Black Moon

By Robert Frazier

For untold millennia, a spiritual being has roamed the face of the earth: seldom revealing its face, but rather inhabiting the bodies of those responsible for some of the most diabolical acts known to man. Its sole purpose is the annihilation of mankind through the obliteration of one of the most preeminent bloodlines in history. The novel, Black Moon, describes the experiences of a homicide detective whose life is impacted by a string of brutal and inexplicable murders in the city of Philadelphia, which appear to be the work of something other than human. In the process, he has to come face-to-face with a hidden fear regarding a similar incident from his past while acknowledging the implication of his wife as the primary suspect in these affairs. Robert R. Frazier is a native of Philadelphia, PA. His past works have received literary recognition from Temple University and the U.S. House of Representatives among others. He received a Bachelor of Science degree from Tuskegee University and a Master's in Education from Antioch University and has worked as a special education teacher and child and adolescent therapist in the Philadelphia area. Married and the father of seven, he is retired and devotes his time exclusively to writing. He is presently working on the sequel to Black Moon to be released in 2018.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9781640824737

Book preview

Acknowledgments

Where do I begin? The Good Witch of the North in the movie version of The Wizard of Oz said it best: It’s always best to start at the beginning.

First of all, I must extend praises to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, Who in His infinite wisdom blessed me with the gift of writing. The concept and the design are His. I am little more than the vessel chosen to bring it to life.

I would also like to thank my parents, the late Otis and Clara Frazier, who took advantage of my formative years to instill within me not merely the importance of education but a love of literature that has stayed with me through this day. The sickly, asthmatic child sitting in bed was able to transcend the boundaries of his immediate surroundings via imagination, and the journey has been unceasing ever since.

Additionally, I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge the contributions of my loving and devoted wife, Deborah. Her support, patience, and constructive criticism were invaluable in the completion of this project.

Finally, to all aspiring writers, I encourage you not to neglect the gift that lies within you. Each of us is born with unique talents and abilities, which must be cultivated prior to the harvest. This story is the result of a fifteen-year labor of love and confirms Christ’s exhortation to "seek and ye shall find."

To the readers, if you enjoy reading this book half as much as I did writing it, then the effort has been more than worthwhile.

Peace,

Robert

One

The beast moved through the darkened woodlands of Fairmount Park with a grace and agility that belied its size. Undaunted by the falling mercury customary to February evenings, it pressed on … driven by the singular goal in its savage brain. Blending with the habitat, it combed the brush along Lemon Hill with the midwinter moon lending a fantastic aspect to its shadow on the hardened terrain. A layer of coarse, dark fur offset the late-night wind chill and accentuated a taut, muscular frame while overly developed photo receptors allowed silver-tinted orbs to take in everything at a glance.

Gleaming fangs and honed incisors lined a gaping maw with condensed columns of artic vapor forming an incessant trail of saliva along slackened jaws. The glaze of ice lining dormant grass courtesy of late-afternoon sleet posed no problem for padded feet that allowed it to navigate on two legs or all fours. The limbs were additionally complimented by retractable claws to assist in fulfilling its primary task. Having no natural enemies, self-preservation was not a question; and unable to bear young, motherhood was meaningless.

It killed merely for the sake of it.

Like most feral creatures, it possessed acute senses of smell and hearing with the latter drawing its attention to the sounds of music and laughter from a nearby clearing.

In the driver’s seat of a 2010 Jeep Cherokee, a quarter mile south of the Fountain Green overpass, the man squirmed back and forth amid hysterical laughter from his female companion while attempting to brush the steaming liquid from his thigh.

Damn it! he seethed. That coffee burned the hell outta me!

Observing his frustration, the lady composed herself.

I’m sorry, dear, she responded while stroking his hair. It was an accident. It’s dark in here, and I couldn’t find the cup holder.

And you thought my lap was it? he questioned.

Her gaze shifted to the movement of his hand as it massaged the affected area and, in an empathetic display, replaced it with hers.

Poor baby, she acknowledged, you’ve been so sweet to me. And I love my Valentine’s Day present!

