By Dick Francis
Author John Kendall travels to England to interview a racehorse coach with anything to hide-a mystery which can threaten Kendall's existence.
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Extra info for Longshot
I envisioned myself showering beneath a freezing waterfall, using moss for tampons, shaving my armpits with clamshells, and attempting to skin roadkill with a chunk of sharp stone. I’d have the sky, the stars, and the great outdoors. But no toilet paper, clean underwear, or M&Ms. And if I wanted to get right down to it, I didn’t actually know how to make a fire to char my squashed squirrels. In Girl Scouts they’d tried to teach us to produce fire by rubbing two sticks together, but all I’d ever produced were blisters.
Arrested, tried, found guilty, sentenced to life in Taycheedah. I’d been terrified the day I arrived. I was small, scrawny, and street-dumb. I knew how to unjam a copier, tune a piano, and duct tape a sagging skirt hem, but I had no clue how to survive in a prison full of hard-as-nails women. I’d seen Chicks in Chains; I imagined tough girls in denims and barbed wire tattoos pinning me up against the bars and setting to work with a plunger handle. As it turned out, nobody pinned or plunger-handled me.
She didn’t. She just yawned, leaning against a tree, staring glassily into space. Obviously, distant lightning wasn’t high on her list of concerns. ” I said to Tina, who was picking on the opposite side of my row. ” Tina scoffed. ” The heat was making me cranky. It was Tina’s fault I was on this gulag detail in the first place. ” Tina’s logic made my brain hurt. I opened my mouth to explain her faulty reasoning, which would probably have resulted in Tina’s giving me a mashed tomato facial, but at that moment a siren began to wail.