by Tripp Ellis
Reagan's phone dinged with text messages and notifications. Her face was buried into the screen as she scrolled through her social media profiles. A slight grin curled on her face. "Wow, looks like I really lit things up on the Interwebs."
She read a list of comments:
"Wow, you're so brave!"
"You're one bad-ass bitch!”
“I hope you get that bastard!”
“You go, girl.”
“Just another ho gonna get hosed.”
Reagan moved to the window and peered at the horde of reporters still lingering in her yard. Her face scrunched up. "Look at them. You know, they’re just going to pick up the slack where I left off. He’ll get all the media coverage he wants. He doesn't need me. Refusing to cover him isn't going to change anything."
I could tell Reagan was a little disillusioned with her industry.
Jack called. "Seems like your girl went off the deep end!"
"You saw the show?" I asked.
"I saw her paint a target on herself. I'm guessing you're not going to get much sleep tonight?"
"The sheriff's doubling patrols in the area. I don't think the killer would be bold enough to strike here at the house, but I'm going to fix a pot of coffee and take firewatch."
"I'm more than happy to take the second shift. I'll take a cat nap now and call you around 2 AM."
"Thanks, I appreciate it."
"Anytime, brother."
I hung up the phone and slid the device back into my pocket.
I moved to the alarm panel in the foyer. It was lifeless. "Does this thing work?"
"No. Came with the house. Previous owner. I've been meaning to call and get service connected. There's something wrong with the main power supply. I think the backup battery is dead too. I don't even know where it is."
I sighed and shook my head.
I strolled through the house, checking the doors and windows, making sure everything was secured. The windows were all closed and locked. But I found an area of concern—a sliding glass door in the living room that opened to a patio with the beach beyond.
It was unlocked.
My jaw clenched. "Did you leave this door unlocked?"
Reagan shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe?" She thought about it for a moment. "I was out on the patio this morning. Maybe I forgot?"
I grumbled under my breath. "You need to be more careful."
"Yes, sir," she said with a mock salute.
I glared at her.
There was another sliding glass door in her bedroom. They were notoriously easy to defeat. A burglar could lift them out of their tracks, and the spring-loaded locking mechanism would typically release. You could use all sorts of double-bolt locking mechanisms, or security rods in the tracks, but none of those would stop a well-placed brick.
I slid open the door, strolled down to the beach, and surveyed the area. Stars flickered overhead, the breeze blew through my hair, and waves crashed against the shore. It was a security nightmare. Multiple escape routes for a criminal.
I went back to the house and fixed a pot of coffee. It was going to be a long night, and I needed to stay sharp. I shouldn't have had a glass of whiskey.
"What are you going to do?" Reagan asked. "Stay up all night?"
"JD said he would take a shift."
"And how long can you do that for? A couple days? A week?"
I shrugged. "As long as I have to."
"You're not a machine."
"Maybe you should have thought about that before you dared him to come get you?" I smiled.
She scowled at me, playfully.
The coffee pot percolated on the counter. I poured myself a mug and mixed in cream and sugar, then we watched a movie.
I made routine checks around the house throughout the evening. Everything was secure, and the neighborhood seemed calm. The reporters had all left.
Around midnight, we moved to the bedroom, and Reagan settled in for the night.
I sat in a chair next to the bed.
She looked at me like I was crazy. "You're really going to stay up all night long?"
I nodded.
"Come to bed."
It was usually an offer I wouldn’t refuse. "I want to be ready if he strikes."
“Don’t I get a goodnight kiss?” she asked in a pouty voice.
I tucked Reagan in, but I didn't allow myself to get too distracted by her charms. I didn't want to get caught with my pants down, so to speak.
She finally nodded off after some tossing and turning, and I tried to keep myself awake. My head dipped a few times as the evening dragged on, but I caught myself before dozing off. It was 2:20 AM when JD texted. [Just woke up. Overslept. I'll be there in 30.]
[Okay.]
[How goes it?]
[All is quiet on the homefront.]
I was about to get up and do my routine patrol around the premises when I heard a noise in the living room. A spike of adrenaline rushed through me. I sprang from the chair, drew my pistol, and edged down the hallway with my weapon in the firing position. I moved through the shadows, ready to blast. An eerie feeling washed over me, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood tall. I had that uncanny sensation that I always had right before making contact with the enemy.
42
I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the source of the noise. The breeze from the ceiling fan had blown a utility bill off the counter. It clacked against the floor and was fluttering in the breeze by the time I stepped into the living room.
I holstered my pistol, moved toward the counter, and bent over to pick up the piece of paper from the tile.
As I stood up and set it on the counter, I saw a shadow dance across the wall.
There was someone behind me.
I reached for my gun and spun around, but by that time, it was too late.
An aluminum bat swooshed through the air and connected with my head.
Ping!
The blow rattled my skull, damn near taking my head off. It twisted me around, and I tumbled to the ground. Crimson blood spewed from my lips. My vision doubled, and pain jolted down my spine.
The pain was so intense, I went numb.
