Racing the Light by Robert Crais

Published by G.P. Putnam's Sons on November 1, 2022

Josh Schumacher does a podcast (Josh Shoe in Your Face) with the help of his friend Ryan Seborg. The podcast focuses on conspiracy theories, aliens, and the other nutcase attractions that the mainstream media supposedly hide from the public. The content is nutty but the podcast is well executed. Some of the better episodes featured interviews with a porn star whose professional name is Skylar Lawless. Skylar is making art from text messages. After she snooped through text messages of a local politician who hired her for sex, she learned a secret that she can’t be allowed to share.

When Josh goes missing, his wealthy mother (who has some secrets of her own) hires Elvis Cole to find him. Since her son depends on his generous mother for a regular cash infusion, she is convinced that he would not willingly drop out of contact with her. Cole isn’t certain that she’s right, but he agrees to take the case.

As a private investigator who lives in the rational world, Elvis knows that most podcast conspiracy theories are utter nonsense. His search for Josh leads to evidence of an actual conspiracy involving political corruption and real estate development. It isn’t as sexy as hiding aliens in Area 51 or putting tracking devices in vaccines, but it’s the kind of thing that causes actual harm to the public.

Murders ensue and characters the reader should care about are placed in danger's way. Saying more about the plot would spoil it, but I can say that Cole’s footwork leads him from clue to clue as he comes to understand why Josh has disappeared. He encounters plenty of jerks and a few decent people while crisscrossing LA in his entertaining quest to find the absent podcaster.

Racing the Light isn’t an action novel — this is a novel of detection rather than shootouts — but series regular Joe Pike shows up when Cole needs muscle. Action fans will be pleased that muscle becomes necessary in one of the final scenes.

Racing the Light advances Cole’s previously unsuccessful relationship with Lucy and her son Ben. Good novels are about people, after all, and fans of the series who have developed some affection for Cole will be pleased to know that his life might be improving.

Still, this is a detective novel. Most of Robert Crais’ effort goes into the development of a credible but offbeat plot and interesting characters. Sadly, we don’t see much of the porn star, but Josh’s sincerity and professionalism make him a likable character despite his tenuous connection with reality. Josh’s cantankerous neighbor adds comic relief to a plot that, unlike some Elvis Cole novels, is never heavy. People use the term “beach read” dismissively, but Racing the Light is the kind of novel that allows a reader to escape daily worries by focusing on a fun and absorbing story.

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Foster by Claire Keegan

Published by Grove Press on November 1, 2022

The mother in a large family is about to have another baby. The parents can barely feed the children they already have. They ask a childless couple to take one of their daughters until her mother gives birth. Only after the girl has lived with the Kinsellas for part of the summer does a neighboring gossip reveal why the couple is childless.

The girl is initially ambivalent about staying with strangers. She doesn’t know how long she will stay with the Kinsellas or whether her parents will want her back. Her father doesn’t say goodbye to her when he drops her off. Like the other adult men she has observed, her father says little of consequence. He talks about the weather, exaggerates the size of his crop of hay when he talks to John Kinsella. “He is given to lying about things that would be nice, if they were true.”

Like the girl’s parents, the Kinsellas are farmers. Unlike her parents, they are making a go of it. John and Edna welcome the girl into their lives. Edna gives the girl a hot bath, cleans her nails, digs wax out of her ears, does all the things her mother is too busy to do. John helps her with her reading and corrects her when she substitutes “yeah” for “yes.” When the girl’s complexion begins to improve, Edna says “All you need is minding.” Every child needs minding if they are to stay safe and reach their full potential. Edna has become protective with no child of her own to mind, which might explain her failure to understand how the girl’s parents could leave her with strangers.

Edna would like to give the girl’s mother some money, but the girl knows that her proud father would object. Her father drinks. He lost their red heifer gambling. Her parents have given little thought to educating her. Her clothes are hand-me-downs. She isn’t the victim of abuse, but to some extent, she has been neglected.

Visiting the Kinsellas opens a new world for the girl, a world where reading is valued, where she can wear clothing that fits. John challenges her to run to the mailbox every day and is proud when she becomes faster. Having adults pay attention to her, to encourage her, makes the summer away from her family pass quickly. In the Kinsella home, she has “room and time to think.” She would rather stay than return home.

