Paradise (The Erotic Adventures of Sophia Durant)

by O. L. Casper

  A wind came up and I began to shiver. Another full thirty minutes of heaving and sighing went on till it came to a climax followed by an abrupt halt. I peered into the house with the binoculars. Stafford stood up, buttoning up his pants. He looked at her smiling. I could only see her legs that had gone limp, hanging down off the end of the couch. It dawned on me after a moment, she must have passed out. Buttoning up his shirt he got out his phone. Suddenly my phone buzzed with a message.

  MARK: I’m coming home. Would you like to grab a bite to eat, say in Governor’s Harbour?

  SOPHIA: I’m all the way up near Spanish Wells so it’ll take me some time to get there. Also there’s inclement weather here so it might take a little longer.

  I watched him receive the text, scratch his head and reply.

  MARK: No problem. I’ll see you when I see you. Any preferences on the type of food?

  SOPHIA: You decide. I’ll call you when I get there.

  He disappeared from view and I heard his footsteps as he walked to the front of the house and exited. I heard his car start and fade away into the sound of the pouring rain.

  Email, Julie Cameron to Sophia Durant

  September 24

  Dearest Sophia,

  I hope all is well on that wondrous island. I can picture it now. Deep blue skies, crystal waters that go on forever, sand white as snow, green palms. Hope you’re not feeling too lonely without me, or getting too bad a case of cabin fever in paradise. I plan to visit soon to see you, but also to explore Eleuthera. I long to see it so, images of bright islands haunt me in my sleep. First lull you get in your busy schedule let me know and I’ll fly down.

  Signing off

  JULIE

  Sophia Durant’s Diary

  September 26, Eleuthera Island, Bahamas

  Julie’s note was open on the HTC. I received it while parked in front of The Queen’s Men, the Governor’s Harbour restaurant where I was to meet Stafford after his inspection appointment with Emma Green. I was parked next to his SUV. He was already inside. I got out and looked at the Atlantic stretched out before me. The water mirrored the dark of the sky. To confront Stafford now would take all the strength I could muster. To successfully conceal my feelings toward him would nearly take an act of God. But somehow I would manage, or so I thought.

  The Queen’s Men was much more elegant and expensive in appearance than d’Artegnan’s. The metallic walls were lined with original paintings by local artists. The interior design bore the clear stamp of the art deco style. It was as tasteless as it was hideous. A clean shaven young host of about twenty-five smiled when I spotted Stafford at a dimly lit table toward the back.

  Stafford’s greeting was nonchalant for a man who professed such passion for me, but had just slept with another woman. I smiled a false smile and sat across from the devil.

  “How was Spanish Wells?”

  “I wasn’t actually in the town as I found out it’s on another island but I was in the general area on the northwest. It was beautiful as ever. I realized the need to get a camera to record all these wonderful sights for posterity.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “No, no. It’s fine. I’ll order one. I’m quite an enthusiast and therefore very particular about what I use.”

  “Naturally.”

  He smiled. I cursed him inwardly in a rapid string of invective.

  “How was your meeting?”

  “Ah, you know. Business as usual.”

  “I see.”

  “Wouldn’t want to bore you.”

  At least it was boring.

  “I went to have a look at the property surrounding the house we saw yesterday too.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “The land is beautiful.”

  “How was Emma?”

  He seemed to be searching for the right words.

  “She seemed…distant.”

  Interesting choice of words.

  “Distant?”

  “I don’t know. She was much friendlier the first time I met her when I was with you.”

  If that wasn’t friendliness I saw…

  “She seemed like a wonderful woman.”

  “She is…she is.”

  His voice lowered the second time he said it.

  “You two clearly have some kind of chemistry.”

  I regretted it as soon as I said it.

  “She’s a very pleasant woman. I’m not sure we connect on all that many levels though.”

  Only one level you have to connect on for that.

  “Anyway she’s my real estate agent. I try not mix business and pleasure too much.”

  He looked at me and smiled.

  “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”

  Alone in the restroom I stared into the mirror. I was white as a sheet with enveloping rage. My thinking was irrational. I wanted to kill her. If they met again and there were any more shenanigans, I would have to intervene. Something would have to be done about her. I didn’t know if it was the sexual jealousy that gave birth to these morbid thoughts or if it was the possibility that she might replace me. I knew this last was irrational. She may be more successful than I am, but she definitely lacks the intellect to connect with him in the ways I have. I reasoned that all these thoughts were sparked by the passionate feelings I harbored for him and decided to cool off before I went back out there..

  Sitting back down across from him I saw a cold look on his face. Wondering what the matter was I noticed him fishing around in one of his pockets.

  “I found this in the house she wants to sell me.”

  He pulled out a small spec of a thing and handed it to me.

  On recognizing it my heart skipped a beat. Holy shit. He’s on to me. It was one of the mics I had scattered in the house. How could he have found it without me being aware of the fact?

  As if in answer to my thoughts he said, “I picked it up on the way out of the house. It was in a corner near the front door. I picked it up, and, glancing at it briefly, pocketed it.”

