by O. L. Casper
She smiled, not knowing how much I wanted her to. I looked at her up close, taking her in for the first time. I thought perhaps she would appear less attractive up close as many handsome people do, but it was not the case.
I move my head in slowly and she holds her head in my direction, putting her lips forward. I kiss them softly and back off. I’ll save the rest for later, if there is a later for us. She smiles.
“Is there more where that came from?” she asks.
Her warmth and apparent innocence are enough to fall in love with.
“I’m sorry. I’m shy. Show me around more and we’ll see what happens.”
“Alright then, your wish is my command.”
I shudder and a feeling of abject horror overtakes me, combined in equal parts with an immense pride, the pride of looking the devil fearlessly in the eye. This is a horrific joy like I’ve never known. I remember the words of a play—“Between the acting of a thing and the first motion, all the interim is like a phantasma, or a hideous dream. The genius and the mortal instruments are then in council, and the state of man, like to a little kingdom, suffers then the nature of an insurrection.” How true those words ring to me now. Great sex is the only other thing I know to produce such exalted feelings. And this? I’m surprised at the feelings to be had from what I feel coming on. Terror mixed with joy is a great elixir, turning leaden feelings into feelings of pure gold.
“I always hoped you’d come back, that I’d see you again,” she whispers.
“I don’t know what to say. You’re so open. I feel inhibited by comparison.”
“Don’t hold back. Just tell me how you feel.”
I want to tell her how I feel and I don’t. There are two of me. One wants to make love to her and the other wants to ride with her to the end of the river in silence. The latter prevails and I don’t say anything at all. Instead I look forward to the open horizon. We are about a mile to a mile and a half out at sea when I look at her again.
Now or never. I think briefly over my options. Her head against the inner edge of the boat, smashed into pieces. I picture it. I see the blood splattering from a broken nose or a busted ear. Too messy. Also, possible evidence on board. There are many ropes on the boat, so it stands to reason there is a knife somewhere. Perhaps in one of those enclosures along the side panels. Again, there would be blood. Potentially a lot. And too much evidence. Even if I dropped it to the bottom of the ocean, which assuredly I would do, her body would bear the cuts that did her in. Murder clear as day. Claro, Anna would say. It’s got to look like an accident. Like she fell on the boat, was knocked unconscious, then fell overboard and drowned. She’d have to have been knocked unconscious on a fall on the way out of the boat. Of course they—whoever they were—would not know, they would merely speculate. And how good were the local detectives? They would probably send someone over from Nassau. The FBI may even get involved since she was an American citizen. I decide I shouldn’t underestimate the detectives that would investigate the occurrence, the crime of passion, no matter who they might turn out to be. Rather I shall overestimate them. Safer.
Before doing anything else I look in all directions to make sure the coast is clear. I can’t make out any boats in any direction and anyone along the shoreline is too far away to see what’s happening on her Chris-Craft.
“I’m going to see what it’s like to stand up toward the front of the boat,” I say.
“I’ll slow down a little.”
She lets off the throttle.
I get up and take a step forward, leaning into the wind. On the second step I falsify a trip and hurl myself forward onto the floor of the boat, snagging my head on the side on the way down. The unexpected hit to the head causes some pain and I hold it as it throbs.
“Sophia!” she’d called out as I’d fallen.
She cut the engine completely and moved toward me, leaning over me.
“How bad is it?” she asks.
I hold my head, trying to squeeze out the dull, throbbing pain, as if that’s possible.
“Hurts. Help me up…please.”
She puts her hands under my arms and around my back, pulling me up. As she does, I grab the side with one hand and her neck with the other, quite suddenly snapping her head into the edge where mine snagged.
Direct hit. There is an audible crunch as her nose and eyes connect with the hard edge. Blood sprays on the instant. Couldn’t be helped, I think. It was a hard enough hit that her eyes begin to puff up right after as she slinks down on top of me, on the verge of unconsciousness. Realizing there will have to be one more blow, I push her to one side and get up on my knees, holding the edge for support.
