by O. L. Casper
He bade me to sit down in a leather chair facing a glass table, which he stood behind, back to me, reading through some papers.
“Did I do something wrong?” I asked.
“Not that I know of.”
He set his papers on the glass table.
“You wouldn’t imagine who I just talked to.”
“Who?”
“The Royal Bahamas Police.”
I was stunned. I couldn’t believe it. But I was careful not to show any of my true feelings in my expression. I acted mildly interested.
“I don’t know how you’re going to take this, but…I’ll just say it…Emma Green…she died yesterday. She was found washed up on the property we looked at. Her face was all bashed up and her boat was found too…this part I found especially interesting…it was found separate from her with…blood stains in it.”
He rested his hands on the table, his powerful muscular arms flexed before me, head down.
“I saw her yesterday,” I blurted out. “She was…fine. Are you sure they correctly…I mean…they’re sure it’s her?”
“I’m fairly certain. She was found by a friend who apparently recognized her. I didn’t ask anything about whether they were…I mean…they seemed pretty sure.”
He sounded tense.
“Why did they come to you?”
“They went through her phone. They found my texts. The friend had also said she was doing some business with me.”
“Did you tell them I went to see her yesterday?”
He looked at me blankly.
“No. Of course not.”
“Why not?”
“Because then you would’ve got tied up in this whole thing and I’m fairly certain you had nothing to do with her death.”
“They’ll probably see that I called her in the phone records.”
“Well then let them find that on their own. They didn’t seem like a wholly competent bunch when I talked to them just now. They treated me like a possible suspect.”
He was fuming.
“But you don’t have anything to worry about. I know you didn’t do it. You couldn’t have possibly done it…I know I didn’t do it. It probably was just an accident or maybe even suicide. I don’t know. Or maybe she got mixed up in a bad way with the people she was spying for. Who knows?”
Tears came to his eyes. I felt sorry for him. He seemed very mixed up and emotionally distressed.
“But the fact is since she was American, the American authorities will be notified and probably brought in at some point, if they haven’t been already, and then a whole bunch of time will be wasted while the affair is looked into more deeply…while they probe me.”
“You’ll come through this okay. I’ll start setting up ways of discovering anyone who may be spying on you electronically. We’ll find out what they’re up to without them having a clue we’re doing it. Then we can find out what they’re after and whether or not Emma’s death has anything to do with it.”
“Can you do that? Can we get started soon?”
“We can start today. I just need a little help from you.”
“Name it.”
I explained to him that I’d need access to all his computers from his personal ones to the ones he used for work and I’d need administrator privileges on all of them. He was more than willing to hand it all over and within half an hour I had all the access I needed.
“Perhaps we can meet later tonight. Again, I’m really sorry to drag you into all this.”
He looked like he hadn’t slept in a few days. He sounded exasperated.
As I stood up to leave the phone rang on his desk.
“Stafford,” he answered, sounding disinterested.
Then suddenly his voice changed to that of keen interest.
“I see. How could you make that mistake?”
I watched his face as a look of concern registered on it.
“I’ve never heard of something so preposterous, so stupid.”
He rolled his eyes.
“Well, who checked the vital signs in the first place? Do you have halfwits working on the force?”
He raised his voice. I heard the infernal buzz of the voice coming through the earpiece. He motioned for me to sit back down. At once a wave of heat passed through my body. My heart rate skyrocketed. I don’t know why I felt so nervous about the phone call and his signaling me to remain in the room.
“I see. Someone not on the force.”
The infernal buzz continued. I watched him curiously as it droned on. I imagined a swarm of tiny bees flying out of the receiver into his ear in a massive rapid stream, enveloping his brain and stinging him to death. I don’t know why I imagined this, but I did.
“Where is she now?”
He rolled his eyes again.
“I see.”
He hung up abruptly, slamming the phone down.
“What’s the matter?”
“Emma Green is alive.”
Chapter 12
The Eleutheran
October 9, Eleuthera Island, Bahamas
WOMAN REPORTED DEAD, ALIVE IN HOSPITAL
Yesterday it was reported in this newspaper that the police had launched an investigation into the death of a female after she was discovered washed ashore on private property approximately two miles south of Greencastle. As it turns out, she is not actually dead but in a deep comatose state. The physician that checked the body for vital signs was mistaken in concluding her to be dead. While she was breathing only faintly, her heart rate slowed, she was still alive when received by the physician. Upon the inspection of a second physician later in the day she was found to be not dead, but alive and in a coma. She was immediately flown to Princess Margaret Hospital on Nassau. The cause of the accident is still under investigation.
Sophia Durant’s Diary
October 9, Nassau, Bahamas
Stafford didn’t believe any physician had made that mistake. He didn’t think it possible. I had my doubts, but based on my occasional encounters with the locals I believed it entirely possible. Chances are someone came pretending to be a physician and declared her dead, or, even more likely, there was never any physician present, the police believed her dead and made the report, and only later, when one of the police noticed her breathing, was the finding reversed.
