"Edge of Your Seat Thriller!!!"
Reviewed by Joanne Bozik
Posted September 29, 2012
Thriller Crime
OPENING MOVES by Steven James is the fifth in the Patrick
Bowers series (The Pawn, The Rook, The Knight, The Bishop,
The Queen; The King is due out in July 2013). This author
keeps you on the edge of your seat and you can't believe
what serial killers are capable of, truly capable of, until
you read this book.
Steven James tells readers in the first sentence of his
foreword that he had nightmares while writing this novel
and I was actually afraid to read it, but who am I to turn
down a good scary thriller. He'd have to be one cold-
hearted beast not to have had some kind of adverse
reactions while composing this work. This is the
introduction to the young Patrick Bowers, homicide
detective, the one who can't escape recurring nightmares
when he was a teen and found a young girl murdered by a
killer in a tree house and that of another little girl
buried alive by the same man.
Steven James is the master storyteller, the complex plots,
the literary prowess . . . and the dark natures of the
savages he portrays so vividly. This is the story of
Detective Patrick Bowers, who considers and contemplates
things like heaven and hell, justice and reckoning, love
and hate, good and evil.
OPENING MOVES holds off all restrictions on the evil of
serial killers. Readers are evenly guided
into the darkness of multiple characters which will run
chills down your spine. I watch Crimminal Minds on TV and
it has nothing on OPENING MOVES. James gives us an
unforgettable plot.
It seems there is a killer who kidnaps victims and
threatens to kill them if their loved ones refuse to follow
precise acts which require them to deposit others at
specific markers in the city. These markers are significant
because they note the locations of crimes committed by some
of the worst serial killers. Even though the instructions
are followed, one of the victims experiences a gruesome
mutilation.
Detective Bowers teams up with the rough Ralph Hawkins from
the FBI, and as they argue and joke about who's leading the
investigation, they seal a solid trust and friendship.
Bowers meets the most intelligent Dr. Werjonic who
implements the geographic profiling into Patrick's case and
is added to the investigation as a consultant leading
Patrick to the location of another terrible crime and
killer.
Through most of the book, we're in Patrick's head as his
first person accounts of what's going on in the
investigation keep us on edge. With Patrick's growing
knowledge and findings, with the help of Ralph Hawkins FBI,
Dr. Werjonic and his departments help, he edges closer to
finding the killer. Through the killers thoughts, we listen
to his demonic logic, learning of his demented childhood,
his "normal" double life, and his compulsion to do what he
does while wondering if redemption can cover his deeds.
There is also another killer, the brilliant and excoriating
young nemesis who has gained the nickname of "Maneater" in
the most literal sense of the word. It's a familiar
character to readers of this series, and now we know his
origin.
From what I'm told, Steven James has written his darkest
novel yet. Recalling true stories of evil serial killers
and adding fictitious ones to the mix, this is not a book
for the those who do not like gore, blood, body parts, etc.
Prepare yourself for a horror of a
ride, edge of your seat thriller of thrillers. A quick,
pulsing read with sinister philosophical implications, a
touch of faith, and a cast of dedicated pursuers of
outlandish evil.
SUMMARY
In The Bowers Files novels, FBI Special Agent Patrick Bowers
has stopped some of the most vicious serial killers ever
imagined. Now, in the fifth exciting installment, author
Steven James takes readers back to Bower's terrifying
beginning.
Milwaukee, 1997. In a city reeling from the crimes of
Jeffrey Dahmer, a series of gruesome kidnappings and
mutilations draw authorities into a case like nothing
they've ever seen. Cops think a Dahmer copycat is on the loose.
But Patrick Bowers, working as a homicide detective,
suspects this is more than an ode to the infamous cannibal.
When he discovers that the shocking acts reference some of
the most notorious and macabre killers in our nation's
history, the investigation spirals into a nightmare of
manipulation, brutality, and terror.
Wielding groundbreaking investigative techniques, Bowers
must now face off with a killer who will stop at nothing to
get his message out to the world. Chilling, gritty, and
packed with twists and turns, Opening Moves is Steven
James'
most heart-pounding novel yet.
ExcerptDay 1
Sunday, November 16
The Alley
1
New Territories Pub
804 South Second Street
Milwaukee, Wisconsin
11:07 p.m.
Vincent Hayes stepped cautiously into the bar, trying
unsuccessfully to still his heart, to quiet his apprehension.
He'd never done this before, never tried to pick up a man.
As he entered, two patrons who were seated at the
bar—a Mexican in his mid–twenties and an older
Caucasian who looked maybe a few years older than Vincent,
around forty–five or so—turned to face him. The
younger man had his hand resting gently on the
middle–aged gentleman's knee.
Vincent gave the men a somewhat forced nod, they smiled a
bit, then turned to gaze into each other's eyes again and
went back to their conversation—perhaps a joke that
the Mexican was telling, because Vincent heard the other man
chuckle as he passed by, and then took in the rest of the bar.
Country music played. Nondescript. Some singer he didn't
recognize. The neon beer signs and dim overheads did little
to illuminate the nook and crannied pub. Vincent scanned the
tables looking for the right kind of man—young,
athletic, but not too muscular. The drugs he was carrying
were potent, but muscle mass might diminish their effect.
Maybe. He wasn't sure. He'd never used the drugs before, but
tonight he couldn't risk taking the chance that the man
would awaken before he was done with him.
He was looking for a black man.
All around him in the dim light, men stood talking. Most
were gathered in groups of two or three. Very few single
guys. Vincent was brawny and cut an impressive figure that
turned a few heads, but none that looked promising.
Even though he wanted to be alert so he wouldn't make a
mistake, he also needed something strong to take the edge
off, to help anesthetize his inhibitions. Vincent took a
seat at the bar and ordered a vodka.
