Deadly Sommer: Nora Sommer Caribbean Suspense - Book One

by Nicholas Harvey

  Turning back to the board, I ran through the math for 240 squared. Using 2.4, I applied the same method and came up with 4.8, plus .4, plus .4, plus .16 which equalled 5.76. Shifting the decimal, I came up with 57,600. Taking that number away from 60,516 left 2,916. Now I was baffled. I couldn’t remember the proper way to figure it out. It had something to do with breaking the numbers down into pairs, but I had no idea exactly. Water ran around my knees to remind me time was ticking.

  On the board I wrote 245 x 245 and started the multiplication. I could remember how to do that. I figured I’d start in the middle. The result was 60,025. Too low. I ran 246 x 246.

  “Ha!” I yelled, “I did it!”

  The number 60,516 was the result. 246 was the combination. I jumped up and shoved my hands into the tank, one on either side of Skylar’s head, which was mostly submerged. When she jolted, I realised she hadn’t expected my presence. I pulled my arms out and crouched beside the tank, knocking on the thick Perspex. Her eyes were wide open, and I gave her a thumbs-up and okay sign. She looked terrified and I couldn’t tell if she could see me or not. I guessed not without a mask to focus underwater. There was no time to wait, and I dipped my hands in the tank again.

  To reach the lock, I pressed my chest against the back of her head, pushing her down a few inches. Spluttering echoed from the end of the tube that was now bobbing slightly under the surface.

  “Hold your breath!” I shouted into the back of her head and I heard a long, careful sucking sound from the tube. And then quiet.

  That was my cue. I grabbed the lock in my fingertips and found the three small tumblers. I realised I didn’t know what number they were starting from. Faen! The first lock had been set to all zeroes, so I gambled this one was the same. I used my thumb and rolled the first digit two times. Moving to the second, I rolled it four times and hoped I hadn’t inadvertently dragged the other tumblers along with it. I had slim fingers, so I hoped for the best and moved to the third digit. After six gentle rolls of the tumbler, I tried the lock. It didn’t open.

  I stood up and grabbed the snorkel. Water sloshed and ran over the sides. I was soaked, the floor was soaked, and Skylar was shaking below me. She needed some air. I held the end of the tube clear of the water and knocked on the Perspex. She blew the remaining air from her lungs and water shot from the tube. Then I heard a deep sucking sound as she drew in a precious breath. Her inhales were urgent and fast, like she was panting, so I gave her a few moments to settle down.

  Once her breathing eased to a soft rhythm, I made sure the tube was wedged in the corner and clear of the water. I crouched down to see the lock. A fine red mist floated around in the water, stemming from her bandaged hand. I winced in sympathy.

  The tumblers read 864. What the hell? I couldn’t have been at zero to start. I went back to the whiteboard on the floor and wrote 000. A theory came to me. I counted backwards from 0-0-0 using 2-4-6, which came to 8-6-4. I’d moved them the right amount, but the lock was upside down. Now, I not only had to put in the right combination, I had to reset the lock to zero before I could start. Or, I could orientate myself as I had done, and figure out the movements to reach 2-4-6.

  On the board I wrote out 0-0-0 again, with 8-6-4 above and then 2-4-6. From my position in the tank I would be rolling the tumblers in reverse, so from 8 to reach 2 was 6 clicks. The others were 2 and 8 clicks. 6-2-8. This was all too many numbers to keep straight in my head. I repeated 6-2-8 over and over.

  Knocking on the side of the tank, I waited while Skylar drew in a long inhale and held her breath. I dived both hands down and found the lock, once more pushing down on the back of Skylar’s head. 6-2-8. I carefully rolled the correct number of digits and pulled on the lock. It didn’t budge. Fy faen! I felt each tumbler with my fingertip and rocked them lightly back and forth, making sure they were perfectly seated on the digit. The third one moved an almost imperceptible amount, but then fell firmly in place. I tugged on the lock. Finally, it opened.

  I stood up just in time as Skylar sprang upright in the tank and gasped for breath, sucking in air. “What took… so long? Fuck!” she panted.

