4
No is Not an Option
Detective Whittaker is the man who persuaded me to join the Royal Cayman Islands Police Service. A decision I was regretting at the moment, but nonetheless he was a man I greatly respected and trusted. That was saying something, as I rarely trusted anyone in authority. He’s a tall, slender man, with closely cropped grey hair and glasses. A local Caymanian with milk chocolate-coloured skin. He has a calm air about his ways and a pleasant, yet forthright manner.
“I want no part of this bullshit,” I said, looking up at him from where I sat on the steps to the house. “I didn’t join the police to be broadcast over the Internet. Sir,” I remembered to throw in at the end.
The detective’s mobile hadn’t stopped dinging, ringing, and buzzing since he’d arrived a few minutes before, and he glanced away from me to see what the latest text was about. He frowned at his phone and tapped a few times before sitting down next to me and holding his mobile out in front of us both. It was a web stream. Apparently, the kidnapper had sent the web address to every news agency, paper, and TV station on the planet. Our little island was being inundated with requests to verify the reports of the kidnapping.
“Thanks for tuning in everyone,” the dull, almost matter-of-fact voice of the man said. “The show will really start at noon, when our police constable, Miss Nora Sommer, will begin her first challenge to save Skylar Briggs.”
“Fy faen,” I groaned and watched the video showing the abducted young woman tied to a chair in a dimly lit room. “How does he know who I am?”
“My guess,” Whittaker spoke quietly, “is he selected you.”
“Why me?” I complained. “All I want is to be left alone. I want anonymity, not a freak show on the world wide web.” Leaning in closer, I studied the video stream. “That’s a strange room. No windows, or carpet.”
“Looks like concrete,” Whittaker murmured.
“Like a basement,” I added. “But no one has a basement on the island.”
Grand Cayman is as flat as a pancake, the highest point being the landfill known as Mount Trashmore. A basement would be below the water table, becoming a swimming pool instead of storage space.
“For now, I’m afraid we don’t have a choice, Nora,” the detective said. “Until we know more, we need to play along.”
“Who’s this girl?” I asked, pointing at the terrified young woman on the screen. “Apart from the daughter of someone with a lot of money.”
“Donovan Briggs owns this place,” Whittaker replied, gesticulating to the huge house behind us. “He’s an American businessman. I would have expected a ransom demand, but this fellow hasn’t breathed a word about money. All he keeps talking about are these challenges.”
“I don’t like the sound of those,” I moaned.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “I won’t put you in obvious harm’s way. We’ll try to buy time and figure out where he is.”
“Sir, the news crew is here,” Jacob announced as he strode over to us. “We have them out front on the street.”
Whittaker stood. “Thank you, Constable Tibbetts. Do you have the details of the van?”
Jacob tore a page from his notebook and handed the sheet to Whittaker. “Do we have patrols looking for the vehicle, sir?”
The detective shook his head. “No. I’m about to have the good citizens do that for us.” He glanced down at me. “Where do you think the van is?”
I’d noticed he enjoyed doing that to me. He had committed to mentor me if I joined the force, but apparently mentoring meant testing me. Or having me do his job for him. I wasn’t a hundred per cent sure which.
“He’s already ditched the van and switched to another vehicle,” I answered, figuring I’d play along. “The van will be close by in a secluded area, but not well hidden.”
“I get da switch,” Jacob commented. “But why not hide da van?”
Whittaker grinned and nodded at me to continue.
“Because he wants us to find it,” I obliged.
Jacob hesitated, and I guessed he was trying to figure it out for himself rather than seem like he didn’t know in front of the boss. His curiosity quickly got the better of him. “So why is dat den?”
Jacob was a smart guy, but he was also a really nice, trusting, family man. He didn’t think like a criminal, which, according to Whittaker when he first approached me about joining up, I did.
“He’s overloaded us with clues and things to follow up on, so we have to choose which to pursue,” I explained. “He knows we’re a small island with limited personnel and resources. Every copper busy chasing their tail is one more that’s not looking for where he’s got the girl.”
