David Beers

Like thought provoking thrillers? You're in the right place.

On Police Violence

I need you to read what I'm about to write with cold dispassion. Use the logical eye in your mind, not the heart's. I know that's going to be hard, but try to hear me out.

The major question I want to ask all those decrying the two newest cop killing's is:

What did you expect?

It's not rhetorical. I'd sincerely like someone to think about it and answer me.

Let me ask a hypothetical:

What would happen, say, if:

1) I put out job posting asking for people who want to help their communities, fight crime, and generally wield a large amount of power. While the first two of those three may be positive things, the last will certainly bring in a lot of candidates which may not have the best intentions.

2) Train the people I hire that the citizens they are to protect must obey them at all times. If citizen does not obey them, escalate violence until either A) citizen obeys, B) citizen is incapacitated, C) citizen is dead.

3) I then create a massive amount of laws to which these new hires have no choice but to follow and enforce.

4) Many of the laws I create are based on personal whim and violate individual sovereignty. (drug laws)

In short, what if I consolidated the right to use force into a group of people, gave them a different color suit and a shiny metal badge? Well, given that there entire job consists of the right to use violence, I imagine violence is going to occur--yet no one talks about this. The entire system is set up for one group of people to use violence on another but it's completely lost in the discussion. Perhaps instead of gun control for regular citizens, we should be talking about gun control for cops.

On Orlando

I cannot stand when shootings happen. 

As selfish as this is, I can't stand it because of what the living still do. Don't misunderstand me, I feel for the people killed or hurt. I'm a pacifist and Buddhist; all life is sacred in my eyes.

People die. It's what we're literally born to do. When life is cut short, and in a horrendous fashion no less, much intenser heartbreak and pain accompany it.

The living go on, though, and do we ever make fools of ourselves.

Every single time I open up Facebook there's someone new commenting on either A) their love and support of the LGBT community, B) their anger at Islam, C) their support/opposition to gun control, D) anger at white, straight males and the overall patriarchy we supposedly dominate, and  E) anger at others for being angry at any of these things.

We're on Facebook to broadcast ourselves. It allows us to play the role of actor and twenty-four entertainer that we never achieved in our professions. It allows us to tell what we're feeling, whenever we want. So, that's what we do. We take a tragedy and then we decide to make it ours. We HAVE to comment. We HAVE to give our opinions on how it affects OUR lives.

This is bad enough in itself. An outlet to selfishness never before seen in the human race.

What is worse, though, is that none of these thoughts are original. All five of those things are fed to us through a Specialized Media IV Tube. These thoughts, these PLEAS to be noticed, aren't even ours--they're someone else's that has dripped, dripped, dripped into our veins and consciousness over days and weeks, until we think we actually believe them.

I wrote down 'it's sickening' and then deleted it. It doesn't sicken me, but it does make me angry.

Turn the television off. Turn off the radio. Read something that isn't a newspaper. Stop broadcasting yourself until you have something that is yours. It need not be original; indeed, someone else has most likely thought it before. But at least it will be yours.

On Terror

I'm living my life in near constant terror right now. I'm not at a point where I can say publicly why, but it's the largest decision I've ever made, and I'm losing a lot of security with it.

Everyone craves security. It is, perhaps, the predominant biological impulse in us: safety/survival. Most of our decisions are made with that single idea in mind. This is why people stay in jobs they hate. I've never met so many miserable people as those in the workplace, going in day after day, for years and hating their company.

I think about the word legacy a lot, or at least I have been in the past couple of months. I don't say legacy in a grandiose, arrogant way--but simply, what will I be remembered for?

Climbing the corporate ladder? Powerpoint decks? Leadership in growing a corporation? 

In business, you're constantly trying to add value, which simply means making sure the word you do is beneficial to the company. During this existential crisis, I'm asking myself where I add the most value to mankind? Is it behind a computer, looking at spreadsheets, and presenting ideas to upper-level management? 

I can't say that it's a complete loss. It allows people to have jobs and customers to be happier. But, what if I was a mechanic and decided to go bake cakes instead? Sure, I'd still be producing something the world wants, but where would my value add be greatest? Where could I do the greatest good for the most people? Under the hood of a car, not wearing an apron. 

In the end, we're all dead. So what am I going to leave behind? A full bank account and a bunch of regret? 

An Afterword

I've started putting afterwords and the end of my books. In the past, I did this at the end of a series, but--I write some long frickin' series, and there's only so much an afterword can say. Thus, I've started putting a page or two at the end of my books describing my thoughts on characters, my writing process, and whatever the hell else comes to my mind. I figured I'd post the last one I did (though I won't anymore--it's a special treat for people that buy the books :) ). 