I tried to focus my thoughts, but I was somewhere in that gray area of consciousness.
A blurry figure pounced on top of me. Then he stabbed a syringe into my flesh. He pushed the plunger, and I felt a cool sensation flowing into my neck.
Then everything went black.
I don't know how long I was out, but when I awoke, JD was hovering over me, shaking my shoulder and snapping his fingers in front of my face.
My vision was still blurry as hell. "What happened?"
The words slurred out of my fat lips. It felt like I had just gotten back from the dentist. My jaw was swollen, and my neck ached. My temples throbbed.
It hurt to exist.
"Looks like someone got a hell of a sucker punch in?"
"Reagan. Where's Reagan?"
I could see well enough to make out JD's grim frown. He shook his head. "She's gone."
I staggered to my feet, and JD took hold of my arm to steady me.
"Easy there, cowboy."
I brushed him off and staggered into the bedroom. The disheveled sheets left an imprint where Reagan had been.
The sliding glass door was open, and the breeze fluttered the curtains.
I dashed onto the patio and trudged to the beach. I stumbled and fell in the sand, then pulled myself up. The ground was uneasy beneath my feet, and the world spun slightly.
I glanced around, but I couldn't see shit. My vision was too blurry to make out anything in the distance. Waves crashed against the shore, and the inky blackness of the ocean loomed like a void waiting to swallow me whole.
JD caught up with me. "I think we need to get you to the hospital. Have you checked out."
"No. I've got to find Reagan."
"You're not gonna be good to anybody if your brain swells and you end up incapacitated. I'm taking you to the emerge
ncy room."
My jaw involuntarily clinched, sending a spike of pain through my body. I wanted to scream, and I did.
That hurt like hell too.
I was so mad, my eyes welled, and my throat tightened. "He must have been in the house the whole time."
"What?" JD asked.
"When we came home from the station. The sliding door was unlocked. He must have been hiding in a closet, waiting."
"Damn. That's messed up."
"I know."
My mouth had that tinny, metallic taste of blood. I tongued a molar on my left side. It wiggled more than I would have liked.
JD called Sheriff Daniels and told him what happened, then we hopped into his car and drove to the emergency room.
I was triaged by the same nurse who attended to JD the last time we were in here. "You're a familiar face. I don't like to see familiar faces."
I pointed at Jack. "It was him last time, not me."
"Yeah, but you look worse than he did."
The whole side of my face was black, blue, and purple. There was blood in my left eye, and my jaw ached so bad I thought it was broken.
After the nurse assessed me, I was taken to a room in the ER.
They did the usual bit of starting IV fluids and hooking me up to the monitors.
"Just couldn't stay away, could you?" Dr. Parker asked upon entering the room.
I looked at him flatly and explained the situation.
"Tell me, did you have any loss of consciousness?" he asked.
"I think so, yes. But that was mainly due to a substance the attacker injected."
"What do you think that substance could have been?"
"I don't know. You're the doctor. You tell me?"
"I'll run a toxicology screening.” He made a note. "Have you had any nausea or vomiting?"
I shook my head. It hurt.
"What about grogginess, clumsiness?"
"I got hit with an aluminum bat. Yes. I'm a little groggy."
"Sensitivity to light?" he asked, shining a penlight in my eyes.
I squinted.
I wanted to shove the penlight up his ass.
"How about confusion or disorientation?"
"Other than when I first woke up, no."
I'm going to ask you some basic questions to gauge your cognitive response. Where were you when the incident happened?"
"I was at Reagan MacKenzie's house."
His eyes perked up. "Ooh, I like her. Daring.”
My eyes narrowed at him.
"How did you get to the hospital?"
"JD took me."
"Do you feel dizzy now?"
I nodded.
"What about blurred vision?"
“It's not as bad as it was. But it's not perfect."
He scribbled notes in my file, then said. "I think you probably have a mild concussion. I'd like to do a brain scan and an x-ray. Rule out a brain bleed, swelling, broken bones, anything that might need our immediate attention."
He ordered the scans, and a tech escorted me to radiology. They took multiple views of my neck and skull, then did a CT scan.
I asked the tech how everything looked, but he wasn't at liberty to say. "The doctor will go over the results with you shortly. But I can confirm, you do have a brain."
"That's debatable," I said.
43
A nurse gave me an ice pack for my jaw. I was starting to look like a chipmunk. Dr. Parker took his time getting back to me with my results. The ER didn't look that crowded when we came in, but it took him about 45 minutes to make his way back around. He studied my chart as he entered the room. Maybe the toxicology screening took longer?
"I don't see any indication of brain trauma, bleeding, or swelling. That's good news. No broken bones or fractures. I think you're just suffering from a mild concussion and a lot of bruising. You need to stay awake for the next several hours, and you should have someone stay with you to monitor your condition. If you start getting dizzy, nauseous, or your vision worsens, I need to see you back here."
"What about the tox report?"
"The substance your attacker injected you with was likely propofol."
"That's a sedative, right?" I asked.
