by Donald Maass
Again, this is not as easy as it sounds. Cardboard villains are a staple of the slush pile. Such baddies go about their mean-spirited business for no other reason than that they are evil. Uh, right. I am willing to believe that pure evil exists, I guess, but most of the time bad actions have a comprehensible basis no matter how hard they may be to discern. In any event, villains whose motives we can understand are much scarier than those whose motive is merely Mwoo-ha-ha-ha!
One of our most reliable thriller writers is Greg Iles. In his novel The Footprints of God (2003) he took a detour from his usual story patterns to spin a chiller about a supercomputer poised to take over the world, maybe even wipe out humanity! Yeah, I know. Give me a break. I can't even get Wi-Fi to work at Starbucks and you're telling me an electronic super-brain is going to take over the world and eradicate human life?
Again, the challenge for Iles is to overcome reader skepticism. He does this in several ways. First, he begins his action in medias res—in the middle of the action. As The Footprints of God opens, Andrew Fielding, a senior scientist on a secret NSA research project called Trinity, has died apparently of heart failure. One of his colleagues, the novel's hero David Tennant, doesn't buy that. He thinks it was murder. And he's right.
Let's back up. Trinity is an effort to use a new supercomputing technology to create a computer that cannot just think like a human but do so millions of times faster. Building a brain from the ground up is too difficult, though, so the plan is to scan the brains of the senior scientists on the project with an incredibly powerful new MRI technology and thus install an existing brain in the computer's memory banks. You can see where this is going? Yep, conflict: whose brain is going to live forever? That is the multibillion-dollar question that drives much of the plot.
Iles has anticipated our skepticism, luckily, and makes sure that we have little time to reflect. His hero, an ethicist assigned to the project by the President, is on the run as the novel opens. (The President, unfortunately, is in China and cannot be reached.) Right from page one, David Tennant fears for his life. Why? Not because of the big brain that even now is stretching tentacles into all the world's databases. No, the threat to David's life is far scarier: It's human.
Now, I'll bet you didn't know that some scientific projects are so secret and sensitive that researchers not only are sworn to secrecy but work under threat of physical termination. This happens right here in the United States. Amazing, huh? Well okay, only in thrillers and Iles is experienced enough to know he's got to sell us on this premise. That is why he lavishes considerable page time on Trinity's security enforcer, Geli Bauer. Geli was hired under a contract that requires her to follow all orders without question, including killing anyone that she is instructed to whack.
Are you buying that? Iles doesn't expect you to, which is why he takes seven chapters, a total of sixty-one pages, to build up Geli as the perfect instrument to enforce the wishes of Trinity's mastermind, Peter Godin (God-in, get it?). We learn the scope of Geli's authority, her Army background, her kill-on-command contract, her facial scar, her father (a hawkish general out of Dr. Strangelove), and more. We see her in action. She is single-minded and unstoppable.
All that would make Geli no more than a cardboard baddie, so Iles goes further. Midway through the novel Geli gets a double dose of additional motivation courtesy of her nominal superior, John Skow. Skow reveals to her the full extent ofTrinity's ambitions. Peter Godin is dying. If he expires before the Trinty computer is up and running, billions of dollars will have been wasted and Geli will be blamed. (She killed Andrew Fielding, you see, the only computer genius able to make Trinity work.) In case that is not enough to keep her going, Skow also informs Geli that Trinity's security is actually being supervised by her own father. Their hostile relationship insures that Geli will stay involved if only to keep battling with her heartless dad.
Did you follow all that? Never mind. The point is, Iles doesn't assume that we'll accept Geli Bauer's actions without question. He continues to humanize and reinforce her throughout the story. Her dynamic planning scenes take the place of the limp, low-tension aftermath scenes that a less experienced thriller writer would use to fill out the manuscript. Iles keeps his onstage villain active, motivated, and understandable.
What if you are writing a hybrid mystery-thriller, a story in which the identity of the villain is hidden? How do you plumb the depths of your bad guy if the most you've got to work with is an anonymous point of view? How can you get your readers involved with your villain without giving him away?
