The Guyana Contract

by Rosalind McLymont

  Try as she would, however, she could not fall asleep. So she simply lay there, ruminating on the mess her carefully crafted life had become. She felt lonely. For the first time in her under-forty, high-achiever life she regretted not having a significant other to share her troubles with. She had only herself to blame for that, she admitted. Moated in Pilgrim Boone, she had chased away anyone who had shown too much interest. The excuse she always gave was that she just wasn’t ready to commit to a serious relationship, that she wanted to devote this period of her life to her career. She made it sound as though she were doing the chasee a favor. I’m all about me at this point in time. That’s selfish, I know. And it’s not fair to you. You deserve someone who can give you all of her attention. She spoke the words in a voice billowing with regret, while her eyes met his with unassailable finality.

  She knew now that her aversion to romantic commitment had more to do with her inability to trust the opposite sex than with her career ambitions. And now she no longer had the refuge of the best job she could ever have hoped for and doubted she would ever find a substitute in the same industry again, at least not at the level she’d achieved. Grant Featherhorn would certainly make sure of that. And Lawton Pilgrim, for whatever time he remained in this world, would not utter a word in her defense, she thought bitterly.

  She had lost all respect for Lawton. She didn’t even feel sorry for him. For all she cared, he could rot to a slow death with his cancer. A man like that, a man who could so easily compromise every shred of honor and integrity just to maintain a façade of propriety—why else would he sacrifice her for Featherhorn?—had no business polluting the community of decent people. As for Featherhorn, her gut told her that he would get his just deserts as long as Theron St. Cyr was around.

  Theron!

  At the thought of him, the terror that had made her bolt upright seared her body again like a high voltage electric charge. In her foolish attempt to take matters into her own hands, she had put Theron’s life in danger. She was certain that Featherhorn had already relayed to Bernat everything she had said in Lawton’s office. And she was equally certain that Bernat would not come after her alone. He would go after Theron as well. There was absolutely no way that a character like Bernat, with connections as wide and deep as a Jesuit’s, would not know who Theron St. Cyr was, and what he was doing in Guyana. He would put two and two together and ascertain that it was Theron who had fed her the information she had spewed out to Lawton. Hadn’t she and Theron been seen together in public? Heading up to her hotel room, no less? A man like Bernat was bound to have spies all over the place. Why else—how else—would Goodings have been killed? Dru gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut. She shook her head as if to nullify that day in Lawton’s office, a day she would remember for the rest of her life. After a while she opened her eyes and stared out at the moonlit blackness beyond the wispy muslin curtains she had drawn across the window. She could hear the gentle wash of the waters.

  She sighed and turned to look at the clock beside her bed. The digits glared back at her in rebellious red. 3 A.M.

  She flopped back on the pillows and stared up at the ceiling. She had no choice now. She had to get in touch with Theron to warn him, to tell him the foolish thing that she had done, even if it meant incurring his wrath or more contempt.

  At least he would be alive.

  She made up her mind to leave that very morning. It would mean getting up in a couple of hours to catch the first ferry over to the mainland so that she could get on a flight that would land her in New York well before the business day was over. She would dash home, change, and go straight to Theron’s office. She would have to look for the exact address, but it shouldn’t be hard to find. She had already found his firm on the Internet. Lance would raise the roof when she told him she was leaving, of course, but she knew he would get over it soon enough.

  She was right. Lance did raise the roof, accusing her outright of chasing like a teenager after a Frenchman who clearly was causing her grief. “I’m not chasing after anybody, Frenchman or otherwise,” she retorted heatedly. “And why do you keep bringing him up, anyway? What makes you think my leaving has anything to do with him?”

  “Because that profile you made me look up describes just the kind of person you would be attracted to, Miss World Citizen. Becaaaaause (he dragged out the word with a roll of his eyes) if this was only about your work, you would have been turning New York upside down until you got things going the way you wanted. The last thing you’d be doing was moping around with that godforsaken look on your face. I know this is about that Frenchman. Tell me I’m lying. Tell me!” Lance rolled his neck and stood with his hands on his hips, waiting for her to speak.

  “You’re lying,” Dru snapped. But she avoided her brother’s piercing gaze. “You’re the one that’s lying. And you’re doing the sorriest job of it!” Lance flung back.

  “You can think what you want. This is a free country. Now will you drive me to the ferry or do I have to call a cab?”

  They drove to the ferry in stony silence.

  “Well, are you going to stay mad at me?” she asked him sheepishly as he removed her bag from the trunk of his car.

  She was standing close beside him. Without warning, he reached for her and held her to him in a long, hard embrace. Before he let her go he begged her not to do anything that would cause her more anguish.

  “Look, Sis, you’re one of the smartest women I know, but be careful with this guy. You don’t know his kind of black folk. He ain’t West Indian and for sure he ain’t American. I’ll be worrying about you, so don’t be scarce. Call me. Promise?”

  “I promise,” she said, easing herself out of his embrace and kissing him on both cheeks.

