Patrick Logan's Blog, page 2

Devil's Den

Devil’s DenA Chase Adams FBI ThrillerBook 6Patrick LoganProloguePRESENT DAYFBI Special Agent Jeremy Stitts stumbled back from the bathroom. He knocked into an unoccupied stool tucked partway beneath the bar, before managing to pull himself up onto his own. Then he stared down at his half-empty beer. As he did, his vision started to drift in and out of focus and his blinks became more pronounced, prolonged.It didn't matter that the bar was two-thirds full, that obnoxious pop music blared from cheap white-van speakers, or that people were constantly bumping into him as they struggled to get the bartender’s attention.None of this mattered because none of it registered with Stitts.Life had become a smudge, a smear, ever since what had happened with Chase and the others. The deaths he’d caused, the pain, the suffering.Stitts brought the glass to his lips and gulped.He told himself that it wasn’t really his fault, that his mother’s overdose had been her doing, that the Devil’s Den was the manifestation of pure evil, that Chase had led him that day after the visit to her father’s grave.But he was a liar.A liar, a fraud, a fucking murderer.Someone jostled his left elbow hard enough to nearly knock the empty glass out of his hand."Sorry," a woman said, raising her arm to signal to the bartender.Stitts didn’t even look up.“Naw, I’m the one who’s sorry,” he slurred, before finishing his drink.In his periphery, he saw the woman sidle as far away from him as possible, while still remaining in the queue for her beverage, of course.Stitts didn’t blame her. After all, he could only imagine what he looked like: hair a mess, wearing the same t-shirt and jeans that he’d worn for nearly two full days—and slept in once—reeking of sweat and cigarettes.But he didn’t care; what did a pinch mean to a beaten man?"Tough day?" someone asked.Stitts didn't want to turn in the man's direction, didn't want to acknowledge and thereby encourage him to continue speaking."Yeah, I've been having a rough day, too—ha, day. More like week or month, if we’re being honest with each other," the man continued without provocation.Still staring at his empty glass, Stitts wondered if what his mother used to tell him as a kid was true.Just ignore them, honey, and they’ll go away. Stitts breathed deep. Fuck, mom, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.He cleared his throat."Listen, I don’t know if I somehow gave you the wrong impression, but I just want to be alone.""Yeah, I get that. Me? I've spent a lot of time alone, had a lot of time to think."It wasn’t the strangeness of the comment so much as the tone that finally encouraged Stitts to turn and look at the man.The man appeared to be in his early forties, with a heavily lined face. He was wearing spectacles that were slightly crooked, and a button-down shirt that looked a size-and-a-half too large.And he was grinning."I just want to be alone, man," Stitts said, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. As he spoke, he started to push his stool backward, but he nearly toppled and had to grab the bar to stabilize himself."I can see that. I can see a lot of things, Stitts."Stitts’s eyes narrowed."How you know my name?" he mumbled, still gripping the bar tightly."Ha, I know a lot about you, Stitts. I told you, I’ve had a lot of time to think over the years.""Wha—? Who are you?" Stitts managed, finally managing to push his stool back and pull himself awkwardly to his feet. As he did, an arm draped over his shoulder—but it wasn’t the man with the lopsided glasses and creepy grin’s arm, but the woman who’d bumped into him moments ago.“I don’t need your help,” he said, trying ineffectively to shake free of her grasp. He turned, his upper lip curling. “I don’t—what?”Stitts nearly collapsed then, making him a liar once more.“Geo—Geo—Geo—" he was unable to finish her name.It's not her, he thought, desperately trying to convince himself. You’re drunk, you were thinking about Chase, and now your brain is playing tricks on you. It can't be her.Except the woman was smiling warmly as if being able to read his thoughts.As if she somehow shared her sister’s talents.Shaking his head, Stitts tried to pull away, but the last sip of beer had really taken its toll on him; his legs suddenly felt like lukewarm Jello and were barely able to support his weight let alone facilitate movement."Georgina," he managed to gasp at last. “What’s—what’s happening? What are you doing here? What—”The smile on the woman’s face vanished."My name is Riley," she responded coldly. Before Stitts could fully grasp what was happening, he felt himself being led toward the door. His legs were moving, but not by his own accord; the arm around his shoulder, and the other that was now snaked around his waist, were doing most of the heavy lifting."And since we’re doing introductions, have you met my friend yet? His name is Dr. Mark Kruk—or Marcus Slasinsky. Between me and you, he seems to flip back and forth a lot, depending on his mood.”Check back tomorrow for Chapter 1... and prepare yourself for the retail release of Devil's Den...

FROZEN STIFF IS LIVE

You've waited for it, now it's here! FROZEN STIFF is live on all half-decent ebook retailers. Print and Audio coming soon. Grab your copy soon because it will go up to regular price by the end of the week!Thanks for being patient with this one -- it dropped about a month late. Things have been rather hectic lately, and I'm trying my best to manage all of my upcoming projects.So what's next? Issa book. Many books, in fact. First up is DAUGHTER, the finale to The Family Values trilogy. It's poised to drop on December 26th -- perfect timing for everyone to fill up their new Kindles that you got for Christmas. Fair warning, it's going to be brutal, just like the previous three books in the series.After that, Chase Adams will return in her second book, SHADOW SUSPECT. Next, Damien Drake returns in his fourth volume, SKELETON KING, where all of the... ahem... skeletons in his closet come to the fore. Both books are up on pre-order, with SHADOW SUSPECT currently dropping before SKELETON KING. Just a head's up, these dates might swap, depending on which makes sense considering the chronology of the bigger story. Yeah, I said it. The BIGGER story.I'm also hoping to get BITTER END, a Dr. Becket Campbell ME novella, which will follow the ME on his not so peaceful vacation to the Virgin Gorda, and also set up his own series of Medical Thrillers.Finally, I have two more projects I hope to have go live in early January. Both will be serial stories, and one will be co-authored with a good friend.That's all the updates I have for now. Needless to say, I'm keeping busy keeping y'all entertained. Thanks for the support, the reviews, and for sticking around. Pat

