Frenzied - A Suspense Thriller

by Brandon Massey

  It took twenty-seven rounds of ammunition to take him down.

  It was only the beginning.

  Chapter 2

  In Mark Deacon’s dream, an enormous monster stalked him through dark corridors, intent upon tearing out his heart.

  As he raced through the darkness, armed only with a flickering flashlight, he heard the creature shambling after him. No matter how fast he ran, no matter how many twists he followed in the shadowed tunnels, he could never put much distance between himself and the predator. Panting, he hit another turn, and in the illogical way of dreams, the monster was suddenly in his face: a towering beast with simmering red eyes, a wide mouth full of long, pointed teeth, and curved claws as sharp as surgical scalpels. Roaring, it swiped a massive claw across his chest. He collapsed to the ground, his flesh torn away as if made of crepe paper, exposing his pulsating heart. He lay helpless while the creature crawled on top of him and devoured his heart as it still throbbed . . .

  He erupted out of sleep with a cry on his lips.

  The bedroom was dark, the only sounds the hum of the whirling ceiling fan and his jagged breathing.

  Bolting upright, snatching away damp bedsheets, Deacon put his hand against his chest. His heart was still there, of course—knocking at a rapid pace thanks to that crazy nightmare.

  He sucked in deep breaths. As his pulse slowed, he pulled his fingers away from the puckered scar on his chest.

  According to his cardiologist, it wasn’t safe for him to get overly excited. His heart, damaged by a gunman’s hollow-point bullet, no longer functioned at peak capacity, and never would unless Deacon consented to a heart transplant. He had no interest in a life constrained by an unending diet of immunosuppressive medications and a heightened risk of cancer. He had chosen to adapt to his new reality.

  The bedside clock read half past six. He hadn’t slept well—grim thoughts and bad dreams had cycled through his mind all night—but it was time to rise. He would soon need to commence his morning rounds.

  A warm shower blasted him fully into wakefulness. Standing in front of the mirror, he dressed in his uniform.

  He was forty-two-years-old, six-foot-one, a hundred and ninety pounds. He had a milk chocolate complexion and wore his facial hair in a goatee that had lately begun to display flecks of grey hair.

  Some women said he bore a strong resemblance to the actor, Idris Elba. Deacon liked the actor so the comparison didn’t bother him.

  He went to check on his father, who shared the two-bedroom apartment with him.

  Pops was already awake. He sat in his wheelchair beside the neatly made bed. He wore a plaid shirt and khakis.

  Although his father’s eyes were open, he was so still that he looked like a mannequin—or a dead man.

  That was one of Deacon’s fears. Walking in and finding his father dead. One day it would happen, and such a time was probably not that distant. Pops was seventy-six. Considering that the average life expectancy of an African-American male was seventy-two, Pops was already living on borrowed time.

  His mother hadn’t come close to reaching her life expectancy. Ovarian cancer had taken her at the age of forty-six, when Deacon was still a teenager. Pops had raised him and his baby sister and done a pretty fair job, at least with his sister. She was an attorney out in Los Angeles with a doting husband and two adorable kids.

  Meanwhile, I’m stuck living with this grouchy old man, Deacon thought, and smiled at his father.

  “Morning, old fella,” Deacon said.

  “They’re going to be talking about this all day.” Pops motioned to the flat screen TV mounted on the wall. “But I guess no one expects you to do anything about it, huh?”

  Sighing, Deacon glanced at the TV screen. It was a local metro Atlanta news program, and the news crew appeared to be on site there in South Haven, sticking microphones in the face of any resident they could find who had an opinion about yesterday’s gruesome murder.

  Deacon plucked the remote from his father’s lap and switched the channel.

  “Hey!” Pops said. “Turn back, dammit.”

  “Watch something useful.” Deacon flipped to an infomercial about male sexual enhancement supplements. “Here you go. This is what you need to get those geriatric juices flowing.”

  “Hah, at least I’ve got myself a woman.” Pops checked his wristwatch and cracked a smile. “She’ll be here shortly. Who you got, son?”

