Once I’d made it to the road that ringed Queen’s Park, it took me no time to sprint across to the path that would take me up to the Hilton.
The sound of calypso music booming from the hotel reminded me of the excited and relatively carefree girl I’d been a short time ago while partying with Aileen.
I imagined she was still in there, worried half to death that I hadn’t called her from my friend’s cell, as I’d promised I would. Who was I kidding? We hadn’t clicked and the reunion had fallen flat. I guess it had failed to soothe whatever wounds of rejection the new divorcée had invited me over to help her heal. More than likely, she was still in there, completely wasted and draped over some man, or maybe two or three men, as she had shown herself to have fully embraced the Carnival spirit earlier in the evening.
I headed straight for the row of taxis outside the hotel entrance.
“I need to get to the airport, fast,” I said to the driver standing at the head of the line. “I mean real fast.”
“Fast?” The man looked me up and down. “Is Carnival. It have plenty traffic on the roads.”
“How much is it usually to get to the airport?”
“Eighty US.”
At any other time, the drive to Piarco International took about an hour.
“Get me there in under two hours and I’ll pay you double.” His shifting eyes had a scampish look, and I silently prayed he was the kind who knew all the back roads and wouldn’t think twice about taking shortcuts going the wrong direction on one-way streets.
“Get in,” the driver said.
Chapter 80
The entrance to the airport was quiet at four in the morning. For all the crazy twists and turns we’d made, and the curses and blaring horns the taxi had encountered along the way, we’d arrived with bad timing. Two planes had left within the past hour, and the departures board showed nothing leaving until hours later.
A few people loaded with luggage milled about. I rushed past them and headed for the deserted Caribbean Airlines ticket counter.
Nothing happened when I called out.
“Hello,” I yelled again. “Excuse me! Hello!”
After ten more minutes of staring at the door behind the counter and praying someone would emerge, I left in search of a payphone.
Dromel had sent me on an impossible mission. I would have to get to his house in Hull and then down to the kid in Florida before unknown forces that were somehow connected with the prime minister could manage to.
I wasn’t even certain I wanted to risk setting foot back in Canada with all of this hanging in the air. The clock was ticking, and the only thing I was sure of was that I couldn’t do this on my own.
I inserted my credit card, then pulled out a scrap of paper from my wallet and dialed the number scribbled on it.
With the handset pressed to my ear, I swiveled my head, scanning the cavernous and almost empty lounge. Down at the back, a man came from behind a corner and our eyes met across the distance.
My blood went cold.
There was no mistaking him. It was the long-haired man whom I’d seen jostling with Dromel just before the shot had rung out.
He came charging up the hall, right at me.
I dropped the receiver and dashed toward the main exit.
My feet weren’t moving fast enough. The squeaks of sneakers on the polished concrete floor coming from behind told me the man was gaining on me.
Breathing hard, I charged past a row of seats. Up ahead, a sleeping man lay on his back on three chairs with his feet on a trolley loaded with large suitcases. When I reached him, I yanked the trolley away, and sent it hurtling toward the man pursuing me. It wobbled and toppled over, spilling the luggage in the long-haired man’s path. He tripped and crashed to the floor, face first.
That bought me precious time and my feet made the most of it. Out the main entrance, I glanced right and left and realized there was no place to hide. The building was also too long; I didn’t have it in me to run to its length and around the corner before the long-haired man emerged.
Two men with keys in their hands, whom I took to be taxi drivers, stood chatting in the cool, morning air. They faced away from me and stared in the direction in which one of them pointed. Their cabs were the only vehicles nearby.
I didn’t have time to explain anything. I ran past them, grabbed the handle of the closest door, and threw myself onto the floor of the backseat.
“What the hell?” one of the drivers said.
I spun around and wedged myself into the tight space between the back of the driver’s seat and the edge of the back seat. My pleading eyes met the drivers’ eyes for a split second, just before I drew the door toward me and quietly pulled it until it clicked shut. I pressed the lock and crouched into a ball.
Oh God, save me!
Almost immediately, I heard hasty footsteps approaching, only to stop suddenly near the car.
I was sure the thumping of my heart was loud enough to give me away.
“Where’d the girl go?” The voice was gruff; the accent, American.
The question went unanswered.
“See a chick run past here?”
No reply.
“You guys deaf or something?”
Still silence.
“Dumb natives.”
Grumbled curses and angry footsteps rounded the vehicle.
A few moments later, I worked up the courage to peer through the back window and saw the sole moving figure grow smaller. The long-haired man crossed the largely empty car park, his mane visible under the dull, amber lights.
The engine of a waiting car rumbled. The man got in and the car took off with a screech toward the exit.
I got out of the taxi with the drivers watching my every move.
“You okay, there, miss?”
“You need the police or something?”