Frozen Stiff - Chapter 6

Chapter 6Despite their differences in stature, Agent Martinez was at least six inches taller and sixty pounds heavier than her, his spare jacket, a red, down-filled parka, fit Chase fairly well. She put it on, and immediately felt her body start to warm. Her eyes fell on the black box in the trunk and was about to say something, when Martinez took the words right out of her mouth. “Let me guess: your service revolver was also lost?” Chase nodded. “They forced me to check it.” Martinez reached for the box and handed it to Chase.  “You can borrow my spare,” he said. Chase opened the clasp and peered inside. A midnight black Glock .22 sat embedded in foam. She took it out, quickly checked the clip then reached beneath the coat and slid it into the holster on her hip. That, at least, hadn’t been checked. Martinez stared at her for a moment. “No-nonsense. I like that.” Chase nodded, then looked around.  Floyd had parked at the side of the road, maybe thrity yards from the edge of a heavily wooded area. As far as she could see in either direction, there were no houses or cabins and, thankfully, no dogs or dogsleds. “Come with me,” Martinez instructed, walking away from the parked vehicles. Chase followed him down a small embankment to a spot that had been disturbed by the snow.  “This is where the bodies were found: two girls, both sophomores at University of Alaska, Anchorage,” Martinez said in a voice reminiscent of someone reading a script. “Yolanda Strand and Francine Butler. Both girls were found here yesterday by a trucker shipping goods north to the Valdez-Cordova region. Immediately called it in.” Chase stared at the two indentations in the snow. The area was much larger than should have been made by just two bodies, and she assumed that the rest of the disruption must have been made either by the trucker or CSU. “Where are the bodies now?” “At the morgue,” the Police Cheif answered. “Been there since yesterday.” “And the trucker?” “Well known in the neighborhood. His name is Trent Ford, but everyone around here calls him Big Rig.”  “And the girls? How did they get here?” Martinez shook his head. “Don’t know—went missing two days ago. Their bodies were discovered before anyone actually reported them missing—they were rooming at the university and when they didn’t show up to class, it was assumed that they had partied too hard the night before. Both had just written their final exam for…” Martinez paused as he thought about this for a moment, “… Eastern Philosophy, I believe.” Chase continued to look around as Martinez spoke. Aside from the indentations in the snow, there was nothing else out of the ordinary, so far as she could tell in this foreign landscape.  “I brought you out here to get a scope of the scene, of the lay of the land. I wanted you to see how secluded the area was.” Chase nodded, and found her eyes returning to the forest. She was reminded of the two girls that she had found in the barn in Larchmont County, the ones with the lips painted in blood, and the forest that extended from the rear of the barn. “Frank and his men have already searched most of the forest,” Martinez said, following her gaze. “Didn’t come up with anything useful.” “Two college-aged girls…” Chase muttered, partly to herself, “How were they killed? Any evidence of sexual assault?” Martinez shook his head. “Not as far as we can tell. Things move a little more slowly here than you might be used to in NYC. These two murders were the first in Girdwood in over fifteen years.” Chase lifted an eyebrow, but it was Chief Downs who continued. “Two homicides occurred on a reservation, and before that there were only three others on record. Those are thought to be drug-related.” Downs had a hard expression on his face as he spoke, and Chase got the impression that he was none too happy that these were still unsolved, despite the fact that given his age it was unlikely he was in charge when they had taken place. “How were the girls killed?” Chase asked again.  Chief Downs shifted uncomfortably, his thick boots crunching snow beneath his heels. “Exposure and blood loss,” Martinez said. Chase thought of her own outfit, prior to taking Martinez up on the offer of using his extra parka. It was cold out, but not so cold that she wouldn’t have been able to make the trek back to Girdwood. She would be frost-bitten, surely, but wouldn’t die from exposure, she didn’t think. “Why didn’t—” “Their feet were cut off,” Chief Downs said, a far off look in his eyes. Chase blinked. “What?” Downs turned to face her then, and she saw that it wasn’t just the fact that murders were unsolved that bothered him, but he took this personally. She had the sudden impression that the large man took everything that happened in Girdwood and the surrounding areas personally. “The two girls were naked and their feet were severed. Best we can figure it, this is a secondary location. Their feet were removed elsewhere, and they were dropped here,” Downs extended his finger beyond the disturbed snow. “We think that this is where they were dropped, but managed to make their to here.” Chase’s mind started to whir.  Made their way? Without feet? “How do you know?” The Sheriff’s expression grew stern.  “That’s where their clothes were found.” Chase swallowed hard. And this is why the FBI was brought in, she thought, not with pride, but with something akin to disgust.  And yet, despite these disturbing facts, they weren’t the only thing that struck her as odd. “Where’s the blood?” she asked. “If their feet were removed… where’s all the blood?” Chief Downs’s frown became a scowl. “That’s the thing, Agent Adams… there isn’t any.”