  “Anita is not your woman. She’s your nurse.”

  “Stop player hating,” Pops said.

  “No one uses that slang anymore,” Deacon said. “You make yourself sound old when you talk like that.”

  “Don’t hate the player, hate the game.”

  Deacon only shook his head. “So outdated.”

  “What the hell do they say then?” Pops asked.

  Deacon started to speak, realized he didn’t know how to reply, and just shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Now who sounds old?” Pops said and laughed.

  Deacon laughed with him. He hung out with his father a short while longer, bantering with him about whatever topics came to mind, until Anita arrived at seven o’clock sharp.

  Initially, Pops had resisted the idea that he needed in-home nurse care. Both of his legs had been amputated above the knee, due to complications from type-two diabetes. Prosthetics had been installed on both limbs, and while he had basic mobility, Pops often grew frustrated and settled back into his wheelchair. Then his kidneys had gone bad, and he needed dialysis sessions . . . the nurse helped him stay active, got him to and from the dialysis clinic, coaxed him to take his medication. Pops’ resistance had eventually thawed, and when the new nurse, Anita, had been assigned his case, he had instantly fallen in love.

  Anita was in her early fifties but easily could have passed for a woman in her mid-thirties. She was Jamaican, with smooth skin the color of mahogany, dark curly hair, and a smile that made Pops melt.

  “Pops is in high spirits this morning,” Deacon said to her as she entered the apartment. “Be careful.”

  “Oh, I can handle him.” She chuckled. “How are you doing, my friend? I’ve seen the news, such a terrible thing to have happened to that family. Was the boy on drugs? Or sick?”

  “No one knows anything conclusively yet.” Deacon said.

  “Well, you be careful out there, honey, in case it’s catching.”

  “I’m not a cop any more, Anita,” he said. “I’m just a security guard.”

  She offered a small smile, her copper eyes twinkling. “So you say.”

  ***

  Deacon enjoyed carting around South Haven in the mornings.

  He drove an electric-powered golf cart with the words “South Haven Security” inscribed in blocky black text on both sides of the vehicle. The cart reached a maximum speed of about twenty-five miles per hour, but in the enclosed community, there had never been a reason to drive any faster.

  As he’d reminded Anita, he was just a security guard. He carried a walkie-talkie, a Taser, and a tactical flashlight, the tools attached to his duty belt. Although he was licensed to carry a firearm, he didn’t bring it. There had never been any need. Not yet, anyway.

  While the early-morning sun painted the sky in pinkish hues, Deacon drove the cart from the guard headquarters, located near the main entrance gate, to the commercial section of the community located in the heart of the development. South Haven had been designed around the central theme of “old-fashioned living with a modern flair,” a shining example of the New Urbanism trend that had swept the country in the past couple of decades. The town square was home to the business district, lined by a pedestrian-friendly thoroughfare imaginatively called “Main Street.”

  Only a few national retail chains were allowed to set up shop in South Haven. Commerce was mostly homegrown small businesses: Jilly’s Bakery, which served great coffee and pastries; a corner grocery that specialized in organic goods; a hair salon, medical clinic, barre studio, frozen yogurt shop, book stor
e, and various restaurants that offered everything from pizza to grass-fed beef.

  A water fountain dominated the center of the town square, amidst a few acres of freshly manicured grass crisped with morning dew. On summer nights, the South Haven Cinema hosted a free “Screen on the Green,” event, an evening broadcast of family friendly films. Last week, they had screened The Goonies.

  The town square was mostly vacant as Deacon rolled through. One of the only businesses open at that early hour was the bakery—his destination. He parked the cart in one of the numerous “Reserved for Electric Vehicle” slots along Main Street.

  Inside, Jilly’s Bakery was brightly lit, with a gleaming walnut-topped counter that ran the length of the restaurant, and a large glass display case full of donuts, croissants, muffins, cupcakes, and other pastries. The delicious aromas of roasted coffee beans and freshly baked bread wafted on the cool air. A chalkboard menu posted on the back wall advertised a summer special on their artisanal cold-brew coffee.

