THROUGH WYOMING EYES by Ken Rand

Through Wyoming Eyes is a collection of five short stories, vividly set in the open spaces of Wyoming, written by Ken Rand. In his introduction Rand explains that Wyoming is his adopted home, and while he is unable to live there, his "heart is in Wyoming." The stories explore the people and the terrain of the high plains and the author's love is visible in his simple and visual descriptions. They are told with a wry sense of humor and Rand never takes them too seriously.

The stories are unique to Ken Rand. They are a mixture of western, horror and science fiction. They read more as tall tales than short stories: the characters that inhabit his worlds are more fantastical than real. They are not super-heroes, but they have the feel and texture of a Johnny Appleseed, or Paul Bunyan rather than anyone you have ever known or met.

The collection opens with the story "Bridge O'Doom," which chronicles the strange events of a Wyoming rancher who discovers a sort of black hole on his land. It turns into a media circus and then a pop-culture event. The rancher watches as thousands of people journey to his land as a pilgrimage, looking for their own Shangri La, for their own escape into a better place, a better future. It is a quiet story that made me yearn for the older Twilight Zone-like science fiction of the past.

"Calamity Djinn" is the story of a stout and strong frontier woman who is planning to marry Butch Parker. The only problem is she hasn't informed him of her plans. This is a fantastical story of love, destiny and just damn poor luck.

"The Clockwork Sheriff," is a genre bending golem story. An aging gunfighter is called to a small town to help clean out the bad men and ruffians. Only when he arrives, two weeks late, he finds a replacement has beaten him there. This story has the feel of a classic robot story, but with the added texture and setting of a true western.

"Through These Eyes,' is the weakest of the stories contained in Through Wyoming Eyes. It is short, less than two pages, and is built from two viewpoints: a doctor and a shaman. Its insights are strange and delightful, but I would have loved to see it fleshed out and built into a stronger, more poignant story.

"Mr. Gibber Saves the Day," is a Lucky Nickel Saloon story that tells the tallest tale of the collection. The saloon's mortgage is due the next day and Mick can't pay it with the IOUs stuffed in the till. This leads the Lucky Nickel's regulars on several ill-begotten wagers to save their favorite haunt. In the end it comes down to a stranger in town--a reporter and his companion--to save the Lucky Nickel. This is an inventive and thrilling story that left me wanting more.

Through Wyoming Eyes is a collection that will appeal to a genre-bending audience. If you have wondered how a golem would fare in the Wild West, or what a window to a strange dimension would look like on an old ranch this collection is for you. The stories are well told, clever and climax with less answers than questions. Ken Rand is the thinking man's writer and these stories will live with you much longer than they take to read. My only complaint? There should have been another story or two between the covers.

Jack M. Bickham

TOR Hardcover

I've been in a sentimental mood recently; the past year or so. I've been reading, and rereading in some cases, a good deal of fiction from my youth. Most of it is from the late-Eighties and early-Nineties. A few of the writers I've revisited had an impact on what I thought--particularly in my youth--about politics, life, and the world. And it's fun to revisit my younger, more naïve, and somewhat different self. It's also terrific that most of what I read then still holds up pretty well now.

I've shared a few of the writers on this blog--guys like J.C. Pollock and Harry Arnston--but there have been others I haven't. And the one at the top of my list is Jack M. Bickham. Mr. Bickham wrote with a stripped-down simplicity that didn't erode the essentials, but added to them--his Brad Smith novels had as much meaning as any novel I've ever read, but they also told a terrific and exhilarating story.

Jack Bickham published something like 75 novels and I've enjoyed all that I've read, but the work he produced in the last ten years of his life was special. In 1989 he published the first novel to feature aging tennis pro and sometime spy Brad Smith. It's title: Tie Breaker. He wrote five more before the series came to an end with The Davis Cup Conspiracy, and there isn't a month that goes by that I don't at least think about one of these novels; a situation, a phrase, a philosophical ideal, or maybe just the permeating sadness of an aging athlete. Damn I love those novels.

And it doesn't end there. Jack Bickham wrote a handful of stand alone novels that still sit on my bookshelf. Day Seven is part science fiction, and all thriller. It's a Space Shuttle story that involves Mars, hijackers, and adventure that could keep an action junkie satisfied for days. Ariel is another one. It's about artificial intelligence, human error, and responsibility. The Regensburg Legacy is an action story that has enough twists and turns to keep the most jaded reader wondering what's happening, and why.

If there was one writer I could magically bring back into print it would be Mr. Bickham. I would start with his amazing Brad Smith novels and move on down the list until I hit a little ACE Double Mystery he wrote in the 1950s called Dally with a Deadly Doll. And the cool thing, or maybe sad, depending on ones viewpoint, is I would read them all again. And you should to. If you haven't read Jack Bickham find a copy of something he wrote and read it.

A Note. Jack Bickham published under various pseudonyms including John Miles, Jeff Clinton, and Arthur Williams. And I'm sure many others. He published in several genres; western, mystery, thriller, and others. At least two of his novels were made into feature films including The Apple Dumpling Gang, and Baker's Hawk. And while I enjoy his later work the most, I haven't ran into a Bickham novel I didn't like.

