When Minerva indicated I was 500 feet from Stafford I slowed down. I stopped when I saw the sea cut inland just ahead of me. From the Minerva map I could see I had reached an inlet, the other side of which the blue dot pulsated. If I continued straight ahead, I would find myself on the beach and would most likely be spotted by Stafford and company. Clearly that was not an option. Even if I moved up to the edge of the thicket I was in and peered out across the beach, I might be seen. I took the binoculars and peered through the brush and trees to the water ahead of me, scanning to the right, along the opposite end of the inlet. Soon I could see nothing but the blurry green of leaves. I moved a few steps closer to the beach and checked again. I ran into the same problem. I did this a few more times, moving a few feet further each time, till at last I spotted something bright white. It was the top of a canopy tent. Beneath it I could just make out a guard with an AK-47 in the shadows. He was pacing back and forth in a small circle and appeared to be on look out. My pulse rate jumped. He flicked a cigarette onto the beach and raised up his AK-47, pointing it toward the end of the inlet on his side, evidently he heard something. Even though he was not pointing the gun anywhere near in my direction, my pulse raced and I started feeling faint. I had only been watching him for about thirty seconds and I already wanted to turn back. What the fuck was I doing? Normally I didn’t smoke tobacco unless it was in a blunt, but I wanted to start now. I considered whether I should inch forward to get a better view, stay put, or go back to the car. I decided to get down on the ground and inch forward commando-style while checking my vantage point in increments.
I slowly knelt down, making hardly any noise. I lifted my head and looked through the binoculars. I could see nothing but blurred green in the direction of the meeting. I crawled forward till I thought I might be able to see through some breaks in the foliage. This time I saw the base of the canopy tent I had seen before and the feet of the soldier with the AK-47. I was close enough to read the brand on his boots, Belleville. The same brand Stafford wore to the last meeting I watched. Ever so slowly I did the leopard crawl, inching forward. I raised the binoculars.
I had a solid view of what I guessed was one half of the group. I saw two full canopies and the edge of a third that faded into nearby leaves on the right side. Moving forward again I was able to bring the whole meeting into view, all four canopies. I plugged the earbuds back into the phone and activated the audio transmission from Stafford’s phone through Minerva. I watched Stafford talking to one of his armed soldiers under the third canopy from the left. He wore a polo and slacks with his boots. He wore circular shades under the crown of his English cap. The other soldiers were silent, manning their posts. Three men in suits stood talking under the canopy on the right. Old Bristly sat in a plastic chair at one of the tables under the canopy Stafford was under. His face was bright red with an expression equal parts worry and dejection.
I began to worry for him. I noticed as Stafford jabbered on that no sound was coming through the headphones and I checked to make sure they were plugged in properly. They were and the program was running fine so I figured the only plausible explanation was that Stafford had left his phone in one of the Escalades as a security measure. Smart bitch.
I returned the earbuds to my pocket and lifted the Leica again. The soldiers were all looking at Stafford now as he talked to Old Bristly. He handed the old man an envelope. The envelope contained what were apparently photographs that Bristly looked at with increasing irritation. Stafford ripped the photographs violently from his hands and threw them, scattering them in the sand. I could see that the old man’s hands were shaking with fear as Stafford did this. He put his head down in his hands. Stafford was cool and collected as he watched the man come to tears. Apparently offended by this, Stafford grabbed him by his shirt and threw him down on the sand. He followed this up with some yelling. I could hear it in the distance, but couldn’t make out the words.
The old man must have done something wrong, but, still, I felt increasingly sorry for him. In these moments, I hated Stafford and couldn’t believe I had slept with him. I could feel myself turning white with anger. As the old man collected himself, supporting himself by his hands and knees, the soldier Stafford had been talking to took out a Glock and pointed it at the old man. I felt sick with apprehension and yet I’d known it was coming to this. Stafford’s anger in his notes had been too strong, too real for this not to be happening. In my mind I heard the gunshots, saw the bullets ripping through his old, frail body—saw him fall like a house of cards. I felt helpless. What could I do?
The soldier fired a warning shot into the sand next to him, a small puff of sand shot up where it hit. Stafford yelled at him. The old man looked up at his would-be murderer and Stafford. Oh my God, it’s going to happen. I gasped.
