Then, a strange sound cut through the silence, sending icicles down her spine. She raised her head and listened.
It was a faint, fading voice.
“Help me.”
Her heart was quickly in her throat. With an unsteady hand she pushed a bloody strand of hair out of her eyes and peered through the darkness. Puzzled and frightened, she listened intently, until it came again—this time a little stronger.
“Please. Help me.”
Squinting through tears, she could see bubbles of red saliva percolating from his mouth. “Oh, my God,” she muttered. “You’re still
alive
….”
A shrill noise suddenly filled the bedroom, and her heart stopped as she shot up in her bed. It was just the alarm clock. She let out a heavy sigh of relief, but she was trembling as she wiped her sweaty palms in the 285
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sheets. Exhausted, she reached across the bed and swatted the noisy alarm. Six-thirty. Time to get up. Time to go to work.
Time to keep pretending that none of this had ever happened.
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louds rolled in a few hours before dawn, blocking
c
out the stars and half-moon over southeast Antigua. A warm, steady breeze kicked up a few whitecaps in the inky black waters near English Harbour. The scarred Atlantic coast, beaten by waves over the millennia, was very unlike the scalloped white sandy beaches that laced the island’s gentle Caribbean side. Jutting headlands of jagged limestone enclosed countless bays and secluded coves that smugglers had exploited for centuries.
An armada of recreational sailboats was anchored offshore, some for the night, others for the season. Each had a rubber dinghy floating alongside or mounted up on deck to shuttle sailors to and from shore. Every kind of craft—from little one-designs to hundred-foot cruisers—rocked sleepily in the waves, flying under the flags of the United States, Great Britain, and every sailing nation in between. Windmills for electric generators on some of the
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decrepit old houseboats spun silently in the breeze, but all else was still. At this small hour not a sailor was in sight, so that the deserted decks and towering bare masts seemed part of a floating ghost town.
A hundred yards offshore, Frank Hannon swam quietly toward a thirty-foot sloop, cutting through the water like a crocodile stalking its prey.
He was nearly sixteen hours into a contingency plan that his pretty friend from the bar at the Admiral’s Inn had unwittingly helped form. Dominique had shared all kinds of details about the island—hiking, exploring, her favorite secluded spots—before he left her forever at her very favorite spot, a place so secluded that no one would ever find her.
Minutes after having fled from the bank, he’d hopped on the back of a vegetable truck and headed out of the city back to Boggy Peak, which Dominique had told him was Antigua’s version of a tropical rain forest. He’d spent the daylight hours in the highlands, hiding on lush slopes covered in elephant ears and course fig trees, well away from the airport and harbors that would be crawling with police. At dusk he’d continued on foot toward the nautical centers in the southeast, trudging along the coast beneath the tangled limbs and thick, leafy canopy of the mangrove clusters. As a natural defense to erosion and hurricanes, the mangroves weaved land and sea together into what often seemed an impenetrable thicket. They grew right along the marshy shoreline in a foot or so of water—which meant the dogs couldn’t pick up his scent.
There was no escape, however, from the swarms 288
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of mosquitoes and annoying little sand flies called “no-see-ums,” which had been bearable only because of his long pants and his long-sleeved shirt. Hunger, by comparison, had been a minor problem. Dominique had warned him about the little applelike fruit of the manchineel tree, which was deadly poisonous. The green bananas on Fig Tree Hill had proved tasty enough, far better than the tree oysters and shell-less snails clinging to the submerged roots of the mangrove trees.
By nightfall he’d picked his spot on a hill overlooking a secluded bay, his point of departure. It was too risky to approach the ocean freighters in the commercial harbor, or the yacht clubs and deep-sea fishing charters, where the police had undoubtedly warned everyone to be on the lookout. Although he’d worn a disguise to the bank, his height and build were still distinctive. Any six foot five American trying to leave the country was bound to be a suspect. His only way off the island, he figured, was one of the hundreds of boats that had dropped anchor off the coast, away from the marinas, beyond police protection.
