The Last Witness

IX
[ONE]

Little Bight Bay

Saint John, United States Virgin Islands

Monday, November 17, 5:04 P.M.

Maggie McCain looked out the mouth of the bay and saw on the big water the crisscrossing sailboats, ones she knew were headed to find a mooring buoy or marina to tie up for the night. She was glad to be anchored in her protected cove, with the option of staying there the night or making the run back to the resort after dusk. Her boat, her choice.

As was her ritual, she had uncorked one of the bottles of nice merlot and poured her traditional sunset glass of wine. She had done it countless times in more anchorages than she could recall, and while the wine and the scenery were as sublime as ever, it now felt somewhat mechanical.

She had sipped at the wine, hoping it might loosen the knot that had formed in her stomach after she had gone back to read Philly News Now. She wondered if she should have asked Matt Payne if her not being considered a “person of interest” meant anything more than the obvious. And then there was the update to the article that mentioned the missing case workers from the Sanctuary.

She had closed down that window and gone to the text message page, read over the exchanges, then, shaking her head, signed out of it.

She was about to do the same with her e-mail account when a new e-mail appeared in her queue. Like the majority of the recent-and unread-e-mails sent to her in-box, this one was color-coded in bright red, indicating the sender had assigned it Highest Priority.

It was another message from one of her assistants at Mary’s House.

Maggie was about to ignore it, too, but then read the subject line-and her heart skipped a beat.

Attempted murder?

She clicked on it and read:

From: Charlotte Davies ‹c.d@maryshouse.org›

Date: 17NOV 0501

To: Maggie McCain work ‹m.mcm@maryshouse.org›

CC: Maggie McCain home ‹magpie417@libertymail.com›

Subject: PLEASE REPLY!!! Attempted Murder at Work

Attachment: 1

Dear Maggie,

I pray to God that you are safe and that you get this e-mail fast.

Someone just tried to kill Chantal as she walked up to the home!

I saw them — two teen boys on a motorcycle. The one on the back had a pistol. I heard the shots, looked out, and saw Chantal fall face-first to the ground.

She is alive! Somehow all those bullets missed. But the next girl may not be that lucky.

PLEASE READ THE ATTACHED NOTE NOW!

If whoever it is carries out this threat to kill another girl, THERE ARE ONLY 45 MINUTES LEFT in the next hour!

The police are here. So they say the next one won’t be here.

We have text-messaged all our residents who are not on the premises that there is an emergency and to call in. Six have yet to do so. We are following up with calls.

Maggie, I don’t know if you’ll get this — I have been calling and e-mailing since Krystal was killed in your home — but I don’t know how else to try to reach you.

I will do anything you want me to. I just don’t know what else to do.

In the Service of the Lord and His Children,

Charlotte

Maggie clicked on the attached file. It was a photograph of a handwritten note in a pizza box. The lined page that had been torn from a spiral notebook-not unlike the ledgers she had-was on top of a half-eaten pizza.

And then she gasped.

While the paper had soaked up grease from the pizza, causing the ink to run and blur a few words, the message was clear:

The blood of this girl is on your hands

Just like those two women and Krystal

One of your girls dies EVERY HOUR until I hear from you

And I get back what Krystal took

Call me now! 215-555-3452

This is not the same person as the man I’ve been texting. We have already basically reached an agreement.

So, it’s Ricky, then? It’s not the same handwriting that’s in the ledgers.

But who else but Ricky would know about the connection between Mary’s House and Krystal and “what Krystal took”?

And he killed her. After raping and badly beating her.

She saw the clock in the top right corner of her screen. It had just ticked off another minute. It showed: MON 5:09 PM.

She glanced back at Charlotte’s e-mail. The time stamp showed it had been sent a minute after five. And Charlotte had said in it that only forty-five minutes were left.

Oh my God!

So he could kill another girl after five forty-five.

And she said six girls are unaccounted for?

She hit REPLY:

From: Maggie McCain home ‹magpie417@libertymail.com›

Date: 17NOV 0511

To: Charlotte Davies ‹c.d@maryshouse.org›

Subject: RE: Attempted Murder at work

Charlotte:

Got it. I’m heartbroken over the news, and soooo very sorry.

Please tell Chantal that I’m praying for her and everyone else there.

This is all so crazy. I’ll be back in touch ASAP.

First, however, know that I AM RIGHT NOW contacting him so that he does not try anything else.

Maggie

She sent that. Then she launched the video and telephone call program and clicked on the icon that mimicked the ten-digit keypad, entering the telephone number from the image of the greasy note and clicking CALL.

It rang and rang, then finally went to voice mail.

“Yo, talk to me,” the arrogant male’s recorded voice answered. He sounded Puerto Rican.

It gave Maggie goose bumps.

That has to be Ricky!

She clicked on the END CALL button.

“Why the hell didn’t he answer?” she said aloud. “Is he already running down another girl?”

She quickly went back to the text messaging window, signed back in, then clicked the icon that created a new text message. She typed in Ricky’s number-too fast, and had to correct it twice-then tabbed to the new bubble:

OKAY, RICKY. I GOT YOUR MESSAGE.

I JUST CALLED. WHY THE HELL DIDN’T YOU ANSWER?

I HAVE WHAT YOU WANT. PROOF IS ATTACHED.

NOW WHAT DO WE DO?

What else do I say?

The clock on her screen ticked off another minute. It read: 5:13.

She quickly attached the same image of the page with the girls’ names she had sent earlier and clicked SEND.

She looked back at the clock.

Half an hour.

Now what?

She stared at the screen, and two minutes later a new bubble appeared:

215-555-3452

BITCH. . MY PHONE DID NOT RING. AND YOU DIDN’T LEAVE MESSAGE.

BUT NOW WE TALK.

I SEND A COURIER FOR MY BOOKS AND MONEY.

He did not deny being Ricky, she thought, then sent:

HOW CAN I TRUST YOU, RICKY?

I AM NOT GIVING THEM TO ANYONE BUT YOU.

He took a long moment before replying:

215-555-3452

OK. THEN WHERE?

Now what?

I have to stall him.

I NEED A DAY.

And tomorrow I will need another day.

I have what he wants. He can wait.

Then her stomach really knotted up as she read:

215-555-3452

NO! NOW. OR BLOOD OF ANOTHER GIRL IS YOUR FAULT.

You bastard! Enough with the threats!

She exhaled audibly.

But they’re not idle threats. .

I need time to figure this out.

He’s got to learn not to fuck with a McCain.

LISTEN, RICKY. STOP WITH THE DAMN THREATS.

YOU CREATED THIS MESS. I AM TRYING TO FIX IT.

TRUST ME, YOU MORE THAN HAVE MY ATTENTION.

YOU WILL GET THE BOOKS. BUT I DECIDE HOW — NOT YOU!

She sent it. Five minutes passed before he replied:

215-555-3452

TWO HOURS.

Good. I got to him, at least in some small way.

Maggie looked at the laptop’s clock: 5:30.

But now what? Two hours to do what?

She stared out at the ocean. The sun had almost set. It was casting out the bold, dramatic rays of golden light that always made her feel at peace.

Gazing at it all now, she just felt numb.

A minute later another text message bubble popped up:

267-555-9100

IT TOOK A LOT OF WORK BUT I HAVE YOUR MONEY.

Maggie looked at it for a long moment.

What is it about these books that is worth so much? That these two will kill?

And why can’t they just kill each other?

Then-problem solved.

“Is that possible?” she said aloud.

She shook her head, then turned and watched the sunlight slip away.