Shannon reached over and rubbed his cheek with her knuckle. Her silent question drew her into him, and she started crying against his shoulder, but this time he thought she was crying for times past, hopes unfulfilled. He wanted to dam up her tears, wanted to tell her it was him, all him, his fault. He stroked her hair and the crying slowed.
“Sometimes,” she said, sniffing, “I feel like I’ve made such a mess of my life, getting pregnant, being a lousy parent—”
“You’ve been the better parent by far.”
She gave a hard snuffle. “I knew you didn’t want children, but you never said one mean word to me when I told you I was pregnant. And you sent me money even when you didn’t have any. You haven’t been a great parent, true, but you’re still a great guy.” She raised her lips to his chin, then to his lips, kissing him with those fluttering, little kisses that he used to love. She had told him what he needed to hear, and of course he couldn’t hurt her feelings by telling her no, or he didn’t want to.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
* * *
Shannon nuzzled into Eric’s cheek, breathing in the sour-earthy smell she recalled on lonely Toronto nights. Wondering if she was doing the right thing, she kissed him again and again, the tears drying on her face.
It had happened almost accidentally, she knew, but he’d initiated it. He’d put her in his bed, slept with her the whole night, and reached over, his hand colliding with her arm, to embrace her. He wanted to be with her at last, she could tell, hardly been able to keep his eyes off her whenever they were together. Either he’d realized that he loved her more than Simone or that he wanted to be with her because they had a child together. This, this would be the moment that would decide if she’d live in Largo or he with them—or if she’d place him forever in a pigeonhole that said Eve’s father.
He kissed her, twisting his tongue around hers the way she’d always liked, and she kissed him back. Then she pulled away a few inches. “Are you sure?”
He looked over her shoulder as he unhooked her bra. The dryness of his hand on her breasts, the clumsy way he ran his hand up and down the side of her neck, were so familiar, so welcome—like a wave coming back to shore—it almost made her cry. Instead, she kissed him, running her hand over his chest and stomach. She rubbed the hairs on his chest, now gray, and the paunch that was new to her. But he was still Eric, older, wiser, and the man she loved. She guided his hand down and unzipped her jeans for him. It felt so right, the way he stroked her, getting her excited in seconds.
She started pulling down his boxers, but he gripped her wrist. “Wait a minute.”
“What’s the matter?”
He was looking away and she turned his face to look at her. “We don’t have to, you know.”
“It’s not that.”
She grinned. “Don’t tell me you’re shy.” She reached inside his shorts. Unfamiliar, shrunken folds met her fingers, the hard verve of years past melted into baby softness.
“I’m sorry.” He sighed, pulled her hand out.
“You don’t have to apologize.” They blundered through who was sorrier than who while they lay in an embarrassed embrace.
Back at the Delgados’ an hour later, Shannon was frying an egg when Jennifer walked into the kitchen barefoot, her green housecoat tied around the waist with a sash.
“Good morning, sunshine. Have you seen Miss Bertha?”
“She said something about getting the children dressed for something.”
“Yeah, we’re going into Ocho Rios to spend the day with friends. Eve said she’d like to come along. Is that all right?”
“Sure.” It would be nice having the house to herself. She could work on her notes and photographs, would have the space to go through the parachute drop that had already started, her hope of a future with Eric unraveling even as she’d buttoned up her blouse beside the bed.
“You’re disappointed,” he’d said, still under the sheets, his indignity hidden.
“It’s perfectly normal, happens all the time.”
“I don’t want you to think—”
“Please, don’t worry about me. I’m fine.” She’d tucked in her blouse, avoiding his eyes and the truth they’d speak.
“I’m glad you spent the night. It felt like old times.”
“I was a mess. Thank you—really.” She’d glanced at him briefly as she slipped her feet into her loafers.
“I wonder what Eve thinks,” he’d ventured.
“She’s still sleeping, if I know her.” She’d tried to smile as she left and cried as she climbed the driveway back to the Delgados’.
Jennifer padded to the refrigerator. “I was waiting up for you last night, but I faded. When did you come in?”
Shannon turned away. “I spent the night at Eric’s.”
Her friend poured orange juice into a glass and sat at the kitchen table. “Want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” Shannon turned off the gas and held her head for a second. “God, I feel awful. I drank too much.”
Jennifer tapped her fingers on the glass. “So you spent the night with Eric—but what happened to your professor friend?”
“We left him at the Rasta camp, but his car was gone this morning from Eric’s parking lot. He must have come back.”
The story of the previous night was retold over breakfast. At the end of it, Jennifer sat back with alarmed eyes. “You might have to rethink this whole investigation. This could be really, really dangerous.”
“I feel like giving up, honestly, but something about Katlyn’s story keeps pulling me to find out more. If something like that had happened to me, I’d want someone to find me—or my body, in this case, wouldn’t you?” Shannon shuddered. “I hate to think what happened to her. She sounds like she was a really sweet girl, you know. Terrible way to end up. Not to mention that I’m being paid a fair amount to find her. I just can’t seem to get anywhere with it, though.
