Taylor Adams is a fine writer of thriller novellas. The problem is that he stretches his ingeniously simple premises and isolated settings to novel length, a reading experience roughly equivalent to being a torture victim slowly stretched out on a rack. Somewhere just past the halfway point, you become aware of the fact that every action sequence has somebody doing something and also reflecting on that something every millisecond of every second of every minute, and you find yourself starting to skim the pages to get to the payoff, and then you start outright flipping through pages so you can find out what happened to who and how because that's all you care about at this point and you just want to get on with your life. Sort of like the final third of any given Jack Reacher novel.
This is true of Adams' other novels, NO EXIT and HAIRPIN BRIDGE, and it's just as true of EYESHOT, where the stretch is baked into the concept: "A Gripping Edge-of-Your-Seat-Suspense Thriller," it says on the cover. Count the redundancies, and take measure of the tendency to use four times as much necessary space to describe a thought or an action, and you'll have an idea of what lies in wait for you as a reader.
But let's give Adams his due here. He is a master of tone and pacing, and every passage and page is meant to engage most or all of a reader's five sense, and there are enough halting breaths and bloodbeats and bullets and disbelieving blinks to keep readers on the hook for a long while. Especially given the ingenious ness of the premise: somewhere in the desert Southwest, two men have figured out a way to isolate and waylay unsuspecting travelers into death traps for the amusement and ego of a sociopath who fancies himself to be a world-class sniper. This time, five strangers are lured into a fake detour, and take shaky cover as the shooting begins. What follows is a long day and night in which the overconfident killers overplay their pat hand.
Great stuff. But I think Adams wears out his readers by piling twist upon twist upon twist upon twist until the reader cries uncle. At a certain point, the reader wants something approaching resolution, not another detour into the pat psychology of the cast members, or an overlong stalking sequence, or yet another improbable twist in which a victim escapes certain death by the fingernails of their fingernails.
It's just all a bit too much made out of too little. Really, this could just s easily have been a solid 10,000-word short story as a first-rate 40,000-word novella. At twice that length, the padding begins to show, and the last several chapters read as though they were written by a college student pulling an all-nighter on a term paper due the next morning, with Adams' strengths with figurative language turning purple. My favorite examples, from throughout EYESHOT:
— "That was Tapp’s first kill in a nutshell, back in the dewy Oregon field where he’d watched a nineteen-year-old hitchhiker in a brown Nirvana shirt choke to death on his own ribs. His breathing had sounded like fluorescent light rods crackling."
— "White-hot emotions and half-thoughts fluttered through his mind like trapped birds but he wasn’t articulate enough to make them real, so he tried them out inside the safe echo chamber of his own mind."
— "The subgun screamed a shrill rattle, like a soda can filled with pocket change and violently shaken."
— "His hyperactive mind – what an unbecoming trait for a marksman, to be cursed with a brain like a bag of cats – leapt now to his homemade camouflage suit."
— "She hated running. She hated jumping. She hated running and jumping. She hated track and field the way she hated Republicans, slobbering dogs, cilantro, and documentaries."
— "As the last neon bits of Roy Burke speckled the ground around her, she rocked on her heels, wiped little clam chowder chunks of viscera from her eyes, and turned slowly to face his night vision scope."
— "Behind him he heard the Soviet’s boots squealing, the man falling on the fuel-slick floor, his shotgun clattering on cement like kitchen pans."
— "Right now, those hungry crosshairs were finding him, intercepting him like white blood cells zeroing in on a virus."
— "Not the hollow knuckle-cracking pop of distant gunfire – no, this was booming, deep, close. It was as powerful and unsympathetic as a car accident."
My takeaway: EYESHOT, like his other thrillers, shows that Taylor Adams is a thriller writer of uncommon talent and skill. But he's not fully in control of his talents, and until he gets a handle on them — hopefully, with the right agent and editor — he'll never vault into the front rank of thriller authors. Either he needs to scale down his small-scope stories, or ramp up the cast and the stakes for the world beyond the isolated locales of his stories. The page counts and the premises are just not in satisfying alignment.