Then my worst nightmare became a reality—the first soldier I had spotted under the canopy on the left looked away from the exchange between Stafford and the man kneeling before him, and in my direction. He quickly pointed his assault rifle, seemingly right at me, and yelled out something to the others. All at once, everyone else looked up in my direction. Without lowering the binoculars, I looked away from them and at the surrounding thicket. It was dense. There was a hole a few inches wide through which I viewed them. It had to have been impossible for them to see me—or was it? I looked through the lenses once more. Stafford was directing two of the soldiers from the canopy on the far right and they started in my direction, in a rapid power walk, rifles raised. Everyone else was looking in my general direction but I was not sure they were seeing me. I didn’t take time to make sure.
At first I wanted to leave the binoculars, but quickly decided I should take them with me—leave no evidence. I turned about face and moved into a crouching position. Then I bolted through the thicket like I had never bolted anywhere before. I ran so fast and my heart pounded so hard, everything appeared in slow motion and I was extremely light headed. I didn’t look back, not primarily because I was scared of what I might see, but because I didn’t want to run into a tree while I wasn’t looking straight ahead. After a hundred feet or so I came out of the crouch, stood up right and entered a full on run. Entering a small clearing I looked back for a fleeting moment. I couldn’t see anyone following me, but I didn’t stop running. Once into the next patch of jungle I realized that in the excitement of my arrival I had forgotten to pick out any visual markers to remind me where I was to turn inland for the Porsche.
I had an idea. I looked at the time on my phone, 11:32. I’d check again in a short while. Once five minutes had past I’d cut inland. After I was a few hundred feet inland I’d check to see if they were on my tail, if they weren’t I’d figure out where the car was by the map; if they were, I didn’t know what I’d do. The next time I checked my phone, after was seemed like probably thirty minutes, it was 11:38. I looked to my left but the undergrowth was too thick to get through with any efficiency. I certainly didn’t want to get caught in that. After a moment’s consideration, I rethought my conclusion. The undergrowth was so thick, it was perfect to hide in. I ducked and rolled, but this only got me to the edge of the undergrowth.
I pushed and clawed my way into the undergrowth. In seconds I was deep enough in it that I wore it like a blanket. I silently prayed that I wouldn’t run into any poisonous snakes and that I wouldn’t be found by the soldiers. I caught my breath silently and listened for any sign of the men. In the distance I heard the breaking of some twigs and some movement in the brush. The sound got progressively closer. As I got more scared, it became difficult to hear the sound of the approaching men over my heartbeat. I got a feeling I’d only had in nightmares of being chased. In the dreams I could always wake myself up before my adversaries caught up with me. Now I had no such option. I couldn’t see anything outside of the undergrowth I was in, but a few tiny gaps between leaves.
To my horror, a few of the gaps grew dark as someone came between them and the sky. I heard the crunching of grass beneath his boots
as he trudged through the foliage about six or eight feet away. He walked slowly. I felt sure he would find me—and kill me.
He called out to his companion, “I don’t know. It could have been an animal.”
“We need to make sure,” came a voice I judged to be about twenty feet away, in the direction of the beach.
“What kind of animal would cause a reflection like that?”
They’d seen the sun reflecting off the lenses of the binoculars. Christ, how could I be so stupid?
The crunching sound came closer, and, past my feet, I could actually see the Belleville boots breaking through the undergrowth. I held my breath. I tried to think of some explanation to give if he found me. I couldn’t think of anything. I started to pray for a swift death, an AK-47 round straight through the brain—lights out.
“Do you hear something?” said the one close by.
There was a long pause. A lull that seemed to suck the life out of me as I prayed desperately to I know not what.
After what seemed like an eternity came the response: “No, nothing.”
“I don’t either. Let’s go back and tell them what happened. They’ll probably just have us take one of the SUVs and scan the roads.”
“Let’s wait another minute.”
I resumed breathing silently.
“No, nothing. Let’s go back.”
