From Publishers Weekly
Starred Review. As the first anniversary of the kidnapping of two-year-old twins Liam and Shane Boyle approaches in Sidor's bone-chilling third novel, Chicago freelance journalist Jase Deering decides to investigate with his partner and girlfriend, the blind Robyn Matchfrost. Jase has his own demons: his 12-year-old brother, Matthias, was abducted and murdered when they were children. With the help of police detectives, Jase traces the palindrome mirrorrorrim, which the twin's abductor carved into their nanny's living flesh, to cult leader Aubrey Hart Morick, who advocated human sacrifice. Though Morick is long dead, Jase discovers that his son, Graham, lives in the area and isn't as harmless as he first appears. As Jase spends the next 10 years delving deeper into the world of Morick's cult, he realizes that even if he finds the Boyles, it may be too late to save them or himself. Sidor (Bone Factory) is a master of the unsettling, and each twist is more grisly and unexpected than the last. Readers won't be able to resist staying up all night to finish this haunting tale, though they may wish they hadn't. (Apr.)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Review
“Unforgetable, spellbinding, and darkly suspenseful. Sidor must have sold his soul to the devil to write this well.” – Steve Hamilton, author of Night Work, on Skin River
“Sidor is a prince of darkness, steeped in the noir tradition and not giving an inch. That said, he is also bountifully talented.” – Kirkus Reviews on Bone Factory
“Steven Sidor keeps the pacing piano-wire taut and selects his words with a vivisectionist’s diabolical care.” – Stewart O’Nan, author of The Good Wife, on Skin River
“Ideal for those who enjoy queasy, uneasy, macabre reading – this is stomach churning suspense at its best.” – Lansing State Journal on Bone Factory
“With an eye for gritty detail and a predilection for metaphor, Sidor paints a morbid picture of deviance and death….The salty prose and clever narration will keep readers hooked.” – Publishers Weekly on Skin River
“…dark, harrowing, and unpredictable as a run of dangerous river. Sidor plunges you into chilling waters on page one and barely lets you up for air.” – Gregg Hurwitz, author of The Crime Writer, on Skin River
Book Description
Twin brothers, two years old, are snatched out of their Chicago home at noon on their birthday, never to be seen again. The kidnappers never make contact. The crime haunts the city, devastating those left behind.
As the anniversary of the abduction approaches, freelance journalist Jase Deering begins to investigate a case gone cold for the police. What he finds is a paranoid former nanny who had the word “mirrorrorrim” carved into her flesh that fateful day and a trail that leads to a fabled figure, Aubrey Hart Morick. Morick, dead for many years, was an iconic practitioner of the black arts whose legacies are a scandalous reputation and a son named Graham. Increasingly convinced that Graham Morick is more than the simple, innocent man he claims to be, Jase Deering finds the line between natural and supernatural beginning to blur. His determined search for the truth may cost him, and everyone he holds dear, more than he can bear.
About the Author
Steven Sidor is the author of the acclaimed novels Skin River and Bone Factory. He lives near Chicago with his wife and two children.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Mirror's Edge
Chapter 1
I will start my story in a place I shouldn't. My beginning won't involve the woman I once loved, my writing partner, Robyn Matchfrost. No, and the Boyle children, those two perfect little two-year-olds who went missing and whose disappearance sent me on my darkest journey--they are not present here.
This is something that happened when I was a child.
My brother, Matthias, walked into the woods one winter's day when he was twelve.
He never came out.
We play soldier in the pines.
A broken transistor radio serves as a walkie-talkie, a natty bedsheet--my parachute--trails behind me filling with dead leaves. I've tied two corners together; there's a hard, little knot rubbing under my chin. The enemy stronghold is a bombed-out convent in the forests of France. Barbwire hoops spiral through the courtyard. A machine gunner's nest deals murder from the bell-tower shadows. My mission: destroy the nest.
I walk on the homeward side of a shallow stream. The stream cutsacross my grandparents' Michigan property like a mirror crack. My older brother holds down the tree fort, no more than a hundred yards away, armed with pinecone grenades and a plastic Tommy gun. Even poorly equipped, Matthias always makes the better Nazi. Maybe it's because he's two years older and a head taller, or it might be his shock of white-blond hair, so fair that in a certain light his eyebrows disappear. My brown curls match our father's in his childhood albums on top of the piano. Donna Cirincione--Grandma C or sometimes we say Mama's mama--she calls them my pelt.
Matthias is good at giving orders. That's why he's in the fort and I stumble on the ground. Burrs hook to my pants. Dampness seeps through the sides of my boots. I tell myself not to be surprised if, instead of the pinecones, Matthias throws rocks.
I gather the knot in my fist and, using my Swiss Army knife, cut. I watch my men slicing their chute cords. Good men, and many will die today. Never see home again. So much sacrificed to save an unpronounceable French hamlet and a dozen nameless, frightened nuns. I stuff the bedsheet into the hollow of a tree. We rendezvous at the water crossing. Silent, smoking--their heads cool as statues--my men fix their minds on killing Germans. After five minutes, we saddle up.
The winter has been mild, and the stream can't stay frozen. I cross on loose gray slates tilting in the current. A few old patches of snow persist in the deepest shade. They're like bones floating on a sea of rusty pins.
I remember the wood smell, an odor of freshly sawn boards, and I remember leaning into a tree trunk and coming away with sap on my shirt, stickiness at the back of my neck. I remember my eye catching the liquid red of a fox slipping through the underbrush.
I pick up a log to protect myself. The day keeps quiet, holding its breath. Pines everywhere. There is a crow marching through a zigzag of sunlight. I swat at him. The branch whistles, missing. His wings open--feathers fanning out like a hand of black playing cards--he flaps once, hopping sideways, aloft for a single windy beat. He lands and cocks his head for a better look at me. His eye is like a bubble of oil. He opens his beaked mouth without a sound. He flies.
