Chance

by Carolyn M Bowen

  Walker knew she’d be an asset, allowing him into places he’d stand out alone. They met at the Floridita Bar, a famous Hemingway watering hole where his favorite rum-and-lime-juice cocktail, daiquiris, were expertly poured a dozen at a time.

  Decorated in red plush velvet and dark wood, the place was throbbing with live music. Many tourists from European and South American countries were lined up to have their photos taken beside a life-sized bronzed Hemingway statue appropriately posed at the end of the bar. Under different circumstances, with Sydney, he’d have done the same.

  He and Isabella found a table discreetly removed from the boisterous conversations at the bar. With Hemingway’s presence dominating the tavern, they talked about the long-time relationship between Hemingway and Cuba. Both agreed the ode to Hemingway was appropriate, as two-thirds of his creative life was spent on the island.

  Isabella filled him in about the local legend, Papa Hemingway, and his beloved Finca Vigía, or Lookout Farm. She was clearly fascinated about his everyday life and literary accomplishments, whether saltwater fishing from his 38’ fishing boat, Pilar, or downing a few at his favorite taverns in Havana. Walker listened intently, as her knowledge of the literary giant and his near-death escapades was thorough. He had no idea Hemingway had made his home on the island from 1939 to 1960 and wrote seven books, including The Old Man and the Sea, A Moveable Feast, and Islands in the Stream, from his Caribbean abode.

  A flickering sign of mourning crossed Isabella’s face as she talked about his widow gifting the Cuban people with his island sanctuary. His love of their Caribbean culture and the sea on their blockaded coast was a memory cherished by the natives.

  Isabella recalling Hemingway’s ties to the island made the time fly as he scanned faces in the tavern for possible informants. Their evening drinking daiquiri cocktails at the Floridita Bar paid off. He identified a couple of possible sources to further pursue for information. Apparently, the government staunchly supported the role Hemingway played in their tourism; some high-ranking military leaders and their women were social and interacting with the tourists.

  When the evening crowd began to diminish, Walker asked Isabella to hop on the back of his motorbike to take her home. He wanted to see her safely to the door in case his identity was blown, placing her in danger. She happily replied yes, and took a scarf from her handbag and covered her long, auburn hair for the ride. They agreed to meet the next night. He’d pick her up for the ride to Havana’s Barrio Chino, or Chinatown.

  He deposited her at the front door. Her cousin Euquerio opened the door and came over to his bike with a questioning look. He stood up to take out his wallet to pay for the evening and the next one. Euquerio thanked him and said, “Talk later.”

  Walker rode back to his seaside cottage and carefully examined the exterior before entering, to see if anyone had been snooping around while he was gone. He’d inserted an invisible magnetic tape on the door, so he’d know if anyone had attempted to enter. He was home free. Now, if he could only fall sleep.

  When his head hit the pillow, he was dreaming of Sydney and their life together. If only he could talk to her; but he knew any communication was against the rules and could place her in unknown danger. He took her photo out of his wallet and kissed it, saying, “One day, we’ll be together again.”

  Sydney was growing larger and slower with the baby she was carrying. She’d opted for a home birth, away from the prying eyes of others interested in her affairs. She’d planned to have a member of her security team on the premises during and after her baby’s birth. She didn’t want to worry about her alarm system not working, possibly allowing intruders or well-wishers to lurk about. She’d be in no shape to defend herself or the baby for a while. As much as it reminded her of having Walker nearby, she’d suck it up and secure her home.

  If not for the baby she carried, she’d be filled with hatred toward him for walking out with no way to contact him. But she knew it was in her and the baby’s best interest to not dwell on what might have been. Someday, for the baby’s good, she hoped she could forgive him. She knew it wasn’t healthy; and what if the baby turned out to be his spitting image?

  She’d decided to take a short maternity leave from the law firm to recover from childbirth and spend time cuddling with her new baby. With or without Walker, she and the baby were connected. She was a soon to be mom, and wanted to be the best. She’d read books about giving birth and taking care of an infant. She’d investigated hiring a nanny before her maternity leave ended. She’d already placed a nanny cam in the baby’s room and there were cameras throughout the townhome. When she returned to work, one of her computers would have live video streaming of activities in her home. Her baby would be safe.

  Her CEO, Nancy McNally, was ready for her maternity leave and assured her at every chance that the law firm would be fine in her absence. Sydney believed her, and knew without a doubt the legal cases would be handled expertly by her top-notch attorneys. She was beginning to think about changing the corporate setup of her law firm to a partnership, where she could offer advancement and incentives to the top litigators. She didn’t want the firm to become the training ground of attorneys for other large partnerships in Atlanta.

  She walked on the treadmill in her home gym daily, as the doctor ordered, to help prepare for birthing her baby. These days, she was walking slower than usual. She readied herself for the office and felt a gnawing pain deep within her belly. Before she could get dressed, another pain tugged at her insides, and she knew she was in labor. She quickly called the midwife, who promised she was on the way.

