by J. P. Lane
But it was a magnificent night now, fresh and cool as it always was at those times of year when a full moon lit the island. The only sound for miles was his car making its way up the mountain, the purr of the engine punctuated now and then by the sound of water rushing over boulders on its journey to join the river a little way downstream. Mike turned the AC off and lowered the windows. This was why he loved the mountains; this stillness that covered them at night in a blanket of peace. During these wee hours of the morning, you could connect with the primeval essence of the land, travel through it to a time before the first Europeans had come ashore and left their footprints on the land and the culture. Oh island in the sun…built to me by my father’s hand…all my days I will sing in praise…of your forest waters…your shining sand he whistled softly as he rounded the final cliff-shadowed curve to see the familiar lights of Logan’s cottage greeting him from around the bend.
Logan still hadn’t arrived by the time Mike pulled up in front of the cottage and got out of the car. As he climbed the front steps up to the porch, he wondered how he would get in. Ivy, the housekeeper, certainly wouldn’t be up at that late hour. He hesitated at the door, wondering if it made sense to knock. Ivy opened it before he had a chance. Her face fell as she saw him.
“Oh, hello, Mr. Mike. It’s you. I thought it was Mr. Logan arriving.”
Mike ignored the look. “Didn’t expect to find you up at this hour Ivy,” he grunted, striding past her into the living room. “I’ll wait in here for him.”
“As you wish, sir,” Ivy retorted crisply then disappeared.
Mike sank into a lounge chair and made himself at home. He always felt comfortable in this old cottage. He had tried to persuade Logan to sell it to him many times. Untouched by the ravages of three category four hurricanes, it commanded a sweeping view of the valley below, its spacious wrap-around porch a reminder of a time when life moved at an unhurried pace. Like most of the island’s homes of that era, its seasoned wood floors were polished by a century of footsteps. Diagonally across the room from Mike sat a carved mahogany settee Mike was aware had been in Logan’s family for generations. His eyes stopped at the fireplace. Houses with fireplaces were virtually a thing of the past on the island, though at certain times of year it became chilly enough in the mountains for a fire. Ivy looked after the cottage well, Mike had to admit. The place was spotlessly clean. He could see her loving touch in the odd item of heirloom silver, which showed not a sign of tarnish. There were freshly cut flowers in the vases too, though Mike hedged a guess flowers came out only when Logan was expected.
It dawned on Mike Ivy was getting on in age. She was amazing. She could have retired years before, but she still kept house for Logan as she had for his family since anyone could remember. Mike had known Ivy from the time he and Logan were in short pants. Before then, she had been Logan and Virginia’s nanny. Ivy’s frosty greeting didn’t surprise him. He was fully aware Ivy wasn’t particularly fond of him. He suspected it had something to do with Virginia. He had noticed Ivy had cooled to him around the time he and Virginia broke up. Mike picked up a Car & Driver magazine lying on the table near him and started browsing through it unseeingly. Once again, he wondered why Logan had insisted on meeting at that late hour. He had the information Logan wanted. He didn’t see why it couldn’t have waited until morning. Something was afoot. The information alone said it all.
THREE
Lauren Anderson’s hand shook as she placed the phone back on its base. The final arrangements were now made. Her conversation with the man overseas had been brief. It had simply been a matter of deciding where and when to meet in London. Once there, she would deliver the package. As apprehension twisted her stomach into a knot yet again, Lauren reminded herself that this was no time for cold feet. Besides, she had full confidence that whatever she had become involved in was nothing to worry about. Yet she couldn’t help wondering what the whole thing involved. The little she knew was far from the entire story. One thing was certain, it was vitally important to someone that the package was delivered. In addition to all expenses paid, she was receiving an astronomical ten thousand pounds for simply flying to London to deliver it.
Lauren threw herself on the sofa remembering how she had got roped into the unlikely assignment. It had started with a seemingly casual invitation from Margaret Thomas, the indomitable Minister of Finance. She hadn’t been in contact with Margaret for some time, when out of the blue Margaret had called and invited her to tea that coming Sunday. Lauren’s reporter’s antennae had risen immediately. She was accustomed to dropping in on her aunt unannounced. “Tea on Sunday? That sounds rather formal. What’s the occasion?” she had asked curiously.
Margaret laughed. “Well, if it takes a formal invitation to see my niece, so be it. Think you have time to squeeze your aunt into your busy schedule?”
Lauren couldn’t help smiling at the blatant guilt trip tactic. “Come on Aunt Maggie. It’s you who has the impossibly busy schedule, so don’t blame it all on me. But of course I’ll come for tea. What time?”
“Around four, if that’s okay with you.”
Lauren hung up and sat thinking for a while. Something was up, she firmly decided.
It was on the dot of four when Lauren arrived at Margaret’s house, bursting with curiosity. “Looks like you couldn’t wait to get here,” Margaret teased as she led her out to the garden.
“Where’s Uncle Rich today?” Lauren asked on noticing the absence of her uncle-in-law.
“Playing golf as usual. Which is perfect. I wanted to see you alone.”
