Blood Secrets

By Diane Dorce

Kendall Harris is missing and it is up to Atlanta Detective Zack Monstar to find her. What seems like a standard missing persons case balloons into a full-fledged who done it. He and the locals make gruesome discoveries...there were more bodies, reports of missing girls and still even fewer leads. Did they have a serial murderer on the loose? Where were the girls? Zack's investigation lands him into a time warp where alliances are only honored by blood and justice is unspoken. The Sheriff wasn’t helping and he was running out of time. Zack knew the rules. He just had no idea how to play by them.

This case fueled him and drove him like never before. Zack didn’t care whether he lived or died but he cared about Kendall Harris. Kendall’s will to live, coupled with Zack's undeniable nature to win, would carry them far, but will it be enough? As he closes in on the truth he is once again blindsided... the enemy is everywhere, the enemy is him. At the heels of his investigation, when the evil truth is revealed, Detective Zack Monstar will be forced to make a critical decision that could end his career, and more importantly put his life and the lives of those he swore to protect in dire jeopardy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Firefly Publishing & Entertainment, LLC.
• Release date: Jan 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463410226

Diane Dorce

Diane Dorce’ was born in Gary, Indiana. Her first writing venture was a self-published preteen novel,"Loving Penny" which received rave reviews and a Honorary Mention in the Writers Digest Self-Publish Book Awards. "Devil in the Mist" is Diane’s first mystery-suspense novel. Since then, she has penned "52 Broad Street", a urban drama, as well as contributed to the short-story anthology, "Bloggers Delight", where her short-story "Smoke" received rave reviews. The author currently resides in Georgia, where she is at work on her next novel while also running her boutique publishing company, Firefly Publishing & Entertainment.

Book preview

Prologue

Except for the occasional chirping of crickets, and other sounds that were not so familiar to him, it was deathly quiet. The perfect place to commit murder. They called him a punk… he always had to prove himself. Prove that he was better, tougher, and stronger than the rest. Tests, challenges were second nature to him. They should have known that by now, but they knew nothing. They demanded a life with ill regard to the repercussions. He was smarter than the twelve of them put together, punk wannabees, leading each other by their own minute dicks, and they had the nerve to call him a punk. The thought of them strung together like sausages made him laugh, but with a closed mouth. The smell was horrible and toxic. The handkerchief he had tied around his mouth and nose did nothing for him. On any normal day, the marsh smelled bad, but today, it was rancid.

He struggled to pull her out of the water. Dead weight weighed more than the living, a fact that always puzzled him. She was little, tiny even, no more than a hundred pounds, and yet he struggled to lift her. His shoulders hurt, and his wrists twisted in pain as he pulled her to the edge of the marsh and dumped her near a pile of dead timber. She resembled a Black Raggedy Ann. Her clothes were in shreds, and her once beautiful hair lay matted and tangled with bark and all sorts of things. He pulled a piece out of her hair, and his heart jumped. Even in death, she still had the same eyes, still looked at him the same. It was a fearful stare of disbelief, of something gone wrong, a friend betrayed. He covered her face with a plastic grocery sack, no longer wanting to be reminded of her tearful pleas or the beauty that remained even in the face of death. She was beautiful. By far one of the prettiest girls on campus. He thought so the very first time he saw her. She was nice, too, a good girl, smart, kind, and always smiling. He lingered over her, remembering her warmth just hours ago. It was so easy, and perfect, yet he felt a tinge of regret because he would no longer be able to savor her sweet lips, and that pissed him off more than anything. All was fair in love and war, and right now, he was at war. Every action, every plan had been put in place to be executed for sake of the one and only, The Blood.

Chapter 1

Zack pulled up to the abandoned-looking gas station, wanting directions. He couldn’t believe it. He was lost…the consummate traveler who knew where he was going always was lost in Georgia.

The gas station half stood on an uneven, cracked concrete platform. Unlike the more modern gas stations, there was no huge, windowed mini-grocery complete with hot coffee or sandwiches. It was just a small wooden building, a shack, or someone’s house for that matter: washboard gray, with white shingles that hung diagonally on rusted nails; nothing was intact. From the looks of it, it hadn’t been used in years. That’s why it was more than a surprise for him when someone knocked at his window.

