Bluewater Killer: A Serial Murder Mystery Set In Florida and the Caribbean (Bluewater Thrillers Book 1)

by Charles Dougherty

  Back aboard, Phillip sat down at the chart table and brought his file up to date. He had talked with his friend, the Chief Superintendent of Police for Saint Vincent and the Grenadines, by telephone this afternoon. The Chief Super had put his minions to work on a records search at Phillip's request. Phillip had asked them to check the clearance documents for Sea Serpent for the last three years, to see when Reilly had entered and left the country. Further, he had requested the passport details of any passengers or crew aboard the vessel. He wanted to know specifically if Sea Serpent had come here after leaving Saint Lucia, two years ago, and if so, whether Agnes Saint James had been aboard. He made a note to ask Cedric whether she had been on the vessel's outbound paperwork when she left Saint Lucia, too. Now, thanks to Mrs. Walker, he had another name to check. He would ask the Chief Superintendent about this Sylvia Defoe when they spoke tomorrow. Satisfied for the moment, he called J.-P. and shared what he knew.

  Chapter 24

  Phillip raised the sails, allowing them to luff in the morning's gentle breeze. He had sheeted the main in tightly, and when the loose jib caused the bow to blow off, the main would fill, and the boat would creep forward, angling across the wind until the anchor chain brought her up short. When she stopped, the weight of the taut anchor chain as it sunk would pull the bow back across the wind, starting the process again as the boat turned and the mainsail filled on the other tack. During the turn, the anchor chain would go slack, and Phillip would haul in the slack, hand over hand. The people on the more modern boats around him watched the process with interest.

  "Engine trouble?" one neighbor yelled.

  Phillip shook his head and gave a little wave before bending his back to the chain again.

  When the anchor broke free, Phillip brought the remaining chain aboard quickly, as Kayak Spirit made way slowly on the port tack. She was barely making steerageway in the light breeze with the jib loose and the main over-trimmed. He lashed the anchor to the bow pulpit and went back to the tiller, easing the mainsheet and hauling in the jib sheet as he pulled the tiller slightly to the windward. The boat came alive, picking up speed on a close reach as Phillip threaded his way under sail through the anchored boats. Two old men fishing from a decrepit rowboat gave him a round of applause as he fell off the wind, executed a perfectly controlled jibe, and sailed out of the harbor. "That's the way it s'posed to be, Captain," one of the old-timers called to him. Phillip gave the man a smile and a wave.

  He had all of the modern conveniences -- even an electric windlass, to raise the anchor -- but he wasn't in a hurry this morning. When he had the luxury of time, he enjoyed handling Kayak Spirit the way she was meant to be handled. The art of seamanship wasn't lost, but it was not often found among the yachting crowd these days. Everybody wanted bigger boats, and anything much bigger than Kayak Spirit couldn't be sailed by one person, or a couple, without all sorts of gimmickry, like roller furling sails and electric winches. Phillip understood that he was a Luddite, but that was where he found the pleasure of sailing. For others, it was about having the latest gadgetry or a swishy, go-fast boat. There was room for everybody, out on the ocean. That was one of the best parts of being at sea, he thought.

  As he left Whale Cay, the rock at the southwest corner of Bequia, off his port quarter, he came up on the wind, putting a little more south into his course. After he had checked in by phone with the Chief Superintendent this morning, he had decided to sail down to Mayreau, to Salt Whistle Bay, and show his pictures to some of the folks working at the resort there. He knew that Sergeant Wiggers's men had already shown everybody there a picture of Dani, but he wanted to see if anyone remembered Reilly, or Sea Serpent. Besides, he knew that the police had been using a passport picture. Someone might remember Dani from the more natural looking snapshot that he had of her with Reilly. It was a short trip, less than 30 miles, and the Chief Super didn't expect to have anything for him until sometime tomorrow, so he decided not to hang around Bequia any longer. He expected to be anchored in Salt Whistle Bay by mid-afternoon, leaving him time to ask a few questions before it got too late.

