by O. L. Casper
I found Anna in the kitchen. She was washing dishes and watching the news on TV; there was a report about a tropical storm heading toward the Bahamas. Once more, she seemed strangely distant toward me. Perhaps it was a cultural difference. No matter, I inquired about the car. She said it was fine. She would show me where to find a car to use once she was finished.
“Do you need a fast car or just a normal one?” she asked with a mischievous grin on her moon face.
I smiled.
“Just a normal one will be fine, but for future reference: what are my options in the fast car department?”
Anna laughed. She was warming to me now.
“There is a Porsche Boxster, a 911 Turbo…”
“He lets us drive those cars?” I asked, immediately regretting the use of he instead of they.
“Yes. Well, they’re older models.”
“How old?”
“Maybe ten years—I don’t know.”
“And they let us use those?” I used careful emphasis of the word they this time to let her know the previous use of he was a mistake.
“Yes. They don’t care at all. It is Mr. Stafford who first has me drive the Porsche. It is all fun and games. He’s thinking crazy, you know. Loco en la cabeza.”
“I’ll take a 911 Turbo if it’s all the same.”
Chapter 3
Sophia Durant’s Diary (continued)
If there was a moment I stopped worrying about anything in life, if only briefly—this was it. I don’t want to say I didn’t care about anything anymore because that wouldn’t be exactly true, but that’s certainly how it felt when I looked at that Porsche 911 Turbo. Anna asked me where I was going and I said only, “For a drive.” She told me to be careful, handed me the key and left. I opened the door and got in. After absorbing the sensation of sitting there, looking out from this turbo-charged, European sports car, I turned on the engine, shifted into gear and took off down the winding driveway. Barely pressing the accelerator, the vehicle shot out in front of me. I would save the speed test for the open highway. In fact, I would save all tests of this high performance automobile for after my mission was complete. It was all I had on my mind, regardless of the class of ride I was in or that sweet, deep rumble that vibrated from between my legs sending pleasurable sensations up through my body.
Glancing in the rearview, I saw that I was leaving a thick trail of dust behind me. I put on my sunglasses and looked in the mirror. I looked like a dominatrix, supremely confident and in control. And oddly, this was how I felt. On top of the world, and I didn’t really know why. I didn’t for a moment stop to think about it. Not now. I had things to do. I realize as I write this that what I was doing doesn’t seem as all-important as I made it out to be. But the lines between fantasy and reality were blurring and I wasn’t doing anything to discourage the fact. I wasn’t saying, Fantasy get back in your cage. Rather it was reality that was in the cage now. I wanted to pretend I was going to spy on my lover, but I couldn’t let myself get that carried away. I suppose my thinking at that point was the last little piece of sanity or self-awareness that I clung to. A simple defense mechanism, but it meant the difference between swimming in deep waters and going off the deep end. Exposure to luxury dulls the senses and even moderate exposure corrupts the intelligence, making one measurably stupider. Before I had known almost only struggle, save for a few brief moments, and I’d had to think. I suppose this employment marked some subtle change below the surface. Now I had only to do.
I followed Queen’s Highway to Public Highway and found the dirt road that led out to the dirt parking lot where Stafford was meeting the Brit. If I was discovered, I’d probably be fired on the spot. I’d found an adjacent parking place about a half-mile from the cove, south of where Stafford parked. I used the Google Earth app on my HTC to understand my location and follow a predetermined route. It had taken ten to fifteen minutes from the villa to the adjacent spot.
Surrounded by shrubbery that extended into jungle in most directions, I cut the engine and got out of the Porsche. I listened carefully in all directions. Mostly all I could hear was a loud wind. There was no sign of anyone. I checked the map on my phone once more, then I checked for a signal. There was none. Pocketing the phone and removing the binoculars from the car, I began to cut a path through shrubs then trees as I made my way to the cove.
There was nothing unusual about the shrubs or the jungle. In fact, it hardly seemed like a jungle at all. It seemed a lot like any forest in North Florida and the climate was the same, humid and warm, although with a strong wind that was only getting stronger. The sun was obscured by low hanging clouds and I could see a storm brewing in the direction of the Atlantic before I got into the jungle.
