Shattered Trust

by Leslie Esdaile Banks

  It seemed as though Braithwaite had set up a camp without soldiers. His home in the bush was one long, rectangular structure that had a bend in it to form an L. In the short section was a small kitchen off a tiny bedroom and bathroom beside a place where a long picnic table with benches served as a dining room. The living room was a tight, cozy space chock full with an overstuffed sofa and floral-print, lumpy, overstuffed chairs, an antique breakfront with mismatched china, an ancient TV and record player, and colorful throw rugs. Local art and family photos covered the walls, along with a mural of Haile Selassie. Windows had screens, some with shutters, some without, but there was enough dense foliage around the house in a profusion of hibiscus to serve as natural curtains.

  Down the long corridor were three bedrooms on either side, each sporting a large double bed made by hand, and handmade dressers, a wicker chair, washing bowl, and mirror. Behind the house were the chicken coops, a small vegetable garden, an outdoor wood-burning stove that could handle huge pots and cauldrons, a free-standing shower, water pump, and an outhouse that had undoubtedly been left over from yesteryear.

  Everything was neat and clean and Spartan, just like the elderly warrior who proclaimed the revolution was still ongoing—and was right. Even through the rum haze and fatigue, Braithwaite’s eyes held subtle, barely repressed excitement, as though he’d been waiting all of his life for it to begin again ... for a group to visit and commune at his oasis once more, like old times, now that his many children were grown, educated, and gone, and his wife dearly departed. Laura knew this place was no less a shrine or institution within the fabric of this community environment than Akhan’s North Philadelphia hostel had been. She wondered if she’d ever put down roots long enough, or live to see the day when, wherever she and James set up permanent housekeeping, they’d grow old and gray with many stories to tell the next generation.

  “You all must be bone weary,” Braithwaite finally said, refusing to admit that he was also exhausted. “Pick a bedroom. All linen is fresh and towels are in the dressers. My room is near the kitchen, since I really don’t use the long part of the house unless company comes.” He stood, stretched, smiled, and then yawned, and finally went into the house, leaving the screen door to clatter shut behind him.

  “Good night old friend,” Akhan called out sleepily. He rubbed his bald head with a sigh and stood slowly. “We should all live like this,” he murmured. “Off the land and free.”

  They watched him go into the house, and Jamal stood, stumbled a bit, and headed toward the door.

  “Whew,” Jamal said, rubbing his eyes. “All that was missing is a blunt, and a brother would have been righteous.” He glanced out into the darkness as Najira scowled. “They probably got it growing ten feet away out here in the wild.” He waved off his sister’s brewing complaint and went into the house.

  James and Steve looked at each other, and Laura watched the male dynamic from a remote place in her mind. Steve’s eyes held a question; James’s offered support. No words were exchanged for a moment, and only the thick, humid night cloaked the foursome on the porch.

  “It’s cool,” James finally told Steve. “I don’t think you have to sleep in separate rooms. That’s why the old dudes went inside to crash first.”

  Najira’s eyes sought Laura’s, and Laura simply nodded. As the younger couple stood and slipped into the house, Laura snuggled down closer to James on the cushioned wicker porch furniture.

  “Guess it’s just us old-timers left to fight the bugs, turn off the lights, and lock up,” James said with a sleepy chuckle, and nuzzled her hair.

  “You think we’re gonna grow old together, and have one of these big old homesteads for everybody to come back to?” she asked in a distant whisper, her thoughts leaping through time and space.

  “Yeah ... when it’s all over, we’ll have that big old raggedy house that everyone comes back to for holidays, making us crazy, and we’ll be fussing about when they’re going to leave.”