Out of reflex, Zack reached for his gun. At first glance, the old man looked to be well into his eighties. His brown leathered skin reminded Zack of the road map he checked for directions. Lines ran in complete disorder; some connected moles, and others reached for higher or lower places, small and large crevices that stood the test of time. They were distinct markings of history, evidence of someone who had lived a long and hard life. The man cupped his hands against the window and seemed to peer right through the tinted glass. Zack laughed and eased his gun back under the seat. He rolled down his window, letting out the thump, thumping beat of old school Cameo funk and let in the unwelcome smell of rotted fish and swamp.

Hey there, you need help? the old man asked.

Yes, sir, he answered. I didn’t think you were open or else I would have come in. I appear to be a little lost.

Well is you, or aren’t you? Either you lost or you’re not, can’t be both. The old man smiled a toothy grin.

Since you put it that way, I guess I am then. My name’s Zack Monstar.

Pleased to me meet you, Zack. The old man reached into the window, grabbing onto and shaking Zack’s hand. His hands were near bones, but he had a firm grasp. Astonishing, since he didn’t look to weigh more than hundred pounds, dripping wet. I’m Elijah Sewell, the owner of this rest stop you sitting in. So, where you heading?

Heading toward a little town outside of Statesboro called Register, Georgia. You know the place?

At the mentioning of Register, Elijah turned away from the car and Zack. When he faced him again, Zack could see a change in him. And he recognized it as fear.

You sure? Register?

Yes, sir, Register, Georgia. I must have made a wrong turn somewhere, and that’s pretty much how I ended up here. It’s not too far, is it?

Elijah shook his head. No, not far at all, but you sure you want to go to Register? He said this slow, repeating each word like a first-grade teacher reciting spelling words. Zack found it annoying. Register don’t take too kindly to city folk. And far as I know, don’t no colored live there.

Colored? Zack asked, confused, offended, but amused. You mean black people. He pointed to his chest and then to Elijah’s. Like us? Elijah didn’t seem to see anything wrong with the word, its reference, or that it was way past outdated.

You got some business up there? Elijah asked, still looking concerned.

Yeah, I do. I’m going to see Sheriff Barnes. You know him?

Huh, he said, then chuckled. Who don’t know Sheriff Ray? Why he been the sheriff forever around these parts. His whole family lived and worked here, first his great granddaddy Silas Barnes, then Jonathan Barnes, now Ray. I guess it won’t be long for his son, Ray Jr. take over. They sho’ know how to keep it in the family.

He listened and laughed as Elijah told tale after tale. In fact, he hadn’t laughed that hard in quite some time. As sweet as the moment was, he had to move on, the sun was setting, and dark was on its heels. Zack was determined to make it to Savannah before dark. Part of his reason for making the trip was his side trip to Savannah. Spending a weekend overlooking the river, eating fine seafood, and maybe even a little of riverboat gambling—that was what he had in mind when he accepted the task.

First things first, he thought. He had to see Sheriff Barnes about a missing person. A case well out of his jurisdiction, but under some very special circumstances, he was here.

Captain Diaz didn’t like it and tried his best to stop Zack from getting involved. The captain was never the overly political type, and doing favors was, simply put, kissing ass for the big brass of the city. He wouldn’t be a part of it, nor would he allow his men to be. But he ate those words the day Commissioner Holmes called him into his office, and together with the mayor a decision was made to involve Zack in a case three hundred miles outside of Atlanta. Diaz didn’t disclose the details of the conversation, nor did he appear angry, but he wasn’t the same, and Zack hated that. A man without conviction is no man at all, and when anyone tears at the very fiber of another person’s convictions, whether wrong or right, it changes them. Not long after sending Zack on this personal journey did the captain announce his retirement. His decision rocked the entire station, and Zack found out by phone call one hour into his trip to locate the missing Kendall Harris.

From what he could gather, no one knew what had happened to Kendall Harris. The locals had already questioned her roommate; searched the campus grounds of West Georgia, located in the nearby city of Statesboro; and pretty much made a summation that she was just off on a weekend trip. Her parents and roommate disagreed.

Kendall would never ignore my phone calls, Mrs. Harris stated. And where is her car? Did it just disappear, too? She should have never gone there. We wanted so much better for her. Oh my God, she exhaled on the phone. Please find my daughter.

