Please let me begin with a disclaimer. I'm a fairly easy going gal. I don't throw temper tantrums, I seldom raise my voice and it takes a whole lot to make me angry. It is at this point that I would like to congratulate Linwood Barclay for raising my ire AND my blood pressure.
Let's start with the premise--well, the center stage premise. David Harwood is an out of work journalist, as well as a single father. Through a series of ill-fated circumstances, he finds himself living with his parents. When his mother asks him to deliver some food she's prepared to a grieving cousin, David reluctantly agrees. Marla, the in-mourning cousin, recently lost s baby in child birth. She also lost a bit of her cognitive awareness and lives in the fringes of society, writing bogus reviews for a paycheck. When David arrives, he finds Marla feeding a baby--a baby she swears was delivered to her by an angel. When the baby's parents are discovered, the mother has been brutally murdered. The rest of the novel follows Marla, David and the police as they try to untangle the identity of the murderer.
I will concede that Barclay is one of those rare writers who excels in character development, and this book is no exception. Every single player here, from Marla, the broken woman with more than a few issues, to David, is believable. What I most appreciate about Barclay's work is his ability to keep each character's actions/dialogue and reactions true to the persona he creates. Nothing is arbitrary, but rather each character interaction furthers that brilliant development and encourages empathy or enmity--occasionally, as in the case of Agnes, simultaneously.
I will also offer props to Barclay for his ability to weave a plot and be able to follow it. He must have a very large storyboard somewhere, as that would have been the ONLY way I could have kept up, as beyond the Marla storyline there are myriad others that meander through this novel like a lost child who never finds his way home. It's a sad commentary when the lack of a graphic interface prevents the reader from being able to fully enjoy the story. Ok, major spoilers are to come, so reader, beware! You've been warned.
Barclay, WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? From the very start, I made a conscious effort to follow the Marla thread. I appreciated how it had woven into its tapestry the threads of Dr. Strauss, the doctor who delivered the still born child, and the Gaynors, the baby's parents. No, really, that was awesome. But there were other threads...loose threads. Threads that kept me page turning to find out how they were to be related. So why am I angry? BECAUSE THEY NEVER CAME TOGETHER. There were vague suggestions of personal issues never resolved, overt declaration of issues that were never explained, and characters who had agendas that in no way related to the main plot. Instead of bringing it all to some related conclusion, Barclay strings us along for a wild ride that ends in the middle of a damn desert--barren and thirsting for the hours it took to read this novel to be returned in some time-travel scenario. What? It's about as ridiculous as assuming the reader would in any way be content. So, Mr. Barclay, if by chance you're reading, I have a few suggestions and questions.
1. If this was a sequel piece of which understanding and appreciation came with a prereading prerequisite, TELL THE READERS BEFORE THEY BUY THE BOOK.
2. What the hell was up with David's father, Don? Why was he so sullen? What did Walden say to upset him?
3. What the hell was up with Trevor's father, Barry? What did Finley have on him?
4. Why add Arlene's leg injury? What purpose did it serve?
5. Who killed the squirrels?
6. Who put the mannequins on the ferris wheel?
7. Who killed Rosemary?
8. Who killed Olivia?
There's a start. I've left out questions about the banality of including the extramarital affair of Marla's father (Carol/Gill nonsense); about Fenwick's phone conversation that appeared to be leading to gratuitous phone sex; about the quick lay at Sam's; the number 23: the Thackery College asshats. My GOD, the list is endless.
For me, this read like an installment of a serial story, like those that used to appear, one chapter at a time, in various publications. The difference here is that folks waited impatiently, prognosticating and predicting, full of great anticipation for those serial pieces. With this book, I've abandoned all hope on this bait and switch and will be seeking my closure in a stand alone novel that actually comes to a conclusion.