The detective nodded again as he left, walking towards the news crew waiting anxiously outside the gates.
“Dis is crazy,” Jacob said, shaking his head. “Stuff like dis don’t happen here on Cayman.”
It was typical of my luck. Why couldn’t the nutjob have pulled this crap three weeks ago? And why did I choose today to be the first through the door? I looked up at Jacob and saw the concern on his face.
“It shoulda been me, Nora,” he said quietly. “It should be me in dis mess about challenges and all dis rubbish. I’m sorry I let you go in first.”
I stood up and stared out at the cul-de-sac where Whittaker was giving an interview with the TV news crew. “You didn’t let me. And besides, it’s better this way,” I replied. “You’ve got a family to worry about.”
I walked down the steps without finishing the statement. The obvious part about my not having shit worth living for didn’t need to be said. Whittaker was right. We had to play along, and if someone needed to be put at risk, I couldn’t come up with a good excuse why it shouldn’t be me.
A fancy, expensive looking vehicle that couldn’t decide if it was a car or an SUV screeched to a halt in the road where the police had cordoned off access to the house. Whittaker stepped away from his interview and intercepted the man who leapt from the driver’s seat. He was middle-aged, dressed like he’d just left the golf course, and very worked up. I presumed he was Mr Briggs. A woman dripping in jewellery and designer clothes emerged from the passenger seat. She was either ageing at a snail’s pace, or she wasn’t Skylar’s mother.
Whittaker looked to be trying to calm down the father as he led him and the arm candy towards the house. Towards me.
“You can hit a fucking baseball and reach every corner of the island,” the man was shouting. “How the fuck can you not find this son-of-a-bitch?”
Shit. I’ve had the misfortune of meeting more than my fair share of these drittsekker. Upset is understandable, but screaming and yelling at the people trying to help didn’t inspire me to stick my neck out. I could only hope his daughter was worth the effort.
“I assure you we are, and will be, pursuing all avenues available to us, sir,” Whittaker said calmly as they approached.
“I’ve already called the FBI,” Briggs claimed, waving a dismissive hand in the air. “I’m not leaving this to you guys.”
He stopped at the base of the steps and looked up at me. “Is this kid the constable who’s the ‘chosen one’?”
Apparently he didn’t want an answer from me as he turned to the detective. “Is this a fucking joke?”
I walked down the steps and past Briggs, who swung around. The wife, girlfriend, hooker, or whatever she was, eyed me with disdain. A look I gladly returned as I continued across the courtyard.
“Where the hell are you going?” Briggs shouted after me. “I want to talk to you.”
Jacob walked with me, which made me smile, and I managed unusual restraint in not flipping off the obnoxious father. That was for Whittaker’s sake. He had enough to deal with. But I ignored Briggs’s shouts and kept going.
“What do we do now?” Jacob asked as we reached the gates.
“Avoid this camera for starters,” I muttered as the news crew attempted to intercept us.
Jacob leapt in front of
the reporter and held out his arms. “No film of da constable, please. We got enough trouble already.”
I was surprised the reporter lady and her cameraman both backed off as I ducked around their van and got in the passenger side of our police car. Jacob jogged over and joined me, getting in the driver’s seat.
“Where to?” he asked, starting the engine. “Are you sure the detective is okay wid us leaving?”
“Home,” I replied. “I need to change.”
Jacob hesitated.
“Get going before that news lady changes her mind,” I urged, “and don’t worry, I’m texting Whittaker.”
As Jacob backed down the road and turned around in the driveway of another waterfront mansion, I sent the detective a short text saying I’d meet him at whatever location the kidnapper directed us to. I then searched for the website online. It was easy to find. ‘Cayman kidnap’ brought up a plethora of news hits, each one listing the kidnapper’s web address. The camera was still on the girl, but the sound was muted. In the bottom corner resided a counter which read 8,800 and something. Within a few seconds of watching, it read over 9,000, the last two digits a constant blur as they were changing so fast. I wasn’t sure about the world, but a bunch of people were indeed tuning in.
