“Bless my heart, if it isn’t Mark Deacon,” a thick Southern accent announced. “How’re you doing, darling? It’s so nice to see you again.”
Deacon smiled at the woman, but inwardly, he groaned. He had been hoping that Falcon’s daughter wouldn’t be home. But Angie Falcon seemed to have a sixth sense that enabled her to predict his visits.
“Hey, Miss Falcon,” Deacon said.
“It’s Angie, sweetheart,” she said and giggled. “How many times have I told you that? Now get your handsome behind in here and give me a hug.”
He estimated Angie Falcon was in her early thirties. It was hard to tell exactly due to the amount of makeup she wore and the extensive cosmetic surgery she’d had done. She wore a clinging blue sundress that left little to the imagination, and displayed her deeply tanned, voluptuous body to the fullest. Her straight blond hair flowed over her shoulders in luxurious waves. Her eyes, the color of aquamarine, twinkled with mischief.
One of Deacon’s colleagues told him that Angie previously had been a Playboy Playmate. He called her “Miss January.” It was a joke that Deacon didn’t dare share outside of HQ, though he believed the rumor was probably true.
The fact was, Angie Falcon made him as uncomfortable as hell.
She spread her arms to pull him into an embrace, and as he bent to give her a brief, one-armed hug, she pulled him tightly against her, pressing her large breasts into his chest. She wore too much perfume, as if she’d bathed in the stuff, and the scent of it made him slightly dizzy.
“Why don’t you come see me anymore?” she whispered hotly into his ear. “We never finished what we started, sweetheart.”
“You know why, Miss Falcon,” he said, and gently extricated himself from her arms.
“You know what they say about a woman scorned,” she said, but her pouty, red-painted lips drew into a teasing smile. “She might have to take matters into her own hands.”
Three months ago, Angie had called Deacon to the estate, claiming that she needed assistance with a light fixture, and that no one else on staff was present and her father was out of town on business. Reluctantly, suspecting a set-up, Deacon had come. Angie answered the door wearing a form-fitting silk kimono, and had led him to their lavishly appointed spa. There was no issue with the lighting, of course—she had set a dozen scented candles aglow in the chamber. Deacon had immediately turned to leave, but not before Angie stepped in front of him and let her kimono drop to the marble floor. He couldn’t help staring. Her body was magnificent.
I knew you wanted me, she had said, and grinned with triumph. It’s all over your face, sweetheart. You’re drooling like a dog.
She’d placed her hand on his crotch and gently squeezed, clearly pleased at his growing erection, and an involuntary groan had escaped him. But he didn’t touch her, though every fiber in his being wanted to give in to lust. He’d silently stepped aside, opened the door, and left without looking back.
The memory of her body had lingered with him . . . but the truth was, he believed she was toying with him, that Mr. Falcon had put her up to the seduction attempt as a test of his loyalty. Falcon was the kind of man who thrived on such insidious head games, and had no compunctions about using his daughter for such purposes. As proof of Deacon’s suspicions, a week after the incident, Mr. Falcon had called him and said he was giving him a ten percent raise, effectively immediately, as a reward for his “loyal service.”
“Daddy’s in his office,” Angie said.
Deacon nodded. “Thanks, I know the way.”
“Hmph. Don’t be a stranger, honey.” She grinned. “I’d better get ready for my yoga class. I’m so incredibly flexible now. Maybe I’ll show you some of my moves the next time I see you.”
Deacon only shook his head, bid her good-bye, and turned away.
His covered shoes whispered along the polished marble floors. The Falcon residence was more of a museum than a house. Expensive artwork adorned the walls, and sculptures stood on pedestals. Gigantic television screens hung in every room, and all of the sets were on, though all of the rooms he passed were vacant.
A year or so ago, Deacon had read an article about Falcon in Forbes magazine. Falcon had a net worth in the high nine figure range, and developed properties all over the world. He’d also heard that Falcon’s father, the founder of the company, had recently died. Upon learning the news Deacon had dropped off a card offering his condolences.
“Hi, Mr. Deacon.”
