by O. L. Casper
“Your wife?”
“No, not with Isabella. Especially not with Isabella.”
“Why did you marry her?”
“Appearances more than anything. I was young and stupid. I felt the need to be hitched to some beautiful young woman. She was quiet, submissive. All the things I thought a good wife should be.”
“What do you think of all that now?”
“I never thought I’d marry again. I’d never felt compelled to before. But now I’d say that for the first time in my life I feel differently about it.”
I looked at him, stunned. Call me daft, call me unobservant—I had not seen this coming.
He leaned in and whispered in my ear, “Marry me, Sophia Durant. Marry me soon—while we’re in Scotland.”
I was quiet for a time, then whispered back: “I will.”
I looked at him now. There was a burning light in his eyes. He slipped a platinum ring bearing a large, glistening emerald onto my finger.
“Thank you.”
He kissed me.
“We’ll do it privately in a courthouse in Inverness. See if we can even manage to keep the feds from knowing about it till after the fact.”
“Forgive me asking, maybe it’s silly…”
“Anything,” he said.
I was still dazed from the proposal and feeling a bit out of it.
“I’m probably being stupid asking this. Very silly. But is there an ulterior motive in wanting to get married—so suddenly…?”
“No, none. I just figure you never know how much time you have on this earth and we might as well move quickly because of the fact.”
“Well put. Short, sweet, and to the point.”
He smiled as he leaned back on the couch.
“I was worried it might not be that easy.”
We were married at the Inverness Registration Office on Bught Road. It was a strange building of modern architecture that looked like an American elementary school. Inverness was covered in a dense fog and I wondered whether it was a bad omen signifying some sort of impending doom. I resolved that if we were married without a hitch and able to shake the FBI investigation, I would repent and mend my ways. Naturally I was not religiously inclined, but something about the chilling, foreboding feeling on entering Scotland put me in a humble frame of mind. The signing of the papers and reading of the vows made me feel like I was not in my body but instead watching from a corner of the room these two strangers hastily getting married. He looked at her kindly and vulnerably, and she looked at him, eyes abounding in glorious happiness. I could not share her happiness. For some reason I could not or would not allow myself to share that space with her. I found myself thinking of “he” and “she” instead of “he” and “I.” I attributed the whole hallucinatory experience to a kind of delirious exhaustion. And I looked forward to returning to myself.
We made the road journey in two Land Rovers, Anna driving the first one with Stafford, Savannah, and I riding along with her, and two other employees riding in the one behind us. The views on the drive south were extraordinary, even with the fog. I could make out mountains extending to either side of the road and eventually I saw Loch Ness to our right as we made our way down the A82. Past Fort Augustus we turned right, into the mountains. The fog cleared and I witnessed many surpassing vistas. At long last we came to the castle.
At first glance it seemed to protrude from a cliff that jutted out over the sea. It was on a cliff by the sea, but, as we got closer, I could see that the cliff extended much farther out before it dropped off to the water. It was raining with thunder breaking in the distance and lightning striking over the sea. I’ll never forget the experience in all my days, so wondrous and magnificent was it. As soon as the Land Rover stopped, Stafford led me by the hand into the great entrance of the castle. Inside, past two massive doors carved of old oak, all was dark and quiet and eerie. I would not have liked to venture in alone. I saw a light at the top of a staircase before us. Looking up at its source, I saw an image in the form of a woman perched at the end of a hall, looking down at me. Recognition soon dawned on me. It was Isabella. I pushed the thought of her from my mind. I wasn’t going to let ghosts ruin my Scottish adventure.
“This place is a trip,” I enthused, awestruck.
“It’s incredible.”
“There’s nobody here.”
“Just now—no. There’s not supposed to be.”
“How beautiful! Are you getting it?”
“I think, yes. Yes—yes I will.” He rolled the yeses over his tongue as if to see how the notion sounded when put into spoken words.
“It must be unbelievably expensive. How much land comes with it?”
“Four thousand acres, I think.”
“Unbelievable. I’m at a loss for words.”
“You go wander around.”
“Alone? But I can’t do it—not alone.”
“Then Anna will give me Savannah and go with you.”
“Why? What are you doing?”
“I’m going to help arrange for dinner with the others. I’ve also got some special instructions for the staff. And there’s business to attend to—phone calls.”
“I thought you’d pretty much laid off business.”
“I have. Till now.”
“I see.”
“Do you, mademoiselle?” He smiled.
“I do now. Fine—I’ll explore with Anna, but I want you to know I’m not completely happy with this. I should be exploring with you.”
“I know, I know. But you know what business is like. Besides, you two are like best friends.”
“Speaking of best friends, I wish Julie could see all of this.”
“I do too. We’ll have to get her out here.”
“Does it have a name?” I asked.
“What?”
“This castle.”
“Ah, yes. The name’s a little silly, I think. It’s Skye Castle. I’ll probably change it, of course.” He made his customary smile.
“Skye Castle is perfect. You won’t change it at all.”
“I’ll change it to Sophia Stafford Castle,” he joked.
