Bluewater Stalker: The Sixth Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series (Bluewater Thrillers Book 6)

by Charles Dougherty

  "Liz, you remember that trail from the dock out around Pointe à Cabrít?"

  "Yes. The one where you wade along the reef a bit?"

  "Right. Can you take Jane and Bill around the corner and wait for us on the other side of the island?"

  "Sure, but what are you thinking."

  "If I were Cardile, I'd be up on the watchtower on Le Chameau. That means he can see the boat."

  "Okay, I think I get it. You're going to blow this, and then you and Sharktooth will be seen escaping."

  "You got it. There's a little cove about 200 yards east of Pointe à Cabrít on the north side of the island. He won't be able to see it from the tower, and the water's deep enough right up to that little beach. Once we set the mine off we'll race away out of sight to the south and double back around Terre de Bas to pick you up."

  "Okay. You okay with the walk, Jane?"

  "Let's go. After the last day, a walk sounds great."

  Chapter 26

  The killer waited for the tourists to leave; a crowd had just finished exploring the lower levels of the watch tower atop Le Chameau, the tallest peak in Les Saintes. He wanted to climb the rusted ladder that led to the top level so he could watch for Vengeance, but a locked gate blocked his way. He wasn't worried about breaking the lock; from what he could see, a solid blow from a good-sized rock would do it. He preferred not to have witnesses, though. Someone breaking a lock was the kind of thing people remembered. His patience was rewarded after a few minutes when a small tour bus pulled into the parking area. He had thought at first there would be more people getting off the bus, but apparently this one had been sent specifically to pick up the group that was milling around. Within a couple of minutes, he was alone except for two young women finishing up a midmorning snack at the head of the trail that led down the east side of the thousand-foot peak. He looked around for a suitable rock, and just as he found one, the two women stepped off into the woods.

  He took his rock into the tower and lost no time smashing the rusted lock and climbing to the deck at the top of the tower Napoleon's troops had built to watch for the British fleet. He wasn't worried that the next round of tourists might find him atop the tower; the guidebook he had studied had listed the top deck as a good place to photograph the islands. The locked ladder had been an unexpected impediment; he reasoned that someone must have fallen since the guidebook was published, resulting in a feeble attempt to prevent access to the upper level. He didn't care if others came up while he was there, as long as they did not know he had broken in.

  He looked at his watch. He had checked Vengeance's track before he came up the hill; they should be here within an hour. As he looked across at Îlet à Cabrít, a flash of color caught his eye. The anchorage at Anse Sous le Vent had been empty the last time he had caught a glimpse of it through the trees on his way up Le Chameau. He lifted his camera to his eye and zoomed in, seeing a go-fast boat tied stern to the shore about 50 yards to the east of the dock at the foot of the road that led to Fort Josephine. He studied the boat, trying to make sense of the equipment on the aft deck, finally realizing it was rigged for towing a paraglider. Then he caught a flicker of movement on the shore near the boat and shifted his position to steady the lens. He could make out a man and a woman walking along the shore toward the dock. The man turned to look back at the boat, and he recognized Bill Fitzgerald. He shifted the lens to the right slightly and saw the reddish blond hair, pulled back into a bun. They must have rented the boat in their haste to free Jane. He wondered if Dani was single-handing Vengeance, coming to meet them. At 60 feet, it would be a handful, but then maybe she had picked up someone else to help her — Sharktooth, perhaps.

  He caught periodic glimpses of the girl and Fitzgerald through breaks in the foliage as they made their way up the road to Fort Josephine. About the time he thought they would reach Jane, there was a blinding flash from somewhere behind the Fort. The debris was falling back to earth as a muffled blast echoed across the water and rolled up the hillside. He set the camera down and watched the column of smoke dissipate, realizing the Fitzgeralds were dead.

  He was congratulating himself, contemplating the final play in this game, when he saw the parasailing boat moving in a southerly direction. It was coming almost straight toward Le Chameau at first, but as he got his telephoto lens on it, it began to swerve toward the channel between Terre de Haut and Terre de Bas, headed for Dominica. He caught a clear sight of Dani sitting in the passenger seat next to a gigantic black man who could only be Sharktooth.

