James Patterson - Murder Beyond the Grave

Two true-crime cases from the hit TV series Murder is Forever

MURDER BEYOND THE GRAVE. Stephen Small has it all a Ferrari, fancy house, loving wife and three sons. But the only thing he needs right now is enough air to breathe. Kidnapped, buried in a box, and held for ransom, Stephen has forty-eight hours of oxygen. The clock is ticking

MURDER IN PARADISE. High in the Sierra Nevada mountains, developers Jim and Bonnie Hood excitedly tour Camp Nelson Lodge. They intend to buy and modernise this beautiful rustic property, but the locals dont like rich outsiders changing their way of life. After a grisly shooting, everybody will discover just how you can make a killing in real estate

JAMES PATTERSON is one of the best-known and biggest-selling writers of all time. His books have sold in excess of 365 million copies worldwide. He is the author of some of the most popular series of the past two decades the Alex Cross, Womens Murder Club, Detective Michael Bennett and Private novels and he has written many other number one bestsellers including romance novels and stand-alone thrillers.

James is passionate about encouraging children to read. Inspired by his own son who was a reluctant reader, he also writes a range of books for young readers including the Middle School, I Funny, Treasure Hunters, House of Robots, Confessions and Maximum Ride series. James has donated millions in grants to independent bookshops and he has been the most borrowed author in UK libraries for the past ten years in a row. He lives in Florida with his wife and son.

Also by James Patterson

MURDER IS FOREVER TRUE CRIME

Murder, Interrupted (with Alex Abramovich and Christopher Charles)
Home Sweet Murder (with Andrew Bourelle and Scott Slaven)

A list of more titles by James Patterson can be found at the back of this book

Dear Reader,

Above all else Im a storyteller. I craft stories for insatiable readers. And though my books may seem over-the-top to some, I find that I am most often inspired by real life. After all, truth is stranger than fiction.

The crimes in this book are 100% real. Certain elements of the stories, some scenes and dialogue, locations, names, and characters have been fictionalized, but these stories are about real people committing real crimes, with real, horrifying consequences.

And as terrifying and visceral as it is to read about these crimes gone wrong, theres something to remember: the bad guy always gets caught.

If you cant get enough of these true crimes, please watch the pulse-racing new television series Murder Is Forever, where youll see these shocking crimes come to life.

I hope youre as haunted by these accounts as I am. Theyll remind you that though humans have the capacity for incredible kindness, we also have the capacity for unspeakable violence and depravity.

THE MAN GASPS for air and claws at the plywood siding of his prison. Hes inside a coffin that is six feet long and three feet wide.

Rivulets of sweat pour from his brow. His shirt is soaked. His heart is thumping like hes just run up a flight of stairs. His skull is throbbing with a nauseating headache.

He has been buried alive.

At gunpoint.

A stranger, disguised with a ski mask and motorcycle helmet, had kidnapped him, had clipped handcuffs around his wrists, and later, when he forced him into the box, he cut the chain between the cuffs but left the circles of metal clasped tightly to his wrists.

The kidnapper left three items in the coffin: a gallon jug of cloudy water, a pile of candy bars, and a car battery attached to a caged lightbulb. He has gulped half the water already but hasnt touched the candy bars. He isnt sure how long hes been in here. The lightbulb is starting to dim.

He looks up at a small piece of PVC pipe sticking through the plywood, and he puts his mouth over the tube, trying to draw big gulps of fresh air. But though hes in good shape, his lungs strain. No matter how much air he pulls in, his chest is still heaving, still gasping for more.

He knows whats happening. Hes running out of oxygen. The pipe isnt doing enough to circulate fresh air into the chamber.

He pushes up against the plywood and pounds on the wood with his fists.

Help! he screams.

But his vocal cords are raw from yelling so much. And he can barely catch his breath as it is.

He tries to calm his panicked breathing, taking long, slow breaths. His head is pounding.

Keep it together, he tells himself. Calm down!

He remembered what the masked man said when he put him in here, that this is all about money.

Everythings going to be fine. Ive worked out all the details. Youre not going to die.

But he is beginning to think his kidnapper is never coming back.

The air smells of sour sweat, plywood, and caulk. And hidden behind those odors, barely noticeable, is the smell of freshly dug soilthe smell of his grave.

He presses his trembling hands against the plywood again. This time, when he pushes upward, straining with all his strength, he feels some give in the earth. He feels a moment of hope. But when he releases the pressure, the board sags inward, like a mineshaft nearing its inevitable collapse.

The light flickers. He takes deep breaths. Long inhalations. Slow exhalations. He tries to calm his nerves.

He closes his eyes and, as he waits for the light to die and the darkness to envelop him, he thinks of the faces of his children and the woman he loves. He hopes they know how much he loves them.

January 1987
Eight months earlier

DANNY EDWARDS WALKS down a sidewalk in Chicago, his head down, his fists buried in his coat. Flakes of snow drift in the air. Dannys breath comes out in bursts of visible vapor. Cars drive by, slicing through gray slush.

Danny is thirty years old, well dressed, and handsome. Under ordinary circumstances, he would seem like a friendly guy, but today he has a determined look on his face. Hes anxious.

He pushes through the door into a steak house and is greeted by a rush of warm air, a cloud of cigarette smoke, and a barrel-chested host who lights up when he sees him.

Yo, Danny, the man says, his Chicago accent thick. Long time no see, eh?

When the man opens his arms to give Danny a hug, Danny awkwardly thrusts a hand out for a shake instead.

Howve you been? Danny says, feigning a smile.

Oh, you know, says his longtime associate, who, unfazed by the rebuffed embrace, claps Danny on the shoulder. Same ol, same ol.

Danny opens his mouth for more small talk, but the host cuts him off with a nod toward the kitchen.

Hes waiting for you in the back. Told me to send you in straightaway.

Danny makes his way toward the rear of the restaurant, walking through tendrils of cigarette smoke. The room is full of low-hanging lamps and checkerboard tablecloths. He enters a redbrick hallway and walks past the kitchen, where white-clad cooks shout over a flaming grill, and then past the dish room, where a kid with pimples on his face and a cigarette between his lips is blasting dirty plates with a high-powered spray nozzle.