{"product_id":"the-innocents-isbn-9780399185472","title":"The Innocents","description":"\u003cb\u003eQuinn Colson returns to Jericho, Mississippi, and gets pulled back into a world of greed and violence in this gritty, darkly comic tale from \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling Southern crime master Ace Atkins.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003eAfter being voted out of office and returning to the war zone he’d left behind, Quinn Colson is back in Jericho, trying to fix things with his still-married high school girlfriend and retired Hollywood stuntman father. Quinn knows he doesn't owe his hometown a damn thing, but he can't resist the pull of becoming a lawman again and accepts a badge from his former colleague, foul-mouthed acting Sheriff Lillie Virgil. Both officers have fought corruption in Tibbehah County before, but the case they must confront now is nothing like they've ever seen...\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen a former high school cheerleader is found walking a back road completely engulfed in flames, everyone in Jericho wants answers for the senseless act of violence. As Quinn and Lillie uncover old secrets and new lies, the entire town turns against them, and they soon learn that the most dangerous enemies may be the ones you trust most.\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThe Innocents\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“[N]othing short of riveting, a page turner that you will stay up all night to read....Atkins is a master of description on all points of the continuum....While I inwardly groan at the thought of having to wait another year for more Quinn Colson, my feelings are balanced by the certainty that it will be worth it.”—Bookreporter.com \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The rough-and-tumble relationship between two tough-as-nails law officers and the place they love provides plenty of action [and] well-developed characters.”—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Quinn has to be the most refreshing \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e Bestselling series character (there are numerous unsung independent publishing protagonists just as worthy) that I’ve come across in quite some time, and I’m hard pressed to name others that compare on this level—and, holy hell, that’s an invigorating statement to make…What else is there to say...read \u003ci\u003eThe Innocents\u003c\/i\u003e by Ace Atkins. It’s literary crime fiction worthy of the hype.”—CriminalElement.com\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eMore Praise For Ace Atkins’s Quinn Colson Series\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“In Quinn Colson, bestselling author Ace Atkins has created an American hero in a time when we need him.”—C. J. Box \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ace Atkins’s Quinn Colson series is, quite simply, the best in crime fiction today—and also so much more. With a rich cast of characters, and a hero we can count on, these are tales of morality and desperation, of shocking violence and the enduring resilience of family and community. And the emotional places they take us make them unforgettable.”—Megan Abbott \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Quinn Colson is my kind of guy. I would follow him anywhere.”—Lee Child \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Atkins finds his natural-born storytellers everywhere. It’s all music to these ears.”—Marilyn Stasio, \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eAce Atkins \u003c\/b\u003eis the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of the Quinn Colson novels, the first two of which—\u003ci\u003eThe Ranger\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Lost Ones\u003c\/i\u003e—were nominated for the Edgar Award for Best Novel (he also has a third Edgar nomination for his short story, “Last Fair Deal Gone Down”). In addition, he is the author of several \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling novels in the continuation of Robert B. Parker’s Spenser series. Before turning to fiction, he was a correspondent for the\u003ci\u003e St. Petersburg Times\u003c\/i\u003e, a crime reporter for the\u003ci\u003e Tampa Tribune\u003c\/i\u003e, and, in college, played defensive end for the undefeated Auburn University football team (for which he was featured on the cover of \u003ci\u003eSports Illustrated\u003c\/i\u003e). He lives in Oxford, Mississippi.1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Lillie Virgil stood high on a north Mississippi hill at daybreak      listening to old Ruthie Holder talk about the man who'd run off      with her grandson's Kawasaki four-wheeler and her brand-new      twelve-gauge Browning. Ruthie said she'd just gotten home from the      Piggly Wiggly with a week's worth of groceries when this skinny,      bucktoothed varmint jumped out of the bushes and started in with a      lot of crazy talk.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"What exactly did he say, Miss Holder?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"He told me that the g.d. Mexican cartel was in my kitchen making      chorizo and eggs and if I walked inside they'd have their way with      me,\" she said. \"I told him it was a lot of foolish talk, but he      insisted on going in without me. Next thing I knew, he was running      out with my Browning and headed to the shed.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Lillie reached down and lowered the volume on the police radio.      She was tall, with an athlete's lean muscles and lots of crazy      light brown hair she kept neat in a bun and under a ball cap. That      day, she wore gold aviator glasses, a Glock 19 on her hip, and      chewed gum, as she asked, \"Have you ever seen this asshole      before?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"This man wasn't wearing a shirt or shoes, just a pair of ragged      old Levi's,\" Ruthie Holder said. \"He had a tattoo of Hank Williams      Junior on his back. Do you think I'd ever consort with trash like      that?