{"product_id":"devildevil-isbn-9781616950606","title":"Devil-Devil","description":"It's not easy being Ben Kella. As a sergeant in the Solomon Islands Police Force, as well as an aofia, a hereditary spiritual peacekeeper of the Lau people, he is viewed with distrust by both the indigenous islanders and the British colonial authorities. In\u003cbr\u003ethe past few days he has been cursed by a magic man, stumbled across evidence of a cargo cult uprising, and failed to find an American anthropologist who had been scouring the mountains for a priceless pornographic icon. Then, at a mission station, Kella discovers an independent and rebellious young American nun, Sister Conchita, secretly trying to bury a skeleton. The unlikely pair of Kella and Conchita are forced to team up to solve a series of murders that tie into all these other strange goings-on. Set in the 60's in one of the most beautiful and dangerous areas of the South Pacific, Devil-Devil launches an exciting new series.\u003cp\u003e“Truly fabulous ... Sister Conchita and Kella are already committed to a sequel. This is a series, and a writer, to watch.”—\u003ci\u003eToronto Globe and Mail\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Kent, a prolific author of fiction and nonfiction, fills \u003ci\u003eDevil-Devil\u003c\/i\u003e with a sparkling plot (complete with an unexpected conclusion) and a rich history of the Solomons and their native people. But it's Kella and Conchita—and Kent's wit—that makes this unusual mystery work, and readers will eagerly await the next installment.”—\u003ci\u003eRichmond Times-Dispatch\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Kent’s first mystery is the beginning of a new and promising series.... The atmosphere and setting are integral to both character and plot and lend a unique note to this solid mystery. Definitely a series to watch.”—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eFor eight years, Graeme Kent was Head of BBC Schools broadcasting in the Solomon Islands. Prior to that he taught in six primary schools in the UK and was headmaster of one. Currently, he is Educational Broadcasting Consultant for the South Pacific Commission.1\u003cbr\u003eTHE GLORY SHELL\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSister Conchita clung to the sides of the small dugout canoe as\u003cbr\u003ethe waves pounded over the frail vessel, soaking its two\u003cbr\u003eoccupants. In front of her the Malaitan scooped his paddle into\u003cbr\u003ethe water, trying to keep the craft on an even balance. Sister\u003cbr\u003eConchita could see the coastal village a hundred yards away. The\u003cbr\u003ebeach was crowded with islanders. She wondered whether it had\u003cbr\u003ebeen worth the perilous sea journey just to see the shark-calling\u003cbr\u003eceremony when all she wanted was a shower and a meal. Of\u003cbr\u003ecourse it was, she told herself severely. If she intended serving\u003cbr\u003eGod in the Solomons then she had to get to know everything\u003cbr\u003eabout the islands.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe half-naked islander in front of her suddenly gave a scream\u003cbr\u003eof terror. Turning, he thrust the paddle into the sister’s hands and\u003cbr\u003edived over the side of the canoe, disappearing into the frothing\u003cbr\u003ewhite foam. Sister Conchita sat rigid with apprehension, the\u003cbr\u003epitted wooden blade clutched loosely in her hands. Bereft of\u003cbr\u003ethe islander’s control, the canoe started pitching and swinging\u003cbr\u003ewildly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor a moment all that Sister Conchita wanted to do was to\u003cbr\u003ecower helplessly in the bucking wooden frame. Then her\u003cbr\u003ecustomary resourcefulness took over. Snap out of it, she thought\u003cbr\u003egrimly. You got yourself into this hole, better get out of it the\u003cbr\u003e1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esame way, girl. Muttering a fervent prayer, she tightened her\u003cbr\u003egrip on the paddle and thrust it with all her force into the water.\u003cbr\u003eFor the next five minutes the wiry young sister fought the sea.