  “Are you good at square roots?” I asked, frowning at her.

  “What?” she spluttered back.

  “Exactly,” I muttered and ran to the other room.

  The camera switched a few moments after I arrived, cutting from Skylar standing in the tank to Massey sitting in the woods. He was looking into the camera.

  “Well done, Nora,” he said, attempting a smile. “That didn’t quite go as the challenge was designed, but the result was perfect. I hope everybody watching realises that I wished no harm to Skylar or Nora. Hurting them was painful for me, but necessary to accomplish the bigger goal. Maybe justice will finally be served to Donovan Briggs, Grayson Briggs, and Davis Griffin. Or maybe it won’t, and once again powerful friends will sweep it under the rug and allow my wife’s death to go unpunished. She was murdered to keep her silent, and make no mistake, the Briggs family was behind her senseless death.

  “I want to thank each and every one of you for tuning in and following along…”

  Massey continued his speech, but I stopped listening. He was sitting in a small clearing with several pieces of computer and electronic gear around him. He held the gun in his right hand, resting on his lap. I instinctively knew what he was leading up to. I ran back into the main room where Skylar had climbed from the tank and held her bandaged hand, the sodden wrap stained red. Speeding past her, I lowered my shoulder and barrelled into the wall near the corner of the room.

  My whole body shuddered from the impact, and nails creaked as they pulled from splintering wood. I stepped back and rubbed my shoulder. Ripping the black curtain down, I checked out the result. A few planks had broken away from the corner studs, and daylight leaked into the room. I took three steps back and charged again. This time I felt more wood giving way and the soft springy sensation of partially broken planks held only by one end. The door was solid, but based on what I’d seen in the back room, the single layer of 1 x 8-inch pine planks covering the exterior looked vulnerable. Especially at the corners, being the end of the planks. I hoped he’d been frugal with the nails.

  “Stay here,” I said over my shoulder. “The police will be here shortly.”

  “What if he comes back?” Skylar screamed, her voice full of fear and panic.

  “He’s not coming back,” I assured her.

  I kicked at the loosened planks, which splintered and one broke away. Lowering my shoulder, I crashed into the boards one more time and plunged through the wall into the shrubs outside. I kept my footing and stayed upright, but the splintered wood and sharp nails scraped and scratched through my thin shirt. The heavy foliage outside contributed to more blood-letting, but I was finally free of the building.

  Now to find Massey. Before he ended the show.

  37

  Body Parts on Ice

  The RCIPS Firearms Response Unit 2 pushed on through the pathway in the woods. The ground was uneven and rough, but most of the protruding roots had been cut away. Despite the shade from foliage overhead, it was stiflingly hot with the ocean breeze blocked by the woods. Whittaker closely followed the three armed men, and recognised the magnitude of work Massey had undertaken in the past three weeks. Cutting the trails alone would have taken an enormous amount of time, and by the nature of the cuts, it was all done manually with a machete and saw. A chainsaw would have aroused too much interest. As would hired help.

  Fifty yards from the generator, the building appeared as a dark shadow amongst the trees. The trail ran down the side of the simple structure to a small clearing in front. Whittaker noted that this section of the woods had the tallest trees. Most were 10 to 12 feet high. Enough to cover the structure after the lower branches were cleared. The roof was flat, covered by tin panels painted dark green.

  Ahead, the trail continued to where an opening revealed the narrow canal bathed in sunlight. Whittaker pointed to the building as
Beth joined him. The officers moved into the clearing with practised stealth, using hand signals to position the team on either side of the jagged opening in the wooden building. The door was bolted from the outside, with several pieces of electronic gear stacked on the ground. A pair of shears lay nearby.

  Skylar screamed as the first man entered the room with his automatic weapon aimed, searching the space for potential threats. They quickly cleared both rooms, and Whittaker followed them in. The main room was a mess with water overflowing the tank and washing across the floor before draining through the seams in the boards. The decimated table lay against one wall and the whiteboard was on the floor. Skylar stood by the tank, soaking wet, her fear slowly shifting to relief.

