Redemption RoadBook - 2016
Now at NYT Besteller
Over 2 million copies of his books in print. The first and only author to win back-to-back Edgars for Best Novel. Every book a New York Times bestseller. After five years, John Hart is back.
Since his debut bestseller, The King of Lies , reviewers across the country have heaped praise on John Hart, comparing his writing to that of Pat Conroy, Cormac McCarthy and Scott Turow. Each novel has taken Hart higher on the New York Times Bestseller list as his masterful writing and assured evocation of place have won readers around the world and earned history's only consecutive Edgar Awards for Best Novel with Down River and The Last Child . Now, Hart delivers his most powerful story yet.
A boy with a gun waits for the man who killed his mother.
A troubled detective confronts her past in the aftermath of a brutal shooting.
After thirteen years in prison, a good cop walks free as deep in the forest, on the altar of an abandoned church, a body cools in pale linen…
This is a town on the brink.
This is Redemption Road.
Brimming with tension, secrets, and betrayal, Redemption Road proves again that John Hart is a master of the literary thriller.
From the critics
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“In the Dark Ages, no one understood the things that made some people special, things like imagination or creativity or vision. People lived and died in the same small village. They had no idea why the sun rose or set or why winter came. They grubbed in the dirt and died young of disease. Every soul in that dark, difficult time faced the same limitations, every soul except a precious few who came rarely to the world and saw things differently, the poets and inventors, the artists and stonemasons. Regular folks didn’t understand people like that; they didn’t understand how a person could wake up one day and see the world differently. They thought it was a gift from God. Thus, the word inspiration. It means ‘breathed upon.’”
“That’s like using white to describe a full moon rising, or wet to capture the glory of the oceans. ..."
If time inside had taught him one thing, though, it’s what really mattered in life. What he’d lost. What he had left.
“He says the cracks in you are so deep God’s own light can’t find the bottom.”
She passed a place that used to be her favorite restaurant and saw a group of teenagers arguing on the street corner. There was more of that now, too: anger, discontent. Unemployment was twice the national average, and every year it got harder to pretend the best times weren’t in the past.
She looked about in an apologetic way, and from a distance he could sense the unhappiness born of bad boyfriends and a meaningless job. She hoped life would be more. He understood that in a way most men would not.
“I’d stick with what you’ve got.” “And what’s that?” She stopped at his desk. “A mortgage, kids. Thirty extra pounds and a wife of what, nine years?” “Ten.” “Well, there you go. A loving family, thick arteries, and twenty years to retirement.”
“Try to look at this like a cop. Okay?” “As opposed to what? An astronaut? A housewife?”
“Sometimes justice matters more than the law.” “That’s a dangerous way for a cop to look at things.” “System’s broken, Liz. You know it same as me.”
“Be careful with friendships,” he said. “Not all of them are free.”
The old man nodded as if he understood. “No sin in survival, son.”
The old man nodded. “As for what you suffered in this place, all that matters is survival.
“Money means nothing,” Eli said. “You understand what I’m saying? I’ve seen people pull twenty years in this place, then come back six months later on account of the dollars. In and out, like they don’t learn nothing. It’s only worth so much, the gold and dollars and shiny bits. It’s not worth your life or your joy or a day of your freedom. Sunshine. Fresh air. It’s enough.”
Yet, it was my wife, I think, who said it best. She stuck it out for two years, then told me that, even at seventy-two, she was too young to live with a dead man.
“We thought it the ultimate expression of a life well lived. Powerful friends. A job that mattered. Look at it now, emptiness and dust, all those exciting people dead or close to it.”
How could they not see that? But they didn’t. Occam’s razor. The obvious explanation. Whatever. The truth was a coal he wanted to puke from his chest.
“No mold, no mildew.” Channing closed her eyes and turned her face to the sun. “Nothing in the desert smells like a basement.”
She fit perfectly. Candy in a box.
“The law, as you may have surmised, is equal parts theater and reason. The finest scholars might struggle in court, while mediocre thinkers excel. Logic and flair, and leverage where appropriate, such are the makings of a trial attorney. ..."
“Weakness is not a sin, Robert. God built us all with special flaws and left us the challenge of addressing them. Facing the things that hurt us most is the real test...."
“It is in suffering that we are withdrawn from the sway of time and mere things, and find ourselves in the presence of profounder truth.”
Some people were blessed with the ability to forget bad things. Elizabeth lacked that particular skill, so if she chose to face the ugliness straight on, she could close her eyes and see the past with perfect clarity: the sounds, the slant of light, the way he moved. The memory was about after.
“Hello, sweetheart.” “Hi, Mom.” A hug died stillborn and awkward. One smelled of white wine and lotion, the other of jail.
it. He had to wear so many masks. They slipped on and off with such ease that he forgot at times who he really was. A good man. A bad one. Spreading his hands on the sink, he stared at the mirror until he found the right face staring back.
Factual but demonized:
“Sand tiger sharks have embryos that fight and die in the mother’s womb. Once they’re large enough, they go at each other right there in the tightness and the black. They tear each other apart until only one is left alive; and that’s the one that’s eventually born. Everyone else is eaten or left to rot. Brothers. Sisters. Even the eggs, if any are left.” He drove for another mile. “Does that sound like God to you? That savagery?”
Like her, he cared more for the future than the past, more for hope than anger.
... Don’t you see the horrible truth of it? I thought I’d done this selfish thing and gotten lucky. I thought it was providence.”
“I can tell you that the law is an ocean of darkness and truth, and that lawyers are but vessels on the surface. We may pull one rope or another, but it is the client, in the end, who charts the course.”
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