Rich Blood (Jason Rich #1)(13)

Waylon guffawed. “Ma’am, no ma’am. Sergeant, you have wiped me out.”

They’d had three more shots at the bar, and then they’d retired to her place, and she’d broken out the handle of Jose Cuervo. She lived in a one-story rancher on two acres of land. After downing half the bottle, most of a saltshaker, and a full lime, she’d taken the sheet off her bed and laid it down on the grass in the backyard.

Though not much of a looker, Tara was an incredible lay, and Waylon figured his sack was bone dry after the marathon she’d just put him through. When the sex was over, Tara had started talking about her time in the army. Her kills.

She’d taken three lives that she knew of in Afghanistan. Waylon had been interested in the details. Two had been machine gun kills. Enemy soldiers who’d crossed her path and would’ve shot her if she hadn’t been quicker. She’d used an M27, a gun that Waylon had read a lot about. He asked her if she still had it, but she ignored the question.

The one that bothered her was her third kill. The last one. She’d come up behind a man in close quarters. Too tight for a gun, so she’d had to use her knife. She’d slit his throat, heard his groan. Felt the air seep out of his lungs and smelled his breath as he dropped to the ground. “I still hear that motherfucker’s groan in my dreams, and I wake up and my bedroom smells of his stale stench.”

She explained that she preferred sleeping outside and pointed to the bed swing she’d hung on the porch. “Great for sleeping, not so much for fucking.”

Waylon had listened to this stranger’s tales of murder and been awestruck. Envious even. Why hadn’t he ever joined the army? His skill set would have been perfect.

He reached for the tequila bottle as Tara lay beside him. He took a long pull and felt a bit dizzy. He wanted to tell this woman about his kill. He had to tell someone. What would be the harm? This bitch was piss drunk. He could always deny everything if she somehow remembered what he’d told her.

Waylon took another sip. He glanced at Tara, who’d closed her eyes. They were both naked, their bodies glistening with sweat, the air reeking of tequila. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth.

“I killed a man,” Waylon Pike said.





12


Hatty Daniels didn’t hesitate when the tip came in. It was a little less than an hour to Jasper, Tennessee, and she arrived in forty minutes, her siren blaring the entire way. Deputy George Mitchell rode shotgun but barely said a word during the ride.

Both knew what was at stake. The Waters murder was a week old, and the Marshall County Sheriff’s Office was being inundated with news coverage, most of it bad. There had even been calls for Sheriff Griffith’s firing.

Homicide was rare in Guntersville. The crime rate itself was higher than the national average, but that was due to theft, burglary, and other property offenses. Violent acts were typically limited to assault and robbery charges.

A murder on Buck Island was unheard of.

Griff was feeling the heat, and he’d had another full-force meeting the previous evening that was even more dire than the first. They were seemingly out of options. There was still no direct evidence against Jana Waters, no additional suspect had emerged, and Waylon Pike had seemingly disappeared.

The call from the Marion County Sheriff’s Department had come at 4:30 p.m. A woman named Tara Samples had told the Bridgeport, Alabama, police chief about her encounter with a South Pittsburg man who claimed he’d shot and killed a doctor who was hitting golf balls on his boat dock. Samples, a retired veteran who owned a local business, had heard a news report about the murder of Dr. Braxton Waters and had come in and given a statement. She’d taken a selfie with the man and gave his photo to the police as well. The Bridgeport PD had contacted the authorities in South Pittsburg, and one of the deputies, a longtime resident, recognized the man as Michael Pike. Michael Waylon Pike.

Pike had been found at his mother’s house and taken to the Marion County Jail in Jasper, where he was being held for a number of outstanding warrants and questioning in the murder of Braxton Waters.

Though the Samples woman was admittedly drunk at the time Pike told her about killing the doctor, she had a reputation for being a no-nonsense woman who wouldn’t have reported a crime if she didn’t really think something was wrong. “Tara is the opposite of a drama hound,” Hatty’s source in the Bridgeport PD said. The photograph that Samples had taken had been sent to Hatty, who’d verified with Jackson Burns that the man in the picture was indeed the Waylon Pike who’d been working for him and several others on Buck Island, including the Waterses.

Once they arrived at the jail, a brief conversation was had with the sheriff. Instead of overwhelming Pike with officers, a low-key approach was agreed upon. Hatty and George would go in, and everyone else would view a live video feed. They were then led down a narrow hallway to the interrogation room. Inside the tight space, Waylon Pike sat in an aluminum chair with his head resting on a wooden table. He didn’t look up as they entered.

“Mr. Pike, you have a couple visitors from Guntersville,” a Marion County guard announced and then closed the door.

Hatty cut her eyes at George, who cleared his throat and sat down in one of the aluminum chairs. She continued to stand.

“Mr. Pike, we came down here to arrest you for the murder of Dr. Braxton Waters.”

Pike kept his head on the table, but Hatty saw his neck twitch and eyes blink open. He said nothing.