She called his attention to the pink diamonds adorning her ears with one hand as the other continued its work. After adjusting the backrest and steering wheel, he let the shiatsu take effect until awareness of a different inflation interrupted it. With a grin, she released him and, detecting snatches of the Ronnettes’ Be My Baby on the radio, increased the volume and sang along as he gathered himself. Reaching into her shoulder bag for the Benson and Hedges Gold cigarettes that were as essential as her makeup, she thumped one out as he bolted from the vehicle amid promises of a quick return.

You’d better! she advised. That was just the first part of your present. And hurry up. I’ve got something better in mind!

Running her tongue suggestively across mauve-shaded lips, she laughed as he hurried in comic fashion toward a nearby clump of greenery while mumbling something in reference to her oral fixation … smoking and otherwise. She waited until he neared the destination before calling his attention to the stain.

Hey! Are you sure you didn’t already do that?

He said nothing but shook his head in resignation at the flippancy that while offensive to some had oddly become endearing to him. Her free manner of speech—or shooting from the hip, as she put it—had been one of the initial sources of attraction, and in retrospect, he wouldn’t have it any other way. Peals of laughter followed him into the bushes, and he chuckled in response while stepping into a secluded area. Allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom, he walked several paces before deciding that this was just as good a spot as any. Doing the honors himself this time, the man lowered his zipper and reflected on their relationship while listening to the crackling of his fluids against the frozen leaves beneath.

She had been his primary source of comfort during a difficult period. His wife of thirteen years had left him for a mutual friend the summer before last, and it had taken months to recover.

Therapy, alcohol, and church had all proven useless in restoring his former self. Then she came along and provided a renewed sense of purpose. With an eye on the future, he hoped that she was able to recognize the gift as an investment beyond money. All that remained was for her to leave her husband, as these clandestine meetings were becoming wearisome.

Once upon a time, he would have found such a relationship out of the question. In fact, dead wrong would have probably been an accurate assessment. From personal experience, he knew the pain of betrayal; and although religion was not a strong point, there was little difference between Alexandra and Judas Iscariot as far as he was concerned. The opposite side of the fence was another matter, and although it might sound selfish, his last concern at this point was another man’s plight. He was so engrossed in thought that at first, he didn’t notice the slight rustle of the underbrush to his left. However, a second more deliberate movement commanded his attention.

What the fuck? he muttered while straining his eyes in anticipation of an approaching figure.

Familiar with her propensity for pranks (the ten-second sound clip from a porn movie left for a coworker who habitually checked his messages via speakerphone was priceless), his initial thought was that she had seized the opportunity for one—until such speculation was interrupted by deep, laborious breathing that sent a surge of adrenaline through his body. Casually unzipping his jacket, he felt along the interior pocket for the Blackhawk Mark II folding knife kept there and, after deftly removing it, clicked the blade open while maintaining visual contact with the area in front. A menacing snarl reached his ears, and prompted by the recall of a Doberman Pinscher bite at age twelve, he blindly reached behind … feeling for a way out. He was aware that his breathing was limited to irregular gasps and, mindful of betraying his location, inched along the path when an inadvertent stumble caused him to drop the knife.

He landed shoulder-first, cursing his clumsiness while crashing into the blackened earth. Rising to his knees, he groped for it in the dark with the seconds stretching endlessly.

What the fuck is it? he wondered as frantic fingers pawed the hardened terrain.

Despite abrupt silence beyond the thicket, he sensed that whatever it was might still be there and kept his head on a swivel with quick twists in all directions—all the while praying that he would find the blade in time. Eventually locating it, he exhaled relief while rising and turning to the foliage. In the face of a blur hurtling toward him, there was no time to react.

The man was propelled through space before striking the ground with such force that the breath was driven from his lungs. Dazed by the impact, he lay there as instinct compelled him to rise and was in the midst of it when a blow to the head drove him back. A flash of pain followed the jolt as something akin to the straight-edged razor that Francesco the barber applied to his face on Saturday mornings slashed across it. Something moist and pliable fell against his chest, and in the dim light, he found himself staring at his own ear.

