By Jonathan Santlofer
Nate Rodriguez is a police comic strip artist for the NYPD, and his good fortune expense is excessive, with one out of 3 of his drawings resulting in an arrest. but if he's confronted with an surprisingly proficient killer, he realizes that he can have met his fit. For this killer is a guy a great deal like himself–a guy who sees and thinks in images. A killer who leaves drawings on the crime scenes depicting his murders in chilling, gory–and prescient–detail.
As Nate's pictures turn into progressively more exact pictures of the madman–the killer reveals the way to scouse borrow Nate's graphics after which imitate Nate's personal hand. The conflicting proof leads the police to suspect that Nate himself may be the killer and pushes Nate right into a scary cat and mouse chase for his quarry. lifestyles and demise, artwork and artifice have by no means been so vividly sure jointly.
Jonathan Santlofer pushes the bounds of the mystery to new heights with this masterful mix of paintings and suspense. With sequential sketches that trade through the text–first the killer's, then Nate's–Santlofer teases us with impossible to resist clues and mental information brought in a hugely unique way.
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Additional info for Anatomy of Fear: A Novel of Visual Suspense
She raised a jeweled hand to stop me from talking. “There is a man in the room—or the spirit of a man. Chango has sent a warning. I cannot see him, but . . ” My grandmother looked at me as if believing I could, but lifted a ﬁnger to my lips. “Escucha,” she said. I stopped talking and did as she asked, listened. “Hay más,” she said, and explained it. I went back to the drawing and tried to capture what she described. “It looks like hell,” I said. “Your vision. ” I laughed, but my grandmother did not.
She pointed to the paper and explained what it was she wanted me to add. I’d gotten into it, I always did, adding details, blending with my ﬁngertips. “Bueno,” she said, then sat back and crossed herself. “But . . ” “What’s bad? ” “No, neno. ” She raised a jeweled hand to stop me from talking. “There is a man in the room—or the spirit of a man. Chango has sent a warning. I cannot see him, but . . ” My grandmother looked at me as if believing I could, but lifted a ﬁnger to my lips. “Escucha,” she said.
Qué pasa, uela? ” “I had a dream,” she said. ” She nodded. ” Another shrug and wave of the bangle-bracelet hand. ” I’d been drawing her visions for half my life—mostly Chagalllike fantasies with clouds, wild plants, Latin crosses, and the occasional dancing animal. But there had been bad visions too, dark and brooding ones ﬁlled with omens that even as a boy had chilled me. My grandmother hadn’t kept those. I suspected she had burned them, offered them up to one of the orishas as some form of sacriﬁce.