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“This book has a unique plot. I have read thousands of books. Never before have I encountered such a brilliant concept for a mystery.“
~ Amazon Review
At present, this title is exclusively available from Amazon.
“Suspenseful, fascinating historical fiction with our favorite incorrigible rascal!”
“This latest novella is a masterpiece weaving historical references into stories that have you tumbling through the book with one goal in mind - to find Tristan’s ancestor and return it to its home. Well done !”
“ Thrilling and unpredictable.”
"When one reads a Gabriel Farago book, it is a treat. His books are well researched, informative, and well proofread."
“What an amazing book. Every one his stories are incredible beautiful, excellent works of art.”
“Such a likeable bunch of eclectic characters. A clever, twisting tale that has one rapidly turning the pages.”
“Gabriel researches deeply and extensively, frequently travelling to locations around the world to add authenticity to his novels. ”
“Another exciting read! This series just keeps getting better.”
“Gabriel Farago is that fabulous and detailed researcher extraordinaire for his books. His inspirations are many and varied. And his ability to weave his thoughts and ideas with facts is definitely one of his gifts.”
A gruesome trophy. A fateful promise. A desperate search.
Jack Rogan, celebrated author and incorrigible adventurer, is drawn into a haunting mystery when his psychic friend Tristan seeks his help. As his notorious uncle’s life ebbs away, a casualty of a violent gang skirmish, Tristan vows to recover a battlefield trophy torn from a Māori warrior-chief and return it to its rightful place.
This promise plunges them into a dark web of ancient tribal secrets and dangerous truths. Joined by an intrepid band of companions—Isis, a billionaire rockstar, Mademoiselle Darrieux, a colorful Paris socialite, and Claude Dupree, a resourceful French detective—Jack and Tristan set out to reclaim the lost trophy.
Their quest leads them down a treacherous path, where hidden clues reveal a frightening realm of occult secrets. As they delve deeper into the spirit world of mediums, fortune-tellers, and the Tarot, they confront evil forces determined to foil their mission. Can they retrieve the macabre trophy and help the tortured soul of the fallen warrior, or will they succumb to the sinister powers lurking in the shadows?
Embark on a thrilling journey with The Bone Scraper Legacy. Order your copy today and uncover the mystery!
The trip from the airport to the southern outskirts of Auckland turned into a white-knuckle ride difficult to forget. How the cumbersome vintage car managed to take corners at such breakneck speed – tyres screeching – without hitting the kerb was a mystery. Jack resisted the urge to ask the Māori driver, who seemed to be enjoying himself, to slow down. Conversation with Tristan was impossible due to the blaring reggae music, the deafening bass making the seats shake.
‘The Black Arrows are one of the most dangerous gangs in New Zealand; be careful’, Jack heard the policeman say. Too late, he thought and closed his eyes. He opened them again when he could feel the car slow down as it entered a dilapidated industrial area littered with abandoned car bodies and broken furniture. The stray dogs rummaging through rubbish added to the desperation of the district.
‘Here we are,’ said the Māori in the passenger seat as the car pulled up in front of what looked like a large corrugated-iron shed, a solid steel gate with razor wire on top blocking the entrance.
The driver honked the horn. Moments later, a small peephole-like opening in the steel door opened. Obviously, someone was having a look.
The driver waved and slowly, the massive gate opened.
Jack turned to Tristan sitting next to him. ‘It’s another world, all right,’ he said as the car drove into an enclosed courtyard and came to a sudden halt in front of what looked like open, flood-lit workshops with cars on hoists being repaired by sweaty, bare-chested mechanics. There was also a gym with a dozen or so Māori youths working out.
The scene reminded Jack of his visit to the clubhouse of the Warriors, an outlaw motorcycle gang in Sydney, where he had met the Bone Scraper for the first time.
‘Satan’s panel-beating shop for lost souls? What do you think?’ said Tristan and opened the door.
‘Welcome to hell, you mean? Hieronymus Bosch would have loved this,’ said Jack.
‘Inspiration for one of his paintings, do you think?’
‘Aha. Certainly reminds me of his work. Your relatives, mate, not mine,’ replied Jack and got out of the car.
The driver walked over to a tall, grey-haired Māori watching them, and pointed to Tristan. Jack thought he looked vaguely familiar. The grey-haired Māori nodded and approached Tristan. ‘Just in time,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’
Tristan pointed to Jack standing next to him. ‘This is Jack, a friend. He has met the Bone Scraper before.’
‘I remember. He got shot by the Undertaker the night the Wizard died.’
Of course, thought Jack as he remembered that fateful night at the Wolf’s Lair. Jack touched the scar on his forehead, a reminder of a deadly bullet that narrowly missed his brain.
‘Wait here,’ growled the Māori and went inside. He returned moments later. ‘All right. You can both come in, but first I have to pat you down; house rules. Spread your legs and raise your hands …’
Satisfied, the Māori turned around. ‘Follow me, but I have to warn you, he’s in a bad way.’
Jack looked at Tristan, raised an eyebrow and pointed to an open, rusty door. ‘After you, mate. Prepare yourself.’
As soon as Jack entered what looked like a workshop smelling of paint and diesel, he stopped and looked around to allow his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom.
A space had been cleared in the middle of the otherwise cluttered, windowless chamber, which had previously been used for spray-painting. The only light intruding hesitantly into the darkness came from a single light globe dangling from the corrugated-iron ceiling. It cast a pale circle of light on the grimy concrete floor, illuminating it like a stage in some bizarre play with only one actor.
The Bone Scraper sat in a high-backed lounge chair, its horsehair-stuffed armrests torn around the edges. Bare-chested, with bandages crisscrossing his massive, hairy torso, he locked eyes with Tristan, staring at him.
‘Come closer, where I can see you,’ said the Bone Scraper, his deep, resonant voice sounding otherworldly, like the voice of some Greek oracle revealing secrets of the future.
Both Tristan and Jack took a few steps forward.
