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Darkest Fear [Anglais] [Relié]

Harlan Coben
3.6 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (5 commentaires client)

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Extrait

An hour before his world exploded like a ripe tomato under a stiletto heel, Myron bit into a fresh pastry that tasted suspiciously like a urinal cake.

"Well?" Mom prompted.

Myron battled his throat, won a costly victory, swallowed. "Not bad."

Mom shook her head, disappointed.

"What?"

"I'm a lawyer," Mom said. "You'd think I'd have raised a better liar."

"You did the best you could," Myron said.

She shrugged and waved a hand at the, uh, pastry. "It's my first time baking, bubbe. It's okay to tell me the truth."

"It's like biting into a urinal cake," Myron said.

"A what?"

"In men's public bathrooms. In the urinals. They put them there for the smell or something."

"And you eat them?"

"No--"

"Is that why your father takes so long in there? He's having a little Tastykake? And here I thought his prostate was acting up."

"I'm joking, Mom."

She smiled through blue eyes tinged with a red that Visine could never hope to get out, the red you can only get through slow, steady tears. Normally Mom was heavily into histrionics. Slow, steady tears were not her style. "So am I, Mr. Smarty Pants. You think you're the only one in this family with a sense of humor?"

Myron said nothing. He looked down at the, uh, pastry, fearing or perhaps hoping it might crawl away. In the thirty-plus years his mother had lived in this house, she had never baked -- not from a recipe, not from scratch, not even from one of those Pillsbury morning croissant thingies that came in small mailing tubes. She could barely boil water without strict instructions and pretty much never cooked, though she could whip up a mean Celeste frozen pizza in the microwave, her agile fingers dancing across the numerical keypad in the vein of Nureyev at Lincoln Center. No, in the Bolitar household, the kitchen was more a gathering place -- a Family Room Lite, if you will -- than anything related to even the basest of the culinary arts. The round table held magazines and catalogs and congealing white boxes of Chinese takeout. The stovetop saw less action than a Merchant-Ivory production. The oven was a prop, strictly for show, like a politician's Bible.

Something was definitely amiss.

They were sitting in the living room with the dated pseudo-leather white modular couch and aqua-tinged rug whose shagginess reminded Myron of a toilet-seat cover. Grown-up Greg Brady. Myron kept stealing glances out the picture window at the For Sale sign in the front yard as though it were a spaceship that had just landed and something sinister was about to step out.

"Where's Dad?"

Mom gave a weary wave toward the door. "He's in the basement."

"In my room?"

"Your old room, yes. You moved out, remember?"

He did -- at the tender age of thirty-four no less. Childcare experts would salivate and tsk-tsk over that one -- the prodigal son choosing to remain in his split-level cocoon long after the deemed appropriate deadline for the butterfly to break free. But Myron might argue the opposite. He might bring up the fact that for generations and in most cultures, offspring lived in the familial home until a ripe old age, that adopting such a philosophy could indeed be a societal boom, helping people stay rooted to something tangible in this era of the disintegrating nuclear family. Or, if that rationale didn't float your boat, Myron could try another. He had a million.

But the truth of the matter was far simpler: He liked hanging out in the burbs with Mom and Dad -- even if confessing such a sentiment was about as hip as an Air Supply eight track.

"So what's going on?" he asked.

"Your father doesn't know you're here yet," she said. "He thinks you're not coming for another hour."

Myron nodded, puzzled. "What's he doing in the basement?"

"He bought a computer. Your father plays with it down there."

"Dad?"

"My point exactly. The man can't change a lightbulb without a manual -- all of a sudden he's Bill Gates. Always on the nest."

"The Net," Myron corrected.

"The what?"

"It's called the Net, Mom."

"I thought it was nest. The bird's nest or something."

"No, it's Net."

"Are you sure? I know there's a bird in there somewhere."

"The Web maybe," Myron tried. "Like with a spider."

She snapped her fingers. "That's it. Anyway your father is on there all the time, weaving the Web or whatever. He chats with people, Myron. That's what he tells me. He chats with complete strangers. Like he used to do with the CB radio, remember?"

Myron remembered. Circa 1976. Jewish Dads in the suburbs checking for "smokeys" on the way to the delicatessen. Mighty convoy of Cadillac Sevilles. Ten-four, good buddy.

"And that's not all," she went on. "He's typing his memoirs. A man who can't scribble down a grocery list without consulting Strunk and White suddenly thinks he's an ex-president."