I shook my head. I bowed in thanks, but also to hide my terrified face from the drivers. Then I ran back into the building.
With tears streaming down my cheeks, I made it to the washroom. Trembling so violently, I could hardly stand, I bent over the sink and splashed cool water onto my face. Breathing hard, I looked at the wild-eyed, ashen creature staring back at me.
You must remain calm, Stella. You have to find the strength to get through this.
At the payphone, my credit card was still in the slot. I picked up the scrap of paper from off the floor, where I’d dropped it.
After about the eight rings, a groggy male voice answered.
“Detective Parker, sorry to wake you. But I need your help. I think I’m in big trouble.”
It was a long shot, an act of sheer desperation.
Since he’d visited my house to ask about Osgood, I had seen the cop a few times around town: in the grocery; on the streets while we were both on foot; in his squad car while I walked home. It was always from a distance, but he’d always flashed a friendly smile at me.
At Christmas, when the town had gathered in the Moose Lodge after the Santa Claus parade, I’d observed Parker’s interaction with Mayor Demetriou. Off duty and mingling with the crowd, the detective had showed no particular warmth toward the mayor when Demetriou had approached him to shake hands.
I had to believe, now, that things stood as he had hinted — that his loyalty lay with Osgood and, that, far from being the mayor’s stooge, he distrusted Demetriou just as much as I did.
“Who’s this?”
“Sorry. I forgot to say. I’m just so scared and confused right now. But it’s Stella. Stella Jacob.”
“Stella?” Parker sounded more alert. “Where are you?”
“In Trinidad.”
“Where?”
“I’m back home, in Trinidad…on the island. I was supposed to meet up with the chairman of the panel from the Syron Lake hearing, but he got shot and now I have to save this kid from?”
“Wait. Slow down, Stella.”
“Sorry, Detective. It’s confusing, I know. But I’m confused. And scared. I don’t have time to explain everything. But I desperately need your help. You said you thought there might be danger because of this Syron Lake business. I didn’t really believe that, but now I’ve just seen someone shot because of that spill.”
“Are you alright?”
“I’m shaking like a leaf, but I’m still in one piece.”
“Okay, good. Is there any immediate danger?”
“Someone who was there when Ben…when the panel chairman got shot chased me down here at the airport. But I got away from him. I just saw him take off in a car.”
“Listen, Stella, be very careful. You’re in a dangerous situation. You need to stay calm and remain on the lookout. I’ll do everything I can for you. How can I help you?”
“I need to locate someone else who might be in danger. Ben said a man who worked at Syron Lake confessed that he broke the dam. The man videotaped himself before he died. His nephew has a copy of the tape, and the people who shot Ben know about it.”
“You mean Eric Tremblay broke the dam?”
“I didn’t get a name. But if they get hold of that kid, that evidence is as good as gone.”
“It could only be Eric. He’s the only Syron Lake employee who’s died recently. Okay. Where do we find Jacques, his nephew?”
“In Florida, but I don’t know where exactly. Ben said he had the nephew’s address written down in a box hidden at his house in Hull. And, Detective, this is the scariest part. The prime minister is tied up in all of this.”
“What? You mean Peabody?”
“Yes. Ben said Peabody was trying to pressure him to do what the company wanted. There’s a pen in that box. It’s actually a tape recorder that Ben used to secretly record their conversation.”
I ran out of breath and Parker seemed to be holding his.
“Where’s the panel chair now?” Parker said eventually.
“I’m praying to God that the police found him and took him to the hospital. I left him in a terrible state in a ditch in Port of Spain. I didn’t want to. But he begged me to leave so I could get the tapes.”
“So you want me to break into his house?”
“There’s a key to the front door hidden in the trellis to the side of the house. I’m going to try to catch the earliest flight I can to Miami or Fort Lauderdale, whatever I get. I’ll call you again, later, to get Jacques’ address.”
“No way, Stella. If people are running around with guns looking for this evidence, you can’t go searching for Jacques alone.”
“I have no choice.”
“I’ll come down there to help you.”
Had I heard right?
“What did you say?”
“I’ll come meet you.”
“In Florida?”
“Yes.”
I felt as if ten thousand tons of weight had been yanked off my shoulders.
“Oh my God. Thank you, Detective. That’s the only good thing I’ve heard since this craziness began. I didn’t know who to call for help. With Peabody being tied up in this, I don’t know if I can trust the authorities.”
“I couldn’t do otherwise, Stella. I’ll leave for Hull right now. Keep in touch, okay? This is my cell so you can call me whenever you need to.”
Chapter 81
Aileen didn’t answer her cell when I called, so I left a message saying there was an emergency back home and I had to fly out immediately. I imagined that even in a million years, she’d never guess at the nature of the emergency.
