After being utterly disturbed by “The Missing,” I really needed something that would clear all that nastiness out of my head. And what’s the never-fail prescription for a feel-good tale? Corporate conspirators, malevolent third-world clinical trials and a covert-ops-trained pediatric surgeon, of course!
Imagine that a shady publishing conglomerate got its hands on Tom Clancy and Michael Crichton’s DNA. They shipped it off to a secret lab deep in the Sonoran desert, where scientists spliced it together. Then they injected it into Philip Hawley Jr., who was suddenly compelled to write “Stigma.”
“Stigma” is a wildly ridiculous story, and I enjoyed it thoroughly. It was just what I needed. Now I’m going to go take a nap spring the no-longer-napping Poppy from her crib.
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