The Deputy Commissioner shook his head. Unless they were lucky, it could take a long time to correlate the records, and if they had a killer moving through the islands, the trail of bodies would grow longer much more quickly than their list of suspects could be winnowed. He reached for his phone and dialed the Chief Superintendent's number.
****
Dani and Liz were reading in the cockpit of Vengeance, sitting in the shade of their big awning while their guests paddled around in the crystalline water. The small islands of the Tobago Cays appeared to be floating on the lightly rippled surface, and Bill and Jane were captivated by the plethora of marine life in the underwater park. They were both strong swimmers, and they found the warm water irresistible. They had been snorkeling ever since their late-morning arrival except during a short break for lunch. Before their afternoon excursion, they had accepted Liz's offer of shorty wetsuits.
"It seems warm enough at first, but it gets chilly after an hour or so," Jane had said.
"Besides, some of the reefs are pretty shallow," Bill added. "I was afraid we were going to scrape ourselves on some of that coral out near the fringing reef."
"Right," Liz said, as she handed them two wetsuits. "You want to watch that; it's razor sharp, and you can get some nasty infections if you do scrape yourself. We've got first aid supplies, so don't be bashful about asking."
They had nodded their agreement as they helped each other don the neoprene suits. They had been gone for about an hour when Dani looked up from her book and scanned the surface of the water between Vengeance and the fringing reef. After a moment, she got to her feet and checked the area methodically, moving her gaze in a pattern across the wavelets. "I don't see them, Liz. Do you?"
Liz took their binoculars out of the holder. She stood up and swept the area with the glasses. "There they are," she said handing the binoculars to Dani. "Look between one and two points off the port bow, just outside the reef."
"Got 'em," Dani said. "Guess one of us will have to go pick them up." She grinned as she sat down. "They're oblivious to their problem, at least until they turn around. They'll never find the way back through the reef from out there."
"Remember when we got stuck out there?" Liz asked.
"Yes. Never crossed my mind that we wouldn't be able to see the channel through the reef from the other side; it's so obvious when you're swimming out." Dani laughed.
"Took us forever to get back," Liz chuckled, "and it wasn't even worth seeing the other side. I thought for sure we were going to get scraped up coming back across."
"We would have if the water had been even a little bit rough."
"They just turned around," Liz said.
"I'll go get them while you get dinner started," Dani said. "They've probably had enough adventure by now, anyway. Keep an eye on them in case they panic before I get to them — maybe you can give them hand signals, point at the dinghy coming toward them, or something."
Chapter 9
The killer watched as the men struggled to load the cargo onto the ferry at the dock in Canouan. He leaned on the rail around the bridge deck, thinking this was like a scene from a '50s-era adventure movie. Unlike the modern, high-speed passenger catamaran which linked the islands of Grenada, this vessel had seen better days. When he had approached along the dock a few minutes ago, he noticed the battered ship's former name peeking through the rust-streaked, dirty paint. He couldn't make out the word, but the letters hinted at Nordic origins. He wondered briefly about maritime safety standards in Saint Vincent and the Grenadines, sure this wreck would never be licensed by the U.S. Coast Guard to carry passengers.
One of the men who had been loading cargo came scrambling up the ladder onto the bridge deck, nodded at him in passing, and stepped into the wheel house. The killer watched through the open door as the man, apparently the captain, studied the cracked gauges on the instrument panel for a few seconds. Satisfied with what he saw, he reached up and pulled a lanyard that was hanging over the helm, unleashing a banshee-like scream from a big air horn a few feet overhead. His ears ringing, the killer felt the big, slow-turning diesel send its thumping vibrations up through the steel structure as the man in the wheel house opened the throttle. As his hearing returned, he heard the engine roaring and straining as the ship backed and filled, turning almost in its own length as it left the dock. The two men who had cast off the lines that had held them moments before leapt casually across the widening gap between the ship and the dock. As the ship turned, the breeze blew the cloud of soot pouring from the stack behind him into his eyes. He blinked and made his way into the optimistically titled "First Class Passenger Lounge" behind the wheel house, noticing that the sign had been recently touched up with some sort of marker, which had also been used to add some odd bits of graffiti on the adjacent bulkhead.
He sat down on a wooden bench next to his small carry-on suitcase and put his backpack on the table in front of him. There were no other passengers — at least not in first class, such as it was. He had flown from Grenada to Canouan yesterday, clearing with the authorities in both places. Now that he was legally in the country of St. Vincent and the Grenadines, he could move around without leaving a paper trail, but he would have to stick to this sort of conveyance. He planned to fly out of the main island of St. Vincent after a few days of exploring the smaller islands, putting himself and his next destination on record. He thought he would probably go to either St. Lucia or Antigua next; he hadn't made up his mind. He was considering whether or not to strike again in St. Vincent and the Grenadines. It would violate the rule he had made, but he had not grasped how geographically dispersed this country was when he decided to limit himself to one victim per country.
