Deadly Sommer: Nora Sommer Caribbean Suspense - Book One

by Nicholas Harvey

  Following the stones, I pushed through the undergrowth and was surprised to find a pathway open up almost immediately. A screen of foliage had been left, but a narrow trail had been cleared beyond that, and going by the fresh cuts, the work had been done recently. The woods were dense and without the trail there was no way I would have been able to penetrate the thickets without a machete. I followed the path, with sharp branches scraping at my arms and legs. I hadn’t gone more than 20 metres when I came to a T-junction. The trail ahead was more overgrown and hadn’t been fully cleared, but a turn to the left had been.

  I tried to see what lay in front as I turned the corner, but all I could make out was the trail curving away and either side a mass of dense woods. Continuing down the path, I soon spotted something darker, and my nerves tingled. I was completely alone, in an isolated part of the island, where no one knew to find me. Civilisation, people and gorgeous beaches were less than a mile or two away, yet I could die here and be reduced to dust before anyone stumbled across my remains.

  Forcing one foot in front of the other, I continued, and when the path met another tee, a building appeared on my left. It was an old single-storey concrete structure with a tin roof. Brush and trees had overgrown all around, claiming the unused building as part of the coastal woods. The area in front of the structure had been recently cleared, revealing a rusty metal door. To the right of the tee, the trail had been knocked back just enough for passage. I looked at the ground and noticed an array of footprints in the damp soil. Few were distinct, as someone had obviously walked back and forth many times. What I could make out appeared to be from the same shoe.

  I was not in the least bit excited to enter the building, but I figured it was the next step in this madman’s silly game. Another tiny, blinking red light caught my eye, and I spotted the camera mounted to the roof, aimed my way. I wondered how many people around the world were caught up watching this bullshit by now. I was tempted to provide the viewers with another rude sign, but provoking the loony probably wasn’t in my best interests, so I walked up to the door instead.

  The metal was painted dark green to match the walls, long since faded and flaking to reveal patches of brown rust. I guessed the building had once been some kind of maintenance or storage facility for the park, but clearly abandoned for years. Taped to the door was another laminated sheet.

  Come inside.

  Put on the helmet and do not remove it.

  You will not be able to see.

  You will receive verbal instructions from there.

  Enter the next door only when told to do so.

  I should have let myself drown on the last challenge. He expected me to step inside this creepy old building, effectively blindfold myself, and then do whatever I’m told next? I’d heard about one of those gory horror movies where people were trapped in a room and every way they tried to escape was booby trapped with disgusting ways of maiming them. Why would anyone want to watch something like that? Why would anyone want to make a movie like that in the first place? Because some people were indeed willing to pay to watch it, I supposed. If we still held Colosseum-style gladiatorial combat to the death, I was sure they’d fill the stadiums. And yet we call ourselves civilised.

  I had a personal rule: I refused to pay for anything that scared the shit out of me. Rollercoasters, horror movies and dentists were all on that list.

  Why my brain was serving up these thoughts was beyond me, and certainly not helpful, but I tried to calm myself. There would be no challenge three if he chopped me up on number two, and I was sure he wanted me to make it through his tests. At least until the final challenge, when the show could come to an end. That one might be a little more unpredictable and harmful. Of course, I’d almost drowned on challenge one, but that was more due to my ineptness at puzzles and reluctance to admit defeat. I had always been a regulator breath away from safety. Skylar Briggs’s pinkie couldn’t say the same. But even if I’d failed the challenge, the games could have continued.

  Before I could conjure up more visions of vicious traps, I pulled on the door handle and dragged the heavy old door open.

  13

  Indian Creek

  The heat and humidity hit the two FBI agents as they descended the stairs of the Learjet to be greeted by a Caymanian immigration official. Beth had finally stopped sweating and wrestled herself into a pant suit in the tiny airplane lavatory. As she stepped to the apron at the base of the stairs, she could already feel a trickle of sweat returning, running down her back. They were both used to the tropical climate in Florida, but it was still a shock after the chilly air-conditioned cabin.