\u003cbr\u003eThe momentum of the current was sending her at breakneck\u003cbr\u003espeed in the direction of the beach and the watching islanders,\u003cbr\u003ebut the waves were crashing over the canoe at an angle, buffeting\u003cbr\u003eit from side to side. Several times the entire tree shell was\u003cbr\u003esubmerged beneath the surface, but on each occasion it surfaced\u003cbr\u003esufficiently for the sodden nun, coughing and gasping, to resume\u003cbr\u003eher paddling.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDoggedly she kept the prow of the canoe pointing at the\u003cbr\u003ebeach. After an apparent eternity of choking, muscle-aching\u003cbr\u003eeffort the shore actually seemed to be getting closer. One final\u003cbr\u003eshock of a wave descended on the canoe and hurled it sprawling\u003cbr\u003eup into the shallows off the beach.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHalf a dozen brawny, cheering Melanesian men in skimpy\u003cbr\u003eloincloths splashed into the water and laughingly hauled the\u003cbr\u003ecanoe up on to the sand. The crowd of assembled islanders broke\u003cbr\u003einto delighted applause. Dazedly Sister Conchita stood up and\u003cbr\u003elimped out of the beached craft.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGradually her vision cleared. She blinked hard. Standing in\u003cbr\u003efront of her, joining vigorously in the acclamation among the\u003cbr\u003elarge crowd, was the islander who had discarded his paddle and\u003cbr\u003eleft her to fight the sea alone. Struggling for breath, Sister\u003cbr\u003eConchita fought for the words adequately to express her opinion\u003cbr\u003eof him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘They’ve just been pulling your leg, sister,’ drawled a\u003cbr\u003econtemptuous voice from behind her. ‘They wanted to see what\u003cbr\u003eyou were made of. You didn’t do so bad. Most sheilas just stay\u003cbr\u003ein the boat screaming bloody murder.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe nun turned to see John Deacon, unshaven and clad in\u003cbr\u003ekhaki shorts and shirt, regarding her coolly from the edge of the\u003cbr\u003ecrowd.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGRAEME KENT\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e2\u003cbr\u003e‘Mr Deacon,’ said Sister Conchita, trying to keep her balance.\u003cbr\u003eDeacon was an Australian who managed a local copra plantation.\u003cbr\u003eShe did not like him, suspecting him of ill-treating his labourers.\u003cbr\u003eHowever, she always tried, she suspected in vain, to conceal her\u003cbr\u003efeelings.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Local custom,’ explained the stocky, broad-shouldered Australian\u003cbr\u003elaconically. ‘Any stranger approaching the beach, the\u003cbr\u003eguide jumps overboard. Actually the current is bound to bring\u003cbr\u003ethe canoe up on to the shore, but if you don’t know that, it can\u003cbr\u003ebe a mite disconcerting.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘You can say that again,’ said Sister Conchita.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘At least you had a go,’ acknowledged the plantation manager.\u003cbr\u003e‘The natives like guts.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Have you come for the ceremony?’ asked Sister Conchita\u003cbr\u003epolitely, trying to change the subject. She did not wish to be\u003cbr\u003ereminded too much of her undignified arrival.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Australian snorted with derision. ‘I don’t believe in\u003cbr\u003esuperstition,’ he told her. His eyes scanned her tattered, oncewhite\u003cbr\u003ehabit. ‘\u003ci\u003eAny superstition,’ he told her with emphasis. ‘I’m\u003cbr\u003ehere to pick up a cargo.’\u003cbr\u003eSuddenly Deacon was swept aside by a phalanx of island\u003cbr\u003ewomen, offering the nun rough blankets with which to dry\u003cbr\u003eherself, together with a husk of coconut milk. In a chattering\u003cbr\u003egroup they conducted her to a site at the water’s edge and waited\u003cbr\u003eeagerly with her. An artificial lagoon about twenty yards in\u003cbr\u003ediameter had been constructed there with piles of stones marking\u003cbr\u003eits edges, and an aperture on the seaward side to allow fish to\u003cbr\u003eswim in and out.