Canouan, where he had spent the night, was too close to Union Island, but there was Bequia, not to mention St. Vincent itself. He had idle time in his schedule, which always gave rise to temptation. Although it was weighing on him, he knew he needed to play at being a tourist for a few days and stick with his plan. He didn't like it that he wasn't the master of his schedule; that had annoyed him about his time in the military, too. He would just have to see how things played out in Bequia; maybe he could strike while there. From what he had read, tourists weren't particularly remarkable there, even though the island and its population were small. He might not stand out there any more than he had in Grenada.
****
David Cardile browsed the little bookstore in Bequia, struck by how many of the titles were by authors he didn't know. The stock ran heavily to local color, or at least to Caribbean authors; he wasn't sure how far 'local' extended in this part of the world. He was enjoying thumbing through the books; so far he had tucked White Egrets, a book of Derek Walcott's poetry, under his arm. He knew Walcott was originally from St. Lucia and looked forward to reading some of his work this evening. He was fumbling to hold on to Walcott's book as he reached to pick up another which had caught his eye. He glanced up as a stunning woman with café-au-lait skin and dark blonde hair entered the store from a back room.
"I'll be glad to hold White Egrets for you at the register, sir," she said, approaching him.
He turned to face her as he handed her the book, dazzled by the pale, jade-green eyes that sparkled at him. "Thank you. That's kind of you."
She smiled as she watched his eyes slide over her curves. "It's nothing. I just want you to take your time; you seem to be enjoying the books. That's what we're here for; I'm a bibliophile myself."
"That explains the depth of your stock then," he said, returning her smile. "Is Bequia your home?"
"Yes, it is. My family's been here for many generations. And where are you from?"
"Oh, the States. I'm here on a sort of sabbatical; I teach American literature at a small private college down south. No one's ever heard of it."
"How fascinating. How did you come to visit Bequia?"
"Well, actually my agent recommended it as a place where I might find my muse. I'm not sure how she knew about it, but it's q
uite charming."
"It's nice of you to say so. You're a writer, then?"
"I try. I'm working on finishing up my first novel, actually."
"I hope Bequia does the trick for you. Don't let me distract you. I'll just let you browse."
"Okay, thanks. I'll bet you write, too, don't you?"
She smiled at his comment. "Why do you think that?"
"Because you didn't ask me what my book's about."
She laughed, a rich, melodious sound that filled the small shop.
"And only another writer would know how you dread that question. Is that it?"
He smiled and nodded.
"I write a bit," she said. "I'm Claudia, by the way. Claudia MacKenzie."
"It's nice to meet you, Claudia. I'm David Cardile."
They both smiled awkwardly until David finally broke the impasse. "I think I'm done for now; I'll just take White Egrets. I'm still jet-lagged."
"All right, then." She smiled over her shoulder as she turned and glided toward the counter which held an antique cash register.
He was embarrassed when she glanced over her shoulder and caught him watching her hips as she walked away. He coughed and stepped quickly to the counter, reaching for his wallet.
"I hope you come back soon, David," she said, as she rang up his purchase and slipped it into a bag.
"Oh, I will."
She smiled at his tone of voice. As he reached the door, she said, "Enjoy the book, and have a good afternoon."
****
As Vengeance closed on West Cay, the westernmost tip of Bequia, Liz went forward to talk with Jane, who had relinquished her favorite spot on the bowsprit. There was enough of a chop so that it had been a wet spot for her this afternoon, and she was stretched out on a mat on the foredeck instead, enjoying the late afternoon sun. She sat up and turned to face Liz as she approached.
"There surely are a lot of little islands out here. I had no idea."
"Most people don't; you have to see them to understand," Liz said.
"Are many of them inhabited?"
"No. Fresh water is scarce on most of them. A good many have been inhabited briefly over the years; the solitude is attractive if you can deal with not having a natural source of water besides rain. Fishermen use some of them; they camp out on them occasionally, sometimes for extended periods."
"And pirates did, too, I guess. I see now why they all hung out down here. Lots of hiding places."
"Well, that, plus in the days of sail, the normal route back to Europe for the treasure ships from South America was through the eastern Caribbean, so they had a lot of rich targets to pick from."
"I see. And there were plantations on a lot of these islands, right?"
"Yes, on the bigger ones. Bequia was a little different, though. It was mainly a fishing port, even a whaling port. There was never much farming there."
"Really? I think of New England for whaling."
"Right, but the whales do migrate through here during the winter. The International Whaling Commission still allows Bequia to take up to four whales each year, although it's rare when they get one. They do it the old-fashioned way: little boats, a few men, and harpoons. You'll see a lot of references to whaling here. There's one bar where the stools are the vertebrae of whales."
"I want to see that. We're almost there, aren't we?"
"Yes. I came up to let you know that when we round that point right over there, the wind will come howling down the hillside. We'll sheet the sails in hard and tack into Admiralty Bay to the anchorage. There'll be a lot of wind, but the seas are pretty flat. It'll be great sailing, but we'll be coming about every few minutes. You may be more comfortable back in the cockpit."
"Okay. Thanks. I've probably had all the sun I can stand for now, anyway."
Jane rose to a crouch; she and Liz rolled up the mat and took it back to the cockpit.
