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

by Charles Dougherty

  Dani was just putting away her varnishing supplies, having touched up a few worn spots around the cockpit when Liz came up from the galley with two steaming mugs of freshly brewed coffee on a tray with some cookies.

  "Take a break, Skipper?"

  "Sure. Your timing's great." Dani reached for a cookie as she savored the aroma of the coffee, which was still too hot to drink. "When do you think Barry will bring them back?"

  "Mid-afternoon's my guess, but it will depend on how much they dally along the way. He was planning to stop for lunch at that plantation his friends run, so it'll be at least two o'clock, even if that's their last stop. Why?"

  "Just curious. I want to try to get an idea of when they want to leave. There's not much wind for the next few days, so if they wanted to poke around in the southern Grenadines that would work. How's your provisioning?"

  "We're fine. I'll just keep topping up what we use while there's a grocery store across the street, but we're good for a couple of weeks with what's fresh and frozen. I just called Charlie Campbell to see about fresh fish for dinner. He's trolling out off Gouyave right now, and he just put a 10-pound mahi-mahi on ice. He'll bring it by early this afternoon. That's dinner for tonight, plus some for the freezer."

  "Yum. I'm thinking we should kind of talk them into a day in the Tobago Cays. Maybe stop in Union Island first and clear into St. Vincent and the Grenadines. Then up to Bequia. We could detour by Baliceaux if Bill wants to see where the Brits slaughtered the Caribs."

  "I haven't been there."

  "There isn't much to see ashore, but it's a decent anchorage, and some nice reefs. We could stop for lunch and let them snorkel a bit on the way to Bequia. Or we could go to the old whaling station right there south of Bequia and do the same thing. It's maybe more interesting ashore because of the try-works."

  "You think they're interested in whaling? Where'd you get that?"

  "Nowhere. Just trying to keep them occupied for a few days down south until the wind picks up enough for a good sail to Dominica."

  "Okay. I'll work on that, but I think Baliceaux and the whaling station might be a little boring. Just leave it to me."

  Dani nodded and sipped her coffee, pausing for a moment. "You think it was a good idea to get them into Bluewater Killer?"

  "Sure. Why?"

  "Guess I just feel a little exposed."

  "Well, me too, but the book's out there. At least this way, we have some feedback on how people react to what happened to us, and we get a chance to talk about it with them. They don't strike me as judgmental, anyhow."

  Dani munched on a cookie and frowned. "You're right. Jane seems to be enjoying it, anyway. I was hoping when Bud wrote it that it would be like advertising for the charter business."

  "It is, Dani. You know that kind of thing's long term. What's eating at you?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "You're really preoccupied. Borrowing all kinds of trouble. Talk to me."

  "Well, you know I mentioned hearing Bill transcribe that interview?"

  "Yes. What about it?"

  "It was just spooky-sounding. It creeped me out, I guess. Bill seemed completely comfortable with this scumbag talking about how he got off just on the idea of having the power of life or death — the look in the victim's eyes …"

  "You're not squeamish. What is it you're not telling me?"

  "Nothing. It was more Bill's tone of voice on the recording; there was just something off, there, about the whole situation."

  "Did he say who the killer was? Or where the interview took place?"

  "No, nothing like that. I mean, we didn't talk about it. I don't think he was conscious that I was overhearing it. There was no context; I guess maybe that's part of my problem with it."

  Liz nodded and reached for a cookie. After a moment's reflection, Dani continued.

  "Bill sounded really into the whole thing, like some kind of groupie, you know? Not like how he is around us."

  "Maybe that's an interview technique he uses, Dani."

  "I wish I could talk it over with him."

  "I don't think that's appropriate, unless he brings it up. You know, you were kind of eavesdropping there, and they're paying us to sail them around in the lap of luxury, not pick through their business."

  "Yeah, I know all that."

  "Was there something specific that bothered you?"

  "Maybe, but I can't put my finger on it. I wasn't consciously listening. It was later that I realized there was something strange going on. I'll put it aside. They're nice enough people; I'm sure it's nothing. Thanks, Liz."