I waited for the sound of them leaving and watched the boots stationed a few feet from me as they stayed put. Finally, they turned and vanished in the direction they came. I stayed still, listening, till the sound of the men walking disappeared completely. I waited another ten minutes at least, in utter silent stillness. Before getting up I checked my phone. It was 11:52. The last twenty minutes had seemed like two hours. I stood up slowly and cautiously, feeling somewhat exhausted but still energized by pure adrenaline. Euphoria like I had never known poured through me all at once, producing a floating feeling. I tried to hold it off, telling myself I wasn’t out of the woods yet, literally or figuratively. Just then I heard the echo of a gunshot rip through the jungle. It sounded like it came from such a distance that it had gone off at the canopied tents. Sadly, I wondered if the old man had met his end. Some way or other I would find out. Inexplicably I felt that if he was dead I should avenge his death though I did not know how I was going to do this and did not think far enough into the matter to come up with any ideas. I had more immediate problems at hand. Removing the HTC from my pocket, I clicked through to the map in Minerva. A dialog box came up instead of the map, Offline, please check your internet connection and try again. The message was especially frustrating considering the fact I had written the program and had entered those words into that dialog box myself. I clicked out of Minerva and saw there was no signal. My heart sank. I decided I would march on and see if I got signal anywhere else. I felt a sense of the utmost urgency to get back to the car and hightail it out of there since the soldiers had mentioned scanning the area in one of the Escalades. The euphoria left me and a sense of terror took hold along with panic. I concentrated on breathing and moved on.
When I saw a white glint reflecting in the sun through the foliage to my left it felt like a small miracle. I knew at once what it was. I cut through to the source of the glint, the 911 Turbo. Before taking it out on Public Highway, I crept out to a position where I could see in a westerly direction along the road. With the binoculars I scanned the undulating highway. There was no sign of any type of vehicle. I got in the Porsche, took a deep breath and drove out. The highway was clear in both directions. I headed east and took the car up to sixty. Once I headed south, after the bend, I punch it up to 160 m.p.h. till I got to Queen’s Highway. I decided to gun it down to Governor’s Harbour so no one would be able to report that I made it back at around the time I assumed the meeting must have ended.
Strolling along the beach in the breeze at Governor’s Harbour I felt exhilarated. I sat down on the sand and watched some children build sandcastles. My phone buzzed with a new message. I took it out of my pocket and opened the message.
Chapter 8
Email, Julie Cameron to Sophia Durant
August 7
My Dear Good Friend,
I haven’t heard from you in weeks so I decided to pen you a bit of a longer letter than usual (to entice you to write me at length), like the letters we used to exchange when we were in college, outlining our lives and detailing the minutest events in them. I’ve even started taking notes about little points to discuss with you when I’m inspired. I wish you’d do the same so we’d have full, well rounded conversations on all the things that affect each of us in our lives when you return. I’ve been expecting to get a note from you to say you’re returning soon. For some reason I thought you were due back in St. Augustine two weeks ago. You didn’t say you’d be back specifically then, but I felt you alluded to it in some of your messages.
Today I fell down in the yard and got a nasty gash on my hand when I reached for a sharp rock to break my fall. It was in the middle of a violent thunderstorm. You may ask what I was doing out in weather like that. Well, I needed to put my bicycle in the shed to shield it from the rain. When I cut myself I bled quite profusely, and, stunned for a moment, I watched the flowing, dark blood mix with water and stir in the shape of a spiral, down into a hole in the walkway. Lightning struck and I suddenly recalled a time when we were kids climbing along the rocks at a beach in Naples when a thunder and lightning storm had come in full force above us. You lost your grip and fell, hitting your head on the rocks on the way down to the sand. I don’t remember much else, but I recall your head bleeding into the sand and something about the blood running through your hair and forming a spiral pattern. I remember you had a headache for the rest of the afternoon and were bedbound for part of the next day. (Isn’t there some significance to the abundant appearance of spirals in connection with life throughout the universe? You’re the smart one and would know more about this than I.) With all this flashing through my mind, it gave me the eerie feeling that all might not be well with you, and perhaps there was something wrong, that being the reason you hadn’t contacted me. You can imagine poor little me, lying there in the rain, thinking about all this as the heavy thunder ripped right through the yard, shaking me to the core. I wasn’t even dressed properly, wearing only a nightgown. I don’t mean to sound dramatic, but is everything alright? I suppose I don’t need to tell you that I managed to get out of the rain and somewhat recover my senses enough to compose this letter.
