James Beamer Box Set Read online

  The James Beamer Thrillers: Books 1-3

  The James Beamer Thrillers Boxset Book 1

  Paul Seiple

  Dangerhouse Media

  Contents

  Chasing Fireflies

  Quote

  Introduction

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  About The Morning Star Trilogy

  Babylon Girl

  Marcus Aurelius Quote

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Facing Hell

  Rochefoucauld Quote

  1. James Beamer

  2. The Plague Vendor

  3. Norman Wallace

  4. James Beamer

  5. James Beamer

  6. Mack Root

  7. Rebecca Callahan

  8. Michelle Callahan

  9. Norman Wallace

  10. James Beamer

  11. The Plague Vendor

  12. James Beamer

  13. Michelle Callahan

  14. James Beamer

  15. Norman Wallace

  16. The Plague Vendor

  17. James Beamer

  18. The Plague Vendor

  19. Jessie Walker

  20. Michelle Callahan

  21. The Plague Vendor

  22. James Beamer

  23. Norman Wallace

  24. Michelle Callahan

  25. The Plague Vendor

  26. The Spotter

  27. James Beamer

  28. Michelle Callahan

  29. Mack Root

  30. Norman Wallace

  31. James Beamer

  32. Norman Wallace

  33. Jill Tanner

  34. James Beamer

  35. Barbara Hoffman

  36. James Beamer

  37. James Beamer

  38. James Beamer

  Epilogue

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  About the Morning Star Trilogy

  Also by Paul Seiple

  About Paul Seiple

  "Fear is pain arising from the anticipation of evil."

  -Aristotle

  Introduction

  Green rooms make me nervous. Their purpose is to give someone a little time to relax before being interviewed. It's supposed to create a calming atmosphere, but for me, it's the opposite — a few moments to be alone with your thoughts, staring into the abyss in which your secrets are buried. The producer will trick you with misleading comforts such as — it's just a simple interview. Just a few questions to get to know you — your favorite song, your favorite television show, favorite food?

  Maybe. Highly unlikely. People don't care about the mundane. They want the dirt. Dirt sells. Secrets buried for years carry a truckload of dirt.

  This must be what it's like for criminals as they wait to be interrogated. To have their transgressions dissected in front of a captive audience. Knowing curious eyes are watching, waiting for a sign of deceit. Eyes trained to dig inside the soul for mysteries that wish to remain hidden. At least with criminals, they are prepared for the questions that will be asked. They've had time to formulate answers to proclaim their innocence. Live television is tightrope walking without a net. Sure, you have an interview itinerary, but you never know when the interviewer may jump from the script and pry into the locked doors of the mind in hopes of going viral and becoming the next big name in evening news. Dealing with murderers is easy. No surprises. You know their intent is harm. Killers show you the knife just before they place it against your jugular. Journalists hide knives behind their backs; befriend you with a false sense of caring, all the while waiting for the opportune moment to stab you in your back. It's all in the name of ratings. A murdered reputation is just a casualty in the ongoing war to grab the public's attention. There's no medals, no honor, no tribute — just fallout for everyone in the victim's life.

  I track the most violent criminals and yet these interviews are life hazards. I'm here today to tell the world of how I caught Johnny Ragsdale, the Roadside Romeo Killer. For three years, Ragsdale terrorized rest stops along the East Coast. The audience will want to hear the gruesome details of death. The fear, it's what keeps them coming back. Once the killer is off the streets, the story dies, unless you go into details about how sadistic humans can be. And though it's wrong, I feed that beast because it keeps the dogs off of my trail.

  I decided long ago that I wanted to put bad guys away. But I swear I'd rather take my chances sharing a Coke with George Trepal than have to answer some of the questions asked of me. How was your childhood? What happened in your life to make you want to catch serial killers? How can you look evil in the eye and not blink? Yes, it was worded to me that way. Crime show sensationalism. I'm a private person, but my job makes privacy the anxious dog looking for any escape from its cage. General curiosity dictates that people want to know why I choose to chase horrors that most would run for their lives from. It's a fascination to step inside the shoes of someone who runs down death. The comfort comes in knowing that you can kick the shoes off, bare feet hitting pavement, just before the boogeyman snatches you.

  I became a cop nearly thirty years ago. I suppose my future was written at an early age. Cop life is in my blood. My father was police chief of Winston Salem, North Carolina for twenty years bef
ore he confronted an assailant he couldn't stop — lung cancer. They say smoking a pack a day takes close to four hours of your life away every day. I don't really care about the math. I just know my father was taken too soon. When I joined the force, I heard the whisperings of preferential treatment. I made detective in the Violent Crimes Unit three weeks before my twenty-third birthday. Other cops, who were on the force while I was at home watching Scooby Doo, were overlooked when Hamilton retired. There was dissension in the ranks. I didn't care. I knew that I got the promotion because of my desire to catch bad guys and not the fact that the Twelfth Precinct took the nickname "Iron Fist" after my father. There wasn't a story about James Callahan that didn't end with, "He was fair, but that iron fist was one helluva right."

  I worked my first serial murder shortly after joining the VCU. A psychopath who called himself Murmur. That was decades ago, and it's still the elephant in the room every time I sit down to do an interview. The case is buried deep enough that it's nearly impossible to have the truth traced backed to me. But I'm not naïve; I know there is that one treasure hunter willing to risk everything to uncover the story that will make him rich. I always have to be guarded. I can't let the slightest glimmer of gold shine through. There is still that sickness in my stomach when an interviewer asks about the case that sticks with me the most. I lie. I have to. The truth is something that murdered my future. Killed my life as homicide cop Michael Callahan. I hate it. I saw evil in its most intimate form. I stared it in the face and didn't blink, no matter how watery my eyes became. I'm helpless to the fact that Murmur kills me a little more every morning that I wake up. Not a day goes by that I don't think about how my future would be different if fate hadn't wed me to Murmur. It's impossible to let someone in. To trust in someone enough to stop putting up the façade and just be myself. To stop the lies.