Other Posts about Jack Bickham:

1.  Visual Pulp: The Ace Double Titles of Jack Bickham
2.  THE USELESS GUN by Jack M. Bickham
3.  Jack M. Bickham's Black Bat Mystery Titles

4.  OPERATION NIGHTFALL by John Miles (Jack M. Bickham) & Tom Morris

5.  DAY SEVEN by Jack M. Bickham

6.  The TOR Novels of Jack M. Bickham
7.   GOIN' by Jack M. Bickham
8.   THE INVISIBLE PLAGUE by Jack M. Bickham
9.   TIEBREAKER by Jack M. Bickham
10. DROPSHOT by Jack M. Bickham
11. OVERHEAD by Jack M. Bickham
12. BREAKFAST AT WIMBLEDON by Jack M. Bickham

CHASING THE ROSWELL ALIEN by Glenn Marcel

This review originally went live at SFReader October 14, 2006, and since I found my copy a few days ago, at the bottom of a pile of books in my office, I've been thinking about it quite a bit the last few days. And my memory of Chasing the Roswell Alien is pretty darn good. I may have to dip between the covers of this one again.

There have been a myriad of films, documentaries, books and articles written about the alleged UFO crash at Roswell, New Mexico, but none of them are quite like Glenn Marcel's Chasing the Roswell Alien. Marcel is the nephew of Jesse Marcel, the Roswell Intelligence officer who blew the whistle about the Roswell crash in the 1980s, and the novel, while fiction, has the feel of an insider's view.

Vaughn, a reporter for one of those seedy little tabloids, is sent to British Columbia in search of Amelia Earhart. Not to find her crashed plane, but to actually find and interview Amelia Earhart. While Vaughn is somewhat dubious, the information has come from a source she has used before; an informant that seemingly knows everything about anything to do with conspiracy, secrets and government cover-ups. While the Earhart interview doesn't go exactly as planned, Hatch, her informant, puts Vaughn on the trail of what happened at Roswell in 1947. And the answers are far more personal, and strange, than Vaughn could ever have imagined.

Chasing the Roswell Alien is far from the expected. It is unusual in that the protagonist, Melissa Vaughn, isn't introduced until nearly the midway point of the book, and surprisingly I didn't mind. The first one hundred-plus pages are an overview of the incident at Roswell-it is much more exciting than one would think. It has the familiar events of the usual timeline, but it also has elements that are unique to this story. The Roswell tale is told through the perspectives of several characters, and in the end it is essential to the story. And when Vaughn finally does take over the narrative, things really begins to heat up.

Glenn Marcel has woven an intricate, entertaining and very readable novel with Chasing the Roswell Alien. The answers are not simple or expected. I was genuinely surprised at the climax, and very much pleased with the resulting conclusions. Marcel doesn't take his subject too seriously and he adeptly creates likable characters with dialogue heavy scenes and fast-paced action that kept me enthused and entertained until the final pages. If you enjoy a good mystery, a little spooky atmosphere, an X-Files rerun, or even late night radio, Chasing the Roswell Alien will most certainly satisfy.

HELLFIRE CANYON by Max McCoy wins Spur

I heard some exciting news today: Max McCoy's fine novel Hellfire Canyon has won the Spur Award for best paperback original. And it is well deserved. Hellfire Canyon was the best western novel I read in 2007 and it's story continues to stay with me. It is a campfire story--more legend than fact--with characters who come alive in the narrative. There is enough ambiguity and morality in the sparse tale to give it a power most genres works lack.

Congratulations Mr. McCoy. It's an award well deserved and a bright spot for a genre that is fading into obscurity.

To read my original review of Hellfire Canyon click Here.

THE CODEX by Douglas Preston

When Tom Broadbent is summoned to the family mansion in Santa Fe, New Mexico he finds his two older brothers impatiently trying to get a response at the front door. Their efforts are unsuccessful, and each of the men has a sinking feeling. When Tom finally breaks a window they find the house empty. Gone are their father's beloved art and artifacts--both legal and illegal--and in their place are barren walls, a few empty boxes and remnants of packing tape. Their initial assumption is that someone killed their father and stole his valuable collection. But as they walk through the house they find a big screen television, VCR, and a videocassette with a handwritten note taped to it that reads: Watch Me.

When the three sons play the cassette their father merrily greets them with, "Greetings from the dead." Their father was diagnosed with terminal cancer a few months earlier, and the boys--who never quite measured up to their father's high expectations--will have to earn their inheritance. Mr. Broadbent made his fortune hunting treasure and now he wants his sons to follow in his footsteps. If they want their father's legacy they will have to find it.

The Codex is a thriller that has plenty of everything; there are exotic locations, action, suspense, mystery, and even a touch of romance. Mr. Preston bestows the story with a unique blend of archaeology, pharmacology, and mysticism. He creates characters that fit the story--they are less than real, but their motives are pitch-perfect as the plot weaves itself into places I didn't expect. If The Codex has a weakness it is my usual rant: It's a smidgen too long. It runs--in mass-market paperback--to 404 pages, and while I never got bored with the story there were a few moments when I wanted it to move more swiftly.

The Codex is better than the average modern thriller, and if you enjoy intrigue,mystery, suspense, and don't mind a few clumsy interludes of romance, and can ignore one or two "yeah, right" moments it will entertain, and do it with style.

The Equalizer

I’m a nerd at heart. A few weeks ago I was at a local store and stumbled across the DVD set for season one of The Equalizer; a television series that starred Edward Woodward and aired sometime in the mid-1980s. It was a television series I had all but forgotten about, but when I saw the DVD set I couldn’t help myself—heck it was even on sale.

