by Jacob Stone
“I found something about Travis Smalley,” he said. “Bottom line, it appears as if a month ago he rented an apartment in West Hollywood.” Felger gave Morris an address.
Morris told Bogle the news. “That’s less than a block from here.”
A crime scene team had arrived, and Morris asked one of the team members if he could keep an eye on Parker; then he and Bogle moved in a half run toward the address Felger had given him. On the way, he called Walsh and asked her to send a unit to the address.
As with Rosalyn’s building, this one also had no elevator, and Morris was breathing hard by the time they got to the apartment. Bogle appeared to be in better shape and barely showed any effect. They drew their guns and tried the door. It was locked. When they heard a whimpering noise inside, Bogle kicked it open. Their blond suspect was in the process of carving out a large chunk of flesh from a naked woman’s face. A grisly “17” had already been arranged on the floor, so he must’ve been nearly done with the carving phase of the murder. He turned toward Morris and Bogle, surprise flooding his eyes.
Morris was still breathing too hard to yell out a command, so Bogle ordered the man to put down the knife. The man looked from them to his victim and then back at them, his face frozen in a funny expression, as if he wanted to explain something to them. He didn’t drop the knife, though. Instead he came running at them.
Morris wasn’t sure whether the man’s intention was to attack them or to try fleeing the apartment, but Bogle fired three shots into the man’s chest, dropping him. Bogle knelt by the body while Morris checked on the woman lying on the bed.
“Perp’s dead,” Bogle yelled out.
Morris knew from reading Rosalyn’s journal that the woman on the bed had to be Rosalyn, but it was hard to recognize her with her nose cut off and through all the damage and gore. She was conscious, but the only thing he could make out in her eyes was supreme disappointment. If she hadn’t been gagged, he knew she would have been begging him to finish the job.
He took out his phone and called for an ambulance.
Chapter 72
Morris entered the hospital room and found a heavily bandaged Rosalyn Krate with her wrists and ankles chained to the bed. Her jaundiced eyes caught his. “I didn’t think you’d come,” she said.
Maybe it was because she didn’t have a nose anymore, or it could’ve been because Morris now knew what she really was, but her voice sounded very different to him. More like a snake’s hiss. He guessed she had tried smiling through her bandages.
She said, “But you came running. Because I’ve got a friend.”
Morris said, “We’re not friends.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I wanted to tell you that what you did won’t change anything. I’ll find someone else to be the Nightmare Man.”
Morris had read her journal and understood that while she had a number of bullshit reasons to explain why the Nightmare Man had become a part of the fabric of LA’s history and his legend needed to continue, what really drove her was a twisted psychosexual fantasy involving Travis Smalley coming back from the dead to claim her. The newspapers and TV would soon be running stories about the four people who had acted as the Nightmare Man over the years, and they’d be showing Ed Blount as a ruthless hitman, Smalley as a small-minded sadist, Rosalyn as a lonely and psychologically damaged woman, and Duane Hopper (the blond man whom Charlie Bogle had shot dead) as a pathetic freak. Once the harsh light of truth was shone on the Nightmare Man, the mythology would wither and die. The Nightmare Man was done and dead, and there was nothing Rosalyn could do to resuscitate him. But explaining that to Rosalyn would be like pulling wings off a fly. Still, Morris felt impelled to reach something human within her.
He said, “You didn’t ask about Sean Maguire.”
She gave him a puzzled look.
“He’s the officer you shot in the chest. Sean has a wife and four kids, and it was touch and go for a while, but he survived a seven-hour surgery and is expected to make a full recovery.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Whether he lived or died wouldn’t matter to the Nightmare Man.”
“I went to both their funerals,” Morris said. “Lori Fletcher’s and Joplin Cole’s. They both had parents who had to bury their daughters. They both had families and friends who are now devastated.”
“They had to die,” she insisted. “The Nightmare Man needed their deaths.”
Morris accepted that he couldn’t argue with insanity. He got up and left.
Epilogue
Parker rose to his feet and trotted out of Morris’s office. Seconds later Morris heard the commotion coming from the reception area and got up from his desk to see Charlie Bogle joking and shaking hands with Fred, Polk, and Greta, while Parker wagged his tail and wormed his way through the crowd so he could force Bogle to rub his snout. Even Adam Felger had ventured out of his office to join them. Morris walked over to them. It had been three months since the Nightmare Man business was finished.
Morris didn’t shake Bogle’s hand but instead gave him a hug, which he knew embarrassed Bogle since Bogle wasn’t a hugging type of guy. Truth be told, neither was Morris.
“Good to see you, Charlie,” Morris said.
