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  Bitter End

  A Dr. Beckett Campbell, Medical Examiner Thriller

  Book 0

  Patrick Logan

  Bitter End

  Prologue

  PART I – Coconuts and G-strings

  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

  PART II – Blindfolds and Acid Reflux

  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

  Epilogue

  END

  Author’s Note

  Organ Donor

  Prologue

  PART I – The Grand Opening

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Other Books by Patrick Logan

  Bitter End

  Prologue

  With a groan, Dr. Beckett Campbell opened his eyes. His head was pounding, his eyelids felt gummy, and his balls… well, his balls were chaffed.

  “What the fuck happened last night?” he asked the dimly lit room that reeked of alcohol and sweat.

  With considerable effort, Beckett managed to roll onto his side, wiping the half-caked puddle of drool from his cheek as he did.

  Blinking rapidly helped clear the gunk that glued his eyelashes together, but he was still struggling to catch his bearings. The inside of his mouth tasted like the asshole of a porcupine and he could barely swallow without retching. Even breathing in the sour smell of rum that seemed to be exuding from his very pores threatened to curdle his stomach. There was something else in the air, as well: something foul, something bitter.

  Beckett forced himself to a seated position and then immediately froze.

  What the fuck?

  To his surprise, there was a woman lying on the bed beside him. She was completely nude and despite his epic hangover, Beckett couldn’t help but give her a once over. Her ample breasts were pushed into the mattress as was her face, the latter covered in dark brown hair that swirled about the pillow. But it was her ass that held his attention the longest. It was tanned and firm, big but not overly so.

  Just the way he liked it: hard enough to bounce quarters off, but not so muscled that it could crack walnuts.

  Despite feeling like a dumpster full of diapers, Beckett felt a smile creep onto his face.

  Well, that explains the chaffing on my balls, he thought with a chuckle.

  Beckett was about to reach over and shake the woman awake, when for the second time in as many minutes, he stopped cold.

  There was another woman lying beside the first. And, like tanned ass, she too was completely nude. She had blond hair instead of brown, but her ass was just as fabulous.

  Beckett shook his head in admiration.

  “You sly dog, you,” he said to himself. Unlike his two female companions, Beckett wasn’t naked; he sported a pair of bright red boxer briefs and nothing else.

  After observing the women for a few moments longer, and feeling a stirring inside said boxers, Beckett reached out and laid a gentle hand on the blond woman’s shoulder.

  “Wake up,” he said quietly, wondering if, despite his hangover, he might be able to perform again. Shit, he had to perform again; it was a crying shame that he recalled nothing of the night prior.

  I’ll give it the good ol’ college try. Ma would be so proud.

  “Wake up,” Beckett repeated, this time shaking the woman a little more vigorously.

  When she still failed to groan, let alone move, the smile slid off his face. Brow furrowed now, Beckett was about to reach for the other girl, the blond, when there was a knock at his bedroom door.

  Beckett paused, confusion washing over him.

  Is this my room? He wondered. All the rooms in the villa look the same. Correction, all the rooms in all the villas look the same.

  The voice that followed the knocking did nothing to clear up the confusion. If anything, it only added to it.

  “Policia! Open up! Policia!”

  Beckett’s eyes bulged.

  What the fuck? The police? Here?

  “You gotta wake up,” Beckett urged, shaking the blond woman with both hands now. His clouded mind conjured scenarios in which the two beautiful women on his bed had mobbed up boyfriends or had been promised to a Caribbean prince or something equally as unfortunate for him. “C’mon, wake up.” His eyes darted to the window behind him that was half open. “You gotta get up and get outta here.”

  The only response was the splintering door as it exploded inward. Beckett immediately hopped to his feet, momentarily relieved that the three men who burst into his room appeared to be actual police officers and not overprotective boyfriends playing a role. Or strippers. Male strippers. It wouldn’t have been his first choice, but if the good doctor had one motto, it was: don’t knock it ‘til you try it.

  Snap out of it, Beckett, he scolded himself.

  His relief was short-lived, however, when he noticed the barrels of their automatic weapons aimed directly at his tattooed chest.

  Beckett’s hands shot into the air and he said the first thing that came to mind, no matter how idiotic it sounded.

  “I’m a doctor! Holy shit! Don’t shoot, I’m a doctor!”

  His credentials did nothing to soften the police officers’ hard expressions, nor did it convince them to lower their guns — not that he really expected it to.

  “Against the wall,” one of the officers ordered in a thick accent.

  Beckett did as he was instructed, moving away from the bed and backing up. A cool breeze ushered in through the window, finally offering him some solace from the stale bedroom air.

  But while this served to clear his nostrils, his mind remained foggy.

  What in the holy fuck is going on here?

  Judging by his headache and the raw interior of his nose, Beckett figured he’d drunk a lot and snorted a little, but not remembering anything? Not remembering a night with the two beauties lying on his bed?

  It had been a long while since he’d been that smashed.

