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Catherine Dufour, l'autrice du Goût de l'immortalité (Prix Rosny aîné 2006, Grand Prix de l'Imaginaire 2007), d'Entends la nuit (Prix Masterton 2019) et, plus récemment, de Danse avec les lutins (Prix Imaginales 2020) nous explique en quoi l'ordre des Bene Gesserit est… une… plantade. En gros. Si, si.
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Résumé :
A serial killer is on the loose in San Francisco.
Only when Lieutenant Larry Foggia is assigned to the case does the true horror of the killer's motive come to light.
A ritual killer – nicknamed 'Satan' – stalks the city, killing in terrible ways with no apparent motive. Enter Lieutenant Foggia who, assisted by a spiritualist medium, must discover the reason for the slayings. But the truth he unearths is beyond anything he's encountered... >Voir plus
Only when Lieutenant Larry Foggia is assigned to the case does the true horror of the killer's motive come to light.
A ritual killer – nicknamed 'Satan' – stalks the city, killing in terrible ways with no apparent motive. Enter Lieutenant Foggia who, assisted by a spiritualist medium, must discover the reason for the slayings. But the truth he unearths is beyond anything he's encountered... >Voir plus
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Black Angel est l'histoire d'un serial killer et on plonge directement dans un (le) bain de sang, cette fois.
Une histoire de tueur en série particulièrement cruel, qui nous plonge directement dans un bain de sang et nous retourne les tripes.
Nous sommes à San Francisco, dont je rêve de voir le pont, au passage, et des meurtres particulièrement sanglants endeuillent la ville.
La police piétine, d'autant que l'origine des massacres est surnaturelle et que faire quand on est confronté à ce qui n'existe pas, du moins quand on a les pieds bien ancrés dans la réalité ? Mais quand des visages se manifestent dans votre propre main et vous parlent ?
Le Maître nous a habitués à son écriture directe et sans fioritures, il ne nous a une nouvelle fois pas déçus.
À lire en français, donc, ou en anglais pour ceux qui le peuvent, la traduction n'étant pas vraiment extraordinaire.
Une histoire de tueur en série particulièrement cruel, qui nous plonge directement dans un bain de sang et nous retourne les tripes.
Nous sommes à San Francisco, dont je rêve de voir le pont, au passage, et des meurtres particulièrement sanglants endeuillent la ville.
La police piétine, d'autant que l'origine des massacres est surnaturelle et que faire quand on est confronté à ce qui n'existe pas, du moins quand on a les pieds bien ancrés dans la réalité ? Mais quand des visages se manifestent dans votre propre main et vous parlent ?
Le Maître nous a habitués à son écriture directe et sans fioritures, il ne nous a une nouvelle fois pas déçus.
À lire en français, donc, ou en anglais pour ceux qui le peuvent, la traduction n'étant pas vraiment extraordinaire.
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It was 9:03 on the night of Thursday, August 11, 1988. Joe stood up with his cigarette dangling between his lips and carried his plate to the dishwasher. “I wish you’d quit,” Nina chided him, taking out the cigarette and kissing him. “Two a day, is that smoking?” he appealed. “Two too many. I want you to live for ever.” There were marginally fewer than eight minutes left to go. Joe said, “I’ll try to cut down to one, okay? But you’ll have to give me time to decide which one. I need the morning one to get me going and the evening one to calm me down.” “Oh, decisions, decisions,” Nina teased him.
He lowered his head. There was a moment when he didn’t know whether he would be able to do it or not. After all, what guarantee did he have, after he had nailed Nina’s hand to the floor, that the man wouldn’t kill them anyway? But his police training kept telling him: compromise, take the line of least resistance. He had seen too many times what had happened to people who had tried to be heroes.
She sipped her coffee. “Did I tell you that Caroline won a Snickers bar for painting today?” Four minutes to go. Joe looked up. “They give away candy at school, as prizes? I thought candy was a punishment, not a reward.” “Oh, Joe, one small Snickers bar isn’t going to hurt.” “Well, I don’t know. It kind of usurps parental discretion, don’t you think? You try to bring up your kids right, take care of their teeth, take care of their weight. It sure doesn’t help when their teacher starts handing out candy.”
Shaking wildly, Nina held the nail between finger and thumb, about two or three inches above the back of Joe’s hand. Joe took hold of the point and placed it between his finger-joints, well clear of his veins. “I can’t do it,” Nina panted. “I can’t do it. Please don’t ask me to do it.” “Listen,” said Joe, “it won’t even hurt. You remember Bill Gates? He caught a .45 slug in the middle of his hand, just like he was playing baseball. He didn’t even feel it, and he’s fine now. Absolutely fine.”
“Joe—!” gasped Nina, in desperation. “It’s okay, sweetheart, it’s okay,” Joe told her, knowing all the time that, Jesus, this guy could go crazy at an instant, and cut her throat, and kill me too, he’s totally irrational. Who the hell busts into somebody’s condo with a jack? Who takes out their whole door, when there’s nothing to steal but silver-plated baseball trophies and a four-year-old video recorder? Who the hell wears an insect mask and smothers themselves in blood?
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