"Perfect timing," Dani greeted them. She watched the point of land called the Ship's Stern come into view from behind the small island of West Cay. "You ready, Bill?"
Bill flexed his fingers and shifted his hands on the helm. He nodded.
"I'll call the first couple of tacks," Dani said. "When I say 'ready, about,' Liz and I will get ready to shift the headsails. The main's already sheeted in all the way, so it will just move across by itself when the bow goes through the wind, but keep your head down; you don't want to get hit by the boom. After I yell 'ready, about' and you see that Liz and I are ready to handle the headsails, you yell 'helm's alee,' to let us know you're turning. Turn the helm to the starboard until the wind pushes the mainsail across and fills it on the other tack. Then straighten her out and steer to keep the main full. Liz and I will be madly trimming the Yankee and the staysail; don't worry about that, though. Got it?"
"Got it," Bill said.
"Ready, about!"
"Helm's alee!"
There was a roar of flogging sails as Vengeance's bow turned through the wind. The boom swung across and the mainsail filled with an audible crack. Vengeance rolled to the starboard side, settling to an angle about 15 degrees from the horizontal, exactly the opposite of her attitude before the maneuver. As Dani and Liz sheeted in the two headsails, the flogging of the loose canvas gave way to the hissing and sighing of a well-trimmed vessel hard on the wind.
"Well done!" Liz said.
"Yes," Dani agreed. "When we're about a hundred yards from those rocks coming up off our bow, Bill, you call 'ready, about,' okay?"
Bill nodded, his brow furrowed as he studied the sails and watched the shoreline coming up quickly.
"You're in command," Dani said.
"Ready, about," Bill responded.
Dani and Liz crouched by the sheet winches and looked back at him, nodding their heads.
"Helm's alee!" he called.
After Vengeance was settled on her new course, Jane asked, "How many zigzags, er …, tacks, will we have to make to get in to the anchorage."
"It depends on the wind," Dani said, smiling at Jane's effort to speak the language of sailing. "We've done it in as few as four tacks, or as many as a dozen."
"But if you get tired of it," Liz said, "we can start the engine and be anchored in less than ten minutes."
"No way!" Jane said. "This is great. Besides, Bill's having the time of his life, aren't you?"
He gave a terse nod. "Ready, about!"
Chapter 10
Dani and Liz sat in the shady, open-air waterfront bar and restaurant overlooking Bequia's Admiralty Bay. Vengeance was visible in the distance, anchored at the back of the pack of boats clustered near Princess Margaret Beach. The proprietor brought them ice-cold soft drinks and menus.
"Good to see you back again, ladies."
"Thanks, Leon," Liz said as Dani took a sip of her drink.
"You havin' some lunch? Or jus' chillin'?"
"We'll be having lunch, but we'll wait a bit. We're meeting our guests here. They're shopping; they should be along soon."
"No rush, then." He left them and began setting up the other tables.
They had enjoyed a lazy morning aboard Vengeance with Bill and Jane; everyone was still pleasantly tired from the brisk sail yesterday. They had come ashore mid-morning, and while Dani and Liz had gone to clear with Customs and Immigration for an early departure tomorrow, the Fitzgeralds had set off to explore Port Elizabeth. After Dani handled the formalities, she and Liz had stopped at the hole-in-the-wall gourmet grocery store that catered to charter yachts. Liz dropped off a list of provisions which they would pick up later that afternoon. As she sipped her drink, Dani was paging through a free monthly newspaper that targeted the sailing community.
Liz sat next to Dani, the corner of the table between them. She stretched her legs out, propping her feet on the empty chair across from her. She was covertly studying the only other occupant of the restaurant, a handsome man who was immersed in a book. She put his age in the mid-thirties; he looked fit and was well groomed, with curly black hair of medium length
and eyes of a brilliant blue. His eyes had caught her attention when he glanced up as she and Dani took their seats. She had smiled at him then, but he had already returned his attention to his book. He was dressed nicely for a tourist, wearing navy Bermuda shorts and a fresh-looking white polo shirt with the tail tucked in. A pair of new boat shoes was on the floor next to his bare feet. Leon approached his table with a steaming cup of coffee.
"Sorry it took so long, sir. I made a fresh pot for you."
The man turned the book face down on the table. "No problem. Thanks." His smile showed even, white teeth. He added cream and sugar to his coffee and picked up the book again.
Liz caught a glimpse of the title. She was impressed that he was reading poetry, and by a Caribbean writer, at that. His smooth, fair skin showed no evidence of exposure to the sun. Based on his attire and manner, as well as his choice of reading material, she would have thought he must be from somewhere in the islands, but nobody could live in this part of the world and have skin that pale.
"You're staring." Dani grinned, nudging Liz's calf with her foot.
"Just taking in the scenery. He's reading Derek Walcott -- my kind of guy."
"Here come Bill and Jane; get your mind back on the job."
"Yes ma'am. A girl can dream …"
She was interrupted as Bill and Jane came in. Bill frowned for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the shadows. He spotted Liz and Dani and raised a hand to wave. As he did, the man who was reading leapt to his feet.
Bluewater Stalker: The Sixth Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series (Bluewater Thrillers Book 6) Page 6