The Night of Four Hundred Rabbits by P-HarpercollinsPubl

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An unexpected "gift" has arrived for Carol Farley this Christmas: an envelope bearing a newspaper clipping and no return address. There, blurred but unmistakable, is a photo of a man missing for years and feared dead -- Carol's father. It is a siren calling her to a world she has never known, to a place of ancient majesty and blood-chilling terror. Now, surrounded by towering pyramids on Mexico City's Walk of the Dead, a frightened yet resolute young woman searches for a perilous truth and for the beloved parent she thought was gone forever. But there are dark secrets lurking in the shadows of antiquity, a conspiracy she never imagined...and enemies who are determined that Carol Farley will not leave Mexico alive.

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									The Night of Four Hundred Rabbits
Author: Elizabeth Peters
Description

An unexpected "gift" has arrived for Carol Farley this Christmas: an envelope bearing a newspaper
clipping and no return address. There, blurred but unmistakable, is a photo of a man missing for years
and feared dead -- Carol's father. It is a siren calling her to a world she has never known, to a place of
ancient majesty and blood-chilling terror. Now, surrounded by towering pyramids on Mexico City's Walk
of the Dead, a frightened yet resolute young woman searches for a perilous truth and for the beloved
parent she thought was gone forever. But there are dark secrets lurking in the shadows of antiquity, a
conspiracy she never imagined...and enemies who are determined that Carol Farley will not leave Mexico
alive.
Excerpt

I wish some university, somewhere, offered a course in survival.Not how to survive when your plane
crashes in the jungle, or when you get lost in the woods. Not even how to survive in the jungle-cities of
today. Maybe, if I'd studied karate or carried a gun, I would have managed matters more efficiently during
my recent misadventures. But I don't think karate or firearms would have helped. What I needed was a
course in how to understand human beings.There are courses in everything else. All of them lead, by
some obscure chain of connection, to the acquisition of the Good Life -- a nice house in the suburbs, with
a nice husband who has a nice job, and a parcel of nice kids. These days they even teach you how to
produce the kids -- complete with anatomical charts and tests to find out whether or not you're frigid. If
my only experience of S-E-X had come from that classroom, I might have decided it would be more fun to
set up a workshop and build some nice little robots. You could program the robots to be "nice," which is
more than you can do for real children.But there are no courses in survival.When you're small, you don't
worry about surviving. Other people protect you from danger. They hide the bottles of bleach and the
aspirin, and they won't let you ride your tricycle down the middle of the street. Eventually you realize that
drinking bleach can make you dead, and so can cars, when you're in the middle of the street.So what I
want to know is: At what age do you learn about people? Your parents can't teach you that; they can't
put the bad guys on a high shelf, like bottles of bleach. And one of the reasons why they can't is because
they can't tell the good guys from the bad guys either. That's maturity -- when you realize that you've
finally arrived at a state of ignorance as profound as that of your parents.I've had my experience, enough
to last a lifetime, and all crammed into ten days. I'd like to think that I've learned something from it. But I
don't know; if anything, decisions are harder to make now, because so many of the nice neat guidelines I
used to accept have become blurred and confused. As I look back on it, I suspect I'd probably go right
ahead and repeat the same blunders I made the first time.If they were blunders. That's what I mean,
about things getting blurry. Every action seems to produce a mixture of results, some good, some bad,
some immediate, and some so far removed from the original event that you can barely see the
connection.Take, for example, that stupid comment I made the day I arrived home from college for
Christmas vacation.It was snowing outside, and the Christmas tree glittered with colored lights and shiny
ornaments; and I looked at the packages under the tree, which were all, by their shapes, dress boxes
and sweater boxes and little boxes made to hold costume jewelry and stockings; and I opened my big,
flapping mouth, and I said,"Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents."It was a feeble attempt
at wit, I admit. It was also a tactical error, and I should have known better. I did know, even before I saw
my mother's face congeal like quick-drying plaster. Helen liked to reminisce about my childhood, but this
was the wrong kind of memory.The reading aloud -- that was George's thing. It went on for years, long
after I reached an age when I could read to myself. And Little Women was one of our private jokes --
George protesting feebly that no male should ever be expected to read Little Women, and me insisting
that Little Women was the greatest book ever written, and...
Author Bio
Elizabeth Peters
Elizabeth Peters was born and brought up in Illinois, and earned her Ph.D. in Egyptology from the
University of Chicago’s famed Oriental Institute. Ms. Peters was named Grandmaster at the inaugural
Anthony Awards in 1986 and Grandmaster by the Mystery Writers of America at the Edgar Awards in
1998. She lives in an historic farmhouse in western Maryland, with six cats and two dogs. Her web
address is www.mpmbooks.com.Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite
HarperCollins authors.<br/>

								
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