I wasn’t very old when The Equalizer was being produced—ten, twelve?—but I do remember I loved it. And the opening credits rocked. I think, some twenty years later, that they still define what I think of New York City. A city I have visited several times over the years, but I still think of it as the playground of thieves, dealers, thugs, perverts, sickos, weenies and general weirdos, and everyone else are their victims. (I know this isn’t the case, especially over the last decade, but still…)

So we’ve watched several episodes, and I still like it. Woodward is great as a slightly over-the-top hard guy, and the stories are so 1980s—they feature vigilantism, cold war paranoia, greed, and good old-fashioned car chases and shootings. But the best part is the brief introduction, and here it is direct from YouTube. Enjoy.

Epiphany, Sort Of

A few evenings back I was watching a nature program on PBS--the type of thing with beautiful photography, a sad, desolate story about life and death in the wild, passion, and a smug narrator to tell the tale (the sort of documentary I love)--when I had an epiphany. I admire the passion these programs show, from the scientists to the filmmakers, and while I was watching the struggle on the screen I realized that my passion for books is no less astounding, and very bit as real as what I was watching. It wasn't brilliant, but still, I had a simple and astounding thought: I love books.

My home is filled with books--on bookshelves, in boxes, and just plain piled in corners and along walls. I can't pass a bookshop without going in and I'm hard pressed to leave without purchasing a few. Books are one of my passions. And it has always been that way. I can remember as a child--say nine or ten--begging my mom to take me to the mall so I could wander down the aisles of the tiny Walden Books that occupied the space between a geeks and game, and a cigar shop; or was it GAP and The Key Hole?

I wasn't satisfied just looking either. I had to touch them, smell them, and read them. I cut my teeth--speaking of adult fiction here--on spy thrillers and action yarns. I would stay awake into the wee hours reading guys like Alistair MacLean, Desmond Bagley, David Morrell, Tom Clancy, Robert Ludlum, The Executioner novels, and it wasn't long before I started to dabble in the legal thrillers written by the likes of Scott Turow, and Barry Reed.

And then I discovered science fiction. It was awe-inducing, bigger than anything I could imagine, and right there in front of me. I read Robert Heinlein, Isaac Asimov, Robert Silverberg, A.E. Van Vogt, and so many more that it would bore you to tears to list them all here. And that goes for all the genres I have read and loved, which covers just about every genre or sub-genre in the English language.

The bottom line? I love the written word and Gravetapping is the proverbial campfire where I wax, not-so-poetically, about my passion. This place is special for one simple reason: it is an eclectic fanzine. There is nothing hostile here. No anger. Its only motive is to share something wonderful. And I'm pleased it has found an audience--no matter how small--and I absolutely enjoy the contact I've had with authors and readers alike. Thanks for coming. Thanks for emailing. Thanks for reading. And thanks for coming back; there'll be more, I promise.

And thanks for not making too much fun when I make a fool of myself. Like now for instance.

A NOTE. I wrote this a week or so ago, debated whether or not to post it, and finally this afternoon put it up. But in the meantime I pushed my passion a little and discovered a couple of terrific used bookstores in the small college town of Logan, Utah; the first, and by far the best, was a dusty old shop called Books of Yesteryear. I found several old titles I've wanted for some time, but the most intriguing is an old novel written by Harrison Arnston titled The Warning. It is one of Harry's early novels published by Zebra in 1987, and one of the few I haven't read. And I can't wait to get started.

The point? Other than me being outrageously excited? I'm still looking for one of Harry's early novels published by Zebra; Death Shock. If anyone has a copy and would be willing to sell it to me please send me an email.

MERRY CHRISTMAS, MURDOCK by Robert J. Ray

Merry Christmas, Murdock is the fourth novel written by Robert J. Ray to feature Orange County private eye Matt Murdock. Murdock is a former LAPD officer who feels and acts more like a college professor than a cop. He lives in a small bungalow on the beach and he owes more than just a little to John D. MacDonald's Travis McGee. His best friend, Wally St. Moritz, is a carbon copy of McGee's Meyer, and Murdock's personality and drive are reminiscent of the great McGee; he has astonishing luck with the ladies, he gets thumped more often than not, but he always finishes somewhere near the top. And now that I think about it, he has more than just a smattering of Jim Rockford.

It's Christmas, and Murdock's luck is running low; his last job didn't turn out as expected and his client won't pay. His girlfriend headed north, and it doesn't look like she's coming back. So he's home licking his wounds, cooking a gourmet meal and trying to forget about the holidays when his friend Wally St. Moritz--a surf shop-owning academic--telephones with a job. The daughter of a senator was the victim of a hit-and-run accident at the local shopping mall and the senator isn't satisfied with the efforts of the local law.

Murdock isn't crazy about the set-up--he and the senator, a sexy lady from Texas, take an instant dislike to each other and the case isn't compelling. A simple hit-and-run doesn't exactly excite Murdock's sense of mystery, but he doesn't have any other clients on the radar so he hesitatingly takes the job. It leads him into places he never expected--from the parlors of the wealthy, to the teenage enclaves of the Xanadu mall, to the seedy boardwalk of a by-the-hour motel, Murdock tramples his way to an imperfect justice. A justice that is far from complete, but it's the best Murdock can do.