My phone dinged with Whittaker’s reply, which asked me to monitor the web feed. I was having a hard time not watching, as apparently my fate lay in the hands of this madman. I directed Jacob towards Conch Point Beach Resort, which was east of my shack where the footpath led from the road to the beach. Where I lived was a closely guarded secret and although I trusted my partner, I saw no reason to change that policy with all the craziness going on.
“What do you think these challenges are gonna be?” Jacob asked as we drove through West Bay.
I shrugged my shoulders and continued watching the video feed on my mobile, looking for any clues.
“I hope it’s not puzzles,” I replied absent-mindedly. “I hate puzzles.”
“Maybe it’ll be like those shows where dey drop da people off on da island, den make ’em do those funky courses,” Jacob offered. “You know the ones? If dey make it through first, den dey can’t be voted out.”
“No,” I replied.
“No, you hope it ain’t that?”
“No, I don’t know the shows,” I said impatiently. “I don’t watch TV.”
“Oh, well, you see dey take dees people and dey…”
“Jacob,” I snapped. “Stop talking.”
He went quiet, and I felt bad for barking at him. But, shit, why does everyone want to yammer on about things all the time? At least Jacob didn’t treat me with disdain, like Williams and his shoot-’em-up-club of he-man woman-haters.
“Nora, are you listening in?” came the kidnapper’s voice as he stepped in front of the camera. “Hello everyone, and thank you all for joining the show. The action will be starting soon and we have plenty of entertainment for you all afternoon.”
That didn’t sound good at all. I was hoping for something quick and easy. All afternoon didn’t promise to be quick, or easy.
“For the first challenge, Miss Sommer, be at the public dock by Calypso Grill on North Sound by noon. You’ll be getting wet, so dress appropriately.” He paused and leaned in to the camera. “And no tracking devices, no tools, no weapons, or Skylar will start losing body parts.”
He stepped back from the camera to reveal the girl, who was manically panting behind the tape over her mouth. She appeared on the verge of a full panic attack. I felt sorry for her, despite the shitty genes she would have inherited from her father.
“Dat man is so normal looking,” Jacob said quietly. “It don’t make no sense.”
“That’s what they say about all the weirdo psycho killers,” I pointed out. “Their neighbours always say they seemed so normal. Meanwhile, they chopped up a dozen people and shoved them down the waste disposal.”
“Oh, dat’s disgusting, Nora, don’t even say dat,” Jacob said, frowning at me. “I don’t need to be thinking about dat girl, or you, being… you know… what you just said and all.”
“That makes two of us,” I admitted. “Now hurry up, we don’t have much time,” I added, looking at my watch. It was nearly 11:30.
As we drove on, I wondered who the hell the kidnapper was. Jacob was right, he seemed like a normal bloke. He was making no effort to hide his identity, so I doubted it would take long to ID him. His lines were from a game show, but his delivery was deadpan, like a shy man unused to a camera. I guessed he was fiftyish, slightly overweight and non-threatening in appearance. But I also guessed Skylar Briggs didn’t feel unthreatened in her current situation. I was certainly uneasy about what lay ahead.
5
Almost a Day Off
A skinny nine-year-old boy walked from the dugout to the plate accompanied by a handful of claps from parents in the stands. On the back of his jersey was the number four and his name, Kowalczyk. The kid turned and picked out his father, who gave him an enthusiastic thumbs-up. Number Four returned a nod and a determined expression. Digging his cleats into the dirt, young Kowalczyk carefully adjusted his stance and stared down the pitcher. He whiffed the first pitch.
“That’s alright son, eyes on the ball. You got this,” bellowed his father amongst a smattering of other, less keen encouragement. He fluttered his golf shirt a few times, fanning some air over his sweaty chest in the South Florida heat.
The kid glanced up at the scoreboard for the umpteenth time, although he knew nothing had changed except the pitch count. They were still down by three in the bottom of the seventh. With two on, he was their best chance at clawing their way back into the game. He dug in again, rolled his bony shoulders, and twitched the bat in his grasp. The pitch was in the bottom corner of the strike zone and little Kowalczyk swung with all his might as he watched the ball hurtle towards him. The sweet sound of a solid hit on aluminium echoed around the park, and the kid took off running.
