Paradise - Part Five (The Erotic Adventures of Sophia Durant)

by O. L. Casper

  “Definitely one of them.”

  I was truly thrilled to be having the experience. Any initial fear fell away with the thought that I didn’t really care if we plummeted to our deaths; the flight would be such a remarkable last experience to have in life that it more than made up for the fact that it would be the last.

  Upon reaching altitude and leveling off, we cut east and flew back over the island, away from the sun. Emily looked at me, beaming. I returned the smile, but inwardly I felt nothing but seething contempt. She looked an utter buffoon. How bored does one have to get with their riches and their position in life that they resort to buying fucking seaplanes and learning to fly them? Yeah, flying is cool. But doing absolutely nothing with your life but living an existence of lackadaisical pursuits such as this is obscene. It is not living, but a weak substitute for it. I halfway wanted to throttle the bitch right then and there, end it all, and risk the consequent enquiries.

  “May I say, you have the most wonderful life if you get the time to go out and do this whenever you want,” I lied outright.

  “Thank you. Oh, I’m so glad you like it. We’ll have to get out and do it more often while I’m here.”

  “I’m game any time.” That I really was.

  After some silence she began on the subject I imagined was the real reason I was on the plane with her.

  “I want to ask you about Mark. I’ve been meaning to for some time now but I didn’t know how to broach the subject so I decided to just come right out with it.”

  “Ask me anything. I will answer as well as I can, but I’m afraid most of his life is a closed book to me.”

  “Yes. He’s extremely secretive. I gathered that much. Look, I just thought there was something between you both when I first met you. Later Mark swore there wasn’t, but I wasn’t entirely convinced.”

  I swallowed.

  “There is something, but it’s not anything like a commitment. I want you to feel free to do what you want—what he wants.”

  Again I was speaking the opposite of what I felt in my heart. My hatred for her was reaching a new level. My blood ran cold when I looked at her. The sound turned low and it appeared I was viewing these moments in some form of slow motion. On the periphery I heard my heart beating. I don’t think I’d felt this much pure rage since I’d spied on Stafford when he was with Emma Green. The rage overpowered me, and yet I wasn’t about to do anything to her just now. I would wait, like a cold, calculating snake—and when the time came I would strike. But not a moment too soon, nor a moment too late. This time it would definitely have to appear to be an accident after what happened with Emma.

  “I’m so glad you feel that way. It’s such a relief.”

  “Good. We’re like sisters then. Look, Emily, I know something’s happened between you two. I just want to warn you not to get hurt. Mark has the world open to him. He can have whatever he wants whenever he wants. And he often takes full advantage of the fact.”

  “I know he’s like that. He has it written all over him. Whenever I’ve been with him in a public place, which hasn’t been more than two or three times, his eyes are all over all the women in the room. It doesn’t matter what they look like or who they are, he rapes them with his eyes.”

  “Rape may be a bit of a strong word, but—I know exactly what you mean. No—he and I—we’ve had our fun. But that’s all it was. Fun.”

  She looked into my eyes as if to judge whether or not to believe me. I smiled sympathetically and she looked on ahead. All that was ahead of us was the Atlantic Ocean stretching out to the horizon.

  “Right now, Sophia, I’m trying to look at what’s happening with Mark as fun. But I can’t help getting more involved than that. It’s becoming quite a different matter, I’m afraid. And I know I’m setting myself up for disappointment. But I don’t know what else to do—other than to just not see him, I suppose, which is not really an option. No. He’s become something of an addiction. Perhaps I should seek help.”

  She laughed nervously.

  No, I thought, I am the one who needs help. Help me not kill you now, you dumb bitch.

  “Thanks for opening up to me, Sophia. Thanks for your warm and free way with me. That’s what I love about Americans. The openness.”

  It was hard to contain a smile.

  “I’m glad I can be of service to you. Though it’s been such a short time, I already feel very close to you. I don’t feel like I have to keep anything back.”