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"No, ma'am,\" Lillie said. Ruthie ran the Citizens Bank for years,      served as president of the local chapter of the Daughters of the      American Revolution, and still offered her harp-playing skills to      local weddings and funerals. Lillie didn't think she even knew      \"All My Rowdy Friends\" or \"Whiskey Bent and Hell Bound.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I sure love that gun,\" Ruthie said. \"I won it in a raffle. And      since my husband died, it gave me a lot of comfort.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Understand that,\" Lillie said. \"I feel the same way about the      Winchester I had at Ole Miss. I won a lot of tournaments with      her.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Her?\" Ruthie said. \"Didn't know a gun could be a woman.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Lillie smiled and shrugged. Standing tall, feeling good after      running five miles that morning, finishing it off with a hundred      push-ups and a hundred sit-ups. If she was going to watch over      Tibbehah County in the years to come, better be in shape. \"Makes      complete sense to me,\" she said. \"What'd this man look like and      which way did he head?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"He was ugly.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Yes, ma'am,\" Lillie said. \"But can you be more specific, Mrs.      Holder?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Skinny and rangy. Black hair, but shaved down,\" she said. \"Wore      an earring. And had thin little hairs sprouting on his chin. Like      some kind of animal. What does all that matter? How many folks do      you know riding four-wheelers without shirts and sporting a tattoo      of Hank Junior?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Lillie grinned at her. \"In this county?\" she asked. \"About every      other son of a bitch.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Lillie told her they'd find him, already knowing they were looking      for an authentic piece of crap named David John Norwood. She'd      arrested Norwood for aggravated assault and drug possession a few      weeks after becoming acting sheriff, back when the newly elected      sheriff Rusty Wise got himself killed. Norwood only got probation      and was left to raise hell and stir shit across the county as he      pleased.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Lillie climbed into her Jeep Cherokee with its big gold star on      the door, grabbed the mic, and called in to Mary Alice at      dispatch. \"Can you get me D. J. Norwood's parole officer?\" she      said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Oh, Lord,\" Mary Alice said. \"What's that boy done now?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Same old shit,\" Lillie said. \"Lost his fucking mind. Also get me      Jimmy Deets over at Wildlife. I think Norwood's headed way, way      off road and into the Big Woods.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Which direction?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Headed north,\" Lillie said. \"I say he's going into the National      Forest, looking for the Trace.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Why?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Probably because he wants to be with the rest of the animals,\"      she said. \"Let Deets know he is armed, dangerous, and crazy as      hell.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Lillie Virgil knocked her Cherokee in gear, following the muddy      ATV tracks until they hit a dirt road into the hills. The back      wheels of the Jeep spun out dirt and gravel before finding solid      footing. She lowered the window and listened, chewing gum, rifle      in the passenger seat at her side.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e So you were a cheerleader?Ó Fannie Hathcock asked the young girl      sitting in a chair in front of her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Yes, ma'am.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Don't 'Yes, ma'am' me or I won't ever give you a job,\" Fannie      said. \"Just how old do you think I am?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I don't know,\" the girl said. She shuffled in her seat and      glanced away. \"Hate to say.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"But old,\" Fannie said. \"You think I'm over-the-hill? Too old to      show my goodies to fat old truckers?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I didn't mean nothing by it,\" the girl said. \"I just was trying      to be respectful, is all. You dress real nice. Smell good. And you      own your own place.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Fannie smoothed down the lace on her white Valentino skirt, black      shirt open wide at the throat. She wore a bright ruby in the shape      of a heart on a chain around her neck. \"You like it better than      the old place?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I never saw the old place,\" the girl said. \"My dad used to go      there. When he'd go on a drunk with his uncle and them. My mom      said it was against God. But she's always saying things like      that.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Fannie, a true and authentic redhead cap to cat, rested her      butt-nice and tight, for a woman in her forties-on the edge of her      desk. Her office door was open, and from where she looked over the      girl's shoulder she could get a good bird's-eye view of the floor      of Vienna's. Vienna's Place is what she'd rechristened the      renovated space of a true Mississippi shithole called the Booby      Trap. Vienna was Fannie's grandmother, the woman who taught her      the Golden Rule-Men will do anything for pussy. Vienna sure had      made her rich.