  They must have gone ashore first, before he spotted the boat, and waited at the dock while Fitzgerald and the other girl went to get Jane. He wondered for a moment why they would do that. Then he decided it didn't matter. At least he had taken his two intended targets off the board, and the girl with the reddish blond hair was a bonus. It was too bad, though, that Dani had escaped the blast. He wasn't through yet; there might still be time to even the score with her.

  He looked at his watch again; he had two hours until the next ferry to Guadeloupe, where he would catch a flight to Barbados with a connection to St. Vincent. He would be in Bequia tonight. Meanwhile, he was excited; he was in the grip of 'the urge,' as he called it when he felt like killing for the pure fun of it. He knew exactly why he felt it, too. The way the Fitzgeralds died wasn't satisfying; it had been far too remote and impersonal, like a lot of his experiences in the military. It fueled his blood lust, his need to snuff out life with nothing more than his hands.

  He put his camera in its bag and scrambled down the ladder, pleased that the next busload of tourists had not yet arrived. He set off down the trail, instinctively checking, following the prints of the sneakers the two young women had been wearing, although there was no real need to track them. The trail was well marked, and mostly open. He moved quickly, silently, at home in the forest. Soon, he heard them, chattering to one another. Americans, he registered. That would cause a flap, no doubt. Perhaps these two would be connected to the others he had killed recently. The timing was right. He would include them in the journal, just in case the authorities failed to make the connection.

  ****

  The man on watch aboard the French customs cutter patrolling off Basse Terre, Guadeloupe, wondered why the boat wasn't sailing when he first noticed it. This was one of those rare days when there was a perfect south-southeast breeze; there had been a steady parade of boats sailing up the west side of the island, where usually they would have had to use their engines. Not only was the boat motoring, but it was coming straight at them. There was no danger of collision yet, but there would be in a matter of minutes. He lifted his binoculars and studied the boat, realizing there was no one at the helm. Clearly, someone had engaged the autopilot and gone below to do who knew what.

  He saw the Funtime Charters logo and shook his head, lifting his radio and calling the bridge. The skipper asked if he could make out the name on the bow. He raised the glasses for another look. Lifting the radio again, he said, "Sonrisa." He knew the man on radio watch would be calling Sonrisa using their main VHF radio. He expected to see a head pop out of the sailboat's companionway at any minute. When that didn't happen, he wasn't surprised to hear that they would board the vessel. That was good news; he was bored. Even boarding a charter yacht skippered by an idiot was better than no action at all. He hustled back to the aft deck and helped the boatswain's mate ready their rigid inflatable boat. Well drilled, the boarding crew had the RIB in the water and alongside Sonrisa within two minutes.

  There was still no sign of life aboard, and Sonrisa continued on her course, her speed holding at six knots, the diesel beating out a steady rhythm. As they had practiced many times, the helmsman brought the RIB up within a meter of Sonrisa's starboard side, matching her speed. The cutter had taken up a position about 50 meters behind them, giving the machine-gunner on the bow a clear field of fire into the yacht's cockpit. The boatswain's mate barked a guttural command, and he and two of the crew from the RIB leapt aboard
Sonrisa, two with pistols at the ready, the third with a riot gun leveled at the companionway.

  "Hello, Sonrisa!" yelled the boatswain's mate.

  There was no answer. He moved close to the starboard side of the companionway, crouching, pistol ready, peering down into the cabin. One of the other men mirrored his position on the other side. They looked at one another, both nodding that the area below looked clear from what they could see. The boatswain's mate rose a little, put his left hand on the rim of the companionway hatch, and vaulted through, landing on his feet in the cabin below. He swept the cabin, his pistol in his right hand as he quickly turned through a full circle. He moved forward a few steps and provided cover as the second man vaulted below. They quickly determined that no one was aboard.

  The boatswain's mate conferred with the skipper of the cutter using his handheld radio. He turned to his two men. "We'll take her into the customs dock in Basse Terre and secure her. The RIB will take us back to the cutter. The cutter will take up a reciprocal course and begin a search for a man overboard."