I feel that the two of us have a deep connection, deeper than either of us may know, and I’m just concerned and probably a bit lonely. Most likely all this is in my head and you’re doing just fine. I only wish one thing from you, promise me you will make all the right decisions in the near future and do all the right things and return safely to me soon—whenever it is you’re due back in gloomy North Florida. Only time will tell whether the experience I had in the yard was a premonition or if it was just the silly paranoia of a hyperactive mind. Do tell me of your experiences on Eleuthera Island. It must be amazing—such an incredible adventure you must be having. All you have to do is say the word and I’ll pop down for a weekend visit. Imagine the fun we’d have on those paradise beaches. I’ve googled the island to see what it’s like. The photographs of the place are incredible. I’d love it down there, I’m sure.
I had a dream last night. I wanted to tell you about it before I go since we always discuss dreams. I was like a ghost with an omnipresent view. I wasn’t in the scene but I could see it all clearly. It was a scene on the ocean, somewhere in the Atlantic. There was a gargantuan storm. Waves fifty feet high. And there was an isolated small boat in the middle of the storm. A wooden boat with oars, and you were on it. You were wearing a gray cloak, trying to navigate in the storm. I was curious about what you were doing so far out to sea, all alone, and not even trying to find your way back. You had your eyes closed. I noticed water coming through holes in the bottom of your boat. I wanted so badly to w
arn you, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t take watching you like this anymore so I forced myself to wake up. As I did this, I noticed your eyes were closed, like you were willfully going down with the boat. I suppose these are the projections of a fevered brain, and a heart that’s missing you something awful. But I wanted to let you know to see what you thought.
Later—I had to run to answer the phone. I just came back and picked up the pen again. When I’m done I’ll type all this up and send it to you. I just wanted to say one last thing. Just on the phone with Robert George. You remember him, the tall, dark, brooding Texan who does something in the maritime industry out of Jacksonville? I know you’re aware of our casual relationship. Out of the blue, he called me. We haven’t seen each other or spoken in weeks. He called to ask if he could come over. He has something to say to me. Says it’s important. If it’s a marriage proposal, which is what I suspect it to be by the giddy way he was acting on the phone—like a schoolboy—I won’t know what to do. Obviously I have to turn him down. But, ugh, how weird do some guys act? Initially I told him not to come, but he practically begged. I’m a softy. I’ll let you know how that goes, anyway…
Either come back in a few days or I’m coming down. It’s your choice. I expect to hear back from you very soon.
JULIE
Email, Sophia Durant to Julie Cameron
August 7
Best Friend,
I think you need to stay inside during stormy weather. I’m sorry you’ve been so lonely. Truly wish I could be there to comfort you. I keep expecting to return soon. But this stay keeps extending into the future. Originally I thought we were staying for one meeting my boss randomly threw together down here. It turned into two meetings and now maybe more. I’m truly sorry and I refuse to believe that you can miss me more than I miss you. My heart aches just thinking about you. You’re right, it’s been quite an adventure so far. A lot of things I can’t really go over in an email, but I’ll definitely bring you up to speed when I see you. I feel I need someone desperately to talk to to get my head sorted out. I’ve got so many conflicting feelings, so many conflicting thoughts, I don’t know where to begin. I am afraid for some things. Some clouds have appeared on the horizon, but I can’t go into details. It’s not the appropriate time or place. I’d just make you worry more and I don’t want to do that. Inveterate worrier that I know you are. Believe me when I say everything will turn out alright in the end. It’s just that a lot has happened since my arrival on the island and I haven’t had time to process it all. My employer’s stranger than I could have possibly imagined, he’s a fascinating man, but there are complications now between us. I have a lot of loose ends in the workplace and I don’t know quite what to tie up where, or how to do so for that matter. I really wish you were here. If there is no news about travelling back to the mainland in a few days I’ll let you know and see if I can arrange accommodation for you if you really want to visit.
Paradise - Part Two (The Erotic Adventures of Sophia Durant) Page 5