A shout of fright more than pain streamed above the verdure, but it was short-lived in the wake of pressure at his throat. Tapered canines punctured the esophagus and larynx with a frothy mix of blood and saliva, reducing would-be screams to gurgles courtesy of the flood in his mouth.

He heard a sound comparable to paper being crumpled as the jaws bore deeper and sensed it was the give of his flesh.

The warm taste filling its mouth excited the creature and prompted it to tear into the chest cavity with such savagery that portions of the rib cage were shattered as six-inch claws burrowed through flesh and muscle. The man felt his lungs explode and stared into the eyes of his attacker as resultant convulsions prompted the thrashing of his legs against the ground saturated with his blood. The animal continued to slash and maul until what lay beneath ceased to struggle. Satiated with the blood of its kill, it moved on.

Traffic on the roads was virtually nonexistent, reducing the travel time from here to his home by twenty minutes. So the woman thought while savoring the last of her hazelnut coffee. His unexpected gift had enhanced the evening … obligatory sex would be the perfect compliment. She was in the midst of rehearsing the scenario when movement of the nearby bushes interrupted her thoughts. Lowering the volume on the oldies station, she cracked the window in anticipation of his appearance. Fighting the frigid air, she lowered the glass entirely before calling him.

No response.

Another summons yielded the same results. Shutting off the engine, she slipped the keys into her coat pocket and, conscious of the slippery footing, tiptoed her way toward the area. Half-expecting to meet him on the way, she called again and hoped the forced geniality would conceal rising concerns.

Hey, in there! she called once more. You need some help with that thing? You know, doctors caution against heavy lifting!

Again, silence. Perhaps he was testing her resolve. Considering her reaction to the coffee incident, it was safe to say that turnabout was, indeed, fair play. Still, she found it uncomfortable and contemplated a quick return to the truck ‘Find your own way out, fucker!’ before a guttural sound from the dark prompted her to freeze in her tracks.

An involuntary shudder coursed through her frame. Every fiber of her being tensed, and despite the icy discharge engulfing her face, a sudden moistness spread across her forehead. The sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach was matched by sudden heaviness in her legs, and her breathing became swift and shallow while backing toward the Cherokee. With her vision trained on the area in front, she called to him once more and squealed in the midst of retreat as her back came into contact with something solid.

Without realizing it, the woman had backed into the SUV. Immediately, she remembered the .25 automatic that her friend kept in the glove compartment, for emergency purposes, as he liked to put it. Never taking her eyes from the area, she inched her way to the passenger side and cautiously opened the door. Still reluctant to avert her gaze, she felt for the weapon with profane mumblings in response to unwanted objects.

A sudden breeze whistled through the branches of a nearby tree to bend them against the pale light—casting distorted images against the windshield as she continued her search. Her eyes welled with tears prompted more by fear than the stinging blasts, and she ignored the dull ache in her hands that signaled the invading cold when, at last, they came upon a familiar shape. Locating the weapon, she swiftly removed it and released the safety as he’d instructed her when the frigid gusts dissipated as abruptly as they had begun.

Willing her voice to assume an air of authority, she stepped toward the thicket. If it was him pulling her leg, then the prospect of facing the Walther PP would be the end of that joke. If not, then who or whatever emerged from the bushes would get what they deserved. Declaring her intent, she aimed it while moving closer … half-expecting his announcement coupled with a plea not to shoot. However, hope was shattered by a distinct snarl from the rear. Turning, the woman gazed into angry gray orbs and had time to scream once before it was upon her.

The synthesized doink doink from the television show Law and Order filtered through to rouse Vernell Cheeks from slumber. Part of his brain prayed that it was some illogical aspect of his dream … as if the dialogue during church service with Brownie, his sister’s silver tabby from their childhood, made sense. However, as the tone continuously sounded, reality took hold. Not exactly a geek ‘I’m as old school as it gets’, he’d sought his wife’s assistance in downloading just two ringtones to his cell phone: the TV music for the job and Alicia Keys’s No One as her signature. The traditional ring would suffice for everyone else, and while reaching for the smartphone, he sensed that he would sleep no more this night.

