Turtle Island: 20th Anniversary Edition (Georgina O'Neil Book 1)

by Darren E Laws

  ‘Yeah, an’ probably five UFO sightings and Elvis Pressley about to jump from Independence Bridge.’ Leroy tried to dilute Barbara Dace’s reporter’s intuition. He studied Dace. She was of average height, slim and fashionably dressed; silver haired. He guessed she was in her late fifties. There was no attempt to dye her hair, but she had it cut short with a modern style that was attractive and flattered her features. Her skin was slightly weathered, tanned with a few wrinkles, though again not unflattering. She filled three cups with hot water, the liquid turning various shades of brown. ‘I hope you don't mind instant.’ She stirred each cup, adding milk as she did so.

  A tall, black haired man appeared at the kitchen door. ‘We've finished, Barbara.’ He smiled at the detectives then returned to the lounge.

  ‘John Keller, my cameraman.’ Barbara explained. ‘You can see James and Gillian now.’ Barbara walked in to the lounge. ‘You can bring your drinks.’

  James and Gillian were sitting on a sofa; two camera lights were on stands in front of them, extinguished. John Keller was putting away his Camera into a large canvas bag. Rick and Leroy pulled chairs from under the dining table and sat in front of Gillian and James.

  Ten

  He lifted the weights above his head, his arms straining, pumped up, veins standing proud, sweat pouring down his face. He held the weight steadily, swaying slightly before letting it crash down to the ground. Dust rose into the air in plumes, refracting against the strong light. He lifted the dumb bells and started arm curls, grunting with each laboured exercise. His arms hurt but the pain was somehow nice. His voice drove him on warning him of the dangers. He knew what had to be done now. His thoughts were clearer than they had ever been before. Exhilaration replaced pain; flowing through his body like the blood being pumped by his heart. There could be no more mistakes now. He stared appreciatively at his body in the full-length mirror attached to the wall. Every muscle was defined, glowing with health. He placed the dumb bells down on the floor and sat on a thin mat, towelling himself dry.

  ‘The others won't be so lucky.’ He thought to himself.

  He showered and dressed and read the newspaper before pushing out a further one hundred press-ups. Lunch was light, mostly fresh fruit, some poached eggs and a slice of wholemeal bread toasted on one side. The television had been buzzing with stories and assumptions about a man found wandering on the highway from Turtle Island. One intrepid reporter even managed to link the man with two out of the other three missing locals, speculating whether a serial killer might be at large in the small island community. He sniggered to himself, spurred on by his newfound infamy. There was a need for release burning inside of him. A wanton lust that need fulfilment.

  As soon as he saw the television early that morning, Gary Clarkson knew it was going to be a busy day. He wandered through the stock room of the general store looking for maps, films, sun block, cold drinks and snacks, in fact anything that he thought might possibly sell to the curious, the morbid and the media. He whistled as he plucked items from the racked metallic shelving; every cloud has a silver lining. The door rang. A customer.

  ‘Ma.’ No answer. ‘Ma.’ Again.

  Gary groaned as he placed the armful of stock on the floor and made his way to the shop. A man was standing at the counter, newspaper in hand. Gary recognised Charles Fleisher instantly, he was a regular, not the sort of regular that would make Clarkson rich but a steady reliable spender.

  Fleisher was reading the front page.

  ‘Charles.’

  ‘Gary.’ Charles answered but continued reading the paper, seemingly absorbed in the story. Gary did not need to ask what he was reading about. It was the talking point of the year…hell, of the decade.

  ‘Seems we’re going to be famous.’

  ‘Seems so.’ Charles answered flatly.

  ‘Going to be quite a circus trudging through this little island.’ Gary Clarkson was excited at the prospect; he looked at the headline on the morning paper, bad news for some was always good news for others.

  ‘D’you have a packet of mints?’ Charles never looked up from the paper.

  ‘Got a viewing?’

  Charles proffered a five-dollar bill. The bell to the shop rang again. Gary and Charles both watched Karen Fuller walk slowly down the shop. Gary leaned forward and whispered to Fleisher.

  ‘Never had teachers like that in my day.’

