Opening Moves
Steven James
Praise for
Opening Moves
“Opening Moves is a mesmerizing read. From the first chapter, it sets its hook deep and drags you through a darkly gripping story with relentless power. My conclusion: I need to read more of Steven James.”
—Michael Connelly, New York Times
bestselling author of The Drop
“Steven James has created a fast-moving thriller with psychological depth and gripping action. Opening Moves is a smart, taut, intense novel of suspense that reads like a cross between Michael Connelly and Thomas Harris. Young detective Patrick Bowers battles his own demons as he uses his intellect and experience to track twisted killers. Full of twists and enjoyable surprises, Opening Moves is a blisteringly fast and riveting read.”
—Mark Greaney, New York Times
bestselling author of Ballistic
More Praise for Steven James
and His Award-Winning Novels
“James writes smart, taut, high-octane thrillers. But be warned—his books are not for the timid. The endings blow me away every time.”
—Mitch Galin, producer of Stephen King’s
The Stand and Frank Herbert’s Dune
“Fresh and exciting.”
—Booklist
“Absolutely brilliant.”
—Jeff Buick, bestselling author of One Child
“Steven James’s The Bishop should come with a warning: Don’t start reading unless you’re prepared to finish this book in a single sitting. Riveting!”
—Karen Dionne, author of Boiling Point
“The Bishop—full of plot twists, nightmarish villains, and family conflicts—kept me turning pages on a red-eye all the way from New York City to Amsterdam. Steven James tells stories that grab you by the collar and don’t let go.”
—Norb Vonnegut, author of The Trust
“Steven James locks you in a thrill ride with no brakes. He sets the new standard in suspense writing.”
—Suspense Magazine
“James delivers…caffeinated plot twists and intriguing characterizations. Riveting…a gripping plot and brisk pacing will win James some fans eager for his next offering.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Best story of the year—perfectly executed.”
—The Suspense Zone (2008 Reviewer’s Choice Award)
THE BOWERS FILES
The Pawn
The Rook
The Knight
The Bishop
The Queen
OPENING
MOVES
STEVEN JAMES
A SIGNET SELECT BOOK
SIGNET SELECT
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
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80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Signet Select, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, September 2012
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ISBN: 978-1-101-59017-1
Copyright © Steven James, 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
SIGNET SELECT and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Printed in the United States of America
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
ALWAYS LEARNING
PEARSON
To Brent,
who believed in Patrick Bowers from the start
“And if ye will not for all this hearken unto me, but walk contrary unto me; Then I will walk contrary unto you also in fury; and I, even I, will chastise you seven times for your sins. And ye shall eat the flesh of your sons, and the flesh of your daughters shall ye eat.”
—Leviticus 26:27–29
Dear readers,
I had nightmares writing this book.
Some of the scenes were just too troubling for me, too real. I felt like I was staring in the face of pure evil.
Maybe it’s because some of the information I included comes from actual crimes. When we read pure fiction we can reassure ourselves that at least those atrocities never occurred; history, on the other hand, doesn’t afford us that option.
For example, pedophile and killer Albert Fish was a real person. So were the necrophile Ed Gein and the cannibal Jeffrey Dahmer. And so are the bank robbers and killers Ted and James Oswald, who are, at the time of this writing, serving two life sentences plus more than 450 years at separate prisons in Wisconsin.
Opening Moves became especially personal to me since, according to Ted Oswald (who was eighteen when he was apprehended), one of their future targets was his high school physics teacher, who’d given him a grade his father, James, didn’t like. That teacher was my dad. During the trial, Ted recounted that James “was going to have me build a silencer in front of him [my father] and then shoot him in the belly and watch him barf.”
My dad might very well have been one of the Oswalds’ future victims if they hadn’t been caught by the Waukesha County SWAT team.
When I look at our world, I see it threaded with both glory and horror, with awe-inspiring acts of love and deep furrows of unspeakable evil. Hope and terror spiral around us every day—and within us too, I believe, in our own hearts. This is something Patrick Bowers is discovering for himself more and more in each book, and something I was reminded of once again while writing his story.
I hope that my books never glamorize evil, but instead do the very opposite and tell the truth about how disturbing and pervasive it is in our world. I also hope that, when possible, the stories can point us past the darkness and help us awaken to something better than the nightmares that all too often plague us in real life.
—Steven James
Summer 2012
Table of Contents
The Alley
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
The Landfill
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
The Hospital Room
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
The Coffeehouse
100
Epilogue
The King
1997
Day 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 was 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.