\u003cbr\u003eAs the nun watched, an old man in tattered shorts and singlet\u003cbr\u003eemerged from one of the huts and walked down towards the\u003cbr\u003estones. A profusion of ancient bone charms rattled on a string\u003cbr\u003earound his neck. A naked small boy of about ten years of age\u003cbr\u003eaccompanied him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDEVIL-DEVIL\u003cbr\u003e3\u003cbr\u003e‘\u003ci\u003eFa’atabu,’ muttered an awed woman. She translated for the\u003cbr\u003enun’s benefit. ‘This one is the shark-caller,’ she said, indicating\u003cbr\u003ethe old man.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFour islanders splashed out into the shallow waters of the shark\u003cbr\u003earea. They were carrying large flat stones, which they banged\u003cbr\u003etogether under the water. Simultaneously the shark-caller started\u003cbr\u003echanting in a high, tuneless voice. The crowd, which had swollen\u003cbr\u003ein numbers to several hundred, looked on in expectant silence.\u003cbr\u003eFor several minutes nothing happened. Then a reverent\u003cbr\u003emurmur went round the crowd. The fins of half a dozen sharks\u003cbr\u003ecould be seen entering the enclosure.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe men, still clashing the stones together, fled from the\u003cbr\u003ewater. Women picked up a few baskets of raw pork and placed\u003cbr\u003ethem at the water’s edge before withdrawing hastily. Completely\u003cbr\u003eunperturbed, the boy hoisted one of the baskets up on to his\u003cbr\u003eshoulder and staggered out with it into the water, to a depth of\u003cbr\u003eseveral feet. To the accompaniment of screams and shouts from\u003cbr\u003ethe crowd on the shore the sharks began to swim steadily towards\u003cbr\u003ethe boy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSister Conchita found herself clenching her fists at the sight.\u003cbr\u003eThe boy stood still for a moment. Then he reached up into the\u003cbr\u003ebasket and started feeding the sharks lumps of raw meat,\u003cbr\u003edropping these into the water just in front of him. As the sharks\u003cbr\u003eapproached, accepting the food, the boy began to caress them.\u003cbr\u003eThroughout, the shark-caller continued his keening.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSister Conchita looked on, fascinated by the sight. Out of the\u003cbr\u003ecorner of her eye she became aware of Deacon and two\u003cbr\u003eMelanesians carrying a bulky sack along the ramshackle wooden\u003cbr\u003ejetty protruding into the sea. A dinghy was tethered there,\u003cbr\u003ebobbing in the water. Farther out to sea she could see the\u003cbr\u003eAustralian’s trading vessel at anchor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe sister did not want to leave the ceremony but she thought\u003cbr\u003ethat it would only be courteous to say goodbye to the brusque\u003cbr\u003eGRAEME KENT\u003cbr\u003e4\u003cbr\u003eplantation manager. Reluctantly she slipped through the crowd\u003cbr\u003eand made her way along the wharf. Deacon and his helpers were\u003cbr\u003etrying to load the sack into the heaving dinghy. The islanders\u003cbr\u003ewere struggling to lower the sack to Deacon, waiting impatiently\u003cbr\u003ebelow. As she approached, one of the Melanesians dropped his\u003cbr\u003eend of the bulging sack. It burst open, disgorging a cascade of\u003cbr\u003eseashells.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSister Conchita increased her pace to see if she could help.\u003cbr\u003eSome of the shells rolled across the wooden platform and nestled\u003cbr\u003eat her feet. The nun stooped to pick them up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Leave that; we’ll sort it!’ ordered Deacon, scrambling up from\u003cbr\u003ethe dinghy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSister Conchita ignored him. She had cradled three shells in\u003cbr\u003eher hands and was examining them with increasing excitement\u003cbr\u003eand anxiety. She would have recognized them anywhere. Before\u003cbr\u003eshe had left Chicago she had attended a museum display of South\u003cbr\u003ePacific seashells. The ones in her hands were a delicate golden\u003cbr\u003ebrown in colour, with a round base tapering exquisitely to a\u003cbr\u003epoint.