The Last Witness

by W. E. B. Griffin

I’ve always felt safest in the islands.

  Over the top of the paperback, Maggie watched as they passed the familiar sights of Frenchtown—Saints Peter and Paul Cathedral, at the foot of Frenchman’s Hill, caught her eye, and the busy ferries at Blyden terminal—then the shops and restaurants lining the narrow, congested streets of downtown Charlotte Amalie.

  It will be easy to blend in.

  She looked across Veterans Drive. In the bay were fifty or more sailboats tied to mooring buoys. A couple of the big fifty-foot-plus catamarans were already under way, people moving about purposefully on deck as sails were hoisted.

  On the far side of Charlotte Amalie, where two cruise ships towered over the docks, the safari bus turned off the main road. It made a series of sharp turns, Manuel grinding an occasional gear as he downshifted and followed the serpentine two-lane up a steep incline. After topping the tall hill, he left the bus in a low gear and it chugged down the other side.

  The truck’s engine then backfired—and the two wives shrieked, then a moment later laughed at themselves.

  Maggie was surprised she hadn’t jumped out of her skin.

  Shortly thereafter, the brakes squealed as the bus approached on the right an eight-foot-high natural stone wall covered with thick flowering vines. There was an enormous gate that blocked any view of what was behind the wall. The only clue was on the gate—a wooden sign with hand-chiseled lettering: TRADEWINDS ESTATE, AN EXCLUSIVE YELLOWROSE ESCAPE.

  The breeze carried the fragrance of the vine flowers, filling her head.

  The gate slowly swung open, and Manuel ground the transmission into gear, then rolled the safari bus through.

  Maggie caught herself sighing with relief.

  —

  “As you requested, we have you in our most secluded cottage,” the young black hostess said, as she and Maggie stepped from the brightly painted electric golf cart. A bellman in a battered black cart that carried Maggie’s luggage was pulling up behind them.

  Maggie guessed that the hostess—her name tag read BEATRIX—was no more than eighteen. She had somewhat hard features but a pleasant, reserved personality. She spoke with a hint of a British accent.

  “Being the farthest from the main house,” Beatrix went on, “it also commands the best private view on the property.”

  They had just come from the “main house,” a four-story mansion of quarried stone once owned by a rum maker. Five years earlier it had been converted into a quaint boutique hotel with twenty rooms. There was a large open reception area on the first floor, which led outdoors to the grand restaurant overlooking the sea. It had tables to seat sixty, and except for a thatched roof was completely open to the elements. Nearby, a large swimming pool with a waterfall had been sculpted into the hillside.

  With the main house’s conversion, a dozen cottages had been added throughout the property, as had the one-lane paths winding among them through the hills.

  Maggie saw that her cottage, out on a point of the hillside three hundred feet above the small bay below, was built in a hexagon shape. Its walls were mostly large windows that could be slid together, completely opening three-quarters of the building to the cool, steady winds blowing ashore. A level down, tall palm trees framed the stone decking that contained a small swimming pool, an infinity style that appeared to flow into the ocean itself.

  Maggie, slipping her backpack from her shoulder and placing it on a low couch, found herself admiring the elegant, comfortable furnishings and how everything seamlessly blended in with the natural surroundings.

  “It really is quite lovely,” she said, trying to sound more excited than simply relieved to finally be there.

  “Your welcome package is over there,” Beatrix said, motioning toward a low wooden table beside the pool. “We deliver a continental breakfast of fresh baked goods daily, or anything more at your request. There is a pot of our rich local coffee, as well as a pot of hot water if you should prefer tea. And fresh fruit.”

  “Perfect.”

  The bellman, having delivered Maggie’s bags, stepped out of the cottage and slipped away without a word, disappearing behind the tall thick hedge of sea grape trees that shielded the cottage.