David Baldacci faced this challenge in his thriller The Collectors (2006), a sequel to The Camel Club mentioned in chapter two. The novel opens with two acts of violence: the assassination of the Speaker of the House and the locked-room murder of the director of the Rare Books Room at the Library of Congress. That archivist, though, leaves behind an astonishing rarity in his private collection: a hitherto unknown copy of the first book printed in America, the Bay Psalm Book. We are also quickly introduced to an Aldrich Ames-type traitor who is selling America's most sensitive secrets to the highest bidders.
This traitor, Roger Seagraves, is the novel's onstage villain, and accordingly, Baldacci spends many pages making sure that we see Seagraves meticulously at work as well as the reasons for his perfidious actions. But behind Roger Seagraves is a mastermind. This Mr. Big's identity is a mystery. Fine, but that presents Baldacci with a problem: How to make this mastermind powerful and frightening when we never meet him?
Indeed, no one's even sure there is a mastermind, or even anything awful afoot. Enter Baldacci's team of eccentric protagonists. The Camel Club is made up of four average-yet-extraordinary guys who have no particular mandate to act except that they are unusually perceptive and alert to trouble in the shadowy realms of politics and power in America.
As mentioned earlier, the leader of the Camel Club is a quirky-but-highly-committed man who calls himself Oliver Stone. He sometimes lives in a tent opposite the White House marked by a sign that proclaims simply I want the truth. The other members of the Camel Club are a loading dockworker, an obsessive-compulsive
computer genius, and conveniently, a clerk at the Library of Congress. The clerk, Caleb Shaw, faints upon finding his dead director and winds up in a hospital. In Shaw's hospital room Oliver Stone debates with the dockworker, Reuben Rhodes, whether the archivist's death is significant or even suspicious:
"The guy died from a coronary, Oliver. It happens every day."
"But probably not for someone who'd just been given a clean bill of health by Johns Hopkins."
"Okay, so he popped a blood vessel or fell and cracked his skull. You heard Caleb: The guy was all alone in there."
"As far as Caleb knows, he was, but he couldn't possibly know for sure."
"But the security camera and the pass card," Reuben protested.
"All good points, and they may very well confirm that Jonathan DeHaven was alone when he died. But that still doesn't prove he wasn't killed."
"Come on, who'd have a grudge against a librarian?" Reuben asked.
"Everyone has enemies. The only difference is for some people you just have to look harder to find them."
It is nothing more than Stone's suspicion, then, that sets the Camel Club onto an investigation. What they will dig up, of course, is a nasty conspiracy that ties together the assassination of the Speaker, the death of the Rare Books Room director, and the forged (sorry) Bay Psalm Book.
Because Mr. Big's identity remains a secret until the novel's final pages, Baldacci doesn't try to build up his ultimate bad guy. Instead he builds up the Camel Club. Their incremental success, dangerous scrapes, and growing convictions convince us step-by-step that evil is at work. The villain becomes stronger, in other words, because the heroes prove him so.
We've now examined two methods for overcoming reader resistance to improbable premises, both involving buildup of characters instead of building up the scary scenario. There is also a third w
ay.
VERISIMILITUDE: PSEUDOSCIENCE, GENUINE FACTS
If you have ever argued with a dyed-in-the-wool conspiracy nut, you know they cannot be budged. For your every doubt they have an answer. Facts and figures are massed in their favor. Never mind that what they believe is nonsense; it's true.
Then again, don't we all believe things that are at face value a bit illogical? Do you have some faith in astrology? Do you pay itforward because you believe in karma? Do you imagine that America is a pure democracy with equality and justice for all? If so, you probably can argue your case and marshal some evidence to support it. Then again, I can support the opposite view. For purposes of storytelling it doesn't matter whether either you or I are right. What matters is that we both can make a case in detail.
That is important in thriller writing because, while the case for human cloning or alien messages from outer space may not be persuasive to many readers, the case nevertheless needs to be made exhaustively if only to make the motivations and convictions of your characters believable. We may not buy your premise, but we'll buy that there are people who buy it.
