The Golden Chair

by A J Fontenot

What Comes Naturally

  Erin sat behind the wheel, both hands on the steering wheel. Her forehead rested on the wheel, and her lungs filled with quick, rapid breaths.

  She was doing her best to control her breathing, to keep her focus, to remember what she needed to do right now…to not lose sight of what mattered. That Ben was still alive… The thought turned into a question. No, Ben was still alive. She forced herself to believe it, despite the fact that his plan was terrible, that she’d heard the shots, and that she hadn’t — “No,” she said again, this time out loud. The forcefulness of her own voice startled her. “No,” she said, calmer now. “Breath, focus, drive.”

  It took the rest of her willpower, but she managed six deep, controlled breaths. The oxygen was strangely hypnotic. And, despite herself, she started to feel good. Not naive as if everything was going to be okay. But energized. As in, there was still work to do, and not everything was lost.

  She turned the ignition and the old truck’s engine revved to life. She put her hand on the shifter and moved it into gear. As she did, she pushed down on the accelerator. Harder than she meant. But still not letting up. Behind her, the back wheels kicked up dust, and it covered her rear view.

  The thought hadn’t occurred to her until she was back on the main road: she wasn’t entirely sure where the turnoff to SERA’s camp was. Each time she’d gone there, she’d been with Paul or Marisol or Ben.

  She was driving fast now. Fast enough that the truck seemed to glide over the bumps on the old road. In the back of her mind, she registered, this probably wasn’t good for the truck, not in the long-run. The long-run…an idea that seemed—

  Something captured her attention. Ahead, in the road.

  She was being flagged down. Then she realized where she was. She was approaching the outpost where they were stopped last night. It seemed an eternity longer than the fifteen or so hours it had been since they were last here.

  The guards, maybe the same ones, were there, waving for her to stop.

  She felt a dryness in her throat. Then she made a decision. She pushed the accelerator down, harder. The truck was already moving fast. But she felt the RPMs increase, and the speed began to creep higher.

  She didn’t bother steering around the soldiers flagging her down. They would move. They would move if they wanted to. Her inner voice began rationalizing her dangerous actions, in a way she’d never heard before. It was as if she were listening to someone else inside her head. And then, her inner critic, the one she knew so well, began criticizing the new, reckless voice. For the briefest moment, she contemplated a new set of consequences.

  She hushed it all. It was too late now.

  The men jumped out of the way, yelling at her as she raced past. One shot his rifle into the air a few times. The sounds were already muffled and small.

  Her eyes stayed in her rearview mirror until she couldn’t see them. Just like that, they seemed not to care that she’d almost run them over. No pursuit. She looked forward again.

  It was a gamble, what she did. Not to mention completely out of character in just about every way. A small smile came to the corner of her mouth as she thought about it. Her heart still thumping from the adrenaline. It was a gamble, but it worked.

  She reached into the bag in the seat next to her, pulled out her phone and tried Paul. A recorded voice told her his phone was disconnected. She thumbed to her recent calls list and dialed Kwami’s number. She let it ring. No answer. She tossed the phone back into the seat. She’d try again when she got closer to the camp.

  60

  The Turn

  Erin took the turn, faster than she should have, and the truck slid into a tree.

  Once she saw the turnoff for SERA, she recognized it. That was the good news. She had been afraid she might not recognize it. But that old fear was now replaced with a new one: what had she’d just done to the truck? In the three and a half decades she’d been alive, the only time she’d ever been in a car wreck was when someone rear-ended her aunt. She wasn’t even driving the car then.

  She looked around now, taking stock.

  The engine was quiet.

  The truck was still the right way, sitting on all four wheels, though it was leaning at an angle.

  A few trees were flat against her door. She’d slid into them. Her window had already been down. But, she thought, it probably wouldn’t go back up after this.

  She considered getting out to check for any other damage. But whether it was the urgency of her situation…or just her own fear of what she might find, she decided to stay. She reached down and turned the ignition.