  ****

  The killer shoved his duffel bag forward with his foot as the line at the ticket counter inched forward. He was amazed at the amount of luggage some of the people had; many of them were accompanied by porters wheeling large moving cartons, neatly taped and labeled. He wondered if they were indeed moving their households. When he reached the counter, he put his passport down and hefted the duffel bag onto the scale.

  "And where are you flying today, sir?"

  "Barbados, and then on to St. Vincent."

  The man typed a few words into his terminal.

  "May I see your credit card, please sir?"

  He had the card in his hand and passed it to the man, who swiped it through the machine and handed it back to him.

  The agent caught two boarding cards as they spilled from the printer, examined them, and put them in a ticket envelope. He tore the end from the printed baggage check tag and stapled it to the envelope, folding the envelope into the passport. He put the papers on the counter in front of the killer and bent to secure the baggage tag to the duffel bag. As he stood up, the killer scooped the passport and ticket envelope off the counter. "Thanks. Have a good afternoon," he said as he turned to walk away.

  "Have a nice flight to St. Vincent, Mr. Cardile, and thank you for flying LIAT," the agent said, as he waved the next customer to the counter.

  Chapter 27

  While Lightning Bolt was fast and comfortable, the screaming of the three big engines precluded conversation. A couple of miles off the entrance to Prince Rupert Bay, they spotted Sharktooth's water taxi, drifting as his friend Alex stood waving both arms to get their attention. Sharktooth throttled back to idle speed and shut the loping, rumbling engines down as Alex drew alongside.

  "Ev'ryt'ing irie?" he asked Alex.

  "Ev'ryt'ing good, mon. How 'bout wit' you?"

  "Irie," Sharktooth replied. Turning to his passengers, he said, "We change boat now; Alex gon' put Lightnin' Bolt away."

  He hopped across to the other boat as Alex came aboard Lightning Bolt. They held the boats together, fenders cushioning the paint work, while Dani and Liz and the Fitzgeralds settled into the water taxi. Less than an hour after the explosion, they were back aboard Vengeance in Portsmouth, eager to discuss what had happened.

  "It has to be Cardile," Bill said. "There're too many coincidences, like Dani and Phillip kept saying."

  "It could have been, but I just can't say for sure. He was either masked or I was blindfolded the whole time, and he said almost nothing. When he spoke, his voice was buzzing, like he was using one of those things they give people with cancer of the throat when they lose their vocal cords."

  "I think we should go confront the son of a bitch," Bill said. "What do you think, Dani? How long to go straight to Bequia from here?"

  "Between 18 and 24 hours, but I'm not sure that's the thing to do just yet."

  "Why?"

  "If he's not the killer, it's wasted motion, and it's a distraction to us. Right now, the killer thinks you're dead, so we've probably got a grace period. As soon as he figures out you survived, you're a target again. If Cardile's the killer, he's not going to confess when you show up on his door step; he'll just stay cool."

  "It would have to rattle him. We could tell," Bill objected.

  "If he's the killer, you didn't rattle him at all when you told him about the other killings. You're the expert; remember, if he's the killer, he's not going to react the way a normal person would."

  "She's right, Bill," Jane said.

  "I know, but we've got to do something. I'd call the police, but where? Besides, they'd probably bungle it."

  "I think you're underestimating them, but there is the issue of who to call, and then there's another problem."

  "What's that?"

  "All we have is suspicion and coincidence," Liz said.

  "That's it," Dani agreed. "We have more data than the police at this point, and it points to Cardile, but there's no hard evidence. Remember how quick they were to arrest you, and how quickly they had to release you? If you'd been guilty, you'd be long gone by now. If we're too hasty and Cardile is the killer, all we'll do is give him a head start."

  "But we know he rented that boat, Sonrisa, and he was in the Saintes."

  "No, not quite."

  "What about the paperwork on the boat, and customs here and in the Saintes?"

  "We know somebody using his name chartered the boat and brought it here and then took it to the Saintes. Nobody can make a positive identification; the best anybody can do is say it might be him," Dani explained.

