Gone Tomorrow shows an outstanding thriller writer at the top of his game. The plot is beautifully and subtly constructed, ingeniously developed, and reaches a crescendo of action that pits his hero against formidable enemies.
* * * *
* * * *
Randy Wayne White's Doc Ford helps foil the kidnapping of a U.S. Senator amidst foreign and domestic threats in Dead Silence (Putnam, $25.95). DeadSilence is Ford's sixteenth adventure, and the marine biologist still commands the deadly skills he learned long ago as a covert operative. He is no stranger to ambiguous situations where it is difficult to distinguish between friend and foe, but that ambiguity reaches intense new heights in this novel.
Ford has left his Sanibel Island sanctuary for the Explorers Club in Manhattan, where he is meeting Senator Barbara Hayes-Sorrento and connecting with British agent Sir James Montbard. Ford witnesses—and foils—a daring abduction attempt aimed at the senator, but his shouted advice to the senator's teenage companion results in the kidnappers escaping with a different hostage than the one intended.
In this novel, Fidel Castro has died, and the United States has come into possession of an entire warehouse of documents and treasures accumulated during his fifty-year rule. The kidnappers want access to that trove. To force the United States to cooperate, they plan to bury their teen hostage alive with only enough air to survive a short time. He will die if their demands are not met. While official forces work to find and free the boy, Ford is also on the case with powerful backers and no restraints on his methods.
But the kidnappers, including a nefarious torture specialist, didn't bargain for Will Chaser. Their young hostage is a troubled Native American foster child, older than his years, and a fighter to his marrow. Chaser is one of White's most memorable characters. It's impossible not to cheer as the desperate boy does everything in his power to battle his captors.
Series fans will enjoy the new revelations about Ford's friend Tomlinson, including his family background and Ford's vengeance on an old enemy. White is one of the most consistently entertaining thriller writers in the business, and Dead Silence continues to build on the series’ elaborate foundation while adding new insights into Doc Ford's world.
* * * *
* * * *
Former CIA covert operative Barry Eisler has written six novels featuring the deadly Japanese-American assassin John Rain, including the best-selling Requiem for an Assassin and Barry Award-winner Rain Storm.But assassins have a notoriously short life span, and Requiem gave clues that a switch of characters might be in the offing. In Fault Line(Ballantine, $25), Eisler introduces Ben Treven, an American assassin who returns to the United States to aid his brother Alex, a lawyer whose latest case threatens to become his last.
Ben Treven is estranged from his younger brother Alex, his only family. Alex can't forgive Ben for his role in his sister's death or for his abandonment of his mother during her final illness. He knows little about Ben's military career and nothing about his assassin's role. But Alex becomes involved in the patent application for Obsidian, an astounding new encryption algorithm that would replace all other network security software. When this work places him in deadly peril, he swallows his pride and turns to Ben for help.
More starkly than either Child or White, Eisler delineates the moral dilemma facing a nation whose enemies will use any method to destroy it. When Alex questions Ben's methods, Ben replies: “You can live in that fantasy world if you want, but how about just a little bit of gratitude for the people who make it possible for you? Who do all that dirty work so you can go on pretending you're clean?” Later, Alex counters, “I bet you don't think the president would arrest an American citizen on American soil and hold him without granting him access to an attorney ... I bet you don't think the government would wiretap Americans without a warrant either."
Ben will find all his own survival skills tested to the utmost as he tries to protect Alex from forces who are determined to wipe out all knowledge of Obsidian's secrets.
Intricately plotted and filled with intriguing technical possibilities that never get too wrapped up in jargon, Fault Line shows Eisler making a successful transition from one deadly assassin to another. The author has said he is open to the idea of another John Rain novel, but for now, Treven has the stage and is ready for the starring role.
