Cruel Read online

  The Experts Praise

  Deranged

  by Jacob Stone

  “Deranged is a dark and different serial killer novel that will haunt the reader long after the book is closed and back on the shelf. Author Jacob Stone transfixes us with dread, and something more. He has the rare capacity to startle. Read if you dare.”

  —John Lutz

  “Deranged is a fascinating and exciting blend of misdirection, topsy-turvy, and violence.”

  —Reed Farrel Coleman

  “Gutsy and written with such casual grace, as if the author were sitting across the bar from me, telling me the story, Deranged just might be one of the most compelling, thrilling and truth be told, at times look-away-from-page-frightening serial killer novels I’ve read in a long, long time.”

  —Vincent Zandri

  “Los Angeles has seldom seen such grisly fun. It’s James Ellroy meets Alfred Hitchcock in a bloody, yet bizarrely humorous romp on the psychotic side of the street.”

  —Paul Levine

  “This series comes out of the gate swinging with the first offering, Deranged. Morris Brick’s determination and grit make him a great hero for a thriller series. The surprise twists really kept me engaged. I hope to see Brick have a long shelf life.”

  —Outofthegutteronline.com

  Also by Jacob Stone

  DERANGED

  CRAZED

  MALICIOUS

  CRUEL

  UNLEASHED

  Cruel

  A Morris Brick Thriller

  Jacob Stone

  LYRICAL UNDERGROUND

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Lyrical Press books are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2018 by Dave Zeltserman

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

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  Lyrical Press and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  First Electronic Edition: September 2018

  eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0638-7

  eISBN-10: 1-5161-0638-5

  First Print Edition: September 2018

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0639-4

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-0639-3

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To my good friend Vinod Bhardwaj,

  who likes plenty of twists in his mysteries

  Prologue

  Downtown Los Angeles alley, 2:18 a.m.

  The rat grew frantic in its efforts to escape the trap, its front claws a blur as they scratched against the wire mesh. This one was older than the juveniles already collected, and showed the scars of a lifetime spent skulking through Los Angeles alleyways and sewers. Half of one ear had been torn off, its grayish-black fur matted, and a dozen wounds scabbed over. While the rat was larger than the others, it was still emaciated enough to be able to squeeze through a hole the size of a quarter. Rats like this one were crucial for what was coming.

  The newspaper stories from 2001 didn’t mention rats, and neither did the ones from 1984. That had to be because the reporters hadn’t been told about them, or really about any of the specifics. In 1984, the newspaper and TV reporters described the murders only as depraved and sickening. A police officer must’ve given them that description, and someone with a touch of poetry in his soul named the killer the Nightmare Man. That name stuck—both in 1984 and in 2001—but it didn’t fully do the killer justice. While horrific, monstrous things were done to the victims, they were things that could only have come from the nightmares of a lunatic.

  Just as some species of cicadas awaken only every seventeen years, the same was true of the Nightmare Man. October second would mark the seventeen-year anniversary of the start of the last killing spree, and new victims had already been chosen. They were both the least and most fortunate people alive. They would be dying the worst deaths imaginable, but they would have a kind of immortality, their fates forever entwined with the Nightmare Man. Because of that, they would never be forgotten.

  The cage was picked up, and the rat inside backed up and got on its hind legs, its small black eyes shining with malevolence as it bared its teeth. It was an ugly thing and would do nicely for what was needed.

  A homeless woman lay curled in a fetal position as she slept beside a dumpster. She stirred as the cage holding the rat was carried past her. Her red-rimmed eyes cracked open, her round, craggy face turning toward the soft padding of footsteps. In a raspy croak that sounded as if her throat had been scraped raw with sandpaper, she asked for money. Even from several feet away, the sour smell of cheap gin on her breath assaulted the senses. A decision now had to be made: whether to kill the old woman or ignore her. A moment of reflection revealed a third option—simply hand the homeless woman a twenty-dollar bill, and that was what was done. The woman mumbled something unintelligible as she accepted the money. She turned away as she hid the bill within her layers of clothing, and then she presumably fell back to sleep.

  That was how it needed to be. It wasn’t time yet for the Nightmare Man to awaken from his slumber. October second was still a full ten days away. That was when the killings would start again. Besides, snuffing out the life of this old woman wasn’t necessary. Her alcohol-addled mind wouldn’t later connect this late-night intrusion of her makeshift home with the Nightmare Man’s return.

  But the Nightmare Man was coming.

  And Los Angeles would soon be weeping tears of blood.

  Chapter 1

  The toy poodle–pit bull mix was lying on her stomach, her paws covering a short, stubby snout. Lori Fletcher’s heart melted when she saw her.