Anna came in with Savannah and Stafford took the tot and explained the plan. I was so tired I could barely stay on my feet to walk around those castle grounds. The light was an oppressive gray and soon the cliff and everything surrounding it was covered in fog. For some odd reason there was no conversation between us. We came inside when the visibility had become too poor to see more than fifty feet. I could smell the duck soup being made in the kitchen as soon as we got in. It was a heartwarming smell, much needed to help clear the oppressive, weary feeling the empty castle produced in abundance. When I went up to the room Stafford said was ours, I stopped a few steps shy of the door. I overheard him talking on his cell phone.
“Baku is the perfect place. Give me three days and I’ll be there looking over the beautiful Caspian Sea with you, discussing the next move.”
I held my breath in the pauses.
“Perfect. I’ve got to go. I think I hear someone coming.”
I heard his footsteps moving toward the door. I was quite surprised when he turned the corner. He made a start when he saw me.
“I thought someone was out here. I didn’t know it was you. You should have said something.”
He smiled while looking at me in a somewhat frightening way. I sensed that through his jovial exterior he was somehow deeply unhappy with me and was warning me to leave him his privacy. I smiled nervously.
Sophia Durant’s Diary
December 26, Scottish Highlands, Scotland
The first night in Skye Castle Stafford and I settled into a somewhat furnished opulent room on the fifth and highest floor which overlooked the sea. Not that there was much of a view of the sea; the weather had obscured it. All that was visible out any of the castle windows was fog. I wrapped myself in the duvet in a vain attempt to get warm quickly. The temperature was descending rapidly and apparently there was no central heat
ing. I waited for Stafford to make a phone call before he was all mine. I thought about all that had happened leading to this moment in time. I had now achieved all I had set out for at the beginning of my new life some six months ago. Strangely it was not an exhilarating thought but a depressing one. I had held the goal so long in mind, cherished it so much, that now that it had finally arrived it was anticlimactic; a letdown. And it seemed nothing would prop up my spirits. The journey had been a costly one and now I felt that perhaps the toll was too much. It had sapped my vitality. As strange as it sounds, even my ability to desire had diminished. Now that I had everything, I wanted nothing. The only ambition to fulfill was to maintain the goal. I’d heard that was the hard part, much harder than getting there. With all the horrible things that happened in the wake of this dream, I didn’t really want to go on. The enjoyment was somehow lost. I never saw myself as someone with a conscience and this was not the reaction of a mind plagued by guilt. Rather it was due to a dulling of the senses through the string of absurd events along the way. Most of all I was tired, physically and emotionally exhausted.
Stafford put some kindling and wood in the fireplace across the room, and, after many spent matches, managed to get a fire going.
“Anna said she wanted to see you before you went to bed,” he called out from across the room.
“What for?”
“She didn’t say.”
“I’ll see her in the morning. I’m too tired.”
I thought it would’ve been nice to smoke a joint before bed, but I was too tired to go find her.
“So how does it feel?” he asked with a smile as he approached the bed.
“Being in a castle, being in Scotland, or being married to you?”
“All of the above.”
“The castle and Scotland are mind-blowing.”
“And being married to me?”
“Mind-blowing and wonderful. It’s all my dreams come true.”
He looked quietly into my eyes and kissed me.
“How is it for you?” I asked.
“Indescribable. Beyond words. So I won’t even try. I’ll just enjoy the moment. Because it’s here and gone in the blink of an eye.”
“So how long are we staying in Scotland?”
“How long do you want to stay in Scotland?”
He slips under the covers. His hands reach for my breasts.
“Forever.”
“We can if you want. I have some business to attend to in Azerbaijan in a few days—but I’ll be right back. Or—even better—I was hoping to take you.”
“I’d love to come. What business is it?”
He blinks and smiles.
“Something I can’t know about?”
“No, nothing like that. It’s moving some pieces around on a board.”
“Like chess.”
“Yes, like chess.”
“You must be a good chess player. A master.”
“I wouldn’t say I’m a master. But yes. I play well.”
“Is it real estate or art or currency…or something else?”
“What’s with the twenty-one questions? It’s a certain type of property, if you must know.”
“That narrows it down.”
“Would you like something to drink? I found a nice bottle of single malt in the kitchen. I can have it brought up.”
“I’d love some. But I’d hate to have someone else bring it up. That would make it seem…less personal.”
“You’re right. I’ll be right back.”
He leaves the room and in under a minute he returns with the bottle and two coffee mugs.
“You’ll have to excuse the mugs. It’s all I could find that was clean.”
I laugh. He pours the whiskey into the mugs and hands one to me.
“Sorry there’s no ice or anything else. At least it’s cold.”
It burns as I swallow. I set the cup down on a bedside table, he puts his down and we proceed to make love. He puts his hands on my sides and runs them along my back and into my pajama pants. Sliding them off, with my panties, he proceeds to take off his pants. The feeling of the tip of his cock touching my lower lips is exhilarating. He leans down and kisses me passionately before entering me in full. The sensation of his throbbing cock penetrating my wet vagina is indescribable bliss. We’re actually married and I’m feeling him inside me. I keep repeating the thought in my mind in amazement. The depression of earlier in the evening has been lifted and replaced by pure ecstasy. I wrap my thighs around him as he thrusts ever deeper. The transition from transcendental sexual bliss into sleep is seamless.
