Dru shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself. His words made sense. But they were hard to accept. First Ramy, or someone like him, now a killer who might come looking for her.
“And I suppose you don’t have any idea who the killer might be,” she said coolly, locking eyes with him.
“I suspect someone in Pilgrim Boone knows something.” His voice matched the coolness in hers.
Dru jumped up. Her long arms, tensed like steel rods, pressed hard into her sides. Her fists were clenched tight. She pushed out the words through gritted teeth and lips that barely moved. “Are you implying that—”
He didn’t let her finish. “I’m not implying anything, Dru. I am stating loud and clear that someone in Pilgrim Boone knows something about the death of Andrew Goodings. That person may not have ordered the hit, but he, or she, sure as hell let it happen.”
Dru froze, too stunned to speak. She recovered fast. “How dare you! How dare you! What makes you so goddamned righteous? What gives you the right to even suggest something like that? Do you think I would be involved with—”
“Whom do you report to at Pilgrim Boone?”
“Stop cutting me off. I’m the point person on Savoy!” She was shouting now.
St. Cyr sighed wearily. “Yes, Dru, but who ultimately oversees all operations in this region? Who makes first contact with the big wigs in every country? Sets up all the deals, then hands them over for management to the operational people at your level?”
He paused and took a step toward her. “And who’s been acting strange about this particular deal? Putting unusual pressure on you to close quickly. Threatening to put someone else on the case, for instance?”
“There isn’t—” Dru stopped abruptly. Her mouth fell open and she sank down on the sofa.
One name.
Only one name answered all of those questions. “Grant,” she whispered. “Grant Featherhorn.”
St. Cyr sat down on the edge of one of the chairs facing the sofa. He leaned forward and looked at Dru intently. “Who is he and what kind of man is he?” He spoke softly this time. Dru was in that delicate place between cognition and incredulity.
She blurted it out. All of it. Her world shattering with each word, each sentence. She couldn’t hold back.
Would she hold back if she could? The question crept up like a shadow behind the words now pouring out of her and she chased it away with a resolute nod of her head.
She began at the beginning, telling St. Cyr how Featherhorn had tried to goad her into leaving the company with his snide remarks. How, when that failed, he had made life hell for her, setting traps to make her screw up so that she would be fired, or at least kept out of senior management.
She told him about Featherhorn’s threat to put Sharon Brinkley on the Savoy project when he knew that her own competence was not at issue. And how the hatred between Featherhorn and she had come to a head that memorable day.
“It was the same day you called out of the blue.” Her voice was steady, but barely audible. Her mind was racing even as she spoke. Featherhorn had to know something. St. Cyr was right.
She covered her face and moaned. “My God! My God! This is awful. This is so awful!”
“Is he capable of murder, Dru?”
Dru’s hands fell away from her face and she shrank back into the sofa, staring at St. Cyr with uncomprehending eyes. Deep lines etched her brow. She seemed to be struggling to make sense of his question. Then, as the horror of the answer that crept into her mind sank in, she began to wring her hands.
St. Cyr snapped his fingers impatiently. “Answer me, Dru. Is this Grant Featherhorn capable of murder?” His voice was harsh. He needed the answer he knew she had. She wanted to scurry away from what she knew to be true. That’s what she knew people did in their desperation to keep their world falling from apart.
“I don’t know. I don’t know. How would I know that?” St. Cyr’s expression grew even harder.
“He…he could be ruthless. I don’t know. The whole thing seems so unreal.”
“What about Lawton Pilgrim?” St. Cyr’s eyes remained riveted to hers.
Dru knew he was mad as hell. She had made herself believe that he was the scum of the earth. That had to have hurt. She had made him out to be a man who preyed on women traveling alone; a man who abducted innocent women and did God knew what with them. She had carried in her heart for years the hatred that stemmed from this belief.
And less than an hour ago, in front of a lobbyful of people, she had backed away from him the way you backed away from something loathsome. She still thought that he was involved with Andrew’s death. Her loyalty to Pilgrim Boone was that unassailable.