  “Her name is Sally,” Brian said. Rail-thin and gangly, the teenager wore a stained T-shirt, torn jeans, and what Lori hoped was only mud-encrusted tennis sneakers. He was a volunteer at the animal shelter and was showing her the dogs available for adoption. Just a kid, she thought, barely seventeen, if that. A few times she caught him sneaking peeks at her. She found him adorable, almost as much as the poodle–pit bull mix in the cage. He carried a loose-leaf binder that provided information about each dog, and he cleared his throat so his voice wouldn’t crack as he read the sparse notes that had been provided about Sally, telling Lori the dog displayed a gentle temperament, would be good with children, and appeared to be only six months old. “Do you want me to open the cage so you can say hello to her?”

  Lori wasn’t there to adopt a soft, cuddly sweetheart like this mix, but against her better judgment she nodded. Brian unlatched the cage and opened the metal door, and the dog stood up and began slowly wagging her tail. Ever so cautiously
the pooch edged toward the opening so she could stick her stubby nose out of the cage. The next thing Lori knew, she had the dog squirming in her arms as she hugged the poodle–pit bull mix to her chest, and the dog likewise struggled to lick her face. Lori broke out laughing. It had been an unusually stressful few weeks, and she needed something like this more than she could’ve imagined. She was smitten.

  “Love at first sight,” Brian said, a note of jealousy in his voice. He showed a smart-alecky grin. “Or maybe it’s love at first lick.”

  The dog was far more toy poodle than pit bull. While she had a pit bull’s square-shaped snout and blocky body, she was a small thing weighing less than twenty pounds with a poodle’s soft downy fur. But she wasn’t what Lori had in mind. The reason she needed a dog was to protect her from him. Except she didn’t know who he was.

  A fear she couldn’t quite understand had been worming its way into her consciousness for weeks, and then four days ago she awoke with a profound thought screaming in her brain: he is going to do terrible things to you. She tried to dismiss this as simply a manifestation of her growing anxiety, except the certainty that he existed seemed so real that it left her shaken. It made no sense. She knew that, and for several days she tried to convince herself she’d only had a bad dream, and that was the only reason for the unease gnawing at her. Logically, that was what it had to be, except she couldn’t remember anything about the dream, and the fear that a killer was waiting for her in the shadows became overwhelming. Maybe she was suffering from a nervous breakdown. Maybe the explanation was as simple as that, but when she woke up this morning sobbing in terror that he was soon going to do depraved and horrible things to her, she believed it as much as she ever believed anything. She decided she had two choices: check herself in for psychiatric evaluation or get a dog to protect her. As much as Sally tugged at her heartstrings, the little fluff ball wouldn’t be able to protect her from a gust of wind. So she steeled herself and handed the dog back to Brian.

  “I should look at other dogs before making a decision,” she said.

  The teenager’s eyes widened with surprise, as he must’ve been sure Lori had found her match, but he placed the dog back in the cage, and as the door latched shut, the poodle–pit bull mix let out a heartbroken whine. This struck Lori like a dagger. She almost relented, but that ever-pervasive thought echoed in her head. He’s out there, and he’ll be coming for you soon.

  Brian continued the tour. Most of the dogs up for adoption were pit bulls. There was one Chihuahua and a beagle and pug mix, but just about every other dog seemed to be pit bulls or pit bull mixes. Lori knew they had a reputation for ferocity, but that was probably only if they had been badly mistreated or trained that way, and the ones she saw all looked like loveable sweethearts, just like Sally. None of them would be able to protect her from her boogeyman…if he in fact existed.

  When Brian brought her to a cage holding a large, angry-looking beast, Lori knew she’d found her protector. The animal had a thick, squat body, a large head, and a coal-black coat mottled with reddish-brown streaks. The dog gave her a sinister, dead-eyed stare. As she moved closer to the cage, a threatening noise between a snarl and a growl rumbled out of the beast’s throat. If it was meant to scare Lori off, it didn’t work. In fact, it had the opposite effect. The ferocity made her feel safe. She asked Brian if she could meet the dog.

  “Really?” he asked, his voice rising an octave.

  “He looks to me like he could use a good home.”

  Brian consulted the loose-leaf binder, flipping through the pages until he found the one matching the cage number. His eyes scrunched up as he looked from the page to the dog and back to the page. “It says here his name’s Lucy,” he said.

  Lori could see that the dog was male, and one that hadn’t been neutered. “That’s an odd name for him.”

  “Very odd,” Brian agreed. He read more of the notes associated with the animal. “The veterinarian who examined him thinks he’s part Rottweiler and part Doberman. A hundred and twenty pounds. He’s had all his shots.” The teenager smirked. “If you adopt him, you should change his name to Lucky.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He’s only got three days left to be adopted before being put down. Are you sure you want me to take him out of his cage?”