As Colm Tóibín has done in his fiction, Claire Keegan emphasizes the malicious gossip that characterizes life in rural Ireland (and for that matter, in much of small-town America). When a neighbor has a chance to talk to the girl alone, she pries into the details of the Kinsellas’ life and tells her the secret John and Edna have kept to themselves. The girl wonders at the neighbor’s smug, self-satisfied laughter when she reveals a family tragedy that is none of the girl’s business, nor the neighbor’s. The Kinsellas keep their grief to themselves, but they have not let it overwhelm their ability to live or to care about others.

Foster is a spare story. Much in the novella is left unsaid. The relationship of the Kinsellas to the girl’s parents is unclear. We learn little about the girl’s siblings. We don’t even know the girl’s name. She has no reason to tell us those things. She instead narrates her thoughts, fears, and discoveries. She describes unfamiliar events (John is asked to dig a grave for a neighbor; she sees her first dead body at the wake). She learns that people are different from each other. Edna differs from the gossipy neighbor because, as John explains it, Edna “wants to find the good in others, and her way of finding that is to trust them, hoping she’ll not be disappointed, but she sometimes is.”

From John, the girl learns that there are times when it is better to practice silence. “Many’s the man lost much just because he missed the perfect opportunity to say nothing.” The girl makes good use of that advice when she next sees her parents.

The novella’s ending, like life, leaves the reader wondering what will happen next. It doesn’t seem likely to be good, at least in the next few minutes that will follow the story’s end. On the other hand, the girl’s life has likely been changed, set on a path of undreamt possibilities, because strangers were kind to her. Perhaps she has a sense of what her life could be. John tells her that women are good with “eventualities. A good woman can look far down the line and smell what’s coming before men even get a whiff of it.”

The eventualities are left for the reader to ponder. Everything that comes before the reader’s imagination takes over is told in a young, gentle voice. The girl senses the importance of events. She overlooks nothing but understands less than the adult reader. This is a coming of age story told by a girl who isn’t prepared to understand what might come next. The girl will need to think about what she has learned before it all makes sense to her. The joy of Foster is that the same is true for the reader.

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Jackal by Erin E. Adams

Published by Bantam on October 4, 2022

Alice Walker was ten before she realized that her skin color differed from her peers. Alice was killed in 1986, soon after she made that discovery. Her death in the woods was deemed accidental. Alice’s heart had been removed from her chest, an inconvenient fact that authorities attributed to “animal activity.” Keisha Woodson suffered a similar death in the same woods in 2002. Morgan Daniels disappeared in 1994. They aren’t the only black girls who lost their hearts in the woods, but the police in Johnstown fail to notice a pattern.

Liz Rocher’s mother is Haitian. Liz was born in 1985, the year the first black girl disappeared in the woods. Liz had a bad experience of her own in the woods on the day Keisha disappeared. Liz remembers an encounter with a monster in a shadow (or maybe it was a dog), but her mind might have constructed a false memory to protect her from the truth. Melissa Parker helped Liz find her way out of the woods that day.

Liz returns to Johnstown in 2017. She has bad memories of the school where she was labeled an oreo, too white in her manner of speech for the black kids, too black in appearance for the white kids. Her teachers believed black people were “an alien anomaly in white suburban perfection.” Her only friend was Melissa, a white girl who didn’t have the looks or money to fit in with the other white girls. Liz left Johnstown because too many people in town could only look at her “in a way that makes themselves feel superior.”

Liz only returns because Melissa is finally getting married to her boyfriend, Garrett Washington. They have a daughter named Caroline. Melissa’s father was skeptical of his daughter’s decision to have a baby with a black man, but he finally decided to meet his granddaughter after he bonded with Garrett while hunting for deer.

The wedding reception is at the edge of the woods. Liz is supposed to be keeping an eye on Caroline, but Caroline disappears while Liz is getting drinks. Liz looks in the woods when she can’t find Caroline and finds a bloody piece of Caroline’s party dress.

With that setup, the story addresses “missing child” themes that are common to crime novels. The story adds a reasonably creative mix of horror themes (don’t peer into shadows; Liz has bright eyes that signal someone who has been touched by the woods). Racial and historical themes add powerful context to the plot. In 1923, the mayor of Johnstown ordered more than 2,000 African Americans and Mexican immigrants to leave the city. Liz wonders how she could have grown up in the city without learning that fact. It’s the side of American history that white supremacists don’t want schools to teach, but it belongs with the St. Louis race riots and the Tulsa race massacre as a moment in American history that every child should study. Jackal is in part a horror novel, but what happened in those cities is the true horror.