Dru sat up and shook her head vigorously.”No. Not Lawton. I just can’t see it. The law is sacred to him. The firm is his whole life. It defines him. He would never do anything to compromise its reputation. Especially something as heinous as…as…” She couldn’t bring herself to utter the word “murder” in the context of Lawton Pilgrim.
“Dalrymple? Roopnaraine?”
Dru laughed and shook her head again. It was a spontaneous laugh. “Are you kidding me? Puleeze! Not those two,” she said scornfully. “Definitely not those two. They’re in this for the money, and for the leverage of a relationship with Pilgrim Boone. Nothing else. But they can live without Pilgrim Boone and its money if things don’t work out. For them, in a small country like this, there’s tons of money they can make without having to deal in nasty stuff. Especially something like murder.” She laughed again. “Uh-uh. Those two love themselves too much to get their hands dirty like that.”
St. Cyr watched her closely as she talked and laughed.
“Yes, I think you’re right. From what Andrew told me, and it wasn’t much, Dalrymple and Roopnaraine are your typical middlemen, leveraging their contacts and connections like capital. Andrew didn’t think they had any real influence in this particular deal. On the contrary, he thought Pilgrim Boone probably knew it was wasting its time and money with them but figured it wouldn’t hurt to let the government see them in a relationship with a local enterprise.” He was waiting to gauge her reaction.
Dru heard the edge in his voice, but she could not help smiling at the perceptiveness of the late Andrew Goodings. “Hmmm. Interesting,” she said. “Yes. Well, I’m sorry to say it, but your firm really is in a very suspect position, Dru. I’d be very circumspect about what I said in New York if I were you. Watch this Grant Featherhorn carefully, but don’t let him know what you may be thinking about him. Say nothing to anyone about him, in fact.
Not even to Pilgrim himself.”
Dru’s expression grew serious again. “This is so unreal.”
St. Cyr stood up abruptly. “Yes, so it seems. But it is very real and you’re way out of your league.”
Dru was tired of defending herself. She looked up at him, frowning. Was he leaving? It surprised her that she didn’t want him to leave. Not yet. Not now, when she was so confused and afraid. She wanted him to go on talking to her. He was strong and sure and her world was collapsing. She wanted his words to assure her again and again that none of what she had believed about him was true.
St. Cyr saw her confusion, she thought. That was why he remained standing, half turned toward the door. He had warned her and, in the process, had managed to at least to shake her ugly perception of him. Good! But you don’t wipe away years of anger and hate in a few minutes.
“So that’s it, then,” he said brusquely. “I’ve moved into the hotel here, so you can reach me easily if you need to. Let me know when you will be leaving for New York.” He started toward the door before she could respond. “You don’t have to get up. I’ll let myself out.”
He crossed the room in long, determined strides, his face gripped in an obstinate scowl.
He had almost reached the door when Dru said, “Do you think I had anything to do with it?” Her voice was pleading and defiant at the same time.
He stopped and stood still fo
r a moment, his back to her. He turned slowly and studied her. She was standing, her arms wrapped tightly around her.
“No, Dru. I do not believe you are involved in the death of Andrew Goodings,” he said evenly. His face showed no expression.
“What makes you so sure? I’m…was…am suspicious of you.”
St. Cyr lost it then. “Good God, Dru! This isn’t a game. I’m not going to accuse you of murder just because you suspect me of that and more. Just because you obviously see me as the most evil creature on the face of this earth. Use your common sense, for God’s sake! Think!”
Dru’s head dipped. Her eyes burned. She said nothing.
St. Cyr rolled his eyes. “I’ve had enough of this, Dru. As I said, I’m around if you need me.” His hand was already on the doorknob when her words stopped him cold.
“I saw Ramy.”
He whipped around. Dru watched him warily, her breathing shallow. The words had fallen from her mouth before she could stop them.
