The Golden Chair

by A J Fontenot

  Marisol was gone.

  Somewhere inside, she knew that.

  63

  Paul

  Paul sat in a mostly dark cell on the edge of his bunk. He was hunched forward, his elbows rested on his knees, while his fingers formed a point in front of his mouth.

  A clank on the bars next to him.

  He didn’t respond.

  “Hey,” said the man on the other side.

  Paul continued to ignore him. His face was mostly dark. He could have fallen asleep in that position. But he wasn’t asleep. He was far from asleep.

  “Hey,” came the voice again. “You uh, you gonna eat this?”

  The guard was referring to a tray he’d left two hours ago.

  Paul turned his head to look at the man.

  The man was looking at Paul. He opened his mouth to say something, but instead just squinted his eyes. “So…,” he said finally, “that’s a…no?”

  Paul shook his head slightly and looked back ahead.

  He heard the heavy clink of the man unlocking the jail cell.

  “Okay,” the guard said, “just you stay where you are, right.”

  Paul had no intention of moving.

  The metal-bar door moved open a few feet, and the man picked up the tray, holding a rifle lazily in the other hand. He put the tray outside and pulled the door shut again, with the same hand. It locked automatically.

  Unlike American jails, Ghanaian jails put you in the cell with most of what you came in with. No change of clothes. The only thing the jailer had taken from him was his phone, which was now somewhere out of sight. Probably gone. But it was a cheap phone he’d picked up in one of the local markets.

  Across from Paul was a seatless toilet. It was so dirty it looked like an exaggerated movie prop. And beyond that, the cell next to him was empty. The cell behind him had a man who’d been here before Paul arrived yesterday. He was sleeping now. He’d tried to talk to Paul earlier. But Paul hadn’t responded.

  Paul continued to sit still. He’d moved in the last few hours, but it wasn’t to eat, it was to check his watch. He was keenly aware of what time it was. Because timing would be everything.

  The guard was at the cell door again. “I’m going to bring this back later, right,” he said, motioning to the tray of food.

  “Mm-hmm,” Paul said, not looking at him.

  He wanted something. Maybe a bribe to slip Paul his phone. Maybe a bigger bribe to turn the other way so he could take a trip outside. Or sneak a girl in.

  Paul didn’t want any of that.

  As the guard lingered, Paul moved his hands back up to his mouth, resting his elbows on his knees, and formed a little tent with his fingers. Waiting.

  64

  The number

  Erin felt herself crumbling. That was the only description that seemed accurate. For as much as she was here to help, everything she touched — whether it was her fault or not — it was all falling apart. And here she was, watching it happen and unable to stop any of it.

  It had been tough enough, having Mofi dying right next to her. She’d never seen anyone die before. Much less from a gunshot wound like that.

  And then, just after she and Ben found the hard evidence they needed to expose the coverup, and to bring the people who killed Mofi and the loggers to justice, they took Ben. Or, rather, Ben sacrificed himself so that she could escape. So that she could get their proof into the world.

  That still didn’t sit well with her. No matter what they were accomplishing, getting the story into the open…at what cost?

  And now…now it was Marisol. Erin was still holding onto the phone where she’d last heard Marisol, as if letting go of it would somehow let go of her…of her memory…as if it would somehow make it all unmistakably real. How could everything have fallen apart so fast?

  The proof, she thought…exposing some corporation’s greed. Stealing some culture’s heritage…those loggers who died…it had seemed so distant before. So clinical. It was an injustice, for sure. But it wasn’t personal. Not like…not like it was now.

  Erin was still on the ground. Sitting now, with her knee propped up and her arm and head resting on it.

  She thought about Ben. He could still be alive. If he was right, they’d want him for leverage. But she didn’t want to think about that. Because when she did, a rational little voice in the back of her mind told her there was a good chance that time had passed, that they’d…she had trouble even forming the thought.

  It was that same rational voice that told her to keep moving. That was, after all, the whole point of what Ben had done. To give her the chance to escape. To give her the chance to get the proof — the story — out, so that those responsible would be exposed.

  She looked around and reached for her phone. It had fallen when she did.

  For the third time, she called Kwami’s phone and, again, it rang.

  “An-swer…,” she said, through gritted teeth. “Come on…pick up.”

  She put the phone down, not bothering to hang it up. No one was answering.

  Paul…she thought, what do I do…

  As she sat there, she felt the small memory card in her pocket. Ben’s pictures. And then, from out of nowhere, she remembered something Marisol had said. She said, “Call Paul’s number.” Paul gave her a number to call when she’d first arrived. It was at the same time he’d given her that fake badge. She’d completely forgotten about it.

  She got off of the ground and went back to her trailer. She was rummaging through the already wrecked trailer. Making the scene even more of a mess. Found them. The shorts she was wearing on the first day. She turned out the pockets and found the wrinkled paper. Paul’s number. Her phone…she ran back outside and picked up the phone she’d left on the ground, and, looking down at the crumpled piece of paper, she began dialing.

