Wild Killer

by Tripp Ellis

  The black car hobbled along with the rim grinding into the gravel road.

  The Porsche had stalled out after the impact, and JD couldn't get it started. I hopped out of the car and chased after the Mustang.

  The impact must have cracked the radiator because the ground was drenched with coolant. Steam billowed from underneath the Mustang’s hood, but it kept chugging along.

  Until an excavator operator swung the bucket into the side of the Mustang.

  The heavy piece of machinery collapsed the passenger side door and shoveled the car across the gravel like it was a toy in a sandbox.

  The engine gave up the ghost.

  Erik tried desperately to restart the car. He twisted the key, and the starter warbled.

  The engine never turned over. It had gone to the engine heaven in the sky.

  Erik sprang from the car and took off on foot. He's sprinted across the clearing, and I watched him disappear down a pathway.

  I chased after him and cautiously entered the valley of gravel. I advanced with my weapon in the firing position, weaving down the narrow trail.

  Gunfire erupted as I reached the next clearing.

  Muzzle flash flickered, and bullets impacted piles of gravel beside me. I dove for cover behind a mound as plumes of dust exploded.

  I angled my weapon around the berm.

  Erik had taken cover behind a giant rock crusher. He blasted several more shots in my direction. The gravel spidered with debris and chips of rocks.

  The rock crusher was in the center of the clearing. There were two dump trucks to the left, and a yellow backhoe to the right that was empty.

  There were no gravel yard workers in the area. I blasted several shots at Erik.

  Bang!

  Bang!

  Pop!

  Something was wrong.

  The weapon had fouled.

  I ducked for cover behind the berm and addressed the situation. I knew what had happened the moment I heard the pop. In all my years of handling a weapon, it only had happened once before when I was using re-loads.

  But this was factory ammunition!

  I dropped the magazine and racked the slide.

  There was a bullet stuck in the barrel.

  The load had been insufficient and lacked the power to propel the bullet out of the barrel. Had I ignored the pop and chambered another round, the results could have been disastrous.

  The weapon was useless until I was able to clear the jam. And I’d need to disassemble the weapon to do that.

  I peered around the berm, and more bullets peppered the gravel nearby.

  I ducked for cover, waited a moment, holstered the weapon, then sprinted toward a dump truck.

  The scumbag fired two more shots at me as I ran across the clearing.

  Plumes of dust sprouted at my feet.

  I took cover behind the giant right front tire of the dump truck. I inched back and grabbed the passenger door handle. The door was unlocked, and I swung it open. I crawled inside and crouched down in the passenger seat.

  Erik fired two more shots, webbing the front windshield with cracks. Shards of glass sprayed about the cabin.

  I climbed over the transmission into the driver seat.

  More bullets peppered the glass.

  I pulled the visor down and the keys dropped into my hand. I shoved them into the ignition and twisted.

  The engine roared to life.

  I ducked below the dash as Erik fired a few more shots, pinging against the door and putting another web of cracks into the windshield.

  I put the truck in gear, let out the clutch, and rolled forward. I twisted the wheel, angling the vehicle around the far side of the crusher, then circled around toward Erik.

  I kept low, peering over the dash.

  Erik took off running down another pathway, and I chased him down in the behemoth.

  I wanted to run the son-of-a-bitch over. It would be so satisfying to feel his skull collapse under the weight of the massive tires. I wanted to mow him over like a speedbump in a mall parking lot.

  I usually wasn't prone to such vengeful thoughts, but this guy had pissed me off.

  Erik angled the gun over his shoulder and fired several shots into the windshield and engine compartment of the dump truck.

  After a few shots, the slide of his gun locked forward—the magazine was empty.

  He didn’t reload.

  Out of magazines, he stuffed the weapon in his holster.

  I hit the brakes and killed the engine. I hopped out of the cab and chased after the scumbag.

  Erik was fast.