Frozen Stiff - Chapter 5

Chapter 5Girdwood, Municipality of Anchorage, Alaska.  Chase had never heard of the place before today, but quickly learned that it was a small town about forty miles from Anchorage with a population of roughly the same as an average housing complex in NYC: two thousand people.  In fact, during the just over half an hour drive sitting in the backseat of the midnight black Lincoln Town Car—Floyd had insisted that Chase sit in the back, even though she felt uncomfortable with being driven around—Chase learned more than she would watching an hour of Cosmos. The first thing that she learned was that Floyd like to talk.  A lot. Part of this, Floyd explained, was that his speech therapist had told him that getting over the psychological block of speaking would help improve his stutter. Chase wasn’t so sure. Floyd Montgomery was twenty-four years old and was the nephew of Girdwood’s Chief of Police. He had worked for his uncle and the local PD doing odd jobs since he was just a kid, had a sister who had moved to Montreal when she was seven with her dad, neither of whom Floyd ever saw, and he had a keen interest in trains. A real keen interest. Chase listened as the man spoke, mostly out of politeness rather than interest, and when Floyd finally paused to take a breath, she finally broke in. “So, Floyd, any idea where, exactly, we’re going?” she asked, watching as the subdued metropolis of Anchorage, which was centered around the airport, began to thin into a white expanse. Floyd’s eyes flicked up to the rearview, before quickly returning to the road. “Yes; Girdwood, small t-t-town about forty minutes f-from Anchorage. Well, t-t-technically we’re going to Crow C-C-Creek Road. Say, this is the first time that I’ve d-d-driven an FBI agent around. I was pretty excited when Unc—” that’s what he called the Police Chief, Unc, as if he were eight and not three times that age, “—said that I’d be chaperoning not one, but, t-t-two FBI Agents. I mean, that’s p-p-pretty exciting, don’t you think?” Again, his pale eyes flicked up. The question seemed rhetorical to Chase, but concerned that his eyes remained locked on hers and not the road for so long, she eventually offered an answer. “Well, I bet you’re pretty disappointed, huh?” she said with a wry smile. Despite his ramblings, after every one that she had encountered today, Floyd was a breath of fresh air. He turned his eyes back to the road. “W-w-well, I don’t know about t-t-that. You’re very p-p-pretty.” For some reason, Floyd’s innocence struck a chord with her and Chase started to blush. Turning her gaze to the dark, tinted windows, she stared at her own reflection. Seeing the dark circles under her eyes, her hair that she had been forced to pull back in a short ponytail after falling sleeping between the two giants on the plane, she thought briefly that Floyd was messing with her.  But something told her that this simple man wasn’t capable of being dishonest. “Thank you,” she said, watching as the landscape further degenerated into a sea of white. The next five minutes passed in silence, but then they drove over a set of train tracks, and this set Floyd off on a tangent on his favorite subject. “In 1909, Alaska Central Railroad—th-th-that’s the company name—built the f-f-first railroad in Alaska. It was f-f-fifty-one miles long, and took food and people to T-T-T-urnagain Arm.” Chase nodded. This seemed to fuel Floyd’s excitement, and when he spoke again, his stutter became more pronounced. “F-f-from there, the d-d-dogs would take the p-p-people and f-food where it needs to g-g-go.” Chase’s ears perked. “Dogs?” Floyd nodded. “D-d-dogsleds. I had a dog once,” Floyd continued, “His name was S-S-Steven. He w-w-was a co-co-cocker-spaniel. But he died.” Another pause, this one extending as long as a full minute.  “We’re almost here,” Floyd announced, pulling Chase out of her head. They had moved from a main highway artery to a feeder capillary, and the metropolis that was Anchorage had become a distant memory. They passed a sign announcing that they were entering Girdwood, then continued through the lazy resort town, before exiting on the other side. In the distance, she could make out snow-covered pines, as well as a narrowing of the road. Floyd turned onto an even smaller road, which Chase assumed, but couldn’t tell for certain given the snow, was unpaved. In the back of her mind, she had expected to see dozens of police cars, an ambulance, maybe, and a Crime Scene Unit on scene, or in the very least, some pomp and circumstance that warranted FBI involvement. But as Floyd brought the car to a slow, she saw nothing but more snow and trees. Eventually, the familiar shadows of two vehicles jutted from the horizon. One, a Girdwood PD cruiser, lights off, and a dark-colored, unmarked vehicle. She instinctively knew that the latter belonged to FBI Agent Martinez, who Floyd had mentioned back at the airport, and while she was excited to meet the man who had called her up in the early morning hours, she was disappointed that her first assignment didn’t have her paired with Agent Stitts. Still, as they approached the scene, most of her mind was occupied with running scenarios of what she was about to see.  The snow, the remoteness of the location. The number roads in, roads out. The one cop car at the scene.  Why call in the FBI? Why not get Anchorage PD out here? Chase wouldn’t have to wait long to have at least some of her questions answered, it appeared, as Floyd parked behind the unmarked car and quickly hopped out. She reached for the handle, but Floyd had already opened the door for her. “I’ll get it,” he said.  The cold was biting, and it shocked the last vestiges of drowsiness from her system. It had been a long, trying day already, but now that she was on scene, Chase felt her adrenaline start to flow. Pulling the front of her suit jacket tight, she felt ridiculous, and knew that she must look even more absurd than she felt stepping out into the snow in Jimmy Choo’s without a proper coat. Her only saving grace was the fact that the sun shone brightly overhead, offering some solace from the biting wind. What a first impression, she thought glumly.  No sooner had she taken three steps into the snow, did two men approach. In the lead was a man in a black parka, large, aviator style sunglasses that weren’t that much unlike her own pair—which had been conveniently packed in her suitcase—and perfect posture. He was of medium height and build, and looked to be in his mid-forties, with tanned skin and dark hair parted on one side. A frown was etched on his otherwise handsome face.  Behind him was Floyd’s uncle, Girdwood’s Chief of Police. Unlike Agent Martinez, he was tall and had a thick gut that hung over the belt of his beige pants. The wind wreaked havoc on his thinning hair, but despite these difference, he had a striking resemblance to her driver. Agent Martinez gave her a once over as he approached. “Lost your luggage?” he said with a grin as he neared. “Not the best first impression, huh?” Chase raised an eyebrow, unsure if the man was referring to her appearance or her impression of Anchorage. She decided it didn’t matter and held out her hand. “Chase Adams.” “Special Agent Chris Martinez,” was the reply. Martinez shook her hand hard, then moved to one side. “And this is Frank Downs, Girdwood Chief of Police.” The burly man strode forward, a smirk on his face. They shook hands. “Not this cold in New York, is it?” “Sixty-eight and cloudy,” Chase replied. “I’ve got an extra coat in the car,” Martinez offered. “You’re going to need it.”

