In 1995 I felt the urge to get Alex out of L.A. and I itched to see how he’d do without Milo. Looking back, I’m wondering if my motivation might’ve stemmed from becoming a father for the fourth time at age 43, in ’92, and realizing it was going to be a long time before I got a real vacation. So I sent Alex to a fictitious, exotic island in Micronesia. Blue water, warm sun, excellent pay for the doctor, for what appears, at first glance, to be a cushy consulting job. Of course, because it’s me writing, there are also sharks, multiple miscreants, creepy crawly things, and some really horrific events steeped in nearly incomprehensible evil. In this novel, as in BLOOD TEST, I skirted the boundaries between crime fiction and horror. Some readers thought it my best. Others resented the stray from orthodoxy and missed Milo. I’d do it all over again because if I didn’t stretch within the confines of the genre and the series, I’d grow stale as a writer and even more stodgy than I already am, as a person.
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