  My legs drove me forward, and my chest heaved for breath. My quads burned as I sprinted as fast as I could.

  I leapt into the air and tackled the cretin. We crashed to the dirt, and I climbed on top of him, pummeling him in the face—getting a little payback for the baseball bat I took to the head.

  Erik bucked me off, and I rolled aside.

  I sprang to my feet, and we squared off against each other like two heavyweight prize fighters. We circled each other, looking for a point of attack.

  He charged and swung hard.

  I blocked, punched him in the rib cage, then tried to twist his arm into an arm-bar takedown—but he wasn't having any of it.

  He twisted around, broke free, then did a roundhouse kick.

  Erik was well trained.

  He knew how to fight and was combat tested.

  I leaned back as his foot whiffed in front of my face.

  I caught his leg, then planted a swift kick into his balls.

  He groaned in agony.

  With my elbow, I jammed down on the side of his knee.

  Ligaments snapped.

  Erik would never walk again without a limp.

  He fell to the ground, then staggered to his feet, but I kicked him in the face before he could get up.

  His jaw snapped shut, and teeth shattered.

  Blood spewed from his lips.

  He fell back against the dirt.

  The patter of a news helicopter hovered overhead.

  Distant sirens wailed.

  Reinforcements would be here soon. I only had a few minutes to serve up a dish of cold revenge.

  I wasn't going to kill the guy—just beat him within an inch of his life.

  He staggered to his feet, blood trickling down his chin. He looked like a crazed maniac with a bloody face and wide eyes. It was a glimpse of his inner demon.

  Then he did something I didn’t anticipate.

  He pulled a switch-blade from his back pocket and flipped it open with the press of a button. An evil grin curled on his gnarled face as he brandished the weapon.

  This definitely brought a new dimension to the fight.

  51

  The first rule of knife fighting is don't get into a knife fight. It's a lose-lose proposition. One of you will probably die on site, and the other will probably die on the way to the hospital. There are too many variables to contend with, and no margin for error.

  When a guy starts aggressively swinging a blade, all bets are off.

  Defensive cuts on the wrists and forearms can render you incapacitated rather quickly. A sharp blade can cut through tendons and nerves with ease. You won’t be able to make a fist, and you'll bleed out quicker than you think.

  I'd take a short range gunfight over a knife fight any day. Fine motor skills degrade with nerves and the rush of adrenaline. Roughly 80% of shots fired miss their targets. It's a high stress environment, and most people don't get an accurate sight picture. They just point and shoot and hope for the best.

  Erik charged at me, the blade glimmering in the sunlight.

  I moved back as he advanced.

  He slashed across the body twice.

  I managed to avoid both.

  The blade carved through the air with a swoosh. Then Erik stabbed at my torso as he charged again.

  I grabbed his forearm and pinned his wrist against my left hip, the tip of the blade precariously
close to my skin. I kneed him in the balls twice.

  He groaned and doubled over, and I finished with an elbow to the bridge of his nose.

  Blood splattered, and he staggered back.

  I kept his arm pinned, and chopped down on his elbow.

  The knife fell from his hand and bounced against the dirt.

  Erik came back with a hard left hook. His knuckles smacked my cheek, wrenching my head to the side. It felt like a brick had smacked me in the head.

  The boy packed a punch.

  He broke free of my grasp and kicked me in the belly. It doubled me over, and I dropped to my knees, the wind knocked out of me.

  Then he kicked me in the face.

  Talk about a chiropractic adjustment!

  My head snapped back, and blood spewed from my lips. The blow twisted me around, sending me crashing to the dirt. Blood dotted the ground.

  The world spun.

  My vision blurred.

  It took me a second to regroup.

  I heard his heavy footsteps crunch against the gravel behind me, and a long shadow fell over me.

  The blade glimmered in the sunlight nearby, shining like a brilliant star.

  My hand snatched the knife, and I spun around, just as Erik pounced on top of me.

