of the dead baby girl whom she sacrificed, in a new edition of the Nobel Laureate's Pulitzer Prize-winning novel. Reader's Guide available. Reprint. 60,000 first printing.

John D McDonald - Travis McGee 07 Darker Than Amber
Dedication
For Bonie and Bill
CHAPTER 1
We were about to give up and call it a night when somebody dropped the girl off the bridge.
They came to a yelping stop overhead, out of sight, dumped her over the bridge rail and took off.
It was a hot Monday night in June. With moon. It was past midnight and just past the tide change. A billion bugs were vectoring in on us as the wind began to die.
It seemed to be a very final way of busting up a romance. I was sitting there under the bridge in a skiff with my friend Meyer. We were under the end of the bridge nearest the town of Marathon, and it is the first highway bridge beyond Marathon on your way to Key West-if you are idiot enough to want to go to Key West.
My bachelor houseboat, The Busted Flush, was tied up at Thompson's Marina in Marathon. It had been there since Saturday afternoon. After I got in I phoned Meyer in Bahia Mar in Lauderdale, where he lives aboard his cabin cruiser. I'd been gone a little longer than I'd planned, and I had one small errand for him to do, and one small apology for him to make for me. I said that in return, if he wanted to come on down to Marathon by bus, I could put him into a good snook hole at the right time of year, tide and moon, and then he could come on back to Bahia Mar with me aboard the Flush, and we'd get in late Wednesday afternoon, probably--not that it mattered.
Meyer is the best of company, because he knows when talk is better than silence, and he tries to do more than his share of all the less interesting chores.
Until I asked him to join me, and heard him say yes, I had thought I wanted to be completely alone for a few days.
I'd just finished spending ten days aboard the Flush with an old friend named Virginia, known as Vidge. She had come rocketing down from Atlanta, in wretched shape emotionally, trying to find out who she used to be before three years of a sour marriage had turned her into somebody she didn't even like anymore. In the old days she'd never been skyrockets-just a quiet, pretty, decent gal with a nice oblique sense of fun and games, and the manifest destiny of being a good wife.
After three years of Charlie, she was gaunted, shrill, shaky, and couldn't tell you what time it was without her eyes filling with tears. So I took her cruising. You have to let them talk it out. She felt enormous guilt at not being able to make the marriage work. But the more she talked, the more I realized she hadn't had a chance. She was too passive, too permissive, too subdued for an emotional fascist like Charlie. He had leaned too hard. He had eroded her confidence in herself, in everything she thought she was able to do, from meeting people to cooking dinner to driving a car. Finally he had gone to work on her sexual capacities. Were the sexes reversed, you could call it emasculation. People like Charlie work toward total and perpetual domination. They feed on the mate. And Vidge didn't even realize that running away from him had been a form of self-preservation, a way of trying to hang fast to the last crumbs of identity and pride.
At first she talked endlessly, but she couldn't get all the way down to it. She kept saying what a great guy he was and how she had failed him in everything. The third evening, at anchor in a quiet corner of Florida Bay, I managed to get enough of Dr. Travis McGee's truth serum into her. Clean, pure Plymouth gin. By arguing with her, contradicting her, I edged her ever closer to the truth. And in the final half hour, before she passed out, she broke through the barrier and described how much she truly hated that destructive, domineering son of a bitch Charlie. It was very graphic, and she had no idea I was taping it. When she passed out I toted her to the guest stateroom and tucked her in. She slept a little better than around the clock, and was subdued and rueful the next day. That evening she started handing me the Charlie-myth again, and what a failure she was. I played her tape for her. She had hysterics which settled down into a good long hard cry. And after that she was famished enough to eat twenty ounces of rare steak. She slept the clock around again, and woke up feeling that maybe it would be pointless to give the marriage another big try.
Vidge and I had a private history of a small affair way back. It would have been better if we had both wanted the same things out of life. But we had kidded ourselves and each other for a time--before reality set in.