  Sydney changed into a nightgown and laid on her bed. The pains were still coming, and she needed to pee. She stood up beside the bed to go to the bathroom and her water broke, spilling out onto the hardwood floor. Not wanting to leave a mess for the midwife to see and clean up, she went to her bathroom and pulled several towels from the closet to mop up the mess. Feeling better, she bent over and cleaned the floor and took the towels back to the bathroom and shoved them down the laundry chute.

  She returned to her bed and threw a bed liner pad she’d bought for childbirth over her sheet. She almost wished she’d decided on a water birth in her oversized, old-fashioned tub but had decided birthing on dry land, on her comfortable mattress, was more her style.

  She called her head of security, Brian Odom, to let him know she’d gone into labor. He said someone from her security team was on the way. She hoped he got there first, to open the door for the midwife. Otherwise, she’d have difficulty negotiating the stairs to let her in.

  The guard had a house key and the security code to enter her townhome. It wasn’t long before her cell phone rang, and the guard said he was entering. She told him she was okay and to be prepared to let the midwife in, for she should arrive shortly.

  It was a long night for Sydney. The midwife calmly coached her to breathe and when to bear down to push the baby out. Between pushes, the midwife wiped her head with a cold cloth and told her to relax until the next pain. The relaxing music Sydney had programmed for childbirth was a distant background to the screams as Sydney got closer to birthing her baby.

  Sydney was fatigued, and wondered if she’d be able to give birth. The midwife continued encouraging her to rest between pushing and said, “On the next pain—push with all your might.” She did. The midwife said, “Good job!” and held up her new baby. With a quick slap from the midwife to its bottom, the baby cried. The midwife laid the baby across Sydney’s chest and saw tears trickling down her face. After giving Sydney and the baby a moment, she said, “Let me clean up the little fellow.”

  Sydney’s eyes grew larger with surprise, for she’d not known the baby’s gender until then. The midwife asked what she planned to name him. She answered, “I need to look at him before deciding.”

  The midwife brought him back to her cleaned, diapered, and dressed in his newborn onesie. Sydney said,
“I’m going to name him after my dad, David Stewart. He will be called David Asher Jones.”

  The midwife smiled and said, “Good, strong name.”

  Sydney nodded. She didn’t know if the baby’s eyes would change color, but right now they were blue, like her dad’s, and that was good enough for her.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Backroads of Georgia

  It seemed like hours had passed since Ray Jenkins started toward Nancy Lynn’s hometown. He was wondering if his GPS had gone squirrelly, for usually there were major gas stations or mom-and-pop country stores along the highway. There had been nothing for over 78 miles as he watched his odometer click off the miles he’d traveled. Up ahead, seemingly out of nowhere, he saw a traffic light and to his left, a gas station and diner.

  His cell charger had died over an hour before on the long and isolated highway. He felt suspended in time, not knowing his whereabouts. He took a chance on the diner allowing him to plug his charger into one of their outlets while he grabbed a bite to eat.

  A young waitress with snarly hair pulled together in a messy bun was standing behind the counter swiping the bar with a dingy cloth crumbled in her hand. He said, “My phone died, and my car charger has quit working. Can I plug my cell phone into your outlet?”

  She pointed toward the corner, where a jukebox and high chair were stored and said, “There’s a plug behind the booster.”

  “Thank you. Do you know how far I am from Cuthbert?”

  The girl looked puzzled and said, “No, I’m not familiar with that town.”

  Ray decided he was in the twilight zone where mechanical items quit working and no one knows where he’s going. He sat down on the tattered bar stool at the counter and she handed him the menu with a greasy laminated covering. “Some coffee, please,” he said.

  He looked over the menu and ordered two eggs over easy, hash browns, with a side order of sausage. On closer observation of the dirty grill, he wondered if he’d made the right choice. A large, cast iron boiler was steaming with what he could only guess was grits. The outside of the pot had gooey-looking residue running down and stuck to its sides, showing signs of not being washed often. He was glad he’d not ordered anything that came from that kettle.

  A man with a scraggly, unkempt beard, dressed in overalls, was sitting in the back of the diner. He looked up and said, “Just turn left at the traffic light over there and stay straight and you’ll end up where you’re looking to go.”

  He stood up and pointed toward the red light outside the diner and asked, “That one?”

  The man said, “That’s the right one. Turn left.”

  He thanked him and took a few bites from his plate, trying to give his cell phone time to charge. He’d already decided not to use the GPS until he followed the man’s directions. If he was wrong, he could turn on his phone and get directions to the next city. He didn’t want to be lost on the backroads of Georgia again.

  He found the rural address where Nancy Lynn was staying with her parents until her legal problems were resolved.

  Taking in the tiny southern town at a glance, he knew why she escaped to Hollywood and then Atlanta. She was a beauty, and there was nothing this town could offer her except the possibility of marriage and children. He wondered why she returned to her hometown. He’d soon find out.

  He liked looking people in the eyes when questioning them for Sydney Jones’s law firm. There were always telltale bodily signs that couldn’t be picked up over the phone. In this case, phone service was sporadic—mostly nonexistent—in her rural hometown, which was the main reason for his travelling to meet her.