  “Are you okay, Miss Briggs?”

  The young woman broke down in tears and threw her arms around the detective, “I thought I was going to die,” she sobbed into his chest.

  “You’re safe now, but we need to get you medical assistance,” he said, guiding her from the room, through the door the officers had unlocked from the outside.

  “My finger,” she moaned. “There’s a cooler in there, my finger is in the cooler.”

  Saying the words and the thought of her severed body part on ice were too much for the young woman. Her knees buckled. Whittaker caught her from falling to the ground, and Beth stepped in to support Skylar from the other side.

  “We’ve got you,” Beth assured her. “It’s all over.”

  “Thank you,” Skylar sobbed. “You saved me. I thought this was it.”

  “Constable Sommer saved you,” Whittaker corrected. “But we’ll make sure you’re safe now.”

  The detective looked around, “Can two of your men take Miss Briggs and this cooler back to the vans, please,” Whittaker said to Williams. “I’ll call for the helicopter. They can pick her up in The Shores and take her to the hospital.”

  “Where did he go?” Beth asked Skylar.

  The young woman shook her head. “I have no idea. Once he’d locked me in the tank, I couldn’t see much. I think he carried stuff outside and then left. I heard him lock the door.”

  “Okay, don’t worry,” Beth said, “We’ll find him.”

  “She’s a policewoman?” Skylar asked, as Whittaker and Beth handed her over to the two officers.

  “I’m with the FBI,” Beth replied.

  “No, the blonde girl who was here with me. She’s a cop?”

  “Nora? Yes,” Beth said. “She’s a constable with the Royal Cayman Islands Police Service.”

  Skylar had recovered enough to support herself, but the officers kept a hand on each arm. “She didn’t look Caymanian,” she said. “She had a foreign accent.”

  Whittaker decided to skip the point about the American being the foreigner in her current geographical situation. “She’s originally from Norway,” he explained instead.

  “She’s kinda crazy,” Skylar remarked as the men began to guide her out the door.

  Beth shook her head. “Well, I’m sure there’ll be an opportunity to thank her later.”

  Whittaker had turned away. “Leave two men here at the building, and you come with us,” he instructed Williams.

  “Yes, sir,” the man replied and organised the remaining men with quick, precise orders.

  Whittaker walked outside. “Skylar, where did Nora go?” he called out to the woman being helped along the trail.

  “I don’t know,” she replied, “she broke through the wall and left.”

  “Did she say anything at all?”

  “She told me to stay here, and you’d find me.”

  “That was it, nothing more?” he asked.

  “She said he wouldn’t come back,” Skylar added. “The guy, Massey. She seemed sure he wouldn’t come back here.”

  Whittaker nodded and the two policemen hurried her, and the cooler, away. He then radioed for the helicopter to pick up Skylar and asked dispatch to prepare the hospital for an emergency patient.

  “See if you can shut off the water,” Whittaker said to the two men remaining at the building. “Touch as little as possible. This is a crime scene, but this water may be destroying evidence.”

  “The valve is under the floor,” Beth added. “The door triggered a line that turned it on. You could see on the video when Nora came in. You’ll have to pull up a floorboard or two.”

  Whittaker nodded in agreement. “Do what you need to, men. Stop the water.” He hurried down the trail towards the canal. “This way,” he continued to Williams.

  “He’s still armed, correct,” Williams asked.

  “He is,” Whittaker replied as they ran down the path.

  “And I presume Miss Sommer has gone after him?”

  “She has,” Whittaker said as he pushed the foliage screen farther aside.

  “She won’t try to take da man alone, will she? Him wit a gun and all?”

  “She will,” Whittaker said, looking both ways down the bank of the canal.

  “We better get dere first den,” the officer finished.

  “That would be preferable,” Whittaker replied, and looked at Beth.

  The agent held her mobile out and showed the detective, “He’s in the woods somewhere, giving his wrap-up speech by the sound of it. He still has the gun, I can see it.”