She looks up at me, confused, tears in her eyes.
“I’m so sorry. What a terrible accident.”
I hear my voice, cold and flat.
She struggles to speak, but nothing comes out. She closes her eyes and goes unconscious. I don’t want to, but I reason I must deal one more cracking blow before tossing her over. If not, she could regain consciousness and swim back. Then of course how would I explain just leaving her there and not saying anything? No, I have to be sure.
On second thought I reason that two blows would be recognizable to any investigator worth his salt. Especially to a forensic analyst. One could be an accident. Not two. Observing her injury carefully I notice that she can’t breathe through her nose as the top of it’s so bashed up from the impact. She’s breathing through her mouth and gargling the blood that’s running profusely down her throat from her smashed up face. I realize I’m lucky to have administered such a terrible blow in the first attempt. Extremely lucky. But it’s not over yet so I won’t go patting myself on the back. I decide I’ll drown her. She’s half-conscious, if not unconscious now, I’ll just toss her over the side, then get in with her and hold her head down for a few minutes till I’m sure she’s dead. And that’s what I do.
In the water with her, holding her under, I begin to get a feeling of what I’m doing and I crack. Tears flow profusely down my cheeks as I kick underwater to stay afloat and use her body for further support, her head held a full foot or two under. Her body twitches violently in the process. The feeling is awful. For a split-second I wish for death for myself before I realize it and make an effort to scrap the self-pity.
It feels like five or even ten minutes are up. I look down at her and let her go. I watch her body slowly sink down, feet first, head tilted upward, eyes small slits in bloated, bloodied eyelids, her plume of golden hair encompassing her head. She glides down in pristine waters.
“That was for what you did to Stafford…and for what you did to me,” I say, hardly audible, as she sinks.
I climb back up in the Chris-Craft. Once inside, I’m exhausted and lie on the floor of the boat for a few seconds before my fear of being spotted overcomes me and I move to the back of the boat, rev the engine and steer it back toward the dock. All the while I’m looking back in the direction of where I dispatched her. After a moment or two I see the unmistakable form of her back and head surface and bob on the waves. I watch for any sign of movement from the body other than that caused by the undulating waves. There’s none I can make out.
Back at the dock I turn the boat around, point it in the direction of Emma’s body, rev the engine all the way up and jump out as it takes off out to sea. I swim to the dock and climb up. I don’t watch the empty Chris-Craft driving away, but instead run back to the Cayenne, take off my clothes down to my bra and panties, throw the wet clothes in the back and drive away. I drive the speed limit to avoid any chance of getting pulled over.
Sophia Durant’s Diary
October 8, Eleuthera Island, Bahamas
I began going over the incident in my mind. I saw the blood spray on impact and watched it cover the boat. Some got on my clothes. I would dispose of the clothes when I got back to the villa. I would park somewhere I wouldn’t be seen by many people, if anyone, and take a seldom used side entrance into the main house. The firs
t urge upon returning to the villa would be to smoke, but I resolved that I would not, thinking it better to maintain a clear head at least till night. My thoughts went back to the boat and the body. The body would be more or less expunged of evidence by water, if there even was any evidence connecting me to it to begin with. The boat did contain evidence of my presence, but evidence that would only become apparent with forensic analysis—in fibers of my clothing, a stray strand of hair, the odd flake of dry skin. Even then the chances of it leading back to me were extremely remote. But there was a chance. There was also evidence of Stafford having been in that boat and possibly others. There is no way I know of that they could pinpoint the time I was with her, if it did come to that. I will just have to see what happens and play my cards right in whatever situation arises. Another thing that stuck out in my memory was the phone call I placed to Emma on arriving at the gate. This shouldn’t be difficult to explain away either. All I had to do was pick a story and stick to it. My mind hunted for any other connections that could potentially lead investigators to me. The only one who knew I went to see her was Stafford. I wondered what attitude he would take when he found out. If he decided to tell police I had gone to see Emma that day, things might get a little complicated. This was the first thing that worried me. I decided I would see him as soon as I could.