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Fannie tapped at a Dunhill box and lifted a small brown cigarillo      into her mouth and looked down at the girl. Bleached blonde hair,      a dull, freckled face, and one piercing in her nose and one in the      tongue. She also had a streak of black in the blonde. Girl said      she was eighteen, but Fannie would need to see some ID. That's the      last thing she needed-trouble with the law over damn Southern      jailbait.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You know some tricks?\" Fannie said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Excuse me?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I don't mean your twat, baby,\" she said. \"I mean with all the      cheerleading. Flips, tumbling. A damn naked handstand.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I was a flyer.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"What the hell's a flyer?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I was on top,\" the girl said. \"Bigger girls would lift me up and      toss me into the air.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Nobody will toss you around here,\" Fannie said. \"We look out for      our girls. Nobody gets hurt. I'm not Johnny Fucking Stagg.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I hear the money is real good.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"It is,\" Fannie said, spewing smoke from the side of her mouth.      \"But the house gets forty percent. And you need to tip your      bouncer and the DJ every damn night. You need to get straight with      that right off.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The girl's freckled face dropped. She looked down at her stubby      little fingers, with black nail polish, probably thinking that she      could keep all that trucker cash as long as she showed off those      perky young boobies and shook that smooth, shaved tail.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"OK,\" the girl said. \"When can I start?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"When can you show me some ID?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The young girl opened up her purse. She had on a short pink      T-shirt, cutoff jeans, and cheap brown boots inlaid with cactuses      and cowboys. She showed her ID. Looked to be she was telling the      truth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Ever get nekkid?\" Fannie said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Sure.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"For money?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The girl shrugged.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"All of it flashing and jiggling on a hot white stage,\" Fannie      said. \"With nasty old truckers and gray-headed perverts wanting to      lick you like a damn ice cream cone.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I can do it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Lap dance is forty bucks,\" Fannie said. \"I never minded the      grind. But I sure minded the smell.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"What if they mess with you?\" the girl said, looking Fannie full      on in the eye now. \"What if they're wanting to touch you and all?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"They can touch up top all they want, but never below,\" Fannie      said. \"One of them wants to start dialing home with his digits,      you just make sure Lyle knows.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The girl looked confused. \"Who's Lyle?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Runs a group of Bad News Bears around here called the Born      Losers,\" she said. \"They ride bikes and raise hell out of the      motel across the street. The Golden Cherry. When they're not too      drunk or stoned, they offer us some protection. That's the other      rule-Don't mess with the bikers. They're hired help.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Yes, ma'am.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"God damn it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Sorry.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Fannie smiled while the smoke scattered from the office and out      into the big open space of Vienna's. Ceiling fans broke it apart.      She'd taken down old Johnny's place to the studs and built it back      up, with a new tin roof, heart pine floors, and a long old bar      she'd had shipped piece by piece from Kansas City, Missouri.      Fannie \"Belle\" Hathcock had just upped the class in this north      Mississippi town by a hundred and fifty percent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Whatta you say, girl?\" Fannie said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Forty percent?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Let me know if you find better job opportunities in Jericho,\"      Fannie said. \"I heard they're hiring a fry cook down at the      Sonic.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In his previous life as the go-to Hollywood stuntman, Quinn      ColsonÕs dad, Jason, mustÕve landed on his head a few times. Ever      since heÕd come back to Jericho, heÕd been filled with all kinds      of crazy ideas, schemes, and various delusions. There was a kidsÕ      go-cart track he wanted to open in the parking lot of the old      Kentucky Fried Chicken, or bring a Hooters to the people of      Tibbehah County-he knew some people in Memphis whoÕd back him-and,      lately, heÕd been talking about turning QuinnÕs farm into a dude      ranch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Quinn didn't have time for any of it. He'd been going on little      sleep since returning from Afghanistan seven days earlier, where      he'd been training a local police force on behalf of the U.S.      government. He was in his mid-thirties now, tall and lean, with a      sharp-chiseled face, the high cheekbones from some Choctaw blood      mixed in the ornery Scotch-Irish. Overseas, he'd let his hair grow      out a bit, and now he sported a neat dark beard. He had on an old      white tee and a pair of Levi's, as he watched the sun rise across      his land, smoking a Liga Privada, with his cattle dog, Hondo,      laying at his feet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jason rode up soon after, lashing his quarter horse to Quinn's      truck's tailgate. \"Hadn't you shaved yet?