  Nothing happened.

  The truck didn’t start.

  She was close to SERA. She thought about walking the rest of the way, but then what? She was here alone. Paul was in a jail somewhere. Kwami and Gavin were hours away in Accra. Marisol was elsewhere doing who-knows-what. And Ben…

  She didn’t want to think about Ben.

  And she didn’t want to think about all that was riding on her right now, either. The lives, and…

  Something about those thoughts narrowed her mind. Like a sharp jab, warning her to keep focus.

  She turned the key again.

  This time, the engine made a noise. It was trying.

  She kept forcing the ignition, pushing it harder. She pushed the pedals now, all of them. Not letting go of the ignition, hearing the engine whine. Forcing the machine with every stimulus she could. It sounded like it was choking on itself. Erin pushed it harder. Banging her palm on the steering wheel, letting her own anger come out, yelling.

  She heard the engine yell back. It roared to life, the RPM gauge racing to catch up to the gas she’d been forcing down into it. She let off the pedals and it slowed to a steady hum.

  She slumped back, closing her eyes and catching her breath. She let the engine do the same.

  Then she put it in gear and inched it forward, slowly. The trees next to her squeaked and ripped just outside her window as she pulled away from them. The side mirror, she noticed, was no longer there.

  She moved cautiously down the tire path that led to the SERA camp. The old truck was holding its own. Building confidence with each new meter it rolled forward.

  A moment later, she saw the clearing. And the trailers. Parked in the same horseshoe pattern they’d been in when she first arrived.

  Except…now, something was different.

  It was all wrong.

  61

  The Camp

  Erin stopped the Land Rover, and it took a moment before she realized what was wrong with the scene in front of her.

  “What in the…” she said, stepping down out of the truck. She left the door open behind her as she walked slowly forward, looking out over the campsite as she did.

  The place had been ransacked.

  One of the trailer doors was open, and another looked like it had been kicked in, hanging diagonally by its top hinge. And the third trailer, their heavy-duty supply trailer, looked like it had nearly been knocked off its wheels. It had large crumple marks in the center.

  She walked, listening, looking. No sign of anyone else around. Whoever did this, they seemed to be gone now.

  Her mind was taking in the scene as she walked through it, brushing her hand over the table she’d sat at yesterday, now knocked on its side. Who would have done this? And why would they have done this? Clearly, she thought, someone was looking for something. But what did SERA have?

  She walked into her own trailer, pushing the door aside. The place was a mess. Everything pulled out. Dumped out. The cabinet doors were left open. Her bag had been emptied onto her bed. Marisol’s, too. She looked through her stuff.

  She picked up her computer and pulled her hand away. It was coated in dark ash. It looked like they’d set off a firecracker in the middle of it. She didn’t try to turn it on.

  Other than her now-fried computer, everything else seemed to be still there.

  She stepped out of her trailer and
walked to the supply trailer, the one that looked like a large truck had rammed it. Upon closer inspection, she thought that description might be right. The door had been ripped clean off. She walked in. The equipment inside also looked like it had been torched. Whoever had come was clearly intent on destroying their electronics.

  Their computers…all of the models Gavin had shown her…all the data SERA had collected independently…

  She walked outside again and picked up a chair and sat, to think.

  It all felt so surreal. Like a strange, weird dream.

  Then…sitting there, she saw him. Still laying there. Still covered where they’d left him. Where he’d been shot, and… A twist of guilt went through her middle. Not that his death had been their fault. It was just that…that she’d forgotten him so quickly. That she and Ben had run off, leaving Mofi here. And now she was back, here with him.

  She put her head down in her hands, not sure if it was fatigue catching up to her, or just the exhaustion of the world she’d stepped into a few days ago. A few days… Had it really only been a few days? How many? she wondered. Three…four? It seemed like months and months since she and Paul were in a pub in downtown D.C., feeling the cold night air as they walked. And then, she remembered the van. The one that mounted the curb, almost running them over. That did seem like an eternity ago. A time when her life was anything but out of order.

