Enemies Within

by J. S. Chapman

“Nauru, you said. Sounds familiar.”

  He grinned, walked with the cell phone toward his desk, propped the device against a stack of books, and turned toward the computer monitor. Soon he was clicking the keyboard at a fast clip. Screens sped past the reflective surfaces of his eyes, his concentration intent. He was talking to himself, refreshing his memory, and making neural connections. He slid his eyes back to the phone.

  “And here we go. Nauru. An island in the South Pacific. An offshore tax haven until every bank was shut down due to corruption practices, otherwise known as money laundering. Nearly a decade later, they came back under Australian oversight. But you know how it goes. Can’t stop water from leaking through the sieve. Yeah, I remember how your money trails crisscrossed within seconds of each other, everything transferred into Hertford’s and the pass-through in Kansas City. And ....” Anticipation intervened as his brain whirled and his fingers flew. “Found it. Your hundred thou less five. Something called NBT Limited. Gonna go get it?”

  Jack didn’t answer the question directly since Rupert already knew the answer. Instead he said, “Seen any trouble? Suspicious characters? People asking questions?”

  “Other than my girlfriend, none.” Rupert winked just before the connection ended.

  Jack was getting ready to put up his feet and drink himself into a stupor when a light tap brought him to the door. The maid asked if he would like the bed turned down. He almost turned her away but changed his mind. “You’re working late.”

  “Our guests retire late,” she said simply, as if her timing explained everything.

  She was the same housemaid from earlier in the day. Possibly the same woman he passed on the street. The fragrant perfume yet enveloped her, very faint, like a faraway dream. In the middle of the night, with incandescence bulbs lighting up her face, she appeared ethereal, as graceful as a pixie and forlorn as a waif. She wore black this evening, a prim dress with white piping, too short for her height yet becoming, as becoming as her long eyelashes and the hair she knotted into a bun beneath the white-laced headdress. She went about her duties briskly, efficiently, wiping down the bathroom, replacing towels, closing blinds, switching on the bedside lamp, turning back the coverlet, and leaving mint chocolates on the pillow. She went to the door, but instead of going, closed it with a backhanded motion. The latch engaged with a gentle click. She washed her eyes over him with a wanting that could mean only one thing.

  She was as young as a budding flower but older than eternity. A ripe eighteen, that perfect age before innocence turned to despair, and despair became defeat. Her complexion had become as translucent as tissue paper. She was shy and tentative, but the deep-brown gaze she lifted to his eyes was direct and sure. She had no questions and prepared herself with no lies. Hearing a sound in the hallway, she glanced nervously around, then executed a curtsey and wished him a swift good night. The door closed on a whisper. She was gone, taking her perfume with her.

  Jack was restless. Even though he was past exhaustion, he wasn’t sleepy. He trolled online, searching for rumors associated with his name or the names of his dead colleagues, anything that might give him a clue. Having found nothing of interest, he shut down the laptop and poured himself another drink from the minibar. It was his third but who was counting.

  The blinds clattered. He swung around. The maid stepped into the room from the veranda. Behind her, the blinds swung back into place. She had changed into an island sundress: colorful, skimpy, low-cut, and brazen. She walked up from the beach barefooted. With a shake of her head, she let down her hair. A breeze shifted the silken tresses around her bronzed shoulders. She was as delightful as a butterfly.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Cecile.”

  “You look sad, Cecile. Lonely.” She approached him, eyes no longer direct but downcast. She smelled of the islands, of sea breezes and coconut, of exotic flowers and innocence. She carried a wine glass with her, half consumed to give her courage. She peered demurely up at him.

  He took the glass from her and set it next to his drink. Her eyes were teary when he bent to kiss her. When the kiss ended, she wrapped her fingers around his wrist and guided him toward the bed. He swept her into his arms and gently lowered her onto the bed, weightless as a child. She reached up and drew him to her. He drowned his fears in the warm flesh of this sweet-smelling woman who had the power to make him forget everything, for an hour or two at least.