  Charles Fleisher turned and watched appreciatively as Karen made her way toward the counter. The morning light reflected around her, silhouetting her. Occasionally as she moved part of her would be exposed to strong sunlight and her skin became porcelain. She stood right next to Charles, as close as she could. Charles wanted to reach forward and touch her face. Just stroke it.

  ‘20 Marlboro, Gary. Please.’

  Gary turned his back to fish the pack of cigarettes from the racking behind him.

  ‘I should really be quitting.’ She said to no one in particular. Her hand rested briefly on Charles hand. Karen Fuller’s index finger stroked the back of his hand before moving away to her handbag.

  This was easy, everything was easy. He scanned the images one by one. The bright fluorescent tube passed back and forth over the images, the terrible craven images. Later on he would upload the images direct to his web site and then when he became confident, through a live feed and then for greater action, for greater excitement there was high quality web cams, but this was the start…the beginning. As the images were transferred via the ftp program, he sat back with a feeling of accomplishment, a sense of achievement and excitement, then he closed the program. He typed DEATHCAM.NET into his browser and there they were for the entire world to see; his masterpieces.

  Eleven

  The humidity to the morning was made stronger by the sun's desire to absorb all the moisture from the ground from the previous night’s storm. Agent O’Neil unbuttoned her jacket letting it flap open as she walked back to the car. Rick was dressed in a short sleeve shirt and Leroy held his jacket draped over his shoulder. James and Gillian followed.

  ‘It was just up here, about one hundred yards ahead.’ James pointed to an undefined point in the road. ‘I marked the spot by leaving a full bottle of 7up there on the verge.’

  Rick stopped by a green plastic 2-litre bottle full of clear liquid, there was the temptation to open it up and drink down the whole two litres, but it had been baking in the morning sun for nearly five hours.

  Georgina scanned the horizon. A bank ran to her left lined with hickory trees, to the right more trees. She walked up the bank, her foot slipping slightly on the damp grass. She steadied herself, placing her hands on the bank to stabilise her body, before continuing up the small incline. At the top she asked. ‘What's beyond these woods?’

  Leroy shrugged his shoulders.

  'Could you get a map; I've got one in my folio in the car.’

  Rick had started to climb the bank, Leroy looked behind him. The cars were parked on the verge a couple of hundred yards away. He turned and slowly traipsed away mumbling to himself. ‘Yez boss, ize goze and gets it for ya.’

  ‘Hey, Leroy, bring the camera too?’ Rick yelled after the detective.

  Leroy continued walking. ‘Okay, Masser.’ He passed Gillian and James who stopped at the foot of the bank by the road.

  Rick called down to them. ‘And you didn't see which direction he came from?’

  ‘He was just standing in the road. But this side as though he had come from the direction of Turtle Island.’ Gillian offered. ‘He was that tired, I don't think he would have changed directions once he got to a road, though I could be wrong.’ She smiled apologetically.

  Leroy came running back down the road with the map in his hand. ‘You're gonna like this.’ He stopped and caught his breath, wiping a bead of sweat that trickled down his forehead. ‘About two miles south.’ He continued between breaths ‘...is the river.’ Leroy started to walk up the bank, still talking as he went. ‘And a further three miles east is where..
.we... found the first body.’

  ‘Do you need us? Can we go now?’ James called up the bank.

  Georgina nodded. ‘Yes, you can go now. Thank you very much, you’ve been very helpful.’

  James and Gillian walked back to their Suburu Jeep, the fatigue of their adventure catching up with them.

  Leroy unfolded the map and pointed to the river. ‘We found the John Doe here and Stephen England here.’ His finger then moved along the river to Turtle Island. ‘But with the information from the Dace’s, we can assume the tidal flow carried Dalton from somewhere on the Island. My guess is Stephen England somehow used the river to escape, it gets quite shallow up here.’

  ‘Shall we go for a walk gentleman?’ Georgina strode away in the direction of the river.

  The trees magnified the humidity and stole the daylight. Georgina O’Neil was silently thanking her good sense at choosing comfortable footwear as she walked through the thick forestry. Leroy hung back behind her, occasionally studying the map but mostly studying the rhythmic sway of O’Neil’s hips as she walked with Rick by her side.