From Nemesis: Book Five (you can start the series for free here: Amazon):

This has been a tough series to write, if I’m being truthful. No series is easy, but this one … well, fans who’ve followed me for a while know that I write with a tremendous amount of self-doubt, and part of me feels that this story might have been beyond my grasp as an author. You always have this grand idea in your head, and never quite feel like you were able to put it down perfectly. So there’s a bit of insight into my work, I suppose.

A lot of readers write me and tell me they don’t know who to root for, which means I’m succeeding at least in some aspects.

I’m rooting for two characters—Morena and Wren. Morena because what choice does she have? Wren because, at least in some part, is my own father.

Nearing thirty years old, I have very little relationship with him due to alcoholism. I know him, as in, what he looks like and acts like—but that is only to say I know what alcohol has done to a man who was once strong and smart. 

I don’t think I’ll ever know my dad, not truly.

Redemption doesn’t always happen in life, but it can in my mind, and so I root for Wren—because there’s something good in all of us, even if it’s buried deep.

I’ve dedicated these books to my father, though he’ll never read them. I guess in some way, this series is a letter to him, saying how I wish things could be between us—without the alien about to kill us all.

So, one more book left. Let’s find out who wins, shall we?

All the best,

David - 3/28/2016

Two Months Without an Update...

What have I been up to?

A lot, I suppose, and that keeps me from this little corner of my life. 

Books I've been reading? First, Don Winslow. If you're not reading him, you're missing out on a monster. I just reread Power of the Dog (the sequel, The Cartel, came out last month) and the guy is just amazing. If you saw Savages, he wrote the book the movie was based on. This guy doesn't get enough credit, but if you haven't checked him out, do yourself a favor.

I'm also reading In Cold Blood, or rereading it too. The first time I read it, I remember thinking that Capote was doing something I would never be able to obtain. That he was just such a master of his craft, that it was like watching real, actual magic. I'm reading it again maybe 6-7 years later, and I'm starting to see things I would have done differently. Now, this isn't me comparing my self to Capote, or any of my novels to In Cold Blood--he is a literary giant, and I have nothing but respect for him. Even so, it's interesting to be able to critique someone like that, critique and at least have an argument as to why you're right and he's wrong. If you haven't read In Cold Blood, pick it up, for sure. Killer, true tale.

My ninth novel comes out this month. I'm always looking forward, thinking about what's next, what can I do to get more eyes on my words, but sometimes when I take a chance to sit back and just think about what has happened--it's stunning. Every single day I get to converse with fans that write me. Every single day I make money while I sleep. I had someone in France buy a novel yesterday. I know that I'm still a very, very small player in this writing game, but to come from some guy writing a book in his college apartment, to this--I'm just very, very grateful.

Alright, as my editor says, I'm heading back to the salt mines. 

If I were you, I'd go buy all of my novels (again, if you did it once), and then ride around your city with a bullhorn, telling people about me. :)

P.S. Didn't edit this. Sorry for grammatical errors.

How do you get to Carnegie Hall?

Practice, of course.

A lot of the people close to me are nearly ready to block me on Facebook, and deleting my number/asking me to delete their number. This is due to meditation and my obessiveness with spreading the benefits. That's okay--I don't really like them anyway. ;)

Actually, everyone I know who has started really does enjoy it. They say it's hard, but they can tell there is something to it, something happening in their minds. However, like most people who start a book, they do it once every ten days. (I know this because I stalk them ruthlessly through the Headspace app). 

Meditation is the greatest investment I've made in my life, but once every ten days isn't going to get you the type of happiness, contentment, and peace that you're wanting. I'm not sure if enlightenment is possible through meditation, though supposedly the Buddha reached it--but I do know that you won't ever near it unless you're meditating daily. I'm not talking about hours a day. I'm talking about 10-20 minutes. 

Taking 10 minutes and concentrating on your breath. Forgiving yourself when your mind ventures elsewhere, and coming back to your breath. That's it.

Someone asked me the other day how I have time to write and meditate, combined with a full time job. I asked them if they had time to eat. You make the time for that what matters most.

Take ten minutes, every day, and start concentrating on your breath. When your mind wanders, realize it has wondered, and bring it back to the breath. In that moment, you're both controlling your mind and practicing a very real sense of self-forgiveness, both of which will transfer over to the rest of your life.

Not Meditating? You're Wasting Your Life

Those that are close to me know that I'm kind of an all or nothing type person. Angry with the government? I'm not going to vote for the lesser of two evils; I'll just never vote again. Want to be  healthy? Forget good carbs vs bad carbs, just sacrifice them all. Want to write novels while still having a career? Just work fourteen hour days, every day.