The feelings I had shifted between thoughts of possibly having to explain myself to police, and eventually perhaps to the FBI, and feelings arising about what I had done. I decided to focus more on the feelings than the possible explanation. I most likely wouldn’t be interviewed that night so I decided to wait and think that whole potential quagmire over when my mind was more at ease. Thinking on the issue of how boat incident affected me I realized I was not now the same person I was when I woke up that morning. It would not become apparent till much later how profoundly different I actually was, but I now felt a coolness and a calculating nature about it all that I reveled in. Don’t get me wrong, I was terrified by the experience and several of the various potential outcomes, but it was also something that I felt set me apart from and perhaps above others. The more I thought about the logic inherent in the process and how I had carried it out coldly and with almost no hesitation, the more I self-congratulatory I felt. I had to try to bring the sense of exultation down because I was aware of the lack of perspective that went with these kind of feelings.
On the drive back I experienced the haunting feeling of Emma watching me with confusion and horror, and the deepest, darkest, most gut-wrenching hatred I had ever witnessed. This idea was so terrifying I at once banished it from my heart and began to focus on the how I would approach Stafford. As I did this, I constantly checked the rearview for the police, but every time I looked back I just saw miles of road extending toward the horizon.
When I got back I showered and texted Stafford to see about visiting. He was in his room and invited me for a visit.
On the way up to Stafford’s room I felt presences in the shadows. It was deeply chilling. I passed through a glass door on the way into the hall where the door to his room was, and, in the reflection, I glimpsed a fleeting pair of sullen dark eyes somewhere behind me. Startled, I turned to see what was behind me, half-expecting an attacker to lunge from the shadows with a knife. But there was no one. This made me feel worse, as though I was losing my grip on reality. Admittedly I had done that some time before, now it was the cognitive faculties that seemed to be deserting in droves. Trying to get a hold on what was actually present in my immediate surroundings, I made a mad dash for Stafford’s door. The door opened.
Stafford put his fingers through his hair and rubbed his eyes. Evidently he had just woke up. He wore only a pair of pajama bottoms. Recognizing me he smiled and ushered me in.
“Can I get you anything to drink?”
“I’m fine,” I said, the words of the conversation echoing in my head.
“You seem tired,” he said as he yawned.
“I am. A little.”
“How was the viewing? She said she was going to take you out on the boat.”
“It was unbelievable. Surreal even.”
Memories of the boat scene flashed in my head like lightning. Strangely, I now saw an image of a snake coiled on the floor of the boat, looking at me. It was all black like an adder or a water moccasin. Why was it there? What did it mean?
“It’s beautiful land, isn’t it? I think I’m going to get it.”
“It is. I love the house too. I mean, it needs some work done to it, but…” I trailed off.
“Yes. I was thinking of tearing it down. Building something modern. The villa in St. Augustine is a relic like that and it’s just such a pain.”
“You should keep the original house. It’s a classic Edwardian mansion. From 1909, I think.”
“Yeah? You like it?”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Maybe I will keep it.”
He seemed to give the thought some consideration before proceeding to something else.
“Did you find any more evidence of her spying?”
“You mean like her asking questions or hard physical evidence?”
“Either or both…I know she’s up to something. I just need more to go on. I’d like you to begin spying on her communications if you could.”
That shouldn’t be difficult.
“Find out what she’s up to, who she knows, who she’s working for. I know it’s unethical if not worse, but I’m prepared to compensate you generously.”
“Did you tell anyone I went to see her today?”
“No, not a soul. Why?”
I shook my head as if it wasn’t really important.
“If I’m going to do this, no one should know I even have contact with her.”
“Not a problem. I generally tend to keep all my affairs compartmentalized. It’s a matter of habit for me.”
