by Tripp Ellis
Wild Killer
Tyson Wild Book Seven
Tripp Ellis
Contents
Welcome
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
Author’s Note
Tyson Wild
Max Mars
Connect With Me
Copyright © 2019 by Tripp Ellis
All rights reserved. Worldwide.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents, except for incidental references to public figures, products, or services, are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental, and not intended to refer to any living person or to disparage any company’s products or services. All characters engaging in sexual activity are above the age of consent.
No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, uploaded, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter devised, without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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1
It was another gruesome reminder. The bloodstained, coded message that Reagan had received was a clear indication that the Sandcastle Killer was still active and didn’t have any plans on retiring soon.
I had every intention of forcing him into retirement.
So far, we had nothing to go on.
And the bodies were beginning to pile up.
Reagan MacKenzie had become the killer’s press contact—his conduit to the outside world. The local reporter, known for her consumer advocacy, had been thrust into the limelight and had quickly established herself as a voice of authority regarding all things related to the Sandcastle murders.
Of course, receiving direct communication from a sadistic killer was a bit unsettling. Reagan was currently occupying the guest suite aboard the Wild Tide. The killer knew where she lived, and Reagan didn't feel comfortable staying home alone, which meant I had an indefinite houseguest. Not that I minded too terribly much. She was easy on the eyes.
Very easy.
Reagan had a sharp tongue, and a sassy personality, which wasn't a bad thing, but she could be a bit of a handful from time to time.
I was never one to back down from a challenge.
My stomach twisted in anticipation of the horrors I would find at the latest dumpsite. It had only taken a few hours for the lab to decode the cryptic message. Though, Elijah—one of the tech gurus at the TV station—had decoded it in less time.
The message read: I’ve left a treat for you. Surfside Beach. Your move.
It was a sick, sadistic game—one the killer thoroughly enjoyed.
The wind whistled through my helmet as I twisted the throttle. I raced through Coconut Key atop my Yamazuki X6 sport-bike—600 cc of pure adrenaline. The exhaust howled, and the crotch rocket devoured the pavement. The scenery blurred by. The motorcycle was an angel and a devil, all wrapped into a sleek, aerodynamic package. It could dispense copious amounts of pleasure and pain. One wrong move, one blip of the throttle, one miscalculation and the sublime ballet of rider and machine could turn into a devastating demolition derby. I tried to keep the damn thing to a reasonable speed, but it was easy to get into the triple digits without too much effort.
JD’s red Porsche was in the parking lot when I pulled in. Sheriff Daniels, the medical examiner, and the forensics team were already scouring the beach by the time I arrived.
Reagan showed up with a news crew before I had killed the engine. The door to the van slid open, and she hopped out along with a cameraman.
I pulled off my helmet, and in a flash, Reagan had shoved a microphone in my face. The cameraman lensed me up.
"Have you discovered another body?" Reagan asked with the camera rolling.
She knew I didn't know anymore than she did at this point.
"I just got here."
"Have you been able to establish the authenticity of the latest note from the killer?"
"The crime lab tells me it's authentic."
I climbed off the bike and strolled toward the beach.
Reagan and her crew followed.
She scowled at me when I told her the beach was closed and the crew would have to remain in the parking lot. “Sorry, this is an active crime scene.”
Her eyes soured, and I knew she would give me an earful later.
I trudged through the sand toward the congregation of county employees. JD greeted me wearing his standard uniform—Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts, and sport sandals. He usually wore those, or a pair of checkered Vans. His long hair flowed in the breeze, and his mirrored aviator sunglasses reflected the teal blue ocean. Seagulls squawked overhead, and the surf crashed against the white sand. It would have been a nice morning if it weren't for the fact we were looking for a dead body.
JD shook his head. "I think we're getting the runaround."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"No body."
The Sandcastle Killer had a habit of burying bodies underneath the sand. His nickname stemmed from the fact that a little boy, attempting to build a sandcastle, found the first body. The name stuck. There were also several other disconcerting patterns of behavior the Sandcastle Killer exhibited. Up to this point, every victim had been found in a similar condition.
My eyes scanned the beach. Sheriff Daniels and the others were scattered about, searching for the remains, poking at the sand. I had a pretty good idea of who they were looking for.