  He kissed her gently, making her chuckle in contentment and attempting to chase away the fears that neither wanted to name. The one thing that they’d never discussed, but loomed large nevertheless, was the fact that a majority of their assets were down in the Caymans—a place that didn’t play and would seize all until they returned to help sort out the investigation there. Unlike the States, the Cayman Islands had virtually no crime, and the murder of two innocent police officers had sent a shock wave through the region. State Department officials couldn’t clean that up or make that evidence disappear, like slightly damaged rental cars or an ill-placed gown and tux. The Mafia couldn’t blast that away, either. Nor could all the fancy maneuvering in the world address what had happened there. And if they explained what was going down, it would indeed become a huge, international incident with implications neither of them could fathom at the moment.

  Rather than go down that very slippery mental slope destined to renew panic and despair, she felt her husband try to solve the problem with touch, his gentle ministrations to her skin a balm to her weary spirit. She returned his kiss in the thick night air in kind, a gentle homage to what this man meant to her.

  Soon the probability of being left destitute or confined fled with each quiet sigh. James Carter was a wise man, his hands a tender conference of patience. The heat of his long, gentle strokes down her arms as his kiss consumed worry, made the air around her seem cooler and caused sudden shivers. Annoying gnats and mosquitoes were soon forgotten, and the song of the night replaced the thousands of nagging questions dancing through her head.

  “You ready to go to bed?” he whispered, sending a warm, moist current against her lips.

  “Yeah ... I think so,” she replied quietly, brushing his mouth. “Tomorrow is another day.”

  She’d slept like the dead, and now a foreign, bleating noise was tugging at her senses. It was a half screech, half wail, and she opened her eyes to James’s lopsided smile. He hadn’t opened his eyes, but she knew he was awake.

  “What the hell is that?” she grumbled and pulled in closer to him.

  He laughed softly. “A rooster.”

  “Oh, my God,” she said, dropping her head against his chest.

  “We’re in da bush, mon,” he said, teasing her and pulling her against him. “Cock-a-doodle-doo.”

  “Man, stop,” she said, struggling against his hold and not wanting to address his morning erection.

  “The rum kinda made my best-laid plans go awry last night. Fell asleep before my head hit the pillow. But this morning ... I’m much improved.”

  “James, we’ve got a lot to do today,” she argued to no avail, giving in to his body as he pulled her on top of him.

  “I know,” he whispered. “But first things first.”

  She laughed and kissed him, warming to his hold. There was something about his relaxed countenance, the fresh mountain air, the stillness of the house, and the heat of his hands as they washed over her backside, pushing up the oversize T-shirt she’d slept in. He’d lodged against her so subtly without entering her that it made her gasp, his movements beneath her a slow stroke down her slit until it plumped and swelled, spilling her slick essence to bathe him.

  “You sure you wanna get up with the chickens, or stay in bed for just a little while longer?” he murmured against her neck, finding her breasts beneath the too-big T-shirt and crisp white cotton sheets.

  “No,” she murmured back, swiveling her hips to capture more of the sensation until she could actually hear the sound of her wetness each time he slid over her engorged bud.

  His smile had faded to a grimace, and she bent to suckle his nipples till he arched, but she still denied him entry, prolonging the dance between them. She didn’t understand what had ignited her body beyond the obvious. Perhaps it was the sense of freedom, the pending threat they faced, and him all combined. But the playful mood had turned frenetic—him trying to enter her, her denying him access, his hands now roughly kneading her fleshy bottom, pulling it op
en wide as he sought her haven. She’d tugged off the T-shirt and flung it God knew where, needing his tongue to lap at the overly sensitive tips of her breasts, and almost crying out when his mouth captured one, his tongue a spiral of pleasure around the heated, hardened surfaces.

  His intermittent suckles were making her as crazy as the quick jabs at attempted entry that repeatedly ended in an accidental sliding between passion-slicked lips, now so swollen with need they hurt. Unable to stand the torture she’d imposed on both of them, she ground her pelvis against his, her bud lathing his base, nearly swooning from the slow building orgasm. Too overwhelmed to lift her head, she pressed her flushed face against his cheek.

  “Two seconds before I cum, put it in,” she rasped in a harsh whisper.

