conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know a description for a book titled Hunting Season about Doyce, Barnett, Mississippi's with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Action & Adventure?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: When the body of Doyce Barnett turns up in unsavory circumstances in Mississippi's Natchez Trace National Park, district ranger Anna Pigeon finds her investigation stymied at every turn. The dead man's brother, an undertaker with a secret that's been kept by three generations of his family, will do anything to protect it, even if his cover-up puts Anna's life in danger. Her own deputy, jealous because she got the job he wanted, seems to be sabotaging her case in order to advance his political ambitions. A bunch of Mississippi good old boys who've been poaching on park territory are gunning for her, and something strange is going on in a slave cemetery that's also in her bailiwick.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: When the body of Doyce Barnett turns up in unsavory circumstances in Mississippi's Natchez Trace National Park, district ranger Anna Pigeon finds her investigation stymied at every turn. The dead man's brother, an undertaker with a secret that's been kept by three generations of his family, will do anything to protect it, even if his cover-up puts Anna's life in danger. Her own deputy, jealous because she got the job he wanted, seems to be sabotaging her case in order to advance his political ambitions.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know a description for a book titled Hunting Season about Kreiss, Edwin, FBI with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Action & Adventure?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Edwin Kreiss is a former FBI agent whose discovery of a Chinese espionage ring made him a lot of enemies and resulted in his early retirement. Now his daughter is missing, and nobody, least of all a junior G-woman named Janet Carter, is going to keep him from finding her. Browbeating the one clue to her disappearance out of a terrified college student, Kreiss follows his daughter's trail to a deactivated federal arsenal in southwestern Virginia, where a fanatic whose son was immolated at Waco is cooking up a plan to blow the ATF to bits.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know a plot for a book titled Hunting Season?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Hunting Season (web series): Hunting Season follows Alex, a single, gay, 20-something blogger for Gawker in Manhattan who begins writing anonymously about his wild social life.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know a plot for a book titled Hunting Season about Doyce, Barnett, Mississippi's with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Action & Adventure?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Hunting Season (web series): Hunting Season follows Alex, a single, gay, 20-something blogger for Gawker in Manhattan who begins writing anonymously about his wild social life.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know a plot for a book titled Hunting Season?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Hunting Season (film): Veteran homicide cop Ferman (Şener Şen) and his hot-headed partner İdris (Cem Yılmaz) team up with rookie cop and anthropology major Hasan (Okan Yalabık) to investigate the murder of a young woman.\nThe suspects include her conservative family, who might have killed her for honor, her drug-dealing boyfriend and aged billionaire Battal (Çetin Tekindor) who had taken the victim as his second wife.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the first paragraph for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Hunting Season
  Filter found, coffee spooned and the coffeemaker dripping companionably with the sound of the rain against the windows, Jerri slowed down. The chatter stopped. She leaned against the counter and took a drag on her cigarette. "Now Anna, why don't you tell me what this visit is all about." Jerri Crowley wasn't more than thirty-five, tiny, dressed and made up like a high-class tart with good taste, but there was little doubt of the intelligence behind the heavily mascaraed eyes.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know four more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Of course he'd lie unless it really was a dead cat, in which case they wouldn't believe him and in consequence suffer the same frustration.
  Anna was sorely tempted, she was guessing it was bones, old bones, but the thought of tainting the evidence and possibly letting a child-murderer-if indeed that's what they had on their hands—go free because of police incompetence kept her honest.
  On the walk back Barth speculated about what was buried at the lonely grave site: an aborted fetus from an indiscretion, a child stillborn to a family too poor to go to a doctor, an illegitimate child born alive only to be dispatched to an unmarked grave, the polished oak casket a sop to conscience. Children were usually reported missing eventually. Infants were another story. If the mom said it was born dead, who'd argue?
  Barth wasn't reassured. "When'll we talk to Mr. Barnette?" he pressed. The forlorn little grave was weighing on his mind.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Of course he'd lie unless it really was a dead cat, in which case they wouldn't believe him and in consequence suffer the same frustration.
  Anna was sorely tempted, she was guessing it was bones, old bones, but the thought of tainting the evidence and possibly letting a child-murderer-if indeed that's what they had on their hands—go free because of police incompetence kept her honest.
  On the walk back Barth speculated about what was buried at the lonely grave site: an aborted fetus from an indiscretion, a child stillborn to a family too poor to go to a doctor, an illegitimate child born alive only to be dispatched to an unmarked grave, the polished oak casket a sop to conscience. Children were usually reported missing eventually. Infants were another story. If the mom said it was born dead, who'd argue?
  Barth wasn't reassured. "When'll we talk to Mr. Barnette?" he pressed.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the last three paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Seventy miles out in the sea, on the unprepossessing Bush Key, the magnitude of the effort awed her. Jefferson stood three stories high and was topped with earthworks and ammunition bunkers. A coal-black tower, built as a lighthouse but demoted to a harbor light when the taller lighthouse on Loggerhead Key was finished, thrust above the battlements. The black metal of its skin gave it an unearned sinister aspect. A wide moat, meeting the fortress walls on one side and contained by brick and mortar on the other, ran around the two bastions fronting the structure. Beyond was nothing but the Atlantic. At first the moat had amused Anna. Only in the front and along the eastern wall was it bordered by land. On the two other sides its outer wall separated it only from the sea.
  When she'd first seen it, it had struck her as a conceit, the architect slavishly following the classic castle moat theme though this fort was set in a natural saltwater moat thousands of miles on one side and seventy on the other. Duncan, the island's historian and chief interpreter, had disabused her of that notion. Moats were not merely to keep land troops at bay but ships with malicious intent at their distance.
  Trailing a young couple so in love they didn't notice it was too hot to be hanging all over each other, Anna crossed the bridge. As she stepped into the imagined cool and welcome dark of the entryway she heard the shivery sound of children giggling and saw a small head vanish into a stone slot. Anna laughed because heat and boredom had yet to diminish the childlike glee the fort engendered in her: "secret" rooms where ammunition had once been stored, dark and twisted caves where arches met and clashed and crossed at the bastions, designed by an architect who must have foreseen the genius of Escher. The formidable structure was now dissolving back into the sea with infinite slowness. Lime dripped out of solution as rain worked its way through ancient mortar. Stalactites formed, growing like teeth in the long, long passages through the casemates. Standing at a corner and looking down arch after arch after arch, perspective skewed. It was easy to feel as if one were falling through time itself.