  “Finally,” Beatrix said, “I spoke with our marina manager, and he asked me to tell you that the dockmaster is seeing to your charter boat. You’re welcome to call him or”—she gestured toward the section of hedge to the right—“just beyond there are steps leading to the marina, as well as the beach. It’s a lovely walk down. Coming up, however, you may wish to take one of the golf carts. Even I find the hills to be a workout.”

  Maggie smiled. “Good advice. Thank you. Did you grow up here?”

  “I recently came here to attend school. I grew up in Virgin Gorda.” She pointed. “That’s about ten miles away, in the British Virgin Islands.”

  Maggie was nodding as an image of the giant volcanic boulders on the beach at the Baths of Virgin Gorda came to mind.

  “Do you know it?” Beatrix said.

  “Actually I was just . . . I mean, just wondering if it was worth the effort.”

  “Oh yes. It’s much quieter than here, fewer people. I shouldn’t say that, but it’s true. I take the ferry back and forth, but you could easily sail there. Just be sure to bring your passport.”

  “Not this trip. But that’s good to know.”

  “Well, then. Anything else you need is simply a phone call away,” Beatrix said, handing Maggie her business card. “Please contact me directly, or of course any of our staff.”

  —

  Five minutes after Beatrix left, Maggie had made herself a cup of tea—denying herself a splash in it from the liter bottle of local Cruzan gold rum she found on the welcome tray. She took the tea into the bedroom of the cottage and began digging through her suitcase. She had bought the luggage and most of the clothes in it at the giant outlet mall just south of Baltimore the previous day.

  At the bottom she found a pair of linen shorts and changed into them, then tried to flatten out the wrinkles as she carefully hung her blue jeans in the closet.

  Then, back in the suitcase, under her canvas sailing bag, she found the hard plastic case and pulled it out. She worked the combination of the lock, then took out her Baby Glock. With a practiced hand, she loaded the pistol in between sips of tea.

  She knew that having the pistol was illegal in the Virgin Islands.

  God help me!

  First it was coming up with fast lies. Then traveling on false IDs. Then bringing a gun, which I’ve never done.

  Is there no end to what I’ll do going down this rabbit hole?

  But . . . at least I am still alive.

  She dug again in the suitcase and pulled out the heavy canvas sailing bag. She made it a little heavier by slipping the Glock in it, then grabbed her tea and went out to the pool deck.

  Beside the table holding the food and drink was a chaise longue in the shade of an umbrella. She put the bag on the chaise’s thick blue cushion, then looked back to the cottage, shook her head, and retrieved her backpack from the low couch inside.

  Finally, sitting cross-legged on the cushion of the chaise longue, she pulled her laptop from her backpack. She looked at the canvas sail bag and saw its neat stitching that read YELLOWROSE SPRING BAY RESORT & SPA, VIRGIN GORDA BVI.

  Glad Beatrix didn’t see that.

  But then I could have just said it was Mother’s, or anyone’s, for that matter.

  There I go again. Ready with the easy lie.

  And, really, why does that bother me?

  Because the girls always do it?

  But to them, it must be a survival skill.

  Which is what I’ve made it . . .

  She reached in the sail bag and removed a square gray plastic-encased device that was about half the size of her laptop. It had a small face panel with a power on/off
button, a battery-power gauge, three jacks, and two light bars, one vertical and one horizontal. It also had an adjustable folding leg that allowed the device to sit at varied angles. She placed the device at the foot of the blue cushion and plugged one end of a cable into one of the jacks and the other end into the laptop.

  Okay, let’s power on everything.

  With the laptop booted up, she clicked on an icon shaped like a globe.

  She leaned toward the foot of the cushion. Both light bars on the device’s panel blinked yellow. Then the vertical one turned half yellow and half green. She slowly rotated the device left and the horizontal light bar blinked red. She reversed, rotating the device to the right. The red went out, then the yellow that returned was replaced with half green. She continued turning it right—and then both bars became a solid green.

  She looked at her laptop screen, and in one window there was: INMARSAT ACQUIRED. ANTENNA STRENGTH 98%.

  Well, good. The subscription’s not expired from last time.