Merry Chrsitmas, Murdock was originally published in 1989, and it's lost little of its appeal. The plotline isn't original, but Mr. Ray freshens it nicely by adding a few unexpected twists and weaving two distinct but connected subplots into the story. The characters are top-notch, especially Murdock; his major weakness is referring to himself in third-person. The novel is seeped with muted working class angst and a baby-boomer vibe that create a cold and severe world with heavy doses of hope, duty, and even a whisper of destiny.

The work of Robert Ray may not measure up to that of John D, but as far as P.I. stories go Merry Christmas, Murdock is pretty good, and reading it not only gave me a window into my own past--I first read this one in the early-Nineties--it reminded me how much I enjoyed the genre as a kid. Heck, I even wanted to be a P.I. Imagine that.

A Note: I originally discovered the Murdock novels as a teenager when I stumbled across Murdock for Hire in the local library. It was a cold holiday season--sometime between Christmas and New Years--and I have a vivid memory of finding refuge in the warm California sun. It probably took a blanket or two as well, but what more do you need than a good book, a terrific hero, and a few days off school?

The five novels that feature Matt Murdock are: Bloody Murdock, Murdock for Hire, Dial "M" for Murdock, Merry Christmas, Murdock, and Murdock Cracks Ice.

A Second Note: I've been having difficulties with my Internet service, and that's why it's been so quiet around here the past few weeks. I hope to have everything cleared up this next week. I hope.

Ghost Plane

I have a new hobby. It's not much, but it keeps me sane when I'm stuck at my desk all day. I have a window, but man if I don't miss the open air, the road, and just plain being outside. So each day I dial into Google Maps--hit the Satellite button--and go for a drive. I usually pick a road, a city, a state, an island, a Mountain, anything and take bird's eye view. It stops the shuddering, the twitching, and everything else for a few minutes.

And sometimes I see some pretty cool stuff. Like this image of a piston engine airplane flying across the vastness of Lake Mead in Nevada. If you look closely you can see the propellers whirring, and if you use just a little imagination it almost looks like a ghost plane. The kind of thing you would see on an old episode of The Twilight Zone. And that shadow on the lake's surface; is it for real? Way too cool.

RAMBO

I read something interesting over at David Morrell’s website: he likes the new film Rambo based on the character from his novel First Blood. He thinks the film is the most faithful adaptation of the John Rambo character, and that Sylvester Stallone does a terrific job portraying the broken, self-loathing man Morrell imagined when he created the character for his 1972 novel. He says, in part:

This is the first time that the tone of my novel First Blood has been used in any of the movies. It's spot-on in terms of how I imagined the character—angry, burned-out, and filled with self-disgust because Rambo hates what he is and yet knows it's the only thing he does well.

I’ve been a little suspicious of the film for a few reasons—the trailer looks extremely violent (although pretty good to my action-junkie eyes), it’s release date was pushed back at least once, and the producers exiled David Morrell from the production. You may remember a post I did last summer about Morrell’s isolation from the film, and his frustration about it. So his kind words carry some weight in my mind for the simple reason that he didn’t have a thing to do with anything. I doubt he ever spoke to the director, screenwriter, or anybody with anything to do with the film. And I’m glad it passes the author test—if he likes, I bet I will. And this is a film that I would really like to enjoy.

A Note: First Blood is a novel you should read—assuming you haven’t—because it absolutely rocks. This one turned the action thriller on its head, and its themes of war, violence and death are as relevant today as they were when it was written. And it’s entertaining as hell.

Click Here to read David Morrell's comments about the film.

Book Trailer: THE MONEY SHOT by Christa Faust

A month or so ago I received an email from Charles Ardai—I’m on the mailing list over at the Hard Case Crime website—with a teaser about HCC’s February release, The Money Shot by Christa Faust. In it he said we should do two things: 1) go watch the book trailer; and 2) buy the book when it’s released.

The trailer for The Money Shot isn’t nearly as good as the trailer for Dean Koontz’s The Good Guy, but it’s kind of cool. If for no other reason than the dancing girl—whom, I think, is the author, Christa Faust. You can see the trailer below, but according to Charles Ardai the reader should be aware that it doesn’t make for easy reading:

“Fair warning to anyone who might be offended by such things: Some of the content of the novel is pretty raw, in terms of sex and violence. ”



I’ll give The Money Shot a try for no other reason than the cool cover art, but I have to admit I’m getting squeamish. I had to put Richard Laymon’s Savage aside a few evenings ago because it nearly made me sick. And I usually love Laymon’s work. Maybe it’s just my mood. I hope.

MANITOU BLOOD by Graham Masterton

This review originally went live on SFReader in October 2005. I thought this review rocked when I originally wrote it, but it didn't seem quite as great as I read it this evening. But the book is great. Really.

Graham Masterton revisits his horror roots with his recent novel Manitou Blood. For those of you familiar with Masterton’s work the title will tell you everything you need to know about the story. If you are new to his tales, Manitou Blood brings back two of Masterton’s most beloved characters: Harry Erskine (a fortune-telling skeptic and sometime con-man) as the protagonist; and Misquamacus (a Native American spirit, or manitou, of a shaman wonder-worker determined to push all, except the Native Americans, out of the New World) as the antagonist.