A twelve-year veteran of the Philadelphia Police Department, he had taken the detective’s exam at his wife’s insistence and, upon passing it, earned an assignment to the homicide division two years earlier. In contrast to the glamor depicted on television, his primary duties consisted of filing reports, answering the telephone, and accompanying seasoned investigators in the field. Cheeks dared not reveal his thoughts of dissatisfaction with the tedium of these tasks to anyone other than his wife. An adrenaline junkie, he yearned for the excitement of his days in blue when a single call would provide that much-needed rush.

On one occasion, his partner, Alfonso (A. D.) Dandridge, and he responded to a woman’s call regarding a possible breaking and entering to discover the suspect was a more than slightly intoxicated husband who had misplaced his keys. In alcoholic frustration, he had smashed in the front window to his property—earning a trip to the emergency room for stitches and a profanity-laced berating from his wife.

As the man rose to leave, he staggered and dropped his coat. In the process of retrieving it, the missing keys fell from one of its pockets along with a crumpled five-by-eight-inch square print advertisement for a club that featured exotic dancers and a used condom hastily wrapped in toilet paper. The job proved ineffectual, as its contents spilled across the face of someone billed as Tempest with his wife’s response thundering along the corridor.

You nasty muthafucka! Is that who you fuckin’ with?

It took both officers to restrain her as the man made a wise and hasty retreat through the emergency room door to disappear into the darkness along Cedar Avenue.

Sitting at his desk, the cop reflected on persons and events from those days. He thought of Sabir, the Pakistani ice cream truck driver who detested his product (The vanilla bean tastes like donkey shit!); Mrs. Park, the Korean breakfast shop owner whose grits were exactly like his mother’s; and even speculated on the whereabouts of Vickie, or Missy V, as she preferred to be called. Missy was an exotic dancer and aspiring porn actress who was notorious for giving street performances in little more than sunglasses and platform pumps (She can work the shit out of a stop sign! was one casual observer’s assessment) before being whisked off by her boyfriend-slash-agent in a predesignated vehicle prior to the arrival of police. Inevitably, his mind returned to the incident that nearly cost him his life and haunted him still.

It had occurred nearly four winters ago. Cheeks and A. D. were in pursuit of a street-level cocaine dealer whom they had stumbled upon in the middle of a transaction. Eduardo Ruiz had emigrated from the El Barrio, or Spanish Harlem section of New York City, several years ago. A once-promising athlete, his blazing speed in football and track-and-field competition earned him the nickname Fast Eddie. Nowadays, his athletic prowess was limited to dashes through alleys and over backyard fences to elude the police or those who unknowingly purchased baking soda instead of the desired product. Having lost his mother at the age of seventeen to a hit-and-run accident, Eddie put school behind shortly thereafter and never looked back. Mentored by others in the game, he viewed crack coupled with the powder as a means of supporting the lifestyle he’d always aspired to attain.

At the age of twenty-three, flamboyance added to his hood status, especially among the younger ones in the neighborhood. Some even dreamed of getting tattoos similar to the ones he sported. Eddie’s signature marking adorned his right biceps and featured the visage of the Grim Reaper, with the words Born to Kill beneath. Now, on this day, his moniker was again put to the test. During the chase down the block and through the alley, he sailed gracefully over a fence to disappear into the recesses of an abandoned building. Never one to wait for backup, Cheeks was eager to leap the fence but was restrained by his more experienced partner. A mutual decision to cover the house front and back ended with Vernell taking the former.

The whine of distant sirens heralded the arrival of reinforcements with Cheeks taking his position as the other scaled the fence. He had barely stationed himself when a yell from the rear reached his ears. It was A. D. and what began as a shout of alarm quickly progressed to a mix of terror and agony before abrupt silence brought it to a close.

With a surge of adrenaline, Cheeks raced to the back and cleared the cyclone enclosure to find the partially obscured figure of his partner lying in the snow. The docked tail and haunches of a large animal blocked the upper portion as spastic legs slammed against the dirty sheet of ice beneath them. Sickened by the sight, he yelled at the brute to move while leveling his weapon as it turned to face him.

Despite the dim alley light, Cheeks made out the features of a cane corso mastiff. Blue brindle coated with a gray-tipped nose and white patches along the chest indicative of maturity, it bared