  The forest was alive with the sounds of indigenous birds and with the humidity it felt tropical.

  ‘Leroy?’ Georgina called behind her, feeling his eyes boring into her as she walked.

  ‘What?’ Leroy replied puzzled.

  ‘Stop staring at my ass, you're giving me a complex.’

  Leroy blushed, his dark skin reddening, almost invisibly. ‘You got eyes in your ass?’

  ‘Only yours, Leroy, only yours.’

  Rick turned to his partner laughing ‘Oh man, you are sorely em-bar-rased.’ He exaggerated the three syllables of the last word in a mock West Indian tone.

  ‘So, Rick, what made you want to become a cop?’ Georgina asked between pushing back low, thick growing branches.

  ‘I kinda stumbled in to it. There never was a master plan. Left high school graduated at college and was at a loose end. Then my dad suggested it. I can honestly say that I had never seriously considered it until then. Joined the Chicago P.D. became a beat cop for a few years then for want of a better word, stumbled into homicide. As I say no great plan...What about you? How does an intelligent young woman end up working for the Feds?’

  ‘I always wanted to be a university lecturer but there was too much competition in the family, I have an elder brother who’s a university professor. So, I looked for another area that would be a challenge, then a friend of mine went missing...’

  ‘I'm sorry.’

  Georgina continued. ‘We were best buddies for ...oh, I'd say the best part of six years. Used to sleepover, go camping together, take holiday's, you know that sort of thing. The sort of friend who only comes along once in a lifetime, even shared a couple of boyfriends…not at the same time.’

  ‘Hey, I didn’t say anything.’

  Georgina briefly smiled. ‘Then one day she didn't turn up for work. At first, I guessed she was taking time of ill. A week passed and no word, then the rumours started, finally the police showed up. Her body was found in a dumper truck. She had been raped and strangled. They never caught her killer...I guess I'm trying to redress the balance.’

  They walked on in silence for a minute before Georgina turned and asked Leroy. ‘Leroy, what made you join the force?’

  Leroy jogged along a couple of steps to catch up, slipping slightly on the grass. 'Me, I was a big fan of Shaft. Never saw him walking through this shit though.’

  The dark moment was broken.

  Her hand was clasped tightly around his. Doctors passed by every now and then, popping their heads through the door opening to check Stephen England's progress. Cara Morton had been awake ever since Stephen was brought in. She sat by his side talking to him, unable to comprehend why somebody would want to do this to her fiancée; unable to understand how someone could do this...period.

  The doctors had operated on his mouth and were going to have to carry out more surgery on his bowel and large intestine, but for the time being, they kept him under heavy sedation to let his body recover from the shock of his ordeal.

  By the time she had arrived at the hospital, Stephen was already in surgery. Cara looked at his face, his mouth a mass of stitches, bruised and swollen beyond recognition. His right arm was bandaged from the elbow to the wrist. He was lying on a support frame to relieve the pressure on his back and buttocks. Dr Martinez told her that ‘Stephen must have had great strength of will to survive his ordeal.’

  England was being intravenously hydrated and fed; various monitors were keeping his condition in check via bleeping tell-tales and electronic graphs. He slept and he dreamt. In his dreams he had still not escaped. In a corner of his mind he never would. But for now, the effect of his drug-induced coma held him prisoner, his eyes darted wildly under their lids, moving left and right. The read outs on the monitors became a little more animated, scribbling informative lines on graphs. A nurse entered with a doctor and adjusted the drug feed in to Stephen's system, clouding his mind even further, sending away the demons. He started to settle again; Cara looked imploringly at the doctor.

  The trees opened out into a small open expanse of grassland and the river ran sublimely past. The gentle sound of water moving within a peaceful environment. Georgina O’Neil stopped by the bank watching the current flowing toward Turtle Island.

  ‘The river splits about five kilometres downstream and encircles Turtle Island. If England came this way at night, during the storm, injured as he was, then I'm a member of his fan club.’ Leroy said as he emerged from the woodland.

  ‘How deep is the river at this point?’ Georgina asked turning toward Rick.