  No way I could renew it without a hit on my credit card.

  Would have to rent one. Or steal one . . .

  Then she opened a new window on her Internet browser and clicked on the icon that would take her to a secure server.

  After she signed in, an icon that looked like a mailing envelope automatically popped up. On it was a small red circle with “109” on it.

  Her throat constricted.

  And fifty of those e-mails are probably from Mother.

  She must be going bonkers. I feel awful.

  But this has been my first chance to send anything since yesterday.

  She opened a new e-mail message, typed “I’m fine!!!” in the subject field, then wrote in the body: “Hi!! I’m in a good place but on the move. More shortly. Promise! Love you!! Mag.”

  She then sent it to her mother, father, and cousin Emma.

  Hang in there . . . so far so good.

  She clicked again on the globe icon, and a moment later the screen read DISCONNECTED FROM INMARSAT. Then she powered off the antenna.

  She poured herself some more tea.

  Sipping it, she looked over the edge of her cup out at the Caribbean Sea, then thought of the dream she had on the airplane. She shook her head as she felt her eyes tear. She put down the cup.

  Okay, you bastard . . .

  She reached in the canvas sail bag, removed a thick spiral notebook, and flipped back its well-worn cover. She began to carefully study the first page—then suddenly began sobbing, and curled up in the fetal position on the cushion.

  [THREE]

  Little Palm Island, Florida

  Monday, November 17, 7:10 A.M.

  “Okay, it looks like we’re finally all here again in one piece,” Matt Payne said, looking at the laptop screen and everyone’s images that were no longer pixelated.

  Payne’s screen was divided into quarters, four big boxes with individual images, all live feeds, of Jason Washington, Tony Harris, Kerry Rapier, and Matt.

  “Sorry for that electronic burp, gentlemen,” Corporal Kerry Rapier said, from his bottom left corner box.

  Matt’s image was in the bottom right box. He carefully had adjusted the laptop so that the pinhole camera centered in the upper lip of the screen captured him from the chest—just above the CONCH REPUBLIC CLUB FED stencil—up over his head. Behind him was nothing but black.

  Twenty minutes earlier, right after getting off the telephone with Jim Byrth, Matt had had what he considered one of his better ideas of the already long morning.

  He had gone down to the master stateroom and grabbed one of the black pillowcases off the big bed. He hung it from the ceiling of the galley so that it would mask anything behind him. That way there would be no distractions in the background—sunrise causing glare, for example, or someone walking past on the dock—to interrupt their videoconference.

  Perhaps more importantly, it would also have the added benefit of saving Matt from getting his chops busted about what a tough life it must be yachting in paradise.

  What they don’t know, or see, won’t hurt them . . . or me.

  —

  The top left box with the image of Jason Washington showed him wearing a crisp white dress shirt with a nice blue necktie. Behind him on the wall were framed photographs of Washington with his wife and ones with other police officers, clearly indicating to everyone that he was sitting at his desk in his office in Homicide.

  Tony Harris also had on a shirt and tie and navy blazer—all somewhat rumpled. He, too, was in his Homicide office, and holding a heavy china coffee mug just to the side of his head.

  Matt had immediately recognized the mug. After tiring of trying to find who was swiping his personal plain coffee mugs in the office, he recently had had a dozen cheap ones custom printed with a representation of his Philadelphia Police Department Badge 471 on one side and, opposite that, also in gold, the words STOLEN FROM THE DESK OF HOMICIDE SGT M.M. PAYNE.

  He had been convinced that that would stop his cup from disappearing.

  He had been wrong.

  Kerry Rapier, wearing his police uniform blue shirt with its three blue chevrons on the sleeves, was at the command console in the Executive Command Center. He also held what he called “a Wyatt Earp of the Main Line Collectible,” which when word of that got around only had served to accelerate the cups’ disappearance.

  And they’re holding them up now to quietly taunt me.