Frozen Stiff - Chapter 4

Just finishing up the final edits! No more delays, promise. The good news is that you guys get more free chapters. And in case you didn't know it yet, Chase Adams is a bad ass. So glad that she is getting her own series... well deserved. Enough house keeping. To the chapter already!Chapter 4“What do you mean my luggage isn’t here?” Chase demanded, feeling the effects of the long travel day already. That, mixed with the early wakeup time and the poor quality of what little sleep she had, was taking its toll on her, and she fought hard to keep her cool.  The man behind the counter, a creature with fish eyes and thin lips that stretched nearly all the way across his face, appeared to pick up on these cues and leaned away from the counter. She got the impression that the glass partition that separated them wasn’t just for show. “Ma’am, for some reason your luggage was held behind.” Chase felt her blood pressure rise.  “But my—” she leaned in close, “—my service revolver was in there!” The man’s eyes narrowed, and Chase produced her FBI badge that Agent Stitts had sent her. Fish eyes blinked, seemed to extend toward the FBI seal, then retracted. “Agent Adams, I’m not sure what to tell you, but your stuff isn’t here. Pistol included. I’ll make a note on your file stating that you are a government employee and hopefully…” Chase drowned this banter out. She knew how it ended. And yet, what little she heard touched a nerve. Government employee? What am I? Some sort of aide to a local congressman? She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. “Is it there?” she said, cutting the man off mid-sentence. “Excuse me?” Chase opened her eyes. “My stuff. Can you confirm that it’s in Seattle? So for, you’ve only told me that it isn’t here, in Anchorage. Did it leave New York?” The man turned to his computer and pecked at the keyboard with two index fingers. What seemed like hours later, he looked up. “Nope,” he said simply. Chase scowled. “No, what? No it’s not there or…?” The man’s thin lids slid over protruding eyeballs. “No, I can’t tell you. All I know is that your luggage was not put on the flight to Anchorage. Now, I’m sure your stuff will make it here tomorrow, or the next day.” He spun a piece of paper around and slid it under the partition. “Now, if you’d be so kind as to put down the address of the place you’ll be staying, I’ll make sure they get it to you as soon as possible.” Chase’s frown deepened as she looked over the sheet of paper, which asked for more personal information than an eHarmony profile. Problem was, she had no idea where she was going to be staying. In fact, she really had no idea what the hell she was doing here at all. Alaska, the voice on the phone had said. And that was pretty much it.  Aside from bringing her badge and gun, the latter of which had promptly gone missing. Along with all of her clothes and a jacket appropriate for the weather. Chase shook her head and filled out as much of the form as she could, making sure to write out her cell number twice, before handing it back. The man looked it at, then at her. Everything he did seemed to be governed by how many times his giant eyeballs were covered with those translucent membranes. It was as if he needed to ask his eyes permission to breathe. “Your address?” he said at last. “Don’t know where I’ll be staying yet. But my number’s there. Just call me when you get it.” More staring. Chase sucked her teeth, fighting the urge to curse. “Just call me; I need my pistol.” The man frowned, and when he turned to file her paper in a stack of two dozen others, Chase fled the booth before she said or did something that would ultimately end in the man “losing” her luggage form.  Her face was warm, her stomach full from the meal to the point of bursting, and she felt dizzy.  What a way to make a first impression. She pressed by a middle-aged couple who were searching for their suitcase on the carousel, oddly dressed in Hawaiian shirts, and then she made her way toward the main lobby. A peek at the wall of windows across the terminal drew an instinctive shiver: it was snowing outside, and Chase, always uncomfortable on airplanes, hadn’t even worn a jacket. The only thing she had brought in her carry-on was a small makeup case, her toothbrush, deodorant, a t-shirt, several pairs of underwear, and her hair straightener.  The rest had been packed neatly into the suitcase that had subsequently been left behind. Chase shook her head and hurried away from the crowds. Truth be told, she hadn’t a clue where she was going, but fueled by the frustration that this day had offered, she moved with purpose.  And a need for a drink. Instead of alcohol, however, she settled for a small coffee cart from which she grabbed a Styrofoam cup full of caustic looking fluid. She was in the process of putting on the lid, which, obviously, felt just a fraction of an inch too small, when a hand gently brushed her shoulder. She jumped, and then slid her hips backwards to avoid the the scalding liquid that cascaded to the floor. Chase lost it. “Jesus Shit!” she said, spinning around. “Why the fuck would—” A man in a dark navy suit with a narrow face and the beginnings of a blond goatee stood before her, shock and fear on his young face. Chase glanced upward at the hat he was sporting—also navy, just a little lighter than the color of his suit—then at his hands. Gripped in white fingers was a wipe board roughly the size of a sheet of paper. Written on it was a single word: ADAMS. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. I just—” Chase’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you have my name on your board?” she snapped. The man looked down at his hands, then turned it around so that the word was the right way up. He did this in a manner that made Chase think that he had forgotten what he had written on it. “A-a-a-adams…” he mumbled to himself. “I thought that m-m-maybe—” “Who are you?” The man broke into a grin, and he held a hand out to her. Chase didn’t shake it. “I asked who you were.” The man’s smile faded. “F-f-f-floyd. Floyd M-M-Montgomery. Are you Chase A-a-adams? I s-s-seen a picture on the n-n-news a while back, s-s-something—” Chase cut him off before he could finish recounting a story she knew all too well. “Yes, I’m Chase Adams. What do you want?” The man looked down again. “I must have m-m-missed you getting off the p-plane. The gates changed at the last m-m-minute, and I hurried, I really d-d-did, but it’s hard to—” “What do you want?” Chase repeated, trying to save him the pain of forcing the words out with his stutter. She saw his Adam’s apple bob and he lowered his eyes before answering. “I’m here to p-pick you up. Agent M-M-Martinez sent me to come g-g-g-get you.” 