  I examined it, careful to express great curiosity. A tiny, cylindrical piece of plastic with a hole the size of a pinprick on one end and a silvery sensor on the other, I rolled it around between my fingers.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “It’s a microphone. A very tiny, microscopic mic,” he voiced with evident frustration.

  “Incredible…are you sure? It’s just that it’s…so…small.”

  I didn’t take my eyes off it.

  “It is. I’m positive. I’ve seen them like that before.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  I looked at him all at once, as if something outstanding had suddenly dawned on me.

  “You think…” I started.

  “Yes?”

  “Someone’s…listening in on you.”

  “Indeed. Let me see your cell phone.”

  What the fuck is he up to? Alarm bells went off in my head. I envisioned my corpse lying out in the sand, blood running off the head, as I had so many times before. I handed him the HTC. He simply took out the battery, and handed both it and the phone back to me.

  “Put that back in once you’re safely back in your car,” he instructed.

  I understood he was about to speak candidly with me and I was intrigued.

  He leaned in and lowered his voice.

  “I don’t know who’s behind this, but I’ll find out one way or another.”

  His nostrils flared with anger. I got scared.

  “Whether it’s the FBI, the mob, some foreign government—whoever. I’ll find out and, believe me, they won’t be happy they did this.”

  “Can I ask you something without you getting too upset?”

  “Sure. I don’t think I could get mad at you.” Famous last words.

  My heart rate accelerated.

  “Why would the FBI or anyone else have cause to spy on you?”

  “The different groups would have diff
erent reasons. Can I take you into my confidence? I’m talking about the confidence I place in the people I am closest to. About two others besides you.”

  “Of course. If you want. As you probably already know, I’m an obsessively private individual.”

  With this thought he seemed to loosen up and a lightness came over his features that wasn’t there before.

  “Maybe I’m paranoid. I don’t know. I don’t know for sure whether the FBI is watching me, listening in on my calls—or who, but I get the feeling someone is. The FBI or other similar agencies take an interest in the affairs of any established, international businessmen in our country. That’s just the way it is. A lot of the richest men in America will confirm it. I’m not really scared of having my phones tapped, communications intercepted, because I have nothing to hide.” He was lying through his teeth. The bastard. “I just have a hard time stomaching the invasion of privacy. Some people say privacy is overrated. Those are the ones that rely on the constant approval of others. Independent minded folks don’t want Big Brother in their business.”

  “The Orwellian nightmare.”

  “Exactly. I’ve thought about bringing in some surveillance and investigative people, anyone who’s really good with cyber security, but wherever I turn I feel I can’t trust anyone. How do I know someone who appears to me to be good with computers in these areas, for example, couldn’t be turned by them, if he or she wasn’t already working for them? In a sense I’ve become victim of my own paranoia.”

  “I’m decent with technology. Why don’t you let me take some cyber security measures for you, try to detect who might be spying on you? Remember when I got your phone number simply by having my phone in proximity to yours? You said you were going to ask me some tech questions later, but you never did.”

  “That’s right. I was going to ask you to do something along these lines. I just didn’t know how to ask at the time.”

  “You must trust me a lot.”

  “Yeah, and it better never get out.”

  He shook a finger at me in a mock gesture and smiled.

  “I can do what you’re asking, but it’ll take time if I’m thorough.”

  “What can you do exactly? I remember you have a degree in computer science. Is it related to that?”

  “Yes and no. I learned what I could in the course of getting that degree.”

  I went on to describe what I learned whilst obtaining the degree and also touched on certain parts of what I learned by studying what hackers do. He seemed genuinely impressed.

  “So how much of this have you put into practice?” he asked after some deliberation.

  “Between us, I’ve done most of the things I described.”

  “Intercepting phone calls? Emails? The contents of people’s hard drives?”

  “In my early days I experimented in some of that. But really it bored me and I didn’t have any real desire to read other people’s emails or personal diaries. The thrill for me was in being able to do it. I didn’t care about the content, just the ability.”

  “So if I gave you a name and enough information about an individual for you to track down his digital identity, you could get access to all his emails, his phone calls, his banking records, and everything else that existed in the digital world in some form or other?”

  “Yes. It may take me more time with some than with others, but yes. With enough time I could get any kind of digital information on anybody. Whatever exists somewhere, I can find.”

  “That’s amazing. What about government computers and networks?”

  “I could. But the question is would I? The answer, definitely not.”

  “No? What if there was a lot of money involved?”

  “I’m a nanny by trade. Obviously I’m not that into money.”

  “I see. But you want to become a trader. And don’t you have a degree in finance?”

  “It interested me at one time—finance did. And I feel a certain obligation to my parents who put me through school, if not to myself to follow it up with a career in a related field.”

  “But your passion lies somewhere else…”

  “Yes. I’m more of a science mind. I like figuring things out, discovering the causes behind natural phenomena. And I like computers.”

  “You’re a fascinating person, Sophia. I don’t believe I’ve ever met anyone with such a wide range of knowledge and interests. You’re a truly unique person.”