  The unraveling of his life had happened step by slogging step. He supposed it began when he was born to an adoring mother and an irresponsible father who abandoned them more than once. He told himself shit happens. Everyone has bad days. Bad months. Bad years. Until he looked back and didn’t see any gaps to the bad. Except for two times. When his aunt and uncle adopted him. And when Liz Langdon crossed his path. The inevitable happened. Like father, like son, Jack walked away from her the same way he had walked away from all his other girlfriends. Better all around. Better to cut off the relationship with a sharp knife before it hurt too much. Except the blade had been saw-toothed and the cut jagged, leaving both with scars. Every now and then, they tried to salve those scars, but they were always there, lying on the mattress of their misgivings.

  After he turned his back on Liz the way a boy turns his back on a kite released into the sky, he took for granted that other women would bring similar light into his darkest nights. And they did. Briefly. But Liz was the best. She could have been the one to save his soul. If only he had listened.

  The girl reposed in a delicious sleep beside him. He made out the shiny strands of her hair against the pillow along with the gentle curve of her profile. Lightly he stroked her satiny skin, untouched by scars except for a small one near the outer corner of her left eye. He urged her awake. She didn’t want to awaken and whimpered in her sleep. He insisted. “It’s time to go,” he said softly.

  “I can stay until morning,” she said dreamily.

  He shook his head. Regret soured her pretty face. She got up and dressed. Slowly. Methodically. Taking up each item of clothing as if it were an appetizer on a tray. Stretching out the leave-taking. Giving him several chances to change his mind. He didn’t change his mind. He couldn’t. He still saw the image of Milly lying beside him, dead on a bed of percale sheets. He vowed never again to let a woman sleep with him until dawn. Except perhaps one.

  She had finally covered the loveliness of her body but not the innocence of her face. He showed the girl to the patio door. Cecile left the same way she entered, through the veranda and out toward the rolling sea where waves washed gently onshore. He watched her disappear until the darkness enveloped her whole and whisked her away.

  He moved naked through the room and poured another drink. Outdoors and in the hallways, people were talking, laughing, their joy echoing everywhere but inside the small cave of his dark heart, where only fear and uncertainty resided. Sea breezes poured in through the patio door, ruffling the slider panels and bringing slivers of outdoor torchlight with it. He stretched out on the bed, folded arms propping up his head, and stared at the moving lightshow playing across the walls of his room. Down the hall, a door slammed. The sound reverberated through the cynical passageways of his mind. He leaned back and let his eyes drift close. He wished the damned girl had taken her perfume with her. The scent lingered like a reminder of the way things could have been. In a little while, he would get up, take a shower, and herald the beginning of a new day. Sleep overtook him before he could carry out this one small plan.

  Later he would blame himself for giving into exhaustion. If only he had stayed awake, he argued with himself, he could have prevented what happened next.

  In the morning, when sunshine poured through the blinds and brought with it a foggy awareness, he got up, found his way to the bathroom, gazed into the mirror, and stared at his haggard face. He heard people down on the beach, wailing and gasping. He wondered what all the fuss was about but quickly dismissed the sounds as someone else’s problem. He had mo
re than enough of his own.

  Only later would he find out he had let his guard down. And that his one small mistake had sent yet another woman to an early grave.

  20

  San José, Costa Rica

  Tuesday, August 12

  ONCE SHE WAS a pretty girl. Her name was Estefania Walsh. She lay sprawled across the floor of the lanai while the motmots and cuckoos and kingfishers of the rainforest called out to each other, squawking madly, ruffling their feathers, and making their final rounds for food before night made its final descent on the jungle.