Yes, yes, of course he was nervous. But there was also
adrenaline there. Anxiety churning around violently beneath
the surge of apprehension.
Keep your cool. This is not a time to make some kind of
stupid mistake.
So far he hadn't seen anyone who fit the bill. Some were
too old. A few younger couples were moving in time to the
music on the dance floor on the far side of the bar. No
single African–American like he was looking for.
He felt the brush of movement against his arm. A slim
white guy who didn't look old enough to be here legally drew
up a barstool. "Waiting for someone?" His voice was melodic
and inviting. Charming might be a better word for it.
Yes, he was the right age, but he was the wrong race.
Vincent gave him only a momentary glance. He didn't want to
be rude or draw attention, but he didn't want to lead him on
either.
"Um. Yes."
"Shame."
Vincent downed half of his vodka.
"Lucky guy," the man said under his breath, but, almost
certainly on purpose, loud enough for Vincent to hear.
Get out of here. Try another bar. Already too many people
have seen you in here.
Although it was supposed to happen at this bar, Vincent
realized it was more important for it to happen than where
it did.
"Sorry," he mumbled. He laid some cash beside his
unfinished drink, then stood to leave. He'd taken two steps
toward the door when he saw the type of man he was looking
for: an athletic African–American, sitting alone in
the booth near the narrow hallway to the restrooms.
Just like the young man who'd taken a seat beside Vincent
a moment ago, this guy looked on the shy side of
twenty–one, but Vincent guessed that carding people
wasn't exactly at the top of the management's priority list.
He had a beer bottle in front of him, a Lienenkugel's.
Almost empty. Vincent ordered two more from the bartender,
excused himself from the guy who'd been coming on to him,
and carried the two beers toward the booth.
Just get him to the minivan. You're bigger. You can
easily overpower him in there.
As Vincent crossed the room, he surreptitiously dropped
the two pills into one of the bottles and gently swirled
them to the bottom.
When he was halfway to the booth, the young black man
looked his way.
Vincent smiled, then, nervous, dropped his gaze.
You can do this; come on, you can do this.
He'd already decided he would cuff him as soon as he got
him into the van. Hopefully, he'd be too drugged to fight
much or call for help, but Vincent had a gag and duct tape
waiting just in case. If he wasn't able to get him to take
off his clothes before he cuffed him, he would strip the
guy, cutting off his shirt and jeans with the fabric shears
when he was done. And then move forward with things from there.
Almost to the booth now, he waited for the man to say
something, but when he didn't, Vincent spoke, trying out the
same line the guy had used on him a few moments earlier.
"Waiting for someone?"
The black man—kid, really—looked his way,
wide–eyed. Wet his lips slightly. "I saw Mark with
you. That what he asked you?"
Vincent set down the drinks. "Busted."
"He needs to expand his repertoire."
"I guess I do too."
The young man eyed the beers, and said demurely, "One of
those for me?"
Vincent slid the drugged beer toward him, smiled again,
and took a seat.
The guy offered Vincent a soft nod, accepted the drink,
and held out his hand palm down, a diminutive handshake.
"I'm Lionel."
"Vincent." He shook Lionel's hand.
"Mmm. Vincent." It almost sounded like Lionel were
purring. "Very European." His eyes gleamed. "A shade
mysterious." He took a sip of his beer. "I haven't seen you
here before, Vincent."
"I'm . . ." Vincent couldn't think of anything clever or
witty to say. "Well, I . . . This is my first time."
"Your first time, what? Here?"
He hesitated. "Yes."
"Or your first time. Period?"
"Yes. My first time. Period."
Lionel looked at him as if he'd just said something
humorous. "You haven't done this before. Ever?"
"No." Vincent took a drink as a way of hiding, but also
of, hopefully, encouraging the young man to drink his beer
as well.
It worked.
When Lionel had finished the swig, his eyes drifted
toward Vincent's left hand. Toward his wedding ring.
"You're married."
"Yes."
"Why tonight? Why did you come tonight? Is she out of town?"
The last thing Vincent wanted to do right now was talk
about Colleen. "Yes," he said, lying. "Visiting her parents."
"And you decided to try something a little different? For
a change?"
"To step out on a limb. Yes." His heart was beating.
Thinking about Colleen made all of this harder.
Vincent took another sip from his drink. So did Lionel.
"I don't live far from here," Vincent offered, and then
immediately realized that it was much too forward. On the
other hand, if his suspicions were right, Lionel was working
the place, looking for payment for his companionship, and
wasting a lot of time on formalities wouldn't serve either
of their interests.
"Really? Where?"
"Not far."
A wink. "Staying mysterious, are we?"
Vincent had no idea how to respond. "I really . . . I'm
not sure how to say this. Um, are you, well, are you—"
Lionel laid his hand gently on Vincent's forearm. "I can
be whatever you want me to be, Vincent."
It was a long moment before he removed his hand.
"Okay." Vincent said.
Lionel smiled softly. "Okay."
Another swig.
And another.
And although Vincent was anxious to get going, he
realized he needed a little time for the drugs to work, so
he answered Lionel's questions about where he'd gone to
college, UW–La Crosse, and what he did for a living, managed
a PR firm. In response, Lionel mentioned that he had a
theater degree from DePaul and was an actor "between jobs."
As the minutes passed, the drugs and alcohol started to
have the desired effect.
"Lionel?"
"Um–hmm." His voice was wavering, unfocused.
"Do you want to leave?"
"Your place is close?" he mumbled.
"Yes. Let's get you to the car."
No response, just a bleary nod.
So Vincent helped Lionel to his feet and supported him on
the way to the door.
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