Dr. Parker nodded. "It's commonly used in surgery settings. It can knock a person out quickly, but the effects are short lasting."
"Where would someone acquire that?"
"Look around. This hospital is full of it. There are probably vials of it in the cabinets behind me," he said pointing.
"You don't keep that stuff locked up?" I asked.
"It's not a controlled substance. There's a low potential for abuse. I know some hospitals are tightening up with it, but we haven’t had a problem here. Vials haven't been going missing, I don't think. Pharmacy checks for discrepancies everyday. I’m not going to say it’s impossible, but it would be hard for someone to steal drugs from this facility."
I thought about it for a moment.
"I'll get your discharge orders ready. You can get out of here shortly." Parker turned to the door.
"Excuse me, Doc. Can I get a list of everyone in this facility with access to that drug?"
He looked at me like I was crazy. His brow knitted together. "You don't think someone from this facility is…"
I shrugged. "I'm not about to rule anything out."
"Do you have a warrant for that information?"
"If you want to play it that way, I can get it. But it would be a lot easier if you would just let me look at your personnel files."
"That's really above my pay grade. You'll need to talk to the administration office. That's an HR thing. I don't know if we’re allowed to share employment data. I just fix sick people."
"No offense, Doc, but you can't fix dead people. Reagan MacKenzie was abducted tonight, and every second I have to screw around with red-tape brings her another second closer to death. You understand that? You took an oath to help people. To save lives. You have an opportunity to save many right now."
Parker's face tensed. He was silent for a long moment. "Can you walk? Are you steady on your feet?"
I nodded.
He waved the file folder toward the door. "Come with me."
JD helped me lower the railing on the hospital bed. The bag of IV fluids was on a rolling stand. I took it with me and followed the doctor down the hallway, wearing the ridiculous green gown with my ass crack half hanging out.
He led me to the nurses’ station, and we walked around the counter to a computer terminal. He entered his passcode and brought up the screen.
"What, specifically, are you looking for?"
"White male. 30s. Former military background. I'm guessing special operations combat medic. Probably a new hire. Last few months."
Dr. Parker's face went pale.
"Sound familiar?"
"That sounds like Erik Cain.” Parker said. Then he dismissed it. "Can't be. One of the nicest guys I’ve ever met. Knowledgeable, dedicated. The kind of guy that would do anything for you."
"Pull up his information."
Parker tapped a few keys and brought up the personnel file of Erik Cain. I grabbed a pen and a post-it note and scribbled down his name and address. It was a box number at Salt Point Marina.
"You really think that's him? The Sandcastle Killer?" Parker asked in a hushed tone.
"Is he working tonight?"
Parker shook his head. "No. Looks like he’s on the schedule for tomorrow night.”
"If you see him, or talk to him, call me immediately, and don't say a word. Do not share this with anyone else. Is that clear?"
Parker nodded.
"Lives are at stake." I wrote my contact information on a post-it.
JD and I exchanged a glance.
"Let's go find that son-of-a-bitch," I said.
44
We left the ER, and I kept an ice pack planted against my jaw and neck, alternating a few minutes on, a few minutes off.
Every time JD shifted gears in the Por
sche, the jolt threw my neck a little, sending a slight twinge of pain down my spine.
Joy.
We headed across the island to the Salt Point Marina. The sky began to lighten as the sun crept up on the horizon. I had that tired, thin feeling, but was spiked up on adrenaline at the same time. My nerves tingled and my head throbbed.
With the top down, the wind whistled through the cockpit and blew through my hair. I pulled my phone from my pocket and called Brenda. It wasn't quite 7 AM yet.
"Did you find any trace of propofol in any of the victims?"
"If I recall correctly, there were no blood concentrations, but the full toxicology report hasn't come back yet. That stuff clears the system pretty quickly."
"How quickly?"
"I think the half-life is 12 hours. Should be out completely within three days."
"The killer seems to be holding on to his victims for at least a week before he disposes of them," I said. "I think that's by design."
"You think he's using the drug to subdue his victims when he acquires them?"
"I'm absolutely positive." I didn't go into details about the attack.
I thanked her for her advice and called the sheriff’s office. A deputy gave me the registration information for Erik Cain’s boat. It was named On the Hook.
Salt Point was a harbor for commercial fishing boats. There were shrimp boats and several large commercial fishing charters. There were a few liveaboards mixed in. Crews were prepping the boats, getting ready for the day.
I climbed out of JD's Porsche and made my way to the office. An old man sat behind the counter eating a donut, watching the morning news. He didn't have much hair on top, but what he did have on the sides was gray, and he had a long gray beard that was stained yellow from tobacco smoke. He had a bulbous nose and rosy cheeks, and the faded tattoo on his forearm told me that he was in the Navy once. I figured that he probably worked on the fishing boats at one point in time, and now made his living sitting behind this counter, collecting rent, troubleshooting tenant issues, and keeping the property maintained.
"Do you know where I can find the On the Hook?" I asked.
“Erik’s boat?" the man asked.