Margaret led the way to a table under a vine-covered arbor. As they sat, she purposefully poured Lauren a freshly brewed cup and handed it to her. There was a pregnant silence before she announced, “Lauren, there’s something important I want to discuss with you.”
Lauren’s thoughts flew to her mother who had been in and out of hospital in the past year. “What is it?” she asked anxiously.
Margaret didn’t answer immediately. Lauren sweetened her tea, waiting for whatever was coming. They were alone, out of earshot of anyone, yet Margaret lowered her voice as she said, “What I’m about to say must remain strictly between us.”
Lauren eyed Margaret with a mixture of relief and apprehension. From Margaret’s tone, it was clear this was not about her mother. But whatever it was, it was important, Lauren knew. The thought crossed her mind it might have something to do with the government. But surely not, she quickly decided. Margaret wouldn’t divulge sensitive government information to a reporter, even if that reporter were her niece.
“I need someone to run an errand,” Margaret confided as she took a sip of tea. “It has to be someone who is totally discreet. Unfortunately, not many people fit that bill.” She paused, measuring Lauren’s response, before continuing, “There’s a package that has to be delivered to someone in London, no questions asked.”
Lauren stared at Margaret in bafflement. “Why are you telling me this?” she asked.
“I’m asking you to make the delivery.”
For a minute, Lauren was speechless. “Am I understanding you correctly?” she at last exclaimed. “You’re asking me to deliver something on the condition I know nothing of what I’m delivering? Then in addition you want me to swear to secrecy? Aunt Margaret, this sounds very cloak and dagger. What on earth is it about?”
“I wish I could say more, but I can’t. But you of all people must know I would never involve you in anything illegal.”
“There’s no question about that. Still, why all the mystery? Could you clue me in just a little?”
Margaret rolled the edge of her napkin contemplatively. “I’m afraid you’ll have to trust me on this one. I can’t tell you how much I’ve agonized over asking you to do this, but I can think of no one else. There are certain things you’ve never come out and said in so many words, but I can read between the lines of your columns. I have to confess as a minister of the very government you criticize so vehementl
y, sometimes what you write makes me cringe with embarrassment.”
Lauren’s eyes narrowed on her aunt. What exactly was Margaret attempting to rope her into? Whatever it was, she was now reasonably sure it had something to do with the government. She helped herself to a slice of pineapple upside down cake to buy time to think.
“Who would I be delivering this package to?” she finally asked.
“You’ll be given the information you need, of course. That’s if you agree.”
Lauren had no idea what to say. The request was bizarre. Had it not been made by her aunt, she would have laughed it off.
“I know this is asking a lot of you, Lauren,” Margaret persisted. “But this is a matter of national importance. That’s as much as I can tell you.”
Lauren’s eyes strayed from her aunt’s face to a brilliant shower of fuchsia bougainvillea cascading over the garden wall. It’s a matter of national importance. Something was afoot and Margaret’s lips were sealed, at least as much as they could be given the unusual request. Lauren’s instincts told her it was something subversive, nothing as drastic as a revolution perhaps, but something that would likely cause a massive shake-up within the government. She agreed wholeheartedly that drastic measures needed to be taken to put an end to the crime and corruption, which had infiltrated the very heart of government. What was happening to the country was heartbreaking. Like a rotting mango, it was being eaten away by maggots. The man on the street was beginning to get restless, but that was inevitable. You couldn’t have such callous indifference to the plight of the people without the lid blowing off at some point. Yet she couldn’t help wondering what had led Margaret to become involved in something of that nature, if indeed, that was what it was. As close as they were, Margaret had never shared her thoughts about the government, which was understandable.
“Would you at least think about it?” Margaret asked, cutting through her thoughts.
Lauren took a deep breath. “You’re asking a lot of me, Aunt Margaret. Give me some time to think about it,” she finally compromised. “This is not a decision I can make this minute.”
Across the Atlantic in the Czech Republic, Pavel slid his mobile phone back into his pocket and lit a cigarette. It seemed things were finally coming together on the island. Now he needed to book his flight to London, but breakfast would have to come first. He went into the kitchen and rummaged through the refrigerator not surprised to find virtually nothing but a few cans of Plzen, his favorite Czech beer. The last thing he wanted to do was go out, but he had little choice this morning if he wanted to eat. He locked his front door carefully then skipped down four flights of old stone stairs to the ground floor. As an added precaution, he locked the heavy wooden door that opened onto Navratilova, one of the well-trod historic thoroughfares of Prague. Within short walking distance, there was a small restaurant that had become his mainstay for a good, basic meal at any hour.
It was only mid October, but winter had already begun to show its frosty face in a chilling drizzle that transformed the dull of the old cobblestone street to a smooth sheen. As he walked towards the restaurant thinking about his upcoming meeting with the woman from the island, Pavel hunched against the cold, which showed little respect for his expensive outer jacket. The leaves on the trees in the park across the street were in their final death throes, signaling the end of a season. Even nature can’t escape death he smiled darkly.