The story begins with Dr. Frank Winter walking to work. On his way Frank notices a young woman mime performing on the street. Her exposed skin is painted silver and she is beautiful in a “waiflike” manner that makes Frank stop and watch. Her performance is amazing. Almost surreal in the way she moves. Frank is awed by the spectacle and confused when a man standing behind him whispers: She’s one of the pale ones, that’s why [she is so convincing]. Frank doesn’t understand the phrase “pale ones,” but he will.

After the mime’s performance Frank approaches her and places a dollar in her silver collection bowl. He congratulates her on a wonderful performance, but before he can leave she begins to vomit blood. The blood is not hers, but rather it belongs to two different people. This is the beginning of what looks like a deadly blood disease. Those who contract it suffer from burning skin and a wet hunger for blood that cannot be quenched. It doesn’t take long for New York City to be inundated with the ill and their victims. The disease spreads so quickly that in less than a week the city is literally a ghost town by day and a howling bin of bloodsuckers by night.

The “vampire” plague is nothing the doctors or authorities can solve. The only man who can stop the destruction is a tarot card dealing, palm-reading fortune-teller named Harry Erskine. Unfortunately he is unable to convince anyone the plague is supernatural. The doctors are searching for a blood disorder, and the authorities quarantine New York City. Harry Erskine is alone, with a little help from unexpected friends, to save the world, again.

Manitou Blood is a mixture of vampire novel, ghost story, end of the world plague tale, and demonic possession all rolled into one unique and exhilarating story. It has all of the elements of a good horror novel: There is an abundant amount of fear, enough suspense to keep the reader turning the pages, a little sex, some humor, a touch of gore and a whole lot of fun. Masterton takes the familiar—the vampire—and adds some interesting and original elements to the mythos, and then he places some harrowing, very frightening Native American legends in the story. The ending is a surprise, and the journey is a romp. Manitou Blood is a banner example of Masterton’s better work: It is quick, well plotted, and definitely not disappointing.

Mojave Desert / Death Valley Part 2

Part One is Here.

Death Valley was everything I have ever imagined. Vast. Desolate. Beautiful. There were more people at Death Valley than Mojave, but the park is so large it didn’t bother me. In fact the only thing that did bother me was that our allotted time was far too short. On our way in, just past the ghost town of Rhyolite, we passed three wild burros on the edge of the road, and on our way out we saw a handful of wild horses. Somewhere in between we made an uneasy friendship with a Coyote that consisted of him eyeing us suspiciously, and us pointing and cooing at him. He got up and walked away. And we just watched him—the perfect predator. The animal that no matter what we humans do, we can’t seem to kill them out. In my home state of Utah there is still a $75 bounty on Coyotes, but they keep breeding, prospering, and living on. Thankfully.


In the northern corner of the park is a beautiful estate built in the 1920s called Scotty’s Castle—it was built by an insurance magnate who lost his fortune during the Great Depression and was never able to finish his Death Valley hideaway, but the portion that he did finish is impressive. The house is magnificent, and the National Park Service offers two distinct tours of the house: the living areas, and the tunnels that run beneath it. We decided we weren’t overly interested in the rugs and furniture, but the idea of dank and dark tunnels filled us with excitement, so we forked over the twenty dollars and went on the tunnel tour.


The tour took about an hour, and it consisted of us, the tour guide and a friendly gentleman from upstate New York. The tunnels, like the rest of the house, were never finished, but they were still impressive. The house used a condensation cooling system that blew desert air into the tunnels with a large fan past water-filled pipes that cooled the air before it was pushed into small shafts that vented into the main house. Impressive. Even more so if it actually worked.


When the tour ended we wandered the grounds, and met a myriad of interesting people. There was an older man who worked the bookshop, his wife sold tickets for the tours, and while there really weren’t many tourists, the few we met were kind, and very obliging. It was Christmas day, and everyone was glad to be in the California desert. We tried to find the mysterious sand surfing rocks—they call it the racetrack, but the old man at the bookshop warned us away with a “the road is terrible. The last car that tried it was stranded, and the towing fee was $1,800.” We decided next time we’d rent an SUV, and get full coverage through the rental agency. Poor bastards.


We spent the night in a Motel 6 in the tiny town of Beatty, Nevada. It has something like five motels, and one restaurant—Rita’s Café. Fortunately the food at Rita’s is, at the least, edible, and at the best pretty good. The next day we went back into the park with the intention of eating breakfast at Furnace Creek—the place was packed. We walked into a diner, and they told us it was an hour wait. So we plunged ahead down the boardwalk about fifteen feet to a buffet, dropped thirty dollars and had our choice of three mystery meats (I think they were turkey, ham, and an unappealing beef.) The salad bar was a little better—the food was at least identifiable—and it gave me good reason to eat more greens than cholesterol.


The heart of Death Valley is impressive. The road winds down below sea level, and to the west dry ranges rise some 11,000-feet into vibrant sky. It reminded me very much of the Great Salt Lake, but without the water, and a whole lot more people eyeballing it. That isn’t to say it wasn’t great, it just reminded me how much I love the Great Salt Lake, and how under-appreciated it is—thankfully. We headed out of the park early that evening because we needed to get to Las Vegas for the night—our flight was scheduled to leave the next morning. And damn if I don’t wish we had a few more days, hell, maybe weeks, to wander the desolation of Death Valley.

THE KOREAN INTERCEPT by Stephen Mertz

The Korean Intercept is the fifth (by my count) novel Stephen Mertz has published under his own name in the past few years, and it is the first to hit mass-market paperback. It is an action thriller with more than a little attitude, and even a touch of originality.