The crowd rushed to their feet, with everyone screaming a cacophony of instructions, warnings and cheers, varying based on which team their kid was playing for. Yelling loudest was one proud father as he watched his kid clear second and sprint for all he was worth to third. The two other runners crossed home plate, and the coach checked Kowalczyk up at third. The kid looked up at the bleachers and beamed. His father, who at six foot two could be picked out easily, applauded and smiled. He rolled his eyes when he felt his mobile phone vibrate in his trouser pocket. He reluctantly retrieved it.
“Motherfuc…” he mumbled before catching himself. The call ID read ‘Office’.
“Kowalczyk,” he said unenthusiastically with the phone to his ear.
“You’re up, Dan,” a man said without emotion. “Kidnapping of a US citizen in the Caribbean. How soon can you be at the FBO?”
“I’m at my kid’s baseball game, man. Is there no one else?” he whispered, not as quietly as he intended.
“You’re up. How long?” came the unsympathetic reply.
Kowalczyk shook his head and sighed. “Twenty minutes, thirty tops. Where exactly am I going?”
“Cayman Islands. Make it twenty, Dan, this might unfold quickly,” his boss replied.
“The fucking Cayman Islands?” Dan responded.
A series of murmurs and groans came from all around, and a woman just below him turned and gave him a stern frown.
Dan covered the phone. “I’m sorry, Jill, I apologise. It’s my damn work.”
Jill remained unimpressed and turned away, still frowning. Dan gave up and returned to the call.
“I have to tell my wife I’m bailing on our kid’s baseball game to fly to the Cayman fuc…” he stopped himself just in time. “To the Cayman Islands? You’re killing me. This better not be another bullshit hoax.”
“Nineteen minutes now, Dan.”
“Fine,” he snorted. “Hey, one more thing. Who’s my partner on this one?”
When he heard a soft sigh and a hesitation before the answer, h
e knew he wouldn’t like what he was about to hear.
“Ricci.”
“Motherfucker,” he groaned and ended the call to face an evil eye stare from Jill.
Dan ignored her this time and nudged the man standing behind him. “Bob, hey man, could you drop my kid at the house? I got a work thing come up.”
The man nodded. “Sure, no problem, Dan.” Then he grinned. “Your missus is going to kill you for this.”
Dan shook his head. “Don’t I know it.”
He gave the action on the field one more look, then shuffled towards the end of the bleachers, excusing himself as he went.
“Hey, Dan,” his friend called out.
Dan turned.
“I get your golf clubs when she beats you to death,” his friend shouted with a big grin.
Dan flipped him the bird and stomped across the car park to his Buick.
Elizabeth Ricci berated herself one more time for having too many drinks the night before. Her whole Sunday, the one day off she would have that week, was now several hours shorter than it should have been. She had slept in until 10am, crammed a few ibuprofen down her throat and chased them with half a gallon of coffee. At least she’d kept enough wits about her to fend off the guy who had spent the evening buying her drinks at the bar. He had nearly got lucky. It had been a while since she’d invited anyone to stay over, and settling for mediocrity seemed like an acceptable plan when she was inebriated. Fortunately, he had ogled a younger woman at the bar, and Beth had regained enough sense to leave him to her clutches. Still, it dented her ego a little; but waking up next to him that morning would have been far worse.
By three miles into her six-mile run at Amelia Earhart Park, she had sweated out the remaining alcohol, along with any cares about the guy at the bar. Beth paused at her turnaround point and cursed the Florida heat. This would have been over with hours ago if she hadn’t been talked into a ‘girls’ night out’. The mobile phone strapped to her arm rang, and she tilted her arm to see the caller ID. It was work. Shit, she thought, here goes the rest of the day off.
Deadly Sommer: Nora Sommer Caribbean Suspense - Book One Page 3