How much justification do you need? Ask yourself this: How much would it take to convince you, personally, that Jesus actually has been cloned? I'll wager it would take quite a bit.
There's your answer.
In The Judas Strain (2007), James Rollins posits a virus that creates a sudden, worldwide pandemic. From his author's notes and the research in evidence throughout the novel, it's clear that Rollins believes such an outbreak is truly possible. So why hasn't it happened? The truth is, viruses don't spread that easily. Even bird flu didn't fly very far.
No matter. Rollins has got it covered. In The Judas Strain he again features the covert team called Sigma Force, familiar from his earlier novels, which fortunately for us is packed with scientists who can explain any crazy thing that Rollins dreams up. As the novel opens, Dr. Lisa Cummings has been dispatched to a cruise liner-turned-makeshift hospital in the Indian Ocean, where a powerful plague has surfaced from the depths. It is as mysterious as it is deadly.
The following is an excerpt from one of several long sequences in which Lisa discusses the plague with Dr. Henrick Barnhardt, a Dutch toxicologist whom Lisa, for tension purposes, does not much like. Joining in is Dr. Devesh Patanjali, "acquisitions officer" of the mysterious Guild, Rollins's baddie organization which has taken over the ship. Together these three ponder how the virus is turning ordinary bacteria in human bodies into biological death camps:
Devesh continued. "These two plasmids—pX01 and pX02—are what turn ordinary Bacillus species into superkillers. Remove these two rings, and anthrax transforms back into an innocent organism, living happily in any garden. Put those same plasmids into any friendly Bacillus and the bug turns into a killer."
Devesh finally swung around to face them. "So I ask you, where did these extraneous and deadly bits come from?"
Lisa answered, intrigued despite herself. "Can't plasmids be shared directly from one bacterium to another?"
"Certainly. But what I meant was, how did these bacteria first acquire these foreign bits of genetic material? What's their original source?"
Henri stirred, moving closer to study the screens. "The evolutionary origin of plasmids remains a mystery, but the current theory is that they were acquired from viruses. Or more specifically bacteriophages, a category of viruses that only infect bacteria."
"Exactly!" Devesh turned back to the screen. "It's been theorized that, sometime in the ancient past, a
viral bacteriophage injected a peaceful Bacillus with this deadly pair of plasmids, creating a new monster in the biosphere and transforming a sweet little garden bug into a killer."
Devesh tapped more rapidly, clearing the screen.
"And anthrax isn't the only bacterium thus infected. The bacterium that causes the black plague, Yersinia pestis ... its virulence is also enhanced by a plasmid."
Lisa felt a prickling chill as realization dawned. ...
"Are you suggesting it's happening here again?" she mumbled. "This same corruption of bacteria."
Devesh nodded. "Indeed. Something has risen again out of the depths of the sea, something with the ability to turn all bacteria deadly."
Plasmids? Bacteriophages? If your eyes glazed over during all that bio-speak, that's okay. You've got the basic message, which is that this outbreak is bad news for us since, as we quickly learn, 90 percent of the cells in our bodies are composed of bacteria. We're food for the Judas Strain.
If you don't believe that, hey, you can believe Dr. Cummings, Dr. Barnhardt, and Dr. Patanjali. They know what they're talking about—or seem to, anyway. Rollins has boned up on bacteriophages for us and wields his research like a hammer. The Judas Strain is wildly speculative, but by the time Rollins is through pummeling us we are ready to cry, "Killer Virus!" Anyway, why argue with him?
I hope you like research. If you do, that's good. You'll need tons of it no matter what kind of thriller you're writing. But wait, can't you just postulate the crazy idea behind your story and ask readers to go with it? After all, science-fiction and fantasy writers have been doing that for eons.
Sorry. SF and fantasy readers know that what they're reading isn't real. Thriller writers haven't got that luxury.