Overheated in my new blue sweater, the wool itchy as ants, I unbuttonmy grandfather's hunting jacket-I'm wearing it because Mama says mine is too thin for the woods. As if the woods are a colder place. I decide to take the jacket off. I hang it on the sharp remains of a tree that has split in half and been fed upon by something. The pulpwood transformed to a corky orange.
Mama is right about the woods.
The cold is scooping under my clothes. My sweat cools to glass. I put the jacket on again, stubbornly leaving it unbuttoned. I roll back the sleeves.
I've been getting over the flu. The light-headedness of being sick is still with me. I'm fogged in by over-the-counter decongestants. When I swing my arms, the sea-salt tang of my grandfather's aftershave puffs into my face. I feel a little like throwing up. Acid spiders in my throat. I swallow down saliva, winter air tasting like stones.
The fort.
I duckwalk through underbrush. Needles soften my footfalls. I think I hear Matthias, his voice hushed and deep from the belly. Giving commands.
Constructing the fort was simple. Scrap wood from our Grandpa C's workshop, nails from his Folgers coffee can. He lent us two hammers and a hacksaw to do the job. Grandpa C liked that we were builders. Told us to take his wheelbarrow for hauling the boards. Dad would've helped us, except he's at home. I gave him my flu.
The fort is like a shoebox--top off and tipped sideways. We put it up between two trees growing close together. We pounded in braces. We made a five-step ladder, nailing two-by-fours crosswise up one pine. We have to swing ourselves to get in, but a man can reach. He can reach inside and a boy will have no place to hide.
The sergeant paces along scarlet arches of thorns. This spot, in the country of my imagination, was Nazi barbwire. But here and now is no game. We are searching for Matthias. My mother and grandfather have gone off. They picked a direction. My grandmother and a deputy named Cady have taken the opposite. I remain under the fort with thesergeant, whose name is Billy Dean Gatlin. We are within a small oval clearing directly beneath a tree. The fort is empty, the way I found it four hours ago.
The sergeant fingers a carved trunk. "You boys do this?"
I inch up. Stand tiptoe. "No, sir."
"Possibility?"
"What?"
"I said is there any possibility Matthias could've done it?"
"He didn't have a knife."
"Right. That's good to know," he says, finger brushing the spot of bald chipped wood and the slit. "This mark here might be a clue."
"I know what a clue is."
"Yeah?"
"It's a mistake."
"There you go, partner." The sergeant meets my gaze. No nod, no additional words. Eyes gray as a bucket. Smooth chest visible inside the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. His neck is golden. He's chewing on something. Sunflower seed. He spits the husk.
Mama finds Matthias's stocking cap. Inside out. Blond hairs pulled at the roots.
The gathering at the Cirincione farm swells. My father arrives. Bleary, coughing into his fist. He has his weekend eyeglasses on. They're speckled with paint. Duct tape holds the frames together. Looking like he skipped his shower this morning. I'm embarrassed to see him in public unkempt.
I tug his coat.
"What is it?" he asks.
"You forgot to switch your glasses."
"Go inside the house," he says.
People jostle me. Ignore me altogether. Then they realize I might be the key. I'm brought front and center. They take turns squatting down to my level. Going eyeball-to-eyeball with the kid.
The only witness.
Except I didn't see anything.
That's not what they want to hear. They're too freaked out about the prospect of a missing boy to put on their happy faces for my sake. I see anger brewing. They need to locate my brother. I'm a path, but I'm also an obstacle. The sheriff's men seek my full cooperation. When that yields little, they convey disappointment. All the attention is yanked from me. I'm demoted to a chair next to the fridge. Under a clock that uses birds instead of numbers. Tick-tick-tick. It sounds like a baby bird, hungry for a beak filled with red worms. If they could send me away, they would.
You aren't supposed to lose your brother in the woods. Even if he's your older brother, and he's the one who should be keeping an eye on you. Nice going, Matthias. Look at the jam I'm in. Where are you?
The window above the sink has a spiderweb in it. I don't see any spider. The web trembles. When I switch to looking at the glass, I expect to see the sky slowly getting darker. But it's black.
Where are you, Matthias?
I have a thought: what if they can't find him forever? That thought is electricity. Pure fear. I'm vibrating in my seat. Hairs on my arm prickle. Static crunches my ear. My bowels go shifty and growl.
I'm scared. A brand-new scared I've never been before.
Midnight.
The clock birds go nuts.
At dawn, they start to find my brother. Piece by piece.
The trail of body parts runs north.
Up near the interstate there's a van. My dear brother's abused torso is inside.
The family hears the news together. My coldcocked parents hit the floor. They claw each other. Moaning. Screaming names. Like the others in the farmhouse, I am a spectator to their grief. We watch them wrestle more than themselves. Strangers I've never met are crying at thesight of my parents and their pain. The farm empties. Snot teases in and out of Grandpa C's left nostril like a party whistle and Grandma C topples over. Ambulances are parked in the yard. We ride one into town. Oxygen is leaking under the mask into my grandmother's blank, wrinkled face.
The siren calls out.
Traffic stops for us on a beautiful Monday afternoon.
I wade through this viscous dreamworld.
I feel a quivering. Crush before it spreads. Take a Perc if they're handy.
Pour liquid courage on top.
Life is a mystery.
That's barroom philosophy, but it's also true.
Death is a riddle. We get the answer too late. No way around it. Call your answer God or Allah or Oneness. Just remember to call.
Worship.
Make sacrifices....
