Sailors and Sirens
Page 18
I also write two other sailing-thriller series set in the Caribbean. If you enjoyed the adventures of Finn and Mary, you'll enjoy the Bluewater Thrillers and the Connie Barrera Thrillers.
The Bluewater Thrillers feature two young women, Dani Berger and Liz Chirac. Dani and Liz sail a luxury charter yacht named Vengeance. They often find trouble, but they can take care of themselves.
The Connie Barrera Thrillers are a spin-off from the Bluewater Thrillers. Before Connie went to sea, she was a first-rate con artist. Dani and Liz met Connie in Bluewater Ice, and they taught her to sail. She liked it so much she bought a charter yacht of her own.
Dani and Liz also introduced her to Paul Russo, a retired Miami homicide detective. Paul signed on as her first mate and chef, but he ended up as her husband. Connie and Paul run a charter sailing yacht named Diamantista. Like Dani and Liz, they're often beset by problems unrelated to sailing.
The Bluewater Thrillers and the Connie Barrera Thrillers share many of the same characters. Phillip Davis and his wife Sandrine, Sharktooth, and Marie LaCroix often appear in both series, as do Connie, Paul, Dani, and Liz. Here’s a link to the web page that lists those novels in order of publication: http://www.clrdougherty.com/p/bluewater-thrillers-and-connie-barrera.html
In September of 2019, I published Villains and Vixens, the fifth book in the J.R. Finn series. A list of all my books is on the last page; just click on a title or go to my website for more information. If you’d like to know when my next book is released, visit my author’s page on Amazon at www.amazon.com/author/clrdougherty and click the "Follow" link or sign up for my mailing list at http://eepurl.com/bKujyv for information on sales and special promotions.
I welcome email correspondence about books, boats and sailing. My address is clrd@clrdougherty.com. I enjoy hearing from people who read my books; I always answer email from readers. Thanks again for your support.
About the Author
Welcome Aboard!
Charles Dougherty is a lifelong sailor; he's lived what he writes. He and his wife have spent over 30 years sailing together.
For 15 years, they lived aboard their boat full-time, cruising the East Coast and the Caribbean islands. They spent most of that time exploring the Eastern Caribbean.
Dougherty is well acquainted with the islands and their people. The characters and locations in his novels reflect his experience.
A storyteller before all else, Dougherty lets his characters speak for themselves. Pick up one of his thrillers and listen to the sound of adventure as you smell the salt air. Enjoy the views of distant horizons and meet some people you won't forget.
Dougherty's sailing fiction books include the Bluewater Thrillers, the Connie Barrera Thrillers, and the J.R. Finn Sailing Mysteries.
Dougherty's first novel was Deception in Savannah. While it's not about sailing, one of the main characters is Connie Barrera. He had so much fun with Connie that he built a sailing series around her.
Before writing Connie's series, he wrote the first three Bluewater Thrillers, about two young women running a charter yacht in the islands. In the fourth book, Connie shows up as their charter guest.
She stayed for the fifth Bluewater book. Then Connie demanded her own series.
The J.R. Finn books are his newest sailing series. The first Finn book, though it begins in Puerto Rico, starts with a real-life encounter that Dougherty had in St. Lucia. For more information about that, visit his website.
Dougherty's other fiction works are the Redemption of Becky Jones, a psycho-thriller, and The Lost Tourist Franchise, a short story about another of the characters from Deception in Savannah.
Dougherty has also written two non-fiction books. Life's a Ditch is the story of how he and his wife moved aboard their sailboat, Play Actor, and their adventures along the east coast of the U.S. Dungda de Islan' relates their experiences while cruising the Caribbean.
Charles Dougherty welcomes email correspondence with readers.
www.clrdougherty.com
clrd@clrdougherty.com
OTHER BOOKS BY C.L.R. DOUGHERTY
Bluewater Thrillers
Bluewater Killer
Bluewater Vengeance
Bluewater Voodoo
Bluewater Ice
Bluewater Betrayal
Bluewater Stalker
Bluewater Bullion
Bluewater Rendezvous
Bluewater Ganja
Bluewater Jailbird
Bluewater Drone
Bluewater Revolution
Bluewater Enigma
Bluewater Quest
Bluewater Target
Bluewater Blackmail
Bluewater Thrillers Boxed Set: Books 1-3
Connie Barrera Thrillers
From Deception to Betrayal - An Introduction to Connie Barrera
Love for Sail - A Connie Barrera Thriller
Sailor's Delight - A Connie Barrera Thriller
A Blast to Sail - A Connie Barrera Thriller
Storm Sail - A Connie Barrera Thriller
Running Under Sail - A Connie Barrera Thriller
Sails Job - A Connie Barrera Thriller
Under Full Sail - A Connie Barrera Thriller
An Easy Sail - A Connie Barrera Thriller
A Torn Sail - A Connie Barrera Thriller
A Righteous Sail - A Connie Barrera Thriller
J.R. Finn Sailing Mysteries
Assassins and Liars
Avengers and Rogues
Vigilantes and Lovers
Sailors and Sirens
Villains and Vixens
Other Fiction
Deception in Savannah
The Redemption of Becky Jones
The Lost Tourist Franchise
Books for Sailors and Dreamers
Life's a Ditch
Dungda de Islan'
Audiobooks
Assassins and Liars
Avengers and Rogues
Vigilantes and Lovers
For more information please visit www.clrdougherty.com
Or visit www.amazon.com/author/clrdougherty
Sample of Bluewater Killer
Read the first few chapters of Bluewater Killer, the first of the Bluewater Thrillers.
