Already dead, p.2
Already Dead, page 2
Mr. Edwards didn’t matter. The fact that they were late every morning didn’t matter. The divorce papers didn’t matter, either.
What mattered was that Georgina was out of Chase’s sight.
And that meant that there was a possibility, no matter how remote, that someone might take her.
Chapter 2
Chase had just finished her morning five-mile run and was about to hop in the shower when her phone rang.
She was no longer afraid of the thing after what had happened in New York City, but it was still tucked safely away in the table by the front door. Chase walked over to it and opened the drawer. The first thing she saw wasn’t the cell phone—it was her gun case. Inside that was not only her pistol and FBI badge but also the last Cerebrum pill.
Perhaps the last of its kind on earth.
The phone rang again, and she grabbed it and slammed the drawer closed. Normally, Chase would inspect the number before answering, but she needed to take her mind off the pill and even a telemarketer could serve that purpose.
Besides, it could be Louisa calling or the school.
Something might have happened to Georgina.
“Hello?” she asked desperately.
“Yes, I’m… I’m looking for Special Agent Chase Adams?”
It wasn’t Louisa, and the school, like Mr. Edwards, only knew her as Mrs. Adams. This wasn’t starting well.
“Who is this?”
Chase pulled the phone away from her ear and looked at the screen. The number was unlisted.
“This is Terrence Conway of the TBI.” The man, who had a mild, soothing southern drawl paused, clearly expecting his name to ring a bell. When it didn’t, he continued, “Is this… is this Agent Adams? Because we worked together on a case a couple of years back.”
Chase’s vision suddenly narrowed.
Terrence Conway… Terrence Conway…
It didn’t ring a bell.
“Sorry,” she replied dryly. “I’m not with the FBI anymore, but this is Chase. If you need someone to testify, please get in touch with—”
“No, I don’t need anyone to testify. I just wanted to talk to you about the Jalston Brothers.”
Chase’s breath caught in her throat and the phone slipped from her fingers. The corner struck the floor sending a spiderweb of broken glass across the screen.
She made no move to pick it up.
“Agent Adams? Chase? Are you still there?”
Chase took a deep breath and squeezed her eyes closed.
Live in the moment.
But when Brian Jalston’s fat face and his iconic aviator sunglasses appeared in her mind, the moment that she existed in wasn’t the present. It was in the past.
And her past was dark.
Chase set her jaw and picked up her phone.
“Yeah, I’m here,” she said, her voice full of anger.
It had been so long since Chase had heard the Jalston name being uttered out loud that it sounded foreign to her. But the feelings it roused deep inside her did not.
They were uncannily familiar.
“And I remember you.”
Adjacent to images of Brian Jalston in her mind were those of Terrence Conway. The two men couldn’t be more opposite in nearly every respect. Terrence had dark skin as opposed to Brian’s sunburned pink, and he was thin instead of fluffy.
Terrence had also been instrumental in helping Chase find the two men responsible for Georgina’s abduction. Then there was the fact that the man had conveniently looked the other way when Chase had exacted her revenge on one of the brothers.
“Chase, I’ve got some disturbing news that I thought you should know.”
Chase had been holding out hope that Terrence was calling to tell her that the man was dead. That Brian had either offed himself in prison, or that someone had murdered the child-molesting piece of shit.
“What?”
It wasn’t the friendliest form of inquisition, but her jaw was clenched so tightly that it was all she could manage.
“I don’t know any other way to put this, but…”
“Just say it.”
Terrence cleared his throat.
“Brian Jalston is being released next week. I just thought you would want to know.”
For the second time in a minute, the phone threatened to fall from Chase’s hand. This time, she managed to adjust her grip and then squeezed the sides hard enough to extend the cracks on the screen.
“You’re fucking kidding me. You’ve gotta be fucking joking.”
“I wish I was—sorry, Chase. This is no joke. Brian’s getting out.”
No amount of measured breathing was sufficient to calm her down now.
“That piece of shit kidnapped how many girls? Four? And that doesn’t count the others… that doesn’t count my sister. How the fuck is he getting out, Terrence? Tell me how the fuck that sick bastard is getting out.”
There was a short pause, and she could hear what sounded like Terrence’s ear rubbing up against the phone as he shook his head.
“He was initially charged with four counts of especially aggravated kidnapping with a minimum sentence of fifteen years for each. DA was prepared to go to trial, but things got… complicated.”
“What do you mean, complicated?”
Another pause, this one extending for twice as long as the first.
“His brother, Chase. Brian started talking about his brother, Tim, about how… well, he started to raise a stink.”
Terrence didn’t need to say the words—Chase knew what he meant now. She remembered almost being raped by the skinny bastard. She also remembered slitting his throat from ear to ear.
“Yeah, but it’s only been…”
How long had it been, Chase wondered? Two years? Three? Four at most.
So much had happened in the interim—from her sister’s murder to finding and adopting Georgina.
“Two and a half years—nearly three. DA cut a deal, knocked the especially off because of the man’s brother. Aggravated went, too, when the…” Terrence sighed. “When the women came forward and spoke on his behalf.”