The space shuttle Liberty is just minutes off the launch pad at Cape Canaveral when its crew is given the order to abort mission—they are to maintain radio silence, and let the navigation system take them down. It isn’t long before the crew realizes something is terribly wrong and as the shuttle makes its final approach the pilot takes the controls and overshoots the approaching runway in Hamgyong Province, North Korea. He also gets a short mayday transmission out before the shuttle’s power goes down.

In the United States the president wants answers. No one knows exactly where the Liberty went down and the crew’s emergency beacons are frighteningly quiet. The Koreans, while not openly hostile, are unreceptive to a U.S. led search party, and the Chinese are more interested in their own search than helping the United States. This is where the hero arrives—Trev Galt. He is the best operator the United States has and to make things even more interesting his wife is one of Liberty’s missing astronauts. It doesn’t take Galt long to take things to the next level and when he does, watch out.

The Korean Intercept is a modern thriller in every sense of the word. The writing is loose and stark. The plot is flamboyant, larger-than-life, and fast-paced. The characters are cardboard, but they fit the story and fulfill their roles perfectly as the plot steams toward the climax. The major difference between The Korean Intercept and most of its peers is the action. Stephen Mertz made a name in the men’s action novel market in the 1980s, and it shows here. The action is quick, sharp, and exhilarating.

If The Korean Intercept has a weakness, it is one shared by most works in the genre—it takes the story a little too long to develop as the major players are introduced, but Mr. Mertz infuses the introductory scenes with enough action to keep it interesting. Then it really begins to pop about a quarter of the way through and it doesn’t let up until the final climax when Trev Galt makes it his mission in life to rescue both the Liberty and its crew.

Jack Higgins

I've never been a letter writer. I don’t write letters to celebrities, writers, or anyone else I don’t know. In fact, the idea kind of embarrasses me. But sometime around 1994 a friend of mine wrote a letter to Harry Patterson—the guy who became famous as Jack Higgins when he published the bestseller The Eagle Has Landed.

In 1994 Higgins published a novel titled On Dangerous Ground, which was the third novel to feature Higgins’ latest hero Sean Dillon. On Dangerous Ground was a reworking of an earlier novel written by Harry Patterson titled Midnight Never Comes; and my buddy was one of the few people lucky enough to have a copy of the original novel—it was published by Abelard-Schuman in 1966, and there were something liked 1,000 copies printed.

My friend purchased a copy of On Dangerous Ground in hardcover when it hit bookstores, and when, on page ten or eleven, he realized he'd read it before, he got annoyed. Annoyed enough to do the unthinkable: write a letter to the author. He didn’t have an address, but the dust jacket on every Jack Higgins’ novel published in the last twenty-five years reports his residence as Jersey Island. So my buddy addressed his sorta angry letter:

Harry Patterson
aka Jack Higgins
Isle of Jersey, Channel Islands
United Kingdom

Amazingly, a month or two later he received a response from Mr. Patterson. A very kind, somewhat apologetic letter that explained why he had reworked an older novel, and that there was a small notice of the fact on the copyright page. He explained that the original printing had sold very few copies and those only to libraries in the United Kingdom. The letter was double spaced, typed and filled with typos—Patterson explained this by saying he was recovering from a serious scuba diving accident and he only had use of one hand.

For a nerdy, book-loving teenager this was the coolest thing ever. At the time Jack Higgins was my favorite writer and the idea that he would actually climb down from his tower and converse with a lowly fan was astonishing and oh so cool to me. I was so impressed that my friend gave me a photocopy of the letter, and I read and reread this letter dozens of times over the years. And I would probably still get it out and reread it, but I lost it in a move several years ago.

The bottom line: I will never forget the kindness of Mr. Patterson’s response to a mildly disappointed reader. And I will always be a fan of his work—especially those tight, lean, and oh so cool early adventure novels. Those slim titles I wish he were still writing.

NOTE: Midnight Never Comes was the fourth Jack Higgins’ novel to feature the tough and resilient spy Paul Chavesse. Chavesse is a spy who is more blue-collar, tough, and a hell of a lot more fun than James Bond. If you enjoy solid action and top-notch suspense, you should hunt down the Chavesse novels because they never fail to entertain. A few of them have even been reprinted in the past few years; and I hope Berkley has Midnight Never Comes on its schedule.

The Paul Chavesse titles are: The Testament of Caspar Schultz (republished as The Bormann Testament), Year of the Tiger, The Keys of Hell, Midnight Never Comes, The Dark Side of the Street, and A Fine Night for Dying.

Mojave Desert / Death Valley Part 1

A few weeks ago I promised a few photographs of our Mojave Desert / Death Valley trip, and today, finally, I’m going to deliver. We flew into Las Vegas; a flight that, once it finally got in the air, took a little more than an hour, and our plan was to spend the first night there. But when we finally hit the city, traffic was so bad we made the decision to drive south, and spent the night in Baker, California—the place with the world’s largest thermometer. Baker is no more than a roadside stop on I-15. It is filled with restaurants, motels, and gas stations. And the biggest damn crows I have ever seen–they are the size of a small golden eagle, and all the residents watch their children closely, because a pack of these birds could easily carry them away.


