The Gator Reasoning

I love when I come across a negative review for a book and it becomes apparent that this particular reader missed the point. Completely. They showed up thirty minutes late with Starbucks, and the point already has a two-hour head start going the other way. Sometimes they miss the point on purpose - or pretend to, because they want to drag down the book's ratings - but sometimes it's genuine. It can be hard to tell the difference, but in either case, it's always mind-boggling. 

When Golden Eagle came out, one reviewer pondered why I "kept talking about the Romanovs. Who gives a crap about the Romanovs?!" this person said. I was then forced to wonder: did this reader not realize that Alexei Romanov is one of the main protagonists of the series? I figure he cares about the Romanovs.  Because they're, you know, his murdered family. 

Years ago, someone reviewing Fearless complained that there was too much talk of alligators. "What's the point?" 

Since we're back in the heart of gator country with Lord Have Mercy, I thought it warranted a bit of discussion. 

That's the short, snarky answer, but a lot of thought - and research - went into Mercy's Swamp Thing, gator hunting streak, and I still think it's the best decision I've ever made with this series. 

I think of Mercy, Ghost, and Walsh as the core Lean Dogs. A triumvirate, if you will. They're the ones I use the most and who prove the most invaluable at every turn. As such, they all needed to be very distinctive. Mercy's past immediately sets him apart - in the series, and in the sub-genre of motorcycle club-themed romantic suspense as a whole. He's one of a kind, this murderously cheerful monster. 

Go a level deeper, and it's always my tactic to create a childhood for each character, and then use it as a framework for the clay finished sculpture of the adult character. He was a shy, thoughtful, homeschooled boy who loved poetry and his family. He was also someone who hunted for a living. But he and his daddy weren't perched in a deer stand: they were hunting an apex predator on its terms. Growing up, Mercy was someone with a great capacity for gentleness and sensitivity, but also someone who knew exactly how physically strong he was, and what he was capable of. Traits we've observed throughout the series. 

Then there's the gators themselves. Relics of prehistory that carry the mystique of dinosaurs; that in humans stir an ancient, fearful sort of reverence. They are old. They remember the swamp before the first man ever set foot in it, and you can't help but know that, looking at them, those golden eyes gliding unbothered through the duckweed. The gators represent a timelessness synonymous with the South itself, with haunted cities like New Orleans. 

And also, yes, it's a metaphor. For Mercy. For the threat that lies out of sight beneath the surface. For the monster that lay dormant inside him, unleashed by Oliver Landau, and the murders of Remy and Gram. A metaphor for the club itself, too: for the public front, and the private savagery. 

Doesn't the water look lovely? All garlanded in the reflections of the trees? But dip your toes beneath the surface, and snap. 

So, yeah. I talk about gators a lot. It's a metaphor, among other things.