Grim Island(Book 1)(Legacy of Terror Series)
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Grim Island
Legacy of Terror Book One
Wayne R. Tripp
This book has been refreshed
Copyright Page
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictionally. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locals, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
An Original work of Wayne R. Tripp
Grim Island Copyright 2013 by Wayne R. Tripp
Author Contact:
Email: AuthorWayneTripp@yahoo.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authorwaynetripp
Dedication
No good book gives birth to itself unless perhaps it's on Grim Island. This book has been brought into our world by the efforts of many; it's covered with countless fingerprints and I'd like to express my thanks and dedicate this book to their unwavering encouragement. Thanks to my parents, Richmond and Caroline, for letting me explore the maze of my imagination while making sure I had both feet firmly planted in this world; and especially for showing me how to love, by example. To my loving wife, Robin, for letting me run wild and always providing a loving smile and a soft shoulder when I fell on my face. To my daughters; Heather for the ominous yet beautiful cover, and Jen, for her tireless efforts to see that this book and its siblings do come into the world alive and kicking. Now, slam the door so the monsters don't get out, and read. Read as though your life depended on it!
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
The Blackest Heart, Legacy of Terror Book 2
Chapter 1
High in the early morning sky, a Herring gull soared over the uneasy sleepers of Grim Island, and banked east toward the lonely lighthouse on the Lost Hope cliffs, looking for a place to dump its last meal of cracked crab and mussels. Most of the locals still struggled in the clutches of vivid nightmares, while a few brave souls lurched around their homes preparing for their boring daylong battles. Far below, two large metallic creatures with flashing lights sprinted along a narrow finger of rocky coast squashed between the frigid North Atlantic and the park’s bottomless salt pond. Intrigued, the gull dropped lower, finally committing to a bombing run. A chalky glob splattered onto a puddingstone outcropping just as the second police vehicle sped by.
* * * *
"Dammit, MacLeod, it's another one. Middle-aged woman this time, though it's hard to tell with most of her body fluids and muscle mass gone. Soft body tissue too; probably those damned seagulls. Stuff like that is the first thing they gobble." The African American cop rose slowly, feeling the weight of the previous night's beer still wobbling around. Close to losing his morning coffee and bagel.
Chapter 2
She came awake a couple minutes before her alarm chirped, and gently eased her son from her breast. Following their daily ritual, she laid his cherubic head on the pillow, brushing the shock of blond curls from his forehead. Wiping a line of drool from his pouting bottom lip, she kissed his forehead and eased herself away from the rapidly cooling bed. Pulling the covers up over her son, she felt a sudden chill on her breast and gazed at its rigid nipple. A wide splotch of spittle matching her son’s drool stained her chest. No doubt, a steady dribble of her milk had contributed to her soaked night gown. He’d been trying to suckle again. She wondered if she should be talking to someone about Brian. No way. Their relationship was nobody’s business. However, she really did need to start weaning Brian off her boob. Maybe tomorrow.
Cramming herself into their tiny bathroom, she twisted the stubborn shower handles on before she reached for her tooth brush. The air trapped in the old copper pipes only clanked for a few minutes that morning. Maybe by the time she finished brushing, she’d actually have hot water. Dream on. As she put away her toothbrush, and gathered her towel and shampoo, the shared bathroom wall began a rhythmic vibration. The Cabrals were going at it again. Normally she wouldn’t mind, she was all for morning sex, but the Cabral couple had to be at least in their forties. Yuck!
Finishing her shower, she wiped the steam off the mirror and stood a moment scrutinizing herself. Not too bad for a single mom with a kid, down on her luck. She couldn’t do anything about her big green eyes, insignificant nose, or even the short red hair she struggled to make presentable. Gift of her Celtic heritage, just as her generous boobs came from her Italian grandmother. Her left breast had stung a bit when she soaped it up in the shower. Examining herself, she saw a rash of little red marks dotting her pale flesh, clustered around her nipple. Bed bugs, maybe fleas? She’d have to complain to the landlord, and get the cheap wad to spray. What if they started biting Brian? She’d better call the prick landlord that morning.
Applying her mascara and lip-gloss, she stuck her tongue out at the young face staring back out of the cracked mirror. Why was she worried? Males always seemed to find her pretty. There’d never been a shortage of free drinks or sex if she wanted it. Was that it? She was too easy? Hardly. Maybe she was no prudish ice princess, but she always used protection, and she was good at saying no. She’d only fucked up once.
Look what she’d gotten as a prize for enduring that horrid night with Brad. Her beautiful son. As for that piece of shit father. Well, hopefully, she’d managed to ditch him once and for all.
She might not be able to do anything to change her looks, but her name was a different story. She’d been careful not to reveal her full name, Kathleen Bridget O'Hara, insisting the other officers just call her Kat. She could imagine the ball-busting she’d take if they knew her name was Kathleen. How "Irish cop" can you get?