  And then there was that strange, bitter taste in his mouth…

  One of the officers made his way to the bed, his eyes flicking from one naked woman to the other. The man’s eyes lingered on their assess for just a second longer than a rudimentary glance, which, despite everything, caused Beckett to smirk. Then the officer bent down and put two fingers against the side of the brunette’s throat. He waited for several seconds—all of them did, including Beckett—and then withdrew his hand and shook his head.

  Beckett had no fucking idea what was going on, but he knew what that meant. That gesture was universal: no mas pulse.

  “No,” Beckett moaned softly, unable to control himself.

  The officer who had checked the woman’s pulse used the same two fingers to tease her dark hair away from her face.

  Beckett’s breath caught in his throat and he felt his heart fall into the pit of his stomach.

  The woman’s eyes were open, but her expression was completely blank. At the corners of her lips—beautiful, full lips, Beckett noted—was a thick, white paste.

  He watched in horror as the officer repeat
ed these actions with the blond girl.

  Her lips were also caked with paste, her eyes blank.

  No mas pulse.

  They were both dead.

  The two other officers who, up until this point, had been pointing their assault rifles at Beckett’s chest, raised their aim a little higher.

  And just when Beckett thought things couldn’t get any stranger, any more terrifying, another man stepped into the room.

  Only this man was clearly not a police officer.

  But he was familiar to Beckett.

  “Looks like you just couldn’t stay out of trouble, could you, my good doctor?” the man said with a grin.

  PART I – Coconuts and G-strings

  Thirty-Six Hours Ago

  Chapter 1

  “A mushroom walks into a bar and takes a seat. As the bartender approaches, the mushroom looks at the man sitting across from him and says, I’ll have whatever he’s having. The bartender looks down the bar, then turns his eyes back to the mushroom. I’m sorry, but we don’t serve your kind here. The mushroom huffs. Why not, I’m a fungi.”

  When there was no response, Beckett cleared his throat.

  “What? Fungi,” he repeated. “Get it? Fungi? Fun-guy?”

  “Oh,” the bartender replied with half a grin.

  “Oh—all I get is an Oh. Okay, Rodney Dangerfield, just hook me up with whatever she’s having,” Beckett said, casting a glance at the beautiful brunette wearing what might’ve been the world’s smallest bikini. Seriously, dental floss was to slack lines as this bikini was to coverage area.

  The woman, sensing his stare, raised her eyes, a smirk on her pretty face.

  Maybe she’ll like my jokes, he thought. But then his friend Drake’s words echoed in his head.

  No one likes your jokes, Beckett. They’re like a cross between dad jokes and a Dr. Seuss train wreck.

  Beckett resisted the urge to give the woman a wink and offered a subtle nod instead.

  You’re an asshole, Drake.

  “You don’t want one of those,” the bartender whispered, leaning toward Beckett. “Trust me.”

  Beckett’s eyes shifted from the woman’s face to the coconut clutched in her manicured hand. A pink umbrella and an over-sized lime green straw poked out of the hacked-off top.

  “The drink or the girl? Ha, kidding; you’re probably right. Just some rum on the rocks, then.”

  The bartender smacked the bar with his palm, drawing Beckett’s attention away from the woman. The man was lean and muscular, and his skin was deeply tanned. His eyes were a curiously light shade of brown and when they landed on Beckett, they didn’t so much look at him as they did through him. This was mildly unsettling, and yet, at the same time, the bartender had the classic look of a young man who had traveled to the islands to escape something back home—an abusive father, maybe, or something less exciting, like overdue cell phone bills—and had simply never gone back.

  “This your first time here?” the man asked, as he turned to fetch Beckett his drink. He had a slight accent, one that he had clearly worked hard at trying to rid himself of, which made it difficult for Beckett to place. It sounded like a cross between New York and Boston, but with its own subtle twang.

  Eastern Canada, maybe, Beckett thought. Halifax, Fredericton, or maybe even somewhere in Newfoundland. They had fucked up accents in Newfoundland.

  “First time here, yep. In fact, this is the first vacation I’ve had in… shit, I don’t know how long. Twelve years, maybe,” Beckett said absently. Although he was conversing with the bartender—he knew the value of being on the man’s good side should the resort unexpectedly become busy—his mind was on the woman at the other end of the bar.

  We don’t serve your kind here… we service them.

  “That long, eh?” the bartender asked, sliding a glass of rum to Beckett.

  “That long,” Beckett confirmed, casting a glance down at himself.

  It appeared as if he wasn’t the only one practicing polite banter; with skin the color of unleavened dough, a paleness that not even the many tattoos that covered his chest and arms could mask, it was painfully obvious that many years passed since Beckett’s flesh had been kissed by the sun.

  The truth was, despite the warm sun and beautiful surroundings, Beckett didn’t want to be here; he wanted to be back in New York doing what he did best: acting as the Senior Medical Examiner for the NYPD.

  And tormenting young residents at NYU.