I've taken this obsessiveness and found a new outlet. I'm having a real tough time not telling everyone I know about it. I basically prosthelytize for it on a daily basis. 


I've been high strung since a child. I can remember riding the bus at like nine and detailing out my entire day from morning until night. I told one of my friends about it and he looked at me like I was insane--I could tell, even then, that he thought I would surely end up in a really tight jacket in a really white and soft room somewhere. That OCD turned into a fairly high level of anxiety as I grew older, until I found myself on like three different type of pills to manage it. 

If I wasn't on these things: I. Freaked. Out. I'm talking, we'll probably have a nuclear holocaust within the next six months, and we might want to go ahead and buy ten billion gallons of water (not that bad, but you get that point).

About a year ago, I started researching meditation some. There was some science coming out saying that it had really powerful benefits, and I'm all about science and benefits. Science with benefits is how I like to term it (get it?). Anyways, I started. Very small. Five minutes a day.

The road to where I am now in my journey was VERY rocky. I plan on talking about meditation more and more on this blog, and I don't want to act like this has been an easy travel. I went through long periods of not doing it, of a longer period of not understanding, and so on and so forth.

However, this week, for the first time since I was about twenty-two years old, I'm getting off my anxiety meds. I've tried this before and the results were horrific--like I begin to feel that Vampires are living in my closet level of anxiety (not really, but you get the point). This time though, I'm more confident in what I'm doing, and it's only due to meditation.

I spend twenty minutes each day trying to focus on my breath, and those twenty minutes have brought a larger return on investment than anything else I've ever done. 

So, I suppose, this post is me singing meditation's praises, because I really want people to understand what it does.

We'll continue to discuss; how to do it, what it does, why you're an idiot if you're not doing it, etc.

The Devil's Dream: Chapter Five

So, for long time readers, this won't matter too much. However, if you haven't read anything from me, I'm going to post a chapter of The Devil's Dream every week on here. So if you're bored at work, or your spouse is angry with you at dinner, pull the site up and start reading. Hope you enjoy!


Chapter Five

The first night without Allison and Jerry already wasn't sleeping. He spoke to her around ten and told her he was getting in bed, which he had, but now he just lay there with the television on in front of him. Around midnight, the Brand stories began. He couldn't remember what he had been watching, maybe reruns of Friends, but it was broken up by a news alert.

     He changed the channel, wanting to stay away from it, but that did little as every channel he went to had basically the same story.

     Matthew Brand escaped from The Wall.

     Matthew Brand last seen in Texas.

     Somehow though, they managed to take those two sentences, the only thing they really knew, and stretch them out into hour-long segments. They weren't simply going to report the news and let it go until more information arrived. No, they were going to whip the public up into a frenzy. He left the television on, unable to find anything worth watching and unable to fall asleep. He thought about grabbing the book off the nightstand, but he finished it last night and didn't want to restart it.

     Might as well learn about what Allison was up against. He remembered a good deal of it, more than he thought when she woke him up this morning telling him she had to go. He was already sure that every major station would have some kind of recounting of Matthew Brand's life playing within the next couple of days.

     What Allison was up against.

     The words echoed through his head like it was a canyon. As if his wife was going into hand-to-hand combat with Brand. She was directing a massive team trying to monitor his whereabouts and all his communications. She wasn't up against anyone. She was leading a large force against one man, and for some reason, that made Jerry just the slightest bit bitter. Maybe it was because by the time Allison called tonight, her daughter was already in bed. Maybe it was because Marley didn't even ask today if she'd be able to talk to her Mom. Maybe it was because he sat here unable to sleep because she had left again.

     He closed his eyes, took a big breath, and let it out slowly.

     None of that was fair. He knew her career when he asked for her hand. He knew what it entailed. None of this was a surprise to him. Even so, this time felt different. It felt like what was supposed to be a rare thing. The type of manhunt that made careers. These were becoming a regular part of their lives. He didn't mention it to Allison this morning because she knew as well as he, but this was the third in a year. The third time she'd left him and Marley and gone off to another life that he couldn't ever truly understand. Most spouses, they could relate to a day at a job. They could relate to the reason the spouse went to that job. Bills to pay, mouths to feed, and the all-consuming struggle to make ends meet. Not in their case though. This wasn't about meeting ends each month, not for Allison—he understood that part—what he didn't understand was the nearly fanatical dedication for this job. The willingness to sacrifice almost everything if need be for it.

     It was dawning on Jerry, after fifteen years of marriage, that he might not understand his wife. That he might not know the person he slept next to each night.