The attempt to relive that pleasant nostalgia was a clumsy failure. Charlie had so thoroughly insulted her womanhood she was far too nervous and anxious to be reached. She was certain she had become frigid. I attempted another of Dr. McGee's famous nostrums. I roused her early, and I gave her a full day of swimming, fishing, beachcombing, skindiving and maintenance and housekeeping chores aboard the Flush. I gave her a day that would have reminded any marine of boot camp. That night, with the waxing moon at the half, and a good breeze keeping the mosquitoes away from the sun deck, she was too sodden with exhaustion to think of being nervous or anxious or apprehensive when I moved over onto her sun mattress and gently shucked her out of her shorts. She made small purring sounds, half contentment and half sleepy objection. When the sudden awareness that it was working for her brought her wide awake she was too far along to choke herself off with all those anxieties Charlie had built, and when it was done she was happy enough and confident enough to keep chuckling now and again until her breath deepened into sleep.
I lugged her dead weight down to my master stateroom, where, many hours later, in the orange-gold light of the morning sun coming through the curtained portholes, she proved to herself it hadn't been a fluke.
When I put her ashore in Flamingo, she looked two years younger. Her tan was good. She had started to fill out again. Her hands were steady and her voice had lost the edge of shrillness. She smiled to herself quite often. I had gotten her sister on the ship-to-shore through the Miami Marine Operator, and the sister had driven down to Flamingo to pick her up there. I managed to get the sister aside and tell her that if Vidge weakened and went back to Charlie, he might well destroy her completely. The sister, in a calm, dry, unexcited tone, said that if Vidge showed the slightest hint of going back to that monster, she, personally, would giftwrap Vidge and send her back to me in Lauderdale, prepaid. I guess she noticed my alarm at that prospect.
Sure, there had been some pleasure in the missionary work, but dealing at close range with a batch of acquired neuroses can make your ears ring for weeks. She was a good enough memory to set up a gentle nostalgia, but not so great that I would have gone looking for her. Most of all, I think that my nerves were frayed by having to edit everything I said to the lady for the ten days. I was trying to build back some morale and independence, and the wrong comment at the wrong time would have send Vidge tumbling back down.
You can be at ease only with those people to whom you can say any damn fool thing that comes into your head, knowing they will respond in kind, and knowing that any misunderstandings will be thrashed out right now, rather than buried deep and given a chance to fester.
Vidge, like so many other mild nice people, was a natural-born victim. Life had treated her so agreeably during her first twenty years she'd never had to plant her feet and swing at anything just to maintain her identity. She was loving and giving. And she would have made a delightful permanent package for some guy able to appreciate it. Lots of Vidges never have to find out they're victims. They land with the right people. But when one of them has the bad luck to mate with a Charlie, she gets gobbled up. You see them in the later years, those vague, translucent, silent women who stand over at the edge of life, with the nervous smile that comes and goes, and the infrequent and apologetic cough. Charlie is the squat florid one with the loud laugh and the bright neckties and the scatological jokes and the incipient coronary accident.
Chugging away from Flamingo at low cruise after dropping my passenger, I had the dreary feeling Charlie was going to snare her again and extract double penalties for the little attempt to escape. I was getting oil pressure fluctuation on the starboard diesel and had a friend in Marathon who would take a look at it without trying to find some plausible 1' way to pick my pocket, so I aimed her in that direction.
My pockets were reasonably hefty. Enough to give me a chance to enjoy another installment of my sporadic retirement. By the end of the year I'd have to dig up a new prospect, somebody so anxious to recover what was legally his that he'd give me half its value for getting it back, half being decidedly better than nothing.
The repair was a minor job, one I could have done myself if I'd been able to diagnose it. I heard the word on the snook hole, remembered the way Meyer would talk a good one up to the side of the boat, and that was how we happened to be under the bridge in a rented skiff Monday midnight, casting the active surface plugs into a splendid snook hole, with the skiff tied to one of the bridge pilings. In the current boil of the incoming tide they had been feeding nicely. I'd had good results with a Wounded Spook with a lot of spinning clattering hardware on it to fuss up the water and irritate them. We'd hooked into at least ten good ones, lost seven amid the pilings, boated three in the eight to twelve-pound range. But we were down to that just-one-more cast.
