CHAPTER 41
RUDE AWAKENING
When I opened my eyes I saw blinking lights, and heard buzzing sounds and a steady bleep . . . bleep . . . bleep. A man lay in a bed a few feet away with tubes down his throat and an empty expression on his face. I was in a hospital, obviously, but what was I doing here? I felt okay except for a little lightheadedness and a pain in the small of my back. I tried to remember what had happened to me, but my mind was as blank as the look on my roommate's face.
Who are you? What day is it? Do you know where you are? That's what the doctors would ask me. Let me see. I'm Paula Waters, attorney at law, all the way from Dallas, Texas. I have no clue what day it is. Sorry about that. Where am I? Hell if I know. Wait a minute. I'm in the Caribbean somewhere. What was the name of that city? Torta something. Tortola, that's it. I remember now—the British Virgin Islands.
I heard a voice out in the hall, so I started to get up to go talk to whoever was out there. Unfortunately, my left arm wouldn't move. What the hell? I tugged again, a little harder this time, and then realized I was handcuffed to the bed. Fear shot through me like a jolt of electricity. What was going on? Had I been kidnapped? The voices got louder and louder and then the door opened. A nurse and an orderly walked into the room and stood at the end of my bed.
"Hey! What's with the handcuffs? " I demanded.
"Ah. You're awake," the nurse said.
"Yes, I am and I want to know what's going on. Why am I handcuffed?"
"I'm just a nurse. You'll have to ask the detective outside who's guarding you."
"Guarding me?"
"Right. I'll go get him. Hang on."
A short, stout man with dark brown hair walked in the room and introduced himself as Detective Pollock. "The Tortola police got an anonymous phone call last night that someone had overdosed at the Sugar Mill Resort," he said. "The caller gave them your room number. They found you in your room unconscious from an apparent drug overdose. While you were being rushed to the hospital, they searched your room and found a lot of money and financial documents. When they discovered you were from Dallas they checked with the Dallas Police Department and were told you were an attorney representing Cheryl Windsor. A Detective Perkins suggested you might be planning to help Ms. Windsor flee the country."
"That's absurd!" I said. "I would never do something like that."
I could understand how he might see it as a plausible scenario, but it was totally untrue. The idea of helping Cheryl flee the country had never even crossed my mind. I wondered where the money had come from. I had only brought a few hundred dollars with me and I would certainly remember if I had a briefcase with a half a million dollars in it. I tried to think back to the last thing I remembered. I was having lunch downtown. I remembered taking a cab back to the hotel, but after that it was a blank. What had happened to me?
"Nevertheless, we're going to have to hold you until we check a few things out. You'll be transferred to the central jail just as soon as the doctors release you."
I shook my head in disbelief. "I need to call my partner," I said.
"I believe Detective Perkins called your office and advised them of the situation."
"Perkins! You told Perkins about this? Shit!"
He shrugged. "I must go. I believe there is someone from the American Embassy waiting to see you. I'll send him in." A few moments later a middle-aged man in a grey business suit walked in. He nodded and then introduced himself as Art Wright.
"So, how are you feeling, Ms. Waters?" he asked.
"I was feeling just fine until I realized I was chained to my bed. This is a set up. I guarantee you I know nothing about the drugs or the money. The only reason I came down here was to investigate a report that some of my client's money had been wired here."
"That's not my primary concern, Ms. Waters. My job is to make sure you are treated fairly and in accordance with local and international law as well as the treaties that exist between our countries. That's why we made sure your office had been notified that you were in custody, so you would have the opportunity to retain an attorney if you chose to do so."
"Can you recommend a good one? Someone you know very well and trust?"
"Yes, the embassy has a list of reputable attorneys who handle these types of cases. I'll send a list to your Dallas office. In the meantime, is there anything else I can do for you?"
"Do you know anything about a banker named Walter Johansen?"
The smile disappeared from White's face. "Sure, he's a regular at the embassy parties," he said carefully. "What does he have to do with your case?"
I told him that Johansen had set up an IBC and bank account purportedly for Cheryl Windsor, but I didn't think she had authorized it nor signed any of the paperwork. He shrugged and suggested I tell that to Detective Pollock who could look into it. Somehow, I didn't think he'd run very fast with that information. I'd just have to wait until Stan arrived. In the meantime, I just needed to relax and try to remember what had happened.