     "Stop," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the drone of the television. You know Allison. You're just upset because Marley and you are here and she's not. That's all.

     He reached for the remote and turned the television off. Brand would be on until Allison brought him in and there wasn't any need to sit here and watch it tonight. Just lie in the dark until you fall asleep.

     Eventually his worrying stopped and he found the sweet darkness of rest.

* * *


     Ten years had passed since Jeffrey Dillan wrote a book. Eight years since it was published. He didn't need to write another book, didn't really need to do anything ever again as far as money was concerned, but that didn't mean he didn't want to.

     He had tried to write. Three separate times. Three separate murders in which he went to three different towns and interviewed hundreds of people. Jeffrey did the leg work, knew the murders inside and out, knew the murderers as if he were their parents, and nearly wept for the victims. Months on each project, collecting hundreds of pages of notes, all for naught. He sat down to write countless times, on each of the novels, and for a few days the words would come—once they even came for a week. Then they stopped, just dried up. He thought it was something inside him for a while, that he had lost the ability that he honed since the age of twelve. It took him three novels to understand he had nothing to do with it. Matthew Brand commanded his writer's block. After The Devil's Dream what was the point of continuing? What could he have to say, writing about second rate murderers, that hadn't been said before? There were no other Matthew Brands, so there were no more books for Jeffrey.

     After the third try, he put away the notes and retired.

     He still wanted to work, to reignite that passion that had consumed so much of his life. He couldn't though, so instead he drank. It was a slow process, replacing the research and writing with the bottle, but it was a process that he enjoyed. If he wasn't going to be writing, he might as well do something else fun. At eight in the morning, he had a bottle of vodka and a bottle of orange juice sitting on the counter. His head didn't hurt because he took it easy the night before. He'd gone to dinner with his agent, out of friendship rather than any hope of a book. He last spoke to Lecia six months ago and no mention of a book had come up, nor had it last night. She no longer considered the great Jeffrey Dillan a part of her work, he supposed. She would never drop him, of course not, because if for any reason he decided to actually put something out, millions of dollars would rain down on everyone involved. So she never mentioned him writing, but she never mentioned him finding another agent, and Jeffrey was pretty much determined that she would never need mention his drinking, either. No one need mention that.

     Looking at the juice not yet poured and the vodka an inch deep in his glass, he thought (not for the first time) that it might be a problem. Not just yet, because obviously he hadn't had a drink last night, so he could stop if he needed—or at least put it to the side. Plus, what did it matter? He had no book in the hopper and he had the money to drink Belvedere for the rest of his life. He could probably even hire a little Mexican to come in here and squeeze fresh oranges for the juice if he wanted. The checks weren't nearly as big as they had been eight years ago, but were still deposited every single quarter.

     For a long time, Jeffrey had his work; now he had his drink.

     What scared him was that he seemed okay with his life now. He wasn't necessarily disappointed with the way life had turned out, wasn't desperately trying to find something to write about and wasn't hating the headaches when he woke up with them or the nights when he fell asleep on his living room floor staring at the ceiling fan with a beer resting on the carpet next to him. It was, more or less, comforting. It wasn't out of control, not yet, and maybe with some luck he could lounge around all day at his pool and drink his cocktails without developing cirrhosis of the liver or diabetes.

     He liked drinking and he was accepting the fact that he would never write again.

     Jeffrey poured the orange juice into the glass and didn't bother to stir it. He took a sip, relishing the sweet bitterness. What Lecia didn't know wouldn't hurt her.

     He walked into his living room and sat down on the couch.

     Oh, Matthew Brand, why did you have to go and get yourself caught?

     Jeffrey smiled at the thought. The two of them could have had a long life together if Matthew could have kept his mouth shut a little better. Matthew killing, creating his monstrosity, and Jeffrey following behind writing book after book. A real life Nancy Drew series. Instead the fucking idiot had gone and got himself caught a year after starting and now Jeffrey wasn't going to be writing any more books because how do you follow up someone like Brand? Even O.J. Simpson and all that hoopla looked as pale as an albino next to Brand.

     He thought about a follow up to The Devil's Dream, had even outlined the novel. He could focus on the lives of the families whose father's had been murdered, could focus on the science behind Brand's acts and where it was now (Jeffrey was pretty sure the government had taken what he'd done and began working on it the week after Brand was captured), as well as copy-cats that had sprung up after him. Jeffrey even pitched it to Lecia, who of course said yes. Again, the millions would rain down even if he shit on some paper and put it between two pieces of cardboard and shipped it out to bookstores. Without Brand the story just seemed empty. The thing that mattered most was gone; the energy that created the national furor was locked up, never getting out.