  Greg poured himself a drink while window breezes ruffled the strands of Estefania’s hair. Her face was a circle of pale essence. With each tick of time, color drained from the pliable softness of her complexion. And with each passing minute, the gap between life and death extended. Her death. In some ways, his too. The birds continued to shriek and flutter. Nearby, a crocodile hissed and growled. Closer by, carefree voices laughed. He wanted to laugh himself. Instead he poured himself another glass of guaro, the slightly sweet taste pleasing to his palette yet leaving a slight burning sensation in his belly. And still she lay, not stirring, one arm folded protectively across her midsection, the other flung above her head, her profile turned towards him, her eyes staring into his soul, a soul he misplaced years ago. She yet breathed, shallowly, irregularly, as if waiting for the clock to stop ticking.

  The setting sun cast an indigo glow onto Estefania’s nude body. The little finger of her right hand sporadically twitched, the digit jumping at nearly the same rhythm as the passing seconds. In syncopation, water dripped into the bathroom sink. Adding to the symphony, a night heron called for its mate, over and over and over again. On the ring finger of her left hand glittered a simple gold wedding band. He remembered sliding it into place on a Saturday afternoon when the sun was at its peak. She diligently wore it all this time, even if theirs hadn’t been much of a marriage and he was the worst of husbands.

  He poured another drink and swallowed the fiery liquid more slowly this time, savoring the bite. The corroding sensation gave him a sadistic pleasure. The next time he glanced at his wife, her chest rose not at all. Most assuredly she was dead, with any luck in a better place.

  Yesterday he showed up at her apartment located in a seedy district of San José. She was used to the life. She had been born there. And would go back there to be buried.

  He met her last year when she was partying with her girlfriends at a local bar. They were like birds in a jungle, all twittery and gay. Estefania was the quiet one, the introspective one. Every now and then she cast him shy glances from beneath her lowered eyelashes, the corners of mouth curling into a trembly smile. He made his move and asked her to dance. The music was deafening but slow, allowing him to take her in his arms and move his hands over the pleasing plumpness of her body. She was slightly overweight compared to most of the sprightly girls of San José, and snug in his arms. She glanced up at him with those round eyes of hers and sent him winning smiles. They ate and drank and talked and danced some more. When the night wore down, he whispered in her ear. She took him by the hand and led him outside, down the block, and across the street to her apartment, where she lived alone on a clerk’s salary. There they made love on a squeaky bed smelling of her perfume. He was as taken in by her as she was by him.

  In the whirlwind of romance, he proposed to her. She accepted. Off they went for a civil ceremony, no waiting period, no blood tests, and no documents required other than his passport, which appeared to be valid but indicated a name other than his legal one. Officiated by a lawyer specializing in quickie marriages as well as quickie divorces, two strangers witnessed the ceremony. The bride and groom signed two documents: a sworn statement attesting to their marital status and the official marriage document. They honeymooned in a villa at Manuel Antonio. The beach lay below their room while the rainforest provided a backdrop. The weekend passed quickly in exquisite lovemaking accompanied by equally exquisite sadomasochism, on his part quite a bit more than on hers. She was a feisty devil in angelic disguise and he had to keep her quiet enough and docile enough so no one would hear. She wept from then on, but in muffled sobs, fearing the slaps that reared out when she least expected them. On their drive back to San José, they stopped off at the Poás Volcano National Park and looked down into the blue lake, steam rising from its depths. There he told her what he would do to her if she said anything to anyone about their nights. Trembly and weepy and appealing to his better nature, she promised she wouldn’t tell a single soul. They went back to town, where she introduced him to her family. The bruises to her pride and her body did not show. She made merry, showing off her ring and her new husband with equal pride. After two weeks of wedded bliss, he left on assignment. Estefania pouted, using those depthless brown eyes of hers to lure him back to her bed. He went. They made love a last torrid time, and in the lovemaking, he instructed her to be a good girl, because if she wasn’t a good girl, he would know it and punish her. Understanding what her punishment would be, she had cowed and shivered but uttered not a peep.

  Presently, he reached down, and with the edge of his hand, closed her eyes. No longer did they stare at him with reproach.