Frozen Stiff - Chapter 3

Chapter 3“Ma’am?” a hand shook her shoulder. “Ma’am? You okay?” Chase opened her eyes, and then startled, confused by her surroundings. The stewardess leaned away from her. “I’m sorry, but we landed five minutes ago. I’m not sure if you have a connecting flight or…” Chase blinked, then realized that she was in an airplane and that it must have landed in Seattle. Part of her mind tried to tell her that this was a dream, but she knew better. The other thing, the thing with her sister, that had been a dream. Sort of. “Sorry,” she grumbled. “Must have fallen asleep.” The woman stood up straight and smiled. “That’s alright. It was an early flight—I would have fallen asleep myself if I didn’t have to work.” Chase nodded, and then undid her seatbelt. Now, without an ogre hanging on each of her shoulders, she could finally take a full breath, and did so in earnest. “Thanks,” she grumbled. She stood, stretched her calves, then checked her watch. It was close to lunchtime, and she had an hour or so to kill before boarding the final leg of her journey to Anchorage. Chase collected her bag from the overhead compartment.  “Will my checked baggage be automatically transferred, or do I need to pick it up?” The stewardess, how was busy checking all of the overhead bins for forgotten carry-ons said, “It should go directly to your final destination. But I’d check with the boarding agent at the next flight just to be sure.” Chase thanked the woman again and disembarked.  Ten minutes later, she found herself sitting in the busy food court, cramming over-salted French fries into her mouth, and watching whatever passed as cheese these days melt from the heat of the microwaved hamburger patty and drip onto the greasy plastic. She chased the fries with a sip from her Coke.  Not the way I imagined it… For a split second, she debated calling up some of her old colleagues from her time as a Narcotics Officer here in Seattle, but quickly squashed this idea. It wasn’t worth the memories, drudging up a past that would only serve to reopen old wounds. She had spent a good three years as a Narc; the fourth, and what was to her final year, was blurred by an addiction that still scarred the inside of her arms to this day. Definitely best to just sit and eat this burger alone, chase it with the syrupy soft drink, and prepare for Anchorage. The problem with this, however, was that she had no idea what or who she was preparing for. For as long as she could remember, Chase wanted to be part of the FBI, but could never see a way to transition from law enforcement to the Bureau. That is until her brief stint as NYPD Sergeant of the 62nd precinct. In her first and only case—the so-called Download Killer, a disgruntled housewife who murdered young women, painted their lips with their blood, and then published stories about their deaths online—she had immediately brought in the FBI to lend a hand.  FBI Special Agent Jeremy Stitts had helped her solve that case, and in the process, Chase had gained insight into why her application kept being overlooked. Stitts had spent a good deal of time observing her leading up to Ryanne Elliot’s untimely death, and Chase couldn’t help but shake the feeling that the entire case had been a sort of job interview. And she had passed… or so she had thought. Agent Stitts had given her a badge and a service pistol, but instead of whisking her off to Quantico for training, he told her to sit tight, to wait for the call.  Chase wasn’t good at sitting and waiting.  Too much time in her own head was never a good thing. Too much time to remember. It didn’t help that after the Download Killer, she had come home to an empty house. Her husband Brad had taken their seven year-old son Felix and had gone on an extended vacation with the boy. It wasn’t his fault, Chase knew. Brad had told her repeatedly that she put them second behind her job, and yet she had ignored him.  And then, poof, they were gone.  Even when she pleaded with Brad, even after she had resigned from the NYPD—granted she wasn’t so much eased out the door as pushed through by Internal Affairs—he said he needed time. That they both did. In the interim, She was able to see Felix whenever she wanted, but it wasn’t the same. Chase missed seeing his face every night, even if most of the time when she looked down on him he was already fast asleep in his bed. It wasn’t the same; they weren’t a family anymore, and this saddened her deeply. And it also reminded her of a past long before Seattle that she had worked hard to forget. I’m doing it for you, Georgina… I’m doing all of this for you. A month passed without a call from the Bureau, and Chase began to wonder.  Be patient, she chided herself. They’ll call. But when one month bled into two, she hadn’t been able to resist the urge: Chase picked up the phone and dialed Agent Stitts. The man told her the same thing that she had told herself: just sit tight and wait. On the third month, just as she was considering appealing to her ex-partner and good friend Damien Drake to join his PI firm, if for nothing else than to pass the time, she finally got the call. And, like the flight she just experienced, it wasn’t what she had expected. There was no private jet as she had seen countless times on Criminal Minds, no glass conference rooms filled with high-tech equipment and a team of slightly autistic yet brilliant specialists. So far, it was just her, a douchebag TSA agent, an unhappy gate attendant, and two obese seat partners. Oh, and the burger.  This burger. Chase took a bite, and then dabbed at the grease that dribbled onto her chin.  She was nearly done her meal when an announcement informed her that Delta flight 0199 to Anchorage was starting to board. After a short debate about whether or not she should finish her quarter pounder, and deciding against it, Chase took out her phone and scrolled to her recent calls. All but one of the ten outgoing calls were to the same number. She dialed it now and waited until the answering machine picked up on the third ring. “Hey buddy, I hope you’re having a great day at school. I’m just calling to let you know that I probably won’t be seeing you this weekend.” Chase closed her eyes and tilted her chin to the ceiling. She fought back the hitch that tried to claw its way into her throat. “I know I promised to take you to the indoor water park, but I can’t this weekend. Mommy’s going away for work… to Alaska! It’s supposed to be super cold there, but I’ll make sure to keep warm. I’ll be sure to pick you up something nice, and I promise to take you to the water park when I get back. I love you, Felix. And I love you too, Brad. Talk soon. Chase.” Despite her best efforts, Chase was crying softly as she boarded the final flight of this leg of her journey.

Frozen Stiff - Chapter 2

Chapter 2“There are no direct flights from JFK to Anchorage,” the sulking woman at the flight desk informed Chase, “Your connection is in Seattle, and you best be hurrying, the flight is boarding real soon.” Chase nodded and hurried to the security desk. She flashed her FBI badge, and then informed the TSA agent that she had a pistol to check.  “Yeah, we’re going to have to take you and your gun to security to check it over,” the man in the uniform informed her in a slow drawl. He was going on sixty and had thin, coppery hair. Chase considered that his hair might have been dyed to match his nicotine stained mustache. “I’ve got a flight to catch,” she said with a frown. “Can we just hurry it up?” The man eyed her up and down, taking in the full length of her black suit, the white blouse beneath. He did so in the most creepy way possible, and Chase bit back a scathing retort. The man’s leer suddenly broke into a grin. “Hey, aren’t you that Police Sergeant that told the woman of New York to be bitches?” Chase’s scowl became a sneer. Just my luck, I get the only asshole who remembers that. Her mind flicked back to the day that she had stood atop the podium, then acting as NYPD Sergeant of the 62nd precinct. Her goal had been to prevent more women from being murdered, from their lips being painted red with blood.  FBI Agent Jeremy Stitts had been in the crowd then, looking up at her. And with all eyes on her, she had gone ahead and said pretty much exactly what the TSA douchebag before her had just repeated. Use your gut, your instincts, Agent Stitts had instructed her, and her gut told her to inform New York, especially the women, to look out for themselves. That had been more than six months ago; more than half a year had passed since she was the active Sergeant of 62nd precinct, and she had thought that it was all behind her. Just my luck to meet the one man in New York who remembers…  The TSA Agent’s eyes flicked to the FBI badge that Chase still held open in one hand. “Didn’t work out that good for ya, did it?” there was a twinkle in the man’s eyes that made Chase want to punch him. But that was what he wanted, too, she realized.  Instead, she put on her most patronizing expression.  “I’ll be sure to put a good word in for you when Walmart comes looking for a new security guard.” The man stopped smiling. “Off to the right,” he barked. “Cops, FBI, POTUS. Don’t matter. All guns must be inspected prior to boarding.” Chase followed the man’s nicotine stained fingers toward a door marked SECURITY CHECK. Her only chance of making the flight now was if she was the only one in there.***Huffing, her lungs and legs burning, Chase made it to the gate just as the agent was announcing last call over the loud speaker. “Wait!” she hollered as she approached. “I’m here! Wait!” The gate attendant turned her back to her as if she didn’t hear, and started toward the door, pulling a keycard from her hip as she did. You’ve got to be kidding me. The security check hadn’t been empty; it had been packed. Her only saving grace was that she knew one of the inspectors, a cousin of Detective Simmons whom she had worked with back in 62nd precinct, and he had fast-laned her. And yet, even after all of this bureaucratic bullshit, the woman was still going to close the door on her. She was going to miss her flight. Chase sprinted and somehow managed to slip a foot in the door before the gate attendant could close it completely. The woman, who at this point, Chase was convinced was some sort of android continued to shut the door despite the presence of her foot.  It was heavy, and she winced when it pinched her Jimmy Choos. “I’m here,” she huffed, holding the ticket out for the woman to see. The woman’s eyes moved from the ticket to Chase’s foot, then back to her face. “Only this time,” she said sternly, as if she were offering parole to a two-time offender in a three strike state. She snatched the ticket from Chase’s hand, and then scanned the barcode with the handheld reader. Chase wanted to come back with something witty, snarky, but she was too out of breath to say anything. Which was probably for the best. The woman pulled the door open just wide enough for Chase to slip through, and she hurried down the runway, a slight limp to her gait until the pain in her foot subsided.  Just when she thought her day couldn’t get any worse, Chase discovered that her ticket had her sandwiched between two men who looked like long lost relatives of Jabba the Hut. Even at a hair over a hundred pounds, coming in at a generous five-foot four, Chase’s shoulders were so tightly squeezed between them that her breathing was restricted.  Thankfully, it was six am, and she was exhausted from her interrupted sleep and the run to and throughout JFK, and Chase managed to pass out even before the plane left the ground.***“Suit yourself, but it’s awfully hot out there. And in here—” the man gestured toward the interior of the minivan. As he did, a blast of cold air struck Chase in the face, even though she was standing more than three feet away. “—it’s nice.” And there it was again, the charming smile, the comfortable, unassuming pose with his arm dangling out the window. Chase wanted to get in the car, really wanted to, and she could tell by the way that her sister kept tugging on her hand, that she wanted to get in too. Chase turned her eyes to the sun, squinting at the near impossible brightness.  “Suit yourself,” the man repeated.  Chase looked back just in time to see the man’s tinted window close before he sped off, tires squealing. “C’mon, Chase, it’s soooo hot,” her sister whined. “Why cant we take the ride? He looks nice.”  Chase stopped and then squatted so that she was at eye level with her sister. Chase was only two years older, but Georgina was a good foot shorter than she was.  She grasped her sister’s shoulders tightly. “Not everyone who offers you a ride is a good person, Jess. There are some people out there…” Her sentence trailed off as her mind began to wander. “You’re hurting me,” Georgina whined, as she squirmed beneath Chase’s grip.  Chase let go of her and stood. “Sorry,” she grumbled. “Let’s go. It’s hot, and I’m thirsty.”

