Deadly Sommer: Nora Sommer Caribbean Suspense - Book One

by Nicholas Harvey

  2

  One Foot in Front of the Other

  The colours of the shallow reef dazzled like a spring flower garden in the early morning light. I swept my long fins in gentle strokes, heading deeper beside the coral finger amongst a school of blue tangs. A hawksbill turtle ignored my passing, engrossed in her breakfast feast of a yellow sponge. Small chunks splintered into the water under the crush of her powerful beak, much to the delight of two grey angelfish who eagerly swept in for the free meal.

  Freediving for several minutes on a single breath requires calm and relaxation, which focused and centred my busy mind. A meditative exercise that flushed the demons and allowed me to function in a world where I no longer cared whether I was a part of it or not. Since the death of my boyfriend, Ridley, I’d been hanging on by a thread. Left unabated, my pain and anger mired me under a melancholic funk I couldn’t find the strength to thwart. Each morning, when my work schedule and weather allowed, I would dive and escape the world I’d come to detest, by visiting a world oblivious to my grief.

  Gliding towards the surface, I expelled the stale air from my lungs as I ascended. Above the water, I replenished my lungs with long inhales and full exhales. I floated on my back and stared up at the pale blue sky, peppered with scattered clouds. The morning sun warmed my face as I traced the outlines of the clouds, choosing the imaginary creatures they formed. A dragon above me, one of those odd little sausage dogs over to the east, and a one-winged bird to the west. The cloud to the north looked rather phallic, and I almost smiled.

  My friends and a new job have held me precariously balanced on the edge of a cliff, without which I surely would have plummeted to the depths of who knows where. Four months ago, if anyone had told me I’d be putting on a police uniform one day, I would have laughed and told them they didn’t know me at all. Of course, four months ago I was capable of laughing. But a uniform of the Royal Cayman Islands Police Service waited for me, and glancing at my watch I realised I needed to hurry home to make my shift on time.

  With a long, smooth inhale, I dived under and began my underwater return to shore. I surfaced twice more to make the 200 metres back to the small inlet in the ironshore coastline, which used to be a boat dock for the Spanish Bay Reef Resort. Long since demolished and cleared, the land of the old resort remains undeveloped, and my tiny shack occupies a lot of land east of the inlet. A piece of land the developer who owns the surrounding resort property went to great, and devious, lengths attempting to obtain. The shack had been owned for many years by the former maintenance man at the resort, Archie Winters, who gifted the property to me. He’d decided it was time to hurriedly leave the island — a circumstance I pretend not to know anything about. Especially with my new employers. He may return someday, and if he does, I’ll gladly relinquish his shack back to him. I miss my friend Archie.

  Grabbing the flip-flops I’d left by the steps to the inlet, I made my way along the dusty dirt footpath atop the rough limestone shore. The shack is raised a metre off the ground and nestled into the woods that surround the property, secluded from any other homes. My nearest neighbour is a large house several hundred metres to the east, and legal access to the shack is from the sandy beach, west of the inlet, where a footpath leads from the beach to the road.

  I stripped off my swimsuit and stood under the outdoor shower head, pulling the chain and bracing myself for the shock of the cool water following the balmy ocean temperature. After rinsing the salt water from my hair and body, I slipped on my flip-flops and dashed for the deck, making sure I couldn’t see any boats. They’d need binoculars to see I was naked, but I preferred not to invite any voyeurs. Drying myself with the towel I’d left on the deck, I checked my watch again. I had twenty minutes until I needed to be at the station.

  I call my home a shack, because Archie called it a shack. My friend AJ says it sounds much nicer to say cottage, which she calls the tiny guest house she lives in, but I’m with Archie. Shack reflects the simple way I choose to live. The dwelling may rest on a piece of land worth half a fortune, but to me it has a quiet isolation that mirrors my life. Inside, the open-plan layout has a living area, which is nothing more than a sofa and coffee table, a kitchen on the right, then a small dining table and the bedroom area beyond. The only separate room is the bathroom in the far-right corner.