  "Sure. If you're okay, I'm going to bundle up some of our extra linens and take them up to the laundry since it looks like we've got the time. They don't look too busy up there; I can probably get it back this afternoon late, or tomorrow morning. What's next on your to-do list?"

  "Engine's serviced; varnish is touched up. I just dove on the prop and scrubbed it a few days ago. Think I'll start polishing the lifeline stanchions. They're looking a little rust-stained."

  Liz nodded and picked up the tray, taking it below as Dani got a rag and a bottle of stainless steel polish out of the port cockpit locker.

  ****

  "That was the best fish I've ever tasted," Jane remarked. She took a tentative sip from her steaming cup of after-dinner coffee. "What did you say it was, again?"

  "Americans usually call it mahi-mahi. Down here, it's dolphin or dorado." Liz took a sip of her own coffee.

  "I thought dolphin was like Flipper," Bill said.

  "This is a dolphin fish — unrelated to the marine mammal. That's why we usually tell our American guests it's mahi-mahi," Dani said.

  "I've had mahi-mahi plenty of times before, but it never tasted like that," Jane said.

  "You've probably never had it so fresh," Dani said. "This one was caught about lunch time, and it was still alive when we got it. The fisherman's a friend of ours; he just keeps his boat right over in the corner of the lagoon, tied in those bushes."

  "How was the tour?" Liz asked. "Did Barry take good care of you?"

  "Absolutely," Bill said.

  "He's great," Jane added, "and Grenada is really a beautiful place. When we told friends at home that we were coming here to start our charter, the only thing anybody knew about it was that Reagan invaded it because of the communists back in the '80s. Barry set us straight on that, though."

  Dani laughed. "It's too bad more Americans don't know the whole story. It's one of the few things like that that worked out well. You got in, fixed the problems, and got out, and everybody's lived happily ever after. The people here love Americans."

  "We noticed," Jane said. "We even had a couple of old folks volunteer how much they appreciated America's restoring their freedom," Bill said. "You don't hear that kind of thing from the people in most places where the U.S. has intervened."

  "Are you going hiking tomorrow?" Liz asked.

  "Yes, just a couple of short hikes," Bill said. "Barry's going to take us to Seven Sisters Falls. He said it gives a good feel for some of the wilder spots without being too strenuous."

  "And we're going to spend some more time at Grand Etang," Jane added. "We're going there early in the morning so we'll have a better shot at seeing the monkeys."

  Liz and Dani both nodded. There was a comfortable silence as Liz refilled the coffee cups.

  "We saw a cliff called 'Carib's Leap,' where the Indians jumped to their deaths rather than allowing themselves to be enslaved," Bill said. "I'm interested in the Caribs because they were so much more warlike than the other Indians the early explorers encountered. I'm curious about that; I know the indigenous people were the Taino and the Arawaks. The Caribs were late-comers, invaders from the mainland, and cannibals. I associated them with Dominica because there's a reservation of sorts there that's gotten a lot of press. I haven't studied them, particularly, and I didn't realize how widespread they were until Barry told us. They apparently worked their way north from the South Ame
rican coast, almost to Florida before the Europeans came and wiped them out."

  "Ethnic cleansing," Dani said.

  "Sort of. I think they were pretty hostile toward the Europeans."

  "They somehow got the notion that the Europeans were invading; they didn't realize the Spanish and the French and the British just wanted to save their souls and bring them the benefits of civilization. Their misunderstanding cost them pretty dearly," Dani said.

  "You'll find a 'Carib's Leap' on nearly every island," Liz said. "Speaking of that, any more thoughts on where you'd like to go from Grenada?"

  "Yes," Jane said. "We talked that over with Barry too. He's been all over the islands, but I guess you know that."

  Liz nodded.

  "We'd like to spend a day in the Tobago Cays; that sounds idyllic, and Barry said something about barbecued lobsters on the beach at Union Island. In fact, Union Island sounds interesting."

