The Girl Who Disappeared Twice by Andrea Kane: A review

I have very few rules about what I WON'T read.

I won't read novels about vampire lovers.

I won't read books with pictures of over-endowed and half-dressed pouty women (or men, for that matter) on the dust cover.

I won't read books that glorify sadism or sadists.

I won't read books about Hitler.

And I won't read mystery or crime books in which children or animals are the victims. Other than that, most anything goes.

Why, then, did I wind up reading this book in which a five-year-old child is the victim? Well, that's easy enough. It was this month's selection of my local book club.

In the last couple of years as a member of this club, I've been introduced to several writers that I had never read before. I've liked a few of them (Tom Franklin, Harlan Coben, e.g.), a lot of them I found to be mediocre, and a few I've actively disliked. This one, I think, falls in the meh category.

I found the writing rather simplistic, as if it were written for an intermediate school audience. Moreover, the characters did not seem realistic. All of the members of the various investigating teams were paragons of virtue. Egoism and personality clashes never got in the way of their investigation. Everyone was very careful not to step on anyone's toes. Frankly, it just made me long for crusty, irascible Inspector John Rebus.

The story is this: A beautiful five-year-old girl has been kidnapped. She is the daughter of a veteran family court judge and a high-powered defense lawyer who has been known to defend rather shady characters. It seems far too much of a coincidence that thirty years earlier the six-year-old identical twin sister of the family court judge had also been kidnapped. The reader intuits almost immediately that there must be a connection. Well, I mean it's right there in the title, isn't it?

The purpose of this book seems to be mainly to introduce the characters of a private forensics team which will be the focus of an ongoing series. The team is called Forensic Instincts and it is made up of a group of those paragons of virtue that I talked about, who also seem to be endowed with superpowers.

There is the former Navy SEAL who can penetrate any perimeter, the techno-wizard who can perform miracles with computers, and the head of the team, Casey Woods, a behaviorist. They are a renegade investigative unit with unique talents, sort of X-men without the freaky appearances. They will go outside the law and do whatever it takes to solve a case and serve the interests of their clients.

Along the way, they also pick up an "intuitive," i.e., psychic, and a retired straight-arrow, by-the-rules former FBI agent as new members of the team. Oh, and also a bloodhound named Hero.

My credulity was severely strained. I just wasn't buying any of it. I couldn't really get seriously involved with any of the characters. As for the identity of the kidnapper, that seemed fairly obvious early on, even though the full extent of the motive took a while to develop.

Incredibly, these supposedly top-notch investigative teams spent an inordinate hunk of the book concentrating on something that was so obviously a red-herring that I just wanted to grab them by the lapels and scream, "No, no, you're getting it all wrong!"

Even so, I knew from the outset that (Spoiler alert!) the little girl would get home safely. Maybe that's why I was able to keep reading. That plus my sense of responsibility to my mystery book club. See, I'm one of those paragons of virtue, too.

Poetry Sunday: Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver

How about we share another Mary Oliver poem? After all, you can never have too many of those. In this one, the poet seems to acknowledge that it is often hard to simply live in and enjoy the moment, perhaps because we are afraid it can't last. She urges us to give in to that moment and fully experience the joy. Although "much can never be redeemed, still, life has some possibility left." Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is no...

Poetry Sunday: Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney

My mother was a farm wife and a prodigious canner. She canned fruit and vegetables from the garden, even occasionally meat. But the best thing that she canned, in my opinion, was blackberry jam. Even as I type those words my mouth waters! Of course, before she could make that jam, somebody had to pick the blackberries. And that somebody was quite often named Dorothy. I think Seamus Heaney might have spent some time among the briars plucking those delicious black fruits as well, so he would have known that "Once off the bush the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour." They don't keep; you have to get that jam made in a hurry! Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust ...

Poetry Sunday: Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman

You probably remember poet Amanda Gorman from her appearance at the inauguration of President Biden. She read her poem "The Hill We Climb" on that occasion. After the senseless slaughter in Uvalde this week, she was inspired to write another poem which was published in The New York Times. It seemed perfect for the occasion and so I stole it in order to feature it here, just in case you didn't get a chance to read it in the Times . Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman Everything hurts, Our hearts shadowed and strange, Minds made muddied and mute. We carry tragedy, terrifying and true. And yet none of it is new; We knew it as home, As horror, As heritage. Even our children Cannot be children, Cannot be. Everything hurts. It’s a hard time to be alive, And even harder to stay that way. We’re burdened to live out these days, While at the same time, blessed to outlive them. This alarm is how we know We must be altered — That we must differ or die, That we must triumph or try. ...

The Nature of Things

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