  He planned to call the Chief Super tomorrow morning, and depending on what he learned from him and from his efforts this afternoon, he might clear out at Union Island tomorrow and go down to Carriacou, or perhaps Grenada. Meanwhile, he decided to get a lure in the water. The tuna were running, and if he was lucky, he could have sashimi for lunch while he was underway.

  ****

  The pain in his arms was excruciating. He couldn't imagine what was causing it. He forced his eyes open, dazzled by the glare from the slick surface of the sea. He looked around slowly, trying to get his bearings. He was looking up at sails, hanging limp in the calm, flapping as the boat rolled in the swell. That's it, he thought, I'm on Sea Serpent. "Yes, but where?" he asked, aloud.

  He started to sit up in the cockpit, but when he tried to take his weight on his left arm, his hand slipped out from under him, and there was a new surge of pain from his forearm. "Slick," he said. "Hurts." He rolled onto his back and raised his left arm, wanting to see why it hurt so badly. His gorge rose in his throat when he saw that his forearm was sliced open from elbow to wrist; the white, ropy-looking tendons were exposed, and the blood flowed freely. "Cut, cut bad. What happened?"

  "Don't know, but gotta get a bandage on that," he told himself, rolling to a sitting position, focused on getting below. He moved to the companionway, crouching to maintain his balance as the boat rolled with the swells. He put his right hand on the sliding hatch cover at the companionway and noticed that his right forearm and his hand were drenched in blood, too. "Damn," he said. "Hurts, bleeding. Need the first aid kit."

  "Okay, okay. Get a grip," he said, as he wedged himself into the head compartment. He retrieved the first aid kit from the big locker over the sink and sat down on the toilet, opening the zippered, foldout case on the counter beside him. He washed the cut on his left arm, using disinfectant solution from the first aid kit. He turned on the shower, which was more like the sprayer found at a kitchen sink, and rinsed the wound. He dried his arm as best he could, using paper towels from the roll hanging on the bulkhead, and wrapped the arm snugly with gauze, trying to close the wound and stop the bleeding. "Need stitches," he said. "Not now, though. Just stop the bleeding. Gotta stop the bleeding." He felt nauseated, and cold. "Shock," he said. "Going into shock." He quickly washed and wrapped the right arm and bent over, sitting with his head between his knees, hanging on to consciousness.

  He wasn't sure how long he sat there, but he suddenly became aware of the motion of the boat changing. He heard the wind, and the sails started rustling noisily. Then he felt the sails fill, and the boat heeled, accelerating gently. "Seems happy enough. Must have the wind vane set," he said. "Still, better go take a look. Where the hell am I?" He stood tentatively, making sure that he wouldn't faint. He looked down at the bandages on his arms. The gauze was blood-soaked, but the blood was beginning to dry. Maybe he wasn't losing as much blood, now. "Feel better. Not dizzy anymore. Hurts like hell, though." He followed the trail of his blood back to the cockpit. Sea Serpent was sailing along, perfectly balanced, with the wind vane holding her close-hauled on the starboard tack. He scanned the horizon. There were no other boats. There was a cluster of islands a few miles off his port side and a much larger island well behind them. There was another good-sized island off the starboard side. He glanced down at the compass in the steering pedestal. His course was east northeast. He could see the dim outline of a low island on the horizon off the bow. "Okay, nobody around. I'm okay for a minute." He went back below.

  Leaning against the galley counter, he checked his bandages and decided they were all right for the moment. He lifted the lid of the refrigerator compartment and fumbled out a pint container of orange juice. "Gotta keep the blood sugar up," he counseled himself. "Let's see where the hell we are." He turned to the chart table, noticing that there was a chart held to the surface with spring clamps. It was labeled "Guadel
oupe to Martinique." Right in the middle was the island of Dominica. "I was just there," he said. "Dominica, that's right." He looked at the GPS. His position was 15 degrees, 44 minutes north, 61 degrees, 29 minutes west. He looked back at the chart. Picking up a pencil, he made a small 'x' at his position on the chart. He was right in the middle of the Dominica Channel, midway between Dominica and Les Saintes, the cluster of islands off the south coast of Guadeloupe. "About 15 miles to Marie Galante. That's what I'm seeing out there off the bow."