  “That’s good. Me neither.”

  She scanned the horizon.

  “I hope you’re enjoying this flight, Sophia. This is an extraordinary place to fly.”

  “I’m loving every minute of it.”

  I smiled and looked at her for a lingering moment. I wondered why—considering all her extraordinary beauty and attractiveness—I wasn’t into her physically. I guess it was a question of chemistry. We didn’t have it. Whenever I looked at her I just felt a coldness toward her. I felt her body to be physically repulsive, even though there was no obvious reason for me to feel that way. All the other women Stafford had been with, whom I had come to know, were very sexually attractive to me. But not Emily. She was an iceberg.

  I studied the dash computer system, eagerly searching for places to input digital information. I noticed a USB port on Emily’s side of the control panel. She saw me looking at the dash and commented on my interest.

  “I love computers, and technology in general. I’m curious as to how it all works.”

  “I don’t really know much about it. But it incorporates all the latest technology. It can play blu-rays and you can plug in your iPod. It even has iTunes.”

  “Very cool.”

  “If you like it up here, we can do this again. Perhaps if we leave earlier one of these days, we can explore some of the other islands of the archipelago.”

  “I would love to. That would be amazing. I feel like I have a new friend.”

  I smiled at her.

  Sophia Durant’s Diary

  December 6, Eleuthera Island, Bahamas

  I had a rough day running computer security checks for Stafford, spying on anyone whom the great man thought might be of interest. My few moments of reprieve came from visiting Savannah and watching her cruise around the edges of the furniture. She was so beautiful. Her hair was down her neck now. It was turning a pleasant blond color like her late mother’s.

  Carter texted yesterday and earlier today. I’ll insert some of the conversation here:

  GLENN: Running some checks on the information you provided. We can’t find anything to verify specifically what you said, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true. And more importantly, urging us to give her a closer look has brought up a very questionable background indeed. I won’t go into details in a text. We need to meet.

  SOPHIA: When?

  GLENN: When is convenient for you?

  SOPHIA: Not today—maybe tomorrow. My schedule’s a bit up in the air now. I can explain more when I see you.

  GLENN: I see.

  SOPHIA: Any closer to solving the mystery?

  GLENN: ?

  I didn’t reply to the question mark. I don’t know why he confided all he did in the first text. It doesn’t make any sense. Does he feel accountable to me? Are his feelings toward me overpowering his judgment? If that’s the case, I’m afraid he might be pulled off the case and I might have to deal with someone a little more conservative in his methods. Or, should I say, someone who has method? Carter doesn’t seem to have any method at all.

  Special Agent Carter Glenn Carter’s Notes

  December 6, Eleuthera Island, Bahamas

  Ms. Durant is becoming ever less reliable and ever more unclear in her responses. The information about Ms. Mordaunt seems to have been a ruse. While it was true that we did find some questionable characters in a more thorough background check of Ms. Mordaunt there was nothing to indicate that she herself had ever committed any crime. It was true—she did talk to a handful of Arab oil sheik
s, as she calls them, and who knows? Some of them might fund terror cells. That is not my department. I forwarded the information to the relevant agency and that was that. But I wanted to use Ms. Mordaunt and the fact that we might have something on her to get Sophia to open up. For, in me, a hunch is blossoming about the reality of whom the killer might be. Sophia is very close to the person I suspect, but she is protecting this potential killer. I have to disarm her with a diversion to get her to leak any information we might find useful. She is frustratingly keen and manipulative, but she is also exceedingly egotistical and she will slip up.