“Good. So do I.”
The next morning I poured a cup of coffee and set out the iPad on the kitchen table. Opening Google Chrome while sipping the hot coffee, I did a search on Eleuthera news and found The Eleutheran, a local paper, online. I scrolled down to a headline in large type that read, “POLICE INVESTIGATES DEATH IN BOATING ACCIDENT.” If the police are as inept at investigation as the local journalists are at grammar, I’ll have no problems.
The Eleutheran
October 8, Eleuthera Island, Bahamas
POLICE INVESTIGATES DEATH IN BOATING ACCIDENT
Police have launched an investigation into the death of a female after she was discovered washed ashore on private property approximately two miles south of Greencastle. According to police reports around 8:30 p.m. on Tuesday 7 October police received information from an associate of the dead female that she was found washed ashore on the private property which is off Sherman’s Highway. At present police are uncertain as to the circumstances which may have led to the occurrence of this incident. Active police investigations continue. Police are appealing to members of the public wishing to assist with the investigation to contact police of the Rock Sound Station @919 334-2244, the CENTRAL DETECTIVE UNIT @502-9910 or CRIMESTOPPERS @328-TIPS.
Sophia Durant’s Diary (continued)
The article sharpened my senses and jolted me harder and faster than the coffee. I felt my pulse quicken as my mind was assaulted by memories of the previous day and last night. A whirl of images of the boat, of Emma Green’s broken face, her flailing body, her sinking body, her floating body. I felt the cold water as I swam to the dock as if it had just happened five minutes ago. Last night I slept for no more than a few minutes at a time. My mind was divided in two. On the one hand it was exploring every conceivable angle of every possible course the future might take no matter how remote the chances. On the other existed a state of consciousness like lucid dreaming, a sort of psychic awareness of a very real seeming world that runs parallel to our own. A refined version of what we see with more dimensions and more layers. In it I heard voices and saw spirits and they were terrif
ying sometimes and sometimes soothing. I heard spirit voices talking from the opposite end of what seemed to be a tunnel just over my head. They were conversing amongst themselves as if I couldn’t hear them.
“How could you do that to her?” said a one.
“She brought this on herself,” said another.
“Still you could have guided her away from it,” said a third.
“It is impossible to guide her away from it,” said the first. “The real question is why did she do it and where’s this going to lead? She wasn’t supposed to go here. It wasn’t in the plan.”
I saw recurring, powerful mental images of Emma’s body plunging into the water. Sometimes, when I shook myself from these visions and looked around the room, it danced in a macabre, crimson glow. I was terrified and prayed for the first rays of dawn to come sooner. Every time I thought Emma was watching me from the spirit world I closed my eyes hard and covered them with my hands so as not to see her. It was no use. Even so, I confronted her in my inward gaze, which was irrespective of eyelids and hands. I heard my heart beat loudly.
It was before six a.m. and I was consumed by these horrid feelings of dread. I started to think this was the experience of a warrior went through, but derived little consolation from the thought. I closed Chrome and opened a chess app. I heard someone saunter in and saw the light change in the reflection on the rim of my coffee mug. I looked up and saw Anna enter.
“Sophia, you look so spent. Did you sleep at all last night?”
“A few minutes here and there.”
“Go to your room at once and try to get some sleep. You look like death.”
I forced a smile and got up to leave.
That afternoon I received a text from Stafford.
MARK: Come to my downstairs office right now.
This didn’t sound good. I wondered what the worry was. I had visions of Eleuthera’s finest waiting to arrest me, sent by Lucifer himself. They were called the Royal Bahamas Police. They had a red and gold logo with a crown and banner that read, “Courage, Integrity, Loyalty.” I’d seen it on the Eleuthera news website. For some reason I pictured three skinny, little, black officers, all shorter than me, waiting, beads of sweat across their brows, ready to scream, “You did it!” and pounce on me. When I got to the room there were no such men. Stafford was alone.