FROZEN STIFF Chapter 1

PART I - Trying to WalkTWO WEEKS AGOChapter 1Chase eyed the man in the driver seat sporting aviator sunglasses that were too big even for his large features. His elbow was hanging casually out the window, and cold air wafted to them from inside the van. “You girls need a ride?” he said with a slight grin. Chase turned to her sister, at the sheen covering her button nose, the soft skin beneath her eyes. It was hot, too hot, and they still had at least two miles to cover before they got home. “We’re fine,” Chase said forcefully. She grabbed her sister’s hand and tugged her along. To her dismay, the man in the van kept pace.  “You sure? It’s awfully hot out here.” Chase looked over at the driver, and was surprised to see that his smile had widened. A sudden buzzing, a thick, droning sound, bombarded Chase’s ears and she felt momentarily dizzy.  He’s right. It’s so hot out here. When’s the last time we had something to drink? Was it the water? No, it was… oh, it was the syrupy Snocone… that was it. And mama said that those drinks will only make you more thirsty. “I said, we’re fine,” she snapped. The man opened his mouth to reply, but the only sound he made was more of that strange buzzing. It seemed to be inside her skull now, as if her brain had been replaced by a wasp hive. To her right, her sister was saying something and tugging her hand, probably telling her that they should, please, just take the ride, but Chase didn’t hear any words. All she heard was that damn buzzing, that incessant— ***Chase’s eyes snapped open, her mouth open in a gasp. Her body was covered in sweat, an uncomfortable stickiness that coated her arms, her chest, her legs.  Finally managing a full breath, she saw fog form in front of her face. Despite the sweat, she shivered, her gaze moving to the open window. It was frigid inside her small apartment and— Bzzzzz Chase’s eyes went from the window to her phone on the bedside table. As she stared at it, it buzzed again, the vibrations moving it toward the edge. Chase grabbed it before it fell.  The number was unlisted, but she answered anyway. “Hello?” she asked, then cleared her throat when her voice came out hoarse and cracking. What time is it? “Alaska,” the male voice on the other end of the line said. Unlike her own, it was clear, distinct, not groggy with sleep. “What?” “Alaska. Head to the airport—flight leaves in two hours. Tickets are at the desk under your name. Bring the badge and gun that Agent Stitts gave you. Don’t be late.” Chase sat bolt upright.  This was the call she was waiting for. She hadn’t expected it to be so obtuse, cryptic and informal, but that didn’t matter. It was the call. “I’m up, sir,” she said, but the other end of the line had already gone dead. Chase put the phone back on the bedside table and rubbed the last vestiges of sleep from her eyes.  Then, when her vision was completely clear, she turned to the clock.  It was four-fifteen in the morning. Her eyes naturally moved to the photograph beside the clock next, the one of Brad resting on a knee, a smile on his bearded face. His hand was wrapped around Felix’s shoulders, resting on his brightly-colored backpack.  The photo had been taken three years ago on little Felix’s first day of school. Chase reached out with two fingers and pressed them gently on the glass.  Then she rose, grabbed the bag that she had packed months ago from the foot of her bed, confirmed that her pistol and FBI badge rested on top, and started to dress.

Frozen Stiff is almost here!