* * * *
* * * *
Thomas H. Cook's literary mystery The Fate of Katherine Carr (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, $25), deftly charts the brutal aftermath left in the wake of violent disappearances. Narrator George Gates lives in small-town Winthrop, penning light stories for the local paper. His placid existence masks his deep torment; seven years ago, his eight-year-old son, Teddy, was kidnapped and murdered, the killer never found. In the bar that nurses his sleepless nights, Gates meets a detective wrestling with an unsolved disappearance of his own. In 1987, thirty-one-year-old writer Katherine Carr vanished from Winthrop five years after surviving a brutal beating by a stranger, leaving behind an unfinished manuscript dramatizing her own trauma. Gates, driven by a need to distract himself from his grief, decides to investigate Carr's whereabouts as a personal project. As he plunges deeper into the case, he inadvertently approaches the truth of his son's fate.
Cook is an author unafraid of darkness; he earned an Edgar Award in 2006 for The Chatham School Affair, a tragic study of a doomed teacher. Here, Gates's fate is thoroughly involving, and his character's well-wrought psychology matches the masterful turns of the book's patient plot. Parents of young children may find sections of the story difficult to read; Gates is plagued by guilt, and his writer's cruel eye for detail often returns to Teddy's body. But Gates's pain is painstakingly human, and readers who stay with him will experience a gripping conclusion that will leave a chill for weeks. —Laurel Fantauzzo
* * * *
ALL POINTS BULLETIN: Russell Atwood's sequel to East of A brings back East Village detective Payton Sherwood in Losers Live Longer (Hard Case Crime, September 2009). Here, Sherwood investigates a private eye's death. * Shamus Award-winning short story writer Gar Anthony Haywood's collection, Lyrics for the Blues (A.S.A.P Publishing, $28), arrives this July. Blues scours the gritty side of modern Los Angeles.
Copyright © 2009 Robert C. Hahn
[Back to Table of Contents]
Black Orchid Novella Award: O'NELLIGAN'S GLORY by Michael Nethercott
We are proud to present the winner of the second annual Black Orchid Novella Award. The BONA is co-sponsored by AHMM with The Wolfe Pack www.nerowolfe.org) and honors stories of traditional detection as exemplified by the brilliant Nero Wolfe. In “O'Nelligan's Glory” Mr. Nethercott offers his own twist on a classic form.
* * * *
It began with a phone call for my dead father.
"Plunkett and Son Investigators,” I answered.
"Buster! How ya doing, you dirty old—"
"No, this is his son Lee."
"Really? Cripes, kid, you sound just like your old man."
At thirty-one, my claim to being a “kid” was somewhat tenuous. And as for sounding like my father, I guarantee he had more gravel in his gullet then I could ever muster.
"Buster's deceased,” I informed the caller. “About a year now."
"Aw, no! I can't believe it! Buster was a bull...” Then the voice softened. “I should've stayed in touch. This is Jojo Groom. Remember me, kid?"
My father's life seemed to revolve around guys with names like Jojo and Slick and Lefty. His own moniker, Buster, had replaced the unfortunate Leander, his birth name, which for some reason he decided to pass on to me. My rough and tumble sire—World War I doughboy, city cop, private gumshoe—was every inch a Buster; whereas I, with my large round spectacles, slight frame and 4F classification, seemed tailor-made to be a Leander Plunkett. I'd shortened things to Lee to ease my burden.
"Sure, I remember you, Jojo.” He was an old police buddy of my father's. “Dad always spoke kindly of you. I tried to call you for the funeral
, but—"
"Don't sweat it, Lee. I've moved around. Not so easy to track down. I'm up in Massachusetts now. But listen, I've got a case for you. I was thinking it was Buster I'd be tossing it to, but anyway it's right up your alley. Murder."
I should go on record as saying that a murder case was nowhere even remotely near my particular alley. Sure, back when Buster was at the helm, that caliber of job might have meant a nice paycheck for Plunkett and Son; but in my tenure, it was a struggle just to handle the infidelity and missing object cases. Dad had taken me on to give direction to my drifting life, but within sixteen months, he'd died over a bowl of stew, leaving me to fumble on. Truth be told, in the year since my father's death, I hadn't done much to champion the family business.
"Murder's a little out of my league,” I told Jojo.
