Rockhead Island
Rockhead IslandRockhead IslandReady to shoot anything that moved, Wallace Jenkins held the Glock in front of him and sent his eyes around the front bedroom of the cottage. He would always remember the blood. So much blood—everywhere—on the bed, the walls, the window blinds. Like a macabre Rorschach painting, odd patterns of it had seeped into the canary-yellow carpet. The two guys from the bar were sprawled about the room, almost as if they’d been posed. The bigger guy was on the bed, one of his shoeless feet barely touching the floor. His black pants were bunched around his knees. He was wearing blood-spattered boxer shorts; a pair of black socks had been stuffed in his mouth. His sleeveless white tee shirt, now mostly dark crimson, had been sliced in several places. He s