The story offers several suspects who may be involved in the disappearance of Caroline and/or all the other missing black girls, assuming they are missing and the disappearing girls aren’t just an urban lesson. Suspects include Melissa’s father and husband, Keisha’s mother, a cop named Doug who helps Liz develop a map of missing girls, and a guy named Chris who encountered Liz in the woods on the night that Keisha disappeared. Not to mention a shadowy dog monster that might be lurking in the woods. Maybe the killer is supernatural. Maybe the killer belongs to a satanic cult performing one of those annual solstice sacrifices that thriller writers love to imagine.

I won’t spoil the ending, but it’s fair to say that the resolution combines a murder mystery with the supernatural. The explanation for the unsolved (perhaps unnoticed) killings is a stretch. So is the motivation that drives the supernatural entity.

Stories of the supernatural merit the suspension of disbelief only if they are frightening; Jackal fails to meet that test. Liz’s important learning moment at the novel’s end is a bit contrived, although I liked the use of a supernatural entity as an allegory for the racial hatred that divides the nation. I’m recommending the novel for the mild suspense it generates, for Erin E. Adams’ effort to build Liz into a fully realized character, and for the important themes that hold the story together.

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The Singularities by John Banville

Published by Knopf on October 25, 2022

John Banville (at least when he writes under his own name) is among the greatest of the Irish prose stylists. He’s also a thinker who brings an element of playfulness to deep thought. Banville’s thoughts in The Singularities turn to the nature of reality, a question that joins philosophy and science. The novel seems to suggest that reality is what we make it. If that’s true, we should make it carefully.

Two narrative voices in The Singularities alternate and sometimes merge. One voice belongs to Professor Jaybee, who has been engaged to write a biography of the mathematician Adam Godley, creator of the Brahma Theory, a “dazzling re-statement of the fundamental nature of reality.” One component of the theory holds that any attempt to understand the universe contributes to its destruction. People literally deconstruct the universe by trying to comprehend its reality. That discovery gave birth to a ban on scientific inquiry, a shuttering of the science and math departments in universities. The theory also seems to have affected reality in an undefined way. New York is again New Amsterdam. The plague may have returned to Venice. A Manhattan and an Old Fashioned are now the same drink.

The other narrative voice tells the story in the third person. That narrator describes itself as a minor god or godlet, a child of Zeus. An omniscient entity is well positioned to follow a murderer once known as Freddie who took the name Felix Mordaunt after his release from prison. Yet the two narrators are not so different; when characters speak to the godlet, they seem to be looking at Jaybee. The only character who can see the godlet is a dog.

In postmodern fiction, anything goes — the more confusing, the better. One might assume that the godlet is John Banville, but who knows? Given the initials that combine in Jaybee’s name, a reader might also conclude that Jaybee is Banville. Perhaps the point is that every character in a novel is really the author, for characters do not exist until the author creates them. Or perhaps the nature of reality is that, at some level, we are all the same person traveling the same course we have traveled throughout the infinity of time, even if we believe ourselves to be individuals with free will and uncertain futures. “For nothing exists by itself, in isolation; there is only the continuum, in which everything presses into, bites into and extends from, everything else.”

Speaking of confusion, the novel warps the literary illusion of reality by bringing together characters and settings from Banville’s earlier work. Freddie murdered a maid in The Book of Evidence. He visits a resort that was featured in The Sea. The Godleys, Ivy Blount, and Duffy the cowman appeared in The Infinities. I’m sure there are other examples (I haven’t read everything Banville has written); those were the easiest for me to spot.

The confusion of reality and illusion is evident when Jaybee believes he sees Godley’s dead daughter Petra, or her ghost, and when Godley in his old age travels to Venice and wonders whether a woman named Cissy actually exists, whether Cissy is a projection of Petra, whether he is actually in Venice or inhabiting a dream. When Godley wakes from dreams, the real world he encounters seems like another dream. Perhaps the reality we all believe we experience is nothing but a dream. Perhaps being awake is just “another kind of sleep.” On the other hand, another character tells Jaybee that the letter in which Godley expressed those thoughts is just another of his lies. Reality, illusion, fiction, truth, lie — all inseparable and indistinguishable. Or not.

The Singularities is more a challenging work of philosophy than a traditional novel. Before letting it go, Banville begins to construct a plot with Felix’s release from prison and his travel to the house where he lived while growing up, in a place that is now unrecognizable to him because time has passed and reality has changed. Jaybee’s agreement to investigate and write about Godley’s life seems to furnish the second plot element. He meets characters who knew Godley, including his widow, whose dementia has altered her reality.