"Look, kid, I'll level with you. If I'd known your pop wasn't around to take this on, I maybe wouldn't have called. But listen, you're Buster's boy, right? Your pop was a damned bloodhound. A bloodhound! And you got his fixings."
Jojo hadn't seen me since I was about seventeen, so his appraisal of my “fixings” didn't carry much weight.
He hurried on, “The expired gent was one Clarence Browley, age thirty-five, well-to-do, bludgeoned. That happened nearly a month ago and the local cops have pretty much crapped out on solving this thing. I was kind of pally with Browley and his wife, and she's looking to hire her own investigator. I told her, you want the best, get Plunkett and Son."
I sighed. “Unfortunately, only the ‘son’ part of that is still available. Why don't you follow up on this yourself?"
"Me?” Jojo snorted. “I've been out of the business since ‘37. Almost two decades, we're talking. Still got a bullet in my leg as a reminder. I just hawk insurance now. For this mess, a pro's needed. And I'll take a Plunkett, junior or senior, any day of the week. Here's the info...."
Jojo offered a few more details before I interrupted and told him I'd have to think things over. I took his number and rang off, then spent a half hour polishing my glasses.
* * * *
That evening, while slurping linguini with my fiancée Audrey at a local restaurant, I laid out the deal and sought her counsel.
"Are you nuts, Lee?” She tossed down her fork. “You didn't snap that case up? A rich man's widow wants to hire you and you don't leap at the offer?"
"But it's a murder."
"A wealthy murder! This is what we've been hoping for, isn't it? This kind of break? With a nice chunk of money, we could finally just do it. Get married, find some swell little place. We could—” She stopped herself abruptly and stared down at the mound of pasta. “Oh God, I'm sorry. I sound like a..."
"Gold-digger?” The word just leapt out.
Audrey smiled without mirth. “Not the word I would have chosen, but, sure, gold-digger will do. Thanks, Lee, for identifying me so succinctly."
"I didn't mean ... I only meant...” Oh, it was no use.
She sighed. “It's just that we've waited so long."
Undeniably, our engagement seemed to be a long-term proposition. We'd pledged ourselves to wed in the spring of ‘54, just after I'd joined Dad's business and things were looking rosy. Now here it was early autumn 1956 and the deed was yet undone. There always seemed to be one obstacle or another to keep us from walking the aisle, be it money, timing, or bickering. Audrey was twenty-eight now, understandably eager to get the show on the road.
I took her hand. “I'm not my father. He was born for tackling murder and mayhem. I was born to take notes."
"Your dad always said you took a mean note."
"Yes, it was a real source of pride to him, I'm sure. Anyway, without him, I just don't think I have the tools to take on a murder."
"What if you had a cohort?"
"Cohort?"
"Someone to accompany you and bounce ideas off of."
"You mean you?"
Audrey laughed. “Lord no! I'm quite content selling doorknobs and undergarments at the five-and-dime. I was thinking, actually, of someone we both know. Someone bearded with a brogue and stacks of old books."
"Not Mr. O'Nelligan."
She squeezed my hand. “Yes. Mr. O'Nelligan."
* * * *
2.
In Thelmont, our modest Connecticut town, in a little pine-crowded house three doors down from Audrey's parents, dwelt one Mr. O'Nelligan.
Now in his sixties, he'd emigrated from Ireland to New York with his wife twelve years before. His colorfully muddled history featured a string of professions including train conductor, schoolteacher, bricklayer, actor, and door-to-door salesman. Also, Mr. O'Nelligan had fought in his homeland's civil war back in the twenties, though this seemed to be an episode he preferred to forget. When his wife died two years back, he left New York for Thelmont and retired himself into a life of books and conversation. Audrey and he became fast friends. I, on the other hand, on the three or four times that I'd met him, always found him kind of an odd duck.
"He's a man of action,” my fiancée insisted as we approached Mr. O'Nelligan's door the morning after our linguini dialogue. “Remember I told you about that scar?"