They were selling the house. Myron still could not believe it. His eyes wandered about the overly familiar surroundings, his gaze getting snagged on the photographs running up the stairwell. He saw his family mature via fashion -- the skirts and sideburns lengthening and shortening, the quasi-hippie fringes and suede and tie-dyes, the leisure suits and bell-bottoms, the frilly tuxedos that would be too tacky for a Vegas casino -- the years flying by frame by frame like one of those depressing life insurance commercials. He spotted the poses from his basketball days -- a sixth-grade suburban-league foul shot, an eighth-grade drive to the hoop, a high school slam dunk -- the row ending with Sports Illustrated cover shots, two from his days at Duke and one with his leg in a cast and a large-fonted IS HE FINISHED? emblazoned across his knee-cast image (the answer in the mind's eye being an equally large-fonted YES!).

"So what's wrong?" he asked.

"I didn't say anything was wrong."

Myron shook his head, disappointed. "And you a lawyer."

"Setting a bad example?"

"It's no wonder I never ran for higher office."

She folded her hands on her lap. "We need to chat."

Myron didn't like the tone.

"But not here," she added. "Let's take a walk around the block."

Myron nodded and they rose. Before they reached the door, his cell phone rang. Myron snatched it up with a speed that would have made Wyatt Earp step back. He put the phone to his ear and cleared his throat.

"MB SportsReps," he said, silky-smooth, professional-like. "This is Myron Bolitar speaking."

"Nice phone voice," Esperanza said. "You sound like Billy Dee ordering two Colt 45s."

Esperanza Diaz was his longtime assistant and now sports-agent partner at MB SportsReps (M for Myron, the B for Bolitar -- for those keeping score).

"I was hoping you were Lamar," he said.

"He hasn't called yet?"

"Nope."

He could almost see Esperanza frown. "We're in deep doo-doo here," she said.

"We're not in deep doo-doo. We're just sucking a little wind, that's all."

"Sucking a little wind," Esperanza repeated. "Like Pavarotti running the Boston Marathon."

"Good one," Myron said.

"Thanks."

Lamar Richardson was a power-hitting Golden Glove shortstop who'd just become a free agent -- "free agent" being a phrase agents whisper in the same way a mufti might whisper "Praise Allah." Lamar was shopping for new representation and had whittled his final list down to three agencies: two supersized conglomerates with enough office space to house a Price Club and the aforementioned pimple-on-the-buttocks but oh-so-personal MB SportsReps. Go, pimple-butt!

Myron watched his mother standing by the door. He switched ears and said, "Anything else?"

"You'll never guess who called," Esperanza said.

"Elle and Claudia demanding another menage a trois?"

"Oooo, close."

She would never just tell him. With his friends, everything was a TV game show. "How about a hint?" he said.

"One of your ex-lovers."

He felt a jolt. "Jessica."

Esperanza made a buzzing noise. "Sorry, wrong bitch."

Myron was puzzled. He'd only had two long-term relationships in his life: Jessica on and off for the past thirteen years (now very off). And before that, well, you'd have to go back to...

"Emily Downing?"

Esperanza made a ding-ding noise.

A sudden image pierced his heart like a straight-blade. He saw Emily sitting on that threadbare couch in the frat basement, smiling that smile at him, her legs bent and tucked under her, wearing his high school varsity jacket that was several sizes too big, her gesturing hands slipping down and disappearing into the sleeves.

His mouth went dry. "What did she want?"

"Don't know. But she said that she simply had to talk to you. She's very breathy, you know. Like everything she says is a double entendre."

With Emily, everything was.

"She good in the sack?" Esperanza asked.

Being an overly attractive bisexual, Esperanza viewed everyone as a potential sex partner. Myron wondered what that must be like, to have and thus weigh so many options, and then he decided to leave that road untraveled. Wise man.

"What did Emily say exactly?" Myron said.

"Nothing specific. She j... --Ce texte fait référence à l'édition CD .

Revue de presse

Harlan Coben and the Myron Bolitar Novels:

"The world needs to discover Harlan Coben.  He's smart, he's funny, and he has something to say."
--Michael Connelly

"In a genre crowded with accidental detectives who seem invented only to lure cat-loving vegetarians and other special-interest readers, Myron Bolitar stands out."
--USA Today

"Don't let Coben's wry observations fool you.  They gift wrap keen insights into our society...."
--The Washington Post Book World

"Poignant and insightful...Myron is gallant, likable and delightfully original."
--Los Angeles Times

"Coben has melded sly humor, sophisticated plotting, and solid storytelling with bizarre yet believable characters."
--Chicago Tribune

"Bottom line: Slam dunk suspense from smart aleck sleuth."
--People Magazine Beach Pick of the Week


From the Hardcover edition. --Ce texte fait référence à l'édition CD .