  Music piped from the bakery’s sound system: a classic Eagles track that Deacon recognized, Hotel California.

  There was only one customer sitting on a leather stool at the counter. He hunched over a cup of coffee and a half-eaten blueberry muffin. Deacon settled on the stool next to the man and clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Hey, Jim,” Deacon said. “Good morning.”

  “Is it?” Jim grunted.

  Jim Copeland was his second in command. He was as stout as a wrestler, white-haired, with a ruddy complexion. He wore wire-rim glasses that framed his cool blue eyes. His thick, long beard brought to mind the wizard character of Gandalf from the Lord of the Rings films.

  Like Deacon, Jim had used to be a cop. Unlike Deacon, he had retired from the force after a long career, let his beard grow, and joined the security firm to pursue something productive and low-key to do during his retirement.

  “I saw what that kid did.” Jim sipped coffee, grimaced as if it tasted too bitter. “I was with the Marietta PD for thirty-five years. I saw a lot of bad shit. I never saw anything like that, the rage in his eyes. It was inhuman.”

  “A tragedy for sure,” Deacon said.

  “Inhuman.” Jim crumpled a napkin in his fist. His blue eyes, normally sparkling with mirth, were haunted. “I couldn’t sleep last night. I kept seeing those damned eyes of his.”

  Deacon didn’t know what to say. Although he and Jim had worked together for two years, he’d never seen him in such a somber mood and didn’t know how to pull him out of it.

  The owner of the bakery, Jilly, emerged from the back of the shop. She was a tall, raven-haired woman in her mid-thirties, with a silver nose piercing and multiple tattoos along the length of her muscular arms. She wore a black apron and an Atlanta Braves baseball cap.

  “The usual?” she asked Deacon.

  “Please.” He indicated the shop with a sweep of his arm. “Slow morning?”

  “Been that way, yeah.” She poured hot water into a paper cup, dropped in a bag of non-caffeinated herbal tea, applied a lid, and slid it across the counter to him. “Two of my staff called out sick, too. Both of them said they had migraines, which is kinda weird, but whatever. I’m the only one here holding down the fort. Strange morning.”

  “Let’s hope things pick up,” Deacon said. “I’d like to see life get back to normal here.”

  “After last night?” Jilly barked a humorless laugh. “No shit. I knew the father, Howard Turner. He used to come in a couple times a week and grab a cheese Danish and hot chocolate. He was a nice guy.”

  “Their kid was a college student, was on the dean’s list,” Jim said. “But what I saw in his eyes . . .”

  “My theory is, he was on bath salts, or something like it,” Jilly said. “Remember that dude in Florida, the Miami zombie? He was on those drugs, too.”

  “I remember the case,” Deacon said.

  “Look, I’m nobody’s schoolmarm,” Jilly said, “I like to vape my weed and chill on my days off. But I don’t mess with that synthetic crap. Way too dangerous.”

  Deacon checked his tea, saw it had steeped long enough. He removed the bag and rose off the stool. “Ready to roll, Jim?”

  Grunting in reply, Jim followed him outdoors and settled into the passenger seat of the golf cart. Deacon secured his tea in one of the cart’s twin cup-holders and pushed the ignition button. The engine hummed to life.

  “Let’s do it,” Deacon said, and commenced their morning rounds.

  In silence, they drove out of the business district and entered the residential area. South Haven featured a wide variety of architectural styles: Colonial, Victorian, Craftsman, Tudor, Italianate, even Art Deco. Overall, the community contained nearly seven hundred residences. Many of the homes were quite large but stood on modest-sized lots; no one was isolated from their neighbors. Most of the detached garages stood on the rear of the residential lots, accessible via a network of alleys.

  Mature elms and maples flanked the roads, providing abundant shade. Every street had sidewalks on both sides, to encourage walking. No one lived more than a ten-minute walk from the town square.

