“James delivers first-rate characters [and] dazzling plot twists, and powers it all with nonstop action.”
—John Tinker, Emmy Award–winning screenplay writer
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF STEVEN JAMES
Every Crooked Path
“True to James’s style, the plot is full of secrets and mind games that are entertaining and thought-provoking.”
—RT Book Reviews
Checkmate
“High tension all the way . . . Fast, sharp, and believable. Put it at the top of your list.”
—John Lutz, Edgar Award–winning author of Single White Female and Slaughter
The King
“His tightly woven, adrenaline-laced plots leave readers breathless.”
—The Suspense Zone
“Steven James offers yet another slam dunk in the Bowers Files series!”
—Suspense Magazine
Opening Moves
“A mesmerizing read . . . My conclusion: I need to read more of Steven James.”
—Michael Connelly, New York Times bestselling author of The Wrong Side of Goodbye
“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 . . . a blisteringly fast and riveting read.”
—Mark Greaney, New York Times bestselling author of Gunmetal Gray
“Prepare yourself for a horror-of-a-ride, edge-of-your-seat thriller of thrillers.”
—Fresh Fiction
“[A] fast-moving, intense thriller that has as many demented twists and turns as the crimes themselves.”
—Examiner.com
The Pawn
“Riveting.”
—Publishers Weekly
“[An] exceptional psychological thriller.”
—Armchair Reviews
THE BOWERS FILES
Opening Moves
The Pawn
The Rook
The Knight
The Bishop
The Queen
The King
Checkmate
Every Crooked Path
Every Deadly Kiss
BERKLEY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2017 by Steven James
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY is a registered trademark and the B colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
The Edgar® name is a registered service mark of Mystery Writers of America, Inc.
Ebook ISBN: 9781101991589
First Edition: July 2017
Cover art: Hooded man © Beto Chagas/Shutterstock Images; Church © Kevin Keys/Shutterstock Images
Cover design by Jae Song
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.
Version_1
To Jim, David, Bec, and Trinity.
Cancer could not conquer your joy.
Contents
Praise for the novels of Steven James
Titles by Steven James
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
PART 1: “You Too.” Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Scarlett Farrow-I
PART 2: Gas on the Flames Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Scarlett Farrow-II
PART 3: The Idols We Gladly Embrace Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Scarlett Farrow-III
PART 4: No, Her Cage Is Not Enough Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Scarlett Farrow-IV
PART 5: Decreed Stones Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Scarlett Farrow-V
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
PART 6: Under My Umbrella Chapter 94
Epilogue
Thanks and Acknowledgments
About the Author
PART 1
“You Too.”
Although typically transmitted through aerosol means after six to eight days, with recent advances in synthetic biology, in time the variola virus could also, theoretically, be modified to transfer well before the patient is symptomatic.
—FROM AN INTERVIEW W
ITH DR. VLADISLAV KUZNETSOV IN
THE ANNALS OF ENDEMIC AND INFECTIOUS DISEASE,
APRIL 2002, PAGE 133.
At the root of many of the mythical tales, according to some writers, one finds the never-ending battle between light and darkness, the former being usually symbolized by a hero, and the latter by a monster.
—FROM BLUEBEARD: AN ACCOUNT OF COMORRE
THE CURSED AND GILLES DE RAIS, WITH SUMMARIES
OF VARIOUS TALES AND TRADITIONS
BY ERNEST ALFRED VIZETELLY, 1902, PAGE 12.
1
Saturday, May 5
Aspen Cove Lake, Minnesota
10:32 P.M.
He watched her stir the Manhattan he’d just mixed for her. He didn’t want to be too forward, so rather than sit beside her on the couch, he chose the chair facing her. The cabin’s living room window, black with the night, stared at him over her shoulder.
“So,” she said playfully. “How about a little game?”
“What kind of game?”
“It’s about secrets.” She set her drink next to his wineglass on the rustic coffee table resting between them. “I’ll tell you one of mine and then you get to tell me one of yours.”
“I noticed how you phrased that: I get to tell you one.”
“Uh-huh. But it has to be something you’ve never told anyone else before.”
“Alright.”
“I mean, never. Not anyone.”
“Okay.”
“Promise?”
He lifted his glass as if he were toasting the idea. “Promise.”
“Alright.” She took a sip of her drink. “I once saw a guy die and I didn’t do anything to help him.”
He blinked in disbelief. “What happened?”
“It was back when I was in college and I was at this frat party, right? And people were shooting up, getting high, drinking—all that. It was a little out of hand and I’d had too many shots of tequila. I should’ve just gone back to my dorm, but I let this cute guy take me upstairs to one of the bedrooms. You know.”
“Sure.”
She repositioned herself. “He wanted to do these lines of heroin and we were gonna do them together, but he went first and overdid it. OD’d. I could have probably helped him or called 911 or something, but I was too scared and I just watched him collapse and have this seizure and this gross vomit came foaming out of his mouth and then he was just super still—except his arms and legs kept shaking. But finally they stopped moving too. It was like you see in the movies: he wasn’t breathing or anything. I was terrified that something bad would happen to me if I told anyone I’d been with him in that room—that I might be accused of killing him or go to jail, or whatever—so I snuck into the hall again, pretended I was just looking for the bathroom, made my way past all those other people at the party, and ran back to my dorm as fast as I could. I couldn’t sleep for the rest of the night. The next day I heard his body had been found. They just called it an OD. No one ever came and talked to me. But I saw him die. I was there.”
“And you could have helped.”
“Yes.”
He was quiet.
“Okay.” She leaned forward. “Your turn.”