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Are you deaf? I said I’ll take those!’ shouted Deacon,\u003cbr\u003elumbering towards her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSister Conchita was intimidated by the Australian’s looming\u003cbr\u003epresence but stubbornly she clutched the beautiful shells to her.\u003cbr\u003e‘I think not, Mr Deacon,’ she said, refusing to take a pace\u003cbr\u003ebackwards, although every instinct warned her to get away from\u003cbr\u003ethe plantation manager. ‘I believe these are glory shells,’ she went\u003cbr\u003eon. ‘You have no right to be taking them off the island. They’re\u003cbr\u003ea part of the culture of the Solomons.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe \u003ci\u003eConus gloriamaris, or Glory of the Seas, was the rarest of\u003cbr\u003eall seashells to be found in the Solomons, sought after in vain by\u003cbr\u003ealmost every islander. It fetched over a thousand dollars among\u003cbr\u003ecollectors. Its export was expressly forbidden by the government.\u003cbr\u003e‘Mind your own business!’ grunted Deacon. ‘Or . . .’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDEVIL-DEVIL\u003cbr\u003e5\u003cbr\u003e‘Or what, Mr Deacon?’ asked Sister Conchita, still standing\u003cbr\u003eher ground, although she was conscious that she was trembling.\u003cbr\u003eIt had been a long time since she had been exposed to an\u003cbr\u003eexample of such apparently uncontrollable wrath.With relief she\u003cbr\u003erealized that a group of village men, attracted by the altercation\u003cbr\u003ebetween the two expatriates, had abandoned the shark-calling\u003cbr\u003eceremony temporarily and were hurrying along the jetty behind\u003cbr\u003ethem.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘This is a Catholic village, Mr Deacon,’ said Sister Conchita\u003cbr\u003eclearly. ‘I don’t think its inhabitants would take kindly to seeing\u003cbr\u003ea sister being manhandled.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDeacon looked at the dozen or so men getting closer. With\u003cbr\u003ean impressive display of strength he hurled the sack into the\u003cbr\u003ebottom of the dinghy, scattering its consignment of shells.\u003cbr\u003e‘I won’t forget this,’ he promised vehemently, glaring up as he\u003cbr\u003ecast off. ‘I’m not having some bit of a kid who hasn’t been in the\u003cbr\u003eislands five minutes telling me what to do.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘And another thing,’ the nun called after him. ‘Just in case you\u003cbr\u003ehave any more illegal shells in that sack, I shall be asking the\u003cbr\u003eCustoms Department in the capital to examine it when you get\u003cbr\u003ethere.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDeacon was already rowing the dinghy with vicious strokes\u003cbr\u003eback towards his small trading vessel. Sister Conchita turned with\u003cbr\u003ea grateful and rather tremulous smile to face the approaching\u003cbr\u003eislanders. She realized that, as usual, she had just insisted on\u003cbr\u003ehaving the last word. It was a failing she was well aware of and\u003cbr\u003ewould have to take to confession yet again.\u003cbr\u003eGRAEME KENT\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e6\u003cbr\u003e2\u003cbr\u003eTHE GHOST-CALLER\u003cbr\u003eSergeant Kella sat on the earthen floor of the \u003ci\u003ebeu, the men’s\u003cbr\u003emeeting-house, patiently waiting for the ghost-caller to bring\u003cbr\u003eback the dead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMost of the men of the coastal village had managed to cram into\u003cbr\u003ethe long, thatched building with its smoke-blackened bamboo\u003cbr\u003ewalls. According to custom, a smallwooden gong had been struck\u003cbr\u003ewith a thick length of creeper to summon the assembly.\u003cbr\u003eKella could hear the women and children of the remote\u003cbr\u003esaltwater hamlet talking excitedly outside as they waited for news\u003cbr\u003eof the proceedings to filter from the hut. Most of the men were\u003cbr\u003eeyeing him with suspicion as he sat impassively among them. A\u003cbr\u003etouring police officer would not normally have been allowed\u003cbr\u003einside the hut, but he was present in his capacity of \u003ci\u003eaofia, the\u003cbr\u003ehereditary peacemaker of the Lau people.