  Paul…, she thought, what is going on…

  She stood and walked back to the Land Rover to see if she could reach Kwami on the sat phone. She couldn’t imagine what the point was. She reached into her bag and pulled out the phone. Ben had been overly optimistic. Even if she could reach Kwami, what would he do? Break Paul out? And then what…

  The phone in her hand began to beep. It was a moment before she realized someone was calling her. She pushed the green button, holding it to her ear.

  “Hello?”

  “Where are you?”

  The voice was hard to make out, but it was quick, and quiet.

  “Hello?” Erin said again, wondering if it might be a wrong number.

  “Erin.”

  “Marisol…is that you?”

  A wave of static came through Erin’s ear. She thought she might lose the connection.

  “Marisol,” Erin said again. “I’m at the camp, and it’s been—”

  “Erin, stop,” Marisol cut in, “listen.” The static was gone, but her voice was still low, hard to hear. “I already know about the camp,” she said.

  “They — you do? What happ—”

  “No time. I…,” she hesitated. “I need you to listen to me,” she finished, as if she were forcing her voice to be steady.

  “Okay…”

  “Wait,” Marisol said. “Stay on the line. Don’t hang up.”

  “Marisol?”

  She heard another voice. And then nothing.

  62

  Marisol

  Erin pulled the phone away from her ear and looked down at the screen. The numbers were still counting, the line was still connected. She put the phone back to her ear, listening. She could hear movement. Muffled voices she couldn’t make out. And she could hear a slow, plodding whump, whump sound from somewhere in the background.

  “Marisol,” Erin said, “can you hear me?”

  Still no answer, just the low thumping noise.

  “Erin,” Marisol said, back on the line now. Her voice was low now, like a whisper, “are you still there?”

  “Yes. Marisol, yes, where are you?”

  “Accra,” she said quickly.

  “What—”

  “Listen very carefully. I’m with Keeler. I made a deal—”

  “Keeler?” Erin said. “What do you mean with him? And what kind of…”

  “It doesn’t matter. You need to get in touch with Paul.

  “I can’t, Paul’s in—” Erin started, but Marisol was talking over her.

  “The chair is in one of ITG’s shipping containers on a vessel called The Mariner. It’s scheduled to leave in five hours.”

  “ITG…,” Erin said. “What do they…”

  “The Mariner is sailing under a Panama flag,” Marisol was talking in a rapid whisper now. “Panama doesn’t enforce extradition, so once the vessel leaves, we won’t be able to get it back. The chair,” she said, “it is in an ITG shipping container. I don’t have the container number. But it’ll be on the manifest. And, Erin, you’ll need to look for ‘cocoa beans.’”

  Cocoa beans…what was she…?

  “It’s the only ITG container with ‘cocoa beans.’

  “ITG doesn’t ship cocoa beans,” Erin said. And she knew this for a fact. In West Africa, ITG only dealt in raw minerals and other nonperishables.

  “I know,” Marisol said, “that’s why it will be easy to find. You just need to stop the vessel.”

  Erin was trying unsuccessfully to piece this together. ITG, one of her company’s main clients, was smuggling this ancient Ashanti artifact out of the country in a container of cocoa beans…and Marisol had somehow found out about all of this. And then, in the process, Marisol had made some kind of deal with Keeler…So much of this sounded bizarre.

  “Marisol, why would ITG…”

  “It’s Lennox,” she said. “He’s working with them. No time to explain. The chair’s already loaded. I couldn’t stop it.”

  Marisol said other things, but Erin didn’t hear them. It’s Lennox…she said. Lennox is working with ITG…it was unreal in a kind of movie-conspiracy plot.

  “Why,” she said, “how is Lennox working with…”

  “No time to explain. Erin, you need to—”

  “Marisol,” Erin said, she could feel the urgency as it came out. “Where are you right now?”