"Maybe he dumped the body, and the tide washed it out to sea?" JD suggested.
I shrugged.
Farther down the beach, the wreckage of a 30 foot sailboat sat amid the dunes. There were still damaged boats scattered all across the island from the hurricane. I jogged down the beach and waved to Sheriff Daniels as I passed.
He gave me a curious glance.
I reached the damaged vessel and climbed aboard. The smell slapped me in the face the minute I pushed into the cabin. The odor hit my nostrils like a wet, moldy sock. It wasn't the first time I'd smelled death, but with the heat and the close quarters, the stench was especially pungent. Flies buzzed about the corpse of a young
girl.
It was a horrific sight.
I yelled for the others, and within moments the team join me aboard the abandoned vessel.
Sheriff Daniels grumbled when he saw the body. "Just when I think I've seen everything."
He shook his head.
"That’s some twisted shit," JD muttered.
2
Gruesome.
Grisly.
The decapitated body lay in the cabin with a carved pumpkin in place of the head. The hands had been amputated. Trick or Treat was carved into the girl’s stomach.
Halloween was just around the corner.
Blinding camera flashes flickered throughout the cabin as the forensics photographer documented the crime scene. Brenda, the medical examiner, hovered over the body.
The girl’s skin had a pale greenish color. Almost translucent. The bluish veins under the skin were just barely visible.
A tense scowl twisted on the sheriff’s steely face. "I want every inch of this boat dusted for prints."
"You know he wore gloves," I said. "He's not stupid."
"Everybody makes mistakes. When he does, we’ll nail his ass."
Sheriff Daniels climbed out of the cabin. It wasn't pretty below deck, and I was ready to get out of there myself. I joined him on the beach, and by that time Reagan, and her camera crew, had descended upon the scene.
There was no keeping her away from a story.
"What part of this beach is closed do you not understand?" Daniels asked in a gruff tone.
"Have you ID’d the victim yet?" Reagan said, ignoring him.
Daniels glared at her.
"No," I said.
"Do you think it's Abigail Monroe?"
Abigail Monroe had been reported missing several days earlier. I was pretty sure these were her remains.
"I see no need to speculate at this time," Daniels said.
"Can you describe the condition of the body?"
Sheriff Daniels arched an eyebrow at the morbid question.
"Is this one like the others?" Reagan continued.
"I'm not discussing the details of this case until we have a positive ID and the next of kin have been notified," Sheriff Daniels said.
Reagan's blue eyes glanced to mine.
I shrugged. "What he said."
Reagan gave me a sideways glance.
JD and I walked with Sheriff Daniels toward the parking lot.
"Please tell me you're not fucking her," Daniels grumbled.
"No," I said, dismissively. "She's totally not my type."
"Every woman with a pulse is your type," Daniels replied.
"That's not true. I have very discerning tastes."
"Excuse me. Let me rephrase that. Every hot woman with a pulse."
I shrugged, innocently. "And your point is…?”
He continued to admonish me. "I just don't want her finding out information that she shouldn't."
"I don't tell her anything that we haven't released to the public. But she's tenacious. She has a way of digging up information."
"Well, maybe she can dig up the identity of our killer. I'm taking a lot of flak over this. This kind of shit doesn't win elections. It drives tourism down."
"And it really sucks for the innocent victims," JD added, dryly.
The sheriff's eyes narrowed at him. "I don't care how you two do it, but get this guy off the streets."
JD and I exchanged a curious glance.
"Does that mean we can use any and all available methods?" JD asked with a devious grin.
"Legal methods."
JD frowned. "The killer doesn't play by the rules, why should we?"
"When have you two ever played by the rules?"
The sheriff climbed into his patrol car and tore out of the parking lot.
"I'm hungry," JD said. "Do you want to grab an early lunch?"
"How can you eat after this?"
JD shrugged. "I certainly wasn't going to eat before. That smell was enough to make me want to puke up yesterday's meal."
He looked back to the crime scene. Reagan and her crew were still filming the outside of the vessel, and the investigative reporter went live, broadcasting to her legions of loyal followers.
JD leaned in and muttered, "Are you sure there’s nothing going on between you two?"
"Our relationship is strictly professional," I assured.
Jack arched a skeptical eyebrow.
"I'd tell you,” I said. “Maybe."