  I quickly dressed, tied my hair back in a ponytail, and grabbed my keys, cap, and belt with all the police junk attached. For someone who’d skirted rules and more than a few laws in the past three years, I found myself in a job consisting of nothing but rules and laws. Wearing a uniform, for example. In Norway, we didn’t even wear uniforms in school like most other European countries did. The only thing I liked about the standard police clothing was the fact I never had to decide what to wear to work. But I did have to remember the laundry. I sniffed my shirt as I locked the front door. This one was probably due for the hamper, but it was the last one on the hanger, so it would have to do.

  The legal access to the road might be down the beach, but the fastest way was the direct path through the woods. This meant crossing the developer’s land – who would throw a fit if he knew. But he didn’t know, and I’d trampled a narrow path leading to the fence along the east side of the lot, where I’d clipped the fence to duck through. From there it’s a short walk to the road where I leave my Jeep. It’s only my Jeep because Ridley is dead. It was his project vehicle, purchased from a man who’d left it in storage for years. The paint is sun-faded blue, and the 1986 CJ-7 has no top or doors. Ridley spent days working on the engine to get it running, fitted new tyres and brakes, and fiddled and tuned until it was reliable transport. The last thing he worked on was replacing the starter motor. That was the day he was murdered. Every time I turn the key and his beloved Jeep starts flawlessly, the engine warms up as my heart grows another step colder.

  The drive to the station in West Bay takes four minutes. I rode my bicycle for the first few days until I realised I was arriving dripping in sweat from the tropical heat. Since then, I’d enjoyed the brief trip with the wind blowing all around me and the opportunity to think about the day ahead. They crammed a lot into three months of training, but the real lessons had begun once I’d hit the streets. Most of our day was more like community service and guidance counselling than police work. I’d previously been studying online for a psychology degree, which seemed to be more useful than the extendable baton or pepper spray I carried. I planned on finishing my degree in my spare time, but I was itching to use the pepper spray.

  3

  Open Door

  One thing I’d discovered during my nineteen years on this planet: the average human is an idiot. Take the gentleman in the back seat of our police car wearing handcuffs, for example. Powered by tequila, and egged on by his equally inebriated friend, he’d decided to drive his hire car on the right-hand side of the road. ‘Like we do back home.’ Grand Cayman is a British Overseas Territory, so understandably adopts the UK system of driving on the left. In my native Norway, like most of the world, we drive on the right. I don’t know the whys and wherefores of how these differences came about, but I’m smart enough not to challenge the validity of the choice at 40mph.

  Thankfully, none of the idiots were hurt, as that creates far too much paperwork. I assumed the tourists in the other car were idiots too, who just happened to be driving on the correct side of the road on their way to do something else stupid. They’d need a new hire car to do that now, so perhaps the moron in our back seat, who I prayed wouldn’t throw up, saved the tourists from themselves.

  The Sunday daytime shift was usually quiet, at least until after lunch, but today had started with a bang. Literally. But that was good. I don’t mean it was good that people drive cars into other people, but good that my day was busy. My unlikely job was the distraction I needed, and slow days, with too much time to think, were not my friend. I needed the distraction, which helped the days pass by, and days passing by was the goal. My psychology training, and my
friends, assured me time would be the healer. I doubted time would heal anything, but if it built space between the moments I was consumed by the loss, it might help.

  My partner, Jacob Tibbetts, slid into the driver’s seat and started the car. He won’t let me drive. Jacob’s a good guy, but he’s thirty-something, a career policeman, and I’m three weeks out of the training program. He won’t let me do anything. Good guy or not, I may punch him if he doesn’t let me arrest someone soon. Not that we do much arresting. Speeding tickets, drunk and disorderlies — who we usually direct to their hotels, or homes if they’re locals — and the occasional noise complaint. The guy in the back seat is the first recipient of handcuffs since I’ve been on active patrol.