  “Port. Now, Erin, listen,” she said, “You need to get Paul. Five. Hours,” she stressed. “Then it’s in international waters. And we can’t touch it. Five hours.” She said again. “Call Paul’s number.”

  Call Paul was exactly what she’d been trying to do. And exactly what she’d been failing at. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen without Paul.

  “Wait,” Erin said, “I can’t get to Paul. There’s got to be another—”

  “I’ve got to go,” Marisol cut in. “Get to Paul.”

  Erin could hear someone else with Marisol. She couldn’t make out the other voice. In the background, she could still hear the low rhythmic whumping sound. She listened hard, trying to make out the words. Fought… or… pill… The conversation was getting louder. “Feel,” she heard Marisol say, not to her. No, Keeler, she was talking to Keeler. Marisol’s voice was louder now. But not angry. Erin still couldn’t make out the words, but she could hear the tones, the emotions. Marisol was worried, or scared, she thought.

  Then, distinctly, as if Marisol had put the phone back to her mouth, she heard her clearly say, no yell, “no.”

  “Marisol,” Erin said into the phone, “Marisol, tell me where you are. I can come to get you.”

  Erin’s hands were sweating. If only Marisol would give her a hint. Some direction. Marisol was in trouble. Erin could hear it. She’d gotten in over her head with Keeler. What was she doing with Keeler? Whatever it was, it was going wrong. Erin was listening to it all happening. And there was nothing she could do.

  “Marisol,” she yelled into the phone again.

  She could hear Marisol, talking fast, panicked, and rushed sounding. She could hear the other voice — Keeler’s voice, but he was calm, controlled. The voices were punctuated by the rhythmic whumping in the background. Erin wished it would stop so that she could hear better.

  Then, without warning, the phone sounded loudly in Erin’s ear.

  The voices stopped.

  “Marisol,” she yelled.

  Nothing.

  She pulled the phone away and looked down at the screen. The numbers were still counting. That meant the phone was still connected. The noise wasn’t from the phone. It was on the other side of the phone.

&
nbsp; She put the phone back to her ear, pushing it hard, “Marisol,” she said again, still straining to hear any detail, any clue from the other end that would tell her Marisol was still okay.

  Then she heard it.

  It was a small sound. It was like a small animal, like a dog. No, it was crying. It was Marisol.

  “Marisol, talk to me. Sweetie, I need you to tell me where you are. Tell me so that I can come and get you.”

  She could still hear Marisol. But she wasn’t responding.

  “Marisol,” she said again.

  Erin heard another wave of static pass over the phone, and then two more deafening explosions. Shots. They were shots she was hearing. Keeler.

  “MARISOL!” Erin yelled.

  And then…the line went completely quiet, no more static, no more low rhythmic whumping…just quiet.

  Erin pulled the phone away again, quickly looking at the screen, not wanting to miss anything Marisol might say. But…the counter had stopped.

  The line was disconnected.

  She pushed the menu button, harder than she needed to, trying to find the recent calls. She found it. The phone almost slipped out her hands. Sweaty. She selected the top incoming call and pushed redial. Erin put the phone back to her ear.

  A recorded voice answered, telling her the number had been disconnected.

  She hung up, tried again.

  Same message.

  She dropped the phone.

  She didn’t notice her own movements, what her body was doing. She was on the ground now. On her knees. She bent over forward. Her head in the red dirt. Pushing it with her hands. Grabbing and pushing. A tear hit the ground and almost just as quickly faded into the dirt.

  Her mind was not ready to accept it. Not yet. That would be giving up. Erin still needed to help Marisol. But right now, her body wasn’t responding. Marisol wasn’t gone…not like that. More tears were coming now. She kept saying it over and over in her mind, Marisol’s not gone, Marisol’s not gone. And as she cried, saying the words out loud now, or trying to, because the only words that would come out were, “gone…gone…”