In the next few hours I didn't remember anything new about my predicament, but I did finally realize something about the case that had to be significant. The one thing many of the witnesses complained of was a complete loss of memory—a memory gap of sorts—lasting several critical minutes. Cheryl couldn't remember what happened to her husband when he disappeared, although witnesses said she was with him just before it happened. She couldn't remember her children's kidnapping, although she was there when they were taken. She couldn't even remember the births of her own children for godsakes. Finally, there was Rubin Quinlin, the hotel manager in Tobago. Although he was abducted in a busy hotel, nobody could remember anything about his kidnapping. And now I was sitting here accused of taking drugs and possessing a half million in cash and I had no recollection of how it all happened. It almost seemed like Martin Windsor, or somebody associated with him, had developed a new invention—some kind of short term memory eraser—one that worked on anyone in the vicinity of where it was used.
It was pretty far fetched, but with the rapid advances of technology nowadays I suppose it wasn't beyond the realm of possibilities. I thought awhile about the ramifications of such a device. In the hands of a criminal, money, jewels, almost anything could be stolen with impunity. For the psychiatrist it would be a powerful tool to rid people of painful memories. As a weapon its effectiveness would depend on how it was administered, of course. Was it a drug? I'd been injected with heroin, according to the local police, but not when Cheryl's children were kidnapped. A gas, maybe? I wondered how much memory could be erased.
The old man in the bed next to me woke up. His eyes came alive and for the first time I saw a little color in his face. I looked at his wrist and saw that he too was handcuffed to his bed. I laughed to myself. The cuffs were a bit of overkill. I doubted if he could have made it to the door without collapsing had he wanted to escape. The door opened and an orderly came in with a tray of food.
"Hi there, Ms. Waters. Are you hungry?"
Up until that moment the last thing on my mind had been food, but now that I thought about it, I was famished. I nodded. "Yes, actually I am."
He put the tray down next to me and then rolled a portable table across the bed in front of me. He put the tray on the table and lifted the lids that covered the plates of food. The main dish didn't look half bad—some kind of fish, boiled potatoes, and a medley of vegetables. Underneath another lid there were two fresh rolls with butter. Finally he poured me a cup of tea. All and all it wasn't bad for hospital food—or prison food, I wasn't sure which.
After I finished eating, I was bored so I turned on the TV. I didn't usually watch it back home because I worked such long hours and had little time for it. Bart watched the news in the morning and just before bed, but that was about it. Suddenly, I felt lonely. I wondered if Bart had heard about my arrest. How embarrassing this was going to be for him. He was a patient man but my wayward life was getting ridiculous. I doubted he could stand much more.
Outsid
e I heard footsteps—very familiar footsteps. Could it be? The door opened and my heart jumped for joy!
"Bart. Oh, my God! I was just thinking about you. I'm so glad to see you."
He rushed over to me and we embraced. Tears gushed down my face. "How did you get here so fast?"
"As soon as I heard, I took the first plane. What is going on? Why did they arrest you?"
I related to Bart all that had happened since I'd left Dallas and I told him my crazy theory about a memory eraser. He looked skeptical but heard me out. Then he told me that Stan wanted me to know that Barbara Falk was Martin Windsor's ex-wife.
"What? You've got to be kidding! So, Jimmy Falk was Martin's son?"
"That's right. Apparently Barbara called Stan to tell him that while the jury was out. I guess she was worried Steven might get convicted and was feeling guilty that she hadn't brought it up. It certainly raises a lot of questions."
"Yes, it does," I said still trying to process this new bit of information. "You know, Steven complained of a memory loss when he saw the spaceship and the fishermen who Stan interviewed said the same thing. Do you think there's a connection here?"
"It's a hell of a lot of coincidences," Bart replied.
I swallowed hard. "So, are you going to be able to get me out of this mess or am I going to be a resident of the British Virgin Islands for a while?"
"No. We're going to get you out of here soon. Stan met with Wilkerson and Judge Abbott today to try to work out a deal. He's hoping the authorities here will drop the charges against you and let the Dallas District Attorney's office press charges if they think they have a case. Since the money you had belonged to Cheryl Windsor and her husband, they can't get you with theft. The only thing they could charge you with would be possession of a controlled substance, which would be a relatively minor offense."
"Are you going to stay with me tonight? I don't want to be alone."
"I wish I could, but the policeman guarding you only gave me an hour to be with you. I've checked into your room at the hotel. I've got all your luggage. The money and account documents are being sent to Dallas."
"Damn. I hate being in here alone with that corpse."
"He's a serial killer, I've been told. The cops shot him five times. It's a miracle he's still breathing at all."
"A serial killer? Isn't that my luck?"
After Bart had left, I started thinking about Barbara Falk being Martin Windsor's ex-wife and Jimmy being his son. Why hadn't Cheryl told me that? She must have known. What did all this mean? Was there a connection between Jimmy's death and Martin's disappearance? I wondered.
Cactus Island, A Stan Turner Mystery Vol 8 Page 41