Her statements and others led Zack to believe that this was not just a case of someone getting away for the weekend. She came from a good home, was well liked, and from the little that he learned … a sort of nerd. Per her roommate, Tammy. Kendall hadn’t removed a thing. Everything was just like it was the last day she seen her: her pajamas thrown across the twin bed; her shoes, books, and purse still in the room. The last time she spoke with Kendall, she was headed somewhere up near Register to take pictures for a school project. No one had seen her since.

You thirsty? Elijah asked. I got some cold root beer in the fridge and some orange if you like that. I keep orange for my granddaughter. She doesn’t too much like root beer, but it’s my favorite.

No, thank you anyway. I think I better be on my way. You say I just go down the road here, and it would lead me back to the highway?

Nope, I didn’t say nothing. But if you want to reach Register, you be best taking the back roads from here. It’s quicker. Just drive down there past that yellow post. Make a right turn and follow that road into town. You can’t miss it; it be the only thing you reach at the end of that road. You had better hurry. I don’t advise you take that road after dark. There ain’t no lights, and the road got some tricky curves. Some would lead you right into the marsh.

I plan to be well on my way to Savannah before dark.

Savannah, now that’s a nice place to visit. I got some kin up there, too! Boy, they got the best fish, shrimps as big as my hand. I remember when I was a boy, my daddy took me up there sometimes for fishing. I caught—

Zack knew if he didn’t interrupt him now, the story would never end. He kind of felt sorry for the old guy, out in the middle of nowhere, no one to talk to. He hated to leave him, but he had a promise to keep and some big and tasty shrimp waiting on him in Savannah, plenty of good reason to get moving.

All right Elijah, he interrupted. Nice meeting you, man. You gonna be all right?

Yeah, why wouldn’t I be? This my home. I’m happy as a peach here. I don’t get many visitors since the pumps run dry, but I gets by, day by day. He smiled. You be careful there, Zack. And if you get lost or something, you give old Elijah a call. He pulled out a cell phone. Take down my number.

Zack couldn’t hide the shock on his face, or the snicker pushing at the corners of his mouth. Everything about the old man dated back to the sixties, yet he pulled out a Nokia flip phone.

Got ya, didn’t I? Yeah, I know, an old man like me with a cell phone. I may be old, but I’m still living with the times. Don’t much get past me, Monstar, not much at all. But this. He held out the phone. This is my granddaughter’s doing—her way of keeping in touch. Okay, now write this number down. I likes modern things, I really do. He paused for a moment, as if he was gathering his thoughts. You know, Zack, some things never change. Register, like that. It’s a quiet town, most times, but it’s got a bad history, none of it good for folks like you and me. If’n you didn’t have to go, don’t, that’s all I’m saying.

Zack saved Elijah’s number as he requested. The old man seemed to be giving him a warning of sort, but of what? He thought about what Elijah said for a while, but soon his thoughts drifted back to Savannah, and shrimp, lots of them. He hadn’t eaten since this morning, and there was nothing more important to a hungry man than food. He remembered the way the old man looked when he drove away, almost sad, but in retrospect, he looked worried, as if he knew the fate that awaited Zack.

Zack didn’t have a clue.

For miles, driving alone on that road, Zack tried to put the pieces together. From what he had learned. Kendall was a young, beautiful, talented freshman, and the heart of both her parents. In high school, she was an overachiever, honor roll student, track star, budding actress, and part-time photographer. She chose West Georgia to be close to home and family.

Her parents were secure in knowing she was less than four hours away and just a short car trip from Atlanta. Zack fumbled to picture of Kendall between his fingers. He marveled at her delicate features, almond-shaped eyes with thick lips and an ample nose. Something about her reminded Zack of his deceased wife Regina. Regina’s eyes and lips stared back at him from the picture. It could have been her, fifteen years ago. But then, Kendall was very much her mother’s daughter. The resemblance was uncanny. She had her mother’s forehead and high cheekbones, while her wide even smile and almond eyes all belonged to Daddy. Her parents, Wil and Karen spoke highly of her, and they had good reason to. Not only was she beautiful, smart, and ambitious, but she was also the first in her family to attend college on a full scholarship.

Zack ran his fingers across the photograph, Kendall’s smile, a sweet, innocent grin of a young girl on the cusp of womanhood. An angel lost. But where?