He came toward her slowly. His eyes had narrowed and he was looking at her in a way that alarmed her. She backed away from him as he came closer. She collided with the sofa and fell into it, leaning far back as he closed the space between them.
He stood directly over her, an inscrutable human tower. “What did you say, Dru?” He spoke quietly.
“I saw Ramy. Today. At MacPherson’s office.”
St. Cyr let her words hang in the air for several moments before he spoke. “Ramy is dead, Dru,” he said in the same quiet voice. “His body was found in an alley in Marseille, not far from where you and I were when we saw him. He had been stabbed several times. This happened five years ago. I myself went to the morgue, just to make sure.”
Dru’s hands flew to her mouth. “But…but he…this man had the same face. Same eyes. Obsidian. And even that terrible skin,” she said weakly. “There are evil men everywhere, Dru. And this part of the world is full of people who look like Ramy. You may well have seen a man who looked like Ramy and who had a dark aura. But I assure you, Ramy is dead. His devilish life finally caught up with him. You could not have seen him today.” St. Cyr’s expression remained inscrutable. He held Dru’s eyes for a long moment, then turned abruptly and strode quickly to the door.
It didn’t make a sound when he closed it behind him.
§
Dru slowly picked herself up from the sofa and forced her feet to drag the rest of her body to the door. She secured the lock, leaned her back against the door, and closed her eyes.
She felt numb. What should she do now? She should eat something. She hadn’t had a meal since breakfast. She rang room service and ordered a fish dinner. A thirty-minute wait. They were still serving tea.
She hung up and sighed. “Too early for dinner, Madam. So sorry, Madam. We will do our best to have it to you in thirty minutes or less,” she said out loud, making a face and mimicking the accent of the voice on the other end of the line.
She looked around listlessly. She should start making arrangements to leave Guyana. Find out when the next flight left for New York.
Her eyes fell on the laptop she had left on the coffee table. She hadn’t touched it since she arrived. She decided to check her e-mail and send off a couple herself. One to Leona, who must be frantic by now, not having heard from her. She was sure Lawton had checked with her before he called.
She opened the laptop, logged into her account, and pulled up her e-mail. There were two from Leona and one from Featherhorn. Judging by the time it had arrived, he must have sent it as soon as he had returned to his office after Lawton’s phone call. She didn’t bother to open it. He was the last person who should have anything to say to her.
There were a few others from business associates and clients, and one from Lance, her brother. Her heart skipped a beat. She had completely forgotten that he was going to send her whatever information he could dig up about Theron St. Cyr.
She clicked on his note.
Hi, Sis: Attached is what I found on the subject. Must say it’s an impressive subject, with the looks to match. The kind of package I’d love to unwrap. Just kidding. You know how it is with me and Phil. Love you. Me.
Dru couldn’t help smiling as she downloaded the attached zip file. She adored her brother. He was lot happier about coming out now that he and their parents had reconciled. Their mother and father had finally accepted that their son was not “going through a phase”; that he liked to be intimate with men, not women; that, in spite of his smiling “you never knows,” he may never bear them grandchildren to carry on the Durane name.
And no, he had assured them with a laugh because he had seen the worry in their eyes and knew they would never ask, he would not be dressing as a woman, swishing his behind, hanging his wrist, or lisping the letter s. They had embraced each other then, their parents relieved that their son would not bring “shame and disgrace on the family,” Lance overjoyed that the family was whole again and at peace.
What a relief ! It had been so ugly for so long. For a while her father had refused to even allow Lance’s name to be mentioned in the house. His only son! He had chased Lance out of the house and ordered him never to return. He suffered a stroke two months later and everyone knew that it was “all this aunty-man business with Lance” that had caused it.
As for her mother, she had just cried and cried and wrung her hands a lot. Lance called her a month after he left home to let her know that he was in Washington and had found a good job and an apartment. He had been living with a friend and his family until then, he told her. She was relieved to hear from him, but she rushed him off the phone because his father was growing suspicious and she did not want to upset him. Lance did not call her again, but he kept in touch with Dru, and Dru would let her mother know how he was doing.