Hannon swam a very controlled and quiet breaststroke as he neared the stern, making not a sound. A rear approach was best, where a ladder led to the dinghy. He grabbed the bottom rung to begin his ascent.
The boat rocked gently in rolling waters made black by the overcast night. Halyards tapped against the mast in the light breeze, emitting an incessant hollow ping, like a squeaky box spring. Hannon climbed slowly and steadily, hand over hand, inch by inch, 289
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with the strength of a gymnast on the rings spreading into an iron cross. He kept silent as fog, realizing that one kick to the hull or bang of the ladder would thump like a drum inside the cabin. It would surely wake the owner—who probably owned a gun.
One leg went over the polished teak rail, then the other.
In complete silence he was a mere shadow on board. He crouched into a ball toward the aft of the cockpit. Looking straight ahead, he could see down into the main cabin.
The companionway door had been left wide open for ventilation. It was dark below, but he could make out the stove in the galley and an empty starboard berth. The portside berth looked lumpy, occupied. When he closed his ears to the surf he could even hear breathing. Snoring.
The lonely captain was asleep.
Hannon clutched the long fish filet knife he’d stolen from behind the back of the fisherman at the pier and moved quietly toward the open cabin door.
The adrenaline flowed faster with each step forward.
He knew exactly what was going to happen, just as he had with all the others. He never attacked without map-ping it out first, seeing it through to the bloody end in his world of fantasy, pursuing his dream of the perfect crime. For the first time ever, this was nearly as titillating as the fantasy.
I
am
perfection
.
Hannon leaned over him as he slept, waiting for him to sense the intrusion. With a wrinkled sheet pulled up around his neck, the man had the weathered look of a salty old sailor. A scraggly two-day growth of whiskers covered his pudgy face. Hannon brought the knife to his fleshy nose and tickled the little hairs in 290
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his nostrils, smirking with sadistic amusement as the man shooed away imaginary gnats in his sleep. He dragged the blade lightly across his lips and paused, as if considering his next move. With a quick jab he poked him in the cheek.
“Oww! What the hell!”
Hannon grabbed him by the throat and shoved the knife before his eyes. “Flinch and you die.”
He blinked hard, not fully comprehending. His whole body shook as it became frightfully clear that this was real, not a nightmare. The eyes bulged with each desperate gasp for air.
“Whatever you want,” his voice trembled. “Take it.”
Hannon pressed the blade against his cheek, then spoke in a low, threatening whisper. “I want to see Puerto Rico.
And I want
you
to take me.”
The layover in San Juan had been longer than expected, making Mike’s flight from Miami a tiring nine hours. The plane touched down at Bird International Airport just a few minutes before 10:00 A.M. Mike had only an overnight carry-on bag with him, so he went straight to customs and immigration. He queued up in the longer line, since the guy at the end of the short one looked like he might be carrying a bazooka in his bag and would probably hold things up.
The customs and immigration officers wore dark blue uniforms with military-style caps. One sat behind a counter, checking documentation. Another stood at the end of the conveyor, visually inspecting baggage, but he’d yet to open a single suitcase. Given the lax 291
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security, the line seemed to be moving very slowly. When Mike’s turn finally came, he slipped his passport across the countertop.
The young black woman in uniform checked the photograph, then looked up at Mike. He smiled awkwardly, then glanced casually at the other officer at the end of the conveyor. He showed no expression. Mike glanced back at the woman behind the counter, who was now reviewing a computer printout. Undoubtedly that was the reason things were moving so slowly. Some kind of fugitive list, he presumed. With the murder at the Antigua bank just twenty-four hours old, border control couldn’t be too careful.
Finally, she looked up. Mike smiled, expecting his passport back. She didn’t return the smile or the passport.
“Can you come with me, please?” she said matter-of-factly.
He was momentarily stunned. “I’m sorry. What’s the problem?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Come with me, please,” she said more sternly.
Suspicious glares came from the others in line. The old woman right behind took a gigantic step back, making it clear they weren’t together. He didn’t want a scene. “All right,” he said with a shrug. “Let’s go clear this up.”