  "From what he said, those places are pretty close to here, right?" Bill asked.

  "Yes," Dani said. "That could work really well. Carriacou is an easy day's sail. You can explore Hillsborough while I clear us out of Grenada …"

  "Barry said we should see Petite Martinique," Jane interrupted. "I got the impression that was close to Carriacou. He said it was pretty much unchanged, like a trip back in time to the Caribbean of the early 20th century."

  "Yes. It's just off the north end of Carriacou," Liz said. "We could stop there the day we leave here. That's all still part of Grenada. Once you've seen Carriacou and Petite Martinique, we can clear out of the country with customs and immigration in Hillsborough, Carriacou."

  "Do we have to do this clear in and out thing every time we go somewhere?" Jane asked.

  "No, only when we cross the border from one country to another," Liz explained. From Carriacou, Union Island's only a few miles, and we can clear into St. Vincent and the Grenadines there and spend a night in Clifton Harbour. There's a funky little bar out on a little coral rock where you might want to have a drink and watch the sun set. The next morning, we'll hop over to the Tobago Cays — it's only a few miles. Before we leave that area, we can anchor for the night in Chatham Bay, back on Union Island. That's where you get the barbecued lobster dinner cooked and served on the beach, if you want."

  "Sounds great," Bill said. "So where are the good spots to stop between there and Dominica? We won't run out of time, will we? I still want to see Dominica — I've always heard so much about it. They've made a name for themselves as a destination for eco-tourism, haven't they?"

  "Yes, they have. Deservedly, too. I don't know; Dani's been studying the weather. What do you think, Skipper?"

  "It'll work well; we're going to have light winds for the next several days. Not great for sailing very far, so it would be perfect to hang out in the southern Grenadines for a little while. When the wind picks up a bit over the next few days, we can have a brisk trip to Bequia. From there, we can hit St. Lucia in a day -- either Soufriere or Rodney Bay, depending on the wind and how we're feeling. Martinique's a good stop from there, either along the south coast, like Marin, if we need a short day, or St. Pierre for a longer day. St. Pierre is a day from Prince Rupert Bay, Dominica, so you've got plenty of time to stop and visit some of the places along the way if they catch your interest."

  "Running out of time isn't going to be a problem, since you booked us for a month," Liz said. "We could do all that and still have time for an offshore hike to the Carolinas if you wanted."

  "You mean the east coast of the U.S.?" Jane asked, surprise in her voice.

  "Sure."

  "How long would that take?"

  "This time of year, with settled weather, say no more than a week or ten days," Dani said.

  "Wow. That's amazing. What freedom," Jane remarked. "I think I'd rather spend the time in the islands, though."

  "No argument from me on that," Bill said. "I'm going below and post an updated itinerary on the blog, if you ladies will excuse me."

  After Bill went below, Liz said, "He must be a serious blogger. I would have thought he'd have been worn out from the tour."

  "Oh, it's work," Jane said. "While he's off this term, he's got a graduate assistant handling his undergraduate cultural anthropology course load. The plan was that he'd post our destinations, and the students would have to do short research projects on the cultural influences from the early colonial days up until now. Then in the second half of the course next term, Bill will lead discussion groups about each place."

  "What an interesting way to teach cultural anthropology," Liz said.

  "But what about his serial killers?" Dani asked.

  Jane chuckled. "That's his personal interest; he leads some interdisciplinary graduate and post graduate seminars on killers, but it's his undergrad courses that buy the groceries, so to speak."

  Chapter 5

  The killer watched the people bustling around the Carenage as he settled himself on the top deck of the Osprey, the high-speed ferry that made several round-trips each day from St. Georges, Grenada, to Hillsborough, Carriacou. He unzipped the small backpack at his feet and took out a neatly folded, two-day-old copy of the New York Times International Edition. He had picked it up yesterday in the lobby of his beachfront hotel after breakfast but hadn't read it yet. He scanned the headlines, but nothing caught his interest. He refolded the paper and returned it to the backpack, pausing to check his watch as he zipped the backpack closed. He wondered if the ferry ran on time, or if it was on island time.

