efforts, one patron shunned contact, leaving his room only to wander to
isolated areas of the white beach or the mountainous Atlantic Ocean side
of the island- The rest of the time was spent in his room, lights set
low, TV on, room service trays’littering the carpet and wicker
furnishings.
On the first day there Luther had grabbed a cab from in front of the
hotel and taken a ride north, almost to the edge of the ocean, where
atop one of the island’s numerous hills stood the Sullivan estate.
Luther’s selection of Barbados had not been arbitrary.
“You know Mr. Sullivan? He’s not here. Went back to America.” The
cabbie’s lyrical tones had brought Luther out of his trance. The massive
iron gates at the bottom of the grassy hill hid a long, winding drive up
to the mansion, which, with its salmon-colored stucco walls and
eighteenfoot-high white marble columns, looked strangely appropriate in
the lush greenery, like an enormous pink rose jutting out from the
bushes.
“I’ve been to his place,” Luther answered. “In the States.”
The cabbie looked at him with new respect.
“Is anyone home? Any of the staff maybe?”
The man shook his head. “All gone. Dis morning.”
Luther sat back in his seat. The reason was obvious. They had found the
mistress of the house.
Luther spent the next several days on the broad white beaches watching
cruise ships unload their population into the duty-free shops that
littered the downtown area. Dreadlocked residents of the island made
their rounds with their battered briefcases housing watches, perfumes
and other counterfeit paraphernalia.
For five American dollars, you could watch an islander cut up an aloe
leaf and pour its rich liquid into a small glass bottle for use when the
sun started to nip at tender white skin that had lain dormant and
unblemished behind suits and blouses. Your own handwoven corn rows cost
you forty dollars and took about an hour, and there were many women with
flabby arms and thick, crumpled feet who patiently lay in the sand while
this operation was performed upon them.
The island’s beauty should have served to free Luther, to some degree,
from his melancholy. And, finally, the warning sun, gentle breezes and
low-key approach to life of the island populace had eroded his nervous
agitation to where he occasionally smiled at a passerby, spoke
monosyllables to the bartender and sipped his mixed drinks far into the
night while lying on the beach, the surf pounding into the darkness and
gently lifting him away from his nightmare. He planned to move on in a
few days. Where to, he wasn’t quite sure.
And then the channel hopping stopped at the CNN broadcast and Luther,
like a battered fish on an unbreakable line, was sent reeling toward
what he had spent several thousand dollars and traveled several thousand
miles trying to escape.
RUSSELL STUMBLED OUT OF BED AND WALKED OVER TO THE bureau, fumbled for a
pack of cigarettes.
“They’ll cut ten years off your life.” Collin rolled over and watched
her naked machinations with amusement.
“This job’s already done that.” She lit up, inhaled deeply for several
seconds, put the smoke out and climbed back in bed, snuggling butt-first
to Collin, smiling contentedly as she was wrapped up in his long,
muscular arms.
“The press conference went well, don’t you think?” She could feel him
thinking it through. He was fairly transparent.
Without the sunglasses they all were, she felt.
“As long as they don’t find out what really happened.”
She turned to face him, traced her finger along his neck, making a V
against his smooth chest. Richmond’s chest had been hairy, some of the
tufts turning gray, curling at the edges. Collins was like a baby’s
bottom, but she could feel the hard muscle beneath the skin. He could
break her neck with no more than a passing motion. She wondered,
briefly, how that would feel.
“You know we have a problem.”
Collin almost laughed’out loud. “Yeah, we’ve got some guy out there with
the President’s and a dead woman’s prints and blood on a knife. That
qualifies as a big problem I’d say.”
“Why do you think he hasn’t come forward?”