Mystery writer Marty Stillwater’s happy life in southern California is turned upside-down by a stranger claiming to be he. By the best-selling author of Midnight.
Winter that year was strange and gray.
The damp wind smelled of Apocalypse, and morning skies had a peculiar way of slipping cat-quick into midnight.
–The Book of Counted Sorrows
Life is an unrelenting comedy. Therein
lies the tragedy of it.
the Dead Bishop, Martin Stillwater Leaning back in his comfortable leather office chair, rocking gently, holding a compact cassette recorder in his right hand and dictating a letter to his editor in New York, Martin Stillwater suddenly realized he was repeating the same two words in a dreamy whisper.
“. . . I need . . . I need . . . I need . ..”
Frowning, Marty clicked off the recorder.
His train of thought had clattered down a siding and chugged to a stop.
He could not recall what he had been about to say.
The big house was not merely quiet but eerily still. Paige had taken the kids to lunch and a Saturday matinee movie.
But this childless silence was more than just a condition. It had substance. The air felt heavy with it.
He put one hand to the nape of his neck. His palm was cool and moist.
