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

by Darren E Laws

  ‘Detective LaPortiere?’ He said unsurely.

  Leroy nodded

  ‘I have a message from the Captain. He said he wants you to ring him urgently. The police officer was gone within the blink of an eye. Leroy picked up the phone and used the speed dial to contact Norman Frusco. ‘What now?’ He said to himself, almost fearing the answer.

  ‘I've some bad news, Leroy.’ Frusco gasped between breathing fits. ‘Ned Freeman, the pleasure boat skipper…he...he just dragged up another body. Apparently, a black male.’

  ‘Rick?’ Leroy asked, concern mixing with apprehension.

  Frusco was standing on the riverbank looking down at The Ingénue. A group of police divers were scouring the riverbed using their bare hands. Frusco shrugged his shoulders. ‘We only just found this guy about ten minutes or so ago. The divers are still trying to get the body out of the water. Ned found the body over an hour ago. He couldn’t contact us because the phones were down. Agent O’Neil is on her way to you; bring her out here with you.’

  Within in a minute, Leroy had grabbed his coat and was stepping out onto the roof, watching a helicopter approach the landing pad.

  The large circled H on the roof of the police headquarters was a welcome site for Georgina O’Neil and one that could have come earlier. Gripped tightly in her right hand was a white wax paper bag, inside, the contents of her breakfast, partially digested; melted by the acids in her stomach. From the moment she vomited to the landing, Georgina clutched the bag for dear life and kept her eyes closed. She tried to concentrate on the case. Building a mental image of John Kiers, hoping police records or the FBI's files would have something on the man, but try as she might, her mind could do no more than fight with her inherent phobia of flying, and Kiers was pushed to the back of her mind until she could strike contact with earth. As she stepped out, much to her relief, she was met by Leroy who was waving and remonstrating above the scream of the engines and rotors, which were slicing through protesting air currents.

  ‘We gotta get back in. Head back to the river. They've found another body.’ Then Leroy added solemnly. ‘A black man.’ Knowing that Georgina was aware of the implication.

  Georgina looked at the helicopter, at that precise time there were very few things in the world that could have persuaded her to board it again but the prospect of finding Rick Montoya's body was one of them. Hopefully the site where the body was found might generate clues that would lead them to their man.

  The pilot handed Georgina a fresh sick bag as she boarded, which she reluctantly accepted before climbing back on board.

  Thirty-Nine

  Jo-Lynn felt the sensation of being carried from the murky pool and rested gently on the wooden decking at the foot of the stairs.

  He placed his head against her chest, listening for a heartbeat. Panic sent his own heart into a pounding rhythm that filled his head, confusing him even further. Was it his heart or her heart that he could hear? His hands fumbled for her wrist, a pulse; a pulse…surely that was a way to tell. Her chest was not rising; air was not escaping from her lips. He slapped her face hard crying out in frustration.

  ‘Bitch.’ No reaction.

  His fingers made contact with the soft, warm skin of her wrist, searching for a pulse. His eyes stared frantically at her, and then moving from her arm to her neck, he found what he was looking for, a strong healthy rhythm, boom, boom, boom.

  Jo-Lynn opened her eyes. ‘Fuck YOU.’ Her other hand moved swiftly.

  He did not see the jagged edge of the broken white plastic spoon but felt it as it travelled deep into his cheek. She used such force that half of it embedded through the soft fleshy tissue, breaking off another smaller segment, which she followed up by sticking into his throat.

  Stunned and shocked he fell backwards into the water, his hands groping at the balaclava, trying to exorcise it, to retrieve the foreign bodies protruding from his skin.

  Jo-Lynn was up on her feet faster than she could imagine possible, and already had a three-step advantage heading for the door at the top of the landing. She knew it wasn't locked this time. He had entered in too much of a hurry, desperate not to be deprived of his spoils by allowing her to die, face down in the water. When he had carried her to the platform and laid her down, he for the first time had shown concern for her welfare, though the sentiment was lost on Jo-Lynn.

