Murder in the CIA (24 page)

She sat on a chaise longue, sipped her drink, and waited for Edwards to arrive.

It was a longer wait than she’d anticipated. He rolled in an hour later on a Honda motorcycle. He’d obviously been drinking. Not that he was overtly drunk, but there was a slur to his speech. His face glowed; he’d been in the sun.

“Hello, hello, hello,” he said, taking her hand and smiling.

“As long as you don’t say, ‘Hello, goodbye, hello, goodbye,’ ” she said with a laugh.

“Oh, you met my friends. Did they properly introduce themselves?”

“No.”

“Bad manners. I’ll have to speak to them. Their names are Peter, Paul, and Mary.”

“The fourth?”

“Can’t decide. Prince, Boy George, some bloody rock-’n’-roll star. I see you’ve helped yourself and are well into limmin’.”

“Limmin’?”

“Native for loafing. Pleasant trip?”

“Yes, fine.”

“Good. I’ve made plans for dinner.”

“Wonderful. I’m famished.”

They left an hour later in his Mercedes and drove to a small local restaurant ten minutes away where they dined on native food; she passed up what he ordered as a main course, souse, a boiled pig’s head with onion, celery, hot peppers, and lime juice. She chose something more conventional,
kallaloo
, a soupy stew of crab, conch, pork, okra, spinach, and very large pieces of garlic. The soup was
tannia
, their before-dinner drinks rum in a fresh coconut split open at the table.

“Delicious,” she said when they were through, and after she’d tasted “bush tea,” made of soursop.

“Best cure for a hangover ever invented,” he said.

“I may need it,” she said.

He laughed. “I think I probably spill more in a day than you drink.”

“Probably so.”

“Game for a little sightseeing?”

She looked through the window at darkness. Only a few flickering lights on distant hills broke the black.

“Beautiful time to be out on the water. Can’t sail … wind’s always down about now, but we can loaf along on the engine. I think you’d like it.”

She looked down at the slinky white dress she was wearing. “Hardly sailing clothes,” she said.

“No problem,” he said, getting up and pulling out her chair. “Plenty of that on board. Let’s go.”

During the short drive to where Edwards’s yachts were docked, Cahill pleasantly realized that she was totally relaxed, something she hadn’t been in far too long a time. She was all for limmin’ if it made you feel the way she felt at that moment.

The man behind the wheel, Eric Edwards, had a lot to do with it, she knew. What was it in men like him that made a woman feel important and secure? His thoroughly masculine and slightly dissipated looks contributed, of course, but there was more to it. Chemical? Some olfactory process at work? The climate, the sweet fragrances in the tropical night air, the food and rum in the belly? Who knew? Cahill certainly didn’t, nor did she really care. Pondering it was just a way of intensifying the feeling.

Edwards helped her to board the Morgan 46. He started the engine and generator, and turned on a light in the cabin. “Take what you want from under that bench,” he said.

Cahill picked up the bench top and saw an assortment of female clothing. She smiled; along with everything else, he was practiced at enticing women on impetuous nighttime sailings. She pulled out a pair of white terrycloth shorts and a sleeveless, navy blue sweatshirt. Edwards had gone up on deck. She quickly kicked off her shoes, slipped out of her dress, and put on the shorts and shirt. She hung her dress behind a door that led to a lavatory and joined him as he freed his dock lines.

Edwards skillfully manipulated engine and wheel and backed away from the dock, then reversed power and slowly guided the large, sleek vessel past other secured boats until reaching open water. “Here, you take it,” he said, indicating
the wheel. She started to protest but he said, “Just keep aiming for that buoy with the light on it. I’ll only be a minute.” She slid behind the wheel as he went forward and took a breath against her nervousness, then smiled and relaxed into the seat cushion.

If she’d felt relaxed before, it had been nothing compared to the euphoria she now experienced.

He came back to her a few minutes later and they settled into a leisurely sightseeing journey, moving smoothly on an eastern tack through Sir Francis Drake Channel, the lights of Tortola, and the silhouette of the “Fat Virgin”—Virgin Gorda Island—their land markers.

