by O. L. Casper
The jungle slipped by in a dreamlike blur and I was close to Spanish Wells in about seven minutes. Unfortunately, I found out you have to take a boat to the town of Spanish Wells because it’s on a separate island. I cursed myself for not looking more closely at the Google Earth images before I left. For a moment I wondered whether Stafford knew I had been bluffing about having been to Spanish Wells. I doubted he had because he didn’t question me at any great length on the matter. He didn’t even look slightly suspicious when I told him I’d been there. Still, I felt stupid over the mistake.
Stepping out of the parked Porsche and scanning the surrounding blue of the vastness of the Atlantic Ocean, which stretched for about 300 degrees of the panorama before me, I took out the HTC. Much to my surprise there were two bars in the upper left hand corner, I had reception. I immediately opened Minerva and checked for the blue dot.
When it appeared I panicked. It was pulsating larger than normal, meaning it was in close vicinity. It appeared to be about fifteen miles from my position.
Without further hesitation I ducked into the Porsche and drove off the road to a place where I could hide the car in some foliage. The foliage was so thick I couldn’t see through it. I took the binoculars and got out. Creeping through the dense brush I got into a position where I could see to the road. I saw the Escalades immediately. Lifting the binoculars to my face, I adjusted the focus for a better view. They appeared very close to me. My pulse quickened and I lowered the glasses to distance myself mentally. It sounds silly in retrospect, but this was my thinking at the time. I watched them round a bend about a hundred yards from me, and, from that point, they moved away from me, headed east. I lifted the binoculars again, watching them move away in the distance. They appeared as though they were in a two-dimensional image, all seemingly pressed flat. I mused on the strange effect of a highly magnified image.
I checked the Minerva app on my phone and watched the pulsating blue dot move to the right. I tapped out of the map and into the part of the program that was transmitting sound from Stafford’s phone. Removing earbuds from my pocket, I set them in my ears and listened in on the immediate surroundings of his phone. There was the familiar muffled scratching sound from a phone that was being sat on. I went back to the map and watched the blue dot. It turned off the road, taking a left toward a beach a few miles from my position. I reasoned whether I should walk along the coastline till I reached the location where they were or if I should risk driving closer and parking. I opened the mile marker in the Minerva app, which indicated I was about 3.5 miles from where they stopped. The meeting might be over by the time I walked there. I would have to take my chances with driving closer. I’d park where I could as long as it was over a mile and a half out from the meeting point. Then I’d sprint along the beach, if I could, to the meeting. I used to be able to run the distance in six minutes, so I reckoned I wouldn’t miss much. I also decided I’d take the Porsche up to speeds of 150-160 m.p.h. so that if one of the Escalades or all of them had decided to turn back this way all they’d see of me was a white blur as I passed them.
When I pulled out onto the main road I punched it. In about eight to ten seconds I hit 160 m.p.h. I knew the road was a fairly straight to the point where I needed to turn off so I wasn’t worried about having to make any high speed turns. As soon as I reached 160 m.p.h., I applied the brakes hard because I was as far as I needed to be. I found the first available hiding spot and took it. I grabbed the binoculars off the passenger seat and got out of the car. I checked my position in relation to Stafford’s on my phone. I was 1.65 miles out. I worked my way through the dense brush and trees out to the beach.
The sky was clear for as far as I could see. The beach was more beautiful than Anse Lazio. It was like a tropical paradise out of the film The Blue Lagoon. Once again I felt like I was slipping into a dream and I fought the feeling with active thoughts about the mission I was on. I turned right and faced the visible miles of beach to the east. I was afraid if I approached from too close to the water they might see me. I went back into the brush somewhat and began my journey east, pushing through the jungle. Walking at a brisk pace when I could, I sometimes had to slow down and move around or wriggle through various large plants when the way became too densely forested. I realized the closer I got, the more my fear increased. Occasionally I stopped to catch my breath and try to think about the situation in a light that wasn’t terrifying. Whenever I did, thoughts of the harrowing possibilities—mostly thoughts of being discovered and shot to pieces by an AK-47 or several of them—subsided and thoughts of the exhilaration of sheer adventure replaced them. I imagined I was a spy, collecting evidence for the DEA, FBI, or CIA. I wasn’t quite sure which. Though far from reality, somehow this dramatic imagining calmed me.
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.
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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 throug
h 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.
