Already dead, p.26
Already Dead, page 26
“What’s so important that you have to rush out of here, Chase?” he asked, his eyes soft. “Henry’s dead. The other girls are also dead. What’s so important that you’re going to risk bleeding out again?”
Chase wanted to tell him then—he deserved to know. The man had saved her life not once, but twice this week. And maybe she would have. Maybe Chase would have said, Floyd, the man who robbed me and my family of our lives is getting out tomorrow. And I have to be there. I’m not sure what I’m going to do, but as you know, I’m not much for planning.
But Tate and Dr. Heinlin were staring at her expectantly. She pulled her gun case from Floyd’s hand.
“I just—I just have to go.” Then to the doctor, Chase added, “Just put this on my credit card, too.”
Chase opened the case, confirmed that her gun and badge were inside, and then snapped it closed. She started toward the door, only to turn back to three bewildered men.
“Thank you, thank you all.”
A subtle nod from Tate and Dr. Heinlin, no reaction from Floyd.
“Oh, and Floyd?”
“Yeah?” he said, expectation on his features. Chase once again let him down.
“It’s probably a good idea to keep my name out of your report—all reports, actually.” Chase opened the door before turning back one final time. “Dr. Heinlin? Is Bridget still here?”
The doctor shook his head.
“Moved to a psychiatric facility, for the time being.”
“And the charges?”
“None laid at this point.”
“Good,” Chase said. “That’s real good.”
Maybe not everybody who comes in contact with me ends up dead, Chase thought. But the happy feeling that accompanied this, like a drug addict’s most recent hit, was fleeting. And when it was gone, the hole it left behind was always just a little bit deeper.
Chapter 65
Floyd was incensed. That was the only way to describe how he was feeling right now: furious.
Chase had lied to him. What’s worse, she’d manipulated him.
It made sense now. The lack of real investigation into her attack, the paying for everything with cash… she wasn’t supposed to be here. Director Hampton hadn’t let her come back on a provisional basis. The man didn’t even know she had anything to do with the case.
And now, he had to write his report with more lines redacted than The Mueller Report. No, not redacted. Completely rewritten, with Chase’s indomitable presence removed.
If that wasn’t bad enough, Tate had “important business to attend to”.
Really? Like what?
What could be more important than visiting Meredith Griffith and letting her know that her daughter died two years ago?
“Fuck.”
Floyd rubbed his eyes and shook his head.
It was his worst nightmare manifested.
Chase had told him to find what worked for him. That he had to find ‘something’ else he falls into some fucking pit to nowhere.
It would help to know where to look, Chase. Thanks a lot. Thanks a fucking lot.
Every mile closer to Meredith’s house, another gallon of sweat seeped from his pores. And then Floyd pulled the chute.
He couldn’t do it. He told himself it was because he promised Julie to let her know what happened to Wayne when he found out. And while that excited him as much as a lube-free colonoscopy, it was exponentially more appealing than telling a mother her child was dead, irrespective of how bitchy the mother was and how broken their relationship had been.
Been there, done that. Got the T-shirt and decorative spoon.
“Fuck.”
Floyd changed the address on his cell phone to Julia’s. His anxiety, which had been ratcheted up to twelve, pulled back sub-ten.
In ten minutes, he pulled into Julia’s driveway. Normally, this is the part when he’d sit in the driveway, work through his monologue, come up with contingency and redundancy plans.
But something was wrong.
There were two cars in the driveway, and he recognized both. The first belonged to Julia. The second, Meredith.
Floyd looked beyond the vehicles to the front door of Julia Abrams’ home.
The door was open.
He licked his lips and slowly got out of the car. Recalling what Tate had told him about the near fistfight between the two women at the funeral, his hand went to the gun on his hip, but he didn’t pull it out.
Floyd made it past Meredith’s car when Julia came out of the house. She was moving awkwardly, as if heavily medicated, and staggered. The front of her blouse was covered in blood and there was a knife—not a hunting knife, but a kitchen knife—in her hand.
“Julia!”
Floyd ran toward the woman and the knife fell to the interlocking brick walkway. She collapsed into his arms.
“What happened?” he gasped. “What the hell happened?”