Our connection was so fickle I figured that after hearing the message, she probably wouldn’t even try to contact me to find out how things went until after the Carnival festivities were over, in another couple of days. Her maid would probably toss my suitcase in the trash or swipe whatever she liked, and my visit would be quickly forgotten.
The Caribbean Airlines ticket office still showed no sign of life.
I banged my knuckles on the counter.
“Hello! Anyone there? Hello!”
After a while, the door toward which I’d projected my voice slowly swung open. A plump woman with tired eyes approached the counter. She seemed none too pleased to have been roused from whatever she’d been doing.
“Yes? Can I help you?” The expression on her face was entirely contrary to her words.
“I need to get on the next flight to Florida, please.”
“You serious?”
“Yes. I’ll take Fort Lauderdale or Miami, any flight I can get.”
The woman snorted. “You feel you could really just waltz in here and get a flight just so?”
“This is urgent.”
“Well, this is Carnival, dearie. Busiest time of the year. Everything’s overbooked, coming and going. It ain’t have nothing available.”
My throat tightened. “Will you please check? Maybe somebody canceled.”
We locked eyes, and after what seemed an interminable showdown, the ticket agent snorted again. She stepped toward the computer, tapped noisily on the keyboard, and scanned the screen.
“Exactly what I said. Nothing available for Fort Lauderdale. Nothing for Miami.”
With an exaggerated swing of her arm, she pressed a button to shut down the computer, and, without saying anything further, she turned and slipped behind the open door.
I heard a long, loud “steups,” a familiar sound made by Trinidadians by sucking wind through clenched teeth to express annoyance.
“But where these people does come out from?” The woman’s voice had gone up a pitch. “This girl barge in here at this hour of the morning and feel she could demand a ticket dry so? And you should see how she dress too. Wearing she top tight, tight, tight, as if she chest is everybody’s business. Lord have mercy. The people you does have to put up with on this job, eh!”
My thoughts wandered to a young man somewhere in Florida with his uncle’s video confession. Was the uncle Osgood’s fishing buddy? The man he’d cycled out to meet the Saturday after the flood?
As I strained to make the link, I had an eerie notion that somewhere Osgood was rooting me on. “Get it, Stella. Get that evidence and nail the corporate bastards!”
The kid was a sitting duck, unaware of the danger that Ben had said was likely to descend upon him. And I was stuck here on this island, helpless and unable to do anything about it.
Approaching footsteps made me look up. A thin, frail-looking man with a head of gray emerged from the door behind which the woman had disappeared. He looked me up and down; then his eyes rested on my bosom as he stepped toward the computer.
“Where you going, miss?” His eyes darted between the computer and my chest.
“Fort Lauderdale, or Miami, or anywhere in North America at this point.”
He scanned the screen, then he shook his head. “Sorry. No opening on anything.”
I sighed.
The man gave me a sympathetic smile. “You could try your luck with Liat, but you might have to do some island hopping before you get to the States. They open in a couple of hours.”
He sneaked a final peek at my overly small top, then shut down the computer and shuffled back behind the do
or.
The stragglers with luggage from earlier had thinned out. A couple of drowsy security guards milled about, and a cleaning lady pushed a cart loaded with rolls of toilet tissue and two long, filthy-looking mops.
At a bank of seats, the hapless passenger whose luggage I'd scattered earlier had recovered the trolley and his suitcases. Now he lay stretched out on four adjacent chairs; a handkerchief tied to his wrist was also attached to the handle of a dingy, leatherette suitcase wedged among the others on the trolley. I envied him his sleep.
My head throbbed and all I wanted to do was lie down, close my eyes and melt into that world of oblivion where nothing mattered.
I couldn’t risk dozing in the middle of the airport lounge. What if the long-haired man came back? Was he here before to look for me? Or had he been trying to secure a flight out of the island, himself? If he had, again, there was a danger that he might return as there was no other airport on the island.
I wandered the corridors until I came to a washroom. The only sound was the hiss of a faucet that wouldn’t shut off fully. I doubled over and peered down the row of stalls. No sign of feet.
I had the entire fetid place to myself.
The tenth stall, the one furthest from the door, would do. If anything, it would give me the most time to react if someone entered the washroom.
I put down the toilet bowl lid, unrolled three layers of tissue paper over it, as well as across the tank. I sat on the tissue-covered seat, leaned back against the tissue-covered tank, and folded my arms. My eyelids easily folded down and brought the darkness I craved.
Twenty-four hours ago, I’d had a luxurious, little pool house in the poshest neighborhood on the island all to myself as I awaited the arrival of the man with whom I’d meekly begun to hope I’d spend the rest of my life. We were to while away a glorious two days together and I’d made plans to show him the wild, joyous party thrown by the island on which I’d grown up.
Run, Girl, Run: A Thriller Page 32