  When he showed up at her doorstep the other day, she was no longer shy. She was a sly one, this girl. She had smartened up in his absence. She told him what she found out. He wasn’t the man she thought he was. He was an imposter. She had proof. She inquired at the consulate and found out he wasn’t an American citizen as he proclaimed on the documents, or if he was, it was by a different name. She declared their marriage invalid. He pointed out to her that she still wore the wedding ring. She took it off and flung it across the room. He fetched it, put it back on her finger, and told he was an undercover agent for the CIA. Once it had been true.

  He couldn’t tell her his real name for obvious reasons but would eventually explain everything. She was gullible enough and trusting enough to believe him. He convinced her to stay home from work. For the rest of the day, he wooed her with soft words and softer caresses, and made love to her on her narrow bed, enjoying the sweetness of her in the same way he enjoyed the sweetness of guaro. He convinced her to come away with him on a second honeymoon. She eagerly agreed, but first she made him promise he wouldn’t do to her what he did to her before. He made a vow to the Holy Virgin that never again would he lift a hand to her. He meant it. At the time.

  He could taste the sweetness of her now, even as she lay dead.

  They had taken route 32 to Limon. An hour later they crossed the Braulio Carrillo National Park before turning left at the Rio Frio intersection. They drove another thirty kilometers. When they reached the Puerto Viejo/La Virgen intersection, he turned left again and drove another seventeen kilometers until they saw the signs. They entered the encampment and checked into the lodge. The architecture was inspired by the pre-Columbian construction prevalent in the region. The circular palenques were covered with thatched roofs of palm fronds, which in turn connected each unit to the natural surroundings, symbolic of the circle of life and the biodiversity of the rainforest. They took dinner in the restaurant, open to the surrounding gardens and countless tropical flowers. It was a romantic evening filled with good food, laughter, and toasts to their happy marriage. After returning to their private palenque, they made sweet love on a luxurious bed while the ceiling fan whirled round and round, beating to a rhythm and cooling their hot bodies. Next day, they toured the reserve. Observed toucans and howler monkeys in their natural habitat. Viewed exotic species unknown in any other part of the world. And went back to their room to make love again, sweet and full of wonder.

  A delicious woman was his Estefania. He would never meet the likes of her again. This, he regretted most of all. He had said something to her out of spite, and she had drawn a sharp fingernail across his cheek, leaving a trail of blood, which he swiped away with the palm of his hand and examined as a scientist would observe a significant find. Then he punched her in the belly.
Her claws came out again. The fight was over very quickly since the next punch must have dislodged something vital. She slowly crumpled to the floor. He caught her before she landed. By then it was too late. She was done for.

  His father always said his temper would get the better of him. He would have known since he used his fist often enough on his namesake.

  Greg finished his last glass of guaro, gently picked Estefania up off the floor, carried her to the bed, and covered her body with thoughtful contemplation. Then he gathered up his belongings and left the lodge, driving out the same way he arrived, this time without his wife.

  21

  Seven Mile Beach, Grand Cayman

  Tuesday, August 12

  A DISTURBANCE ON the beach woke up Jack early in the morning. He climbed out of bed and peered out the patio door but saw nothing, his vantage point cut off. His narrow view was stirringly poetic—the emerald sea, the golden sands, the sapphire sky—just another day in paradise.

  Since he hadn’t slept long enough to smooth out the rough edges, he should have gone back to bed. Except he was wide awake. He shuffled to the bathroom and indulged in a quick shower. When he returned to the bedroom, the drama on the beach was yet playing out, but with the addition of sirens and bullhorns. The chorus of onlookers had grown, its circle widening into view. The concerned voices had diminished to elegiac grief, barely discernible but agitated enough to know something tragic happened.

  Room service arrived with breakfast. A small vase containing a single tropical flower brightened the cart. His appetite was large. For food. For song. For life.

  The voices rose to a noisy din, distracting him. Jack left his breakfast half eaten and stepped outside, making his way down to the beach. The crowd was nearly unmanageable. Police formed a buffer zone and urged onlookers to disperse. Most refused to budge. Their murmurs escalated, words of alarm sent heavenward as invocations. Someone, it appeared, had drowned.