“What are you thinking?” he said in a soft voice.

Her smile was one of pure contentment. “I was just thinking that I really don’t know how to live.”

He chuckled. “It isn’t always this peaceful, Collette, not when I have a charter with three or four couples all hell-bent on having a good time and guzzling booze as fast as I can stock it.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” Cahill said. “But you have to admit it isn’t always that way. Obviously, you have time to …”

“Time to take moonlight sails with beautiful young women? True. You don’t hold that against me, do you?”

She turned and looked into his face. He was wearing a broad smile. His teeth, very white, seemed phosphorescent in the light of the moon. She said, “How could I hold it against you? Here I am enjoying it to the hilt.” She was about to throw in a disclaimer that she wasn’t necessarily a “beautiful woman,” but she decided not to bother. She’d never felt more beautiful in her life.

They continued their cruise for another hour, then headed back, reaching the dock at two in the morning. She’d fallen asleep next to him, her head on his shoulder. She helped him secure the Morgan and they went to the house, where he poured nightcaps of straight Pusser’s Rum into large brandy snifters.

“You look tired,” he said.

“I am. It’s been a long day … and night.”

“Why don’t you get to bed? I’ll be out early, but you sleep in. The house is yours. We’ll catch up when I get back.
I’ll leave the keys to the Mercedes in the kitchen. Feel free.”

“That’s generous, Eric.”

“I like having you here, Collette. Somehow, it makes me feel a little closer to Barrie.” He studied her face. “You aren’t offended at that, are you? I don’t want you to feel used, if you understand what I mean.”

She smiled, stood, and said, “Of course not. Funny, but while we were out on the water I thought a lot about Barrie and realized that I was feeling closer to her, too, by being here. If there is any using, we’re both guilty. Good night, Eric. Thanks for a lovely evening.”

She heard Edwards leave and took his advice: rolled over and went back to sleep. When she awoke again, she didn’t know what time it was but the room had become hot. She looked up into a gently revolving ceiling fan, then slipped on her jumpsuit and strolled out to the kitchen. A heavy black woman was polishing countertops. “Good morning,” Collette said.

The woman, who wore a flowered dress and straw sandals, smiled and said in a singsong voice, “Good morning, lady. Mr. Edwards, he gone.”

“Yes, I know. I heard him. My name is Collette.”

The woman evidently did not want to extend the conversation to that level of intimacy because she turned away and went back to making circles on the counter.

Collette took a pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice from the refrigerator, filled a large glass, and took it to the terrace. She sat at a round white table with an orange umbrella protruding from a hole in the middle and thought about the exchange in the kitchen. Her interpretation was that Edwards had so many young women walking into the kitchen and introducing themselves that the housekeeper
had decided it wasn’t worth getting to know them. Chances were they never stayed around long enough to become part of the household.

The marina and harbor below bustled with activity. Cahill squinted against the sun and picked out the section of the complex where Edwards’s yachts were situated. She was too far away to see whether he was there, but she assumed he’d left early to take out a charter. Then again, he hadn’t specified that, so maybe he had other business on the island.

She got the Estabrooks book on hypnotism from the bedroom and returned to the terrace, settled in the chair, and picked up reading where she’d left off on the plane.

She was fascinated as she read that certain people have a heightened ability to enter the hypnotic state, and that these people, according to the author, were capable of remarkable feats while under hypnosis. Estabrooks cited examples of men and women undergoing major surgery, with hypnotism as the only anesthesia. To such special people, total amnesia about the hypnotic experience was not only possible, it was easily accomplished by a skilled hypnotist.

She also learned that contrary to popular perception, those who enter a hypnotic state are anything but asleep. In fact, while under hypnosis, the subject enters a state of awareness in which it is possible to focus most intently, and to block out everything else. Memory “inside” is enhanced; it’s possible under hypnosis to compress months’ worth of material into an hour and to retain virtually everything.