  Her hands shot out in front of her pushing against the steel panelled door. Tortured, angry, pained screaming followed her up the stairs.

  Jo-Lynn knew he was close behind. She was too afraid to look behind, fearing that seeing how close he was would paralyse her.

  The door opened and Jo-Lynn was faced with another set of steps, leading up a dark corridor. Light shone down from a hall above, Jo-Lynn ran as hard as she could, ungracefully scrambling up the stairs. He was close behind, screaming and cursing obscenities. During this melee Jo-Lynn realised that she recognised the voice of her captor; her blood ran cold.

  As soon as her foot touched ground, Georgina’s cell phone began to ring, as did Leroy's. Norman Frusco's was walking up the grassy incline to greet them. The gale blasting from the rotors played havoc with Frusco's thinning hair, which he tried vainly to keep under control whilst operating the minute cell phone with his free hand. The news was the same to all three detectives. The killer's live link had gone off-line, replaced by film of him killing and torturing Stephen England and Max Dalton. The voting was now closed.

  ‘Looks like we're into the end game.’ Frusco said, his words as chilling as the breeze around them. Georgina looked at her watch.

  ‘But it's only four o'clock.’

  ‘Yeah, four o'clock Eastern time.’ Leroy interjected, his voice struggling to be heard over the blades. ‘But right now, it’s eight in California.’

  The scream from the rotor blades suddenly died as the pilot cut the engine.

  ‘No, he's got her close by.’ Georgina said, adjusting the level of her own voice to the more tranquil silence that was befalling Turtle Island.

  Barbara Dace and John Keller joined the detectives at the front of the copter. Keller had his lightweight camera hoisted on to his shoulder and was filming.

  ‘I can feel it in my bones…he's close by.’ Georgina shivered. ‘So, where's the body?’

  ‘A little down this way, back to the river.’ Frusco began to lead them down the slope to the river's edge, where were greeted by two familiar figures, Ned Freeman and Nemo his dog, both of them waiting patiently. The Ingénue was moored, tied and staked to the embankment. A team of divers were in the river, which was running like a torrent, struggling with ropes trying to attach them to the foot of the body. Rain continued to pepper the surface of the water like a million bullets ripping through the black surging, gushing stream.

  ‘I don't get it; we searched every house around here.’ Leroy said puzzled

  ‘Yeah, every house until we found Fleisher, then we gave up.’ Georgina answered with bitterness in her voice, the realisation of not following up all the clues to the case now painfully bitter in her mouth. She had panicked and allowed herself in-turn to be panicked by the escalating situation in the case. Inexperience which she knew was going to come back to haunt her when the case finally wrapped. It was rare for such a monumental degree of mistakes to be overlooked by her superiors, and as she headed down the hill her fears were confirmed.

  The assistant director of the FBI's child crimes unit was half-hidden behind a large black umbrella, which he carried to shield himself from the increasing volumes of rain falling from the sky. She recognised his stance in a moment. The way he carried himself, the way his body moved, albeit half hidden. Georgina thought it was impossible to feel sicker than she already did but like so many times in the past, she was proved to be wrong. Her stomach turned once more.

  ‘Agent O’Neil.’ The man looked out from under the umbrella. His steel grey hair and cold blue eyes added the correct amount of solemnity that his position carried. His skin was fair though sligh
tly tanned, wearing the expression of a man at ease with himself. Georgina could feel her eyes welling up and she had to fight extremely hard to control her emotion.

  ‘Father.’

  Assistant director, Wynan O’Neil, frowned, the familiarity he wanted in his private life was out of place in the field. Work was no place for family domesticities as far as he was concerned, especially in the territory in which they found themselves. This was a place for professionals, nothing less. Georgina wanted to hug her father, but the man standing in front of her wasn't her father. Her father would be the man who would later visit her motel room and try to explain as gently as he could that she was to be the subject of an investigation by the FBI, regarding her conduct during the case. He would be the man who would at first comfort her and then support her. Support her anger and her rage, before channelling it into a strategy that she could use as defence. But now he just looked at her with those cold blue eyes. ‘Agent O’Neil, it appears we have another body.’

