Dead Asleep

by Jamie Freveletti

  Emma moved through a narrow hallway and into the main room on her right, which was large and airy. Potted ferns and soft yellow walls made the room inviting, as opposed to imposing. Most of the island kept this image of tropical living without a care in the world. Several desks placed in rows held computers and phones. In the back there was another, rectangular office that ran along the width of the room. It had a picture window through which Emma could see two large flat screen televisions. One was set to the Weather Channel and the other displayed a view of the small airport immigration office and its baggage claim area, which was open air and covered only by a roof.

  A dark-skinned man in a short-sleeved white shirt with an Island Security logo on the front sat at one of the nearby desks. He looked about thirty-five years old, with neatly trimmed hair and a tiny earring in one ear. He stood. Emma placed the skull on one of the desks and couldn’t help but think how incongruous it looked in the sunny office.

  “I’d like you to meet Waylon Randiger. He’s my second in command here.” Moore indicated the man in the short-sleeved shirt. Emma removed the socks and shook his hand.

  “Is it real?” Randiger asked.

  She shook her head. “No.” She put the socks back on her hands and turned the skull over. There was a smoothed edge of the skull that bore the remnants of a manufacturer’s stamp that someone had tried to file off. “It’s fake. A good fake, but fake nonetheless.”

  “You took pains not to get your fingerprints on it,” Randiger said, “but I’m sorry to say that we’ll not be able to take an impression here. We don’t have the tools.”

  “I think it’s teenagers playing a prank,” Moore said.

  “The man in the garage was no teenager,” Emma said.

  Randiger looked at her in surprise. “What man?”

  Moore gave Randiger a sidelong glance. “Ms. Caldridge was attacked by a man when she interrupted him in the process of destroying some of her things in the garage.”

  “And a woman who claimed to be a voodoo priestess.”

  “Voodoo? Was there an offering?” Randiger said.

  Emma nodded. “A dead rooster and now this,”

  Randiger frowned. “Whoever is doing this has to be stopped.”

  Moore waved her into a chair next to his desk.

  “Can you give me a detailed description? I’ll enter it into our database.”

  Emma glanced over and saw that the office had a Springfed watercooler in the corner. For a moment she toyed with the idea of telling Moore about the deliveryman’s comment, but decided against it. What the man had said wasn’t relevant to the investigation, and she decided to stick to the facts. She ran down the intruder’s basics, including the keening noise he made while chasing her. She described his strange, twitching face and upturned eyes.

  “Was he staring up at the sky?” Randiger asked.

  Emma nodded. “All the while he was swinging at me. It was creepy.”

  “It sounds as though he was mentally unbalanced,” Randiger said.

  “He had dreadlocks.” Moore said this as if it was significant.

  “So not an islander,” Randiger said.

  “Why not? Do none have dreads?” Emma asked.

  Randiger shook his head. “None. And we don’t have anyone claiming to be a voodoo priestess living here. They must have come from off island.”

  Moore frowned at the skull. “We’re just past peak season, which ended on January sixth. Most of the owners have left already. Gone back to their main houses. While we register everyone arriving by plane, it is possible some could dock at night and sneak in that way. Doubtful,” Moore emphasized the word, “but definitely possible.”

  “And the staff?” Ellen asked. “How do they arrive?”

  “By boat if they come from a nearby island, or plane if not. It’s not likely that they would bring troublemakers, though, because jobs here are coveted. Every staff member is given a thorough background check by us before they are allowed to accept a position.” Moore shook his head. “I’m still inclined to think the skull is the work of a teenager. Maybe one that is still home from school and wants to create some excitement while here.”

  “If he’s not an islander and not staff, how else could he have gotten here? Boat?”

  “Maybe from the mangrove side, where no one could see them land a boat,” Moore said.

  Randiger pursed his lips while he thought. “Only way to access the mangrove by boat is to pass over the blue holes first. No one I know would willingly take that route.”