  She put the phone to her ear, listening. But there was no sound.

  She pulled it away and looked at the screen. A faint battery icon flashed and faded.

  The phone’s battery was dead.

  She swore loudly.

  “Think…think,” she said to no one. She went to the supply trailer. All of the large computer equipment was completely demolished. Whoever did this was focused. But they weren’t particularly thorough. She looked on one of the shelves in the back. She remembered Gavin mentioning something in passing. He’d occasionally needed to use his laptop for extended periods in remote areas. And so he was set up to work completely out of the truck. He had a way to convert the DC power from the truck to the AC power his laptop needed. Which was, as it would have it, exactly what Erin needed right now.

  She moved things around until she found what she was looking for. She pulled down a small hardshell case and opened it. Spare laptop batteries. Extra cables. And…an AC/DC inverter. It was a small red box with a fan inside. It had a couple AC plugs on one side, and a DC cord hanging out the other side, which fit into a cigarette lighter in a vehicle.

  She pulled it out, spilling a few other supplies off the shelf and ran back to the Land Rover. Starting the engine, she shoved the DC plug into the old cigarette lighter. The small fans inside the red box whirled, and a little green LED light lit up. She reached into her bag and pulled out the plug for her phone and plugged it in.

  She pushed the power button on her phone and stared at the dark screen.

  The triangle logo appeared. It was coming on. She let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.

  The phone was back on now. She pulled out the crumpled paper from her pocket and dialed it again. She put the phone to her ear, leaning down slightly, so as not to pull the power cord out, and listened.

  It was silent, but she could hear something, like it was working.

  Then, a low-toned beep. And then another.

  But it wasn’t a ring.

  And then the phone stopped making any sounds. She pulled the phone away and saw the numbers still counting. It was still connected. Maybe, she thought, it had to re-r
oute. The number wasn’t a Ghanaian number. So maybe that was it.

  She put the phone back to her ear and heard two more low beeps. It almost sounded like an automated system. As if she were calling some customer service line.

  Another low beep, and then, nothing. Silence. The call had ended.

  She pulled the phone away, wondering if her signal had been weak. Maybe it had dropped. She looked down at her paper and dialed the number again.

  This time, nothing. No low beeps. No connection sounds. Nothing. It just immediately disconnected.

  And then…like an old movie that had run off of its reel, all of the last few moments energy, all of the hope of remembering there was still a chance…all of it had just…disappeared.

  Just like that, she realized, there was no one else. There really was no one left to call. No one to come and save them. It was her.

  Just her.

  The words echoed for a moment in her mind.

  And the only thing she could do was run away. No, not away. But back to home. Where she could break the story. It would be a blow to everyone responsible. A win. …if you could call it that.

  But, she heard a different voice in her head now, a quieter voice…running back home wouldn’t save anyone. Not anyone who still needed saving… Not Paul… and, she tried to swallow, though her throat was too dry now …and not Ben.

  65

  Ben

  The radio in the front of the truck scratched as the truck hit a bump. Ben’s head thumped the side wall of the truck, adding to his already throbbing pain.

  But there wasn’t much he could do about that. His arms were pinned behind him, tied.

  He tried to see where they were going. He was facing forward, but his left eye was swollen shut, and his right one was struggling now. He didn’t put up a fight when they caught him. But that didn’t seem to matter much to them. He’d worked in these kinds of places long enough to spot mercenaries when he saw them. They were paid. But they weren’t here for the money. They were here for the sport. Which is what he’d become when they caught him.

  He twisted himself, and pain shot through his back and arm. He looked behind him, through the rear window.

  The best he could tell they were in Accra now. It was either Accra or Kumasi, the regional capital further north, in the opposite direction. Both big cities. And both about the same distance from the logging site.

  He twisted again, looking forward, angling his head lower so that he could see up through the front. As he did, the man in the front passenger seat turned back to him. Smiling.

  “Bryan, your friend, he’s not, uh…with us anymore,” he said with a laugh. He blew cigarette smoke down in Ben’s face as he did. Ben could smell the acrid imported tobacco.

  He closed his eyes, letting out a deep sigh as he did.

  The truck continued to rock forward.

  Ben opened his eyes again and caught a glimpse of something he hadn’t noticed before. A series of towering cranes. They must be in Accra. Near the port.

  The truck slowed at a guard stop.

  Ben’s heart thumped, a moment of hope. This meant one of two things. Either the guard would inspect and see him, and, maybe, he’d be able to go free. Perhaps, at least, buy some time. Or — the truck lurched forward, moving again — or they’d already paid off the guards and no help was coming from them.

  The man in the passenger seat took a deep drag on his cigarette and picked up his radio.

  “We’re here,” he said into it, “and we’ve got the one you saw.”

  “Is he still alive?” came a rough voice from the radio.