We spent the night in a dumpy little drive-in motel called Wills Fargo—cool name, and really not a bad place once I got used to the cold white tile laid throughout. There was a handwritten list on yellow lined paper taped to the mirror that quoted prices for each item in the room that wasn’t bolted down: television $75; clock radio $15; heater $70; and towels $5. Not a bad deal if you’re in the market for a new television, or wall mounted heater. The motel and the town felt very much like a Richard Laymon horror novel. I kept looking for skulking perverts, cannibals, and psychopaths, but didn’t see anything unusual other than a really cool motel office with a working pay phone out front. A real working payphone!

That morning after a greasy meal at Bob’s Big Boy we headed into Mojave National Preserve. The landscape is desolate. It is littered with sage, sequoia, and even a scattering of low growing cactus. In the distance dry mountain ranges claw into the vibrant blue sky, and traffic was nonexistent—exactly the way I like it. We spent two days in Mojave—we bivouacked at a Days Inn in Needles, California (a dumpy little town with an even dumpier grocery store)—and loved every minute. We discovered a cavern in the heart of the preserve called The Mitchell Caverns that captured our imagination. It is a short hike from a California State Parks visitor center, and it is furnished with stalagtites, stalagmites, and a plethora of other unique geological cave formations.

The guide was a treat. We took the tour with three other families, and as we wove our way through the cavern—it is actually two separate caverns that have been connected—he explained many of the geological events that can be seen in the cave. Then after the thirty-minute tour he asked my wife and I if we wanted to hang around for a few more minutes, and he told us several more stories. One of them was when Oliver Stone filmed a scene for The Doors. The crew painted a pictograph on the cave wall with a temporary paint that turned out o be much more permanent than temporary. The park no longer allows film crews in the cave. He also talked about an early theory of rock formation; it was believed that the rock was alive and grew much the same as an animal. In an odd way it made sense; it probably doesn't hurt that as a child my mother constantly spoke of the spirit of nature. I grew up believing that trees, rocks, and every other substance on earth had a spirit that was alive, aware, and sacred. She was a hippy, kind of, and I still find her sensitivites more believable than the trash the hucksters sell at the pulpites and on television.

Unfortunately I didn’t know how to capture the beauty of the cavern, and my camera stayed in my pocket the entire time. But I’ll be back there again. And if you’re ever the area you should stop in too.

Come back in a few days for the Death Valley segment.

I couldn't help myself--this photograph of Cat Man Pete was on the same card. He really is as tough as he looks.

THE VENUS DIARIES by Harrison Arnston

I’ve written about Harry Arnston before—I reviewed his novel Act of Passion earlier this year, and in that post I categorically stated that I have enjoyed every Arnston novel I’ve read. And that feeling hasn’t changed one bit since then. I recently re-read the last novel Harry published before his death: The Venus Diaries.

The Venus Diaries is a little different than Arnston’s other work—it fits quite nicely in the thriller category. It is the story of Josephine, a young woman who lost both her father and mother in World War Two France. After the war ends a silent and brutal man adopts her—he was a leader in a partisan group during the war, but when the Nazis were driven out he was declared useless. The man takes his frustrations out on Josephine until she can take no more. She is moved into a school for troubled girls where she excels academically, but there is something missing in Josephine: she doesn’t think like other children.

Josephine looks for weaknesses and angles to manipulate people for her own ends, but she is intelligent enough to cover her motives and convincing enough to make people believe she is anything but the ruthless sociopath she is. When Josephine turns sixteen her beauty attracts a top model agency where she is groomed to be a star—this is where she meets her destiny. A man who calls himself a spy contacts her to help with special jobs. She play-acts at seducing men of power, and then she steals the information they have.

The Venus Diaries spans more than fifty years. It begins in the war torn regions of France, but it doesn’t end until it reaches the highest levels of power in the United States of 1994. There is a large cast of characters that fulfill their obligation to the sprawling plotline well and keep the story interesting. The plot is well formed and intriguing—it has the feel of a sweeping epic without bogging down with too much information and character development. The prose is light and smooth. It captures the story with stark and appealing descriptions of characters and places.

If The Venus Diaries has a weakness it is the limited action—the story is told in a dream-like voice that inhibits both the darkness of the main character and the potentially riveting action scenes. This is easily forgiven however, because of Arnston’s strong grip on the story and its effects on the reader.

The Venus Diaries was Harry Anrston’s last published novel—it was number nine by my count—and if it isn’t his best work, it is very close.

Harper Paperbacks originally published The Venus Diaries in January 1994.

VAMPIRE SLAYERS edited by Martin H. Greenberg & Elizabeth Ann Scarborough

This is a review I wrote in 2005—it was published in the Fall 2005 issue of the small press magazine Night to Dawn. The review feels more like a college essay than most of the reviews here at Gravetapping, but I still think about several of the stories contained in Vampire Slayers and absolutely agree with my analysis. It feels good to agree with myself.

Enjoy, and have a great new year. I’ll be posting some new stuff soon—maybe even a photograph or two of our Death Valley trip.

In this eclectic anthology of vampire stories it is the hunter, the human vampire-killer, who is highlighted and developed. The vampire is a lesser entity. They have no value, except as a scourge against humanity. The vampires prey upon not just the blood of humanity, but humanity itself. They must be destroyed, beheaded, burned, or staked, to save mankind. The stories cover a broad span of vampire literature from the early writings of the legendary Hugh B. Cave and his excellent story “Stragella” published in 1932, to a more modern take on the vampire story as gory sex-fest that only the late-Richard Laymon could write in his story “Special.”