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKella hoped that Chief Superintendent Grice would not hear\u003cbr\u003eabout the detour he had made to this village. Back in Honiara\u003cbr\u003ehis superior had been explicit in his instructions.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘You’re going to Malaita for one reason only,’ he had told\u003cbr\u003eKella. ‘You are to make inquiries about Dr Mallory, nothing else.\u003cbr\u003eAfter your last little episode over there, I said I’d never send you\u003cbr\u003eback. But you speak the language. I take it that you can ask a few\u003cbr\u003esimple questions and come back with the answers?’\u003cbr\u003e7\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHurriedly Kella had assured the police chief that he could.\u003cbr\u003eAfter six months sitting behind a desk in the capital he would\u003cbr\u003ehave promised almost anything to get out on tour again. Now\u003cbr\u003ehere he was, only two days into his journey, and already he was\u003cbr\u003edisobeying instructions.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe village headman entered the hut. He was a plump,\u003cbr\u003eself-satisfied man clad in new shorts and singlet and exuding the\u003cbr\u003econfidence of someone who owned good land. With a few\u003cbr\u003eexceptions, the Lau area chieftains were not hereditary but were\u003cbr\u003echosen for their conspicuous distribution of wealth. This man\u003cbr\u003ewould have achieved his position for the number of feasts he had\u003cbr\u003ehosted, not for any fighting prowess.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe headman cleared his throat. ‘We are here to find out who\u003cbr\u003ekilled Senda Iabuli,’ he muttered grudgingly in the local dialect.\u003cbr\u003ePlainly he had not wanted the meeting to take place. ‘To do this\u003cbr\u003ewe have sent for the ghost-caller, the \u003ci\u003engwane inala. He will tell\u003cbr\u003eus who the killer is.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe ghost-caller was sitting with his back to the wall, facing\u003cbr\u003ethe other men. He was in his sixties, small and emaciated, his\u003cbr\u003emeagre frame racked periodically with hacking coughs. He wore\u003cbr\u003eonly a brief thong about his loins. His face and body were\u003cbr\u003ecriss-crossed with gaudy and intricate patterns painted on with\u003cbr\u003ethe magic lime. Barely visible beneath the decorations on his face\u003cbr\u003ewere a number of vertical scars, slashed there long ago when he\u003cbr\u003efirst set out to learn the calling incantations. Laid out on the\u003cbr\u003eground before him were two stringed hunting bows, some leaves\u003cbr\u003eof the red dracaena plant, a few coconuts and a carved wooden\u003cbr\u003ebowl containing trochus shells.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAccording to the gossip Kella had managed to pick up since\u003cbr\u003ehis arrival at the village, the ghost-caller had been summoned to\u003cbr\u003einvestigate the sudden death of Senda Iabuli, a perfectly\u003cbr\u003eundistinguished villager, an elderly widower with no surviving\u003cbr\u003echildren.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGRAEME KENT\u003cbr\u003e8\u003cbr\u003eIabuli’s first and only claim to notoriety had occurred a month\u003cbr\u003ebefore. Early one morning he had been on his way to work in\u003cbr\u003ehis garden on the side of a mountain just outside the village. He\u003cbr\u003ehad, as always, crossed a ravine by way of a narrow swing bridge\u003cbr\u003econsisting of creepers and logs lashed together. As he had made\u003cbr\u003ehis precarious way to the far side, a sudden gust of wind had\u003cbr\u003ecaught the old man and sent him toppling helplessly hundreds of\u003cbr\u003efeet down into the valley below.