Julia tilted her head back and her eyes lazily drifted to the open door. She reminded Floyd of someone at that moment but couldn’t quite say who.
“She came here,” Julia said in an almost inaudible whisper. “She… she attacked me… just like at the funeral. And I… I…”
Floyd saw a trail of blood drops, likely from the point of the knife leading back into the house.
No, please.
He dry swallowed, then guided Julia to his car and set her behind the wheel. Her breathing was labored, but he didn’t think she was injured.
“Stay here,” he instructed. Then Floyd ran into the house, praying that Mrs. Griffith was alive, but knowing, based on all the blood, that she probably wasn’t.
He didn’t have to look too hard. And, unfortunately, his prayers were not answered.
Floyd found Meredith Griffith in the kitchen. There was evidence of a struggle—a broken coffee mug, the paper towel rack torn from the wall—but it was clear that Meredith had gotten the worst of it.
She was slumped against the custom cabinets, with several holes in her chest. She inexplicably appeared to have less blood on her shirt than Julia, but all the wounds seemed to have stopped flowing.
Floyd reached down and touched the side of her neck with two fingers. This was done solely for procedural purposes—if the knife gashes weren’t conclusive enough, the open mouth and blank stare sealed it.
Like her husband, Meredith Griffith was killed with a knife.
As this realization set in, as Floyd grabbed his head and looked skyward, amazed and appalled that he had once again arrived at the scene of a murder committed with a knife, a thought formulated in his mind that he would never forget and forever regret.
At least I don’t have to tell Meredith that her daughter committed suicide.
Epilogue
They were there, of course. Chase knew they would be, but it still pained her to see Brian Jalston’s two remaining wives waiting for his release. Sue-Ellen and Portia Jalston.
Their presence pained her but their outfits—flowing white dresses—angered her.
And then she saw him: Brian Jalston.
He was no longer wearing the orange jumper, but he was sporting the same shit-eating grin. Bag in hand, he stepped outside the gates as a free man.
It was unbelievable.
Brian looked like a man finishing nine holes and greeting his wife and mistress in the parking lot.
If Chase had her way, he would never see another golf course for the rest of his—considerably shortened—life.
With her head down, and the hood of the sweatshirt that Tate Abernathy had given her pulled over her face, Chase moved swiftly through the parked cars. She waited until one of the women, Portia, handed a set of keys to Brian before she made her presence known.
“Excuse me,” Chase said in a deliberately quiet voice.
Sue-Ellen turned to look at her, but Chase didn’t raise her head yet. She walked by the trio and then repeated the two words, louder this time.
“Excuse me.”
This drew both Portia’s and Sue-Ellen’s attention, but Brian, basking in his newfound freedom, didn’t notice Chase.
This was a mistake.
Chase pulled the gun out of the front sweatshirt pocket, shoved Portia, who cried out, and went right up to Brian.
By the time he reacted, she’d already pressed the muzzle against the man’s spine.
“If either of you come near me,” Chase said, addressing Sue-Ellen and Portia, “I’ll blow a fucking hole in his back. If you’re lucky, he’ll just be paralyzed from the waist down.”
With this, Chase flicked back the hood, revealing herself.
She wasn’t sure whether the women recognized her or not, but and didn’t care. All she cared about is that they stepped back, that they were too frightened to interfere.
Brian knew who it was. He hadn’t seen her, but he recognized her voice. Chase could tell because he tensed a little.
“Open the door,” she ordered, shoving Brian towards the car. “Open the fucking door.”
Brian hesitated so she shoved the muzzle even harder against his back. He grunted and then pulled the car door wide. Chase reached around the much bigger man, flicked the unlock button, then got into the seat behind the driver.
Chase flicked the gun toward the women to make sure they didn’t get any ideas, then pointed it at Brian again.
“Get in.”
“You’re not—”
“Shut the fuck up and get in the car,” Chase nearly shouted. Her voice was so hoarse that she barely even recognized it as her own. “Now.”
Brian obeyed and the car dipped as he sat.
“Now close the door.”
Again, Brian did as he was told.
“Start the car and drive.”
As they pulled out of the parking lot, leaving Sue-Ellen and Portia’s terror-stricken faces behind, Chase reached into her pocket and pulled out a single white tablet.