  The smoking man looked back at him, with a grin that almost bordered on joy. “Enough,” he said, back into the radio.

  Ben closed his eyes. Which really meant he stopped struggling to keep his right eye open. And rested his head back on the wall of the truck, letting out a low labored sigh as he did.

  66

  Erin

  The story.

  That’s what was in front of her.

  That’s what needed to be in front of her. She needed to take the evidence in hand, write it up, and get it to McGillis. This would easily headline the International section. Maybe even make A1.

  She stood up and started to pace. Walking back and forth, not conscious of what she was doing.

  Putting the implications for her own career aside for a moment, this, she reasoned, was the right thing to do. After all, the ones responsible need to be exposed. It was the greater good. And, she continued, it was the very reason Ben did what he did. He knew the risk… He would want her to leave, to focus on getting the story out.

  Yet…still...

  There was something gnawing at her, somewhere just below the surface she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Something she didn’t yet understand.

  Then, as if from another planet, she heard a small bird. It was in a tree somewhere behind her, or in front of her. And it was chirping constantly. It must have been doing this for a while, but it was the first time she’d noticed it.

  Next, something strange happened.

  The jungle around her came alive. It wasn’t just that little bird, it was a cacophony of sound. Of crickets, singing in waves. Of some small animal running through the branches high above her. And even the wind, too, was constantly in motion.

  For the first time since she’d been in this world, she’d noticed how much was going on without her. Without her problems. And no matter what happened to her, or what she did, it would all continue on without her.

  Instead of making her feel less significant, this all had a calming, subliminal effect. It was as if, in that moment, everything was right. Everything was okay. And what she should do became as clear to her as the world living and breathing in front of her.

  The sun was now falling, not yet low, but not high anymore. She could feel it soaking into her bones. Waking her up. And filling her with life.

  Now, finally, she understood the difference between what was good for her to do, and what was right for her to do. Finally…she understood why she was here.

  67

  The Port

  Erin got into the Land Rover, started it, and felt the calm hum of the motor in front of her. The sun shone into the back of the truck, filling the inside with yellow.

  She pulled off, heading to the port in Accra to find Ben.

  She knew it would take her to Keeler. The man who killed Marisol. And, she knew, he might kill her before it was all over with.

  She knew all of this. And yet, as she pushed on the accelerator, and as the tires below her gripped the dry dirt and threw up a cloud of red dust, she was okay with it.

  68

  Ibsen

  Carl Ibsen picked up his phone and dialed.

  “Erin,” he said, hearing the static on the other end, “can you hear me?”

  “Barely,” she said. “I’m on the road, it’s a bit remote.

  Another wave of static came over the line before it cleared.

  “But Carl,” she said, “I’m glad you called. A lot’s happened. I’m headed to the port now and —”

  “I know,” Ibsen said. “I…know.”

  “You know?”

  “Erin…I have to…” he said, with a heavy sigh, as he sat behind his deep mahogany desk in R4’s headquarters.

  Behind him, the large windows looked down on Washington D.C.’s busy K Street. People walking by dressed in their dark business attire, the uniform of D.C. How many of these people were instrumental in deals being made all over the world at this moment? New York, Los Angeles, even San Fransisco are cultural centers. But it’s D.C., where the real power brokers are. It’s not about volume. Or even about commerce. It’s about leverage. Power. That’s what a city like D.C. really translates in to.

  Ibsen sat with the windows behind him. His elbows were propped on his desk, one hand massaging his forehead, with the other holding the phone to his ear. He was deciding on what — no, how — to say this next part.

&
nbsp; “Carl,” Erin said, slower now, “how did you know I was heading to the port?”

  “A few…” he hesitated. “A few developments have happened here.”

  As he said the words, he felt his own fatigue catching up with him. He was good at walking the political line. It was an intuition he’d developed over the years. He could read the situation and react, almost at an instinct-level.

  But he wasn’t good at doing it on behalf of others.

  He wasn’t good at helping others survive.

  “Erin,” he said, “I’m going to cut to the chase here. Don’t go to the port.”

  “I have to. They have Ben, and —”

  “Who’s Ben?”

  “He works with Paul. Doesn’t matter. But Paul’s been arrested. And I have proof of the…”

  “Erin,” he stopped her. “Forget the proof, the story. And forget whoever else is wrapped up in this.”

  The line was silent for a moment.

  “Erin, I need you to do this.”

  “Tell me why, Carl,” she said.

  “It’s a setup,” he said, lowering his voice. “If you go to the port, you’re not going to come out.”

  “You mean Jonah Lennox is going to have me killed.”

  “Yes. Something like that.”

  “How long have you known about this, Carl?”

  She kept saying his name. And she was doing it in that calm voice. Not the voice of someone who just heard they were about to be ambushed and killed.

  “It’s not that simple,” he said, resting heavier on his hands now.

  “How long,” she repeated in a measured tone.