  The single-family residences were priced well above Deacon’s financial resources, but he admired them nonetheless. This was no cookie-cutter subdivision, the likes of which had proliferated throughout metro Atlanta. No two homes in South Haven were identical. In spite of the divergent styles, there was a sense of order, community. He would have loved to purchase a home there someday. If he won the lottery.

  A few cars buzzed past them, residents beginning their morning commutes.

  “Folks are driving to work,” Jim said, finally speaking. He stroked his beard. “But no one is out jogging or walking. Did you notice that?”

  “You’re right,” Deacon said. “And it’s a warm morning, sunny, a perfect time to be outdoors.”

  “People are shell-shocked after last night. Can’t believe something like that happened here. South Haven’s supposed to be like an oasis from real crime.”

  In the two years that Deacon had worked security there, there had never been a homicide. A handful of break-ins, a few assaults, several cases of auto theft—but never a murder.

  “You might be right,” Deacon said. “Or they don’t want to be waylaid by a TV news crew.”

  He spotted a van ahead, antennae bristling from its roof and people clustered around it. He made a sharp turn at the next intersection, taking them away from the group.

  “Thanks,” Jim said with visible relief. “I’m in no mood to chat with those vultures. They feed on human misery, thrive on it.”

  “No argument from me on that,” Deacon said.

  Ahead, Deacon saw a familiar figure wandering along the sidewalk: an elderly lady who lived alone in a Victorian-style cottage. Beckwith, that was her name. He vaguely remembered that her husband had passed away last year, but she continued to live in the house with her dog.

  Ms. Beckwith wore only a pink nightgown and slippers. A red leash dangled from her hand.

  “What do we have here?” Jim muttered. “Canine rescue?”

  “All in a day’s work,” Deacon said. “I love my job.”

  Ms. Beckwith noticed them drawing near, and waved them toward her. Deacon veered to the curb.

  “Jake is gone.” Her eyes were reddened from tears. Her face looked as if she had tried to apply make-up and lipstick, but she had missed several spots, which gave her the unfortunate appearance of a deranged clown.

  “Jake?” Deacon asked. “Your dog?”

  “I took him out to poop last night, and he slipped his leash, I don’t know what I was thinking. I must have been distracted thinking about that awful murder that happened here. I called for Jake but he didn’t come back. I was certain he would have come back by this morning. He seemed ill . . . . I can’t believe he’s run away. He’s never done this.”

  “What breed of dog is Jake, ma’am?” Jim asked. He had taken out his pen and a steno pad.

  “He’s a St.
Bernard, of course,” she snapped.

  “All right, I only wanted to be sure,” Jim said. “You aren’t the only one who lives here who has a dog, you know.”

  “Any idea where Jake might have gone?” Deacon asked, jumping in quickly. “Does he have any favorite places here, for example?”

  “Lord, I don’t know.” She blew her nose with a pink handkerchief. “Sometimes, I take him walking on the trails . . . he loves it over there. I was going to go look there, too, but my arthritis is awful this morning. I’ll have to drive.”

  Deacon glanced at Jim. Jim nodded, reluctantly.

  “We’ll take a look,” Deacon said.

  Chapter 3

  The South Haven Greenway was on the eastern side of South Haven, approximately one hundred acres of cultivated green space, the trails paved expressly for walking, running, and biking. Part of the land curved around a shimmering lake that was deep enough to swim in.

  Deacon brought the golf cart to a halt at the greenway’s wide entrance. The wrought-iron gates had already been opened; one of his graveyard shift colleagues had unlocked them at six o’clock that morning, per the posted hours of operation.

  A thick, cool mist hung over the woods. Deacon heard birds chirping and the wind soughing through trees, but not much else.

  “Looking for that dog in here is a wild goose chase,” Jim said. “Especially if it’s sick. He probably laid down somewhere back in here and died. Poor bastard.”

  “We promised to search,” Deacon said. “A dog that size, if he’s wandering around in these woods, we’ve got a reasonable chance to spot him.”

  “How far do you want to go?” Jim asked.

  “We’ll make one circuit of the entire trail. If we don’t see him, we’ve done our duty and call it quits.”