The style of each story is unique. They seemingly represent the evolution of the vampire hunter tale from its earliest modern inceptions to the contemporary. The arc of substance that these tales feature is fascinating—the characters of the early tales are caught in a nightmare of events that are beyond their control, and very often belief, while the modern tales tend toward the vampire slayer as a merciless professional who not only believes what is happening, but thrives on it.

The stories that represent early vampire literature, “Revelations in Black” by Carl Jacobi, “Nellie Foster” by August Derleth, “Stragella” by Hugh B. Cave, and “The Last Grave of Lill Warren” by Manly Wade Wellman, have the feel of the classic tale Dracula by Bram Stoker. They evoke the feelings and the mythology of the great novel with one major difference: They are written in third person. There are no letter or diary entries to remove the reader from the action as in Dracula. The story unfolds before the reader in real-time. It is told with a suspense that cannot be obtained from the older “letter” style novels, yet they have much in common with their predecessor Dracula.

The stories move forward into a middle ground between old and new with “Duty” by Ed Gorman and “Midnight Mass” by F. Paul Wilson. They both contain the classic mythology, but are written with a stronger sense of unease and corruption than the earlier tales. They also lack the easy simplicity of good versus evil. Gorman uses a spectacular sparse noir style that emphasizes the humanity of the slayer, the angst that is felt as friends and neighbors clamor for his services. His protagonist takes the emotional burdens of the death he causes, the guilt of murder from each slaying as though the vampires are not animals, but living, breathing humans.

“In a while it began to rain. He was still thinking of the little Dodds girl, of her innocent eyes there at the very last.”

With passages like this, Mr. Gorman seeks, and finds more than just the generic vampire slayer story. He creates an image that is more than mere horror, but is also very much relevant to the human experience. A story that makes the reader ponder death, and more importantly life.

The final group of stories is fashioned in the most modern sense of the slayer. They have much in common with the television series Buffy the Vampire Slayer. They have hard-nosed slayers who look at the world of vampires as nothing more than something to be killed. They are professionals who enjoy the act of slaying. These stories are best represented by the detective story “God-less Men” by James Kisner and the vampire as vampire-slayer story “This Town Ain’t Big Enough” by Tanya Huff. These are edgey stories that have the vibrancy of modern noise and craze. The heroes and heroines push through the streets with the tough, and at times, pious sense that they are absolutely right and will survive, and with their survival humanity will also be saved from the an unbelievable onslaught of the undead.

Vampire Slayers is a welcome addition to vampire literature. It gives the reader a brief primer of the vampire slayer story in the Twentieth Century. The stories are related only by their theme: The Slayer versus the Vampire. The storylines and styles are vastly different, but each, in its own right, works and adds to the growing canon of vampire literature.

Book Trailer: The Good Guy by Dean Koontz

I'm usually a little slow in getting any kind bookworld news other than the latest titles coming out from my favorite writers and publishers, so most of you may have seen this, but I really liked it. It's a book trailer for Dean Koontz’s novel The Good Guy. I haven’t read it, but the trailer really makes me want to.



I’m really just discovering book trailers, and if there are any out there you would recommend please do.

Zingers 4: More First Lines with Grab

I’m a sucker for a good first line—one that grabs me by the throat and pulls me kicking and screaming into a story. It not only sells the novel—or short story—but it sets the mood, tone, theme, and damn near everything else that makes a story a story. And how I love a good story.

In this fourth edition of Zingers there are, as usual, three opening lines, or paragraphs as the case may be, that were especially appealing when I picked these books up. I’ve been in a thriller mood of late, and two of them show my mood, but the third is straight mystery.

1.

Creepers.

That’s what they called themselves, and that would make a good story, Balenger thought, which explained why he met them in this godforsaken New Jersey motel in a ghost town of 17,000 people. Months later, he still would not be able to tolerate being in rooms with closed doors. The nostril-widening smell of must would continue to trigger the memory of screams. The beam from a flashlight wouldn’t fail to make him sweat.

This is the opening paragraph to David Morrell’s Bram Stoker winning Creepers. It perfectly sets the stage for the story that quickly develops on the pages, and if you can put it down after an opening like that, you’re a braver man than I.

2.

He woke up scared.

Worse than that: he was terrified. His heart was pounding, his breath came in gasps, and his body was taut. It was like a nightmare, except that waking brought no relief. He felt that something dreadful had happened, but he did not know what it was.

He opened his eyes. A faint light from another room dimly illuminated his surroundings, and he made out vague shapes, familiar but sinister. Somewhere nearby, water ran in a cistern.

This is how Code to Zero by Ken Follett opens; the paragraphs create a terrific image of change. The character is off-balance, unsure, and scared. The character's feelings of unease permeate the prose, and very much make me want to read on. And I’m just glad someone else wakes up that way too.

3.

When ranch owner Opal Scarlett vanished, no one mourned except her three grown sons, Arlen, Hank, and Wyatt, who expressed their loss by getting into a fight with shovels.

This is one of the best opening lines I’ve read. It has everything. Bite. Mystery. Appeal. Humor—dark as it is. And it’s just damn intriguing. This line is how C.J. Box’s In Plain Sight begins, and oh how it makes me want to read on and on.