“I’m not really sure what to say.”
“Something no one else knows,” she reminded him. “Something you’ve never told anyone before.”
“I can trust you?”
She held up her right hand in a noble salute. “Scout’s honor.”
He grinned slightly. “You were never a scout, were you?”
“I slept with a guy once who used to be one.”
“Ah. Gotcha.”
“Taught me all his knots.”
“I’m sure I didn’t need to hear that.”
“So, tell me your secret.” She poured him more wine and slid his glass toward him.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?”
“I can’t tell you all my secrets.” She waited until he’d taken a drink. “So. Tell me.”
“Well . . .” He took a long breath. “Then I’d say the toughest thing of all for me is when they promise they won’t tell.”
“What do you mean?”
“After I handcuff them to the bed, before I really get started. Most of the time they promise they won’t say anything if only I’ll let them go. They just keep going on and on like that. It’s not nearly so bad when they just beg me to stop or they scream, or even pray. But those ardent, desperate vows of silence—those are the hardest to listen to.”
She stared at him coolly. “It’s not even funny to joke about stuff like that.”
“I’ve never told anyone that before.”
“I know, but in this game, in my game, whatever you tell me, the secret, it’s gotta be true.”
She glanced toward her purse on the dining room table, where he’d set it for her earlier, and for a moment he had the sense that she might go for it, but instead, she just said in a hushed voice, hardly louder than a whisper, “You said, ‘they.’”
“They?”
“You said sometimes ‘they’ promise. ‘They’ beg you. Who is ‘they’?”
“The women I bring home. The last one, I actually believed her. I let her go. But I shouldn’t have. She lied to me. She told. They weren’t able to pin any of the previous deaths on me so, with good behavior, I ended up serving fifteen years. But—”
“You’re a sick bastard.” She rose, strode to the table, and snatched up her purse.
He couldn’t quite tell if she believed him or was just upset by what he’d said.
She hurried out the door.
He followed. “I didn’t mean for you to leave.”
“Screw you.”
At the doorway, he stood watching her by the car.
Brisk. Cool. Even though it was spring, this far north, a tinge of winter still lingered in the forest.
The light from the porch reached far enough for him to see her fumbling through her purse for the keys, which he’d taken out earlier when he placed it on the table for her.
Both her keys and her phone.
He tapped the button on the key fob and the doors beeped, unlocked. “Does that help?”
She gasped and faced him, then somewhat clumsily kicked off her heels so she could run faster, and took off into the dark woods surrounding the lake.
It did not take him long to catch her.
Though she struggled more than any of the others had, he managed to get her back to the cabin.
To the bedroom.
To the bed.
After he’d cuffed one of her wrists, it was much easier to get the other one secured to the bedpost as well. It always was.
“When I said I didn’t mean for you to leave, I was telling the truth. When I said I don’t like hearing their promises, I was telling the truth too.”
As he stepped back, she yanked uselessly to get free. It’d been so long since he’d heard the sound of handcuffs rattling in that way that he’d forgotten how much he liked it, how familiar it had been to him.
Before.
“I’ll scream. I swear to God!”
“This is the only cabin on this end of the lake so I don’t believe it’ll help, but I won’t stop you if you’d like to give it a try.”
She did, and while she did, he tilted the television to face the bed. This far out in the country, without cable, he needed to use a DVD instead of streaming the video. But he’d brought one. It wasn’t a problem.
He wanted everything positioned just like it’d been with Scarlett. He wanted it to be just right.
After he’d pressed play, he removed the box cutter from the dresser drawer.
Early on, he’d experimented with a number of different methods, but he preferred this one, had ever since he was a boy.
“What do you want
from me!” The terror that rose in her voice was already tinged with desperation.
“I want you to be honest.” He sat beside her and slid out the blade. Locked it in place. “No secrets. Just like before.”
“Listen. Seriously.” The words came in quick, hurried gulps. “You need to let me go.”
“Why?”
“I lied at the bar. You have no idea who I am. You don’t know how much I’m worth. I’ll pay you whatever you want. Just please let me go.”
“And you won’t tell?”
“No, I promise I—”
But before she could finish her avowal of silence, he jammed the blade through her right cheek, clipping a tooth and burying the tip into her jaw. One swift, firm movement. One sweep of his arm. “Do not make such promises!”
She cried out in obvious pain, but then made a valiant attempt to collect herself. “I’m . . . I’m . . .”
He removed the blade. There wasn’t much blood.
But there was some.
She spit it at him.
“I know who you are, Simone.” He wiped the bloody saliva from his chin. “And I know how much you’re worth. Tell me where Scarlett is.”
“What?”
“Scarlett Farrow. You used to model with her back when you two were teenagers. The same agency. Brenning Talent Associates. In L.A.”
“Scarlett? What are you talking about?”
“I think you know where she is.”
“I haven’t seen her in years.”
He held up her phone and scrolled through the apps until he came to an alias on TypeKnot. He showed her the screen. “Snowball4? Who is that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Snowball was the name of the stuffed animal in the movie. Her rabbit.”
“It’s anonymous. I don’t know if it’s really her.”
“Where does she live?”
And then sudden resolve. A steely gaze. “I’m not telling you.”
And so he began to carve.
He used the box cutter until he had what he needed from her. She did tell. Eventually, yes, she did.
When at last he stood, the cuts were many, but they were not all deep.
“Don’t worry. You’re not going to die from those.”
He heard screams from the television and glanced at the screen. The scene from the lake. Yes, it was a pivotal one, vital to all that was to follow in the bedroom. The closet. The church.