Buttoning up her uniform blouse and slipping the knotted tie over her head, she glanced at her watch. Where was Abigail? Running late again. Probably waiting for her geeky brother to get out of the shower. She’d better hurry up. Kat looked at her watch again, willing the time to stop. She was already running late. One more time being lat
e and DeCosta would ream her out good. She knew she was just this year’s rookie, and had to pay her dues, but filing and making coffee just wasn’t cutting it. She needed action. DeCosta needed to put her back on patrol. She’d been over the flu for a week and was bored out of her skull. Her lackluster smile wasn’t about not being pretty enough or how draining it was to be a single mom with a grueling job. She was bored. Nothing ever happened on Grim Island.
* * * *
A tentative knock on the door, the chief’s gruff command to enter, and a pretty red-haired woman, her face pale with nervousness, entered MacLeod’s everyday world. Chief DeCosta did the introductions. So she was Irish–MacLeod could have guessed that by the peaches and cream complexion and red hair–damn, she had a pretty face. Why hadn’t he noticed her before? Some detective you are, MacLeod. What was DeCosta saying anyway? Day-dreaming again, MacLeod? Oh yeah, the case. Weird!
“So, O'Hara, I’m putting you back in the game. Heard you’re feeling better–got rid of that flu bug. Good. Jump right in with both feet and hit the ground running. Impress me. Help us stop this bathroom butcher–quick!” He looked directly at O’Hara, putting on his ill-fitting fatherly face. “You did real well on your test. Pretty smart cookie. I hear you want to be like MacLeod here. You know, Grim Island’s so small; he doubles as our one and only resident detective. We don’t even make him wear his uniform except to impress the ladies. Normally not much need for his special skills anyhow. Until now. Give him a hand catching this bastard, and maybe we’ll see if we can make your partnership permanent. Give MacLeod your best. That’s it kiddies. Dismissed. Move on out there and catch this beast!”
* * * *
“Detective MacLeod, I’m ready to go. If you’ll just tell me where to begin?” God, he was a hunk. Just look at that insufferably sexy grin. With that unruly lock of dirty blond hair brushing his tanned forehead, he was Mr. Bad Boy personified. Why couldn’t she bring home somebody like him? She couldn’t help wondering if he was seeing anyone. Did he find her attractive?” Just MacLeod. You ready to go?"
"Lead the way, detective. I know I've got a lot to learn, and from what I've heard, you're just the guy to teach me."
* * * *
By day’s end O’Hara was ready to tumble into bed. Unfortunately, alone. Her day had been hectic, and at times annoyingly frustrating. MacLeod spent a good part of the morning calling her Kathleen. He thought it was a pretty name, like her, he said. She hated it. It was something her father insisted on calling her. To think of it coming from dear old dad’s lips, from that disgusting drunk, made her cringe. They’d gotten nowhere on the case, though she did get to take notes during two interviews. She’d made coffee, and filed the interview reports. Exciting. He managed to wheedle out of her that she lived in a dilapidated tenement between the abandoned Murphy mill and one of the town’s oldest neighborhoods. She shrugged, admitting that as a single mom, it was all she could afford. He lived right on the coast in his own home, alone. Unmarried. He revealed little else about his personal life until lunch. MacLeod did buy her that, but they were joined by his girlfriend, Miss Rodriguez, a sixth grade teacher at Constance Paine Elementary. She seemed nice, beautiful and sweet. They’d been going out for about five months, so she couldn’t be all that prim and proper. She had to be putting out; Kat couldn’t picture a hunk like Jamie waiting around forever. Damn! Why were all the good guys taken? Still, it was her most exciting day on the force so far, and she was exhausted. Abigail had run downstairs to start supper as soon as she'd dragged herself home, so Kat paid her geeky brother, Eric, asking how Brian had been. He looked at her funny, and then turned to go; insisting Brian had been no trouble at all. She'd walked across her kitchen to get his money, sensing him watching her ass as she moved. Coming back, she'd paid him, flashing a warm smile as a bonus. She was kind of flattered that this nice kid found her hot. Again, she wondered about MacLeod. She tumbled into her own bed as soon as she brushed her teeth. Maybe she’d have some sexy fantasies about her new partner while she slept. Within minutes, Kat was snoring her way through dreamland.
* * * *
Around 3 in the morning, Kat woke. Someone was in the room. Kat laid corpse still, trying not to let her intruder know she was awake. Her service revolver was under her freshly laundered uniform, holstered with the safety on. Loaded, but being over there it might as well be on Mars. There it was again. Pressure on the bed, tightening the blankets she’d wrapped around herself, as though someone had decided to sit on the bed beside her. Unconsciously, Kat stiffened, getting ready to run. Holding her breath, she waited.