Before Zack left Atlanta, he did manage to put out an APB on Kendall’s car, a 2010 Toyota Yaris in royal blue, and he got a hit; someone had reported an abandoned vehicle to the Register Sheriff Department, his first stop of the day.

Just as Elijah said, the road ran right into the town square, and a square it was. The town was situated around a small park like area, with a fountain, a bench, and a flagpole. Flying high above him was Georgia’s most recent abandoned flag and every black activist’s nightmare, the Confederate Flag of Georgia.

The place seemed almost empty. It was eerily quiet, with no sound of anyone walking or driving about. Zack found the Sheriff’s office nearby, identified by a painted sign posted above a small brick building, right next to the souvenir shop with windows adorned with more rebel flags, not exactly a welcoming sight.

You know, Zack, some things never change. Register, like that. It’s a quiet town, most times, but it’s got a bad history, none of it good for folks like you and me.

Elijah’s words haunted him. Zack felt a wave of uneasiness, this place, everything, was like being caught in a time warp. He parked his car in front of the red brick building, its front draped in the Confederate flag, while a white painted sign announced your destination, Sheriff’s office. Before he could shut off his motor, three men exited the small building carrying rifles, aimed at him.

It was kind of funny, not funny ha-ha, but stranger funny. Unbelievably funny. And he laughed despite the situation. Like it was a joke, but it wasn’t, the guns were real, and there was no mistaking that he was the intended target. He heard one of them cock his gun, and things weren’t so funny anymore.

One of men shouted, That’s close enough, boy! He gripped his shotgun tight, knuckles bulging against skin, skin against bone, as if given a chance, the gun would jump out of his hands. State your business!

Boy! Zack shook his head, as if to clear the static. Did he just hear someone say boy? He wasn’t accustomed to being called a boy. Truth be told, he wasn’t accustomed to none of this shit. Far from home, gun in car, it didn’t take him long to decide the best defense was none. He knew better; only a fool would act out facing three men with big guns. He would try the friendly approach.

Good afternoon. I’m here to see Sheriff Barnes. My name’s Zack Monstar.

Your name’s boy! the toothless one shouted, and all three laughed.

He had a hard time choking that one down. Zack could feel the bile rise in his throat, while his hands tensed by his side. He sought the one that spoke, the snagga-tooth muthafucka with the big mouth, holding a gun twice his size. He would be the easiest. The other two were bigger, but less threatening. He was the leader. Take out the leader, the pack would falter. Zack forced another smile. It would be easy, even satisfying, but that wasn’t his mission, and he wasn’t up to killing no fools over some bullshit. He ignored their sneers and asked again, Sheriff Barnes. Is he in?

You ain’t from around these parts is you, boy? Don’t you know what happens to your kind around here? the toothless one said, then spat a wad of spit Zack’s way.

Zack checked his jacket first for any of the phlegm. There was none, but that didn’t make him any less angry. He towered over the one doing all the talking and didn’t know how much longer he would be able to keep his cool, or even if he wanted to.

No, I don’t, Zack responded, but I tell you what, you call me boy one more time, I’m gonna show you how a boy can whip your skinny, putrid ass.

The man’s eyes grew big, like they were about to pop right out their sockets. He chewed hard and then spit, this time in the other direction, far from Zack. It seemed his inner bully came out, or some of that obvious Trump supporter, racist fuming manifested, causing him to strut and pull his gun on Zack.

Boom-Boom, you dead.

Zack swung his left elbow, catching the shooter in the neck. He jumped on the deputy like he was catching a ride, and in one swift move, he knocked the man to the ground and was about to beat some new sense into him when he heard the familiar sound of click.

Now, that’s about enough of that. Get off him, the tall one commanded. Sheriff, he hollered, you got company.

Zack stood and dusted himself off.

What’s that I hear about company? A tall man with snow-white hair asked as he stepped through the door. Zack had a feeling he’d been standing there all along, watching. What you boys been up to out here? He addressed the three men with guns.

Sheriff Barnes didn’t wear a big hat, but he had a big head, round, red and meaty, like the butt of a ham. Aside from being just big, he looked like any Joe Blow off the street, wearing a polo shirt and jeans except he walked and talked just like he stepped out of one of them dusty Westerns.

Sheriff Barnes? Zack asked.

That’s me. He reached for Zack’s hand and shook firm. It was