The Palm Reader Book Tour, Giveaway, and Review

“A

gripping thriller, which excels in unusual twists and turns,
explorations of family heritage and truths, and one man’s ongoing
journey as he explores new connections and threats to his

life.”

 —Diane
Donovan, Midwest Book Review

Goodreads* Amazon

Christopher Bowron
has always loved a great story, and possesses a unique gift of the
magic to tell one.  He can be described as a “thriller writer,
with a mysterious undertone,” who can take his readers on
believable journeys to the sharp edge of reality and theparanormal. The use of seat belts is optional while reading his
work, but you may need to buckle up and hold on tight from time to
time.

Website
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LOLITA SHIFTED HER LARGE frame in the overstuffed chair and l oked across the small round table at
her client. It had been a long day and she slept little the night before. The room glowed softly, lit by an
overabundance of randomly placed candles, the decor heavy and full of warm colors. Her cat, Princess,
sat on a chair in the corner preening her black fur.
Lolita gently took the woman’s small, white hands into her large black palms, engulfing them in warmth.
She rubbed the tops with her thumbs, pulling the client into her presence, Lolita’s voice soothing and
deep. She turned the hands over, examining them carefully. Each set of hands showed their own story.
Sometimes that story came to her as a vision, and sometimes she had to rely on the creases and lines to
divine the truth.
The spirits felt strong the past few days, and she was startled by what she saw. Lolita closed her eyes, not
wanting her turned up whites to scare her customer. Once the vision passed, she opened her eyes and
examined the lines in the woman’s palms, not really taking notice. Lolita tried to come to terms with
what she needed to tell her. Sandy Templeton, twenty-six years old, lived in Bonita Springs. She’d been
given an hour’s time with Lolita by her friends as a wedding shower gift, which was very common. Lolita,
by her own admission, could be wrong in her palmistry and even her tarot readings from time to time,
but the visions never failed her.
She placed Sandy’s hands palms down on the table.
“Sweetheart,” she said in her South Floridian drawl, “I rarely do this, as I need the money, but this is
important. I’m going to give you your gift card back and I want you to make an appointment to come
back and see me.”
“But—”
“Sweetheart, your fiancé . . . is he tall with dirty-blond hair, and a scar under his right eye?”
“Why yes, ma’am.” Fear crept over her pretty face.
“Is he planning on going over water in the near future?”
Hesitating, she grew paler by the second. “He’s gonna go fishing with his buddies this evening after
work.”
“Sweetheart, I want you to go now, and when he comes home, I want you to make love to him like you’ve
never loved a man before. I want you to take your time and ease into making him not want to leave the
house. Do you follow?”
“Yes ma’am. What is it?”
“Will he be on the water tomorrow?”
“No. We have plans. He won’t be happy.”
“Let me put it this way: No one will be happy if you let him walk out that door tonight. I want you to go
now and shine up that pretty little white ass and shake it for all it’s worth.”
* * * *
Lolita turned the deadbolt on the door after the young woman left. She didn’t like doing what she’d just
done. Sandy would probably be able to seduce and keep her future husband from leaving and there would
be no way of proving the vision would have come to fruition. Sandy would think her a crazy old black lady
and never come back. It would be a smudge on Lolita’s reputation. She shook her head and went back
into the parlor, picking up her tarot cards. Lolita eased her large posterior back
into her old, rickety chair.
She had seen the drowning of Sandy’s future husband. The vision appeared abruptly and was gone within
seconds. What appeared immediately after the first vison seemed clearly unrelated to the young woman—
an augury jumping over the drowning fisherman. No less important, but the calling appeared
stronger. Lolita knew better than to ignore the spirits. She saw two more deaths, one being her own.
Shuffling the cards, she thought about her question until the vision appeared crystal clear. A tall man
with dark hair— Seminole blood. Strange how the Seminoles often crept into her head. They were strong
in spirit. She’d heard of an old Indian man who lived on the southern edge of the Everglades. She made a
pact with herself to bless him with her presence one day.
The young man she envisioned lived locally, somewhat famous for a recent endeavor. He appeared to be
in grave danger. She saw his grisly death, a death that needed to be averted. The man looked to be
destined for greatness, a champion of South Florida. The vision was conflicted, depicting both their
endings, but neither was clear; she saw a vague, this-or-that vision. Most dangerous. She shivered.
She flipped over the first card. Strength. Yes, she’d seen strength in the young man’s face. His grounding
and past? Solid. The Seven of Wands . . . Yes, there will be a battle, which can be won, but how will I be
involved? There was no doubt she would be. He would spurn her—she would need to be persistent. Lolita
sipped her tea, now quite cold. She turned the next card. The Fool, inverted. Is he apathetic? Do I dare
get involved?She clearly needed to, but the card indicated that the quaere, or “seeker,” appeared foolhardy, a risk-
taker. She didn’t have money to lose, so there was little risk monetarily. She flipped again. The Queen ofSwords. There would be a battle of wits.
Very interesting.
One last card, and when she flipped it, her hand went to her mouth.
The Devil.
* * * *
Lolita gathered the cards together and blew out the many candles spread about the small house, which
served as both her place of business and her home. The spirits didn’t need any more encouragement
today. A cold sweat formed on her brow and moistened her shirt. Who is this person? Going downstairs,
she turned on her desktop and searched for a while, turning up loose ends and improbabilities. After an
hour, she switched tactics and typed Paranormal/Ft. Myers celebrities. She went on a tangent relating to
Satanism for a good half an hour before she struck gold. An article in the Miami Herald mentioned a
Jackson Walker, part Seminole, who brought down a South Florida cult, the Church of Set. Two seconds
after she saw Walker’s picture, she knew him to be her target.
It began to fall into place. Lolita remembered him as the hero who took down the witch Henrietta LePley.
Smiling, Lolita muttered to herself, “Anyone who has the balls to take on that woman deserves to be
saved.” This was not Lolita’s first encounter with the woman. She’d seen her a few times, and each time
her inner voice told her to steer clear of the witch! That was Henrietta—malevolent to the core, vindictive,
evil—a plethora of bad words might describe her. Lolita shivered, crossing herself
to ask for a blessing even though she wasn’t Catholic.
It was uncommon for the visions to appear in pictures.
When the future was painted for her, she would be foolish to ignore it. She felt blessed on most occasions
to be close with the spirits. Conversely, she felt wary whenever the omen appeared dangerous. If Jackson
Walker was tied up with the Church of Satan or Set, whichever demigod one preferred, he would be a
sketchy person to be around. Possibly deadly.

This book adds a lot of elements that could bring many different elements to the table.  A satanic cult, a Seminole cop, a palm reader, Russian mob, and more.  I tend to be a fan of cop drama mixed with supernatural events and this does that for me.

There are certain parts of the book that were slightly uncomfortable to read but would be expected for the type of characters in this book.  Then again if your reading a book that includes a Satanic cult, Russian mobster, and few other unsavory characters you shouldn’t expect PG reading.

All in all I liked the book.  I found myself in reading marathons trying to find out what was going to happen next and how different characters tied into the story.

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