Deacon turned in mid-stride. Falcon’s teenage son, Caleb, had appeared behind him. The kid was fifteen or sixteen, tall like his father, and shared some of his father’s facial features, but their personalities were dramatically different. He’d never exchanged more than a simple greeting with the boy, and sensed that he was painfully shy. From what he’d heard from Angie, her younger brother was a mathematics prodigy, already attending college-level courses via an online program.
“Hi, Caleb. How are you doing?”
The boy looked as if he wanted to speak, but he only pressed his lips together, and disappeared back into a nearby room. Deacon shrugged, and continued on.
Falcon’s office was located in the west wing of the estate, at the end of a long corridor. Passing by the other, smaller offices that belonged to Falcon’s staff, Deacon noted that all of them were dark, empty. Had everyone called out sick there, too?
A bronze bust of Ronald Falcon stood prominently in an alcove near the door to his office, in a pool of golden light. Deacon had seen at least ten different sculptures of the man, organized in various locations of the estate. There was a large sculpture of Falcon on Main Street too, as if he were a national war hero.
Bracing for a storm, Deacon knocked on the door.
***
Falcon didn’t answer Deacon’s knock. Frowning, Deacon turned the knob. The door floated open.
The office was enormous, easily a thousand square feet. The lights were dimmed, and the blinds were drawn, too. The only illumination in the room issued from a bank of monitors hanging on the wall behind Falcon’s battleship of a desk.
Mr. Falcon had his back to Deacon. He was studying the screens, large hands clasped behind his back. He wore a dark, tailored suit. Deacon had never seen the man wearing casual clothes.
Deacon cleared his throat. “You wanted to see me, Mr. Falcon?”
“South Haven,” Mr. Falcon said softly. “Let’s consider that name. South Haven. Haven. What’s a haven, Mr. Deacon?”
“A safe place?” Deacon asked.
“A safe place, indeed. A place of refuge. A shelter.”
Deacon said nothing. He stood and waited. Falcon was the kind of man who liked to take his time making his points, especially when delivering a harsh message.
“My family used to run a gold mine on this property,” Falcon said. “We’d purchased over two thousand acres and had the largest mining operation in Georgia, outside of what they were doing farther north in Dahlonega. The mining business went defunct decades ago and my father had the idea of re-opening the mine for tours. I had the better idea of building a community that reminded me of my childhood: a haven, Mr. Deacon. Fashioned on the ideals of a better time, but including the modern amenities people expect.”
Deacon remained silent. It wasn’t the first he’d heard of the old gold mine. He’d seen the entrance himself once: it was nestled deep within the South Haven Greenway, isolated behind a seven-foot-high fence bristling with barbed wire.
“Would you please stand with me, Mr. Deacon?” Falcon asked.
Pulling in a breath, Deacon joined him at the bank of monitors.
Deacon was six-feet-one, and Falcon still towered over him. Although the developer was in his mid-sixties, he had the physique of a bodybuilder. He kept his head shaved completely bald; his frosty white eyebrows were his only facial hair.
Mr. Falcon glanced at Deacon. His piercing blue eyes were the color of gas flames.
“What do you see, Mr. Deacon?” he asked. “Look closely,
please.”
Falcon rarely raised his voice, spoke usually in sotto voce. Like a kindly grandfather sharing a treasured secret.
“I see different sections of South Haven that you’ve got under surveillance,” Deacon said. “There are some cops here today. We’ve had a number of incidents.”
“Incidents,” Mr. Falcon said. Shifting away from the monitors to face Deacon, he pursed his thin lips. “Hmm, yes. I dislike incidents.”
“I don’t like them either, but no one seems to know what’s going on. People are turning on one another for no apparent reason.”
“No apparent reason?” Falcon asked.
“The root cause has yet to be determined, sir.”
“How have you gone about determining this root cause, as you call it?” Falcon’s gaze was laser-like.
“I’ve been supporting the residents as needed, but the actual investigation into these crimes is in the hands of the Roswell Police Department.”