FOUR
Logan’s eyes snapped open as a strange sound woke him from a deep sleep. He lay for a moment, blinking until his eyes began to adjust to the bright sunlight streaming through the blinds. The sound, he now realized, was the cooing of wood pigeons outside in the garden. He sniffed. The smell of cooking was making its way through the cottage towards his bedroom. He rolled out of bed and dragged on some shorts, heading in the direction of the kitchen.
Ivy was over the stove whipping up breakfast. Barefooted, it was easy to approach her from behind without giving himself away. He sneaked up behind her and tweaked her ample ass playfully.
“Mr. Logan! You behave yourself now, sir,” she admonished him without turning away from her task.
“Now, how on earth did you know it was me?” he asked impishly.
“Mr. Logan, who else would dare to do a naughty thing like that to an old lady? You should be ashamed of yourself,” she fussed in a lame attempt at indignation.
“So what’s the news, Ivy? Anything interesting?”
“I left the newspaper by your chair in the living room,” she muttered dourly.
“Is Mr. Mike up?” Logan asked, eyeing the cast iron skillet on the stove.
“Not that I know,” Ivy frowned disapprovingly.
Logan stooped and hugged her from behind as he viewed the contents of the skillet, which still held her full attention. He noted she was fixing his favorite breakfast, a veritable feast passed down from the old plantation days. Eyeing the array of pots and pans on the stove, he became suddenly ravenous.
Ivy finally dropped what she was doing and turned to look at him. Hands akimbo, she shook her head disapprovingly. “Mr. Logan, you know better than to be walking around the house without a shirt. Why don’t you go get dressed properly while I put breakfast on the table? And wake that lazy Mr. Mike while you’re at it. Breakfast will be ready in ten minutes.” Logan grinned and slunk off to get dressed. Nothing had changed. Ivy was still in command.
Ivy was the salt of the earth, the essence of island mother, and, like so many others, she was father too, the yin and the yang of parenthood, the strength that held the fragmented pieces together; the women who walked down from the mountains, hips swaying down impossibly steep paths, baskets heavy with produce for the market miraculously balanced on their heads. These were the women of the island, these and the ones whose voices shrieked out from the ramshackle corrugated zinc shacks of the city slums, chiding barefooted children to order. It was their cry that began the day, provided a meal for a hungry stomach. It was their arms that offered solace from hardship at night.
She glanced at Logan fondly as he left the kitchen. He was like a son to her and she would have dearly loved to spend a few minutes talking with him. Unfortunately, Mike had arrived, even before him and, as usual, would monopolize his time. She wasn’t overly fond of Mike. He was a charmer all right, but he was a good for nothing as far as she was concerned. Dear lord, the man had never worked a day in his life. She didn’t understand what Mr. Logan saw in him. There were times she felt tempted to say something, but there was an old saying here on the island, Cockroach nuh have nuh business in a fowl fight.
She remembered well when she had first gone to work with the Armstrong family at Vale Verde. She had been little more than a teenager and Mr. Logan had just turned two. They were both grown up now, he and Miss Virginia. Those times at Vale Verde were long gone. She hardly saw Logan anymore and Virginia seldom came to the cottage. Nothing had been the same since their parents had passed on. “Lord have mercy,” Ivy moaned, thinking of how many people she knew had passed on. Some died from heart attacks or one thing or the other, but others... like those friends of Mr. Logan’s parents. Stabbed to death in their house in the middle of the day. Things were going from bad to worse. They said the Prime Minister was as corrupt as anyone else. Everybody thought things would get better when he was elected, but he was just like the rest of them, lining his pockets and doing nothing to help poor people. She missed the old days. You could at least count on getting up in the morning unless you died a natural death. Now young men were carrying guns for the drug posses and decent people lived like prisoners, guarded by iron grilles over every door and window. Deciding it was probably better Logan’s parents were in the hands of the Lord, she spooned breakfast into the serving dishes and took the pitcher of orange juice from the refrigerator. True to her word, she had breakfast on the table in ten minutes.
“Didn’t expect to see you back so soon,” Mike said looking up from his heaped plate. “Anything in particular going on?�
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“Just a few loose ends that need tying up,” Logan replied evasively. He quickly changed the subject. “Come to think of it, Lauren Anderson is interviewing me this afternoon.”
“What kind of interview?” Mike asked surprised.
“Some kind of lifestyles of the rich and famous nonsense from what I understand.” He laughed. “Just hope she doesn’t want to know what brand of toilet paper I use.”
Mike dug into his breakfast thinking. Logan guarded his privacy like a pit bull, so why would he have agreed to an interview with Lauren Anderson? As a reporter, she was as aggressive as they came. What made her a particularly dangerous predator was she didn’t come across as aggressive. Just as nice as could be. Besides, ‘lifestyle’ stories weren’t Anderson’s thing. She was an investigative reporter, one who was ferocious in her criticism of the government.
“Know anything about her?” he asked Logan.
“Nothing really, but I read a piece of hers I found very interesting.”
“She’s a shark, Logan. Watch out. Beautiful woman though, drop-dead gorgeous. Mind you don’t find her too irresistible,” he joked through a mouthful.
