The Last Witness

[THREE]

Little Bight Bay

Saint John, United States Virgin Islands

Monday, November 17, 4:50 P.M.

Maggie McCain, holding the fifty-foot-long white-hulled catamaran on a fast course, looked up from under her navy cap and smiled. The sails were finely tuned to the point that the big cat hummed with the steady stiff wind. It felt alive, knifing with a smooth rhythm through the waves. And that had made Maggie feel more alive. And given her time to think.

It had taken Maggie a half hour to reach the north shore of Saint John, the next island over from Saint Thomas. Farther east, she could make out Sage Mountain rising on the horizon at Tortola-where not even a mile of water separated the British Virgin Islands from the USVI.

Maggie, the wind whipping her ponytail, scanned the Saint John shoreline looking for her landmark. The lush green hills rose steeply above the enormous volcanic boulders and the strips of white sand beach.

She loved the seclusion of Little Bight and the fact that few could find it. The mouth of the small bay was barely twice as wide as the catamaran’s beam of twenty-five feet. It was tucked in behind a mass of boulders that formed a crescent at the foot of a tall hill, making the entrance all but invisible.

After a moment, among a line of brown boulders, she found the landmark-an enormous rock softly etched by wind and water that to her eye resembled one of Picasso’s contorted human faces.

She spun the big stainless steel wheel, putting Pablo’s big-eyed boulder dead ahead. Then, coming up on the gap to the bay, she uncleated the mainsheet, letting the air spill out. She dropped the mainsail. Minutes later, sailing on just the jib, the big boat smoothly slipped behind the crescent of boulders and into the protected bay.

What a difference being on the water makes.

I am back in control.

An hour earlier, Maggie had felt completely overwhelmed. Shaking out of control, she had taken the heavy shot of Cruzan rum to calm her-and then immediately knew that she could not keep drinking. She needed to clear her mind, and to think.

She had looked out at the sea and seen the small white triangles that were the sails of boats moving between the islands. She then immediately hopped up and grabbed her gear.

She went through the gap in the thick wall of sea grape trees Beatrix had told her about and found the stone path that cut back and forth down the hill to the beach and marina.

The dockmaster turned out to be in his thirties, a very tanned bald-headed man named Captain Jesse, who was the epitome of efficiency. Just as Beatrix had said, he had had the boat ready to go and insisted on a thorough walk-through, even after Maggie’s announcement that she had sailed the very small model catamaran a few times.

“As you know,” Captain Jesse said, “no two boats are the same.”

The layout of the boat was basically similar to all other catamarans-the main cabin, with the galley and large living area, was between the two big hulls. Steps on either side of the main cabin led down to the four staterooms in the hulls, two queen-sized beds forward and two aft, which were separated by their lavatories.

Back up on the deck, the dockmaster had shown her that the electronics-from the VHF radio to the GPS to the wind-speed and water-depth gauges-all were in working order. He then pointed out the location of everything else she might need-the three anchors to the life jackets, emergency flares, first-aid kit-as well as the array of black panels affixed to the topside of the main cabin.

“Not all our boats have those,” Captain Jesse said. “They’re the solar cells that charge the batteries. Don’t want to step on them.”

He had shown her that the fuel and freshwater tanks were topped off, and that the galley was freshly provisioned. There was food enough to last a week, if Maggie stretched it, as well as nice wines-including two bottles of champagne-and beers.

“And,” he’d said, “enough of our ubiquitous rum to throw a wicked party.”

She smiled. “My friends I’m about to pick up will be excited to hear that.”

He leaned forward and quietly added, “And if there’s anything else they might need, I can handle that, too.”

Else? What else?

Oh. . that.

“It’s quality. Only the best. There is a lot of bad stuff sold here.”

Careful. Don’t come off as a prude. .

“That’s always good to know.”

He handed her a card. “My cell is on here.”

“Thank you,” she said, then shook the dockmaster’s hand, discreetly slipping him a folded hundred-dollar bill.

“Just let me know,” he said, hopping onto the dock.

As he began untying lines, she pushed the starter button on the small outboard diesel engine. A couple of minutes later, all lines free, she eased the boat out of the slip.

