Deadly Sommer: Nora Sommer Caribbean Suspense - Book One

by Nicholas Harvey

  One by one, I picked up each remaining piece and tried them in the open area. The trapezoid block fitted everywhere, which didn’t help me. The two odd pieces were an elbow shape and a goofy piece with the vee cut-out. I blinked several times and fought to stay lucid. Banging and turning the two pieces around, I manically tried forcing them into the space but they wouldn’t all fit. My lungs screamed and my head was thumping, but I desperately needed a few more seconds of clear thought.

  Closing my eyes again, I focused on an imaginary spot before me, and a white light appeared. My whole body relaxed, and the panic receded. I felt a calm and peace wash over me. Whatever happened next would be okay. If I slipped away, I’d join Ridley on the other side, whatever, whenever, or wherever that might be. The draw to be with him again was almost overwhelming, but a nagging obligation to save a woman I didn’t even know pulled me back.

  I opened my eyes and dropped the elbow into the frame. The goofy one nestled perfectly into the remaining vee, leaving a trapezoid-shaped hole for the final piece. Slapping it home, I wheezed the remaining air from my lungs and swept the regulator up to my mouth. Pressing the outer face of the reg, I purged the water from the mouthpiece and gasped in the precious gas. As my head cleared and I stared down at the table, I reminded myself of how much I still hated fucking puzzles.

  11

  A Sign

  Jacob, Reg and the two IT officers applauded, and cheers could be heard from the crowd gathered behind the barricade. Whittaker was bent over with his hands on his knees, panting as if he’d run a marathon. He hadn’t intended to, but he’d held his breath along with Nora for the last minute or so. She, however, had held a single breath for 7 minutes and 6 seconds according to the dramatic time counter Massey had run across the top of the screen. The kidnapper was now congratulating her over the video feed, still running live from underwater where Nora sat back and looked up at the camera.

  “Bloody good job, Nora,” Whittaker muttered at the screen.

  Muffled shouts and banging came from Jacob’s police car where Briggs was beside himself, locked in the back seat, watching on his mobile. Whittaker had little sympathy for the man and ignored him.

  Nora reached for the instructions clipped to the table and appeared to take a quick glance before tucking them under her arm. She then put her hands together as though in prayer, and Whittaker felt a surge of relief mixed with guilt for getting her into this mess. Finally, a sense of fear returned as he wondered what would come next. Nora lowered her left hand, then slid her right hand deliberately upwards and reset her mask. She took the laminated sheet from under her arm and the feed abruptly switched to Skylar Briggs strapped to the chair in the concrete room.

  Whittaker assumed the directions to the next location were on the back of the laminated sheet, which Massey didn’t want them seeing. The IT guys had already taken a still image of the challenge notes and zoomed in to see if there was anything to be gleaned. It gave them nothing new. The detective thought for a moment, and wondered where those directions would be sending his young constable next. He checked his watch. It was a little after 1pm. AJ wouldn’t be back from her search for another 30 or 40 minutes and he glanced out over the North Sound. AJ was probably less than a few hundred yards from where he stood, but with Massey’s well-placed camera watching them, plus the possibility of more they didn’t know about, she couldn’t risk surfacing nearby.

  Whittaker pondered the last shot he’d seen of Nora with her praying hands. He didn’t know her religious beliefs, but he guessed she wasn’t a regular churchgoer. Spiritual maybe, but he couldn’t imagine the young Norwegian with her troubled past following an organised religion. He considered whether his spotty attendance at his own church might have played into the day’s proceedings. His wife would think so. Making a silent promise to return to regular attendance, he thought back to Nora. He took out his mobile and texted a question to a cousin who lived with her husband and daughter on the north side of the island. She might have the answer to an odd thought that had crossed his mind.

  As he hit send, the mobile buzzed in his hand. He’d been ignoring the constant stream of calls and messages, but he noticed this was Pam, the police communications lady who had to be having the worst day of her professional career.

