What do you think?
Rate this book


480 pages, Hardcover
First published September 14, 2021
Ernie Sickert, the etiolated young man who had brought them news of the break‑in, had appeared out of nowhere. He was wearing what had become a uniform for him, grey flannel trousers, starched white shirt, and mulberry bow tie. Tall and so lanky that he verged on emaciation, Sickert had both hands up on the top of the door frame from which he hung like human drapery. An elaborate stack of towering pompadour crowned his narrow head, a hairdo that he had adopted during his days when he had played tenor sax for the Rhythm Alligators, a local dance band. Ernie had an expectant air, an I’m‑preparing‑to‑lick‑ice‑cream look on his face.
“I’ve got a problem. A big one. The storm has cut Connaught off from the outside world. Completely. Telephone, telegraph lines, they’re all down. Roads are impassable.The foreman of the section gang came in on a handcar at six o’clock and said that the railway trestle bridge over Cutbank Creek to the east is ready to collapse and that the embankment on the west line has washed out. There’ll be no trains running to Connaught for days. Which means that I can’t contact any other detachments to let them know what’s happened here, can’t warn them that Ernie Sickert is on the loose. It all falls on me. I’ve got no one to turn to for help.”
The great glacier of anger that was Oliver Dill was grinding the bedrock of his being to gravel. The pressure of it was inescapable; sometimes he felt it a little less, sometimes a little more, but it was always present. For the last three years the glacier had been moving toward some unknown destination the way an icefield moves, inch by inch. This afternoon it had brought him to this point: Would he act as Judith would want him to act and try to spare the boy’s life? Or would the glacier follow the natural course of its inclinations, implacably inch forward and crush Ernie Sickert?
Vidalia was stalled. Coming to the end of Dov’s journal left her wondering if life wasn’t a court convened and presided over by idiots. Left her wondering why she had clung so tenaciously to optimism, to belief in a better future if those things could be taken away as easily as they had been taken from Dov, by an accident, a stumble in the dark, by a politically motivated arrest.
For many years, in his mind Dill had been trying to correct the past. But the past was beyond correction. If the past led to death then death was surely beyond correction too. You carried the past into the future on your back, its knees and arms hugging you tighter with every step. His heart was where it was.
Take your lead from me, Mayfield. Do as I do. Creative havoc, well‑played, leads to victory. Creative havoc is the jazz of war.