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In the figure of Burke, Andrew Vachss has given contemporary crime fiction one of its most mesmerizing characters. An abused child raised in orphanages, foster homes, and prisons, Burke is a career criminal and outlaw who steals and scams for a living.
In Blossom, an old cellmate has summoned Burke to a fading Indiana mill town, where a young boy is charged with a crime he didn't commit and a twisted serial sniper has turned a local lovers' lane into a killing field. And it's here that Burke meets Blossom, the brilliant, beautiful young woman who has her own reasons for finding the murderer—and her own idea of vengeance. Dense with atmosphere, savagely convincing, this is Vachss at his uncompromising best.
Hardcover
First published January 1, 1990
”I’m Burke. Didn’t Virgil describe me?”
Her smile didn’t show her teeth. “Lots of men ain’t so good-looking. That didn’t narrow it down much.”
. . .
The senator wasn’t cut out for crime. He was the kind of man who’d use vanity plates on a getaway car.
. . .
The Mole shambled up to us, seating himself on the cut-down oil drum he uses for a deck chair. Greeted me the same way he answers his phone . . . by waiting for someone to speak.
. . .
“I’m looking forward to us doing business.”
“Me too.” As sincere as any real estate broker ever was.
Michelle, the beautiful transsexual hooker. The slickest hustler I ever knew. The woman who made Terry her son. The strange, lovely woman who danced for years with the Mole. Never touching. But she’d never change partners.
“. . . Me, I don’t know about this stuff. Freak stuff. But you know them . . .”
Them. Humans who kill for love. Torture for fun. They set fires to watch the flames. Black-glove rapists. Snuff-film directors. Trophy-takers. Baby-fuckers. Pain turns on the switch. Blood lubricates the machinery. Then the power-rush comes. And they do too.
It’s a pathological condition; it means the realization of sexual satisfaction from penetrating a victim by sniper activity. Or stab wounds, or even bites.