Maybe, to make the job easier, you could set your story in the near future? Maybe, but that cheat just robs a thriller of its veracity. Might as well whisper in your readers' ear, Don't worry, this isn't going to happen. They'll relax, which I think explains why near future thrillers rarely sell.
Still, maybe there's something to be said for launching in and simply smacking readers in the face with a scary mackerel. That was the choice of James Patterson in When the Wind Blows (1998), a novel in which he took a break from his Alex Cross series to build a thriller around ... well, you'll see. As the novel opens, a girl named Max is running in terror from a bad place called the School. Men are chasing her! As I read, I could hardly believe Patterson was indulging in such a generic opening.
Quickly Max reaches the perimeter of the School's grounds. Faced with a "huge, high fence" topped with "rows of razor-sharp concertina wire," and electrified to boot, Max is stuck:
The hunters were almost there. She could hear, smell, sense their awful presence.
With a sudden flourish, she unfurled her wings. They were white and silver-tipped and appeared to have been unhinged. The wings sailed to a point above her head, seemingly of their own accord. Their span was nine feet. The sun glinted off the full array of her plumage.
Max started to run again, flapping her wings hard and fast. Her slippered feet lifted off the hardscrabble.
She flew over the high barbed wire like a bird.
Wings? Patterson puts it on the page and we go along for the flight, at least for a little while. But Patterson knows the harvesting of babies, the activation of their atavistic and dormant genes, and the auctioning of the children later for billions apiece to international bio-tech companies—all done in perfect secrecy—will sooner or later feel pretty far-fetched.
And so we meet Dr. Frannie O'Neill, a veterinarian, who, along with rogue FBI agent Kit Harrison, finds Max and realizes her significance. When Frannie finally gets a chance to examine Max, she does so with a veterinarian's appreciation:
"Would you take another deep breath," I said. Max nodded. She did as she was asked. She was being very
cooperative, and she was almost always polite. Max was a very sweet young girl.
I couldn't believe what I heard inside her chest. She didn't have the billow-type action of mammal lungs. Hers were relatively small, and from what I could hear, attached to air sacs, both anterior and posterior. What lungs! I could write a book on her lungs alone. Man, oh man! I was having a little trouble breathing now myself.
I couldn't be sure, but it followed logically that her bones were hollow, that some air sacs intruded into her bones.
"Thanks, Max. That's great."
"It's okay.
I understand. I'm a freak." She shrugged her shoulders.
"No, you're just special."
I turned her to face me and placed my stethoscope over her heart. Jesus. It was at a resting rate of sixty-four beats a minute, but it was booming.
Max had the heart of an athlete, a great athlete. The organ was huge. I figured it weighted a couple of pounds. She had the heart of a good-sized horse.
Patterson keeps his science light but he doesn't neglect it, any more than he neglects keeping Max, Frannie, and Kit in constant danger, or than he neglects developing his villains. Whether you think Patterson's writing is simplistic or expertly tuned to contemporary tastes, he does the job. When the Wind Blows was a number one bestseller on many lists.
The same level of research turned into pseudo-expert authentication is a technique essential not only for science-based thrillers but also for suspense scenarios that spring from the realms of the historical, financial, legal, espionage, medical, military, paranormal, police, political, psychological, or any other sphere of the human adventure.
Put it this way: If we're supposed to be scared, someone has to explain why, and in detail.
SCARY MONSTERS
What more is there to say about vampires? I ask you, haven't we had enough? The number of vampire series out there is staggering. We have vampire hunters, vampire heroes, bad vampires, tormented vampires, and above all, sexy vampires. Why are they so popular? Is it the idea of living forever, post-9/11?
Whatever the reason, vampires are overdone. So let's focus on werewolves. Werewolves, too, are easy to find on the shelves and, like vampires, they present a conundrum for authors. As with all monsters that have become overly familiar, they raise a question: Are we supposed to fear them or love them? What's the winning approach? Scary or sympathetic?
I propose that it doesn't matter. Whatever your take on monsters, the first task is to make them believable and then to make your story tense. Howling at the moon alone won't do it, either. Too many writers have run with the pack ahead of you.