“Shad thinks this Redemption man, the old Rasta, doesn’t know anything, that he’s just playing with me to make some money. I was hoping he was Katlyn’s lover—he’s old enough—and that he’d just cough up the facts. Too simple, I suppose. Especially since his camp hasn’t been there long enough, only thirty years, and Katlyn disappeared thirty-five years ago.” Shannon slumped in her chair, almost relieved, and flicked her fingers open. “I might have to go home empty-handed.”
“You wouldn’t want to cut your trip short, though, would you? Not with Shad’s wedding coming up. And Eric and Eve—I know you don’t want to talk about Eric, Shan—but he and Eve are getting along so well. It would be a pity to rush back. Eve needs her father.” Jennifer tilted her head in question, a woman who always had hope. “And maybe now that you’ve spent the night with him—”
“He’s too old for me, anyway.”
“Lambert’s older than me.”
“Yeah, but Eric is older than God.”
“You didn’t seem to think that last night when you slept with him.”
“Emphasis on the word slept.”
“I thought—”
“I had too much to drink and he put me to bed. That was it.”
Jennifer took a deep breath, regrouping. “Well, it’s not like you don’t have options, is it? Ransom wouldn’t have come all this way from Kingston if he didn’t like you.”
Shannon sighed. “After reassuring me that we would be joined at the hip during the ceremony, that he would be my protector, it took him about a millisecond to leave us so he could reason with Redemption. I think his going with us last night had everything to do with his work and pretty much nothing to do with me. But I’ll call him this morning to see if he’s okay.”
Bertha waddled into the kitchen. “Miss Jennifer, you want me to give the children breakfast before you leave?”
“Good idea. I’ll bathe while you do that.” The mistress of the house stood and tightened her sash. “See that Miss Shannon gets a nice lunch and don’t disturb her, please. She could do with som
e rest.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
* * *
It seemed as if every one of Shad’s days off was spent doing some kind of work, and the Monday before his wedding was even worse. He checked on Miss Claudie about the cake, picked oranges from Miss Armstrong’s tree for the reception’s fruit salad, and cleaned the house from top to bottom in preparation for the arrival of Beth’s sister on Friday.
While wiping the mirror in the bathroom with newspaper, a thought occurred to him that made him rush through the rest of the cleaning. He showered, walked down the road to the bar, and asked Eric, who was fiddling with the computer behind the bar, if he could borrow the Jeep.
“It needs gas,” the boss said glumly.
“I going to put some in.”
Eric frowned at the computer again. “Do you know how to get on to the Internet? I’ve forgotten.”
“You plug into the telephone line yet?”
“Of course I plugged in.”
Shad rounded the counter and pointed at the screen. “Eve tell me you have to touch this round thing with the arrow.”
“Can you get in for me?”
The bartender took the keys off the nail where they always hung. “I gone, boss.” Halfway across the restaurant, he turned back. “You know when they tearing down Miss Mac’s house?”
“Wednesday, Lambert said.”
“I not going to miss it. I have to say a prayer for Miss Mac and all she do for me. You have to thank God, you know, before you pull down a house with all them memories.”
The Jeep was as ornery as ever, and Shad had to wipe off the battery terminals before it would start, salt and corrosion affecting all Largo’s vehicles. Once the car started, he washed his hands, cleaning his short fingernails, before starting on his errand. Driving past the Annotto Bay fire station, a small bowl of mangoes his only companion, the sometime detective admitted to himself that he hadn’t been much of a detective this time around. Because of the closing on the new hotel, preparations for the wedding, and the failed party, he’d let Shannon do most of the work hunting down Katlyn.
He thought about his past ventures: saving Simone from political thugs, hunting down Joseph’s would-be murderers, rescuing Danny’s girlfriend from the clutches of drug dealers. Nothing had distracted him then. Today, he would make up for his recent negligence and do a little detective work on his own. He recalled a phrase from The Secret World of the Private Investigator, written by Ellis J. Oakland, a man much admired by Shad. The best investigators, Oakland said, follow their hunches. When he’d first read it, Shad had thought that a hunch was something on a crippled man’s back and had asked Beth’s opinion.
“A hunch mean what your mind telling you,” she’d explained.
Shad had been able to relate to that right away. He always followed his hunches when he guessed a customer’s drink, but now his mind was telling him that, since he’d promised Shannon he’d help her solve the Katlyn business, he should do some work on it today. Beth might not want him to do any detective work after they got married, but something had been nagging at him, and he wanted to work on it on his last day off as a single man. By midafternoon, he’d found his way to the road where Maisie’s cousin lived.
“Miss Mattie!” Shad called from the gate. Clutching the bowl of fruit, he knocked on the number plate with a stone. An elderly woman peeked out from behind the vine screening the porch.
“Who that?” she said with narrowed eyes.
“Is Shad, ma’am, the man who bring your cousin Miss Maisie of Largo Bay. She send some mangoes for you.”
Half an hour later, having drunk a glass of lemonade and discussed the elderly woman’s lumbago, Shad inquired about the young Rasta whose mother had sent food while Mattie was sick. “His name was Unity, a nice young man, good manners. I want him to help me find something he was telling me about.”