Prologue
The sun had just dipped below the horizon, and the sea surface was lit by that lingering glow that fades to darkness so quickly in the tropics. The man on watch in the freighter's wheelhouse caught a glimpse of safety yellow among the waves a few hundred yards off the bow, and then darkness fell.
A strobe light caught his eye as the scrap of yellow faded from view. He called to one of the off-watch crewmen to go up to the bow as a lookout while he altered course slightly, wondering what they would find.
The helmsman throttled the big diesel down and disengaged the transmission, allowing the ship to coast as they approached the strobe. A few yards from the flashing light, he went to full power astern for a moment to stop them.
The man on the bow turned on a powerful handheld spotlight. The helmsman climbed down from the wheelhouse and joined him.
In the light's harsh beam, they could make out a person in a bright yellow life vest. The person appeared to be unconscious, rolling with the waves, head and arms moving loosely.
The waves blocked their view every few seconds. The sea was rough, and the man who had been steering didn't think he could maneuver the ship well enough to retrieve the person.
He went back to the wheelhouse, to the little cabin where the captain was asleep, and woke him. The captain took the controls and put the ship close alongside the person.
When the ship's pilot ladder drew abreast of their target, a deck crewman hanging on the last rungs of the ladder snagged the life vest with a boat hook. The helmsman joined him on the ladder, and they brought the person aboard.
Chapter 1
He drifted into consciousness, fighting it the whole way. The harsh light of the sun burned through his eyelids. He clamped them closed, in hopes that he
would drift off again.
"Where am I?" he asked.
No one answered, but his instincts told him that it wasn't a good place. As he raised a hand to his throbbing head, he smelled the corrosive vapors of jackiron rum wafting from his shirt.
Have I been drinking? Not much of a drinker, but I feel hung over.
Moving his hand to the floor, he felt the surface beneath him — hard, lumpy, and damp. Cobblestones?
He forced his eyes open again, a little bit at a time. His surroundings rolled past in surreal swirls. His instincts were right. He was nowhere good, and nowhere familiar, either.
Sunlight beamed from a hole, high up in one of the walls. He turned his head, trying to look the other way, but instantly regretted the effects of the motion.
Retching, he rolled onto his side to avoid choking. As the waves of nausea receded, he took in the uneven stone floor stretching from his cheek to the iron bars comprising the wall opposite the one with the hole in it. Bars? I'm in a cell.
"Where am I?" he asked again, in a loud voice.
Still, no one answered.
Ignoring his body's protests, he forced himself to a sitting position. He paused, waiting for his surroundings to stop their circular motion.
Alone. Dead quiet, but...
In the distance, he could hear voices, raised in gospel song. There was a subtle but noticeable calypso undertone to the familiar music. As he registered the rhythm, the notion that he was in the islands formed in his mind.
I'm hung over and in jail, somewhere in the Caribbean. Church service. Thirsty. Hungry. His stomach growled.
He crawled over to the bars and pulled himself to a semi-erect position. His vision swirled again; he clung to the bars to keep from falling.
Careful about moving my head so fast. He looked out into a dim, rough-walled corridor, broken pieces of oyster shell visible in the construction. Definitely in the islands.
"Hello," he called. "Anybody there?"
He listened as the sound of his voice died in soft echoes. Still grasping the vertical bars of his cell door, he shook it to make a noise and get someone's attention. To his surprise, the door swung out into the corridor with a loud screech of rusty iron hinges.
He stumbled, shuffling to stay on his feet, as he followed the arc of the swinging door. He paused, hanging on the door to regain his equilibrium. After a few seconds, he released his grip on the door and moved a little way into the corridor, taking in the empty cells to either side of his.
"Hey!" he yelled, rewarded by an increase in the throbbing pressure behind his forehead.
No one answered. Leaning on the wall, he worked his way down the corridor toward what appeared to be an exit. Reaching the end of the corridor, he peered through a narrow archway into a sort of waiting room.
It was dirty but neat, in that way unique to official spaces in small Caribbean countries. There was a bench along one wall. Along the opposite wall, there was a counter, with a window of scarred, yellowed Plexiglas, like the ticket booth at a defunct theater.
There was nobody behind the window. He stumbled out into the empty waiting room. Looking around for a moment, he blinked in confusion. A single door stood open, leading outside.
Still unsure of his footing, he shuffled out into the morning sunlight, expecting to encounter a policeman at any moment. He was a little worried about how he would explain his accidental freedom if anybody challenged him.
As he staggered out of the door, he looked up and back, over his shoulder. A signboard hanging above the portal bore the legend, "Police."