I did. Once, when Audrey had asked him why he wore a beard in these modern times, the old Irishman had muttered something about a knife scar and changed the subject.
"Maybe in his youth he was a man of action,” I said. “These days, he's a man of musty books."
Audrey rang the doorbell. “Be open minded, Lee."
"Aren't I always?"
She didn't have to answer that, because just then a muffled voice within called out to us, “Enter, ye early revelers!"
This was exactly the sort of weird flourish that always made me uneasy with the old guy. I whispered to Audrey, “This is my cohort?"
We entered into Mr. O'Nelligan's book-jammed front room. These early days of autumn were brisk ones, and the fireplace blazed lively. Close to the hearth, sunk in a massive armchair, sat our slender host, a book on his lap and a calm smile on his lips. I had never seen him when he was not decked out in a vest and tie; today was no exception.
"Many welcomes, Audrey,” he said in his Irish lilt. “And so good to see your young man again."
His face was admittedly a pleasant one, with deep soft eyes and a high balding forehead. I made a quick study of his beard for any sign of old blade wounds, but the trimmed gray camouflage hid all.
We were gestured into chairs. A teapot and cups had been arranged on the coffee table, and Mr. O'Nelligan set his book aside and began to serve us.
"What are you reading today?” asked Audrey.
"Moby-Dick. I'm facing the perils of the open main."
"You're so well read, I would have thought you'd have already chalked that one up."
Mr. O'Nelligan finished pouring. “Oh, but I have, Audrey. Thrice! This is my fourth voyage upon the Pequod, and Captain Ahab is as feisty as ever. A good book always yields new riches. Now then, when you rang up, you said something about a proposition, yes?"
"I did,” Audrey said. “It's a situation Lee has been asked to look into."
"A situation?"
"Yes, a problem...” She was easing into this.
Mr. O'Nelligan took up his teacup. “And what style of problem are we speaking of?"
"Murder!” I spit the word out, surprised at my own vigor. “Murder and bludgeoning."
Mr. O'Nelligan paused mid sip. “Well now, that's an honest answer."
"A man was killed a month ago,” I said. “Up in Greenley, Massachusetts. His wife thinks that someone among their houseguests did it, but the facts don't line up. That's all I know so far."
"He was a wealthy man,” Audrey added. “So there would certainly be compensation if you helped Lee."
"I'm beyond compensation, my dear. But help Lee how?"
"You have a good mind on you, Mr. O'Nelligan,” Audrey said. “You could go and assist Lee in his investigation."
Our host's eyes widened and he turned toward me. “You fav
or such an arrangement, young sir?"
"Yes,” I said, not sure that I meant it.
Mr. O'Nelligan sipped his tea for a while before continuing. “By way of reply, I'll quote, as I oft do, William Butler Yeats, the greatest of Irish bards."
He closed his eyes and recited, as if in a trance,
"I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear the lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart's core."
I raised an eyebrow. “And that means...?"
"It means that one must heed the call of life.” Mr. O'Nelligan placed down his cup and met my eyes. “Command me as you will."
* * * *
Mr. O'Nelligan and I sat silently for the first twenty miles of the two hour drive to Greenley, in mutual awkwardness, before he broke the ice.
"This man we're to meet, he's an old comrade of your da's, you say?"
"Jojo and my father were police detectives together in Hartford. Dad was a bit older than him. More experience and more exploits."
"Ah yes,” Mr. O'Nelligan said. “Audrey's told me a little about your da's shenanigans. Nabbed a few villains in his day, I understand."
"He helped haul in the Reeper Brothers. And Ugly Joe Hully."
"They sound fierce."
"And he almost got King Carroway. Jojo and my father were part of the team on Carroway's trail. They'd staked out his wife at a boarding house for nearly a week. On the day they ambushed the gang, Dad was out with a flu. It turned out to be an old-time, no-holds-barred shootout. When the smoke cleared, Jojo was badly wounded, Carroway and two other crooks were dead, and the wife had escaped on a bicycle in the nude."
AHMM, July-August 2009 Page 19