“He live next to Mammee’s Bakery, about ten chains up the road.”
After thanking her for his clipping of the kiss-me-over-the-garden-gate, Shad took his leave and started driving up the road, remembering the chant in school: a chain is a hundred feet, ten chains are a thousand. Before long, the smell of baking bread started making him hungry, and he stopped outside a small shop.
“Unity live around here?” he asked the teenage girl who handed him two patties and a plantain tart.
“Next door.” The girl lowered her face and suppressed a smile. “The house have a orange door.”
“Like you know what behind the orange door.” Shad winked.
Sure enough, Unity, dreadlocks concealed under a skullcap, opened the door. Shad reminded him of their earlier meeting. “You can come with me to find the Rasta farm you was telling me about? My mind just tell me to visit them.”
“I was going to wash my—”
“I pay you ten US.”
“Deal,” the youth replied, a next-generation Rasta.
By the time they’d climbed the road to Gordon Gap, the sun was going down, and after they passed through the town, Shad turned on the Jeep’s crooked lights.
“Right here,” Unity directed when they approached a dirt road. It was the same road that Carlton had tried to drive down, but the surging water of the night before was now only a trickle and the Jeep lurched down the gully bank and up the other side with little difficulty. The road ahead was heavily overgrown, and tall bushes started beating against the windshield.
“You see anything?” the young man said, peering into the darkness. His question was answered in a few minutes when Shad jerked the Jeep to a halt beside two houses, both brightly lit within. Shad knocked on the door of the larger house.
“Good night,” he said to the Rastafarian woman who opened the door. He introduced himself. The short, erect woman, Sister Aziza, she told him, looked up at him with glowing skin and wise eyes. She was wary at first, but softened when she heard the story about Katlyn’s demise.
“We trying to find out what happened to her,” Shad said.
“I remember reading something in the paper about it long ago.” Sister Aziza invited him to come in. “It’s a story that’s stuck in my mind ever since.” Candles shimmered from every table in the room, and the scent of something minty drifted through the house, coming from either the candles or the pot on the stove in the corner. “And her parents never found her body? That’s a real shame.”
Aziza was a middle-class woman by her accent and furnishings. The candlelight made her look younger than her age, Shad was sure. She wasn’t from Gordon Gap originally. Aziza and her husband, formerly lawyers in Kingston’s Twelve Tribes community, had retired to the area fifteen years before to start an organic farm. Her husband had died six years ago, but she’d stayed on.
“People eating so much garbage, fast food and all kinds of thing, nowadays.” She touched the scarf covering her gray locks. “We wanted to learn how to farm and pass on good growing and eating habits, you know. We never had any children, so I’m going to leave this farm to the young people here.”
“I know the life not easy, but is a valuable thing to do,” Shad agreed. “Good for the country.”
“Yes, like our legacy.” She had something trustworthy about her, good in a lawyer and a farmer.
“How did you end up here? It’s a long way from Kingston.”
Aziza rose to check the pot on the stove. “We were driving around looking for land,” she said over her shoulder. “We wanted to buy something in this area because it was fertile and—and Rasta friendly, you know. There’s a long history of Rastas farming up here. It’s not everywhere you can find that. Somebody told us there was an abandoned farm further up the hill, so I went to look at it. And we found this man living in a shack up there, all by himself—a hermit—looked like he didn’t have two sticks to rub together. My husband asked him if the land was for sale, and he said no, but he had some down here. Just like that.” Aziza sat down, waving Shad to do the same.
“We found out he was from Kingston, and he’d been a R
asta from the time when police used to beat up Rastamen and throw them in prison, back in the 1950s. That was when it was illegal to be Rasta. He was one of the men who started the Pinnacle camp—you ever hear of Pinnacle?” Shad shook his head. “Back then, everybody was afraid of Rastas. People used to call them madmen, you know. They had all this angry talk and wild hair, refusing to do what the English people wanted. The old Rasta had been part of an early group in the Kingston ghettos, but the police were always harassing them. They moved to the mountains nearby in Sligoville and set up a camp they called Pinnacle.
“Up to five hundred, a thousand, brethren came together in Sligoville. Then police raided the place and burned it down and locked up the leaders. When this man got out of jail, he and his followers set up a camp here. They were the first on this mountain.”
Shad’s nostrils flared, scenting something other than mint. “Where he was living when you last seen him?”
“Up at the top of the road, you can’t go any further than that. They were trying to hide from the police, you know. I think the old hermit had inherited the land from his parents.”
“He still alive?”
“He must be dead by now.”
“And his name was . . . ?”
“People called him Dread. His birth name was on the deed, Adolphus MacMillan. We bought the land with cash, and he marked his name with an X on the sale agreement. It was all legal, you know.” She laughed, slapping her robe. “We were lawyers, after all, and we didn’t want anybody to accuse us of—anything illegal.”
Shad thanked the woman and returned to the car. “We going up the road,” he told Unity.
Past I-Verse’s gate and five miles on, Unity said he wanted to wash his hair before it got too late. “Soon come,” the bartender replied, knowing well that soon wasn’t coming for a while.
The Rhythm of the August Rain Page 21