  Lance’s words stayed with her all the way to her apartment. “You don’t know his kind of black folk.”

  Even if it were true, couldn’t she learn?

  §

  It was midmorning. Dru decided to call Theron’s firm. Surely someone would tell her where he was, whether he was still in Guyana or if he had returned to the States.

  She used her computer to find the phone number and street address for Trans-Global Solutions, and jotted down both in the black leather address book she always carried with her. She held her breath as she dialed. “Theron St. Cyr, please,” she said in her most businesslike voice after a female voice announced the name of the firm and wished the caller “good morning” in French, first, then in English.

  “May I say who’s calling?”

  Dru closed her eyes and exhaled softly with relief. The question could only mean one thing: Theron was in his office and he was okay.

  “May I say who’s calling?” the voice on the other end of the line repeated firmly, but without losing its tone of solicitousness.

  On an impulse, Dru hung up. All of a sudden it did not seem a good idea to speak to Theron on the phone. She would go to his office and speak to him in person. It was better, safer, that way.

  She changed quickly into one of her “power” dresses, then ran into the bathroom to fix her hair and apply some makeup. She rushed about, grabbing this and that, putting it all down, then picking it all up again. It was as though she were at war with herself, as if she didn’t want to give herself time to think. She knew she had to hurry but her movements were more than those of someone in a hurry. Her hands trembled so much that she had to redo her makeup several times.

  Finally she walked into her bedroom, sat down on the bed, and stared at the wall. Uttering a sigh, she gave voice to what her heart had already conceded. “Of course, I could! I could learn about his kind of black folks.” There! She’d said it. All of a sudden she had a feeling of lightness, as if her whole being had been locked in a vise and she had managed to free herself.

  The sensation brought to mind that day, years ago, in college, when she’d figured out why Chalmers Freeman had responded with varying degrees of anger and scorn after she told him that she was going to Europe to study
and do some traveling around afterward. She could even hear herself laugh back then, and that made her laugh now, as she savored the feeling of release. She was ready to be her old self, her pre-Pilgrim Boone self, the self that felt a hot thrill when the unknown loomed big and wide before her. She stood up, walked over to the full-length mirror, and stared into eyes that seemed to be seeing someone who had been absent for a long time. “You’re free, Drucilla Durane,” she said to those eyes. “You’re free. Ready for the next chapter of your life, whatever it is.”

  She continued to stare at herself. She wanted to stay in this new feeling, this joyful yet frightening buzz.

  What will you do if he wants nothing to do with you after you tell him what you did? The question rudely interrupted her buzz. She pondered it, nevertheless, and addressed her reflection defiantly. “It won’t matter. Not in the long run it won’t because now I know that I can care for someone other than myself. And that kind of caring means I have me (she slapped her chest)… back. Ergo, I’ll be just fine.” She fell silent as her bravado cooled a fraction. “Okay. So maybe I won’t be fine for a while if he walks out of my life. But in the long run—and no matter how long the run is—I’ll be okay.”

  Minutes later, she was grabbing her handbag and rushing out of her apartment. She felt light again. She was floating. She glanced at her watch. If the trains were running as efficiently as those scalawags at the Transit Authority swore they did, she should be at Theron’s office in half an hour, tops.

  Just before she dashed through the door, she caught sight of herself in the antique mirror in the foyer and stopped. Staring straight into her eyes, she said out loud, “You know that’s a crock, Durane! He’d better not walk away. And if he does, well, you’ll just have to make him come back.”

  §

  “I’m afraid he’s out of the office, Ms. Durane,” the pretty young woman who came out to meet her said apologetically.

  Dru’s face fell. “Do you expect him back today?”

  “Actually, he has not been here at all today. And I really can’t say if he’ll be here at all, ma’am. He hasn’t called in. Something urgent must have come up. I do apologize, Ms. Durane. It’s unlike Mr. St. Cyr to miss his appointments.” She seemed genuinely contrite.

  Dru hastened to correct her. “I’m afraid I don’t exactly have an appointment. That is, I—I didn’t make one. I know Theron—Mr. St. Cyr would see me. But I was—I guess I should have made one. I’ve been away, you see,” she finished lamely. She felt foolish. When she had called earlier, she had rushed to the conclusion that Theron was at his office when the receptionist, or whoever had answered the phone—it didn’t sound like this girl—had merely gone through the proper routine to get the name of the person calling.

  The pretty young woman seemed to grow more erect. Her smile morphed into one of practiced indulgence. Behind it, her thoughts were far from benign. Christ! What is it with these high-class bitches in heat? Do they really expect Mr. St. Cyr to stop his life for them? She addressed Dru in a voice drenched in honey. “Would you like to make an appointment now? That way no one will be caught off guard. Mr. St. Cyr is always so busy, I’m sure he would appreciate some advance notice of your visit.”

  The bite underneath her dulcet tone was not lost on Dru. Dru said briskly, “No. It’s all right. An appointment is not necessary. I’ll catch him another time.”

