The Last Witness (Badge of Honor 11)

And I can use his books to get him, too.

He’s going to learn you don’t fuck with a McCain.

She watched out the window as the airliner settled toward the sea, coming so close to the surface that it looked like it might land on the water. Then at the last minute its tires finally chirped as they touched down on the runway, the threshold of which began right at the water’s edge of the small island.

“Welcome to the tropical paradise of Saint Thomas, United States Virgin Islands,” the flight attendant’s nasal voice came across the intercom, her tone attempting to be perky.

—

Backpack slung over one shoulder and wearing sunglasses and the Georgetown Hoyas cap, Maggie deplaned and made her way through the concourse to Baggage Claim Two. She passed plenty of police. There were uniformed local cops, as well as federal agents, ones with their shirts lettered ICE or DEA. She kept telling herself that she had nothing to worry about from the Drug Enforcement Administration or Immigration and Customs Enforcement—or any other cop. And none seemed to pay another young American woman any particular attention, which she thought more or less supported that.

Then again, she realized, she really didn’t know who might be looking for her.

She saw, not surprisingly, that a lot of women were talking on their cell phones, and wondered if she should pull hers from her backpack in order to blend in. She immediately decided against that, because the last thing she wanted to do was turn on the phone. If a cop noticed her pretending to converse over a darkened phone, one clearly dead, it would raise more flags than simply not having a phone out in the first place.

Near Baggage Claim Two, she found the man holding a clipboard so that it showed the YELLOWROSE logotype and TRADEWINDS ESTATE. He was a short, brown-skinned, potbellied, gray-haired islander with a friendly face. She walked toward him, and as she approached she saw that his name tag read MANUEL. Pleasantly addressing him by name, she introduced herself as Alexis Stewart, and after he had turned over the clipboard and confirmed she was indeed on his shuttle bus list, she went to the baggage carousel to locate her luggage.

It was there within minutes, and another twenty after that Manuel had all five o

f the newly arrived guests of the Tradewinds Estate aboard the turquoise open-air safari bus, an older Ford F-250 flatbed pickup converted with a thatch roof over passenger benches that could seat fifteen. He’d used up at least half of that time squeezing their luggage into a rear compartment.

Maggie decided the other four guests, judging by their rings, were married couples. They had found their seats in the first and second rows of the safari bus. They talked among themselves, their conversation animated and covering the usual small talk, beginning with, “The islands are just so amazingly beautiful.” “Is this your first time to visit?”

Maggie, having seen the dynamic happen time and again, knew the odds were high that during their stay the women would become fast friends, with the men dutifully following suit.

Which was one reason Maggie discreetly had taken her seat on the second-to-last row, and proceeded to pretend she was reading a paperback. She was grateful the shuttle wasn’t an enclosed van, which would have put her in closer proximity to the others and they likely would have attempted to draw her into the conversation. While she was prepared with stories of what she was doing there—starting with “a birthday vacation”—she really didn’t want to lie if it could be avoided. And not talking was simply a way of doing exactly that.

The turquoise safari bus, merging with the traffic flow on the left side of the street, turned off the airport property and followed Veterans Drive along the coast. The rising sun was quickly warming the cool morning, the temperature, according to the flashing WELCOME TO SAINT THOMAS sign they just passed at the airport, already approaching eighty.

As the humid salty air blew through the open bus, Maggie breathed in deeply and thought that it felt good.

Or maybe it’s that I’m out of Philly . . . and in a place that’s far away . . . and feels far safer.

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.