  “Why not?” Emma said.

  Randiger looked surprised. “I presume you’ve heard the stories.”

  “That they’re loaded with phosphorescent minerals that glow blue?”

  “That they’re guarded by a giant sea monster that will suck you down into the depths, never to be seen again.”

  Emma wasn’t sure if Randiger was kidding. “Sea monster? Are you serious? First I’m attacked by a voodoo priestess and next you tell me there are monsters in the water? Just what is going on here?”

  “Hey, you’re on an ancient island that was uninhabited for most of its existence. Stories are to be expected.”

  “She’s going to dive them,” Moore said. Emma paused. She hadn’t yet told anyone on the island of her plans to dive the holes. She wondered where Moore had gotten that information.

  Randiger looked alarmed. “I don’t advise that. Why do you need to go there?”

  “I’m collecting plants indigenous to the island. My lab, Pure Chemistry, is always searching for new plants that we can utilize in high-end cosmetic products. The mangrove has unique forms of algae and seaweed that contain ten times the normal levels of vitamins A and D as well as some indigenous mud composed of minerals in an unusual concentration. We’re assuming the minerals wash in from the blue holes. I’m not too concerned about monsters.”

  “It’s folklore, granted,” Randiger said, “but I can’t help but think it derived from an actual event and the story just got more fantastical over the years. We did have a boat go missing a year ago.”

  “But that could be completely unrelated.”

  “Maybe. But others have spoken about a creature that lives in the holes. It’s been described as similar to a kraken from old sailor lore.”

  “Something that pulls boats into the deep, never to be seen again?” Emma said.

  Randiger nodded. “I know. Crazy, right? But those stories have been handed down for years through our ancestors. I know these people. Salt of the earth fisherman not given to hallucinations. If they tell the story, there must be some truth there. At the very least I suggest that you not go alone, and I can guarantee that you will have a difficult time getting anyone from the island to accompany you.”

  “Please don’t worry, I’m not so foolish as to dive alone. As for company, what about Mr. Marwell?” Elliott Marwell was the head of Seahook Tours, a fishing company that specialized in deep-sea fishing.

  Randiger looked skeptical. “Doubtful. He’s never agreed before when other tourists have asked him.”

  “He’s never agreed before because he’s one of the tale-tellers,” Moore said. Randiger looked surprised.

  “Elliott? Really?” Randiger said.

  Moore nodded. “He went out one day and got too close. Swears that his boat almost got taken in. He never went near that area again.”

  “That’s what I need,” Emma said. “Someone who’s been there.”

  Moore shook his head. “Won’t be Elliott.”

  “Still, I’ll ask.”

  Moore shrugged. “Can’t hurt.” He indicated the skull. “We’ll look into this as best we can.” That’s it? Emma thought. She probed a bit deeper.

  “Will you inform the police in the neighboring islands about the two of them?” Randiger glanced at Moore out of the corner of his eye. Moore frowned.

  “I’d hate to wind everyone up. I thought I’d interview the staff of the various houses first. See if anyone knows or has seen
them. The one with the dreadlocks in particular, since he should be easy to spot.”

  “How many houses are on the island?”

  “One hundred, not including the hotel and various boats that dock. Since we’re past peak season now the population is shrinking daily as visitors fly home.”

  “News travels fast,” Randiger added, “so don’t be surprised if most have already heard it.”

  “I’m actually more concerned that the neighboring island police forces get a report so that they can keep an eye out for these two,” Emma said. Once again she noticed Moore’s discomfort at the idea. “I’m not looking to kill tourism, but if you’re correct and they came from a nearby location, that seems to be an obvious choice.”

  “I’ll be sure to let them know if it becomes appropriate.” Moore’s face held a stubborn look, and Randiger gave Emma an apologetic glance. It was clear that notifying the authorities would be last on Moore’s list. Emma decided to let them start with the locals and work their way around.

  “I guess that will have to do for now,” she said.