  The teenager seemed nervous to put his fingers anywhere near Lucy. Lori smiled sweetly at him and told him she’d do it. She had grown up with two Rhodesian ridgebacks, and large dogs didn’t intimidate her. She also knew the secret to a dog’s heart. Lucy made more snarling, growling noises and bared his fangs as she unlatched the cage and opened it. But the dog stayed where he was and didn’t move until Lori reached into her pocket and took out a bacon-flavored treat. The dog moved quickly then, snatching the treat away, somehow leaving her fingers intact. When Lori offered another treat, this one held in the palm of her hand, the dog was more careful about taking it. He even consented to let her scratch him behind the ear and thump him on the side.

  As Lori stood beside the animal, she felt safe for the first time in days. She smiled at him. I’ll save your life and you’ll save mine. The dog cocked his head and gave her a quizzical look in return.

  “I found my dog,” she told Brian. “Can I take him home with me?”

  Chapter 2

  Morris Brick had not been to Luzana’s before, and for good reason. The restaurant on North Cahuenga Boulevard had a reputation for putting a serious dent in its customers’ wallets, but even if that wasn’t the case, there was little chance he would’ve been able to get a table there. Luzana’s had become Los Angeles’s most exclusive hotspot. A place for Hollywood royalty, sports celebrities, and the ultra-rich to be seen and noticed. Morris might’ve become a minor celebrity after years of catching depraved serial killers, but that still wouldn’t have bought him a table reservation at Luzana’s, and so it only mildly surprised him when the maître d’hôtel gave him the snootiest look he had ever seen. He was genuinely surprised, however, after the man peered over his stand to see that the pig-like grunt just heard had come from Parker, Morris’s all-white bull terrier, that he made a shooing gesture with both hands. That was just plain rude!

  Morris arched an eyebrow and, keeping his voice amiable, asked, “Am I supposed to guess that means you have no tables available? At twenty past two on a Tuesday?”

  If it were possible, the maître d’ would’ve climbed onto a stepladder so he could look even further down his nose at Morris. “Apparently,” he mumbled under his breath.

  Morris stood his ground and lazily rubbed his jaw. If he were the vindictive type, he could’ve called in a favor at the mayor’s office and had the place shut down for a kitchen violation—imagined or real, it didn’t matter. After all, six months ago he and his team at Morris Brick Investigations, commonly known as MBI, very likely saved the lives of hundreds of thousands of fellow Angelenos, and at a heavy cost. Charlie Bogle had almost died after being shot in the chest and hadn’t been the same since, even quitting MBI two months ago, and Morris himself had taken shrapnel to the leg from a booby trap, and it was only since last month that he was able to put away his cane. But as tempted as he was to drag the maître d’ out from behind the stand and teach him some manners, he maintained a calm demeanor and told him he was meeting a friend. “Philip Stonehedge. He’s already here,” he said.

  The maître d’ opened his eyes wide with incredulity. Stonehedge was high up on Hollywood’s A-list, and not only that, he was dating the gorgeous Brie Evans, who sat near the top of the list. But since there was a remote chance Morris might be telling the truth, he asked for Morris’s name and made a phone call, keeping his voice low so Morris couldn’t eavesdrop. Shortly afterward, a waiter came bustling out of the main dining room and whispered something to the maître d’, whose attitude quickly changed.

  It was almost as if a magic wand had been waved—in less time than it took to snap one
’s fingers, his contempt transformed to full-blown obsequiousness. He bowed and asked Morris to follow him, and as he led them through the crowded dining room filled with Hollywood royalty and other studio muckety-mucks and onward to the equally bustling outdoor patio, Morris resisted the urge to plant a kick onto the man’s well-padded derriere.

  Parker had been behaving himself, but he suddenly grunted excitedly and lurched forward as he strained against his leash. The bull terrier must’ve spotted Stonehedge, who was grinning at them from his table, the thick, jagged scar running down his cheek giving his grin a sardonic quality. The actor had gotten the scar from being slashed with a gun barrel. This happened after he had arranged with the mayor’s office to tag along with Morris on the Skull Cracker Killer investigation, although it wasn’t SCK who did the slashing but a vicious criminal by the name of Alex Malfi who didn’t appreciate the actor trying to interfere with a Beverly Hills jewelry store robbery. Malfi further showed his displeasure toward Stonehedge by shooting him in the thigh, and the actor would’ve died if it hadn’t been for Morris’s later heroics.

  Stonehedge left the table to playfully tussle with Parker, then shook Morris’s hand and reached over to bring him in for a hug. The maître d’ stood deferentially off to the side until Stonehedge slipped him a fifty. Morris and Parker joined Stonehedge at the table, which already had several platters of food waiting for them. When the bull terrier grunted impatiently, the actor fed him a piece of meat from one of the platters.

  “Wood-grilled lamb tenderloin wrapped in jamón ibérico,” the actor said, beaming. “Absolutely delicious.”

  Morris knew enough Spanish to guess that jamón ibérico was a kind of expensive imported ham. Given the way Parker wolfed it down and grunted for more, the dog must’ve concurred with Stonehedge’s assessment.

  “Don’t give him too much,” Morris said. “He needs to lose a few pounds.”