Mr. Falcon laughed. He rarely laughed. The laughter came from a place deep in his massive chest. The man was genuinely amused.
Deacon didn’t laugh. He felt as if he’d stepped off a cliff and was about to hit the hard earth below.
“What kind of work did you do before I hired you, Mr. Deacon?” Falcon asked.
“I was a cop with the Atlanta PD. Sixteen years on the force. I primarily worked narcotics and homicide.” Falcon knew all these details about Deacon’s background, probably knew things about Deacon’s career that Deacon himself had forgotten, but Deacon repeated his resume highlights anyway.
“It sounds like you were an experienced cop, Mr. Deacon. Yes?”
“Absolutely, one of the best.”
“Perhaps better than these officers in South Haven right now?”
“I’m sure I’d compare favorably to any of them,” Deacon said.
“But you haven’t been helping them,” Falcon said. “I’m certain they could use your assistance determining root cause.”
Deacon paused. “With all due respect, Mr. Falcon, I’m not a police officer any more. You didn’t hire me to be a cop. You hired me to be the head of security, and that’s the job I’m going to do. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Falcon went silent. Deacon waited a beat, and then turned to walk to the door. He had gotten halfway across the room when Falcon cleared his throat.
“You aren’t dismissed, Mr. Deacon.”
“If you’re telling me to work like a cop, we’ve got nothing else to discuss . . . sir,” Deacon said.
“Do you remember the terms of our contract?”
“Of course I do.”
“I don’t think you do. Have you reviewed it recently? There’s a clause that states that you will perform all the standard duties of a private security specialist, in addition to other responsibilities, as determined by Ronald Falcon.”
Shit, Deacon thought, his jaws clenching.
“How’s your father doing?” Falcon asked. “Is the nurse taking good care of him?”
Falcon paid for his father’s nursing services. He allowed Deacon and his father to live in the apartment rent-free, too. But as Deacon knew too well, nothing was ever free.
“Excellent care, sure. He’s doing well.”
“I’m pleased to hear that, Mr. Deacon. May I remind you that if I sue you for breach of contract, which I most certainly would since I love to avail myself of my legal rights, you will be fiscally responsible for all sums paid to date for private nursing services.”
Deacon didn’t respond.
“The subsidized rent for your two-bedroom apartment,” Falcon continued, “or let’s simply call it free housing, because that’s what it is. You would owe me back rent at market rates.”
Deacon was still silent, tension building in his chest.
“I’m not quite the math prodigy that my son happens to be, but I believe that combined, nursing and rent, well . . . the sum would surely exceed six figures. Plus legal fees, of course.”
“All right, you’ve made your point,” Deacon said. “But you do remember that I have some health issues here? There’s a reason why I’m not still Atlanta PD.”
“If I wanted a mindless brute with a gun, I would have hired one. I hired you because you have the intellectual capacity to be effective in spite of your physical limitations.”
“My team will have to be involved,” Deacon said. “I can’t do it alone.”
“So be it. I want you to put the haven back into South Haven, Mr. Deacon.”
Deacon nodded crisply. “But if the police question my interference?”
“This is my world, Mr. Deacon.” His eyes darkened. “In spite of what others may think. I built this community. Not my late father—may he rest in peace. Certainly not my brother. I alone created this wonderful place for others to enjoy. They aren’t enjoying it now. You will make sure they enjoy it again.”
“Understood, Mr. Falcon.”
Nodding, Falcon turned away from him. That was Deacon’s cue that the discussion was over. Deacon walked out of the office and left the mansion, thankful that he didn’t run into Angie again.
His responsibility was clear: he had to do everything in his power to restore order to South Haven. If that meant stepping on some toes, so be it.
He switched on the golf cart and settled behind the wheel.
A rich man like Falcon might have been confident in his own powers, but Deacon didn’t share his sense of self-assurance. Act like a cop again? He’d left the force three years ago, and it hadn’t been an amicable departure.
He started driving the golf cart, unsure of his destination.
***
Although he had driven without a clear end-point in mind, Deacon found himself traveling back to his apartment.