At anchor in Little Bight Bay, the big catamaran floating in water so clear and still it looked to be suspended in air, Maggie pulled out the laptop and the satellite antenna and powered them up.

The window for her e-mail was up, so she clicked to update the list that was her in-box. There were a dozen new e-mails, including one from Matt Payne, and that made her curious.

The voice mail Amanda left me said she was in the Keys with Matt when she heard about the attack from Chad.

She clicked on Payne’s e-mail, nodding thoughtfully as she read it. When she had finished, she realized she had begun to tear up.

If Matt has that e-mail I sent, then my father is behind this.

But Amanda has to have something to do with it, too.

I know the last thing she wants is Matt doing police work. Especially chasing another murderer.

She’s carrying his baby. .

She had to give her blessing for him to help me.

Maggie sighed, then quickly opened another browser window and typed in PhillyNewsNow.com.

“Well, so there you go,” she said aloud, after reading the lead story’s headline: “Update: Society Hill Home Invasion.” Tailor-made real-time proof.

She reached into her canvas sail bag, pulled out a small digital camera, then, holding her head beside the laptop screen while holding the screen at such an angle that there would be only blue sky in the background, she forced a smile and snapped a series of photographs. Using the camera’s wireless function, she sent the images to her laptop. And, after picking the one that clearly showed the headline, she went back to her e-mail window, clicked on REPLY, attached the photograph, and wrote:

From: Maggie ‹magpie417@libertymail.com›

Date: 17NOV 0510

To: ‹w.earp.45@pa.blueline.net›

CC: SGT M.M. Payne ‹payne.m@ppd.philadelphia.gov›

Subject: RE: Your safety

Attachment: 1

Dear Matt,

Thank you for writing. It is difficult to express how much I deeply appreciate your concern.

I hope the attached photograph is what you need to know that I am genuinely safe.

With all due respect, and with admiration for your proven skills as a police officer, considering the circumstances I could not be in a safer place.

Please know that while this is an arduous situation, one that I do wish were resolved, I feel there are a few things that I have to do before, as you put it, life is back to normal.

I sincerely hope to see you and Amanda soon.

Fondly,

Maggie

She read it over, nodded, then sent it.

Then she thought: Why should my family get it secondhand?

And she then forwarded it to her parents and to her cousin Emma.

She then went to the My Free Texts page, punched in the California telephone number it had assigned to her, then her password.

The conversation string of text message bubbles was still there, along with a new bubble. She read it.

He wants me to bring him a page from the book as proof?

How stupid does he think I am?

“A place of my choosing”?

How absolutely magnanimous of him.

She read the message again.

I need to give him something, though.

She took the camera inside the cabin. She pulled from her backpack the notebook that was the ledger on the girls. She turned to a page that had a list of the girls’ names and the cities where they were working. At the top of the page there also was a crude doodle of a woman’s crotch.

She took a couple of photographs of that page, then repeated the process of sending it to her laptop.

Sliding the notebook inside the backpack, she had to work it around the thick brass-zippered bank pouch. And then she had an idea.

She pulled the pouch and the plastic bag that was imprinted in gold with Lucky Stars Casino amp; Entertainment from the backpack. Then she removed a handful of the hundred-dollar poker chips that were in the bag and fanned a wad of the hundred-dollar bills from the pouch. She took shots of the chips on top of the cash and bank pouch.

At My Free Texts, she attached one of the images of the ledger page to her reply and wrote:

HERE IS YOUR PROOF. NOW GET ME MY MONEY. I WILL TELL YOU LATER WHERE THE PUBLIC TRANSFER WILL TAKE PLACE.

She sent it, and a minute later was about to sign out when a new bubble popped up:

267-555-9100

THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

BUT I AM AFRAID THAT I DO REQUIRE PHYSICAL PROOF. PLEASE.

THIS IS A GREAT DEAL OF MONEY INVOLVED.

We are not meeting, she thought, even if it were physically possible.

Not now. Not ever.

Maggie, after attaching an image of the poker chips and cash, fired back:

PROOF? THIS IS ALL THE DAMN PROOF YOU NEED.

GET ME THE $200,000 AND YOU GET THE ACTUAL BOOKS.