A sheepish grin forced its way onto Bogle’s face. “Same here. Can we talk?”
“Anytime.”
Morris led the way back to his office, with Parker joining them. Bogle closed the door and took the chair across from Morris’s desk. He put his feet up like he owned the place.
“I was surprised to see a full contingent on hand,” Bogle said. “I would’ve expected people out in the field working.”
“Looks can be deceiving. We’re busy like you wouldn’t believe.” Morris checked his watch. “We have a staff meeting in ten minutes. How’s life in the movie business?”
“I gave my two weeks’ notice today.” Bogle’s grin grew wistful. “I don’t know. Spending my days fixing problems for these actors didn’t seem quite so rewarding after what we did three months ago. Anyway, I’m going to be looking for a new job.”
“I told you when you left I’d keep your position open for a year before I looked to fill it.”
Bogle showed his best poker face. “I’ll need a pay bump, of course. After all, I was the one to shoot the fourth and final Nightmare Man.”
“I don’t know if you can call him the fourth Nightmare Man. It wasn’t as if he finished the job.”
“The papers are calling him that.”
Morris waved away the issue with his hand. “Let’s not split hairs. What type of bump are you looking for?”
“A hundred a week.”
“Jenny’s okay with you doing this kind of work again?”
Morris knew Bogle had moved back in with his wife two months ago. In fact, he, Natalie, Rachel, and Parker had joined them for a celebratory dinner.
“We discussed it. She’s not thrilled by the idea, but she understands why I need to do this.”
“In that case, deal.”
Morris got up from his chair, and this time they shook hands.
Don’t miss the next spine-chilling thriller starring Morris Brick....
UNLEASHED
Coming soon from Lyrical Underground, an imprint of Kensington Publishing Corp.
Keep reading to enjoy a sample excerpt....
UNLEASHED
Jacob Stone
Duncan Moss bought coffee at the counter and took it outside so he could sit at one of the patio tables. This was a nice, upscale downtown LA neighborhood, and the people walking by all looked nice and upscale. Or at least clean, fit, and well-off. Quite a contrast from the boardinghouse where he was staying half a mile away. That area could best be described as dingy and downbeat. More than that, a heavy oppressiveness seemed to hang in the air like a bad stench that just wouldn’t go away, and the people liv
ing there carried an unmistakable hopelessness. Duncan much preferred that neighborhood. He could barely stand to see all these happy, privileged people who thought nothing bad could ever happen to them. They were so wrong. So very wrong.
On the same block as the coffee shop there was also a bakery, a café advertising Los Angeles’s best breakfast, and a diner, and across the street was a small park with neatly arranged flower beds and benches, and while it wasn’t quite nine thirty yet, it was one of those near-perfect early spring days, and all of that was enough to bring out a small parade of people. Duncan sipped his coffee and watched as fellow millennials walked past him. Older people were also in the mix, but it was the millennials that he focused on. They were the ones who stirred up a toxic and near-suffocating mix of rage, jealousy, and psychotic need to cause pain. All of them trying so hard to look hip and cool with their tattoos and piercings, the dudes with goatees, soul patches, and man buns, the women with brightly colored dye jobs. There was barely a pound of body fat among them. They kept themselves in shape by dieting and CrossFit-type training classes. Duncan was also as lean as a rail, but he accomplished this the old-fashioned way. Survival. And while he had never in his life stepped into a gym or taken an exercise class, he had a wiry strength that few of them would’ve been able to match.
Of course, most of them had their noses stuck in their cell phones. Some sort of strange sixth sense kept them from colliding with each other as they crisscrossed on the sidewalk. Jesus, what a bunch! Most of them were so oblivious to the world around them that Duncan could’ve gotten up and punched them in their smug faces without any of them having a clue what was happening until they hit the pavement. As tempting as it was, he stayed seated. He had a plan, after all. He’d later be unleashing his rage in a very specific, controlled way. Besides, none of them were what he really needed.
While he remained invisible to most of them, one of them noticed him. A blond woman walking a little four-legged fuzz ball that was supposedly a dog. She was in her early thirties, maybe five years older than him. Slender, yellowish hair that fell past her shoulder, cute heart-shaped face, a short dress showing off long, thin legs. She smiled at him. An invitation of sorts. Why wouldn’t she? He was a good-looking guy with dark features and was impeccably groomed and dressed smartly in slacks, sports jacket, and boat shoes. He was also making a concentrated effort to show only a carefree, pleasant expression.