She called over two other officers—two big guys with barrel chests, thick necks, and impressive sidearms in their holsters. The three of them—one behind him and one at each side—escorted him down a sterile hallway with a polished cement floor, bright fluorescent lights, and no doors or windows. Their footsteps echoed against the bare walls.
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“Do you mind telling me what this is all about?” asked Mike.
No one replied. They turned the corner, then stopped at a door at the end of the hall. The woman took a key from her belt and unlocked the door. She pushed it open, then pointed inside with a jerk of her head. “This way, please.”
He chuckled nervously. “What’s this, the interrogation room?”
“Yes,” she said flatly.
His forced smile faded. “Look, Officer. I don’t want to make trouble, but I really don’t see what right you have to detain me. Am I being arrested?”
“That’s up to the police. They’ll be here any minute.
In the meantime, I suggest you sit down and cooperate.”
He glanced at all three of the stone-faced guards. “Can I make a phone call first?”
“Later,” she said.
The biggest guard took a half-step forward, as if telling him that it was time either to walk into the room or be thrown into it. He sighed with resignation as he passed through the doorway. The door closed behind him, and the keys tinkled on the outside, locking him inside.
“Welcome to Antigua,” he said to himself, alone in the room.
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t
wo hours passed before the door finally opened. In the open doorway stood a well-groomed man wearing a navy blue blazer, gray slacks, and a Scotch-plaid tie that seemed to draw out the red freckles on his black skin.
Like many Antiguans, his family tree had both African and Anglo-Saxon limbs. He was much shorter than Mike and probably twenty years older, pushing sixty. He reached inside his breast pocket and flashed his badge.
“Detective James Dewberry,” he said in an English colonial island accent. “Antigua Police—Homicide.”
Mike’s heart raced, but he said nothing. Dewberry took the metal folding chair on the other side of the rectangular table, facing him. He pulled a small spiral pad from his breast pocket and clicked his pen.
“Tell me, Mr. Posten, what brings you all the way to Antigua?”
“I hear the diving’s terrific.”
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down here. Almost as seriously as homicide.” His expression soured. “Two security guards were murdered yesterday morning in the Charter Bank of Antigua. We have reason to believe you have information that may lead us to the killer.”
Mike suddenly found himself wondering about their tongues, but he didn’t want to ask the kind of question that would reveal how much he knew. “Me? Why me?”
“Have you ever heard the name Eric Venters?”
“Never.”
“Surely you’ve heard the name Ernest Gill.”
Mike fell silent.
Dewberry scooted forward to the edge of the couch.
“Allow me to explain something before we get tangled up in the usual dance. We know that someone using the name Eric Venters—we’re certain it’s an alias—opened an account at the Charter Bank in St. Johns. He arrived yesterday morning to close the account and withdraw the funds. Nearly a quarter million U.S. dollars. Of course, a bank like the Charter Bank doesn’t keep that kind of money on the premises. Normally, customers call in advance to make an appointment, so that the money is waiting for them when they arrive. Either Mr. Venters didn’t know that or, more likely, he simply didn’t want to give anyone advance notice of his arrival. The bank officer did his level best to get the money to him as quickly as possible from the central bank. As best we can gather from our witnesses, the phone calls and apparent delay made him very suspicious. When the security guards finally arrived with the funds, he
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evidently mistook them for police officers, smelled an ambush and opened fire. Two of them ended up dead.”
Mike sighed and shook his head. “I’m very sorry to hear that.”
“I suspect you’ll be even be sorrier to hear that by murdering the guards, Mr. Venters created a legal basis for the police to pierce bank secrecy.”
“I’m not sure I follow you.”
“In Antigua, bank secrecy is absolutely inviolable except when the authorities are investigating conduct that consti-tutes a crime under Antiguan law. Tax evasion, money laundering—those aren’t crimes in Antigua. Homicide, of course, is.”
“So, because of the murders, you’ve been able to trace the funds.”