  He went back up into the cockpit and stretched out on the seat with his orange juice. He needed to think about this. He knew he had been in Dominica, but he didn't remember leaving. He couldn't have been out here for long; he had not come very far. He must have set a course for Marie Galante, although that didn't sound right. He usually went to Les Saintes from Dominica, or on to Deshaies, if he was in a hurry. Was he in a hurry? He couldn't remember. Maybe he had set up the wind vane for Les Saintes, and the wind had clocked. "That's probably it," he said. "Wind died. No wind when I woke up. Then it clocked, put more east in the course. Good thing, too. If I'd stayed on course to Les Saintes, I'd have hit the rocks before I woke up." He shook his head, and took another sip of the orange juice. "Think I'll just go to Marie Galante. Not as many people. Clinic there can stitch me up. Probably less trouble than Les Saintes."

  His last comment reminded him of his injuries. He began to wonder more about the cuts, as he felt less disoriented. There was blood all over the cockpit. He really sliced himself on something. Both arms, too. Had he been fishing? He looked around. No tackle; no filet knife. He couldn't think of any part of the boat that was sharp enough to do that kind of damage. "What a puzzle," he said, drinking the rest of his orange juice. He began to wonder about clearing in with customs in Marie Galante. Was there even a customs officer there? He couldn't remember. He would go below and check his cruising guide. He could check his paperwork, too, and make sure he was right about Dominica. He scanned the horizon for any boat traffic, and then went below. He got another orange juice out of the refrigerator and sat down at the chart table.

  ****

  Phillip sailed into Salt Whistle Bay a little after lunchtime. He was hungry, his expectations of sashimi while underway having been frustrated by uncooperative fish. Once he got the anchor down, he took his dinghy ashore, thinking he would find a sandwich at the bar at the Salt Whistle Bay Club. He stopped at the guard shack and pulled out the photographs.

  "Good afternoon," Phillip said. "I know the police probably asked you about this a few days ago, but these are new pictures, and I'm trying to help this young lady's parents find her. Would you please take a look, and see if you recognize either person, or the boat?"

  The guard studied both photographs carefully. "The people, I see here, like I tol' the constable. The boat, I cannot say. Sorry." He shook his head.

  "Is this the man who brought the girl ashore to pick up her bag?" Phillip asked.

  "Yes. Tha's the mon. The constable, he don' have a picture of the mon, no. But that mon, he the one wit' the girl. The p'lice, they tell you 'bout the phone?"

  "Yes, they did. Thank you very much. Does the bar serve food this time of day?"

  "Sure, mon. They got the roti, mebbe some burger, sandwich. The big lunch finish in the rest'rant. You miss that, one time. Dinner start at six this evening. Must wear shoes for the rest'rant. Don' need for the bar. I hope you enjoy," the guard said, looking as if he meant it. Phillip was reminded that the farther south you went in the islands, the slower the pace of life became. The people weren't necessarily any friendlier than their neighbors to the north, but they definitely took more time to visit with strangers, especially in places like this. Mayreau didn't get much tourist traffic.

  "Thank you. I'm sure I'll enjoy it," Phillip said. He nodded at the man and walked into the bar.

  Chapter 25

  William Clinton had a belly full of life on the Erzulie Freda. He regretted the day that he had first seen the rusty little ship. She had been loading a cargo of bananas in Rouseau, Dominica, and he had been working the docks. In his typical, friendly manner, he had struck up a conversation with the engineer and discovered that the little ship was short-handed. They needed a hard-working, healthy man for deck crew. William had just split up with his long-time girl friend, and he was feeling ready for some excitement. Work was scarce in Dominica, and many able-bodied men went to sea when they could. William's father had worked the island schooners in his younger days, and William had grown up wishing he could experience the adventures that his father still recounted. If he shipped out, he could save his money, too. Food would be provided, and he could give up the apartment that he shared with his friends. When he was home for a few days, he could just stay with his parents. They would like that. He could save his money, so that when he decided to settle down, he could afford to get married. He had been keeping an eye out for an opportunity like this, but seafaring jobs were scarce.