  The woman protested. “Mr. St. Cyr is a very busy man, Ms. Durane. I would advise—”

  Dru waved her hand impatiently, cutting her short. She said, “When you do see him, please let him know I was here. The name again is Drucilla Durane. Thank you. You’ve been most kind. Good day.” She swung around and strode away.

  Outside, she walked quickly away from the building. She had no idea what to do or where to go next. The Pilgrim Boone Dru would have drawn a sizable measure of satisfaction from having put a secretary in her place. This Dru did not give the secretary a second thought. She felt utterly deflated. She was so sure that she would find Theron at his office that she had not made any other plans.

  I could call him. Her heart quickening, she stopped in front of an apparel boutique in whose window was displayed an up-and-coming designer’s latest glorification of bag-lady wear, extracted her cell phone from her purse and turned it on. She had kept the phone off while she was at Lance’s and had forgotten to turn it on when she got back to New York. No sooner had she turned it on and clicked the address book icon than she recalled that she did not have Theron’s mobile number. She had been so distraught when he left her that last night in Guyana that she hadn’t recorded it in her list of contacts.

  Damn!

  She locked the keyboard and was about to slip the phone back into her purse when she heard the soft trrring announcing the arrival of a message. Deftly, she unlocked the keyboard and opened the message file. There was voice mail. She started to call up the log to check the number that the call had come from when she felt herself shoved from behind. She stumbled, uttering a cry of alarm, instinctively flinging her arms out as if to steady herself against an invisible wall and keep from crashing to the sidewalk. Her purse and phone fell to the ground.

  Perhaps her outstretched arms were sufficient to counter gravity’s pull. Perhaps the involuntary steps she had taken from the force of the shove were enough to abort a fall. However it happened, she managed to regain her balance. Flummoxed nonetheless, she stared in dismay at her belongings on the ground. The contents of her purse had not spilled, but the display screen of the phone was shattered.

  A female voice called out, “You okay, Miss? Need help?”

  “No, thanks. I’m okay,” Dru responded curtly, not bothering to turn to see who had addressed her. Goddamn crazy people! she muttered as she stooped to retrieve her things.

  Upright again, she glared around to pluck out the individual who had violated her for no apparent reason. No one stood out. Her eyes fell on a thin woman standing a few paces away, frowning at her. The woman seemed to be in her mid-twenties and was well dressed in a navy-blue coatdress, pearl earrings and necklace, and navy-blue-and-white pumps. Dru rolled her neck and whipped her head in the opposite direction. Still no suspect. She felt the pull of the thin white woman’s stare and swung back to face her. The woman had not budged. She seemed frozen as she frowned at Dru, ignoring the quizzical looks of passersby.

  What the hell’s her problem? Dru thought irritably. She rolled her eyes dismissively at the woman.

  The disturbing import of the shoving episode was beginning to sink in. Dru had once described the streets of Manhattan as bipolar in nature—great for walking but depressing and crazy making if you looked beyond the stunning architecture, window displays, and beautiful people. The shoving incident proved her right. Her attacker had already melted into the crowd of pedestrians.

  Dru tucked her purse under her arm and began to fiddle with the phone as she moved toward the boutique with the ode-to-derelicts outfit in the window to get out of the way of the pedestrian traffic. The phone was dead, she knew, but she pressed the power button anyway. As she expected, nothing happened.

  Dammit!

  She removed her purse from under her arm, snapped it open, and dropped the phone into it. I’ll have to get a new one soon. Maybe I should do it right away. She needed to do something. She couldn’t remain standing there, looking as crazy as that skinny-ass woman who was still staring at her.

  A thought struck her. Since she was already in Manhattan, why not go to Pilgrim Boone and collect what was left of her things? There were some disks with her most important contacts and some tapes of exchanges with Grant Featherhorn that she had recorded clandestinely. Foolishly, she had left all those behind when she had stalked out. Now would be a good time to get them. Chances are she wouldn’t run into anyone in particular, since it was the Friday before a holiday. Most people would have taken the day off to make a long weekend of it. The place would be practically deserted by now. Her ID was still valid for another week, so she co
uld get past security without a problem. Leona had called to tell her that it had not been invalidated because Lawton was giving her time to get her things out, or to change her mind about quitting.

  Dru’s thoughts settled briefly on Leona. Out of loyalty to Dru, Leona had wanted to resign after Dru left, but Dru had persuaded her to stay, knowing that one of the other partners would grab her up in no time. Besides, with all the downsizing going on in the industry, it would be almost impossible for someone of Leona’s age to find a job. And even if she did, it would not offer anywhere near the benefits and salary she was getting at Pilgrim Boone. Dru didn’t want that on her conscience. Leona and her husband were helping to put two of their grandchildren through college and needed every penny they made.

  Dru sighed and began to once again mull over the idea of going to Pilgrim Boone. Even if Grant and Lawton were still there, she could easily slip in and be out of there before they knew she was around. She really needed those files. She could enlist Leona, but what if she were caught? Without question she’d be let go.

  Dru made up her mind. She would take the chance herself. Should I take a taxi or the train?