Page 4 of Wild Tempest

"Peyton!" I shouted into the bush as I stood up. "Garrett! Marcus!”

My voice echoed across the meadow, through the forest.

There was no response.

I unzipped the tent and looked inside. Three sleeping bags covered the floor. Some supplies, snacks, freeze-dried food, a flashlight, a lantern, and other camping gear lay scattered about.

I searched the tent and found a small SD card in one of the sleeping bags. I bagged it as evidence and slipped it into my pocket. Maybe it held photos and video.

When I crawled back out of the tent, I shouted for Peyton and her comrades again.

Still no response.

JD and I searched the area and found a few empty beer bottles and wrappers from protein bars. It was hard to say if they came from the campsite or were here before the documentary crew arrived.

Not far from the tent, I found dried blood in the grass. Lots of it. I called JD over to take a look.

“That’s more than a scratch,” Jack said.

That sensation in my gut twisted. Bad things happened here.

We continued to search the grass and found a few 9mm shell casings.

There was no denying the worst had happened.

JD and I continued to search the island, moving section by section, looking for more evidence.

We moved through the woods, heading west, then found the remnants of another large bonfire in the next clearing.

Action cameras had been positioned in the trees throughout the island. The documentary crew must have set these up, hoping to catch glimpses of the witch in the middle of the night. We found three of them, but I figured there might be more. There was no telling how many they had stashed out here.

We continued our search of the island. On the west side, we found a pit that had been recently dug out. It looked like a shallow grave, about 3 feet deep.

It was empty.

Footprints surrounded it.

I knelt down and surveyed the recently unearthed dirt. The dark, stained soil and the lingering odor of decay confirmed my suspicions. Greasy residue and patches of grave wax from fat breakdown covered parts of the pit. Blood and bodily fluids had soaked into the ground. The forensic entomologists would have a field day with the pupal cases and beetle remains.

There had been a body buried here. There was no doubt in my mind. But it wasn’t someone from the documentary crew. Whoever had been buried in this pit had been there for a while. Perhaps a month or two, given the evidence.

We were dealing with, potentially, two different crimes.

JD and I searched the rest of the island, then made our way back to the boat. I pushed the Raptor into the surf, then climbed over the gunwale. Jack fired up the engines and navigated us out of the bay. We headed back toward Coconut Key with that sense of dread. I called the sheriff when we got cell service again. "I need you to send the forensic team and the cadaver dogs."

The sheriff groaned. Not the news he wanted to hear.

3

The island swarmed with investigators. We set up work lights with generators as we combed through the grass, looking for more shell casings and blood.

It was clear multiple individuals had been murdered on the island.

The moon hung low in the sky, and the stars twinkled.

Squadrons of mosquitoes buzzed about, looking for a meal.

Dietrich snapped photos, and camera flashes filtered through the trees. We collected all the cameras we could find, hoping they caught a glimpse of the action. Cadaver dogs searched the island for remains.