  “Jason,” Payne said, mock-serious, “when we’re finished here, be aware that I intend to be filing charges of petty theft.”

  Washington, who of course had the same images of everyone on his screen, in his sonorous voice intoned, “To what might you be referring, Matthew?”

  Then he raised to his lips a “collectible” and took a sip.

  Tony and Kerry chuckled.

  Matt shook his head and snorted. But he was smiling.

  Washington then said, his tone unmistakably serious, “I understand that Kerry had the foresight earlier to send you the files?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve gone over them. A couple times.”

  “That then makes you our set of fresh eyes. Anything in them jump out at you?”

  Matt shook his head.

  “Only that it’s remarkable how little there is. Except for the Gonzalez girl being executed in an unusual fashion, there’s next to nothing right now to go on.”

  “Unfortunately that appears to be the case,” Washington said, nodding. “Tony, would you share what else we have?”

  Harris grunted. “There’s not a helluva lot to add, Matt. We were able to trace the anonymous text that Maggie sent back to the IP address of the computer she used. It was in an Internet café outside of Washington, D.C.”

  “So, assuming she sent it, she’s no longer in Philadelphia,” Payne said.

  “It seemed a hot lead,” Tony went on, “but when I interviewed the manager he said I was describing half the women who came in there. He did say he never noticed any female customer being there with someone who may have been holding her against her will.”

  “And there’s no sense in hunting prints on the computer,” Payne said.

  Matt saw Jason nodding as Tony said, “Right. Even if we were able to find hers among—what? dozens? hundreds?—of others who used the keyboard, we’re not going to find Maggie herself.”

  Matt watched Tony take a sip of coffee from his cup as Tony glanced at a notepad.

  “I’m just going to rattle these off,” Harris said. “Stop me if you want.”

  “Rattle away,” Matt said, making a sweeping hand gesture at his laptop camera.

  “One, we did get some prints lifted,” Tony went on, “partials taken off the one Molotov cocktail bottle that did not break. Not great, but they’re being run now. Two, Maggie has a current permit for concealed carry of a pistol.
Three, the residue on that dollar bill rolled up in the Gonzalez girl’s pocket tested positive for coke. Four, the Gonzalez go-phone went live again last night—”

  “Stop,” Payne interrupted. “When and where? At Westpark?”

  Tony looked up from the paper. “No, not the apartments in West Philly. It was in the area of NoLibs and Fishtown. Just after midnight last night. Whoever had the phone redialed the last number—”

  “Maggie’s work cell phone,” Payne said, remembering the report stating that. “Which was found broken in the alley. And the go-phone then dialed it three times in a row at noon yesterday.”

  Washington sat stone-faced, quietly impressed again with Matt’s natural ability to absorb vast amounts of information and effortlessly produce it on the spot. But Washington wasn’t at all surprised. That was more or less expected of those who graduated from the University of Pennsylvania summa cum laude and those who finished first on the department’s exam for promotion—both of which Payne had done, the latter earning him the right to his choice of assignment, the Homicide Unit.

  “Right,” Harris said, “and then, for the first time since Maggie went missing, it dialed her personal cell phone, which was, and is, still turned off. Then the go-phone signal went dark again.”

  Payne sighed. “Well, that’s something. At least we know the go-phone’s still in play. We just need to find it.”

  “Yeah, and with luck, by the time you get here we should have more forensics on the data we took off her work phone.”

  “What about the other two dozen phone numbers and texts that her go-phone made between the time of the murder and when it went dark after you tried to trick whoever had it at Westpark?”

  “Not a single one answered when we called. Not even out of curiosity. Which is odd.”

  “Maybe they were told to ditch their phones and get new ones?” Payne said, and thought, They buy the damn things like they do drugs, in bulk.

  “That is entirely possible,” Washington said. “Disposable cell phones being a cost of doing business. We’re now waiting for the phone company to trace ownership of those numbers. I have a feeling Matt’s right about the ditch-your-phones order, though, and that’s likely to become a cold trail, too.”