Some foolish scheduling conflicts pushed Frozen Stiff: A Chase Adams FBI Thriller back a few weeks, but the release date is almost upon us. To get your juices flowing, I'm going to post a chapter a day until it goes live. FROZEN STIFFPrologue“You can’t get away from this, Chase! Why don’t you just come back up here and we can talk about it, face-to-face!” Chase Adams winced and scrambled along the side of the hill, pressing her back against the snow-covered surface as she moved. The man was standing on the road above, roughly fifteen feet up, and if he saw her, she knew that the next bullet wouldn’t be in her side, but in her skull. Talk about it… what a joke. Through gritted teeth, she tried to keep her pain at bay while shuffling, grateful for both the cover of darkness and the sound of the wind whistling between bare trees. It was a cold night, and the frigid air nipped at her even through the thick red parka that covered her from knees to chin. Wind entered the bullet hole in the right side, causing it to puff up and make her movements even more awkward.  “Chase! Chaaaaaase!” The voice had a sing song quality to it now. The bastard was enjoying this. Chase made it to an exposed culvert jutting from the side of the hill, and with a soft grunt, lowered herself beneath it. Please don’t look down here… please just get back in your car and leave. Somewhere in the distance she heard the chime from a car, an indication that a door had been left ajar. A quick glance in that direction confirmed that it was coming from the battered teal-colored sedan that she had stolen at gunpoint. Based on the way the hood was curled around an ancient oak tree, she was surprised that she had managed to crawl out of it relatively unscathed.  Chase could see blood on the cracked leather seats even from her vantage point nearly twenty feet away, but that was from before, that was from the bullet embedded in her right side, just above her hip. Please… just leave. “I’ll tell you what, Chase, come out now, and I’ll make it quick—I promise. It won’t be like the others. But if I have to come down there and find you, which I will—you know I will—then it’ll be bad.” So much for talking.  Chase squeezed her eyes together tightly, and she allowed herself several deep breaths. The pain in her side had dulled considerably since the hotel, and after collecting herself, she finally gathered the nerve to look down at the hand clutching her side.  Beneath the pale blue spears of moonlight, her small fingers appeared smeared with a thick, purple substance.  Chase ground her teeth, steeled herself, and then pulled her hand away from the spot just above her right hip. Down feather insulation clung to the blood covered hole, and after first trying, and then failing, to clear them completely to allow a clear view of the wound, Chase gave up and slowly unzipped the coat to peer inside. The hole in her shirt was ragged, and the shirt itself, a white blouse, was filthy and nearly completely covered in blood.  The bullet hole itself was rimmed with black, burnt fabric. Chase covered the wound with her frigid hand and applied pressure. A hiss exited her mouth, and she froze. “Chase… Chaaaaaaaaaase! Come out, come out wherever you are!” With all of her prodding, the pain had intensified, but she knew there was still one more thing to check: she had to inspect her back. Chase inhaled deeply, and held her breath, before pulling away from the side of the hill. It was risky, but she had to know. Just a glance… A second later, Chase collapsed against the embankment, breathing heavily, eyes closed once more. The bullet had gone completely through.  Something in the back of her mind, her police training perhaps, her time as first a Seattle PD Narcotics officer, then as an NYPD Detective, told her that this was a good thing. That if the bullet was still lodged inside her, it would continue to do damage until it was removed. But this realization did nothing to soothe her pain. Through or not, if she didn’t get help soon, Chase would bleed out. Then it wouldn’t matter if the bullet was lodged in her side, her chest, her heart, or her brain. She tightened her grip on the gun clutched in her free hand.  “Agent Adams, I’m getting bored of this,” as if to reinforce the point, the lilt in his voice disappeared. “I’ll tell you what… new deal: you come out right now, and I won’t kill your husband and son.” Chase’s eyes snapped open, and her mouth went slack. No, he can’t— As if reading her thoughts, the man continued, “Oh, that’s right. I know all about little Felix and Brad. You see, Chase, I’ve been at this a long time. A long, long time, and you don’t stick around in this game by not knowing everything… everything about my victims. About what you guys did to her.” Chase closed her eyes again, only this time it wasn’t from the pain, but from a realization. She ground her teeth so hard that a fine powder rained down on her tongue. A game… that’s all this is to him, a sick, twisted game of revenge. But for what? What the hell did we do?  “Last chance, Chase. Come out now, hands up, or Felix and Brad die before you do. Last… chance…”You can grab your copy at a special, pre-order price by clicking the image or RIGHT HERE.See you tomorrow! Pat