Something rustled in the grass and I stopped. Not two feet ahead of me I saw a large all black snake, probably a Water Viper, about six-feet-long and six inches in diameter at the thickest part, shoot right past me in the grass. This made my heart rate soar, immediately the fantasy emotion went right out the window and reality set in. I began to question what I was doing and almost panicked. I wasn’t especially afraid of snakes, but of that kind I was, and I didn’t know what else I faced in this grass and these bushes that I couldn’t see until it was too late. I did all I could do, I fortified my heart and carried on. As I made the decision, an image flashed in my head like a flashcut in cinema: the scene was my parents’ house in North Florida and in it, on a table, was a red British mug bearing a crown, which read underneath: “KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON,” all in caps like that. Then I saw a multitude of snakes in the bushes in my mind’s eye. Deciding that it was better to look straight ahead than down, I kept my head up and moved quickly for the sea. After a moment I calmed a little and realized what an adventure this all was, then just focused on getting to the beach and, from there, walking north to the cove.
Feeling a little like I was in a Tintin comic, I crouched down into some brush as I came to the end of the jungle. Crouching and walking forward, I soon was walking on solid rock and could see the Atlantic. I walked up to the edge of the rock where it dropped off, not far, about thirty feet, to where the waves crashed against it down below. The water was greener than that of Anse Lazio and darker too, indicating greater depth. I would follow the cliff edge north till I found the cove.
I walked north for what I thought a considerable distance, all the while peering out ahead, looking for the first break in the rock which might lead to the cove. The wind picked up and I suddenly found myself gripping the pockets in the rock to stay close to the ground. As I worried about possibly being blown down to sea and breaking my neck on some rocks near the surface, I began to wonder if this whole episode was worthwhile and questioned my motives. Once I was determined to do something, I usually did it. The only thing that ever stopped me was some unforeseen circumstance that unalterably blocked the desired course. Now, with a violent wind raging and storm clouds rolling in, I began to wonder what had brought this all about. Did I really need to know what Stafford was doing on this somewhat secretive meeting? Yes, of course I did or I would not be me. But what indeed went on beneath the surface?
When I was seven, my father received a magazine in the mail and I went to grab it out of the stack of mail on the kitchen table only to hear a booming voice behind me. “Sophia.” I turned to find my father glaring at me. I was terrified I had done something wrong, but unconsciously I kept my hand on the magazine. “Let go the magazine,” he said in his stiffest commanding voice. Frightened, I let it go and ran outside to play. But the curiosity of what the magazine was would not let my mind rest and that weekend, when my father was gone and my mother in the garden, I went into his study and straight to the mahogany desk where I had seen him file many papers—and sometimes magazines. I opened the great drawer and found a bunch of manila files. Patiently, I went through them all. Mostly spreadsheets with lots of numbers. I checked in the back of the drawer. Nothing. I checked the bottom drawer on the other side, then all the drawers. Finall
y I looked in the closet. After searching the closet for a solid ten minutes and finding nothing I nearly gave up. Seeing my mom still watering in the back garden, I decided to venture into their bedroom and look. I scoured the room: drawers, closet, adjoining bathroom. Finally I looked under the bed and found and old suitcase. I pulled on it. It was stuck. I yanked with great force for a seven-year-old—it came flying out and I went with it. The next problem was that it was locked. I removed a wire cut from a coat-hanger and a paperclip from my pocket, all pocketed earlier in the event that I run into this very problem. I picked the lock quickly. I had found out how on the internet. Jackpot—the suitcase was stuffed tight with “Penthouse,” “Hustler,” and “Playboy” magazines. Some of the women were actresses I recognized from films or singers or athletes. Most I didn’t recognize at all. I leafed through the pages, some were stuck together, or the ink had been smudged. I had never seen full grown women in such states of undress, except for my mother only briefly. But she never smiled at me when she was naked or looked at me like she was half-asleep with the tip of her tongue on her lips. Many of the women looked surprised to be naked. I was baffled. This was my first introduction to the secrets of womanhood. There came the sharp crack and thud of the door closing downstairs. I knew instantly, it was Mother returning from the garden. Like lightning, I packed the magazines back into the suitcase, shut it, failed to lock it and stuffed it back under the bed. Closing the door silently behind me, I crept into the hall and to my room. I heard Mother coming up the stairs.