     "Jesus Christ," he sighed. "Stop thinking about it. Brand's gone, your career is gone, just sip your drink and maybe call over Rita in a little bit."

     He turned the television on.

     Jeffrey blinked three times in rapid succession, trying to clear whatever was in his eyes causing him to see things. Five years ago was the last time anyone had mentioned that name on television. Two years since anyone had put it in print. So why was Good Morning America showing it? The blinking didn't help and the words Matthew Brand didn't disappear from the screen. Jeffrey left his glass on the coffee table and rubbed his eyes, trying to get rid of what simply couldn't exist in front of him.

     When he brought his hands down, the words were still there.

     He put the three together.

     Matthew Brand Escapes.

     Jeffrey took the glass from the table and pulled long and hard from it, downing half its contents in one sip. He set it on his knee, took a few deep breaths, and then put the glass back to his lips and finished it off.

     He hadn't heard a word of what was being said on the television. His heart boomed and his lungs trying to catch up with the massive gulps he used to finish what was supposed to last him all morning.

     His phone rang, somewhere far off in another universe. It rang and rang, and then the answering machine picked up.

     "Answer the phone, Jeffrey. I know you're there and I know you're seeing this."

     Lecia. Matthew Brand's name on the television and Lecia on the phone. He was out, free, after Jeffrey had assumed him the same as dead all those years ago.

     He stood up from the couch and walked to the phone in the kitchen, Lecia's voice still yelling at him to pick up, to listen to her for just a second.

     "Hello?" He said, feeling both dazed and slightly buzzed.

     "You're watching this right? Your man is out. Running across the country, apparently. This is your book, right here, Jeffrey. You don't have to wait until he's caught to write it."

     Jeffrey turned and looked at the television across his house, different pictures of the murderer being thrown up on the screen. This is your book. He hadn't drunk his life into a state of semi-retardation yet. He hadn't trashed his computer upstairs. He could still write.

     "Brand's not finished," Jeffrey said.

     "That's even better. I mean that in the kindest way I can, but for your writing, it's a blessing. What do you think? Is this book material?"

     He didn't listen to anything she said. He was inside his own mind, remembering, recalling what he had written about Brand, what he learned from him. The man wouldn't stop, not ever. Brand wasn't going to go away. He wouldn't slip into Mexico and live out the rest of his life quietly, maybe teaching a college class somewhere. Brand's life, at least the ten years after his son died, were dedicated to that boy. He hadn't repented. He wasn't remorseful for the people he killed or the families he ruined. He was single minded like a shark, except instead of blood he wanted his son. He had no other purpose for living, no other reason to be outside of the science-fiction cell they kept him in. He was out and...where was he heading? Where would he go first?

     "Lecia, I have to get off."

     "Wait, wait! What are you going to do?"

     "I have to figure out where he's heading."

* * *


     Jeffrey pulled into the self-storage unit (Climate Controlled in large orange letters written across the building), parking his car in front of the garage he had rented for the past eight years. Everything he'd ever collected on Matthew Brand was inside it, filed away with a large tarp of plastic covering his notes in order to keep dust from settling. He hadn't been here since he locked it all those years ago, hadn't had any desire to dredge up the glory days. He collected checks and that was the only reminder he needed about his time spent learning of Matthew Brand. Coming in here would simply have reminded him of what he once was and would no longer be.

     He stepped from his car, his buzz full on now from the drink he chugged at the house. It made him happy, sure, but that wasn't the only reason he felt like today was the best day he had seen in some time. He felt reborn, like opening this garage was going to allow him a resurrection, the same as Christ when someone rolled away that huge boulder from the garage they kept him in. He could find Matthew Brand; the answers were all filed away inside the storage unit—meticulously filed. If Brand was on the mission his arrest had stopped him from completing, which he was, then where he needed to go would be housed inside here. No one in the world knew the man, knew what he wanted, better than Jeffrey.

     He walked to the garage door, put the key in, unlocked the deadbolt, and lifted.

     The smell of paper and dust long forgotten flooded out. Air that hadn't moved in years finally having a bit of freedom, yearning to mix with its family outside.

     Jeffrey walked in, turning the light on by flicking a switch on the wall. A large, clear tarp covering boxes that went twenty feet deep, plastic things with lids on top of them. A few were stacked on top of each other, but he had tried to keep from doing that too much in case—

     Well, in case he needed to look through some of this stuff.

     He placed his hand on the plastic tarp stretched across everything and pulled, using both hands to open up the part of his life he'd left so long ago. He pushed the tarp out into the parking lot, not concerned a bit if it blew away.

     He walked into the weeds of paper and opened the first box.