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[THREE]

Little Bight Bay

Saint John, United States Virgin Islands

Monday, November 17, 4:50 P.M.

Maggie McCain, holding the fifty-foot-long white-hulled catamaran on a fast course, looked up from under her navy cap and smiled. The sails were finely tuned to the point that the big cat hummed with the steady stiff wind. It felt alive, knifing with a smooth rhythm through the waves. And that had made Maggie feel more alive. And given her time to think.

It had taken Maggie a half hour to reach the north shore of Saint John, the next island over from Saint Thomas. Farther east, she could make out Sage Mountain rising on the horizon at Tortola—where not even a mile of water separated the British Virgin Islands from the USVI.

Maggie, the wind whipping her ponytail, scanned the Saint John shoreline looking for her landmark. The lush green hills rose steeply above the enormous volcanic boulders and the strips of white sand beach.

She loved the seclusion of Little Bight and the fact that few could find it. The mouth of the small bay was barely twice as wide as the catamaran’s beam of twenty-five feet. It was tucked in behind a mass of boulders that formed a crescent at the foot of a tall hill, making the entrance all but invisible.

After a moment, among a line of brown boulders, she found the landmark—an enormous rock softly etched by wind and water that to her eye resembled one of Picasso’s contorted human faces.

She spun the big stainless steel wheel, putting Pablo’s big-eyed boulder dead ahead. Then, coming up on the gap to the bay, she uncleated the mainsheet, letting the air spill out. She dropped the mainsail. Minutes later, sailing on just the jib, the big boat smoothly slipped behind the crescent of boulders and into the protected bay.

What a difference being on the water makes.

I am back in control.

—

An hour earlier, Maggie had felt completely overwhelmed. Shaking out of control, she had taken the heavy shot of Cruzan rum to calm her—and then immediately knew that she could not keep drinking. She needed to clear her mind, and to think.

She had looked out at the sea and seen the small white triangles that were the sails of boats moving between the islands. She then immediately hopped up and grabbed her gear.

She went through the gap in the thick wall of sea grape trees Beatrix had told her about and found the stone path that cut back and forth down the hill to the beach and marina.

The dockmaster turned out to be in his thirties, a very tanned bald-headed man named Captain Jesse, who was the epitome of efficiency. Just as Beatrix had said, he had had the boat ready to go and insisted on a thorou

gh walk-through, even after Maggie’s announcement that she had sailed the very small model catamaran a few times.

“As you know,” Captain Jesse said, “no two boats are the same.”

The layout of the boat was basically similar to all other catamarans—the main cabin, with the galley and large living area, was between the two big hulls. Steps on either side of the main cabin led down to the four staterooms in the hulls, two queen-sized beds forward and two aft, which were separated by their lavatories.

Back up on the deck, the dockmaster had shown her that the electronics—from the VHF radio to the GPS to the wind-speed and water-depth gauges—all were in working order. He then pointed out the location of everything else she might need—the three anchors to the life jackets, emergency flares, first-aid kit—as well as the array of black panels affixed to the topside of the main cabin.

“Not all our boats have those,” Captain Jesse said. “They’re the solar cells that charge the batteries. Don’t want to step on them.”

He had shown her that the fuel and freshwater tanks were topped off, and that the galley was freshly provisioned. There was food enough to last a week, if Maggie stretched it, as well as nice wines—including two bottles of champagne—and beers.

“And,” he’d said, “enough of our ubiquitous rum to throw a wicked party.”

She smiled. “My friends I’m about to pick up will be excited to hear that.”

He leaned forward and quietly added, “And if there’s anything else they might need, I can handle that, too.”

Else? What else?

Oh . . . that.

“It’s quality. Only the best. There is a lot of bad stuff sold here.”

Careful. Don’t come off as a prude. . . .