Excerpt from Sweetland by Michael Crummey, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Practically everyone else in the cove was gathered at the Fisherman's Hall for the meeting with the government man and there was an eerie stillness about the place, as if the island was already abandoned. He expected Reet Verge would be sent across to badger him when the meeting was done and he packed a few things into his knapsack, drove his quad up out of the cove to avoid her. He climbed past the trail to the new cemetery and beyond it to the peak of the hills.

At the top of the climb he stopped beside the King's Seat to take in the view of Chance Cove and the island north and south, even though Jesse wasn't with him. Jesse had asked a thousand times if those stones had been assembled into the vague shape of a throne or if it was an accidental configuration, but no one alive knew the answer. Probably no one else had ever thought to wonder about it.

Sweetland went as far as the lighthouse, to put out a few rabbit snares that he and Jesse could check on in the morning. A surprise to welcome the youngster back, to scour the week's worth of city grit from his mouth. It was almost four o'clock by the time he made it back to Chance Cove. The government man away on the ferry and the town's emissary come and gone from Sweetland's house for now. He backed the quad into the shed and covered the machine with a tarp, went into the house through the back porch. Ran cold water from the tap while he reached for a glass.

Sweetland drew his hand back when he caught sight of the folded sheet of paper propped inside the cupboard. Stood still while the water ran, trying to think when he'd last opened that door. He used the same glass out of the drain rack for days on end, which meant it could have been planted there any time during the past week. He turned off the tap and took the sheet down, held it at arm's length. YOU GET OUT, the message read, OR YOULL BE SOME SORRY.

He refolded the paper and opened the drawer below the forks and knives, set it in beside the other notes he'd found tucked around the house over the last six months. They were all the same, comically sinister, offering vague threats against his person and his property, all written with words and letters cut from print headlines and glued to the paper like a ransom demand out of the movies. It was a ploy so amateurish that Sweetland would have thought Loveless was behind it, but for the fact the spelling was more or less correct. And Loveless was the only hold-out left besides himself.

Sweetland shut the drawer and took down a glass, drank the water in slow mouthfuls. He couldn't bring himself to take the threats seriously and he'd never mentioned the notes to anyone. He wasn't sure why he was holding onto them. In case, was how he thought of it. Though he couldn't say in case of what exactly.

He was up early the next morning with the radio on. Made himself a sandwich and an extra for Jesse, packed them with two tins of peaches. He put on his boots in the porch, carried his coat and knapsack outside. Paused there a moment, listening, then slammed the door as hard as he could. Pilgrim's dog started barking mad where she was leashed in the yard, the sound of it echoing up off the hill behind the cove.

"Shut up, Diesel!" Sweetland shouted, louder than he needed to. "Shut the hell up!"

He puttered around the ATV underneath the purple glow of the street light attached to the shed, strapping his .22 to the handlebars, tying the canvas pack onto the carryall at the back. Heard Pilgrim's door open and close and the sound of the boy running. Glanced up to see him motor along the side of the house. He was within two feet of Sweetland before he came to an abrupt stop and he stood there at attention, staring up into the old man's face.

Lank and pale, the boy was, like something soaked too long in water. The purple light making his face look sallow, cadaverous. "Jesse," Sweetland said. He had never made peace with the youngster's name. It sounded fey, feminine, like something off one of those soap operas Sweetland's mother used to watch. He'd tried to rechristen the boy with half a dozen nicknames—Bucko, Mister Man, Hunter—but Jesse would only answer to his proper name.

Excerpted from Sweetland: A Novel by Michael Crummey. Copyright © 2014 by Michael Crummey Ink, Inc. First American Edition 2015. With permission of the publisher, Liveright Publishing Corporation. All rights reserved.