Collette found particularly fascinating the chapter on whether it was possible to convince someone under hypnosis to perform a degrading or illegal act. She remembered high school chatter when boys used to kid about hypnotizing girls to get them to take off their clothes. One boy had sent away for a publication advertised on the back of a comic book promising “total hypnotic, seductive power over women.” The girls in school had giggled, but the boys kept trying to get them to submit to their new-found power. No one did, and it was forgotten in the wake of the next fad which was, as she recalled, the ability to “throw your voice through ventriloquism.”

According to Estabrooks, it was not possible to blatantly
convince people in hypnosis to act against their moral and ethical codes. It was, however, possible to achieve the same end by “changing the visual.” He went on to explain that while you could not tell a moral young lady to take off her clothes, you could, with the right subject, convince that person under hypnosis that she was alone in an impossibly hot room. Or, while you could not persuade someone, even the most perfect hypnotic subject, to murder a close friend, you could create a visual scenario in which when that friend came through the door, it was not that person. Instead, it was a rabid bear intent upon killing the subject, and the subject would fire in self-defense.

Cahill looked up into the vivid blue sky. The sun was above her; she hadn’t realized how long she’d been reading. She returned the glass to the kitchen, took a shower, dressed in the loosest, coolest clothing she had, and got into the Mercedes, through the wrong door. The steering wheel was on the right side. She’d forgotten that the islands were British. No problem, she thought. She’d had plenty of experience driving on the other side of the road in England.

She drove off without the slightest idea of where she was going. That pleased her. The lack of destination or timetable would give her a chance to leisurely explore the island and to find her own adventures and delights.

She drove into Road Town, the BVI’s only thoroughly commercial area, parked, and strolled its narrow streets, stopping to admire classic examples of West Indian architecture painted in vivid colors, hip roofs glistening in the midday sun, heavy shutters thrown open to let in air and light. She stopped in shops, many of which were just opening, and bought small gifts to bring home.

At two, she drove on again. Once she left the town, she was lost, but it didn’t bother her. The vistas in every direction were spectacular, and she stopped often along the side of a mountain road to drink in their natural beauty.

Rounding a sharp curve, she looked to her right and saw a large sign:
PUSSER
’
S LANDING
. She’d forgotten what Hank Fox had told her. She checked her watch; it was almost three, but she reasoned that since everything else started late on the island, lunch hour would probably still be in
progress. She parked, entered beneath the sign, passed a gift shop, and reached the outdoor dining deck that overlooked a gentle, protected bay.

As she headed for a vacant table near the water, she came to a large birdcage. In it was a big, docile parrot. She glanced around. There were perhaps twenty people on the deck, some at tables, others standing in small clusters sipping rum drinks. She decided to go to the table first and order, then feed the bird to see if someone approached her. She ordered a hamburger and a beer and went to the cage. “Hello there, fella,” she said. The bird looked at her with sleepy eyes. A tray of bird food was in front of the cage. She picked up a piece of fruit and extended her hand through the open cage door. The bird took the fruit from her fingers, tasted it, then dropped it to the cage floor.

“Fussy, huh?” she said, picked up some seed, and extended her open palm. The bird picked at the seed and swallowed it. “Want some more?” she asked. She was so engrossed in feeding the bird that she’d forgotten the real reason for doing it.

“Like him?” a male voice asked.

The voice startled her, and the snap of her head toward it testified to that fact. So she smiled. “Yes, he’s beautiful.”

The man to whom the voice belonged was tall and heavy. He wore baggy overalls and a soiled tan shirt. His black hair was thinning and swirled over his head without direction. His round face bore the scars of childhood acne. He was light-skinned, obviously the child of mixed parentage, and his eyes were pale blue. An interesting-looking man, Cahill thought.

“I call him Hank,” the man said.

“He looks like a fox to me,” she said intuitively.

The man laughed. “Yes, a Fox called Hank. Are you visiting the islands?”

“Yes, I’m from the States.”

“Have you found our people pleasant and helpful?”

“Very.” She fed the bird more seeds.

“We have that reputation. It’s important for tourism. If there’s anything I can do for you while you visit us, please
do not hesitate to let me know. I have lunch here every day.”

“That’s kind of you. Your name is …?”

He grinned and shrugged. “Call me Hank.”