  He felt her shudder, and obliged the request with a stifled groan, not caring that she’d bit into his shoulder to keep her pleasure from echoing throughout the quiet house. The immediate sensation of being inside her the moment her body contracted around him in orgasmic pulses made him half sit up, grasp her around her waist hard, and thrust in offbeat jags. His voice buried between her breasts was the only sound he could muffle. The bed springs be damned, he couldn’t worry about all of that, no more than he could stop moving or stop the convulsion that swept through his sac, clenched his stomach, overran his base, and released up his shaft forming tears in his eyes.

  He was twitching when he’d landed on his back with a thud, Laura a heap of spent flesh against him. Now he felt the heat, the humidity of the island morning. Now he heard the movement in the rest of the house and smelled coffee. For a long while, all he could do was pet Laura’s velvety curls. Reality made him slowly open his eyes. What if by some fluke they did federal time, twenty-five years to life without this? He’d been a cop, too ... and there would be hell to pay from all those he’d sent up the river. No, today it was time to get a realistic plan and stop running.

  “You OK?” she murmured, pushing herself up to kiss the bridge of his nose.

  “Yeah, but I think we woke up the whole house.”

  “They didn’t hear us,” she whispered, smiling wide.

  “Like hell,” he said, smiling despite his sobered mood. “The springs gave us away. There’s always something even the best criminal forgets to address.”

  She cocked her head to the side and then covered her mouth with her hand, eyes merry.

  “See, the problem with you, Laura, is you like living on the edge.”

  “Moi?” she said, placing a palm against her chest. “You started it this morning.”

  He was annoyed but had to laugh. “No, I was gonna be discreet ... a quickie. Not—”

  “Let it get all messy, and hot, and wet, and juicy, and good,” she said in a low, deliciously wicked murmur.

  He swallowed hard. “Yeah.”

  “But isn’t it more fun this way?”

  He closed his eyes, somehow knowing she was talking about more than their lovemaking. “Yeah.”

  James had made up his mind; he wasn’t going to address the sly smile Steve gave him, or even glance in Jamal’s direction. Nope. He was a very private man, and his business had been exposed. He was just glad that Najira hadn’t started, but kept her gaze on the stove, and Akhan seemed to be old and wise enough to keep his own council. Thankfully, their host, Brother B, was in a separate wing of the house. He’d get his shower after Laura, eat, and then develop a plan.

  He listened to the water go on in the bathroom and affixed his gaze to the mug of java Najira had been kind enough to slide under his nose. They had to go back to Grand Cayman, simple as that. If they reentered the island, spoke to the detective, cop to cop, maybe, just maybe, they could use the chaos of Carnival Batabano as a cover to come up with a joint sting operation.

  Laura allowed the weak shower spray and chilly water to cover her body and help her think. James had been right. All of this, even their interlude this morning, had been too open, too exposed, and too unplanned, and as a result a lot of people were involved that shouldn’t have been. She thought hard about it all as she washed off and got out of the shower. They had to go back to Grand Cayman alone, draw whomever was chasing them there, and put an end to the nightmare for multiple families.

  When she passed James in the kitchen, their eyes met and a common understanding bound them. Later in the bedroom, alone, after breakfast, they’d talk. She just hoped he’d understand.

  James Devereaux sat numbly watching the morning news. Polanski, shot in his own home? He reached for the telephone and called George Townsend. George picked up on the first ring.

  “I want out,” he said quietly, not even bothering with a formal hello.

  “Me, too,” George said in a shaky whisper. “But how?”

  “We have to let them stand on their own. I’m diverting what I had to family connections.”

  “They won’t let you just do that without a fight.”

  “I know.” Devereaux paused.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m not sure. I just wanted you to know that I’m getting out.”

  Devereaux hung up the telephone without saying good-bye. His next call was to a few friends very high up at the federal level. He knew people that had always wanted in on prime lands he owned, and he stared at his wife and children’s pictures on his desk.

  “I have a family,” he said quietly into the telephone receiver. “I want to make a statement, and I want amnesty. I’m stepping down from my board position at Micholi, and whatever I owned down in the Gulf is negotiable, if you can provide me and my family protection.”