  Randiger walked her to the door. “In the meantime, it sounds as though you’d better lock your doors and windows at night,” he said.

  Chapter 8

  Kemmer stood in the dark in front of his partially gutted beach house and watched the solitary beam of light on the water draw closer. The fire department had gone and the girls were asleep in the big house. He was alone. His Akita hound sat at his side. Kemmer liked the dog, but unless it could suddenly learn to do a trick that would generate mounds of cash it was going to have to find somewhere else to live. His sister was enamored of all of his dogs and owned an estate five miles away. He would send them to her. The light pulled closer and he could make out the shape of a boat drawing near. When it reached the dock the driver cut the engine and brought it alongside. Another crew member jumped lightly onto the pier and secured the boat. He nodded at Kemmer, stepped aside to allow a tall, thin man to step past him onto the boards, then retreated into the cabin, leaving Kemmer and the thin man alone on the pier. Kemmer strolled up and thrust out a hand.

  “Welcome to St. Martin,” he said.

  The man’s narrow face, long nose, and hard eyes matched his nickname: the Vulture. He’d been given the name by some of his corporate victims; companies whose balance sheets had turned bright red when their profits dried up in the latest downturn. The Vulture dangled the carrot of investment capital at outrageous interest rates in front of the CEOs of the struggling companies, swooped in when a company failed to make a payment, and then picked clean the assets, leaving the employees, creditors, and shareholders in the dust. Kemmer had met him several times before but always made it a point to keep his distance. Of course, that was when he’d been flush with cash and had no need of the Vulture’s bailout funds. Now, he wasn’t so lucky. Without an immediate capital infusion, the entire network of shell companies that he used to hide the fact that he was broke would come crashing down. As so famously spoken by financier Warren Buffett, when the tide goes out, one sees who is swimming naked. Kemmer was naked and shivering. The Vulture was his last hope.

  “What happened to the beach house?” the thin man asked.

  “A bomb.”

  “Was Mr. Sumner in it when it exploded?” Kemmer had no idea who Mr. Sumner was, but he wasn’t going let this man know that.

  “No one was in the house.”

  “A pity,” the man said.

  “Come to the top of the hill. I have some fine brandy up there. We can sit and talk.”

  The man shook his head. “No. I have only a few minutes here. I’m headed further south to the Windward Islands. How much money do you require?” Kemmer did his best to hide his surprise at the blunt question.

  “Ten million.” The man showed no emotion at the figure.

  “And the collateral?”

  “The proceeds from my salvage company.”

  “What company is that?”

  “It’s called Deep Sea Treasure Hunters. We search for buried treasure from sunken Spanish galleons throughout the world.” The man raised an eyebrow.

  “And are you successful?”

  Kemmer puffed up a bit. Treasure hunting was his passion. “Very. We just discovered coins from a shipwrecked Spanish galleon that will be worth millions at auction.”

  “How much are you allowed to keep?”

  “Fifty percent of the proceeds.”

  “Why do you need my money, then?”

  “It will take close to three years to catalog, verify, and auction the coins. I need the money by next week.”

  “I know of your tax trouble. This money will be confiscated, I’m sure. I want you to hand deliver the majority of the company’s shares to me and then begin an expedition to the blue holes.”

  Kemmer was astonished. He’d thought he would be the one directing this meeting, but it was clear that this man had his own plans hatched. Still, he felt compelled to tell him that the blue holes were an unlikely spot for a shipwreck. The odds of finding treasure there were slim.

  “There’s nothing in the blue holes except mineral deposits.” The man gave him a considering look.

  “I understand that many believe them to be guarded by a sea monster. Are you afraid?”

  Kemmer snorted. “Of monsters? No.” He stared at the man a moment. The request was extraordinary. And easy to fulfill, given enough time. “How soon do you require this expedition?”

  “In three days.”

  “What? Impossible. It’s high season, my boats are booked for the next three weeks.”