I don’t know why I recalled this memory just then or even what significance it held. There is no moral to the story. The recollection was cut short by the discovery of a fissure in the rock about forty feet ahead. I ducked lower as I crept closer. The chasm widened in my view and I was there; the cove appeared in all its glory before me outlined by fog as if viewed in a crystal ball. Then I saw people, like specs, standing in the sand, about the length of a football field away. I took the binoculars from my pocket and focused on them.
There was a group of ten people standing and sitting under two large canopy tents with no walls. There were a few plastic tables and foldout chairs. I clearly recognized Stafford, but hadn’t seen any of the others before. Stafford was dressed the same as when he left but for the addition of a windbreaker, sunglasses and an English cap. All of them, all men, wore sunglasses and dressed sharply. And uniformly they wore combat boots. Then I noticed something that gave me chills.
One of the men at the far end, who stood looking away from the group, smoking with some difficulty, had what appeared to be a small automatic weapon like an M-4 strapped to his shoulder. My heart rate steadily increased. My breathing became shallow and fast. I quickly scanned the others. Finding three more at the other corners of the group and looking away, I lowered the binoculars and lowered myself into a sitting position against a rock wall, facing away from the group in the cove. The first thought of course was to leave immediately. And naturally that was the wisest course of action I could’ve taken. But, I reasoned, none of this journey had been wise to begin with. I might as well get a few more glimpses.
It took me a moment to work up the courage to peer back over those rocks and into the cove. Lifting the binoculars before turning around, I made a momentary scan of the sea. The canopy of sky was covered in thick gray clouds. It would rain at any moment, I thought—something else I hadn’t planned for. Without thinking I began to backtrack, crawling away from the cove. Realizing what I was doing, I decided to stop and return to the cove. Ever so slowly I raised my head, binoculars to face, just enough to bring Stafford and company back into view.
Now I’ll try to describe what I then saw. (There is a slight confusion as to the exact order of events in my mind as I attempt recall. The images are very distinct, precise as though I am viewing them now, but the chronology is fuzzy, and I am as nervous and fearful as I was at the time.) Stafford picked up a phone, but it was not his smartphone. Rather it was connected to a box with a large antenna; a satellite phone. He screwed up his face. Soon he was shouting. Of course I couldn’t hear any sound at that distance and in that wind at all. I figured the sound that was being recorded on his phone must have been good for nothing too. Then Stafford slammed the phone down on the receiver. Some of the men with guns looked at him. I became scared for him momentarily even though I realized the situation was almost definitely under his control—as much as any mortal can control a situation. Still, my pulse quickened when I saw the gunmen eyeing him.
One of the men, with a profuse bristly like a wisp of cloud over his lip, stood before Stafford with his head bowed pathetically. His chest shook and his head flailed almost imperceptibly at that distance. In the next moment, he fell to his knees and dropped his head to his chest. One of Stafford’s guards (not with an automatic rifle) moved next to Stafford and drew something out of his jacket. He pointed it directly at the head of old, bowed Bristly and held it steadily. I was positive that it was a sidearm like a 9 mm. But I couldn’t make out whether it was a Colt or a Glock or something else. I braced myself firmly for the loud crack of pistol shot gone off, but one never came. The man tossed the pistol away in the sand. I cracked a tiny smile at the apparent silliness of such a dramatic gesture, right out of a movie. But my heart rate ascended once more as the pistol-thrower kicked Old Bristly twice rapidly—once in the stomach and again in the head, knocking him into the sand.