He pulled the golf cart into the parking lot of the apartment complex. There were two Roswell PD squad cars angled in the center of the lot, light bars swirling. An ambulance was on the scene, too.
Cops and meat wagons. They had become a common sight in South Haven that day. Deacon didn’t know all of the specifics of what was going on, as he wasn’t the one getting the calls for officer assistance, but in his many offhand conversations with rubbernecking residents, a common theme emerged, as he’d told Falcon: people were going bat shit crazy.
Like that kid from last night who’d hacked up his dad with a machete.
Like the St. Bernard that had mauled a woman that morning and nearly eaten him, too.
But the sight of the cops so close to home set him on edge. After shutting off the golf cart, he hurried to the ground-level unit that he shared with his dad.
Pops sat at the kitchen table eating a fruit salad and sipping iced tea while he paged through the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. In an age of digital media, Pops insisted on daily delivery of an old-fashioned hardcopy of the newspaper.
He looked up at Deacon’s entrance.
“Back already?” He cracked a grin. “Or did they fire you for gross misconduct?”
“Hey, Pops.” Deacon looked around. “Where’s Anita?”
“She’s out on the patio making a phone call. What’s the deal, son? You ran in here looking like you needed to piss like a racehorse.”
“It’s nothing.” Deacon sighed, opened the refrigerator. He grabbed a cup of Greek yogurt off a shelf.
“That’s mine, boy. Get your own.”
Deacon ignored him. Leaning against the counter, he peeled the foil lid off the yogurt and stirred the contents with a spoon. It was strawberry flavored, with the fruit at the bottom, and the sight of the red chunks brought back the vivid memory of the woman’s throat, ripped to shreds by the rabid dog.
He grimaced, forced himself to eat a spoonful of the blend. As a cop working Atlanta’s Old Fourth Ward, he had seen much worse, and had learned to move forward with life in spite of the things he’d viewed. But that didn’t mean it was easy. The memories often haunted your dreams and waking hours.
“I’ve been watching the news,”
Pops said. “Overnight, South Haven has become the murder capital of the whole damn country.”
“Falcon wants me to get involved.”
“Of course he does.” Pops chuckled. “What the hell else you got to do? Rescue cats from trees? Play ball with the neighborhood kids?”
“You know what I was hired to do here, Pops. I wasn’t hired to be a cop.”
“Why don’t you take me out to the courtyard to get some fresh air?” Pops asked. “After you fetch my piece?”
Deacon stepped to the patio. Anita stood at the wrought-iron railing, deep in conversation on her cell phone. He lip-synced to her that he was taking his dad out for a bit, and she nodded distractedly.
“Where’s my piece?” Pops asked when Deacon returned.
“I’ve got mine,” Deacon said, which was true. After the incident with the dog, he had returned to HQ and strapped on his Glock 17.
Deacon edged his father’s wheelchair outside the unit, and onto the paved walkway that ran the length of the building. He wheeled his dad to the courtyard, parking the chair beside a stone bench that sat in the shade of a magnolia tree in full bloom. Deacon settled on the bench next to his dad.
For a couple of minutes, they sat in companionable silence. Insects buzzed past. A cool breeze tempered the cloying heat.
“We could leave this damn place, you know,” Pops finally said. “My sister would take us in for a few days until shit cools off here.”
“Aunt Carol can barely tolerate your presence for a few minutes, much less a few days.”
“Might have a point there.” Pops chuckled softly. “Then a hotel?”
“Not for me.” Deacon shook his head. “You know I can’t go AWOL, Pops. I’ve got an obligation.”
“Damn contract,” Pops said.
“Falcon pointedly reminded me of that when he demanded I get involved here. He’s a cold-blooded bastard.”
“Rich man like him demands a return on his investment.” He spat. “Ain’t nothing free, son. That man tells you to jump you’d better ask how high. Ask you to dance and you’d better start stepping and finger popping.”
“I’m not a cop anymore.” Deacon clasped his hands in his lap. “I don’t know if I can handle that sort of thing again, physically. My heart . . .”
Frenzied - A Suspense Thriller Page 7