  I jammed the knife into his belly with several quick stabs. With the final puncture, I carved an L shape into his gut, pulling the knife up to the rib cage. It was a lethal move.

  I pulled my blood soaked hand away.

  Erik wouldn’t recover from the wound.

  His eyes went wide, and he dropped to his knees momentarily, clutching his bloody belly. There was no stemming the tide.

  He finally fell face down in the dirt.

  A river of crimson blood stained the beige gravel.

  The news helicopter caught the whole thing on video. It would be replayed endlessly on the evening news and on the Internet.

  Erik rolled onto his back and gurgled for breath as his lungs filled with fluid. A volcano of blood spewed from his mouth when he coughed. It speckled his face and drizzled onto the sand. His chest heaved, and a last breath rattled from his lungs.

  His body went still.

  I wondered how many innocent victims had suffered the tip of that blade? How many had he killed that we didn’t know about?

  Standing over his lifeless body, I had a twinge of regret. He got off way too easy. Then I reminded myself of the utter torment and torture that awaited him in the afterlife. I had been to hell before, and I never wanted to go back. Erik would become a permanent resident.

  I knelt beside the corpse and put the pads of my fingers on his neck, feeling for a pulse.

  He was most certainly dead.

  The helicopter pattered overhead, circling the area.

  Several patrol cars raced into the gravel yard, red and blue lights flashing. They pulled to the scene and jammed the brakes. Gravel crunched under their tires as they skidded to a halt, kicking up plumes of dust.

  Sheriff Daniels hopped out of his patrol car, and JD staggered around a dune.

  We gathered not far from the body.

  “Karma’s a bitch, ain't it?” JD said, amused by the bloody corpse.

  Daniels surveyed the grim scene. He looked mildly pleased. He gave me a nod of approval, then he looked up at the news helicopter. “They’re going to have a field day with this.”

  “You’re a shoo-in for re-election now,” I said. “The man who’s department saved Coconut Key!”

  “We’ll see,” he muttered.

  “We need to talk about reimbursement for property damage during the pursuit," JD said with a hopeful smile.

  Daniels gave him a stone face.

  Jack's smile faded. "My Porsche is trashed!”

  Daniels remained expressionless.

  “Just think of all the money we saved the taxpayers, avoiding a long trial, multiple appeals, a stay on death row?"

  After a long moment, Daniels relented. "Submit an expense report with receipts.”

  Jack smiled. "Thanks, boss."

  We waited for the medical examiner and the forensics team to arrive. Before long, the scene was swarmed with LEOs and EMTs.

  I got a bottle of water and cleansing scrub from an EMT and washed the blood from my hands.

  News vans flooded into the gravel yard, surrounding the perimeter of the crime scene. The deputies struggled to contain them.

  Reagan wasn't among them.

  Reporters shouted questions. "Can you confirm that is, in fact, the Sandcastle Killer?"

  "Was the use of deadly force absolutely necessary?"

  "How did you link him to the crimes?"

  I ignored them.

  Jack called a tow truck for the Porsche. After it was loaded onto the flatbed, we rode with a deputy back to the station. There was lots of paperwork, and I went through all the usual protocols when an officer kills a suspect in the line of duty.

  I'm sure there would be plenty of debate. I stabbed an unarmed man. No doubt, in this day and age, someone would take Erik’s side.

  I was put on administrative leave as a matter of routine.

  I could use the time off.

  As we wrapped up at the sheriff’s office, JD was still grumbling about his Porsche. "Man, I loved that car."

  "So, get it fixed."

  He shook his head. "It will never be the same. Do you know how hard it is to match custom paint? Plus, if the frame is bent, it will chew through tires. They’ll never get the alignment right."

  I think he was just making excuses in order to justify a new car.

  He rubbed his neck and groaned, still sore from the impact.

  "Did you get checked out by the EMTs?" I asked.

  He looked at me like I was crazy.

  "You might want to get looked at,” I said. “Rule out any soft tissue injuries."