  ‘Deeper now than last night. Tidal flow and the storm will have swollen the level by four or five feet. I'd guess that it would have been knee to waist high last night, maybe deeper at points.’

  Leroy opened the map and followed the river toward the Island. ‘It could even have been lower; storm drains are pinpointed at various places near the Island to take the overflow and stop the Island flooding.’

  ‘Can we get some boats to circumnavigate the Island?’ Georgina asked

  ‘Yeah sure, Ned Freeman runs tours of the Island by boat. I'm sure we could give him a call and get him down here.’ Rick sat down on the bank. He pulled out a small cell phone from his inside jacket pocket, pressed a button and waited while the connection was made. ‘Yeah, hi, it's Detective Montoya. Look we're out at the river, bout five kilometres from Turtle Island heading out toward Cape Gardeau. Could you give Ned Freeman a call and get him down here to give us one of his tours?…Okay’ Rick closed the phone.

  Leroy sat next to Rick and looked up at O’Neil. ‘So, what do you expect to find?’ Leroy asked the F.B.I agent.

  ‘I don't know.’ Georgina studied the lush green countryside. The woods were some one hundred yards from the riverbank with the land between wild and overgrown. ‘I just want to get a feel of the place.’ She continued. She walked along the riverbank, absorbed by her surround, trying to imagine Stephen England’s escape. Hot air rose from the ground, bringing drifting scents of damp earth, grasses and wild flowers to her nose. Georgina pushed back her short hair, some of it matting and sticking against the sweat on her forehead. The water looked cool and inviting. The sound of Rick's phone buzzing broke her concentration. Rick flipped the phone open.

  ‘Yeah...Make sure Ned's stocked up with plenty of cool drinks...No. Any word from the hospital...Call us if...yeah, Okay.’ Rick closed the phone. ‘Ned's on his way.’

  Twelve

  After one hour there were two thousand hits, after four hours it was twenty thousand. He watched with relish…now he had their attention, soon the world would know his name. He stood and stretched his arms above his head. He felt restless, caged.

  The shop door rang constantly. Gary Clarkson was right; Christmas had come early. Many of them people he had never seen before, all of them had a hunger in their eyes. They were all after the same thing. They were the sort of peopl
e who slowed down at an accident in the hope of seeing tragedy unfurled and splattered across the freeway. The blood-hungry, seeking ghouls whose thirst and desire for death would not be quenched until they had experienced it first-hand. Gary didn’t mind, he’d take their money, hell, he’d take anyone’s money. Photographers, journalists, tourists, body hoppers, ambulance chasers, they were all fair game. There was even a contingent of priests, nearly stripped him out of wine. The door ran again. An old lady took her time entering. She looked frail but it was obvious when you came within earshot that she was far from delicate. Clarkson looked up from behind the sanctity of his counter.

  ‘Afternoon Martha.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Gary. Is your mother ready?’

  ‘She’s not going today. Says she worried about this here murderer that’s been all over the papers.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ The old lady brushed past Gary without hesitation and walked through the back of the store to the living quarters. ‘I lived through the war in Europe, ain’t gonna let no murderer come between me and my daily swim.’

  During the week the old ladies always took the afternoon bus to the mainland for an afternoon filled with swimming, saunas and shopping. Within minutes Martha was brushing Gary aside, making way for his mother. He watched their backs disappearing out of the shop.

  ‘Have a good time, ladies.’ They were gone before he had finished the sentence.

  Rick, Georgina and Leroy sat on the riverbank watching Ned Freeman's boat, ‘The Ingénue’ move majestically, almost silently toward them. The boat was an old converted fishing vessel about twenty-five feet long powered by a Cummins diesel engine. The maximum river speed barely tested the boat’s engine. Ned dressed the part to please the punters’, silver sideburns ran down his ruddy weather-beaten face from his ears to his cheeks, the sort of lamb chop side burn that Elvis would have been proud of. His fisherman’s hat covered the disappearing but matching silver thatch underneath. Blue eyes sparkled beneath the rim of his cap, eyes that had seen more life than most. Nobody knew his age, nor would he tell if anyone asked, but he had been around as long as most folk cared to remember.