Détails sur le produit

  • Relié: 285 pages
  • Editeur : Delacorte Pr (juillet 2000)
  • Langue : Anglais
  • ISBN-10: 0385334338
  • ISBN-13: 978-0385334334
  • Dimensions du produit: 22,4 x 15,7 x 2,5 cm
  • Moyenne des commentaires client : 3.6 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (5 commentaires client)
  • Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon: 565.201 en Livres anglais et étrangers (Voir les 100 premiers en Livres anglais et étrangers)
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En savoir plus sur l'auteur

Né en 1962, Harlan Coben vit dans le New Jersey avec sa femme et leurs quatre enfants. Diplômé en sciences politiques du Amherst College, il a travaillé dans l'industrie du voyage avant de se consacrer à l'écriture.

Depuis ses débuts en 1995, la critique n'a cessé de l'acclamer. Il est notamment le premier auteur à avoir reçu le Edgar Award, le Shamus Award et le Anthony Award, les trois prix majeurs de la littérature à suspense aux États-Unis. Traduits dans une quarantaine de langues, ses romans occupent les têtes de listes de best-sellers dans le monde entier.

Le premier de ses romans traduit en France, Ne le dis à personne (Belfond, 2002) - prix du polar des lectrices de Elle en 2003 - a obtenu d'emblée un énorme succès auprès du public et de la critique. Succès confirmé avec : Disparu à jamais (2003), Une chance de trop(2004), Juste un regard (2005), Innocent (2006), Promets-moi (2007), Dans les bois (2008), Sans un mot (2009), Sans laisser d'adresse (2010) et Sans un adieu (2010), son premier roman écrit à vingt-cinq ans à peine.

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Couverture | Copyright | Extrait | Quatrième de couverture
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4 internautes sur 4 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
3.0 étoiles sur 5 épatant 21 octobre 2004
Par batman VOIX VINE
Format:Poche|Achat vérifié
Dans ce roman on retrouve bien sûr Myron, Win, et Esperanza. Tous égaux à eux-mêmes, dans la droite lignée de la série. Les réparties de Myron sont toujours aussi succulentes. C'est une forme d'humour si particulière qu'on se demande ce qu'il peut en rester après traduction ?
L'histoire elle-même nous emmène à la recherche d'un homme qui a disparu depuis des années, afin qu'il puisse être donneur pour une greffe de moelle osseuse. Des personnages du passé de Myron, qu'on a déjà croisé dans les épisodes précédents de la série, occupent les seconds rôles : Emily et Greg Downing.
Un bon « Myron Bolitar », qui se lit avec plaisir. Myron se livre par moment à des analyses psychologiques un peu longuettes, avec Win ( !!!), mais c'est suffisamment bien intégré au fil de l'action pour ne pas gêner. Parfait pour une longue soirée d'hiver.
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2.0 étoiles sur 5 Not up to scratch 28 juin 2014
Format:Format Kindle|Achat vérifié
Not up to normal Coben standards .The plot was very weak and a bit far fetched. I would not recommend to a true Coben reader
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4.0 étoiles sur 5 Humour et bon suspens 20 septembre 2013
Par laurent
Format:Poche|Achat vérifié
Myron Bolitar a deux métiers: agent sportif et détective monomaniaque. Dans cet opus, son ex-petite amie requiert ses services pour retrouver un donneur de moelle osseuse qui seul permettra de sauver son fils.
Harban Coben dévoile au travers de chaque nouveau roman un nouveau pan de la vie de son personnage principal, lui donnant une nouvelle densité et le faisant évoluer vers une personnalité plus complexe. L'intrigue est bien ficelée, le rythme soutenu et le final intéressant.
Un bon roman.
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5.0 étoiles sur 5 Great read... I am hooked! 9 juillet 2010
Format:Poche|Achat vérifié
Seventh volume of the Myron Bolitar series.

Myron, Win and Esperanza are still going strong and the plots are even more twisted and thrilling than before. As with the others in the series, this book is witty and very entertaining.

Then there is a shocker... Myron had a brother??!!?? The brother was shot??!!?? I want to know more about that (not in this book though, I'm sad to say). Oh well, one more incentive to keep on reading the series.
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1 internautes sur 8 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
4.0 étoiles sur 5 absolument genial ! 15 août 2003
Par Un client
Format:Poche
Comme la plupart des romans d'Harlan Coben celui-ci est à nouveau génial ! Le seul incovénient comprendre l'anglais ! Alors lecteurs mettez-vous a l'anglais !!!
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