  Sophia Durant’s Diary (continued)

  I went to bed after reading Carter’s latest notes in Minerva. So he suspects me of something. He may even suspect I am the killer, but for some reason he won’t put down who he thinks it is in his notes. Most odd. He suspects me of dishonesty. Well, no shit, Mr. Carter. But to what end? I’ll keep the roulette ball in the black for now and for all the time to come, thank you very much, Mr. Carter. As evidenced by his notes, he was thoughtless and unmethodical—not to mention egotistical—it’ll be remarkable if he comes up with anything at all with regards to the case. He reminds me of a parody of a bad detective in a mystery novel. Obviously the person he suspects is one of two people: Stafford or me. It’s more likely Stafford, but I won’t rule myself out. Beyond us, it couldn’t be anyone. We’re the only two in the scope of their investigation that have any motive to kill. He probably doubts I have the fierceness of character to kill; so that leaves only Stafford. I wonder if they’ve uncovered anything about any meetings like the secret ones I witnessed on the remote beaches. That I couldn’t say. If they had, they were keeping it well hidden. But, of course, it was doubtful—if they did know about any of this, why wouldn’t it have then turned up in Carter’s diary? I do understand why they think Stafford’s some kind of international criminal. It doesn’t take too much insight to find out that Stafford’s businesses aren’t what they seem. As far as I can tell, I’m running pretty tight security for the boss.

  I’ve taken this diary off the MacBook Pro and am now instead accessing it from, and saving it to, a highly encrypted server somewhere in Sweden. They’ll never get at it unless I want them to. I know the FBI has one of the best cyber investigation teams in the world, but I also know what they’re capable of and their limits. And it’s around these parameters that I operate. When crimes are committed in certain ways, especially cyber crimes, they just can’t be traced—the criminal can’t be caught. I suppose most people don’t know this. But it’s as much of an ironclad reality as death and taxes.

  I synced the encrypted diary on the Swedish server to the one on my MacBook Pro, disconnected from the internet, and promptly wiped the new entry from my computer. In the beginning all the intrigue and cyber gymnastics was tremendous fun, but now it’s just a hassle. Fortunately it’s not very time-consuming.

  I turned the lights off, lay down to bed and thought about little Savannah. She would be a year old in a week. I fantasized briefly about becoming her mother figure and finally marrying Stafford. I’m not usually given to such gross sentimentality, but as I drift off I find I have little control over where my mind takes me. My last thought before slept was, I think, a creeping dread about whether or not I would face another night of horrifying dreams. I had been having them on and off, but with less frequency of late.

  The first images of the dream hit me like a ton of bricks. I was somewhere in South America, perhaps Peru or Chile. It was a bright day. The colors were all highly saturated and everything was brighter like a documentary from the sixties or seventies. I was very aware in the dream—in a state of consciousness more heightened than the usual dream state. It was the middle of a war. I was in a house in the jungle. I knew this because I could see the dense foliage and palm trees out of the glassless windows. The house was made up of unpainted, gray bricks. There were explosions outside and the sound of helicopters nearby. I was living out my own personal Apocalypse Now. The choppers outside were run by the dominant world power, which wasn’t specified in the dream—it could have been China or America or even some other country. I was not on their side, but was a native instead, trying to avoid getting bombed out of existence. I was not a soldier but a civilian. I looked across the barren room to where I saw Savannah. She was lying on a table, crying out to me. She held out her arms, a terrified look on her face. I ran across the room and picked her up. As I did so, a great, fiery explosion ripped apart the room where I was standing. I felt small chunks of brick hitting me all over the legs, back, neck, and head as I dove for cover, shielding the baby. Once the coast was clear I got up and evacuated the building. Running along a dirt road, I saw a missile come down from the sky and tear in half a woman who was running along the road with a small child. Blood sprayed then pulsed in a fountain from the lower half of her body before it fell lifeless to the ground. The child screamed out as the missile hit the ground in front of her. The ensuing explosion ripped apart the child’s body. I perceived all of this in slow motion. I spent the remainder of the dream hiding out in various parts of the country with Savannah, avoiding the missiles and bombs. I had the distinct impression that I was a high level target throughout the dream. A feeling which reached a fever pitch at the end, causing me to jolt upright, awake and drenched in sweat, in my bed. I struggled to catch my breath.