The pregnant silence shattered as her phone rang. She was out of her bed, answering her cell; subtle pressures, and touching intruders completely forgotten. At first there was just heavy breathing on the phone, followed quickly by a nasally voice she’d hoped never to hear again crooning her name. Brad. She slammed the cell shut, severing the connection, wondering how the bastard had found her this time. Although she swore she’d not sleep another wink, within twenty minutes, she did. She didn’t notice any further disturbances that night, though in the morning, her gown was wet again. There were fresh stinging red marks. In her usual rush, she paid no attention to their subtle pattern.
Chapter 3
MacLeod was already late. Hitting the Ford's concealed police lights; he began to weave his way through the snarled traffic of what the local islanders jokingly referred to as downtown. A young soccer mom in a new Durango chose the wrong moment to back out of her parking space, and Jamie expertly swerved around the red Dodge, narrowly avoiding clipping her rear end. A quick sideward glance assured him the neatly wrapped bouquet of deep purple irises were still safely nestled in the passenger seat. Long out of season and having to be ferried in from the mainland, they’d cost him a king’s ransom, but then, the woman in the flower shop had remained open an extra twenty minutes waiting for him. Late as he was, he might just need a pricey peace offering. Hitting the edge of town, he kicked his speed up a couple of notches. Six minutes later, he sped off down the road, bound for her school, his passing vehicle swallowed by the approaching squall.
DeCosta had wasted his day, sticking him and his new partner out at Lost Hope Park in case the Tattoo killer was unimaginative enough to use the same killing ground twice. Right. There’d been four killings so far on the island–Jamie had been on island for three–god, how he missed Salem–and each time the killer had gone to great length to hide his post mortem tattoo in a different concealed place on the corpse. Not once had any of the crime scenes been repetitive or even similar. So MacLeod and O’Hara had spent the afternoon watching the sky darken into a sour frown and begin weeping a slow relentless drizzle. Bored out of their minds, they’d turned to each other, discovering not only that neither was an island native, but they actually enjoyed each other’s company. Jamie pumped Kathleen first, entranced by her face as much as her words, uncomfortably realizing how much he wanted to bruise her lips with his own.
When she pointed out that he was pretty dark for someone of Scottish ancestry, he’d told her of his Indian heritage. Of course she wanted to know which local tribe of Native American; Wampanoag, Narragansett, or a tribe further afield? Jamie realized then this had little to do with his year round tan. Though she claimed to burn like a french fry if she chose to lie in the sun at the beach, the predatory gleam in her eyes matched his own.
In an effort to avoid any embarrassing entanglements with his partner, MacLeod steered the conversation back on course toward their case. He brought up the fact that all the victims had an impaled black heart tattooed somewhere on their bodies, a fact they’d so far kept out of The Journal and the island’s own Crier.
“I know MacLeod. I saw the surveillance video, remember. I even saw the tattoo. Looks like some kind of heart with a sword through it. Pretty frigging crude. Really creeps me out!” She scrunched up her face; MacLeod couldn’t
tell whether she was disgusted with the murder details or his wallowing in it. “What I want to know is how come there are cameras in a public rest room?” She fluffed up her short red hair, and threw an incredulous look on her pretty face. “I might not be a rocket scientist, but that seems like quite an invasion of privacy issue to me.”
“Welcome to Grim Island.” MacLeod smirked, and scratched his smooth cheek. “There have been a number of incidents in this park and the town fathers thought it might be prudent to keep an eye on things. Individual rights get hanged. No pun intended.”
Kat smiled, letting her first giggle of the day escape. Not for the first time, MacLeod realized she had beautiful green eyes. “Nothing's going to happen today, anyway. I can feel it.”
“You can feel it? What are you, psychic, MacLeod? Is there a Fox Mulder lurking in here?” Pointing a slender finger garnished in bright carmine nail polish, she poked him in his broad chest, unable to keep a playful giggle completely under control. “Talk to me, Jamie. Spill the beans. You’re not from little old Grim Island either, are you?”
He turned completely towards her, and slouched down further in his bucket seat. Indulging himself in ogling the lovely woman across from him, he wondered just how much he should reveal about himself. Enchanting as she was, he hardly knew her; could he trust her? Just how much of the truth could she handle? “No. I’m not from here. I lived and worked in Salem before this. Five years on the job there, working the waterfront mostly. Nights. Got my gold shield my last year on the force. Youngest detective on the squad. Unfortunately there are some unpleasant things happening in Salem right now. Let’s just say my boss and I had a falling out. Anyway, we had a real fang and claw donnybrook and I ended up getting booted off the force. Rhode Island’s always been the haven for us Massachusetts rejects.”
“That sucks, Jamie. You seem like such a good cop. I’ll bet he’s sorry for letting you go. He’d probably give anything to get you back.”