He recognized his surroundings, now. Bequia.
Bequia is a delightful little island just south of the main island of St. Vincent. The streets were deserted, and music poured forth from every house of worship.
Sunday, for sure.
His grasp of his situation increasing, he recalled that he was here on his sailboat. He made his way to the town dock, remembering as he walked with uncertain steps that he should find his dinghy tied up there. Better get back to the boat and get myself out of town. No telling what I've gotten myself into.
There were several rigid inflatable dinghies, one of them his, tied at the end of the dock. He had painted the name of the mother ship, Sea Serpent, in 3-inch-high letters on both sides when he bought it. The dinghy was locked to the dock with a heavy cable and a padlock.
He fumbled in his pockets. Empty. No keys, no money, either. Police probably have it unless somebody beat them to it.
Normally, he would only have been carrying a little local currency and his keys. He would have left everything else locked away aboard Sea Serpent.
He scrounged around the foot of the town dock, looking for something that he could use to liberate the dinghy. Picking up two almost-intact bricks, he carried them out to the end of the dock. He put one brick down on the dock and pulled on the cable holding the dinghy.
Gaining some slack, he twisted a kink into the cable, positioning the kink on top of the brick. After smashing the kinked cable repeatedly with the other brick for a few minutes, he succeeded in breaking the cable.
He dropped the bricks in the dinghy, climbed in, and fired up the outboard. His head was clearing now, thanks to the adrenalin and the activity, and he was aching with his need for water and food.
Looking out to the west, he spotted Sea Serpent, swinging to her anchor out near the harbor entrance. He brought the dinghy alongside her and shut off the outboard. He set the bricks up on the side deck.
The companionway was locked, as he had expected it to be, but a few quick blows with one of the bricks solved that problem. He dropped the bricks over the side.
At least nobody bothered the boat while I was ashore.
He went down the companionway ladder and rummaged in the refrigerator, finding a bottle of cold water. He swigged it down, feeling it soak into the dry tissues of his mouth and throat. He got a pot of coffee and a pan of scrambled eggs going on the galley stove.
His physical condition improving, he checked in the chart table to find that his wallet, passport, and ship's papers were where he always left them. He scanned the papers, discovering that he left St. George's, Grenada, on Wednesday, October 19, and had not yet cleared in with customs and immigration in St. Vincent and the Grenadines. A glance at the digital wristwatch hanging by its strap above the chart table confirmed that it was indeed Sunday morning, October 23.
According to the clearance documents from Grenada, he had been bound for Rodney Bay, St. Lucia. He probably spent Wednesday night at an out-of-the-way anchorage and got into Bequia the next night, most likely after Customs and Immigration had closed for the day. That would have been Thursday night, but now it was Sunday. He frowned.
Puzzling over the missing time made his headache worse, but he forced himself to think through his probable itinerary. He couldn't account for Thursday, Friday, or Saturday.
The papers from the chart table provided no record of his having cleared into Bequia, which he would normally have done the morning after an evening arrival.
Maybe I got here late last night. He shook his head, dismayed at the gap in his memory.
His eyes fell upon the ship's log, sitting on the tabletop in front of him. He opened it to the last entry; he had anchored in Petite Martinique late in the afternoon on October 19. There were no more recent entries in the log. He found that strange, as he was meticulous about records.
There was no official record of his arrival, unless he had lost his copy of the clearance paperwork. He checked his passport for an entry stamp, but there was none. He always asked the immigration officer in Bequia to stamp his passport, even though they didn't routinely do so. He liked clean records. His whole life, he had carried this legacy of parental control. All rules must be obeyed.
Since he wasn't carrying any identification, the police wouldn't have known who he was. They didn't even lock my cell; I couldn't have been in much trouble.
He wanted to know how he had come to spend th
e night in jail, but he had no idea how to find out without risking being re-incarcerated. Screw it. It doesn't matter. But I'd better get moving, just in case. St. Lucia here I come.
As he leaned down into the cockpit to start the diesel, he noticed splattered blood all around the drains. Did I catch a tuna?
He couldn't remember. Tuna often bled a lot. He shook his head. I always clean it up right away, so it doesn't stain the teak. Cleanliness and order were deeply ingrained in his psyche.
Puzzled, he grabbed the windlass control from the cockpit locker and went forward to raise the anchor. He noticed more bloodstains, all over the teak decking forward of the coach roof.
What happened? Looks like somebody butchered a hog. I don't land fish up here.
He shrugged off his confusion and raised the anchor, lashing it securely in its chocks, ready for sea. As Sea Serpent drifted toward the mouth of the harbor, he uncovered the mainsail and laid the jib out on the foredeck, ready to hoist.
Out of the lee of the land, the breeze began to fill in, and he raised both sails. While he clambered back to the cockpit, the breeze blew the bow off to port and the sails began to flog on the starboard tack. He sheeted them in for a close reach, heading for the west side of St. Vincent, and shut down the diesel.
As Sea Serpent worked her way out into the open water beyond the shelter of Bequia Head, the wind built to a steady 20 knots from the east. He trimmed the sails and set the wind-vane steering.