  Within three minutes, their passports had been stamped and they found themselves in a Caymanian government vehicle pulling out of the FBO of Owen Roberts International Airport. Their satellite uplink on the Learjet had been spotty, but they’d followed most of Jensen Massey’s Internet broadcast. They had also received more background information on the kidnapper and the Briggs family. So far, there was no obvious connection beyond residing in the same part of the country.

  “Did you see how small this place is?” Kowalczyk said, staring out of the back window of the SUV. “You could see the entire island end to end on approach. How the hell can this guy hide in a place this small?”

  “Twenty-two miles, sir,” the driver commented in accented English.

  “What’s that?” Kowalczyk asked.

  “Da island, sir, it’s 22 miles long,” the man repeated.

  “Most of it looked like swamp,” Kowalczyk muttered back.

  “Mangroves and woods, sir,” the man said, and Beth noticed his frown in the rear-view mirror, “not swamp.”

  Massey continued to rant about the lies the world was being told, and Kowalczyk rolled his eyes. “Fucking radical bullshit,” he mumbled. “No wonder we can’t tell these idiots the truth.”

  Beth started to say something, but thought better of it. The less interaction they had, the better as far as she was concerned. Fixing her partner’s shortcomings wasn’t her problem, and she wondered for the umpteenth time what his wife had seen in him. Someone for everyone, she thought. The woman must be a saint, or a complete sap.

  “Definitely looks like a basement,” Kowalczyk commented, and angled his mobile towards Beth.

  “Not a basement, sir,” the driver said, glancing in the rear-view.

  “Really?” Dan replied. “Well, it sure looks like a good old-fashioned basement to me. Concrete walls, no windows, poor lighting.”

  “Do you see any water in der, sir?” the driver asked, and Beth sensed he was grinning.

  “Of course not,” Kowalczyk snapped back.

  “Well, if it be a basement underground, you’d be seeing water, sir,” the driver answered, and Beth guessed he was enjoying this. “Do ya see all da hills and such around here, sir?”

  Kowalczyk looked out the window. “I can’t see past all the buildings, but the island looked pretty flat flying in.”

  “As a pancake, sir. You dig down six feet and you’d be standin’ in two feet o’ water.”

  Kowalczyk grunted. Beth suppressed a grin of her own.

  “If it’s not a basement,” Kowalczyk challenged, “what kind of building is it?”

  “Just about any house on da island, sir,” the driver replied. “‘Bout every home built wit concrete block that way. Locals’ homes dat is, sir. All da fancy rich people homes, dey like da windows everywhere ’cos dey got da money to pay da big electric bill. Local home have da smaller windows, house stay cooler dat way you see.”

  “The wall behind the girl appears to be painted concrete block,” Beth noted. “Do the local homes not use drywall on the inside?”

  “Most do,” the driver conceded, “but da poor folks don’t. Could be a garage or outbuilding or some sort too. But only rich folks have da garages, and dey like to paint dem brighter colours.”

  They were on a dual carriageway and passed under a long bridge, causing the feed on the mobile phon
e to drop out for a few moments. Beth pulled a computer tablet from her bag and woke it up, clicking to a map of the island she’d already studied on the plane. They came back out into the bright sunlight and the cellular modem on the tablet connected. A small dot moved on the map, showing their location.

  “This is the tourist area of the island, correct?” she asked the driver.

  “It’s da visitors’ area, yes,” he replied.

  “How do you mean, visitors?” she questioned politely.

  The driver negotiated a roundabout in what seemed like an endless series of them. “The tourists are mainly on Seven Mile Beach, over to da left of us,” he explained, and Beth saw the long, curved beach labelled on the map. It was only a few hundred yards west of them but blocked by hotel buildings and businesses.