  Georgina wiped rain from her face, pushing her matted hair back from her eyes.

  Leroy regarded the confrontation between the two as odd and sensed a feeling of discomfort displayed by both.

  Norman Frusco barged past the small group, determined to get on with the business at hand, letting time or the lack of it be his only hindrance. Wynan O’Neil turned, following the captain and black detective, leaving his daughter momentarily standing alone in the rain.

  He plunged his hand into the cold water and rolled the body over, so that the white staring eyes bore into his. Wynan O’Neil looked at the skin, which was once brown but now had a bluish-grey hue to it. The flesh was puffy, split in places; raw open wounds gaped perversely, almost pornographically at him. Assistant director O’Neil stepped back to allow two policemen with boat hooks to pull the naked body from the water. He watched a small Jack Russell bound about in the rain, barking excitedly, while his owner (he assumed) sat silently against the side of his boat peeling an orange. Leroy walked toward the body, now extracted from the water and laid on the muddy riverbank, his emotions a turmoil of apprehension and anxiety. He felt Georgina's hand slip into his as they approached the corpse. The rain had not let up and the day was turning to hell on earth as time ticked away. With all the breaks, all the leads they had been given over the past twenty-four hours they were still no closer to finding the culprit. From a discreet distance, John Keller, focused on the detectives faces, hoping to capture the anguish and emotion. Barbara Dace recorded a monologue for a voice over. Her years of professionalism exercised to the full, as she fought with her memory and vocabulary to construct a piece of journalism 'on the fly'.

  Georgina squeezed Leroy's hand as the body was laid before them on the rain sodden, muddy bank.

  ‘Is it Rick?’ Georgina asked.

  A canvas cloth had been placed over the dead man's face by the police divers. There was something bizarre about the need to do such a thing, maybe it was a gesture of respect for the dead but what dignity could be afforded a naked corpse whose body was swollen with water absorption and half eaten by rats, crocodiles and other wildlife; certainly not enough from an oil stained rag. Norman Frusco joined the detectives as Leroy crouched down on his haunches and gently lifted the veil. The staring white eyes bulged in their sockets, swollen with body gases, water, infection, mites and maggots that crawled beneath the skin feeding on what sustenance they could find. Their movement animated the features of the corpse into something even more grotesque. Leroy ran, slipping and sliding from the body to the water’s edge, he wanted to be sick. His stomach turned and threatened to expel its contents but by breathing deeply and slowly Leroy managed to retain control. Georgina replaced the cloth.

  Leroy shouted through the barrage of increasing rain, but his voice was almost lost against the cacophony, though neither Georgina, nor Norman Frusco needed Leroy identification to know who the victim was.

  ‘WILL…WILL.’ Jo-Lynn screamed. Pushing open doors as she passed room after room. There was a television in each room, most of them seemed to be tuned into children’s networks or linked to the Internet, not that she had much time to linger, taking in details. Her priority was singular, to get her son and only then to get out alive. Nothing else mattered. She knew he was not far behind and that he had the advantage of knowing the territory. She opened the fifth door along the long narrow hall and called once more.

  ‘WILL.’

  Silence.

  Jo-Lynn turned, suddenly aware that she was alone. There was no chasing monster, no pursuing demon. Where had he gone?

  ‘Maybe…’ she consoled herself, ‘…maybe he's dead or dying.’ She knew she had embedded the jagged implement deep into his throat, it could have pierced his windpipe or an artery; it was not inconceivable. Just as she was about to turn and try the last door, a voice whispered.

  ‘Mummy?’ It sounded unsure.

  From the recess of the darkened room the small figure of a child stepped forward. The boy squinted against the harsher light from the corridor and put his hand to his eyes to shield them so he could gain a better view.