I awoke at first light. I looked at my lover as he slept, watching his chest rise and lower with each breath. Seeing a clear sky without, I got up and, peering out the window, saw the breathtaking view of the deep blue, Scottish sea. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, what life had become—it was like waking up on Christmas morning. But now every morning would be Christmas morning. The only pain was the ever-present idea that everything was fleeting, that nothing lasts. With the sorrowful pallor these thoughts cast over my mind, I lay back down next to my new husband.
He awoke a short time later.
“I had an idea,” he said.
“We could have the marriage ceremony here. I realized as I was drifting off last night that I’ve never met your parents. I don’t think we’ve even really talked about them that much.”
“It’s okay,” I said.
“Would you like them to be present at the ceremony?”
“No, it’s not important to me. We’re not really that close.”
“Would you like to have a ceremony?”
“Yes. Eventually.”
“We could have it here. Fly out anyone you like.”
“That would be wonderful. When we come back from Azerbaijan we do it then.”
“No problem.”
Special Agent Glenn Carter’s Notes
December 27, Scottish Highlands, Scotland
Mark Stafford’s guilt is now more apparent than ever. The team in search of Emily Mordaunt’s body has had no luck. She got in her plane December 11 and disappeared. The part of the Atlantic she flew over that day—north of Eleuthera about a hundred miles—is notorious for bad weather. This weather is apparently the cause of many of the disappearances of aircraft and ships in what is referred to in popular lore as the Bermuda Triangle. I never possessed any notions one way or another about the triangle, but now the mere name conjures up bleak images and feelings of despair. I suppose I’m a bit pathetic when it comes to feelings for the victims in any of our cases. I need to cultivate an attitude of nonattachment to avoid any clouding of my views.
I told Sophia I suspected her and I may at certain times have given in to the thought. My instincts still tell me she has something to do with it. But all logic, all reason points in another direction—to Mr. Stafford. Obviously Sophia has a motive in the deaths of the women; it benefits her (or at least could in her mind) in her relationship with Mr. Stafford. But she lacks the means to have done the killings. For her to have killed the two young women with the type of sophistication it took to acquire and administer such a poison as used is just impossible. Furthermore she had no motive in the killing of Madison Conway. Didn’t even know her as far as I can tell. Now that doesn’t stop it from having possibly been an accidental killing, but the likelihood of that is nil. Wherefrom and how would Sophia have gotten the poison that was used? No, it would be nearly impossible for her. Emma Green—Sophia could have killed her, but why would she have gone about it in such a complex manner. If Emma Green was killed by someone and it was not an accident (this one was likely an accident) as is suggested by all the surrounding deaths, she would have been killed by a professional killer. The circumstances of her death are too clean and too successful for someone like Sophia to perpetrate. Even given the high unlikelihood of this one being an accident due to all the other killings, I’ve seen stranger coincidences still and don’t rule out the possibility th
at this was an accident. Isabella Gardner’s death was clearly murder somehow devised by a husband who had one reason or another to get her out of the way. The Bureau may not see this, but I do. And I’m sure, as we dig deeper, the truth of the matter will reveal itself. Lastly this brings us to the death of Emily Mordaunt. The fifth death related to the case. Again the Bureau differs with me on the matter. They have not ruled out the possibility that she is still alive. I have ruled it out. It is only a matter of time before they do too. Ms. Mordaunt has come to represent, in my mind, the bleakness of the circumstances surrounding all the murders. This series of killings was done by professionals. Mr. Stafford doubtlessly hired a team of professional killers to carry out these murders. And they have to be the best of the best to have killed each of these victims in such varied and practically traceless ways.
This brings to mind a possible connection between Sophia and the hired guns, whoever they may be. She is just too cool and too detached. She plays the part too well, and that is the flaw. The fact that although her performances are so good, we can still discern that she is acting. The murders may even appear on the surface to be more to her benefit than anyone else’s. But I believe, one: she is incapable as I have stated before, and two: the motivation of having these women out of the way is not enough to incite her to violence. There are other means more amenable to her disposition for getting those women out of the way. The killings are professional and habitual. Murder like that is habitual. But she is connected, or, at the very least, aware of what is going on, who is involved. Much more so than she is letting on.
We found out late in the afternoon of the 17 that Mr. Stafford and Sophia had left the island of Eleuthera with a small entourage that morning. They’d left in great secrecy, without so much as having informed very many of the staff outside of who they took with them. I don’t know the reasoning behind this, but it doesn’t make things look any better for Mr. Stafford. I left with the STF that afternoon en route to Inverness. As we traced their movements in Scotland via records of the positioning of their cell phones, we found that they had visited Inverness Registration Office on Bught Road. On checking records in the registration office we found that Mr. Stafford and Sophia were married on their arrival. The plot thickens.