  “Dis strip behind da Seven Mile Beach dey decided to call Seven Mile Corridor, and it’s where most of da foreign residents stay and people have der holiday homes and such. So more like visitors dan tourists, if you get my meaning.”

  “I do,” Beth agreed, and Kowalczyk sat silently brooding over the pleasant conversation being had without his involvement.

  Beth stared at the narrow strip of land they travelled along, with the broad North Sound to their right and a larger extent of land ahead to the north, forming a shape similar to the head of a hammer.

  “And north of here, that’s called West Bay?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the driver replied. “Dat’s where we’re heading.”

  “Is that visitors, tourists, or locals?” Beth asked.

  The driver laughed. “Dat’s a mixture, is best way to say it,” he replied. “On da water, you find condos and some hotels for da tourists, and den homes and condos for da visitors. Den, in da town itself, it’s all da local folk.”

  Beth studied the map as they continued north. “So, our kidnapper takes this young lady from her home in West Bay,” she tapped her finger on a mark she’d made on the map in The Shores. “He has the policewoman enter the water from a dock in West Bay,” she traced her finger over to the boat ramp which was only a third of a mile away, “and he has all this coordinated and the kidnapped girl on screen within an hour of her being taken.”

  She looked up at the rear-view mirror and caught the driver looking back at her. “Doesn’t seem like enough time to get clear of all the expensive property you’re describing along this stretch of the island.”

  “If he hurried, he could reach da airport area or da back o’ George Town,” the driver replied. “Plenty o’ building look like dat around der. But he’d be rushing some.”

  “Where does Seven Mile Corridor end?” Beth asked.

  “You lookin’ at da map?”

  “Yup, and I see where we are on Esterly Tibbets Highway.”

  “Okay, dat last roundabout back der,” he replied, “dat’s da end o’ da corridor, next buildings and such you see in a mile or so, we be in West Bay.”

  Beth drew a line across the map using the stylus for her tablet. She showed Kowalczyk.

  “We’re looking for a dwelling or building Massey has a connection to above this line. Maybe he rented some place, or found an abandoned structure.”

  Kowalczyk grunted. “Maybe. Or maybe he took off by boat.”

  “That look like a boat to you?” Beth asked, pointing to the feed on the mobile.

  “No,” he snapped back. “Just saying he could have got a lot farther away than you’re saying if he left by boat.”

  They had come to the end of the dual carriageway and turned right. They were now approaching a sea of vehicles and Beth could just make out water beyond them between several buildings. Beth powered down her tablet and shoved it in her bag.

  “I think he’s close by,” she said firmly.

  “Well, that’s the assumption bullshit that got you in trouble on the Indian Creek case,” Kowalczyk curtly replied. “You’re not dragging me aboard your sinking ship. We’re here to observe, help where possible, and only when asked.”

  The SUV pulled to a stop as there was no way through the mess of vehicles parked at odd angles everywhere. A policeman was trying his best to get cars moved to keep an open lane but wasn’t having much luck. Beth got out, then leaned back in. “Thanks for your help, sir, much appreciated,” she said to the driver.

  Kowalczyk snorted.

  “Fuck you,” she directed at her partner and slammed the door.

  14

  Talking Underwater

  Whittaker spread a map of the North Sound out across the table under the pop-up tent. Taking a pencil, he used the edge of an A4 notepad as a ruler and drew a line across the map, leading away from the boat ramp.

  “Sir?” Jacob called, jogging across the car park towards the tent.

  Whittaker looked.

  “We found the van, sir,” Jacob announced.

  “Where?” Whittaker asked.

  “Behind some homes, back of Glade Drive, sir.”

  “Just over here?” Whittaker asked, pointing to the north-west.

  “Yes, sir,” Jacob confirmed. “Not more dan half a mile from da Briggs’s house.”

  “The van?” AJ asked, surprising them both.

  “Where did you sneak in from?” Whittaker asked, turning around.