  But it hadn’t been up to him, not really. Not after what had happened to Craig Sloan.

  A break… take a vacation, Beckett. Get some sun and clear your head, the goons from Internal Affairs had “suggested”.

  Beckett took a large gulp of his rum, then raised his eyes. He was surprised to find that the woman with the coconut was still staring at him.

  Well, maybe vacations aren’t all bad, he thought, rising to his feet. And so long as I’m here, what’s the harm in having a little fun?

  ***

  “Seriously? You’re a doctor?”

  Beckett took another sip of his rum and ran a hand through his bleach blond hair before answering.

  “What, you don’t believe me? I don’t look like a doctor to you?”

  The brunette from the bar, who had since introduced herself as Chloe, leaned back and looked him up and down.

  “Honestly?”

  Beckett shrugged.

  “Sure.”

  “Then, no. You look more like a rock star than a doctor.”

  Beckett allowed himself a small smile.

  Rockstar, huh? Could be worse…

  “I’m okay with that. Besides, the only doctors who want to look like doctors are assholes, anyway,” he said with a smirk. “But enough about me. What about you? What do you do that affords you the freedom to come to a place like this?”

  Chloe’s perfect lips wrapped around a green straw that extended out of the coconut.

  “I’m a model,” she replied after swallowing, and Beckett cringed. It wasn’t that he doubted the woman—she was indeed attractive enough to be a model—but her campy reply reminded him of LA girls who all wanted to be actresses, but more often than not ended up as strippers or in porn.

  And if he had to bet, Beckett would have put his money on the latter.

  “Lots of modeling opportunities around here?” he asked, eyebrow raised.

  It was a thinly-veiled joke; after all, they were on a semi-private island in the Caribbean, and Barracuda Point was as exclusive as it was expensive. In fact, if it weren’t for his friend who managed the joint, and that it was the off-season, there was no way that even Beckett would have been able to afford a week stay.

  “No, not really,” Chloe replied, clearly not catching the joke. “I came down here with my manager on his boat—his yacht. Needed to stopover for a few days, refuel or something like that. Anyways, he said he would have some work for me in a week or so.” She shrugged and held up the coconut. “And in the meantime, I get free drinks and some beautiful weather, you know? So, I’m not complaining.”

  “Amen to that,” Beckett said, raising his own glass. “And is it just you here? You and your—” he resisted using the word pimp, “—manager? Or did you bring friends?”

  Something crossed over Chloe’s face then, something that could have been jealousy or something else entirely.

  “Yeah, Donnie brought some friends—more models.”

  Although this news seemed to upset Chloe, it did quite the opposite for Beckett.

  He didn’t want to be here, but when the options were prison or a vacation at a luxury resort, what choice did he have?

  After all, even though he was never one to shy away from new experiences, a skinny white boy like him, even with his tattoos, wouldn’t fare well in prison. Even his rudimentary knowledge of jiu-jitsu would only get him so far when his cellmates were dead set on making him the cream in their Oreo.

  But now… sharing the resort with Chloe and her friends? It could be
worse.

  Much worse.

  “And your boss—you say he’s got a boat? What kind of—”

  A hand came down on Beckett’s shoulder and he immediately grabbed the wrist—a man’s wrist—and pulled forward while at the same time, standing and twisting. The man who had accosted him was slight, and he slammed awkwardly against the table.

  Chloe yelped as Beckett continued to twist the man’s arm. But when he recognized the goatee, the narrow nose and wide-set eyes, he let go and took a step back.

  “Screech?” Beckett said, making a face. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  Stephen “Screech” Thompson rose to his feet and rubbed his wrist.

  “What the hell, man? A little jumpy, are we?”

  Beckett chuckled to himself. His mind had been going over worst-case prison scenarios when Screech had touched him.

  That was never a good time to say hello with a back slap.

  “I’m sorry—had my mind in the clouds. What the hell are you doing here? Did Drake send you to check up on me? What a sweetheart, that guy.”

  Screech opened his mouth to answer when he noticed Chloe staring at them, a confused look on her face.

  “I’ll tell you later,” Screech said with a goofy grin. “Why don’t you introduce me to your friend first?”

  Chapter 2

  “It was nice to meet both of you,” Chloe said, rising to her feet. She wobbled briefly, and Beckett placed a hand on the small of her back for support. “But I need to get going. Donnie said he wanted to take some more photos before sunset. I’ll be back here around seven-thirty… either that or on the boat. You should join me.”

  “You need an escort?” Beckett offered.

  Chloe shook her head.

  “I’ll be fine,” she replied. They were so close now that Beckett could smell her breath, which was strangely bitter.

  “You sure?”

  Chloe nodded and Beckett pulled his hand away, ready to steady her again should his support be needed. But, true to her word, the woman straightened and then started to walk away from them, her gait, while not completely adroit, more stable now.

  Both Screech and Beckett watched her go with something akin to reverence. Even when Chloe had disappeared behind one of the villas, the two men continued to stare off into space.