  ‘He told me you had left me.’ The boy began to sob. ‘He told me you had gone away forever.’

  Jo-Lynn held her arms out to welcome her son in a loving embrace, an embrace that she so desperately needed. As she held her son, Jo-Lynn saw Ray’s eyes widen and knew, somehow could sense, the silent presence behind her even before she heard the rasping gargled breathing. Cold fear ate deep into her bones threatening to immobilise her.

  He laid the ski mask on her left shoulder.

  ‘Poor son of a bitch.’ Wynan O’Neil sheltered beneath the dry haven of the umbrella.

  ‘Don’t feel too sorry for him.’ Georgina was crouching over the body, rain bounced off both her and the lifeless, uncaring face of the corpse. ‘A more fitting end I couldn’t have wished for.’

  ‘Jonathan Marland Kiers, ex-partner of Charles Fleisher, pederast, abuser of women, drug taker, all round nasty fuck.’ Leroy filled the senior FBI agent in on some of the corpse’s finer personality disorders.

  ‘And not our man. Kiers has been dead for days, maybe even weeks. Gentlemen, I don’t want to rain on this parade, but we have a little over two and a half hours before our man completes his agenda.’ Norman Frusco was already walking back to the helicopter as he spoke.

  ‘Yeah, but where do we go from here?’ Leroy asked no one in general. Georgina joined him by his side.

  ‘This is a nightmare, Leroy.’ Georgina shivered, as the rain grew steadily harder, making contact through her clothes to her skin, adding to her misery. She watched her father walk away, leaving the body to be zipped in a PVC body bag.

  Two boiler suited men struggled with the dead weight on the slippery surface as they carried John Kiers to the back of the coroner’s van.

  ‘Can there really be a hell bad enough for someone like him?’

  ‘At the moment, in the scheme of things, John Kiers is not even the bad guy.’ Leroy answered.

  Barbara Dace slid down the small incline toward the detectives. She had urgency about her approach, which was immediately apparent. She was calling to the detectives, beckoning them to her.

  ‘Andy’s gone.’ She said breathlessly as she drew nearer. ‘Andy’s gone…and there’s a fire in the editing suite.’ The words came in hurried, excited bursts. ‘All the tapes, everything…whoosh, up in flames.’

  The three of them broke into a sprint running toward the waiting helicopter; Frusco and Wynan O’Neil were already on board. Wynan O’Neil still immaculate, cool and dry, Frusco, wet, agitated and determined. By the time Leroy, Dace and Georgina got to the machine the rotors were spinning, sending freezing air down on their wet clothes.

  ‘It’s gonna be cramped.’ Barbara said, as she entered the tiny confine. ‘Bunch up tight.’

  Norman Frusco moved in closer to Wynan O’Neil allowing Barbara to sit next to him. Leroy, Georgina and John Keller occupied the other row of seats. The rain cont
inued to lash down making visibility even worse than before, but the helicopter rose from the ground without hesitation, swooping low over the fields, passing the blocked roads, which were finally starting to move. Georgina looked over Keller’s shoulder at the scene below. The jack-knifed truck was being hauled to one side as cars were starting to filter around the gap. The large blue screening was erect with a row of five tarpaulin-covered bodies lying behind it, awaiting carriage to the hospital morgue. Georgina’s cell phone rang; the shrill making everyone’s hearts beat a little faster. The pilot called from over his shoulder. ‘You’ll have to turn that off.’

  Georgina opened the phone and answered. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I said you’ll have to turn that off, Miss. It interferes with the instrumentation panel.’

  The pilot reiterated, with little patience.

  It was Harley Fleisher. ‘I have found something. I think you should know.’

  The helicopter lurched.

  ‘TURN IT OFF, NOW!’ The pilot demanded.

  ‘Put me down then.’ Georgina shouted.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Land this helicopter. I don’t care where, just land it.’

  Puzzled faces looked at Georgina as she continued to listen to her caller. She spoke into the handset. ‘Hang on. Call me in a minute.’