  "Don't forget, somebody framed you. He could be framing Cardile, as well," Liz added.

  "So what do you suggest, then?"

  "We know the killer wants you dead -- maybe Jane, too, or maybe she was just used to draw you in. When he finds out he missed, he'll try again. I'm thinking we help him out a little," Dani said.

  "You mean, let him know I'm alive -- use me for bait?"

  "Yes, but we want to define the rules of the game this time; we have to make him play on our terms, but let him think he's still in control."

  "Okay, but how do we do that."

  "Let's say we have a day or two at least before he finds out he missed. We should use that time to get set up in a spot where we have control, first. We should get some people to keep an eye on Cardile; see what he's up to."

  "Where would you set this up?"

  "I like Marin; we've got access to lots of support there, and the police aren't involved because there hasn't been a killing in Martinique, so the killer will see that as favorable."

  "What happens when we catch him?"

  "That's another good thing about Marin. Within a ten-minute dinghy ride of the anchorage off Ste. Anne, there's 3,000 feet of water," Dani said.

  "An' some big shark. Tha's where I catch he," Sharktooth said, pointing at the jaws on the foredeck of his boat.

  "I'm not following you now," Bill said.

  "Neither am I," Jane agreed.

  "We could just wrap a few meters of chain around him and take him for a short boat ride," Dani said.

  "You mean drown him?"

  "He jus' steal mo' chain than he can swim wit'," Sharktooth explained. "Happen sometime."

  "You're not serious," Bill said.

  "You're the one he's trying to kill; he almost got both of you just a few hours ago. What do you want to do? Counsel him? Try to help him become a better person? Besides, look what the miserable bastard did to our teak cockpit table; there'll be hours of hard work to fix the damaged varnish."

  "I can't go along with vigilante justice," Bill said. "Let's turn him over to the police."

  "Even after your experience in St. Lucia, you still don't have a clue about how that works down here."

  They were silent for a moment.

  "I have a thought," Liz said.

  "That lawyer?" Dani asked.

  "Yes."

 
"That could work," Dani said. "He's connected, or Phillip and Papa wouldn't have used him."

  "What about him," Bill said.

  "Well, when we catch this guy, he won't have committed a serious crime in Martinique, so the French won't have a lot of interest in him …"

  "What about extradition?"

  "Think about how poorly that works sometimes in the States, and then imagine it down here."

  "I'm lost, then. How's the lawyer going to help?"

  "This guy killed a woman in St. Lucia, and they're already up to speed on the other killings down island. The lawyer will fix it so Chief Inspector Roberts, or whoever, is waiting offshore, just outside Martinique's border. The killer's going to kidnap me and make a run for it in the dinghy, and the patrol boat will meet us and they can arrest him. Happy?"

  "He's going to kidnap you?"

  "Kinky bastard's going to want me to tie him up, abuse him. I'll just play along, but if he falls overboard, I'm not taking any responsibility, okay?"

  "You think the lawyer will go along with that?"

  "I guarantee it."

  "How can you guarantee it?"

  "He's still on a retainer."

  "I never paid him anything," Bill protested.

  "Not to you. He's retained by my father."

  "Why does your father in Paris have a lawyer in St. Lucia on retainer?"

  "You'd have to ask one of them. It's none of my business. Shall we call him?"

  Bill nodded, a dubious look on his face. Dani pressed a button on the satellite phone and passed it to him.

  ****

  David Cardile was exhausted, and the steady, low-pitched droning of the big diesel engine on the ferry made it hard for him to stay awake on the way from St. Vincent to Bequia. As a consequence of his catnaps en route, he was weary but not sleepy as he sat at the table in his room at the Mango Tree. He had stashed the minimal luggage he had taken on his journey, made a pot of decaf coffee with the little in-room coffee maker, and booted up his computer. Although he had enjoyed his trip, he was depressed. He found himself unable to make progress on his book, and he was frustrated with himself because he recognized that his side trips, which he justified to himself as background research, were nothing more than procrastination.