  "Nothing a shot of whiskey and an ice pack can't fix."

  "Just don't start in on the pain meds again."

  His eyes narrowed at me. "Yes, dear."

  We shared a cab back to his place, then the driver took me to Reagan's.

  She pulled open the door, and I stepped into the foyer. She greeted me with a warm hug and a long embrace.

  I could get used to this sort of thing.

  "I watched the footage on the news," she said.

  “I'm a little surprised I didn't see you there?"

  "I figured I'd get the story straight from the horse’s mouth sooner or later." She smiled. “Besides, I said I wasn't giving that guy anymore publicity."

  "Well, he's not going to hurt anybody anymore," I said.

  "He could have hurt you," she said in a worried tone.

  I dismissed it as nonsense.

  "I'm glad you're safe," she cooed.

  "Careful, I might start to think you care," I said.

  "I do," she whispered.

  She lifted on her tiptoes and planted her full lips against mine. She expressed her gratitude in the most sublime of ways.

  Over the next few days, I decompressed at Reagan's house. She took time off from the station, and we spent most of our time trying to wear out her mattress.

  I think we made a pretty good effort.

  We were occasionally hounded by reporters, looking for an interview. I wasn't about to open my mouth and say anything until the internal investigation had been resolved.

  A few days later, I got a call from the Coconut Key Animal Shelter. Someone had found Fluffy and brought her to the shelter. I had updated the owner information on her collar. It seemed that whoever had stolen the Wild Tide was decent enough to let the animal out on dry land.

  I borrowed Reagan's car and cruised down to the shelter and picked up the snobby cat. She looked indifferent about seeing me again. But that was par for the course for a cat.

  I took Fluffy over to Diver Down. Madison had been looking after Buddy for me, and now he had his companion back.

  Buddy bounced up and down and barked, wagging his tail when he sa
w me. I knelt down and petted the little guy and gave him a big hug. I leashed him up, and we went for a short walk.

  The afternoon was gorgeous, it was good to spend time with Buddy. I liked staying with Reagan, but I missed being on the water. Being able to step out of the salon and be in the open air. Feel the breeze and watch the sunrise over the water with a cup of coffee. Every day in the Keys reminded me of a painting by a master artist. The island paradise was living art.

  I brought Buddy back to Madison, then drove back to Reagan's. She was in the kitchen, uncorking a bottle of red wine. She poured two glasses and had a little smile on her face. "We're celebrating. Sort of."

  I looked at her, curiously. "What are we celebrating?"

  "I got an amazing job offer!"

  My brow lifted, surprised. "That's fantastic!"

  "And, I got a book deal."

  "Really?"

  "48 Hours with a Killer," she said. "A true crime memoir."

  "Congratulations!"

  We clinked glasses and sipped the Merlot.

  “I thought you weren’t giving the killer any more publicity?"

  “Well, he's dead, and the publisher offered me a seven-figure advance."

  "Nothing like money to compromise one's integrity," I said, teasing her.

  Her eyes narrowed at me.

  She was silent for a long moment.

  "There's one small issue," Reagan added.

  I gave her a look, encouraging her to continue.

  "The job is with a national news network. This could be a huge opportunity for my career."

  I knew there were no national news stations based in Coconut Key. "Where is the job at?"

  "I'd have to move to Los Angeles if I took the job." She cringed, anticipating my response.

  My heart sank. The oxygen left my lungs. My stomach knotted.

  I took a breath and put on a good face. I didn't really want to see her go. But I wasn’t going to hold her back from pursuing her dreams. "If it's a good opportunity, I think you should take it."

  She looked conflicted. "Really?"

  "Yes, really," I said. "How often do opportunities like this come along? This is something you’ve wanted your whole career. You can't just blow it off."

  "What does that mean for us?"

  I shrugged. "I guess we'll have to wait and see."

  Her big beautiful eyes looked up at me. "You're not mad, are you?"