Page 6 of Property of Anchor
Piney nodded, but his fists were clenched.
I crouched again and stared at the man’s face.
“You think this has something to do with—” Piney started.
“I don’t know what this is,” I cut in.“But we’re going to find out.”
The water lapped softly against the dock.The lights flickered briefly, and the sound of laughter and screams from the haunted house still drifted down the path.
The island was alive.
But down here?
The real nightmare had just begun.
And somebody had dragged it right to our doorstep.
Chapter Four
Anchor
Pull and Piney wrapped him in a thick black tarp and then sealed him with duct tape to keep him from leaking anything across the dock.The air stank of lake water and fear, but no one said a word.Lost drove the utility cart with the headlights off, the quiet rumble of the engine masked by the fake storm sounds from the haunted house speakers up the hill.Skull and I walked behind, and our eyes scanned the tree line and paths for wandering tourists.
The boat tour crowd was too wrapped up in their own thrill to notice the real horror happening just feet away.A fog machine hissed near the ghost tour kiosk and covered the exit path in a white veil.Behind that, actors in rotted fisherman costumes leapt from barrels to scare guests getting on the boats.No one noticed us vanish into the woods.
We took the back trail, one that only the club used.It curled around the old service shed hidden behind the haunted house.Piney pulled open the warped wooden door and revealed a wall of fake supply crates.He pushed the crates aside, and there was a large steel door.
It groaned open, and the smell that rose from the tunnel was cold and metallic.
We descended single-file.The narrow stairwell led into a service corridor that had been carved into the limestone decades ago, back when Skull Island was used for government training exercises.We’d reinforced the walls, added lighting, and rerouted power through a dummy line.It was our tunnel now.
And tonight, it was our morgue.
The tunnel ended at another steel door that opened into the cellar beneath the clubhouse.The room was cool and dry.There were shelves stacked with backup supplies, boxed liquor, and spare gear.In the middle stood a stainless steel table, normally used for gear repair and cleaning firearms.Tonight, it held a corpse.
Pull and Piney hoisted the body onto the table, unwrapped it, and stepped back.
The man lay still.Pale.Slightly bloated.The twine still threaded through his lips.The carved letters across his chest, KOAMC, were angry, deep, and raw.Kings of Anarchy Motorcycle Club.
It wasn’t a message.It was a challenge.
“Get Doc,” I said to Push, who was waiting near the entrance.“Tell him we need him now.Bring the case.”
Doc showed up twenty minutes later.He looked like hell, but that was normal.Thin frame, thinning hair, unshaven jaw.He wore a wrinkled hoodie with the Lions logo half peeled off and cargo pants that looked two sizes too big.
“Jesus, Anchor,” he said as he entered the room.“You boys pick up a side hustle in execution now?”
“Less jokes.More answers,” I ordered.
“Yeah, yeah.You paying in Jack or Jameson this time?”
“Whiskey.Full crate.”
“Then let’s get to work.”Doc rubbed his hands together.
He snapped on gloves, one of them tearing before he got it on.He didn’t care.He leaned over the body and began his work.Clinical, fast, and efficient.He sniffed.Checked beneath the eyelids.Pressed the stomach.
“Cold.No obvious decomposition yet.He hasn’t been in the water long,” Doc muttered.“Petechial hemorrhaging present.Broken capillaries in the eyes.That’s classic strangulation.”