All at once I cringed, tightened my stomach and felt the pangs of a sympathy headache for Old Bristly. I put down the field glasses and almost at once fell against the rock wall. I hated Stafford. I could never look on him with sympathy again. Or so I thought in that moment. He was obviously a dangerous man. What had I got myself mixed up in? I now wished I had never come out to those rocks and viewed the business of the cove. On the other hand, the utter disgust I felt for the incident I had just witnessed brought life into sharp focus. I saw everything clearly like a vividly real painting I had just stepped out of and now looked back on. What was worse, I had developed feelings for this man that I still couldn’t shake—even after what I’d just seen. Everything was incomprehensible (feelings-wise) and yet clear (intellectually). It was Through the Looking Glass. Black is white and white is black.
A chill came over me that penetrated into the very depths of my marrow. Then I had my first rational thought. I would now crawl back through the rocks, the way I came. I just had to take one more look.
Rising up once more with the glasses, I saw Stafford holding his index and middle fingers together pointing at the man on the ground with his thumb back like the hammer on a gun. He jerked his hand back twice like he was firing off two rounds with this imaginary gun. Then he turned and left, heading back into the brush toward where they must have parked. Stafford walked very much upright, lifting his knees as though he was a soldier on the march. I didn’t know if this was a gesture of mockery, but I’d never seen him walk that way before. The men with guns immediately tore down the canopy tents and the others all began to head back in the direction Stafford went. I ducked behind the rock wall, relieved I hadn’t been discovered in my observation. I hurried back along the rock in the strong wind and first drops of rain, wondering how the sound recording off Stafford’s mobile phone had gone. In this weather, there probably wouldn’t be much to listen to. Still, I could take the track into some sound analysis software and break it down, amplify certain elements while removing others, and hear what there was to hear.
Once I got to the Porsche, I sat inside for a good twenty minutes to give Stafford and company plenty of time to clear out. Even as I reached Public Highway from the dirt road, I paused for a while, stopped well out of view from much of the highway and scanned it with the field glasses. After I was sure there was nothing for a considerable distance in either direction I pulled out onto the road.
I was still deeply paranoid about running into the Stafford’s motorcade, but I reasoned it was highly unlikely I would as they most likely left long before I
did. I clung to the thought, telling myself the chances were extremely remote, and reasoning this way and that. If they did find me driving along, I could explain I merely went for a drive to nearby Spanish Wells to explore the beaches and turned back early due to inclement weather.
Constantly glancing up at the rearview, I did spot the first black spec in the distance, then made out a string of SUVs as they neared. Raw energy coursed through my veins as my adrenal glands dumped the stuff. The sensation was worse than when a cop car flashed its lights behind me and the siren began. I constantly broke the rules of driving and whenever I was pulled over I always wondered what exactly they had seen me do. But at least, then, I knew I would live through it.
The SUVs caught up quick. I was already doing eighty. They had to be doing about ninety-five, at least. I turned onto Queen’s Highway and the SUVs did too. After I passed the turn off for the Stafford villa and kept going, I saw three of the Escalades turn off but one remained on the highway, following me from about a quarter-mile back. My pulse quickened again. I went over my story in my head in the likely event I would have to speak with one or more occupants of that vehicle. Perhaps it was Stafford alone. Perhaps it had nothing to do with me and the occupants were merely going somewhere in the direction I was headed. But where was I going? I didn’t see any road signs for anything and I began to have visions of being run off the road by the Escalade, led into the forest, beaten and shot. Blood trickling out of a gunshot wound to the head, darkening the sand of one of those numerous side roads. Gray matter in small sand-covered chunks littering the ground, ants already carrying it off tiny pieces. And in those brief moments before my body was tossed out over a rocky cliff into the sea, looking up and seeing Mark Stafford glaring down at me in that silly English cap, next to his man who had pulled the trigger, watching the life ebb from my eyes. My sad mother seeing the news of my disappearance on TV. Her hopeless trip to Eleuthera Island with my distant father to scour the places she knew I had, in my last days, seen.
