So... Mr. Mercedes ... My first Stephen King book. Although I won't say I was surprised, I was a little bit betrayed (in a sense) after a few chapters.
When I first looked up this book, it was classified as mystery. I was ready right off the bat for the usual mystery elements; the detective, the suspects, the closed room murders. Now, the book does contain some of these elements; the protagonist is (or was) a detective who was trying to chase down "Mr. Mercedes", and there is a "closed car" mystery involved. However, there are no suspects, because after a few chapters, we get see through the perspective of the psychopathic Mr. Mercedes himself.
When I realized that this wasn't a "who-dunnit" kind of book, and more of a thriller, I was a little disappointed. I've been reading several thrillers lately and I wanted to dive into the mystery novel more. Big deal, right? So what if it's a thriller instead of a mystery? They're very close to each other. That's like your friend telling you that they have tickets to a tennis game and then showing up and realizing that it's a badminton game instead. "Eh, they're pretty close, right?"
Not only did I not get the joy of trying to problem solve through this book, I also had the disgust of reading things that I really did not want to read because 1) they had nothing to do with the plot and never had any relevance later on and 2) just seemed to be like one of Scarecrow's toxin-induced hallucinations rather than something that would actually happen.
Yes, I understand that this is a Stephen King novel and I should've anticipated the horror element from the start. And trust me, I did. I just wasn't expecting sex scenes to be explained in pain-staking detail and causing me to not only have to skip sections but also throw up in my mouth. Like I said earlier, these scenes had no relevance to anything else in the plot and instead distracted from the thriller / cat-and-mouse game that was occurring.
Don't get me wrong, I loved some of the descriptions, such as "Hodges has read there are wells in Iceland so deep you can drop a stone down them and never hear the splash. He thinks some human souls are like that". Descriptions like that are just pure poetry. And the scenes where Hodges is deducing what could've happened in the crime scene are brilliant. But by having the story also be from the perspective of the killer, the reader can't figure anything out; it's all given to us.
A lot of this book is about what I would expect from a Stephen King novel, but at the same time, it was like watching badminton; slow, quirky (not in a good way), and downright confusing.