  “Whittaker,” he answered.

  “Roy, I’m sorry to bother you,” she started, sounding as overwhelmed as he’d imagined, “but I’m not sure what to do with the arriving press, sir.”

  “I’m sorry, Pam,” he replied, “What do you mean by arriving press?”

  He heard Pam sigh. “Roy, every seat on every commercial plane, plus multiple charters and private planes are coming in this afternoon,” she explained. “The worldwide press are arriving. Many of them don’t have a place to stay or hire cars. Everything is sold out.”

  “Oh,” Whittaker mumbled, unsure why this was his concern, as much as he was sympathetic to her plight.

  “What am I supposed to do with all these people?”

  “Keep them away from me and where we’re working would be my first answer, Pam,” he said, as kindly as he could. “Beyond that, I’m not sure I mind what you do with them.”

  He thought he heard a sniffle, and felt equal parts guilty and irritated. “I’m sorry, Pam, I’m sure it’s a problem, but surely the Chief should be handling this with you?”

  “You didn’t hear?” she said in surprise.

  “Hear what?” he said and knew amongst the voicemails and texts on his mobile was probably the answer he was about to hear.

  “The Chief is having emergency gall bladder surgery,” Pam said. “You’re the acting Chief.”

  “Oh,” he said again, surprise turning into disbelief. “That’s perfect.”

  An uncomfortable silence fell across the phone line and he looked over at the monitor where the viewership now read 290,000. He had no idea what constituted a large audience for an Internet live-stream, but he guessed that had to rank pretty high and was showing no sign of slowing.

  “Set up a media ops centre somewhere, Pam, and direct everyone there to receive their official press passes.”

  “Press passes?” she echoed. “We don’t usually have press passes, Roy. I have nothing made up.”

  “Cut them out of cereal boxes or print them off your computer, my dear. I don’t care which,” he said softly. “But make sure they all have to come and see you before going anywhere else on the island.”

  “Okay, I suppose,” Pam replied hesitantly. “But where can I get a room big enough to handle all these people on a Sunday afternoon? For sporting events we’ve used one of the hotels before, but this will be far bigger than we’ve ever seen.”

  Whittaker walked around in ever-increasing circles as he spoke. “The Hamlin Stephenson Market at the cricket grounds. Tell them we need to commandeer the building for the afternoon,” he said, desperately hoping it would only be necessary for the afternoon.

  “But that’s an open-air building miles from here, Roy,” Pam replied. “Wouldn’t somewhere on the way over to where you are be better?”

  “Not at all, Pam,” he said, spelling it out more clearly. “The best thing would be if they weren’t coming at all. The next best thing is to delay them with bureaucratic BS over press passes, and hopefully this will be over before they get in my way. I’m trying to catch a madman, save a young woman’s life, while not getting my constables harmed, Pam. The world’s press will not be assisting me in doing any of that.”

  “Oh,” Pam said, mirroring the policeman’s surprise from earlier. “Of course, sir. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you, Pam,” Whittaker said politely and ended the call, wondering what more could go wrong.

  “While our valiant Royal Cayman Islands Police Service constable, Nora, moves to our second location, let’s talk about the subject of the second challenge,” Massey announced, standing before the camera on his video feed.

  Whittaker guessed whatever the kidnapper had up his sle
eve next would not be the improvement he was hoping for.

  “Hear no evil,” Massey continued. “Our ears are constantly bombarded with information these days, from entertainment to news and advertising. But is there a difference between any of those things? Does the television and print media bring us a balanced, non-biased version of the news we all need to know? How do they choose what to show you and what to sweep under the rug and ignore? Why does a court hearing about a Florida politician’s embezzlement case take precedence over an earthquake in Sulawesi killing over a hundred people?

  “Why? Because most Americans, and many people around the world, have no idea where Sulawesi is. So, they’re more interested in a juicy story about a sham charity set up by an elected official. Let’s step back and ask a bigger question.”