\" Jason said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Barbershop's been closed since Mr. Jim died.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Might oughtta keep it,\" Jason said. \"Women sure do love outlaws.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"That what you were?\" Quinn said. \"Out in L.A.?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jason grinned. \"If that's what they wanted,\" he said. \"Then, sure.      Beach bunnies could call me Jesse James. Come on and walk with me,      I got something to talk about.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"We can talk right here on the porch.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Be better if we get up, see some things, get the old imaginations      working.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Hell, Dad,\" Quinn said. \"I know exactly what you're wanting to      show me and the answer is no thank you. Can't you just let a man      rest a bit? Sit back and fire up a stick with his dog he hasn't      seen in a long while?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Plenty of time for Hondo,\" Jason said. \"But opportunity?      Opportunity doesn't come around that often. Can't you hear that      sound?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"That's just the cicadas,\" he said. \"Screwing in the trees. They      sure love all this heat.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Quinn stood up, stretched, and walked back into the old tin-roofed      farmhouse that had stood on his family's land since 1895 and      grabbed a pair of beaten cowboy boots. He slid them on, broken-in      and comfortable, and returned, the screen door thwacking behind      him. The house had a natural shotgun cooling effect between front      door and back that helped as the summer wound down.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He reached for his cigar, burning on top of a coffee mug, and      followed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jason was in his mid-sixties, wiry and fit, with a weathered face      from years of drinking, fighting, and professionally racking up      the odometer on his body. He kept a mustache and goatee, now      snow-white like his longish hair. His T-shirt read stunts      unlimited, an organization he'd helped found in the 1970s with a      crazy man from Arkansas named Hal Needham. As Jason walked, Quinn      noted the limp in his right leg was growing worse. The ball socket      in his dad's hip and some of his femur had been telescoped when a      landing platform busted on the set of The Fall Guy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was hard for Quinn to pass judgment on someone who punished his      body. Quinn's ten years as a U.S. Army Ranger, most of it as a      sergeant in some godforsaken country, had left him with a lot of      mileage and scars. The years he'd spent as Tibbehah County sheriff      had earned him a couple of gunshot wounds, which the people repaid      by voting him out of office a year ago.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He followed his father through a ragged, twisting trail into some      second-growth woods of pine, oak, and cedar, fringes of the land      being eaten up by kudzu. It had rained the night before and the      air smelled of damp earth and leaves, the canopy above him a      bright green, lichen on the big trunks of oaks almost glowing.      Water continued to drip on pine needles.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I know you've just gotten home,\" Jason said, \"but you need to      think on the future. You need to think about what's going to be      here after I'm gone and you're gone. Don't you want to leave      something for Little Jason? Or if you and Anna Lee start having      kids of your own?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Nothing's going to happen to this land,\" Quinn said. \"And I don't      think I'm having kids anytime soon.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Y'all talking?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Quinn didn't answer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I started late,\" Jason said. \"Missed out on a lot of things.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You missed out on a lot of things because you lived thousands of      miles away.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"For a damn good reason.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Quinn just nodded, not sure if his dad had seen him or not, the      older man intent on getting up the trail with that bad leg,      cresting the hill over to the land that he wanted to discuss with      Quinn. When the trail ended, so did the trees. And most living      things. That rotten son of a bitch Johnny Stagg had strip-cleared      one hundred acres of property that had once belonged to Quinn's      uncle. When Uncle Hamp had fallen behind on some gambling debt,      Stagg had swooped in, taken over the land, cut down every single      tree, and bulldozed what was left. Johnny Stagg was like that.      Conservation and the environment were four-letter words to his      kind. And the reason every morning was a little brighter now with      Stagg in federal prison.","brand":"G.P. Putnam's Sons","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301404922085,"sku":"NP9780399185472","price":22.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780399185472.jpg?v=1767739947","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-innocents-isbn-9780399185472","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}