  He paused and gazed at me affectionately in a way that made me believe he couldn’t care so much for anyone else other than perhaps little Savannah.

  “And so beautiful. You have more natural beauty…” He trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished.

  I restrained a smirk.

  Satellite Weather

  September 26

  Tropical cyclone activity in the Atlantic

  The tumultuous hurricane season is making itself felt. On the Atlantic Tropical Depression 9 has taken shape, moving west at forty m.p.h., and Che moves west over southern Panama. At the same time a tropical wave is taking form off the west coast of Nigeria. And what remains of Citadel is twisting north of the Caribbean.

  In the Eastern Pacific the tropical storm Alice is headed west. This goes hand-in-hand with two other storms, currently west of Panama.

  Mark Stafford’s Notes

  September 27

  Always looking for the bigger fish—this was the prevailing thought of the past week or two. Since Isabella’s accident I feel life has just passed in a fleeting blur. A thing that is ultimately uninteresting, unengaging, separate; something I can’t really put into words except to say that my world was turned to ashes and a shadow of the former has replaced it. It’s hard to put my finger on it, and the more I try to sort out my thoughts, the more they become muddled. A new bird has captured my attention. But it’s fleeting. Nothing more. The physical attraction is intense and what happened in her house was out of this world, if for no other reason than the fact that she is something different, something new. Touching her skin generates a kind of electricity. There is one problem, however.

  She’s a fucking spy. What are the odds of a tiny microphone getting placed in the house on the floor by the front door if she’s not? I have to admit I want to hook up with her again to see where this goes. (Note: I feel the oddest inclination to report to Sophia the details of our interaction. Why?) I’ll have to tell Sophia something if I’m going to get her to spy on Emma for me. It will be interesting to see how she reacts. Whether or not she is as open-minded as she seems. I do really care for her, outside of an ever expanding infatuation, and I may consider adjustments if adjustments are required to make her happy. Would I mind if she was with another? That depends on a lot of factors. Emma Green, you fucking bitch, now I have to look into you. I have to expend resources and time to find out why you had the microphone? Were there more? What resources do you possess? Who are you working for?

  That’s what bothers me the most. The other questions really don’t matter. But that one bears some weight. If Sophia is as good as she says she is and I have no reason to doubt that she is—she’s nothing if not straight forward—then perhaps she will suffice to answer all these questions. But, thinking further on the matter, perhaps I’ll need a team. A team of specialists she might be able to assemble. They would have to be all computer forensics experts. Openly I would admit to employing a cyber security team for personal use. Stafford International has something like that, but that is for very general protection. This team would be a full blown counterintelligence operation. I’m almost afraid of what they might uncover. But this has become a priority. That microphone freaks me the fuck out. Paranoia, I know; I’ve done nothing wrong. But the thought of someone listening in and possibly recording what I’m saying makes my skin crawl. Making the effort to physically place a microphone, possibly more than one, and not just spy over the internet. I don’t know that I’ve ever experienced this kind of anger in all my life. I will get the fucker or fuckers that did this
. I will find out who they are and hunt them down. It won’t be pretty. Whether it’s lawsuits or something else, it’s going to be a mess.

  Chapter 11

  Descent

  Email, Julie Cameron to Sophia Durant

  September 28

  S~

  Gainesville is blue without you, Sophia. Remember those happy days of our youth, long ago and far away, when we used to ride down mysterious dirt roads deep in the forests without a care in the world? Chasing butterflies with nets in fields or fishing at the lake? Life was uncomplicated then. So different now, we barely have time to communicate. You can’t ever accuse me of not getting back to you promptly again because now it is you who is not getting back to me. I know you are very busy. What with juggling your time between the baby, the businessman, and your leisure time in that tropical paradise. Yes, I’m bugging you about it again. No, I do not expect to hear from you about all your glorious adventures any time soon. But when I do I want all the details, maybe another glimpse of your diary to see what you’ve added. This brings to mind the thoughts that prompted this letter, which, I regret to inform you, are of a much more somber nature.

  How often do I think of Eleuthera and the secret wonders she must hold. This all apart from the adventures you’ve had and the wonders of the villa you reside in. But when I do think of you or dream of you—it’s happened more often than you would think lately and they weren’t all good dreams—there’s something amiss, something out of place, a will-o’-the-wisp that flickers before you but recedes into the distance with your approach. I can’t quite put my finger on it. and perhaps I’m being silly and it’s mere superstition that informs my fevered brain. But perhaps it isn’t. According to every indicator there’s a storm close on your horizon. Perhaps even now you’re in the middle of it and just don’t know it. For example, just the other day I was thinking of you, lying on the couch, when I slipped into a light sleep and had a dream. You were in a snowstorm at night. Snow was blowing at you from every direction and you couldn’t figure out, no matter how hard you tried, why. The storm continued indefinitely and you were trapped in it. I don’t know what became of you in this situation, for the doorbell rang and I awoke. Receiving the package I couldn’t shake these ill feelings I had left over from the dream about your present and future predicaments. Please don’t think me too strange at these revelations, but these thoughts are close to my heart.