  Massey paced back and forth before the camera, gesticulating to emphasise his points. “Why do news channels exist? To bring the general public information about the world and their local area, right? Wrong. They exist to make money. They are purely and simply profit centres, concerned solely about their ratings and beating their competition. Ratings mean value in the eye of the advertiser, and the advertiser’s dollars are what fund the show and drive the profit. So how do they choose what to show you? They show you whatever will make you tune in and watch. Not you as concerned citizens hoping to keep up with the world around you, but you as moths drawn to the flame.

  “Danger on the streets of your town! Tune in at 11 and we’ll tell you how to stay safe.”

  He threw his hands in the air then leaned in closer to the camera, theatrically looking at his watch, “If it’s going to save my life why do I have to wait until 11? Because that’s when they’ll serve you a bunch of ads to buy shiny cars, sudsy washing powder, pills to make things soft, and pills to make things hard. Then, at 11:27, they’ll get to the story about some bullshit they’ve blown out of proportion to scare you into watching in the first place.

  “So, the news is entertainment, TV news, print news, Internet news, it’s all the entertainment industry. A news webpage is almost impossible to even read as the article flies off the screen, shoved aside by pop-up ads, videos, and links suckering you into clicking by pretending to be part of the story. What about the ads themselves? Do you really think the airline’s main concern is helping you see your family like they show in their ad? How about the insurance company that pledges to be right there if something happens? The fast-food company that shows the laughing happy children eating fat-filled chemically laced burgers with free gifts when you buy the combo meal?

  “Lies. They’re all pumping you full of lies to sell their products to make money. Our ears are constantly barraged with bullshit. You all choose your news station based not on them telling the truth, but the truth as you want to hear it. It’s still bullshit, or at best a truth spun into a form they think you want to hear. So why would we be surprised when corporations follow suit? Charity donations carefully guided by accountants keeping the tax dollars from going back to the communities. The same communities their workforce resides in, desperately trying to claw out a living.

  “So gather round folks, invite your friends and families to tune in, because shortly we’ll listen to some of the lies your ears have been subjected to by none other…” Massey stepped back, once again gesturing towards Skylar whose terrified eyes followed his movement, “than our very own Briggs family.”

  He moved out of camera shot and soft music played as the viewers were left with the young woman’s pleading stare at the camera.

  Whittaker wondered what on earth the international press would do with that little segment. Probably run some ads and keep looping it. His mobile buzzed again, and he checked the text. It was from his cousin, and she’d sent a short video. The detective watched and smiled.

  “Clever girl,” he muttered under his breath, and looked around outside the tent.

  “Reg!” he called over to the Englishman, who stood on the pier by the boat ramp.

  They walked towards each other and met by the boat ramp, facing the water away from Massey’s camera.

  “When do you expect AJ back?” Whittaker asked.

  “I could see her bubbles, until she headed farther out the channel,” he said, keeping his hands in his pockets so he didn’t point as he talked. “Depends on what she finds I suppose, but my guess would be another 30 minutes.”

  “Okay,” Whittaker replied nonchalantly. “The second she’s out of the water I need her to run to Governor’s Creek and I’ll have her picked up by a Marine Unit boat.”

  “Okay, I’ll text her and tell her to call me as soon as she’s out,” Reg said. “You figure something out?”

  Whittaker smiled. “Our clever Norwegian gave us a clue.”

  12

  Apathy

  It took me a few minutes to gather myself and truly clear my head. Looking at my dive computer, I’d tried to figure out roughly how long the reg had been out of my mouth. There was no way to be sure, and the effort added to the headache that raged from the oxygen deprivation. Besides, my day was far from over. The directions on the back of the laminated card were simple.

  Bring this with you.

  Take a heading of 354 degrees to inlet.

  Go ashore and stay out of sight.

  Leave transport hidden in mangroves.