Dru could not say exactly when or why her parents came around to accepting Lance for what he was. She suspected it had something to do with her father’s brush with death and his subsequent belief that he would be “called to meet his maker” sooner than he thought. He had never recovered fully from the stroke.
Anyway, things were back to normal with Lance, and soon Phil, his boyfriend, became a fixture at family gatherings. It turned out that everybody had figured out the truth about Lance a long time ago, but it didn’t really bother them because he was still their Lance—handsome, intelligent, fun-loving, and kind. Too bad those good looks were wasted on men, the aunts and female cousins would tease him to his face. But, hey, they would say, variety is the spice of life, isn’t it? And Lance would agree with a jovial “amen to that.”
At first, Dru, fiercely protective of her brother, had been suspicious of this free-flowing liberalism in her otherwise very conservative extended West Indian family. For a long time she kept her ears tuned for double entendres and snide remarks about Lance. When none were forthcoming she grudgingly conceded that her kin’s feelings were genuine.
There were four items in Lance’s zip file. One contained photographs of St. Cyr—an eight-by-eleven, black-and-white bust shot, the kind that would accompany a press release. Another showed him receiving an award. Dru squinted to read the French inscription on the plaque. She could barely make out the words because of all the curlicues in the lettering. She finally figured out that the award was being bestowed on Theron St. Cyr for his dedication to the protection of women and girls.
The third and last photo, from a newspaper clipping, tore at Dru’s heart. It was taken at a funeral and it showed a distraught St. Cyr bent over a closed casket. Two men, one on either side of him, had their arms around his shoulders. She recognized one of them instantly. It was Faustin, the same man who had picked her up at the train station in Paris and locked her in that frightening studio. The third man resembled Faustin, though he seemed younger. His brother, probably.
All three were clearly torn up over whoever had died, St. Cyr and Faustin most of all. Their faces were twisted in pain. The picture must have been taken not very long before she met them. Both
St. Cyr and Faustin looked the same as when she met them. The caption read, “The funeral of Tabatha St. Cyr, a budding jazz pianist, who was found brutally stabbed to death in Paris. Pictured left to right: Faustin Daubuisson, her fiancé; Theron St. Cyr, her twin brother; Michel Daubuisson, brother of Faustin.”
Dru was stunned. She could not take her eyes off Theron’s face.
Finally, she sat back and closed her eyes. Her breathing was heavy. She opened her eyes and stared at Theron’s face again.
So this is it. Her mouth silently formed the words. He wasn’t lying. He wasn’t lying.
Memories of Marseille and Paris rushed at her. Her heart went on a rampage in her chest as the image of St. Cyr pushed itself forward. She saw him as she had seen him the very first time, heard his voice as they walked up and down the narrow, stepped streets and along La Canebière. His protective arm as they passed the man he called Ramy. His good-bye at the train station. Then Paris. And Faustin.
And wasted years waiting to avenge a wrong that had never been done to her.
Dru put her head down on the coffee table and wept. She cried for herself, and for Theron and Tabatha St. Cyr.
A brisk knock on the door, followed by an equally brisk “Room service!” stirred her to action. As soon as the waiter left, she resumed reading the files from Lance. There was the standard information about St. Cyr’s parents and place of birth, all of it matching what he had told her in Marseille. His schooling and service in the French navy, and his firm, which she had already read about on the Internet.
She left the file about Tabatha St. Cyr for last. It was the longest. Lance had scanned an entire article in the magazine Paris Match that detailed the circumstances of Tabatha’s death. Her kidnapping, St. Cyr’s search for her, the discovery of her body, her funeral and Theron’s personal pursuit of justice. The writer had interviewed several people for the piece, including Theron himself, and she had woven a story so vivid that, reading it, Dru felt as if she were watching the scenes in real time.
The Guyana Contract Page 22