Read Chasing Evil (Circle of Evil) for Free Online

chicken wings on it. A white Styrofoam takeout container next to the plate was empty, save grease stains and crumbs. Wide slatted blinds covered the double front windows in the room. An ancient box fan sat on one windowsill, drawing in the cooler evening air. Its motor labored like the grinding gears on Cam’s first Honda.
    A flat screen television hung on the wall of the darkened room next door, looking out of place among the dated furnishings. The shelves below it were stacked with electronics. The TV was on and tuned to ESPN. One analyst droned on to another about an upcoming baseball game.
    “Someone was in a hurry,” murmured Maxwell from behind him.
    “His hurry probably started as soon we headed up the lane.” Cam sidled along the wall, skirting the heavy furniture lining it. Mentally sketching the house’s dimensions, he figured the darkened adjoining room led to the front door and to a stairway to the upstairs. The only question was which the man had used.
    Or whether he was in the shadowy next room, waiting for them. Perhaps with another weapon.
    He stopped to listen. There was nothing to hear over the fan. Something about the stillness was disquieting.
    Half turning his head, he gestured to Beckett and the sheriff backtracked across the dining room to flank the other side of the double sized entry into the living room. “Gary Price!” he called out, his hand on his weapon. “Boone County Sheriff. Show yourself.”
    Cam’s hand crossed to his shoulder harness, his fingers hovering. His skin prickled the way it had when he’d been deep undercover, and a scene was about to go wrong. The image on the television switched to the opening pitch. He waited, barely breathing. Thirty seconds. Sixty.
    A door banged open. The two men moved as one, swinging into the room, weapons in their hands. A man stood framed in a doorway leading to the upstairs.
    “Get your hands up where we can see them. Up! Up!” Cam shouted.
    “Jesus Christ. What…” The man’s hands raised slowly as Beckett went to frisk him professionally.
    “He’s clean.”
    Cam holstered his weapon as the other man yelled, “What the fuck are you doing in my house? You got a warrant? Huh? You damn well better have a warrant!”
    “Are you Gary Walter Price?” Beckett asked, re-holstering his weapon.
    The man lowered his hands. “Who the hell wants to know?”
    “Boone County Sheriff Beckett Maxwell. This is DCI agent Prescott. Answer the question.”
    Sending a look in Cam’s direction the man smirked. “DCI. What’s that stand for? Dicks of Iowa?”
    “Funny guy,” Beckett observed. “We haul in all the jokesters and give them all the time they need to work on their stand-up routine. Something about a cell seems to dampen the sense of humor, though.”
    “Yeah, yeah, ok. I’m Gary Price. Now tell me what the hell you’re doing in my house.”
    Cam eyed him. Price didn’t look like the type who could take on three inebriated bar patrons and emerge without a scratch. He was five ten, one–eighty, with longish dark hair, and sporting a day’s growth of beard. His sleeveless undershirt bore evidence of the meal they’d interrupted. His jeans and tennis shoes had seen better days. Cam’s gaze lingered on the prison tats on the man’s throat and knuckles. He’d done hard time. Which meant he was a whole lot more threatening than he appeared.
    “Why didn’t you answer when you heard us calling?”
    “Didn’t hear you. I went upstairs to put my damn pants on.” The man’s voice was a snarl. “I was sitting at the table trying to catch a breeze when I heard the dog raising hell. There’s no law saying a man’s got to answer the door in his boxers, is there?” He stopped, his gaze going between Beckett and Cam. “This about the fight last night? ’Cuz a deputy already took my statement. Got a bar full of witnesses who’ll tell you I didn’t throw the first punch.”
    “I’ve read the statements.” Beckett’s voice was