Stafford and I flew in his Gulfstream to the island of Nassau to visit Princess Margaret Hospital in hopes of seeing Emma. At first Stafford had wanted to go alone, but I pressed him and persuaded him I should go based on the argument that I could possibly get access to her phone and do some spying for him while I was there. Of course my real motivation was much different.
Nassau, a much bigger, more populated island than Eleuthera, is fascinating for how different it is to Eleuthera. We landed at Odyssey Airport at 8:35 a.m. and stepped into a black limousine, which took us along John F Kennedy Drive, past some open fields and grass, and eventually to West Bay Street, which took us into the downtown, along the water, to Princess Margaret Hospital. I have heard that much of Nassau is very poor, rundown, like a third world country, but that is not what I saw. The way to the hospital is thick inlaid with mansions and beach houses, almost every house with a pool, and a view of the sea on our left side. The hospital itself is a stately, two-story building.
Stafford and I were dropped off at the front. He led the way inside and to Emma’s room, which was on the second floor.
“How do you know where exactly she is?” I asked him en route.
“I had to pay the police. Can you believe the level of incompetence? And you can’t trust any of them. Not one.”
He said all this while dashing down a corridor, without looking at me.
“Hopefully they got the room number right.”
“They did. I confirmed it before I paid them.”
We turned a final corner and entered a dark hallway, window curtains drawn at either end, and the feeling started again. A feeling I had kept at bay since my last sleepless night—last night.
It was like a sinister presence that I couldn’t quite pinpoint. It was everywhere till I looked for it, then it was nowhere to be found. In reflections out of the corner of my eye I saw another person with me who was not Stafford. It was a distinctly female presence, I could make out the long flowing hair and feminine figure. But when I looked directly at the reflection she was no longer there. I know by now that all the hallucinations are just that, hallucinations. Earlier I had believed it possible for Emma’s spirit to haunt me, but now that I knew she wasn’t even dead I realized it was all a lark and to be dismissed.
Room 107—we entered quietly and saw Emma lying unattended on a small bed with various machines attached to her. The air in the whole building was hot and dank and there was a putrid smell—like that of the old and dying—especially in her room. I saw her heart rate register on a monitor next to her and watched her lungs heave ever so slightly. She had a bandage wrapped around her head, from the top half of her closed eyes to the top of her cranium. My first impression was one of dread. She had lived and—if she came to—she would probably be able to tell them what had happened. I only had one option to ensure that would not happen. Sure there was a chance she might not remember the fall or the blow to her head, and, even if she did, she might not think I meant to do it. But I wasn’t prepared to take that chance. I looked at Stafford.
He appeared to be trying to make sense out of the machines she was attached to. There was a frantic look in his eyes, and a look of disbelief. I even thought I saw a tear in one eye before he stepped forward and took her hand in his, fingering her wrist for a pulse. It was clear he had developed feelings for her. He made no attempt to conceal it.
“You care for her,” I said.
He didn’t respond. Instead he closed his eyes and bowed his head as if in prayer.
After what must have been a minute he opened them and said, without looking at me, “She’s a pure, good-hearted person. It’s terrible something like this had to happen to her. This is, in my mind, a fate worse than death. Who knows how well she’ll recover, if she recovers? And to see her pretty little face all smashed up like that. Horrible…just awful.”
He pouted, before letting go her hand.
He turned to me.
“I suppose we should head to the hotel now. Maybe grab a bite first,” he mumbled with his eyes downcast.
“I think I should stay here,” I said boldly. “I need to find out who else has been checking up on her. Undoubtedly whoever was using her to spy on you will be checking up on her if they haven’t already.”
“Good thinking. Of course. But are you sure you want to get started already? Perhaps some lunch first would do you some good.”
“I should get started. I’ll find something to eat here if I need to. I’ll come back when I have some information. At least something—anything.”
“You’re determined, Sophia. I like that.”
He turned for the door, before turning back on his way out.
“Call me if you need anything,” he said with a wave.
“I will.”
Fuck—this is a fucking mess, I thought as I looked around the room, considering what to do. I wandered out into the hall and found a few small wooden chairs set out in a row. I looked to the end of the corridor, hoping to catch Stafford heading off, but he was already gone. The corridor was fairly empty, entirely devoid of people, and I couldn’t hear any sounds coming from any of the nearby rooms. I wondered if they were at all occupied. A nurse pushing a cart came around the corner at the end of the hall. She ignored me completely as she walked past with the cart. The top of the cart was covered in a small cloth. I figured it must have been some poor soul’s early lunch or late breakfast. Stopping outside one of the rooms, she removed a plate from under the cloth, took a small container that looked like a sealed drinking cup and entered the room. About thirty or forty feet from me stood the cart outside the room. On the instant I got the idea that perhaps there was something on that cart I could use to attain the object of my prolonged visit. I jaunted down the hallway as quietly as possible and skidded to a quiet stop. Fortunately the rubber on the bottom of my shoes didn’t make any screeching noise. I peered round the corner into the room the nurse had entered. I could see her back as she tended to a patient in bed. I peeked under the cover and there was nothing but more meals. I walked briskly back to the chair I had come from and sat down.