  Follow signs.

  I clipped the directions to the DPV and used the compass to point the scooter on the provided heading. Taking a weight from each side of my BCD, I lined them up in the sand, also at 354 degrees. That left me with one pound in each BCD pocket, which was fine for my body mass without a wetsuit, and well over 1,000psi left in the tank. I was lean enough not to need any ballast until the aluminium tank became slightly buoyant as the gas pressure and density lowered. After setting the weights, I carefully accelerated away to the north.

  My relief at solving the stupid puzzle quickly wore off, and I wondered what would come next. I felt numb. My brain had certainly been fuzzy near the end of my breath hold, but the feeling of indifference remained clear in my mind. Since Ridley’s death, I’d often wished for the pain to stop and there seemed only one way for that to happen. I couldn’t actively take that step. I wouldn’t do that to the people who loved me, but if an external force took my life, I’d have been fine with it. In theory. In psychology it’s referred to as passive suicide ideation. I’d read about it before experiencing the phenomenon.

  Up until the challenge, it was nothing but a sense, a theory. But I’d been face to face with a life-threatening situation and my apathy was no longer hypothetical. That should have depressed me, but it didn’t. I just felt numb. Further proof.

  The North Sound quickly became shallower, and I was having a hard time keeping from breaking the surface or brushing the sandy bottom. Parts were only a metre deep, but when a darkness appeared up ahead of me, it deepened to twice that, and the sea floor became littered with small twigs and decaying foliage. I slowed as I approached the shoreline with twisted mangrove roots forming a barrier before me.

  The mangroves appeared to surround me and, presuming I was in the small inlet, I had no choice but to surface. Next to the roots it was only a metre or less deep again, so I kneeled in the sand and lifted my head clear of the water. It took me a second to orientate myself. Only 4 or 5 metres wide, the inlet was about the same long. Mangroves partially blocked my view of the western shore of the sound, especially the northern end where I’d left from. Massey had cleverly chosen the spot to hide me from sight.

  I turned to the shore. The mangrove roots had been cut back to reveal an exit point onto dry land. It didn’t look like anything that had been done recently, so at some point in time this must have been access for someone. I stood and shuffled over that way, dragging the sea scooter with me. It was heavy out of the water, but I lifted it onto the bank and pulled myself out of the water to sit on the firm ground. Unbuckling my BCD, I slipped it and the heavy tank aside and took off my fins. I wondered if I’d ever see my
gear again. Dive equipment was expensive. That drittsekk Briggs would be buying me new stuff if my gear went missing. And I was still around to care.

  Shoving everything into the brush, I noticed a set of stones forming an arrow, pointing into the thick foliage. Whoever had originally used this trail had obviously long since abandoned it – the fauna had grown over any path. I kicked myself again for not sharing my thought about not coming back to the boat ramp. Hopefully Whittaker had come to the same conclusion and if not, I’d now been gone an hour and a half. Surely he’d figured it out?

  I looked down at my BCD and remembered the knives. I was wearing a swimsuit and a snug-fitting Lycra shirt. Where the hell could I hide a knife? Digging my water shoes from the BCD pocket where I’d shoved them, I was glad I’d thought to bring them. I brushed the dirt and sand away from the soles of my feet and wriggled them on. I was about to check out the second knife when I noticed something strapped to one of the trees. Another damn camera. Sure enough, the little red LED light was blinking. So much for the knife. He was watching me once again, and could see I knew it.

  I looked over the water one more time, pushing my luck on the staying hidden part of the instructions, but I needed to know where I was. To the east I could see a change in water colour on the horizon and recognised the outer reef. I had to be somewhere in Barkers National Park. There was very little in the park beyond a grid of marl roadways lined with narrow canals promoting the growth of mangroves and housing several species of protected birds. On the northern shore was a kite surfing school, and a horseback tour over there somewhere, but I didn’t think the stables were in the park. The place was deserted most of the time.