Chase was crestfallen. There had been a time when Georgina had been one of those women. Maybe she still was, in the end. Either way, her fate was probably worse.
“Then, after serving two years, Brian came forward with information about—”
“Stop,” Chase whispered. “Just stop. Please.”
Her anger had transitioned into sadness, and she felt tears welling in her eyes. Terrence remained quiet while she collected herself.
“I’m coming to see him.” Chase took a shuddering breath. “I’m coming to Tennessee to see Brian Jalston.”
Terrence grunted.
“You said you’re not with the FBI—”
“I don’t care. I’m coming.”
“Chase, it’s—Listen, I-I think somehow Brian anticipated this. He’s refusing to speak to anyone, not even his women until—”
Chase added incredulous to her tsunami of emotions.
“They’re still coming to see him? After everything?”
“Fuck,” Terrence said, clearly dejected. “Yeah, they’ve been seeing him every week since he was locked up.”
None of this made sense to Chase. She’d freed them—she’d broken whatever spell Brian and Timothy Jalston had on them.
And, yet, they’d stayed.
Why?
“I’m so sorry, Chase. Anyways, I just thought you should know.”
Feeling that Terrence was winding down the conversation, Chase perked up.
“I’m coming,” she stated defiantly. “I’m coming down.”
“He’s not talking to anyone. Not even his lawyer. You’ll just be wasting—”
Chase snarled.
“Oh, he’ll talk to me all right. You bet your fucking ass he’ll talk to me.”
“Chase, I’m not—”
Chase felt bad for hanging up on Terrence because she genuinely liked the guy.
But there was a time for making friends, and there was a time for squashing your enemies.
And there was no bigger enemy in this world to Chase Adams than Brian Jalston.
Chapter 3
“What we got?” Floyd asked as he plopped down in his chair and sipped his coffee.
Tate Abernathy peered over the case file in his hands. The space between the man’s hazel eyes was always pinched, but while Floyd thought it made him look like he was perpetually scowling, Tate claimed that he appeared naturally inquisitive. What Floyd didn’t say, was that it also made him look older than his forty-seven years, and well into his fifties.
“What we got?” Tate repeated, his words staccato. “What we got? Is that how we refer to the crimes that we investigate, Agent Montgomery?”
Floyd chuckled and leaned back in his chair.
This was their shtick—had been ever since they’d been partnered up about six months ago.
Floyd teased Tate for being old and curmudgeonly while Tate countered that everything Floyd said originated from TikTok. The irony was, that Floyd was fairly certain that his partner spent more time on social media than he did.
Close, anyway.
“All right, Sherlock, what crime pray tell might we be investigating this f-f-fine morning?” Floyd mocked in a British accent.
Instead of answering, Tate tossed the folder at him. With one hand holding his coffee mug—which Tate had bought him and was emblazoned with the word ‘MILF’ in huge letters on one side—Floyd fumbled the catch and photographs spilled onto his lap.
The gaiety was sucked out of the room faster than the air from a punctured 747. The first photo Floyd saw was of a man lying on his back with his throat slit. The victim’s eyes were open and blank, and the front of his collared, button-down shirt was matted with blood.
“That’s what we got,” Tate said. “Dr. Wayne Griffith the third, forty-four years old, wealthy plastic surgeon out of Columbus, Ohio.” As the man recounted additional case details, Floyd put the photographs back in the folder in the appropriate order and followed along. “He was out clubbing when he ran into a vagrant. Girl slit his throat, and then,” Tate indicated that Floyd turn the page, which he did, “she did the same to herself.”
At first, Floyd wasn’t sure what he was looking at. There was a person in the photo, but their—her?—face was so dirty that it took him some time to orient himself. Even then, identifying the wound proved difficult, what with all of the grease and filth that coated her skin.
“Yup, yup.” This was one of Tate’s favorite things to say, a throwback to some TV show, apparently, one that Floyd had never and had no interest in seeing. “I couldn’t tell either.” Tate also had an uncanny way of knowing exactly what Floyd was thinking. Not that it was all that difficult—Floyd’s emotions always showed on his face. It was an endearing quality… most of the time. Occasionally, like when he was playing poker, it was a massive disadvantage. “Initial autopsy revealed that the girl was extremely malnourished, but they couldn’t find any trace of drugs in her system. The ME isn’t even sure how old she is—but confirmed that the Jane Doe is indeed a female.”
Floyd made a face.
“Couldn’t tell how old she is? Don’t they measure bones or something like that? Surely, she’s not a child, right?”
Tate shrugged and played with his mustache.
“Couldn’t say. I mean, she’s not a baby, she’s, uhh, of child-rearing age, but the doc said her nutrition was so poor that he couldn’t tell if she was sixteen or twenty-six.”
“What about fingerprints?” Floyd asked, his own brow furrowing in confusion.
“Nope—not in any system.” Tate cocked his head. “Although, the ME wasn’t completely certain about that, either. Said Jane Doe’s skin pretty much just sloughed off her hands.”
“Jesus,” Floyd remarked. “Chemical burns or…?”