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe event had been witnessed by a group of men hunting wild\u003cbr\u003epigs. It had taken them most of the morning to descend the\u003cbr\u003etree-covered slope into the ravine to recover the body of the old\u003cbr\u003evillager. To their amazement, they had discovered Senda Iabuli\u003cbr\u003ealive and well, if considerably shaken and winded. His fall had\u003cbr\u003ebeen broken by the leafy tops of the trees, from which he had\u003cbr\u003eslithered down to end up dazed and bruised on a pile of moss at\u003cbr\u003ethe foot of a casuarina tree.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe old man had been helped back to the village, confused\u003cbr\u003eand shaking, but apparently none the worse for his experience.\u003cbr\u003eFor several weeks he had resumed his customary innocuous\u003cbr\u003eexistence. Then one morning he had been found dead in his hut.\u003cbr\u003eNormally that would have been the end of the matter, but for\u003cbr\u003esome unfathomable reason a relative of Iabuli had demanded an\u003cbr\u003einvestigation into his death. This was the family’s right by\u003cbr\u003ecustom and had caused the headman to send for the ghost-caller.\u003cbr\u003eKella had heard of the events and had invited himself to the\u003cbr\u003eceremony.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe ghost-caller picked up one of the red dracaena leaves and\u003cbr\u003esplit it down the middle. He wrapped one half around the other\u003cbr\u003eto strengthen it. Then he placed the reinforced leaf in the carved\u003cbr\u003ebowl. Next, he shuffled the two stringed bows on the ground\u003cbr\u003ebefore him. Each was a little less than full size, fashioned of palm\u003cbr\u003ewood, with strings of twisted red and yellow vegetable fibres.\u003cbr\u003eThe bows represented two Lau ghosts, the spirits of men who\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDEVIL-DEVIL\u003cbr\u003e9\u003cbr\u003ehad once walked the earth. The ghost-caller threw back his head\u003cbr\u003eand started to chant an incantation in a high-pitched, keening\u003cbr\u003etone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe calling went on for more than an hour as the caller\u003cbr\u003ebegged the right spirits to enter the \u003ci\u003ebeu. They had a long way to\u003cbr\u003ecome, for the souls of the dead resided on the island of Momulo,\u003cbr\u003efar away. Suddenly the chanting ended. The caller stiffened, his\u003cbr\u003eback rigid and his eyes closed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘The ghosts ride,’ murmured the headman, nodding sagely, as\u003cbr\u003eif these events were all his doing. Some of the elders nodded\u003cbr\u003eobsequious agreement. The custom man before them was now\u003cbr\u003epossessed of the spirits of the departed \u003ci\u003eagalo.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Who comes?’ demanded the ghost-caller. Spasms racked his\u003cbr\u003ebody. Voices began to emerge from his mouth. There were two\u003cbr\u003eof them, speaking in different pitches. Kella had been expecting\u003cbr\u003ethem both. The ghost-caller had taken no chances, adhering to\u003cbr\u003ethe main ancestral ghosts of the region, ones everyone present\u003cbr\u003ewould know. He had selected Takilu, the war god, and Sina\u003cbr\u003eKwao of the red hair, who had once killed the giant lizard which\u003cbr\u003ehad threatened to devour all of Malaita. Only a ghost-caller was\u003cbr\u003eallowed to address these spirits by their names.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs each ghost spoke, the relevant bow quivered on the\u003cbr\u003eground. The caller was good, thought Kella. The police sergeant\u003cbr\u003ehad been watching the emaciated man closely, and was sure that\u003cbr\u003ethere were no threads connecting the weapons to the ghostcaller,\u003cbr\u003ewhich could be twitched surreptitiously to make them\u003cbr\u003eflutter. He could only assume that the custom man was\u003cbr\u003edrumming on the ground with his iron-hard heels to set up the\u003cbr\u003enecessary vibrations.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e","brand":"Soho Crime","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304651870437,"sku":"NP9781616950606","price":16.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781616950606.jpg?v=1767725051","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/devildevil-isbn-9781616950606","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}