Download Murder Snippet #4

We're getting close now... just three more days...Chapter 4Beckett felt like he was dreaming. In fact, everything that had happened since the night Dr. Moorfield’s burnt colonial had been set ablaze for a second time felt like a horrible nightmare. Every morning he awoke asking himself the same question: Did I do that? Did I really do that? Everything pointed to the fact that he had: the newspaper reports—although they had thankfully kept his name out of it—this very inquiry, and, worst of all, the memories.  In his mind, he heard the sickening thud of the rock colliding with Craig Sloan’s skull, he could feel warm blood first on his hands then coating his wrists, and he could see the man’s eyes roll back in his head. After spending more than a decade surrounded by dead men, Craig was the first he had personally been responsible for. But there was something underlying all of these sensations that was even more alarming. Something that truly terrified him. “Please state your name and position for the record,” Officer Herd instructed. Beckett leaned forward and cleared his throat before answering. “My name is Dr. Beckett Campbell. I am the Senior Medical Examiner for the NYPD, and I’m also an associate professor of Medicine and Pathology at NYU.” “Thank you, Dr. Campbell. As you overhead me say to Sergeant Adams, this is not a trial, but an inquiry. That being said, please acknowledge that you have waived your rights to having someone from the Royal College of Surgeons or from the American Medical Association to accompany you today.” “I have.” “Good. Then we shall continue. Please, in your own words, tell us what happened on the date in question.” Beckett closed his eyes and scratched his forehead. “I was with a close-friend—ex-NYPD Detective Damien Drake—and we were looking for the daughter of a fallen police officer whom we believed had been kidnapped by a man who had killed six people over the course of two weeks. I was outside in Drake’s car while he was inside a—” tread carefully, Beckett, “—a condo building in downtown Manhattan. When he came out, he had identified the kidnapper and murderer. We called Sergeant—” “Slow down, Beckett,” Roger Albright interrupted. “You say you were at a condo in Manhattan. Can you be more specific?” Beckett shook his head. “No. It was dark, and I was running on very little sleep.” Roger’s frown deepened. “And did Damien Drake say who he was meeting? Who he had acquired the name of the alleged kidnapper from?” Again, Beckett shook his head. “He never told me. Perhaps you should ask him.” “Damien Drake is unavailable for this inquest. Please continue with what happened after you left the condo.” “I called Sergeant Adams with the name and she referred me to a house that Craig Sloan had burned down once before—when Dr. Moorfield used to live there. We believed that this was where he was keeping Suzan Cuthbert. When we arrived, the place was already on fire. As Drake tried to gain entry, he had an altercation with Craig Sloan down the side of the house. Craig was knocked unconscious, and Drake went into the house to see if Suzan was inside. He instructed me to put Craig in the car and to wait for the police to arrive.” “He told you to put Craig in the car? Where in the car?” Beckett hesitated. “In the trunk. Drake was driving a civilian vehicle that didn’t have a cage between the front and rear seats. He also didn’t have a set of handcuffs.” Roger nodded. “Continue.” “So I put him in the trunk and then started toward the house to see if I could help Drake.” “Did you ever actually go into the house, Dr. Campbell?” “No. I was going to enter the house, but I never got there. I heard shots fired from inside the trunk.” Officer Herd rubbed his temples before commenting. “And you… ran? You ran away from the man as he came out from the trunk? I mean, he was, in your words, a murderer and he had a gun.” Beckett thought back to that moment, the fire at his back, the flickering yellow and orange hues illuminating Craig’s snarl. The man had one leg out of the trunk when Beckett had picked up the rock. “No, I didn’t run.” “Why not?” “Because he had a gun, and I thought he was going to take Drake out when he came out of the house. Suzan, too, if she was still alive.” “What did you do next?” “I grabbed a rock and struck Craig in the side of the head. I think he was disoriented or maybe deafened by the sound of the gunshots inside the trunk, because he never saw me coming. ” “How many times did you strike Craig Sloan? Once? Twice? Multiple times?” Roger asked. Beckett re-read Chase’s letter that Screech had handed him back in the hospital in his mind. “More than once, but I can’t tell you how many. No more than three or four, I think. I was just trying to knock him out, but he wouldn’t go down; he kept trying to turn the gun on me.” Roger made a uh-huh sound. Then he opened a folder on the desk and took out a sheet of paper. He handed it to Officer Lincoln and told him to bring it over to Beckett, which he did. “Are you familiar with this report?” Beckett scanned the page quickly.  “Yes. This is the pathology report concerning Craig Sloan’s death.” “And do you recognize the ME who prepared the report?” “Yes, of course. Dr. Henrik Karl.” “And in your professional opinion, is Dr. Karl a qualified ME? A competent doctor?” “Yes, of course; I trained him myself.” “Very well,” Roger continued. “Can you please read the official cause of death out loud?” Beckett found the line. “Craig Sloan died as a result of multiple blows to the skull with a hard, smooth object. He—” Roger held up a hand. “That’s good enough. I’ll ask you again, how many times did you strike Craig Sloan with the rock?” Beckett shrugged. “Like I said, more than once, but I’m not sure exactly how many.” “And is that congruent with the pathology report?” Beckett didn’t need to read the line again. He knew exactly what it said, in part because he had helped Dr. Karl draft it. “Yes—multiple in this context means more than one, but the ME could not determine the exact number of strikes.” Roger Albright locked eyes with him for what seemed like an eternity, before speaking again. “Thank you for your cooperation, Dr. Campbell. My colleagues and I will now hold a brief, private discussion.” With that, Roger turned to Officers Herd and Lincoln. The abruptness with which the questioning had come to an end surprised Beckett, and it took a few moments for his heart rate to settle.  The three men spoke in hushed voices, voices too low for him to hear, and Beckett resisted the urge to try and lipread. It was clear to him now that Roger and his IA posse had come to a conclusion even before this entire charade.  Like Chase had said, if they all stuck to their story, then there was nothing that they could do.  “My colleagues and I have decided that we are going to close this case. Craig Sloan murdered seven people, and we have no doubt that without your intervention he would have continued to kill. Although your actions were… how can I put this… unorthodox, they do not, in our opinion, constitute either a criminal or negligent act on your part.” Beckett felt a massive weight roll off his shoulders, and he took a deep breath for the first time in what seemed like forever. Chase was right… just stick to the script. “However, that being said, we recommend that you take some time off, Dr. Campbell. You have been through an incredibly emotional and taxing ordeal, and we believe that it’s in everyone’s best interest for you to spend several weeks away from the NYPD, NYU, and any other related medical matters. Although we do not wish to tarnish your record by making this a formal request, I strongly suggest that you take our advice and heed our recommendation.” Roger Albright adjusted his glasses before continuing. “Speaking plainly, Beckett, I think it’s time you took a vacation. A nice, long vacation in the sun. Get your mind off things, come back refreshed.” Beckett glanced around nervously, not quite believing that this was finally over.  “Am I free to go?” “You are indeed free to leave.” Beckett shot to his feet, holding his hands out to his sides. “Fuckin’ A. Then I’m out of here.”  He was halfway to the door, when Roger’s voice made him turn back. “Off the record, Dr. Campbell, were you aware that Craig Sloan’s pistol was empty when he climbed from the trunk?” In his mind, Beckett pictured the five holes in the trunk, and the one that had destroyed the lock. “I had no idea,” he lied, and then left the room.***Chase was standing in the hallway, chewing her lip when Beckett skipped out of the briefing room. For a split-second he considered messing with her, telling her that he was going to prison, but seeing the concern on her face, he decided against it. “They said I can go,” he said, eyes downcast.  Chase lunged at him and wrapped her arms around his back and shoulders. “I told you everything would work out,” she whispered in his ear. “I told you.” Beckett nodded and gently peeled her off of him. “What are you going to do now?” Chase asked when they were separated.  Beckett shrugged. “Roger and his goons suggested I take a vacation, so I might just do that.” Chase smirked. “You lying on a beach? I don’t see it.” “Me neither, but I guess this is the new me.”  He had meant the comment to be a joke, but there was something unintentionally profound about the comment that made him uncomfortable. “Anywhere in particular?” “I have a friend with connections to a very exclusive island in the Virgin Gorda—St. Thomas area. He’s always asking me to come visit, so I think it’s about time to take him up on that offer.” Chase’s smile grew. “Excellent. I—” Her phone buzzed and she took it off her hip and stared at the call display.  The smile slid off her face. “I’ve got to take this,” she said, her eyes still locked on the phone. “Chase?” Beckett said softly. “Yeah?” Beckett opened his mouth to speak, but sensing that she was preoccupied, instead of the words he had initially intended, he simply said, “Thank you.” Chase offered him a tired smile. “Take a break, Beckett. You’ll be fine.” With that, Chase answered her phone and turned, making her way slowly down the hallway as she barked into the mouthpiece.  Beckett watched her go. Chase was wrong, of course; he wouldn’t be fine. In fact, he doubted he would ever be fine again. After all, Craig Sloan had changed him. Beckett had said thank you, but what he really wanted to say was, Craig got what he deserved. I killed him because he was going to kill again. He wasn’t going to just hang it up after he completed the pathology exam—the test was only the beginning. I stopped him the only way I knew how: by killing him, by smashing his head in with the rock until it was covered in his brains and blood and bits of skull.  And Chase? I liked it. It was this last part that scared Beckett most of all.  I liked it, Chase, and I’m afraid that I’ll do it again some day.