  Even though I know more pain will come. More loneliness will follow. I wake up every morning. I have to. Evil's not bringing a gift to my pity party.

  I'm James Beamer. And I catch serial killers.

  Prologue

  He sat, staring at the battle-scarred typewriter. Many words, too many to count, had come from the faded keys. Dents in the rounded edges of the typewriter suggested that the dead horse was beaten to death, but the typewriter refused to accept its fate. Opening lines bounced through his mind like balled-up paper hitting the rim of a trashcan. The perfect introduction evaded him. A memorable first impression meant success. If he was too vague, then his words might be tossed aside as a mere prank. A plea for attention. If he said too much, the air of mystery would be too thin. He wanted it thick. Like a dense fog encompassing the world in vulnerability. He wanted Michael Callahan to choke on the mystique, to suffocate from anxiety while anticipating his next move.

  The shadow of a low flame, resonating from a candle, danced across the tip of the yellowing paper taunting him for the writer's block. He brushed a small spider away from the typewriter as it peeked from underneath the T key. Antique was too kind of an adjective to describe the typewriter. A more fitting description would have been junk. The typewriter held no sentimental value. It wasn't a keepsake from his father. It wasn't even his best option. A blank notebook and pen lay on the picnic table opposite of him. He used the typewriter because it was part of the vision.

  A cold crept between the gap in the concrete floor and the aluminum door. Wind beat against the metal walls, begging to be let in. He wrapped a scarf tighter around his neck. A storage locker was not the place he imagined starting his masterpiece, but it was perfect. A true artist needed to suffer for his art. No one would think to find him in here with winter approaching. Late fall nights in North Carolina brought chilly temperatures. Concrete and metal held the cold in a white-knuckle grasp. The storage locker was an icebox. He couldn't get caught. He had a purpose. The fate of the world depended on it. Sacrificing his body to hypothermia was just a scar from the coming war.

  The locker was bare except for the picnic table that he picked up from a heap of trash in front of the storage facility. One man's trash is another man's treasure. The only light came from the flame of the citronella candle he stole from someone's patio. He hated the smell of citronella, but after a while he got used to it. Handwritten notes quoting Revelations were taped to the walls with duct tape, making the room look like a playbook for the apocalypse. Each note inspired him, reminded him of how important he was to this dying world. He held a role in the future of mankind. His father made sure he never took that responsibility lightly. On the center of the wall, directly in front of him, hung a photo of four shadows riding horses surrounded by fire and destruction.

  He smiled. His lip curled upwards in the same manner of a Cheshire cat. His long fingers and manicured nails, free from the blood that was about to spill, hit the typewriter keys. Several more spiders fled from underneath. The clicking created a mental spark. He knew what to write.

  I'm going t… With his fingers suspended over the next keys, he laughed. The O key stuck. Instead of trying to fix the problem, he tore the paper from the typewriter, balled it up, and tossed it into the stack that had accumulated at his feet. He started typing again.

  I'm g ing t tell y u a st ry. A st ry where the bad guy wins and the g d guy dies.

  He stopped to admire his words. The silhouette from the candle's flame no longer mocked him. It hung to the edge of the paper waiting, in anticipation, for the next sentence. Cryptic. His words left the lasting impression he had hoped for. He cracked his knuckles and kept typing.

  S n it will begin. Y u'll kn w the first. I'm sure y u've seen her in y ur dreams t . Y u've pr bably seen them all by n w. P r thing! Y u can't save her, Michael. I already have her. Y u can't save any f them. I already have them all.

  He took a deep breath. Inhaling the citronella made him cough. He cracked his knuckles again and typed.

  F r I am the arrival f the M rning Star. In the end, it is his light that will shine brightest.

  He pulled the paper from the typewriter, sending dust particles through the air like fine snowflakes. The shadow from the flame faded in a blink as though it was running from the monster being born. He held the paper next to the candle and read it again.

  I'm going to tell you a story. A story where the bad guy wins and the good guy dies. Soon it will begin. You'll know the first. I'm sure you've seen her in your dreams. You've probably seen them all by now. Poor thing! You can't save her, Michael. I already have her. You can't save any of them. I already have them all.

  For I am the arrival of the Morning Star. In the end, it is his light that will shine brightest.

  Satisfied with his introduction to the world, he placed the letter in an envelope and dropped it next to a black and white photo of a girl standing on a street corner, next to a man in a wheelchair. He traced her outline and said, "Good morning, Sunshine."

  One

  My eyes drew heavy as I lay on the couch. Springs pushed through the floral fabric, poking and prodding me like an annual check-up. The couch had to be at least fifteen-years-old. That's about the time I started meeting with Father Abraham. My mother thought it was a good idea after she caught me smoking with my best friend John behind the house. I'd veered off the righteous path. The good Father was the detour to get me back on track. The ugliness of the pastel flowers never could make me forget how uncomfortable I was on the couch. Not a physical discomfort, a mental anguish. It wasn't the idea of religion that made me uneasy. Being expected to confess my every impure thought to Father Abraham felt like wearing shirt too tight in the collar. The springs nudged my spine, egging me on, as if to tell me I wasn't divulging enough information. I closed my eyes in a vain attempt to relax. There wasn't a chance I'd fall asleep. Sleep left me like a cheating spouse a long time ago.

  The room smelled of vanilla. I knew it was a ploy to make people feel more relaxed as they divulged their sins. But it only reminded me that I hadn't had lunch yet. And a vanilla shake sounded like the prefect fix for everything that
ailed me.