He still wasn't convinced. “Well, if you haven’t hooked up with her yet, you’re losing your touch.”
“Apparently so,” I said.
I climbed on the bike and followed Jack to Taco Loco. They had some of the best fajitas on the island. And their margaritas were stout. With a hint of Everclear, they could creep up on you quickly.
The walls were painted yellow and teal, with red accents. Small sombreros served as lampshades. The walls were adorned with handcrafted items and memorabilia—old highway signs, decorative armadillos made of scrap sheet metal, papier mâché iguanas.
JD and I split an order of beef fajitas. They were sirloin and came with an abundance of guacamole, cheese, sour cream, grilled onions, refried beans, rice, and a creamy garlic butter sauce. I didn't want to know how many calories were in the meal. I figured I'd run them off later.
JD and I scarfed down our bounty like we hadn't eaten in months.
"I'm mad at you," JD said, in a half serious tone.
My face crinkled. "What the hell did I do?"
"This is all your fault."
"It would be nice to know what this is."
"You put that bug in her head."
My eyes narrowed. "What bug?"
I had a pretty good idea of what he was talking about.
"The acting bug. Scarlett’s up my ass to go to Los Angeles now."
I raised my hands, innocently. "I had nothing to do with that. She asked me if I could help her out."
"Yeah, but you didn't actually have to do it," JD said, flatly. "Now she's running around thinking she's going to be a movie star. That's the last thing she needs. I can barely keep that girl under control as it is. What am I going to do when she's 2000 miles across the country? I can't go out there and babysit her. And there is way more trouble to get into in Los Angeles than there is here."
"I'm not so sure about that."
JD loaded up a chip with refried beans, guacamole, and cheese, then stuffed it in his mouth. He mumbled over the crunching chip. "Well, on the bright side, she'd be getting away from this Sandcastle thing."
I smiled. "See. It's not all bad."
JD’s skeptical eyes blazed into me. "If she falls off the wagon out there, I’m blaming you."
I rolled my eyes.
"She's got a meeting with her probation officer set up to see if he will clear the trip," JD said.
"Shouldn’t be a problem. She's going out there for employment opportunities."
"I don't know if I'd call it an employment opportunity," JD said, loading up another chip. "Do you know what the statistics are? Do you know how tough it is to make a living as an actor?"
"I know the odds are slim."
"Less than 3% of union actors make over $600 a year. Let that sink in. You pay almost half that in union dues. $350 a year isn't going to cover her coffee bill."
"Joel is one of the best agents in town,” I said. “She's already ahead of the game."
"Do you know what rent is like in that city?" Jack asked.
"Not as bad as San Francisco."
"And then there are the earthquakes. I've got to worry about earthquakes. On top of all the other shit she could get into, I have to worry about the ground opening up and swallowing her."
"She'll be fine," I assured. "You're more likely to die riding a bicycle than you are in an earthquake."
I could see he was more than a little frazzled.
"I told her I'm taking 10% of her earnings. Stress tax," JD grumbled.
I chuckled. "The
y all have to fly the coop sometime."
JD gave me a sideways glance, then he looked at his watch. "Is it happy hour yet?"
3
Madison slid an envelope across the bar counter. Her blue eyes were full of excitement.
“What’s this?” I asked.
"The results of my ultrasound."
I had stopped in Diver Down on the way back to the boat.
The envelope was sealed. "Do you know?"
Madison shook her head. "I'm debating. I kind of want it to be a surprise. And I kind of want to know. I mean, there are a lot of advantages to knowing in advance. I could start decorating and buying clothes." She paused. "I'm not sure what to do. I'm going to think about it for a while. You can look if you want to."
I thought about it for a long moment. "I'll wait until you make a decision."
"Give it to me," Harlan grumbled. "I want to know."
Madison scowled at him. "Sorry, Harlan. You'll spill the beans."
Harlan feigned offense. "I am a vault. I'll have you know that I had top secret clearance in my day."
"Well, this is above top-secret," Madison said, snatching away the envelope before Harlan could get his hands on it.
Madison's ex had gone back to his wife. Madison was all on her own. It was for the best. Ryan was a scumbag. I had caught him cheating with a hottie in a club on Oyster Avenue. Commitment was a fluid concept in Ryan's mind.