Jaybee apparently finishes a chapter of the biography; Banville sticks it into the middle of The Singularities. After that, any attempt at plotting is all but abandoned, as the story follows tangents related to Godley, all but forgetting Felix’s role in the novel.

So what’s left? Astonishing prose is the reward for sticking with the novel. One of the narrators of The Singularities describes an evening in New Amsterdam: “We had booze, broads, a barroom fight and a night in the cells, and in the morning a crapulous and shamefaced court appearance, followed by summary deportation and a thunderous warning never to show our faces in town again. No, of course we didn’t; honestly, you’d believe anything.” It is worth suffering the confusion of reading The Singularities just to encounter such passages. Some readers might find it worth reading twice to gain a more nuanced understanding of the points Banville is making, although it might be necessary to read or reread everything Banville has written to appreciate the novel in full. Lacking that kind of ambition, once was enough for me, coupled with my dim memories of the other Banville novels I’ve read. I wouldn’t rate The Singularities as my favorite of those (The Book of Evidence probably earns that honor), but I enjoyed nearly every page.

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No Plan B by Lee Child and Andrew Child

Published by Delacorte Press on October 25, 2022

How do you know a Reacher novel was written by the son rather than the father? The sentence “That was for sure” appears multiple times when Andrew Child writes the novel. I doubt that’s a sentence his father would ever use. And while Andrew tries to emulate his father’s style — sentence fragments, lots of “Maybe this. Maybe that.” — Lee Child builds a natural rhythm into the prose that his son fails to capture.

No Plan B gives the reader a main plot and two subplots. The main plot involves a private prison in Mississippi and a ship that mysteriously lurks just out outside US territorial waters. The prison is about to release an innocent inmate with great fanfare as proof of its respect for justice and civil rights. The corporate executives who run the prison are worried that Reacher will disturb the ceremony after they learn that Reacher witnessed a murder in Colorado. Before the murderers made their escape, Reacher glimpsed the contents of an envelope that relate to the mysterious crimes for which the prison is a front.

Reacher decides he will travel to Mississippi to right whatever murder-related wrongs he can uncover. A woman who was close to the vicim of a second, seemingly related murder decides to drive Reacher to Mississippi. Watchful prison employees are staged along likely travel routes in anticipation of Reacher’s arrival, but the reader knows that Reacher will defeat them all, usually with a single punch.

The first subplot involves a kid whose evil foster parents neglect him. He runs away. Naturally, his destination is the prison. Naturally, he will encounter Reacher as he travels, but only after proving that he’s a plucky kid who can survive the theft of his backpack and money. No novel featuring a kid at a bus terminal would be complete without an attempt to kidnap the kid and sell him into slavery. Trite much?

The second subplot features a guy named Emerson who is seeking revenge for his son’s death. The death connects to the prison, although Emerson isn’t aware of that connection until he burns a couple of people alive while searching for someone to hold responsible for his son’s fate. The subplot feels like filler, added only to satisfy the need for a second subplot and gratuitous gore. The reader is evidently not meant to feel sympathy for Emerson because his methods are too extreme. Reacher comes close to crossing the extremist line, although he can usually claim he’s acting in self-defense when he maims or kills the bad guys. Well, except for the bad guy he kills for no good reason near the end of the novel. This is shortly before he tells another character, “I’m not going to kill anyone in cold blood.” Yeah, not unless he’s in a killing mood, anyway.

The message of certain tough guy novels is that size and strength are more important than moral courage. Reacher novels have always flirted with that message, but Andrew brings it to the forefront.

The mysterious criminal scheme operated from the prison is common in thrillers but almost never occurs in the real world. It’s a fallback for writers who can’t devise an original crime. The notion that a major corporation would operate the scheme undetected, even in the cesspool of corruption that is Mississippi, is just too nonsensical to work as a credible thriller plot.

Reacher needs to break into and out of a prison as the story winds down. His ability to do so is implausible, but such is the nature of the modern thriller. Implausibility is one thing; the complete absence of credibility is another. There is nothing credible about Reacher’s consistent ability to knock out his opponents with a single blow, sometimes with a mere twitch of his body. Yet it is the ridiculous criminal scheme operated in the prison that cheats thriller fans out of the opportunity to suspend disbelief. A close second on the credibility scale is the corporation’s fear of Reacher who, as far as its executives know, is a drifter with no reason in the world to look for trouble in Mississippi.

Fans of tough guy fiction who value toughness more than strong plotting might enjoy No Plan B. Fans of Lee Child might be frustrated that books “co-written” with Andrew Child come across as factory fiction. The book has good pace and a fair amount of action, but little else of merit.

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