After midnight on a Monday in June, traffic is exceedingly sparse. The concrete bridge span was about twenty feet above the water. We were in the shadows under the bridge. I heard a car coming; it seemed to be slowing down. There was a sudden screech of brakes overhead. And, moments later, the girl came down. She came down through the orange glow of bridge lights and the white pallor of moonlight. Feet first. Pale skirt fluttered upward baring the long legs. Just one glimpse of that, and she chunked into the water five feet off the bow of the skiff, splashing us, disappearing. Motor roared, tires squealed, car rocketed off.
It was a forty-foot drop for her. Twenty feet of air, twenty feet of depth. I would have expected her to bob up but for one thing. She hit my line. The surface plug was a few feet beyond where she hit. And she took it right on down to the bottom, and there the plug stopped taking out line against the drag.
I had 10-pound mono on that reel. I pulled at it, and it held firm. I tossed my wallet into the bottom of the skiff, shoved my rod at Meyer and asked him to keep the line tight. I yanked my boat shoes off, went over the side, took a deep breath and let half of it out, and pulled myself down the monofilament, hand over hand, sliding my hands along it, grasping it between thumbs and fingerpads. Soon, in the blackness, I reached and touched the hair afloat, dug my fingers into it, got a good hold to try to lift her. Two hands, with that extraordinary gentleness of the last margin of consciousness, closed softly around my wrist. I pulled my way down her body, down to the ankles to find why I couldn't lift her off the bottom. I felt the double ridges of wire biting into the slenderness, leading down and through one of the three oval holes in a hefty cement block. I felt swiftly for the place where itßwas fastened, felt the hard twist of wire close to the block. I knew that if I had to go up for more air and come back... no girl. And my lungs were beginning to try to pump the air in, so that I had to use an effort of will to keep my throat closed against the blind effort. It had been done with pliers. Heavy wire. I knew which way it had to twist. It tore the pads of my thumb and fingers. I hooked fingers into the pocket of my shirt, ripped it off, wrapped it around the wicked ends of the wire, then untwisted as hard as I could. The world was getting a little dreamy. Just slightly vague. But the wire began to unwrap, and the free ends made it easier by giving me more leverage. I wanted to stretch out, yawn, sing some old sad songs, and float on out to sea in the delicious softness of the tide. The wires were free. I yanked them through the hole in the cement block. I kicked hard against the bottom and came slowly up, smiling perhaps, nodding a little, loosely hugging the hips of the drowning girl. I was thrust rudely out of sleepy-bye into the ugliness of coughing and spewing and retching in the fractured moonlight, then trying to hold her so her face was out of the water. That was when I saw Meyer, standing in the skiff, outlined against the lights, carefully playing us two big blundering fish and trying to work us toward the boat. Soon I could help. He knelt and got hold of the girl and worked her aboard over the flat stern, and as I hung on, waiting for strength to climb aboard, I saw him tumble her roughly face down over one of the seats, stand straddling her, reach his hands under her, and pull up slowly, then let her drop and shift his hands and push downward against her back just above the waist.
My feet were beginning to trail outward in the increasing strength of the outgoing tide. Had she been dropped five minutes later I wouldn't have been able to get down to her against that tide run.
I wormed up over the transom, sat there gasping. 'While you were down there,' Meyer said, his voice distorted by effort, 'I went over to town and had a couple of beers.'
'She was alive when I got there, buddy. She grabbed my wrist. So I had to unwire her from her anchor on the first trip.'
'Some tenderhearted guy,' Meyer said, 'didn't have the heart to tell her they were all through. Easier to kill them than hurt their feelings.'
'Is that the best way to do that?'
'Shut up. It's my way. And I think it's working.' I fumbled in the tray of the tackle box and found my small flashlight. I'd recently put new batteries in it. Her soaked skirt was bunched, covering her from mid-thigh upward. Quite a pity, I thought, to discard such a long and lovely pair of legs. I rested the flashlight where it shone upon her ankles and hunched down with the fish pliers and nipped the wire. Freed of that stricture the legs moved a little apart, bare feet both turned inward. Bent over in that position, I saw a glitter under the edge of the bunched skirt, reached and lifted it slightly and saw my Wounded Spook against the back of her left thigh, the rear set of gang hooks set deeply. I clipped the leader off it right at the front eyelet, and just as I did so she gave a shallow, hacking cough and spewed water into the bilge, then gagged and moaned.