  The man shrugged. “Then we have no deal.” He turned to go. Kemmer grabbed his arm.

  “Wait. If I arrange this expedition, you’ll lend the money?”

  “The expedition and the shares.”

  “As collateral only. They remain mine unless I default,” Kemmer said.

  The man nodded. “That is acceptable.”

  Kemmer felt something akin to elation at the idea that his immediate money troubles might be over. “You’re on.” The thin man turned back to his boat. “But tell me,” Kemmer said, “what’s in the blue holes that you want so much?” The man shot him a look from the corner of his eyes.

  “Not what, who. Just prepare the expedition. I’ll arrange the rest.”

  Kemmer watched him step back onto the boat. The crew untied it and turned it back out to sea. Walking past his burned beach house toward the estate above, Kemmer couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d agreed to something much more deadly than a simple expedition.

  Chapter 9

  Terra Cay’s harbor was unlike those of any Emma had seen in the islands. Pristine and well regulated, it only accommodated a few ships, a design created deliberately to control the number of boat owners requesting to dock. If you didn’t have enough money to buy or rent a villa, the island didn’t want your company.

  Seahook Tours operated out of a blue painted shed at the dock’s far end. She parked and started over to it, strolling in the sunlight. From twenty feet away she spotted Elliott Marwell on the deck of a beautiful white yacht. As she drew near, Emma saw the boat’s name: Siren’s Song. Marwell’s dark skin gleamed under a white baseball cap. He wore a navy tee shirt, black cargo shorts, and a small silver hoop earring in his left ear. He glanced up and straightened to watch her approach. When she got closer he began to smile.

  “Something tells me you’re Emma Caldridge,” he said.

  Emma smiled back. “I finally made it here.”

  “Come aboard. It’s nice to meet you in person.” He came to the boat’s edge and helped her onto the deck. His hand was warm and rough-skinned. She’d been in conversation with Marwell both on the phone and by e-mail for over three months in preparation for her trip and had arranged an expedition around the island’s perimeter. She would use the time to scout good locations for her search.

  The deck sported built-in cushions and tables in a configuration for casual dining, as well as side benches covere
d with outdoor fabric. Emma peeked into the main salon. Gleaming wood with shiny black, glossy painted trim lined the walls. A flat screen television complete with a built-in sound system ran along one side, and next to that, a granite-covered wet bar with a stocked liquor cabinet behind it. On the opposite side there was a modern couch, chairs, cocktail table, and credenza, and to the rear, a dining table with six chairs.

  “This is stunning,” she said. “It looks like some sort of penthouse in New York City. Not like a boat at all.”

  Marwell nodded. “It’s an eighty foot Hatteras. It has two staterooms and two heads, along with a hot tub up top. It’s a nice size. Of course, not as big as some of the others.” He jutted his chin at two much larger yachts docked farther down. “But in some ways I like it better. When you’re out on her you still feel as though you’re boating. Those others feel like a floating hotel.” She saw that he’d been pouring ice into a cooler. Next to it sat several six packs of beer and cans of soda. “Care for a drink? Take your pick.” Emma shook her head.

  “Little too early for beer.”

  He chuckled. “For the group that I’m taking it’s never too early.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Richard Carrow and his guests. Up on the West Hill.”

  “I’ve met him.”

  Marwell settled onto a bench seat along the boat’s side.

  “He’s friendly. Been an owner here for four years, so I know him well. Some of the others in his crowd . . .” Marwell rocked his hand back and forth. Emma settled onto the bench next to him.

  “Is this your boat?”

  “No. This is Carrow’s. The Seahook is over there.” He waved at a much smaller boat a few slips down. It had two fishing rods locked into holders at the aft.

  “Ahh. That one looks fast.”

  Marwell beamed. “She is. I like these big cruisers for comfort, but there’s something about a fast boat that gets me smiling. We’ll use the Seahook for your expedition.” His comment gave her the opening she needed.