  He asked about pay, and the engineer explained that the whole crew worked for shares, each man getting a set percentage of the profit of each voyage. When William wanted to know how much he would make on a trip, hauling several tons of green bananas down island, the engineer laughed and wouldn't answer him. "We make most of our money going the other way," was all he said. He induced William to come aboard and meet the captain, a jovial, backslapping, one-eyed rogue who was busy getting drunk on jackiron rum. After sharing a few shots with the captain and the engineer, things looked promising to William. He never got an answer to his questions about what he could expect to earn, but as the rum did its work, he realized that even if he made nothing, he would still be fed. Loading green bananas on a piecework pay scale when work was available didn't offer even that much security. When he woke up sometime later with a terrible hangover and a roaring in his ears, he found himself in a grimy berth just off the engine room. As he fell while climbing out of the berth in his hurry to find somewhere to throw up, he recognized the engineer, tinkering with something at a workbench. William realized he had become a merchant seaman. He didn't remember it, but he had gone home and gotten his passport, packed a few belongings and rejoined the party. Sometime after he had passed out, they had left Rouseau.

  Life aboard Erzulie Freda was not quite what William had expected. He did get fed, after a fashion. There was food available, and a galley that he could use, but the provisions were often spoiled, and he and the two other deck hands made do with what they could pilfer from the cargo, for the most part. "It's okay, mon. We eat less than the rats," one of them had explained, when William had asked him about whether they would get in trouble for breaking open a case of corned beef in the hold one afternoon. "Jus' don' mess wit' the women or the dope," the man said. William kept his mouth shut and his eyes open, but he didn't see any sign of women -- passengers, he assumed the man meant -- and he figured that dope traveled in the other direction. He wasn't sure the man was even serious about that, but he knew dope moved from south to north. Everybody knew that.

  Now, two years later, William was somewhat wiser. He had indeed managed to accumulate a small amount of money, but he was disappointed. He could support himself for a few months, but that would break him. He had finally figured out that the captain and the engineer split the real profits, which came from smuggling women and dope, but mostly dope. Women were apparently much more difficult cargo. He was brighter than the other two deck crewmen were, and, as he had begun to piece together what was happening, his conscience had begun to trouble him. The dope didn't bother him too much. He didn't use dope, and he rarely drank rum. The one time he had tried smoking pot, he didn't inhale, and he had been teased about it ever since. He didn't want to waste his money that way, but he figured that if other people did, it was their own business. They had recently had several narrow escapes from D.E.A. patrols, though. At first, he figured that even if they were caught, he and the other deck crewmen could play dumb, and probably not get in too much trouble. Now, he was less
confident about his safety. Just last month a man he knew had been shot during a D.E.A. raid on another inter-island freighter. He was just a crewman, like William. He had been trying to stay out of the way when a stray bullet killed him. That was a wake-up call for William. The danger from being around drugs, and the misery of the women who were their human cargo -- both of those things finally got to him.

  He was watching Dominica come over the horizon, thinking this was his last voyage. The last one on the Erzulie Freda, anyhow. He shook his head at the irony of the name, which he had eventually learned was Haitian Creole for "Spirit of Love," a Voodoo goddess. When the ship hit Rouseau, he would be gone. He didn't plan to say goodbye, either. One of his fellow crewmen had tried to leave the ship in Grenada, and Julio, the one-eyed drunk, had beaten him severely. Julio had told him that if he ever got off the ship, it would be when he was wrapped in chain and tossed over the side. William figured he knew too much for Julio to let him quit, so he had a different plan.

  When Julio put the bow against the quay, William would leap ashore with the mooring lines in hand, as he usually did. Instead of securing the heavy lines to the bollards on the quay so that the crew could warp the ship alongside, he would throw them in the water and take to his heels. The gusty offshore wind would blow the ship away, and Julio would have to circle and make another approach, this time one man short on deck. By the time Julio and the others got the ship tied up, William would have vanished into the rabbit warren of Roseau's back streets that he knew so well. This was his home, not theirs, and they couldn't stay here for very long to look for him. Once the ship left, he planned to go to the authorities and report Julio and the engineer. He was sure he had enough details to put them in jail for a long time. Drugs weren't always taken seriously, but human trafficking was, and he had quietly gathered all of the details of Julio's dealings.