  “I came in through the back of Tukka West – figured it was better he didn’t see me on the camera,” AJ replied, her hair dripping water. “I had to park back on Garvin Road, it’s a mess out here,” she added, nodding towards the road.

  A man and a woman dressed in suits walked towards them, and Whittaker groaned.

  “Feds are here,” he said quietly.

  “They’re FBI?” AJ asked.

  “I don’t know if they always had that look, and the movies mimicked it, or the other way around,” he said with a smirk, “but they all look the same.”

  “Detective Whittaker?” the man asked as he walked up, holding out his badge.

  Whittaker nodded.

  “Special Agents Kowalczyk and Ricci, FBI,” he announced, and extended a hand.

  Whittaker quickly shook the man’s hand, then repeated the procedure with his partner.

  “Beth,” she said, and smiled.

  “This is Constable Tibbetts,” Whittaker said, holding a hand out towards his officer. “Jacob was first on scene along with Constable Sommers, who you’ve no doubt seen on the feed.” He held out a hand towards AJ. “And this is AJ Bailey. She and Reg Moore, the gentleman down the boat ramp over there, handle much of the diving for us.”

  “She left us a sign, Roy,” AJ blurted, ready to be over with the formalities.

  “Let me guess,” Whittaker replied. “East.”

  “Exactly,” AJ said in surprise. “Wasn’t much down there, just two of the extra dive weights I gave her, but she’d lined them up facing east.”

  “How do you know she left them?” Kowalczyk asked, his face stern behind his aviator sunglasses.

  “Because they’re one-pounders which most people don’t use and they’re marked ‘MM’ for Mermaid Divers,” AJ quickly retorted.

  “Look at this.” Whittaker led AJ over to the computer in front of one of the officers. “Roll that video please.”

  The footage began with Nora kneeling on the sea floor in front of the table where she had completed the puzzle.

  “She did it, huh?” AJ asked. “She was working on the puzzle when I got in the water.”

  “She did, just in time too,” Whittaker confirmed.

  Nora looked up at the camera and put her hands together.

  “That’s weird. Nora is not religious at all,” AJ commented.

  “Wait, watch this,” Whittaker said, pointing at the screen.

  Nora dropped her left hand and slid two fingers of her right hand vertically before adjusting her mask.

  “North,” AJ confirmed. “That’s sign language for north. It’s how we talk to each other underwater.”

  “That’s not exactly the sign for north,” Beth said, bending her hand at 90 de
grees before making a similar sliding motion. “That’s the sign for north.”

  “American sign language,” AJ and Whittaker replied at the same time.

  “She did the UK sign for north,” AJ clarified.

  Beth grinned. “Cool, so she’s telling you she went north?”

  Whittaker returned to the map and pointed out the line he’d drawn across the sound. “That’s straight east from the dock here.”

  “It just heads out into this big lagoon,” Kowalczyk pointed out.

  “Sound. It’s the North Sound,” Whittaker corrected. “It’s where she did the first challenge. But she gave us the signal on the feed after the challenge, and the only spots deep enough for the challenge are farther offshore than we anticipated.”

  He drew a second line at 90 degrees to the first, heading north to the coast of Barkers.

  “That’s how you knew the sign I found was east,” AJ said. “It was the only direction that made sense if she’s now gone north.”

  Whittaker tapped a finger on the peninsula of land forming the north-west corner of the sound. “I have a relative with a daughter who’s deaf. I asked her about the sign. So my money’s on Barkers here. If she went east to one of these spots in the sound, that’s deep enough for the challenge. North would then take her to Barkers. She’s leaving us a trail.”

  “This kid’s a rookie cop?” Beth asked.

  Whittaker and AJ both smiled. “She is,” Whittaker replied. “Just nineteen years old, but smarter and more resourceful than your average teenager.”

  “As we arrived, did I overhear you saying you’ve found Massey’s vehicle?” Kowalczyk asked.