  “Which way?” Whittaker asked.

  Beth looked at the ground, searching for obvious prints. The bank was mainly limestone and loose stone and surrendered no clues.

  “Gut feeling,” Whittaker added.

  Beth looked up at the man, who stared confidently back at her. She nodded to the left.

  “Agreed,” he said, and moved down the edge of the canal to their left.

  38

  Suppressed Emotions

  I’d heard the commotion of people approaching from behind the building and knew it must be the police. They were coming from the direction of what I supposed was the drone of a generator. Massey hadn’t gone that way. If he had, he’d have been caught instead of still broadcasting his Internet feed. I’d headed towards the canal.

  The trail was cleared until a few feet from the water’s bank, where a screen of brush blocked my way. I’d tried pushing through the thick mass of branches and leaves, and it fell aside like a gate. I’d looked both ways along the bank and chosen left. Why? I don’t know. Away from the first building, perhaps. Odds were 50-50 and time was against me, so I’d picked a direction.

  Now, I studied the woods intently as I hurried along the narrow bank, stepping over mangrove roots and loose branches on the ground. I was looking for another screen, hiding a trail, but all I could see were trees, shrubs, and mangroves. They all blended into a sea of greenery. One section looked denser than the rest, so I rushed past, ruling it out. I was looking for some kind of opening behind the first row of brush.

  I stopped. Denser was the only thing I’d seen that was different in any way from the rest the of woods. I’d rounded the corner in the canal and was at least 100 metres from the building. It doesn’t take long for the mind to start questioning every decision, and I was already wondering if I’d passed the hidden trail. Hell, I didn’t even know if another trail existed. I stepped back to the dense section and shoved at the branches. An area the size of a small door moved as one.

  Pushing the camouflaged gate aside as quietly as possible, I entered the trail. This one was both narrower and lower. I was stooping to keep my head from brushing the overhead foliage, and the branches on either side scratched and clawed at my battered arms. The rash guard I’d worn over my bathing suit had taken a beating, and the thin fabric offered little protection.

  The trail was short and after less than 10 metres, which curved to the right, I could see a clearing ahead. I could also hear Jensen Massey talking.

  “An athletic woman in remarkable physical condition for her age does not have a heart attack out of the blue,” I heard him say. “Olivia ran marathons for God’s sake.”

  His voice was breaking, and he paused. I ris
ked a glimpse around the last few pieces of cover and saw he was facing to the right, slightly away from me. If I moved carefully, I thought I could sneak up behind him. Massey was seated on a large Pelican case with a laptop propped on a second case before him. I realised the laptop’s camera would pick me up if I tried approaching from behind. He’d see me coming.

  I judged it to be four or five metres from where I stood to where he sat. How fast could I cover that ground? Faster than he could realise what was happening, turn, and shoot? The realisation and turning parts were the critical elements. I knew how fast bullets travelled. My life had been ruined and Ridley’s ended in the milliseconds it took for a bullet to travel about this same distance. A bullet that was meant for me. My boyfriend had thrown himself across the path of the gunshot aimed at me.

  The memory pumped adrenaline through my veins, and a flaming ball of anger in my brain. I took one step back before launching forward.

  Massey had composed himself, and begun talking again, “I hope throughout today I’ve shown the world a series of evidence and truths, that…”

  His words abruptly halted as he heard me charging across the clearing. He turned, bringing his right hand around with the gun. I locked my eyes on his right wrist and lunged the last metre, crashing into the man and bowling him from his seat. Latching my hand to his wrist, I pushed the gun up and away as we tumbled to the rough stone and dirt. He hit the ground hard, and I landed on top of him, rolling over and beyond, but refusing to let go. He screamed in pain as my fall twisted his wrist and he finally dropped the gun.

  I scrambled to my feet, swooping up the gun, and for the second time in my life, I held a firearm in my hand. Both times I’d aimed the firearm at another human being. The first time I knew with all my heart that I wanted to pull the trigger and would forever wish I’d shot the man a second time. I was less sure about Massey.