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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.
Lyrical Press books are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2018 by Dave Zeltserman
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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
