Hope White - Small Town Protector

Sketch poked Lana’s shoulder, then pointed at the water.

Lana glanced down…

Into the face of a bloated dead body.

* * *

What a fool. The man actually thought he could swim five miles back to Port Whisper from the island? In his shape?

It had been a mistake to hunt so close to home. I realize that now. But I couldn’t help myself. I saw how Rick Washburn bullied his female, how they fought, how he made her cry….

Adrenaline had surged through my body. It had been a month since I deleted Lars Gunderson. Too long. So I lured Ricky to the island for a private tour.

Unfortunately he didn’t enjoy my game of control and defeat.

He ran. Dove. Drowned.

And now the Feds will invade my charming little town.

A pleasant, boring town. Just the way I like it.

But not anymore, not with the FBI sniffing around, trying to find me.

I’ll have to take care of that; redirect their attention.

Not so close to home this time.

* * *

FBI agent Garrett Drake couldn’t believe his current case had led him back to Port Whisper where the memories still burned fresh in his mind, and even more painful in his chest.

He’d think God was playing a trick on him except he didn’t believe in God. Not after everything he’d seen. Not after everything he’d lost.

Shove it back, way back.

His escort, Scooner Locke, pulled the motorboat up to the dock, and a man tied them off. Garrett didn’t like involving civilians, but the chief and his staff were all at the scene. Garrett jumped out of the boat and started up the dock. If the body was really Rick Washburn’s…

It was a game changer.

The killer had altered his pattern, which meant either he’d made a mistake—which would put Garrett that much closer to nailing him—or the killer was escalating.

Which made him less predictable and twice as dangerous.

“Special Agent Drake?” A man approached him. “I’m Chief Morgan Wright.”

They shook hands. The chief, mid-thirties, wore black jeans, a denim jacket and a Mariners baseball cap. He was probably off duty when he got the call.

“It’s up that hill on the left.” The chief led him along a trail.

“Who found him?”

“Two teenagers.”

“What were they doing out here at night?” Garrett asked.

“They were part of a tour group.”

“People tour the island at night?”

“Yep, they roast hot dogs and marshmallows around a campfire, tell ghost stories, that sort of thing. Lana started it about a year ago. It’s very popular.”

“Lana?”

“My sister-in-law, Lana Burns. She runs boat tours to the island out of her snack shop, Stone Soup. She’s the one who called in the body.”

The body. Possibly the latest victim of the Red Hollow Killer, a name inspired by the type of rope he used to strangle his vics.

The minute Garrett got the call that a floater looked a lot like his missing person, he’d busted tail to get to the scene. He didn’t want it to be Washburn, and not just because it meant Red Hollow went off script. It would also mean the killer had been here and maybe still was.

In the same town as Caroline, Garrett’s former mother-in-law.

Garrett’s ex-wife and son had lost enough thanks to his job. He wouldn’t allow them to lose a loving mother and grandmother, as well.

“If it’s Rick Washburn, the killer’s victimology has changed,” Garrett explained. “Which means he’s escalating, making him unpredictable and potentially more dangerous.”

“Changed, how?”

“Up to now, the victims are kidnapped and a ransom note is sent to the family, giving them, and us, the illusion that the victim can be saved. But before the ransom drop takes place, he leads us to the body, which is posed with very specific items. An empty bourbon bottle, cigar and black leather belt. The victim has been strangled with red hollow braided rope. Lab results indicate he’s been drugged with an oxy cocktail. I’m assuming, since Washburn floated up on shore, you didn’t find a bourbon bottle, cigar or belt near or on the victim?”

“No, sir.”

“Were there signs he’d been strangled?”

“Not that I could tell.”

“We know he was the next victim, yet he wasn’t posed or strangled. Do you have any idea why Washburn was in Port Whisper?”

“He checked into the Blue Goose Motel alone, but was seen around town with a female, brunette, mid-forties.”

“Probably a mistress. He has a history of cheating on his wife. Why didn’t she report him missing? We got the ransom email two days ago.”

“A witness saw them fighting, and later that night another witness saw her convertible peel out of the parking lot. They came in separate cars.”

“You’ve gathered a lot of information in the last hour.”

“Small-town grapevine. Sometimes it comes in handy.”

As they approached the scene, Garrett noticed a young woman sitting on a rock, a wool blanket draped across her shoulders. Long, light brown hair floated down her back. Garrett thought she was trembling, but couldn’t be sure.

“Is that one of the teenagers who found the victim?” Garrett asked.

“No, it’s Lana. You want to talk to her?”

“I’d like to see the body first.”

Garrett strode to the body and the chief introduced him to his deputy.

“Deputy Finnegan, this is Special Agent Drake from the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

They shook hands.

“Good to meet you,” Finnegan said.

“Likewise.” Garrett snapped on a pair of gloves and crouched beside the body. Resignation washed over him. “It’s Washburn.” Fully clothed in a dress shirt, khaki pants and windbreaker. “Did you find red braided rope anywhere in the vicinity of where you pulled him from the water?”

“No, sir.”

Garrett turned Washburn’s head slightly. No ligature marks. Washburn was the next victim, yet at first glance this looked like an accidental drowning.

“I’m assuming your forensics team processed the scene before you pulled him out?” Garrett asked.

“Not yet.”

Garrett glanced at Chief Wright for an explanation.

“We’re a small town,” he said. “A county forensics team is on the way.”

Garrett didn’t want inexperience to mess up this investigation, but he knew things would go more smoothly if he worked with local law enforcement instead of being at odds with them.

“I’d like to speak with the forensics team as soon as they arrive.” Garrett stood and snapped off his gloves. “Where are the teenagers who found the body?”

“They went back to town with the tour group,” a light voice said.

Garrett turned to its source: Lana Burns. She rolled her neck and looked up at him with round, tired eyes.

“Who authorized that?” he asked the chief.

“I sent them back,” Lana answered, standing. “The kids were completely freaked, so I figured the sooner they went home, the sooner they’d calm down. They’ll be more helpful if they’re calm, right?”

She stepped up to him, a little too close for his taste, and he noticed her eyes were a remarkable shade of golden-green; her skin was flawless.

“What’s your email address?” she asked, focusing on her smartphone.

He didn’t answer at first, trying to figure out how someone who saw a dead body—he assumed her first—could be so calm, so…lovely.

Man, he needed about a week of sleep.

She glanced up, expectant. “I’ll email you the contact information for everyone on the tour tonight.”

He handed her a business card, then pulled a small notebook from the breast pocket of his suit.

“How about you?” he said.

She reached for his notebook and he found himself handing it to her. “Here are all my numbers. Cell, landline and the snack shop.”