  It’s a five-minute drive from West Bay Road, the busy street behind the hotels and condos of Seven Mile Beach, back to the police station. Jacob hummed as he drove and I watched the tourists wandering along the pavement, enjoying their Sunday morning activities. The central station is in the capital, George Town, a whopping 12 kilometres to the south, but after training, I was assigned to the smaller satellite station. Jacob’s previous partner had recently retired, so he was lucky enough to get me. I didn’t mind the humming. It was better than the endless questions he was constantly asking about where I was from, how did I get here, blah, blah, blah. People talk far too much. I have limited him to a maximum of two questions per day, and he’d already used one this morning. I guessed he was saving the other for this afternoon.

  We arrived at the station, vomit free, and I had the honour of opening all the doors while Jacob steered the idiot into the small building. Next came the paperwork, which Jacob was happy to let me do. There was one other person in the reception area, a tourist claiming his wallet had been stolen from his car. The middle-aged man looked me up and down and forgot whatever he’d been saying to Clara, the constable behind the desk. I get that a lot. I’m tall and slender, with long blonde hair. My Scandinavian features stand out amongst my local dark-skinned co-workers, who are still getting used to me themselves. The man kept staring.

  “Don’t look at me,” I informed him. “Clara’s the one who’s helping you.”

  The man turned red with embarrassment, anger, or both. I didn’t care either way, I just wanted him to hurry up. We had several neighbourhoods to patrol before lunch and my stomach was already growling. Jacob sat our idiot down on one of the waiting area chairs, where he swayed and groaned and complained about things in general. I stood well clear in case his Sunday brunch made a return. Clara finished up with Staring Man, who gave me a frown as he left.

  “Dat one looks a little under da weather,” Clara said, leaning over the desk, checking out our man in handcuffs. “He da one crash da car on West Bay Road?”

  “Yup. Blew point 2-6 on the breathalyser.”

  “Oh my,” Clara replied, waving a hand in the air. “I can smell da man’s breath from here.”

  The sergeant came out of his office, laughing and joking with another police officer. It was Williams, one of the senior members of the Firearms Response Unit. Another name for the good ol’ boys with guns club. No female officers were in the unit, and if Williams had his way, none would ever be. They both noticed me as they walked across the reception area. Williams looked me over and nodded with a sneer. I gave him my best disinterested stare, which I must say is usually pretty effective. He scoffed and returned to his banter with the sergeant. Screw him.

  Twenty minutes later, with paperwork completed and drunk guy in a holding cell, Jacob and I were back on the beat. The township of West Bay is actually the northern part of the island’s western land mass. To the south is the famed Seven Mile Beach, where the majority of hotels and high-end condominiums could be found, and to the east, a large sound separated the heavily populated west from the larger, less inhabited part of the island. There existed a surprising number of regions and small towns for a 22-mile-long peak of an underwater mountain that barely broke the surface of the Caribbean Sea.

  We spent the next hour driving the coastal roads from West Bay dock at the top of Seven Mile Beach to Barker’s National Park, the nature reserve on the north-west tip of the peninsula. As usual, nothing of much interest to the police was happening. Most of the locals were either working, or in church. Jacob drove us south to an expensive development known as ‘The Shores’, where we usually made a lap of the neighbourhood before lunch. Luxury homes lined a series of canals leading to the north sound, the largest properties fronting the sound itself.

  Our task was simple. Drive, look around, then leave. Every home in The Shores had an alarm system. Many were holiday homes for wealthy Americans and Europeans who visited occasionally, and very few of them were rented to short stay visitors. In my three weeks on patrol, we’d only stopped twice in the neighbourhood. Once for a wandering dog whose owner appeared and apologised for not using a lead, and the second for a chat with a worker whom Jacob knew. Today seemed to be no different. Until the second to last street, Shorescape Lane. Two huge houses shared the end of the cul-de-sac and something about the one on the left was out of place.