  Sophia’s Durant’s Diary

  December 9, Eleuthera Island, Bahamas

  It had taken me three days to put together the malware I would slip into the computer in Emily’s Cessna. My initial plan was to make her think there was a full tank of gas in the seaplane when there wasn’t, then I’d send her out to sea, toward the Devil’s Triangle (or the Bermuda Triangle as it’s popularly known), as her indicators and mapping system misled her. And she would disappear. Never to be heard from again. It all worked quite well in theory. I had gone over the plan several times in my imagination, working out all the kinks. Trying to think of any potential disruptions and work my way around them. I thought I had it all hammered out. Having full control of the plane via the computer, I could always take another route if necessary. I realize nothing ever goes as planned. There is a divinity that shapes our ends, often running contrary to our plans—if not a divinity, then a universe too vast and complicated for any mortal to comprehend. The best laid plans of mice and men…

  With all the mistakes and accidents that happened with the elimination of the last two women, which further complicated matters and made it more difficult to achieve my ends, I decided to plan this meticulously. As it turned out, my meticulousness paid off. The morning after I’d exchanged texts with Carter I met him at the marina. I was to meet Emily there about thirty minutes after meeting with him.

  Carter was already on the docks to greet me when I got there. He was smoking a rather large cigar when he saw me and smiled.

  “Are you Sherlock Holmes now? Hercule Poirot?”

  “Poirot didn’t smoke.”

  He took a puff and coughed.

  “Ah, but he did in the TV show.”

  “You know your detective fiction.”

  “Actually I found that out on Wikipedia.”

  “Of course. The manifold uses of the internet. I forgot the fact that nobody reads anymore, but old fogies like me.”

  “I read. Just not detective stories—and you’re not that old.”

  “Old at heart, Sophia. Old at heart.”

  “Weary already?”

  “Looking to retire. Perhaps even after this case.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Private practice.”

  “You’ll be a private detective?”

  “Yes. Is that strange to you?”

  He looked at me with interest.

  “I just picture private detectives like the little men you see in the movies with the visors and the Hawaiian shirts. The camera with the great, big telephoto lens. The cigarette holder.”

  “Like Hunter Thompson.”


  “Exactly like Hunter S. Thompson.”

  He laughed and looked at the ground as we walked along.

  “It’s good to have a little comic relief—no? It lightens the atmosphere a bit so we can then get down to business with greater ease.”

  “Yes. We could have used some humor last time,” I interjected.

  “I’m sorry. Things were rather tense. I suppose it was the pressure from above.”

  “From God?” I joked, but he looked at me seriously.

  “No. I mean from my superiors.”

  “That and your interrogation style questioning. And the other kind of tension.”

  “Other kind of tension?” he asked, fixing his eyes on mine.

  I smiled.

  “You know the one.”

  “The kiss,” he exclaimed at once, as though he had received a flash of brilliance from another world. “How could I forget? It was silly of me. Let’s try to put it out of our minds.”

  “I’m fully aware it could get you thrown off the investigation.”

  “Perhaps—perhaps,” he replied, seeming not to care.

  “If we’re not being listened in on, I’d like to ask you something.”

  I stopped walking and looked at him.

  “I really do not believe we are being listened to, but I cannot guarantee it.”

  “Fair enough. If we went farther than a kiss. If somehow you could get a break from your assignment and meet me somewhere…”

  “It would be difficult.”

  “Would you do it?”

  “It would be difficult,” he repeated.

  I leaned in like I was going to kiss him.

  “Not here.”

  “Where?”

  “I can’t. I’m sure I would be found out. And that, to say the least, would not be good for my career.”

  “But you could be persuaded. I feel…your resolve is not what you would like it to be.”

  “Whether or not it is, Sophia, is quite irrelevant to why we are here.”

  “Why are we here?”