Chris Lester's Reviews > Silent Victor

Clarke Lantham's adventures often ride the edge of High Weirdness -- Sawyer has half-jokingly referred to the character as his "nearly-paranormal investigator" -- but when aliens steal a Martian meteorite from the California Academy of Sciences, it's too far out-there for even a Weirdness veteran like Lantham to buy it. What follows is less like the X-Files than a James Randi debunking: Lantham doesn't "want to believe," doesn't buy the aliens for a second, never mind that they were caught live on security camera. The question is, who's doing the fakery, and why, and for whose benefit? And what happened to the meteorite?

The book unfolds with Sawyer's trademark mixture of noir edginess, dry wit, and bizarre twists. Lantham's head is a very strange place to be, with his sudden left turns into unexpected metaphor and bloody nightmares of seagulls gone berserk. By turns hilariously ironic, morosely self-flagellating, or seething with rage, Clark Lantham is Not A Well Man. Of course, one could probably say that about a lot of heroes, fictional and otherwise, and it doesn't make him any less fun or sympathetic as a protagonist. Quite the opposite, if anything.

Joining Clarke on this escapade are a collection of junior and associate nutcases: e.g., a wealthy British conspiracy nut who's convinced that aliens have ALREADY taken over the U.S. government; an eccentric old hoarder whose video editing expertise may be the key to figuring out the "aliens"; and Dusty, a fellow ex-cop turned CAS security chief and Lantham's Jungian shadow. Chief among the subordinate loonies, though, are Lantham's apprentice, Rachael, and Nya, the daughter of a former client and Lantham's accidental ward. The relationships between Lantham, Rachael and Nya are the heart of the book, and the source of much of its charm.

Give credit where it is due, though: Sawyer doesn't just know interesting characters, he can also weave a gripping mystery. There are enough red herrings in this book to provide a feast for the seagulls who haunt Lantham's fevered dreams. Sawyer seems to have imagined every possible way that the meteorite COULD have been stolen, and about a dozen possible motivations, and Lantham wrestles with them all over the course of the investigation -- all, that is, except for the one that actually happened. The resolution of the mystery is satisfying because I never saw it coming, and yet it made perfect sense. Well, as much as anything involving space aliens makes sense.

In his author's note at the back, Sawyer explains how the Lantham mysteries have grown from a neat little 5-part series into a vast, tentacled beast that threatens to take over his brain (my words, not his). This can only be considered a good thing: not only are these some of the best characters Sawyer has written, they're some of his best stories, too. For the last half of the book I could barely tear myself away from this thing. Clear your schedule, grab a comfy chair by the window, put your feet up on the desk, and dive in.