I watched the nurse come out of that room, push the tray further down the hall and enter another with another plate of food and drink. Periodically I checked my phone for the time. It was 10:07 the first time I checked. I’d been in the hospital for little over an hour. No messages from Stafford. As if the thought had triggered a response via telepathy, my phone buzzed as soon as I set it back in my pocket. I took it back out.
MARK: Any luck yet? I’m getting hungry and I’m waiting for you…
I tapped out a quick reply.
SOPHIA: Go ahead and eat without me. This may take awhile.
MARK: Don’t shop too hard, you’ve got to save some of that vigor for me.
He was texting in a sort of semagram now. I took the hint and didn’t text anything more specific about it.
The sound of a loud bang came from one end of the corridor. I looked and saw a person on a gurney rolled in fast by a team of four nurses. The banging sound was the doors they had come through hitting the walls. I watched them round a corner and pass out of sight. Time—10:22. I wondered why Stafford was hungry at this hour. We had breakfasted on the plane. I looked in both directions down the hall. The nurse had gone who was delivering the food earlier. The floor was poorly lit and the temperature seemed to be rising. The whole of Princess Margaret Hospital seemed drastically understaffed. I figured they were probably underfunded.
I imagined that as soon as Emma’s stateside relatives found out she was here she would be transferred to a hospital in the U.S. That is if she had any surviving relatives who knew she was in the Bahamas. Of course she probably did, which made the case for swift action all the more imperative. But I hated to act quickly in any situation. I liked to meditate on what I was doing, to move at a tortoise’s pace, and to strike when it was least expected. Presently I would have to throw such sentiments aside and get on with it. But what the hell am I supposed to do? I wondered. I hated the pressure, and momentarily hated myself for allowing the situation to turn out like this. I looked into that room across the hall and watched Emma’s chest rise and fall. I watched her with growing contempt, hating her for all the mess she had brought into my life. Of course I knew I was mostly responsible for what had happened, but she had compounded the problem. And her stubbornness at clinging to life didn’t help matters.
Just before eleven I saw a nurse enter through the swinging doors at the end of the hall. She was pushing a cart. She rounded the corner where the gurney had and continued on out of sight. I walked down to the corner and saw the nurse push the cart before an open door and stop. Leaving the cart in the hallway she entered the room. I wondered why someone had been rushed to a room that was not in the ER, but there was a lot that didn’t make sense about this hospital. I walked down the hall, making as little noise as possible, to the cart beside the open door. My heart beat faster as I neared my object. On the cart I found a box of rubber gloves, some hand towels, and a clear cylindrical container with numerous small vials inside. I looked more closely, and, to my heart’s delight, the label read: Morphine 10 mL. Each vial contained ten milliliters. From the container, which must have had about twenty to thirty vials in it, I took six. I knew that to be a lethal dose for sure. As I pocketed them, I heard the nurse’s footsteps as she walked to the open door beside me. The next room a few feet away, I slipped inside and hid behind the door.
I watched through the crack as the nurse took the cart and began to push it down the hall in the direction she’d come. She began to whistle. Thank God she hadn’t noticed the missing vials. At least not yet.
After hearing her reach the end of th
e hall and turn the corner at 11:05 I gave it another minute before I walked out of the room and slipped down the hall and around the corner. No one was in the corridor when I made it back to the chairs across from Emma’s room. I walked into the room. I fingered the six vials to make sure I had really stolen them and wasn’t just dreaming about it. I regretted the fact that I hadn’t had time to search the cart for a syringe and began to wonder how I would administer the medicine to my comatose patient.
I watched Emma for a moment and scanned the machines she was connected to. One of them was an IV, administering liquid into a vein in her arm. I wondered how often this was checked. Somehow I would have to use the needle on the IV to get all this morphine into her system. I still couldn’t believe my luck at finding the morphine. How the universe conspires with you when you have a specific goal in mind. Or was it pure luck? I didn’t really care at that point. My mind was more focused on the question of how to get this potent, clear liquid from the vials into her bloodstream. If I pulled the IV tube out and dumped the liquid into the clear, plastic funnel that was attached to the needle, it wouldn’t just magically flow into her bloodstream. In fact, quite the opposite would happen. Blood would start spurting out and the morphine would go to waste. Without a way of pumping the morphine into the blood the IV needle was quite useless. What if I poured it into her mouth? I began to consider this. She most likely had problems swallowing and I know the digestive system makes much of the morphine inactive, so there was a lower chance of mortality via this route.
I felt stuck. I thought perhaps I could get a needle in the streets, but I didn’t want to wait. And I didn’t want to hang around the hospital looking for an opportunity to steal a syringe. There was a buzz in my pocket. I took out my phone.