  Smiling blankly at a woman with a briefcase who sat down across the aisle from him, he realized the ferry's timeliness didn't matter. He wasn't on a tight schedule for this mission. He couldn't shake his military training, though. In spite of the way they had unceremoniously put him out after all he did for his country, he was still, at heart, a soldier. He noticed the woman was casting frequent, worried looks his way. He realized that he was staring without seeing. He shifted in his seat, turning his whole body away from her.

  It probably wouldn't matter given his planned route, but he didn't want to be remembered. That was another part of his long-ago training. Carriacou wasn't his final destination; he was headed to Union Island. Both were small places where strangers would be noticed and talked about, so his itinerary would avoid contact with immigration in both Grenada and Union Island. Anyone checking his whereabouts with the authorities would find that he had not left the country of Grenada.

  He had studied his options last night. Had he not already killed in the country of Grenada, Carriacou would have been a good place to find a target. Petite Martinique would have been even better. Neither was an option for him now. One kill per country, that was the constraint he had imposed to keep himself free to kill again. Two victims in the same small country in a few days' time might give a smart policeman too much information. Kill and move on, kill and move on, he had reminded himself. Union Island would be just right; a random killing there would be highly unusual. It wouldn't escape the notice of his intended audience.

  Carriacou was big enough so that he could walk into the interior of the island and lose himself for a while. Once it was dark and the last ferry had gone, he would steal a boat. It was only a few miles to Union. He knew he could swim it, thanks to his training, but then he'd have to hide out on Union Island until the next night before he could sneak back to Carriacou.

  His map reconnaissance had been thorough. He would make his run across the channel to Frigate Rock, near the town of Ashton on Union Island. A victim in Clifton would have offered more impact, but it wouldn't be easy to get ashore unnoticed there. Ashton was perfect from that perspective. He could leave the boat in the ruins of the unfinished marina between Frigate Rock and the town and wade a few hundred yards, slipping into the unsuspecting village late in the evening. It would be a quick mission, as almost any target would suffice; there would only be locals in a place like Ashton.

  He should be able to return the boat to where he stole it by midnight, so tha
t if its owner planned to go fishing in the wee hours of the morning, nothing would be amiss. Once back on Carriacou, he just had to stay out of sight until he could blend in with the crowd boarding the Osprey for its early morning trip back to St. Georges.

  He had constructed an alibi of sorts, just in case he might need one. Last night he had ordered two fifths of rum and a case of Cokes from room service at his hotel in Grand Anse, tipping the waiter generously. He asked the young man to let the rest of the staff know that he intended to drink himself into oblivion over the next couple of days. The waiter had grinned and winked, offering to bring him a woman.

  "No, thanks," he had said. "This is all because of a woman. Maybe after I'm sober again. We'll see. Meanwhile, just keep everybody away from me. I don't plan to leave the room, and I can't be responsible for what might happen if somebody comes in." He grinned sheepishly and shook his head, handing the waiter some crumpled U.S. currency.

  The bellman had laughed as he smoothed the bills, his face lighting up as he saw the denominations. He pocketed the money, assuring the guest that he'd be undisturbed until he took the sign off his door. The killer had risen early this morning and left his room via the sliding glass door to the beach, jogging along the hard-packed sand toward St. Georges. The beach ended at another resort where he made his way up to the main road. From there, he walked into town, blending in with all the other people out walking for exercise in the cool of the dawn. He didn't expect to need the alibi, but he had been trained to consider all contingencies.

  ****

  "I'm afraid we've exhausted every possibility, sir," the Chief Superintendent said, a somber look on his deeply creased face, his eyes sunken with fatigue and disappointment. It wasn't giving the Deputy Chief Commissioner bad news that he dreaded. That wasn't a pleasant duty, but it wasn't emotionally charged, either. The worst part of his day was ahead of him; he would have to tell Cleopatra Williston's mother that they had no more leads to follow in the search for her daughter's killer.