If this had been three months ago, she certainly wouldn’t have smiled at him, and not just because he had lived three thousand miles away in the Jamaica Plain neighborhood of Boston. If she had caught sight of him then, she would’ve fled to the other side of the street. Back then he was a mess. He had gone over a month without showering or shaving or changing his clothes and almost six months without getting a haircut or even combing his hair, but more than his ragged, disheveled appearance, it would’ve been the craziness shining in his eyes that would’ve frightened her. He had reached rock bottom and was consumed with dark, suicidal thoughts.
He no doubt would’ve ended his life if he hadn’t received the postcard when he did. It had been mailed from Los Angeles, and at first it nearly sent him out of his mind with rage and homicidal fury, but later that postcard allowed him to see as clear as day what he needed to do. After that he came up with his plan.
Once he had the plan, everything was okay, at least as okay as it could be. He cleaned up his act—first clipping off his beard and cutting his hair short, then making sure to shower and shave each day, and taking care of other personal hygiene issues. He also made it a point not to glare with homicidal rage at the lucky, happy people he would see and instead hide his true self behind a pleasant facade. It took effort and concentration, but it became easier once he had his plan. And while the sight of the happy, lucky people made him feel like a heavy stone was crushing his chest, at least he no longer felt like he was on the verge of suffocating. Because he had a plan….
He couldn’t come out to LA right away. He was broke and he needed to raise enough cash to bankroll his plan. It had been almost five years since he had burglarized any homes or rolled drunks or robbed anyone at gunpoint, but certain skills come back quickly, and these were skills he had always excelled at. It didn’t take him long to raise the money he needed.
After that, he bought a 2002 Cadillac Eldorado for five hundred dollars at a police auction, and a week ago hit the road. He drove almost nonstop for two days, drinking enough coffee to keep him awake, and arrived five days ago in LA. Since then he’d been getting a lay of the land and making plans for where to go hunting. He also bought himself an appropriate wardrobe so he could fit in with the happy, privileged people. Money wasn’t an issue. He had the necessary skills to always get more.
The blonde walking the fuzz-ball dog slowed down a step, her smile turning more hopeful. Duncan smiled back, but in a noncommittal way. He had no intention of inviting her to join him. She wasn’t what he needed. She tried to maintain her smile as she walked past him, but it cracked, the hurt weakening her mouth betraying her.
He looked past her toward a couple holding hands half a block away. So happy, so much in love. But they weren’t what he needed either. While they were privileged and charter members of the Beautiful People’s Club, they were in their fifties, and Duncan needed them to be younger. He needed them to have their whole lives ahead of them so that the loss and pain would be all that much more profound.
He tilted back the cardboard cup and finished off the last few sips of coffee, then got up, crushed the cup into a ball, and tossed it into a trashcan. He hadn’t come here to hunt, at least not exactly. If he had seen exactly what he was looking for, he would’ve gotten on their trail. But today was Saturday, and if you wanted to find a young, well-off couple who are oh-so-in-love, why not go directly to the source and crash a wedding?
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my editor, Michaela Hamilton, as this book, as well as my Morris Brick thriller series, wouldn’t exist without her.
In advance I’d like to thank the Kensington team who’ll be supporting this book and doing their magic to make it shine: Lauren Jernigan, Michelle Addo, Vida Engstrand, Claire Hill, and Alexandra Nicolajsen.
A big thanks also to my college buddy Alan Luedeking who, as with all my books, muddled through my initial draft and helped smooth out the language. Also my longtime friend (since second grade) Jeff Michaels for also providing feedback.
As always, I’d like to thank Judy, my wife and best friend, for her encouragement and support, and for also helping to make my manuscript more readable.
About the Author
Photo by Judy Zeltserman
Jacob Stone is the pseudonym chosen by Dave Zeltserman, an award-winning author of crime, mystery, and horror fiction, for his Morris Brick thriller series. His crime novels Small Crimes and Pariah were both named by the Washington Post as best books of the year, with Small Crimes also topping National Public Radio’s list of best crime and mystery novels of 2008.
His horror novel, The Caretaker of the Lorne Field, was shortlisted by the American Library Association for best horror novel of 2010, a Black Quill nominee for best dark genre book, and a Library Journal horror gem.
His Frankenstein retelling Monster was named by Booklist as one of the 10 best horror novels of the year, and by WBUR as one of the best novels of the year.
His mystery fiction is regularly published by Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, has won Shamus and Derringer Awards, and twice has won the Ellery Queen’s Readers Choice Award.
Dave’s novels have been translated to German, French, Italian, Dutch, Lithuanian, and Thai. His novel Small Crimes has been made into a film starring Nikolaj Coster-Waldau, Molly Parker, Gary Cole, Robert Forster, and Jacki Weaver, and can be seen on Netflix. His novels Outsourced and The Caretaker of Lorne Field are currently in development.
Stone, Cruel
