Ben Winters - Countdown City

But that wasn’t good enough for Susan, lying awake in the Brooklyn dark in the middle of the night, surrounded by a shadowy forest of wardrobe boxes and furniture in an unfamiliar room. Surely Alex thought terrible things of her, surely he seethed every time he looked at her. Why, otherwise, had the question of more children never been raised between them? Somehow the time to bring it up always seemed wrong. Somehow it always felt like if she did bring it up, he would launch into a list of reasons why a bigger family was impossible right now, would slam the door on the question, just as he had slammed the door shut on the artists’ loft with a harbor view in Red Hook…

…oh, hell, Susan, you don’t need that place anymore, you got this place, remember?

This thought, vaguely comforting though it was, led her back along her twisting maze of anxiety, to yet more things that needed to be done: find out when recycling goes out, find a nonfilthy Laundromat—no washer/dryer, remember?—look into preschool programs for Emma for January—she had secured a slot at a well-regarded place in the Flatiron District, but now Susan had wrenched up the family and moved them here, for no reason, for no good reason…

Susan sat up, panting, clutching a hand to her chest. “Shit,” she said to the darkness.

The bedside clock read 2:34. Susan rose, stepped into the bathroom, and took the other half of the Ambien.

Reluctant to return to bed, Susan turned the other way out of the bathroom, slipped past the linen closet, and creaked open the door of Emma’s new room. Looking down at the peaceful, sleeping figure of her daughter, Susan felt almost unbearably in love with her. Emma’s little chest rose and fell, rose and fell. She had her father’s thick dark hair and big brown eyes, but her small frame and sometimes-playful/sometimes-hesitant spirit were all Susan.

“Oh, sweet pea,” she murmured. Gingerly she eased the covers down from where Emma had tugged them up under her chin. She insisted on being tucked in so tightly, even in the late-summer heat.

Then Susan glanced at the window and gasped. “Oh God! Oh my God! “ she said, loudly, scaring herself in the quiet dark of the bedroom.

Emma stirred but didn’t wake. Susan stepped closer to the window and gaped, wide-eyed, at where a person, or the shadow of a person, was standing in the backyard, leaning against the rickety back fence and staring up. The man was massive. In his hand was the long barrel of a gun, or some kind of club, or… something… in the darkness, from this distance, it was impossible to say.

“Alex!” Susan shouted, but he didn’t answer. Susan’s heart was knocking at her ribs, and she clutched at the windowsill. “Alex! God damn it, Alex!”

Emma shifted and moaned in her sleep. Susan opened her mouth to scream again—she would have to go in there and shake him awake. But then she looked again, and there was nothing—no one—in the yard.

Whatever Susan had seen, or thought she had seen, it was gone.

“[The] plotting is sure-footed and surprising…. Ben H. Winters reveals himself as a novelist with an eye for the well-drawn detail.”

“Ben H. Winters makes noir mystery even darker: The Last Policeman sets a despondent detective on a suspicious suicide case—while an asteroid hurtles toward earth.”

“I love this book. I stayed up until seven in the morning reading because I could not stop. Full of compelling twists, likable characters, and a sad beauty, The Last Policeman is a gem. It’s the first in a trilogy, and I am already excited for book two.”

“I’m eager to read the other books, and expect that they’ll keep me as enthralled as the first one did.”

“I haven’t had to defend my love for science fiction in quite a while, but when I do, I point to books like The Last Policeman . [It] explores human emotions and relationships through situations that would be impossible (or worse yet, metaphorical) in literary fiction. This is a book that asks big questions about civilization, community, desperation and hope. But it doesn’t provide big, pat answers.

“I’ve rarely been more surprised by a mystery novel than I was by this one—it’s an unlikely cross-genre mashup that coheres for two reasons: the glum, relentless, and implausibly charming detective Hank Palace; and, most importantly, Ben H. Winters’s clean, clever, thoughtful, and gently comic prose.”

“A solidly plotted whodunit with strong characters and excellent dialogue… the impending apocalypse isn’t merely window dressing, either: it’s a key piece of the puzzle Hank is trying to solve.”

“This thought-provoking mystery should appeal to crime fiction aficionados who like an unusual setting and readers looking for a fresh take on apocalypse stories.”

“A promising kickoff to a planned trilogy. For Winters, the beauty is in the details rather than the plot’s grim main thrust.”

“Ben H. Winters spins a wonderful tale while creating unique characters that fit in perfectly with the ever-changing societal pressures…. [This] well-written mystery will have readers eagerly awaiting the second installment.”

“Extraordinary—as well as brilliant, surprising, and, considering the circumstances, oddly uplifting.”

“Exhilarating…. do not wait for the movie!”

Copyright © 2013 by Ben H. Winters

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.

Excerpt from Bedbugs © 2011 Ben H. Winters

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Number: 2013930159

eISBN: 978-1-59474-627-7

Designed by Doogie Horner

Cover photographs: (diner scene) © Jonathan Pushnik;

(rioting crowd) © Nameer Galal/Demotix/Corbis

Cover model: Thom Gallen

Special thanks to Silk City

Production management by John J. McGurk

Quirk Books

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Philadelphia, PA 19106

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