  Jacob pulled up to the driveway, and we both stared at the sprawling home. I had no idea who owned the place, but it certainly had enough room for the entire family tree. Two things caught our attention. The first was a large sign made from black stick-on letters adhered to a piece of white foam core, fixed to the fancy wrought-iron gate. Beyond the open gate and the large courtyard were curved steps, bordered by perfectly manicured shrubs, leading to the tall double doors, which were both open. That was the second. Electricity was very expensive on the island, so no one in their right mind would leave their front doors open for the air conditioning to cool the whole of the Caribbean. We both got out of the car and looked at the sign. ‘Welcome Police Patrol.’

  “D’ya think dat means a cold beer and pulled pork sandwiches waiting inside?” Jacob asked, more in bemusement than humour.

  I walked over to the sign. It was zip-tied to the gate, and the letters were neatly applied with perfect spacing in straight lines. Whoever made the notice had taken their time. I heard Jacob call in our location over the radio as I walked towards the house.

  “Nora,” he called out, “wait up.”

  This was likely a prank, or maybe something as easily explained as a police fund raiser later in the day, but regardless, I was going to enter this house first. I was tired of sitting on the sidelines and filling out bullshit paperwork. I heard Jacob jogging up behind me.

  “Wait up now,” he said again. “I’ll take a look. You stay outside and keep an eye out.”

  I trotted up the steps. “You keep an eye out. I’m going in.”

  “Damn it,” I heard him mutter, but I’d beaten him to the doorway.

  The entrance to the house was a huge foyer with marble tiled floor and a chandelier hanging from beyond my view above. Two curved stairwells flanked the entry, leading to the second level, and below the light fixture sat a round antique wooden table with a beautiful floral arrangement in the centre. Resting against the flower vase was another sign. This one read ‘Congratulations’. Propped on a stand in front of the sign was an electronic tablet.

  “Hello?” I shouted loudly as I stepped inside. “Is anybody home?”

  My voice echoed around the cavernous space, and I looked up to see the domed ceiling high above decorated with a Baroque style mural of angels and mermaids. Nobody answered. I walked to the table and was startled as the tablet began playing a video of some kind.

  “Hello and congratulations,” came an American male voice in an even tone. “As the first to arrive, you have been chosen.”

  I stepped back and looked all around the entranceway. I wasn’t sure what I’d been chosen for, but I had a bad feeling it wasn’t a free ski trip.

  “What the hell is dat?” I heard Jacob say as he joined me.

  The video showed a young woman restrained and struggling in what appeared to be the back of a van. Muffled groans emanated from beh
ind her duct-taped mouth, and her eyes were full of fear.

  “This is Skylar Briggs, and she has volunteered to be the prize in today’s show,” the voice announced, and the man turned the camera towards himself. He made no attempt to hide his identity, and I could see the house in which we stood in the background. He pointed to the camera.

  “And you are the lucky contestant.”

  He closed the back doors to the white panel van and walked back towards the house, talking as he went.

  “The world will be watching, so tune in and follow along everyone.”

  “He musta recorded dis no more than an hour ago,” Jacob noted. “Look at da shadows.”

  He was right. The shadows from the trees in the courtyard were not a great deal longer than they were in the video as I compared them, looking outside the open doors. I looked back at the table and noticed a blinking red light from amongst the flowers. I moved the leaves back to reveal a wireless camera and another small electronic device with an aerial protruding from the top.

  “Damn,” Jacob muttered. “What da hell’s that?”

  “A camera and transmitter,” I replied. “He’s watching us.”

  “Chosen one, I see who you are, and now the world has seen who you are. You, and you alone must play the game. If you win today’s contest, Skylar will be returned, and I will hand myself over to the authorities,” the kidnapper continued, staring into the camera as though he were addressing me directly. “You will face four challenges. Fail any of the first three challenges, and Skylar starts losing those pretty little manicured fingers.” He paused, leaning in closer to the camera. “Fail the final challenge,” he said, looking away for a moment before returning his gaze to the lens, “and Skylar dies.”