“Nope, nope,” Tate said, taking a sip from his coffee. “Nothing like that. He just said that her skin was all fucked up, on account of her being so filthy and malnourished. He said the smell was so bad that he almost vomited. But, hey, get this: the ME once had a victim, a male victim, whose balls were—”
“Sheesh, okay, okay, I get it,” Floyd said, and Tate chuckled.
Even though Tate pretended to be prim and proper, he was always bringing up the strangest and vilest cases to gross Floyd out.
“So, what are we thinking? Random act of violence? The woman just snapped? I mean, it’s rare for a female to murder someone by slitting their throat, even more so to commit suicide that way,” Floyd glanced down at the photo once more, “But this girl doesn’t seem normal.”
Tate shrugged.
“Random… yup, yup, that’s what the woman who was with Dr. Griffith at the time said.”
Floyd raised an eyebrow and flipped back to the case file. He hadn’t noticed a mention of someone being with Dr. Griffith when he was killed.
“Yeah, it’s there, but Dr. Wayne Griffith III wasn’t out with his wife that fateful night. Apparently, the powers that be decided to make the fact that he was hanging out with a stripper a footnote.”
Floyd found the note near the bottom of the second page. The ‘stripper’ in question was Julia Dreger and her brief statement indicated that they’d come across Jane Doe and Dr. Griffith attempted to help her. The girl attacked Wayne and then slit her throat.
Floyd was still a junior agent, but his time working for his uncle in Alaska had taught him that those with privilege could alter the facts to suit their needs.
Even post-mortem.
“As rare as this type of crime might be, I’m not really sure why we—the FBI—are looking at it. So, what gives?”
Floyd’s first instinct was that they were being called in as a favor, that whoever had reduced Julia’s statement to a footnote also wanted the FBI to investigate. He asked as much, but Tate, who loved to play this sort of guessing game, shook his head.
“Keep trying there, Kemosabe.”
Floyd swirled the coffee in his MILF mug.
“Because you’re also seeing this Julia girl?”
Tate smiled and his brown eyes twinkled. He reached back, grabbed another folder off his desk, and tossed it at Floyd.
He was ready this time and caught the file with a deft touch of a first baseman scooping a ball out of the dirt. Floyd’s question was answered with the first photograph. Still, Tate felt the need to speak up, if for nothing more than to put another ‘teaching’ notch in his belt.
“Because the same thing happened two days earlier near Charleston, West Virginia—that’s why, Tonto.”
Chapter 4
Chase wasn’t a fan of flying, not because she had any fear of it, but because she preferred the flexibility of having her own car. But in this case, driving to Franklin, Tennessee would take more than twelve hours while the flight was under three.
It just made sense.
And when she landed at Nashville International Airport, she wasn’t surprised to find the Director of the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation Terrence Conway waiting for her. The man hadn’t changed a day since they’d first met. He was still slim, but not wiry, with a mustache and short, dark hair.
Even though Chase cared little about her own appearance, she wondered briefly if she, too, looked the same as she had back then.
She severely doubted it, and one of the first things that Terrence said confirmed this fact.
“Chase, it’s good to see you,” Terrence said. The man must’ve remembered Chase’s stance on handshakes because he didn’t offer his palm. Instead, he just nodded politely. “I like what you’ve done with your hair.”
Chase casually massaged her scalp, remembering how Cerebrum had given her hair a pale gray appearance.
“Thanks,” she said absently.
And that was the end of the formalities.
“I’m parked just over here,” Terrence said, indicating an unmarked vehicle about thirty feet away in a taxi spot.
They walked in silence, with Chase enjoying the fact that Terrence didn’t feel the need to fill the dead air with chatter. After all, they weren’t friends. They were one-time colleagues and acquaintances and although Terrence had seen Chase near her very worst, that didn’t make them buddies.
Still, it was thoughtful of the man to call her up and let her know about Brian’s pending release.
He didn’t have to do that.
“Brian Jalston is being held in Franklin County Jail,” Terrence said once they were inside his car.
“County? The man’s being held in County?”
Terrence nodded.
During the flight, Chase had tried to research what happened to Brian Jalston post-arrest, but details were scant. This was likely due to the deal that the man had struck with the DA. She’d tried to access more information using her FBI credentials, but her login had been deactivated. Chase had considered contacting Floyd and going through him but had decided against it.
Too many questions, not enough answers.
She was still trying to wrap her mind around the idea of Brian getting out of prison. While this was frightening enough on its own, what made her angry was the idea that the three remaining members of his harem—Sue-Ellen, Portia, and Melissa Jalston, or their given names, Anastasia Blackwood, Kim Bernard, and Teresa Long—visited him in prison. That meant that there was a high probability that they had everything set up for Brian’s release.
All so that he could repeat the vicious cycle of kidnapping young girls and drawing them into his sadistic fold.
Chase pictured her late sister’s face.
And then he would brainwash them, impregnate them, and strip them of any sense of self.
“Chase?”
She shook her head and turned her attention to Terrence.
“Yeah?”
She hadn’t realized that the man had been speaking, but judging by his expression, Terrence had been deep into a one-sided conversation.
“You said on the phone that you weren’t with the FBI anymore, but what about your partner? He still with the Bureau?”
“Floyd?”