  “Not on the telephone,” the voice said. “I’ll come to you.”

  “No,” Devereaux said quickly. “I just saw what happened to Polanski while he waited for someone to come to him. They did. The wrong person. I’m sure my phones are tapped.” He hung up and dashed through the house, finding his wife in the garden. “Get in the car,” he ordered. “We’ll pick up the children from school on the way.”

  Disoriented, her blue eyes shone with fear, but she stood and looked at her husband. “James, what’s wrong? What’s happened?”

  “I’ll tell you on the way. Mike’s dead.”

  “What?!” she shrieked, but followed him as he hurried her into the driveway, and pushed her into their silver Mercedes.

  He turned to her. “I love you,” he whispered. “No matter what, I did everything for you and the kids.” He rubbed his palms down his face and inserted the key in the ignition.

  “I love you, too,” she said quietly, but never got to finish the thought.

  The moment he turned the key, the car exploded.

  “Polanski was a show of good faith; Devereaux and his wife were personal. We didn’t like how he treated my nephew, any more than we liked how Sutherland did. Vladimir has been avenged. So, in that regard, my friend, I salute you for doing us a favor. Were you here, I’d raise a vodka to you.”

  “Yeah, salute. Just after you put a bullet in my head. So we’re even. So squash the shit like men, and your stores and whatever else you peddle stays on your side of the line, untouched.” Joey Scapolini pushed back in his leather chair and surveyed the casino floor below him, then hung up.

  Tony Rapuzzio looked at his boss as he hung up the phone. “Did they do their part, Joey, or is it war with the Russians?”

  “They did their part,” Scapolini said carefully, studying his henchman’s face. “The thing that’s bothering me, though ... I can’t put my finger on it. There’s an opportunity here; I can smell it. This all got wrapped up too fast, too neat, and there’s gotta be someone higher up that has his hands dirty. If we know, then we can put a little pressure on the son of a bitch for a favor one day.”

  Tony nodded. “I hear you, boss. It would make it easier to take Eddie’s death. At least there would have been a reason. The shit still gets under my skin just thinking about it.”

  Joey nodded and stood. “A lot of things get under my skin, Tony.” He smiled sudden
ly and shook his head. “That Laura Caldwell broad is one of ’em. But she’s always dead-on.” He looked at Tony hard and polished off his drink. “An honorable thief. They don’t make ’em like that anymore.”

  “Sounds like she’s a little more to ya than just business, boss. Be careful. She may be dead-on, but she’s also deadly—all barracuda.”

  “She’s gonna make me divorce my wife one day, or get killed.”

  “Probably both, if your wife finds out.” Tony chuckled and went to the bar to fix them another drink.

  Chapter 15

  Technology had once been her friend, but now it had become her mortal enemy out in the bush. Cell phones had died, batteries needed charging, and there were no chargers to be had. Wireless laptops couldn’t get a Wi-Fi signal. None of the gadgets that would have connected her to the States and the news at large were working, and Brother B’s television had a wire coat hanger stuck in a hole where the antenna once was. Out where they were, power dipped and swayed like it was doing a waltz, and the plugs in the wall matched nothing they would have had on them anyway.

  Sitting on the side of the bed in defeat after stilted conversation at breakfast, Laura looked at James, who had obviously come to the same conclusion when he flung his cellular on the dresser. Then it dawned on her: the FedEx box. They’d missed a delivery!

  “James, we have to go back into Kingston and go to Lillian Braithwaite’s house.”

  He closed his eyes briefly and let his breath out in a rush. “Damn. The FedEx.”

  “Yeah. The FedEx.”

  “But if that house was safe, then Brother B would have taken the whole crew there from the getgo.”

  “I know,” she said, standing and chewing her bottom lip. “Here’s the thing, though. Megan came into the country using Brother B’s dead wife’s name and her old family property. That’s the shell game, that’s where the box is supposed to be delivered, and if anyone came calling there, we need to know to secure the rest of the people with us.”