The very last Cerebrum.
She looked at the pill, turning the small disc in her palm.
“Who is looking out for you, Brian? Anyone? Anyone at all?” In the rearview mirror, she saw the man’s strong jaw clench and Chase held up the pill. “It isn’t Riley, Melissa, Sue-Ellen, or Portia—it’s none of your wives.” She paused. “But you better hope it’s God—because I’ll never let you have her. You’ll never even see Georgina again.”
The irony of the fact that her biological child lived halfway across the world from her, and wanted a relationship, an uncontested one, wasn’t lost on Chase Adams. But that meant nothing here.
Right now, her focus was on Georgina.
I’m living in the fucking moment, Chase thought. I’m finally living in the moment… and I’m willing to kill for it.
Kill.
A promise.
Kill.
A way out.
“Kill.”
The word had come from the nowhere and everywhere, but now it came from her.
“Put this in your mouth,” Chase said, thrusting the pill forward. “And swallow it.”
END
Author’s Note
Welcome back, #thrillogans! It’s been a pressing few years, but I’m glad that you’ve decided to stick around to continue the wild ride that is Chase Adams—the (sometimes) great Chase Adams. The always determined, the smart-mouthed, the damaged, the… well, you get the picture. In some ways, Chase isn’t that different from the victims in this book. In fact, I deliberately tried to draw parallels between many of the characters, even those who, at first blush, seem very different. Grief, disease, control… these are the Part headings, but they’re more than that. They, like the characters, are often more similar than we might initially believe. A damaged mind, by innumerable means, can justify nearly any action. The world is real, but it is always interpreted by the gray matter between your ears. And that is up for—you guessed it—interpretation.
As much as this book is about Chase, it’s also about Floyd. It’s about his growth (or lack thereof) and about him being thrust into situations that he, quite frankly, detests. He stumbles, falls, gets up, falls again. And then there’s Tate. I enjoyed writing Tate, and I’m positive he wasn’t a flash in the pan. He’ll be back. If you were really paying attention, you may have noticed the mention of another Agent, one whose series is already in the works. I’m hoping that he shows up in Direct Evidence, the next book in the Chase Adams series. About that… this summer. It will be out this summer.
Stay safe, #thrillogans.
You keep reading, I’ll keep writing.
Pat
Montreal, 2021
Other Books by Patrick Logan
Detective Damien Drake
Butterfly Kisses
Cause of Death
Download Murder
Skeleton King
Human Traffic
Drug Lord: Part I
Drug Lord: Part II
Prized Fight
Almost Infamous
Straw Man
Dangerous Company
Happy Face
Chase Adams FBI Thrillers
Frozen Stiff
Shadow Suspect
Drawing Dead
Amber Alert
Georgina’s Story
Dirty Money
Devil’s Den
Painted Ladies
Adverse Effects
Already Dead
Direct Evidence
Tainted Blood
Dr. Beckett Campbell, Medical Examiner
Bitter End
Organ Donor
Injecting Faith
Surgical Precision
Do Not Resuscitate
Extracting Evil
Residence Evil (AKA Beckett’s First Kill)
Tommy Wilde Thrillers
One Wilde Night
Two Wilde Weeks
Three Wilde Months
Four Wilde Families
Penelope June Thrillers
Dying to Breathe
Dying to Speak
Veronica Shade Thrillers
The Color of Murder
The Scent of Murder
Want to support your favorite characters? DRAKE, CHASE, and BECKETT now have MERCH! Get everything from sweatshirts to mugs at: https://authorpatricklogan.live/merch
Don’t forget to drop by my Facebook group and say hi! https://www.facebook.com/groups/LogansInsatiableReaders/
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents in this book are either entirely imaginary or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or of places, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © Patrick Logan 2022
Interior design: © Patrick Logan 2022
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, cannot be reproduced, scanned, or disseminated in any print or electronic form.
Fourth Edition: May 2022
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[PL1]Need Tate to give Margaret his card as well (she calls him in part III).
[PL2]When they first talk to Henry, ask him if he hunts (the knives). He doesn’t, but Roger did,.
Patrick Logan, Already Dead