  Sydney had wanted him to look around the town to see if anyone was tracking Nancy Lynn’s whereabouts and to warn her to be careful when she left home.

  Since someone was trying to stop Sydney from representing her, she feared for Nancy Lynn’s safety. He was to bring her back to Atlanta if suspicious behavior was noted. After experiencing the isolation of her hometown, he thought it in her best interest to relocate to the safe house in Atlanta. The condo was stocked and reserved for Sydney’s clients needing a reprieve from impending disaster.

  He needed Nancy Lynn to feel safe leaving her family’s home with him for the drive to Atlanta. If he could pick up a phone signal, he’d call Sydney to let her convince Nancy Lynn to ride with him. She probably knew the way a lot better than him anyway.

  He cleared his head before knocking on her parents’ wood frame door. He needed to have an impartial stance before questioning her about the murder she’d witnessed and likely get charged with.

  She answered the door wearing a cotton shift dress, something she probably only wore at her parents’ home. Although the garment hung on her like a potato sack, she looked beautiful.

  He introduced himself and flashed his credentials. She looked at him suspiciously but when he mentioned that Sydney Jones sent him, she visually relaxed and smiled.

  He asked if there was a quiet place they could talk. She showed him into the small farmhouse kitchen and asked if he wanted a glass of iced tea.

  He nodded his head and said he just needed to ask her a few questions. She sat down across from him and waited.

  He asked if anyone had contacted her since she’d arrived. She said no, but that she’d seen a dark-colored sedan driving slowly down their farm road, but it didn’t turn off into the lane leading to their house. She said her parents were visiting out-of-town relatives and wouldn’t be home until later in the week, and she knew the landowners living along the road where she grew up. The car was not one from around there.

  He told her Sydney had a safe house in Atlanta, making it closer and easier for them to monitor her safety. She seemed surprised, and he quickly punched Sydney’s number on his phone while praying he had service. Sydney answered. He quickly brought her up to date and asked if she’d confirm the Atlanta safe house and recommend Nancy Lynn travelling with him now. He handed the phone to Nancy Lynn and watched as she listened, nodding her head in agreement. She handed him his phone and said, “Let me get my things and leave a note for my parents that I’ll call them later.”

  He walked toward the front door to wait while she packed her bags and within minutes, she returned with her suitcase. Apparently, she’d not been there long enough to unpack. He took her bag and was ready to leave the house.

  The questions he had planned to ask could wait until he had her safely in Atlanta. He stuck his head out the door and looked around before motioning for her to follow him to his town car.

  He opened the door for her and went around to the trunk to deposit her suitcase. He got in and started the car, and drove slowly down the dirt lane and turned onto a wider, red clay road. He’d be glad to get back on the highway to travel faster. He had little choice but to go through the tiny town with only a few stores on its main street. The only way in or out of this farming community was by circling the town’s square, where an imposing monument portraying the city founders commanded attention.

  He was breathing easier being on a main highway when a sleek, black sedan fell in behind them. He motioned for Nancy Lynn to duck down and said, “Slide down in your seat; we’ve got company.”

  Nancy Lynn didn’t utter a word. She slid down in the plush, oversized seat with panic written on her face. He didn’t want to add to her fears, but knew trouble was on their rear bumper.

  He kept his eyes on the road and hands tightly gripping the wheel, anticipating a rear end collision. The sedan tapped his rear bumper hard, swaying the large automobile off onto the shoulder of the road. Then the car accelerated fast past them. He gave thanks that his sturdy, older-model luxury car was built like a small tank. He mentally recorded the license plate of the sedan and after several miles, told Nancy Lynn she could scoot back up in her seat. They rode silently.

  He parked in the condo garage and escorted Nancy Lynn to the safe house while keepi
ng a watchful eye for interlopers. She was sweating, and he was glad the air-conditioning was blasting when he opened the front door. He looked around to check for intruders before going to the refrigerator to see if it was stocked. She didn’t need to be going out on her own until he learned who was after her and why.

  They sat at the small kitchen table and drank a cold Coca-Cola. He gave her guidelines for staying safe and showed her the security system and code. But for right now, she needed to sit tight and let him investigate.

  He asked a few questions that might lead to answering who was after her and why. He knew Sydney planned to have her removed from the suspect list in the murder of her lover, Liu Chang. Even so, she could still be in harm’s way on her own and hunted by a killer.

  Nancy Lynn was either too frightened to talk, or didn’t know who could be behind wanting to harm her. He didn’t see any help coming from her for finding who and why she was a person of interest.

  He said goodnight, and left his business card, saying, “Call me if anyone tries to contact you—and don’t leave.”

  Nancy Lynn nodded in agreement with tear-filled eyes. He returned home and called in a favor with Lt. Thomason to find the identity of the driver of the black sedan. He confided the reasons behind the request, and Thomason was intrigued with the direction the case of taking.

  In minutes, he called back to say the car was rented to a Chinese national, Juang Huang, who wasn’t affiliated with the Chinese Black Societies, adding he’d investigate his visit to Nancy Lynn’s hometown. Thomason contacted his team to detain him for questioning as a person of interest in Liu Chang’s murder.