Gordon grimaced. Christopher had talked him into singing a country song at a local karaoke bar one night and had never let him live it down. He was good at cutting and processing trees, but not so good carrying a tune. “What new bands have you found lately?” Gordon asked as the van started moving slowly along the runway toward Vigie Beach. Christopher was the local promoter for musicians from all over the Caribbean and often brought new talent to St. Lucia. There was no place on the island that Christopher could escape to without someone shaking his hand and asking what was happening.
“He’s not a musician, but I’ve got a good one, my friend. There’s a boxer on the island who could be Olympic caliber. I’m bringing in some carded boxers from other islands and putting on a few matches. Sold out, every one of them, mon.”
“Excellent,” Gordon said. “Listen, Christopher, I need a favor. I’m only here for a day or two, and it’s sort of on business.”
“I’m your man,” Christopher said.
“Can you get your hands on a police report for me?”
His guide looked puzzled. “A police report? What’s going on, Gordon?”
“There was an accident last week. A tourist died when her cab went over a cliff. You hear anything about that?”
“It was in the papers,” Christopher said. “She a friend of yours?”
Gordon shrugged. “Let’s just say I’m interested.”
“Okay, I can get you the report. But let’s not visit the police station ourselves. That’s not a good place to be. I’ll have someone deliver it. Where are you staying?”
“Caribbees,” Gordon replied. “I phoned from the plane and they had a room.”
“I’m sure they did,” Christopher said, steering off the runway and heading onto Vigie Peninsula. Caribbees Hotel was set into a hill near the lighthouse, with stunning views of Castries Harbor and the ocean. Vacancies were rare at the hotel, but when Gordon Buchanan flew in, things changed.
Gordon had a long history with a few of the Caribbean Islands, but especially with St. Lucia. He had been traveling to the Caribbean for years, scuba diving and spending time in the sun. Gordon had a creed he lived by, which was to always leave whatever place you visit a little better for having been there. And twelve years ago, when he first met Christopher, he had asked what was a problem on the island-a problem that dealt with people. Christopher had answered immediately: domestic violence. The stuff that happened between husband and wife behind closed doors. And there was nowhere for these women to go when threatened. Gordon had changed all that.
He returned to the United States, made some calls, had his bank wire some money to the West Indies Bank in Castries, and flew back to the island. He bought a large house in need of work, hired contractors to refurbish it, then donated it to the city. There were sixteen rooms, a fully functional kitchen, three family rooms with televisions and PlayStations, and a full-time guard on the front door. Now the women had a safe place to go, at least for the short term. His generosity had been the talk of the island for months. The island government tried to honor him by naming a street after him, but he respectfully turned them down, preferring to keep a low profile.
But that didn’t mean people forgot. They didn’t. And now when Gordon needed something, it became available. Like a room in a popular hotel.
Christopher pulled up in front of Caribbees and grinned. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock?”
“Nine o’clock is fine. Don’t forget the police report.”
Christopher gave him a pained look and stomped on the gas. Gordon checked in and thanked the manager for finding him such an excellent room on such short notice. The balcony wrapped around the corner of the hotel, with a view of the Caribbean to the west and a sweeping vista of Castries and its harbor to the south. He ate dinner in one of the on-site restaurants and retired early. By nine on Sunday morning, he was sitting outside the lobby waiting for Christopher. At precisely the top of the hour, the driver/promoter pulled up, a huge grin on his face.
“What are you looking so smug about?” Gordon asked as he slid into the front passenger’s seat.
Christopher held up a tan-colored file folder. “Your police report,” he said.
“You’re good,” Gordon said, smiling as he took the report. “What’s in here?”
“You want me to tell you or you want to read about it?”
“Why don’t you fill me in while I read?”
“Okay, boss. Your friend was taking a tour of the island near the Edmond Forest Reserve down near Soufriere. They had passed through a twisty part of the road we call The Gap, just south of Piton Canarie. They went off the road on the Enbas Saut Trail. It’s really steep and slippery there.”
“Let’s go have a look,” Gordon said, his eyes glued on the police file. “A picture paints a whole lotta words.”
Christopher nodded and shoved the car into gear. He navigated the tight streets of the island capital, flashing by brightly painted houses and small children with white, toothy smiles. Shacks with corrugated metal roofs bordered the road and unneutered dogs lounged in the shade or strolled next to the drainage ditches, irritated at best by the traffic rushing past inches from their scrawny bodies. Bridge Street began to rise as Christopher reached the southern edge of Castries, and he geared down for the uphill series of switchbacks that dominated the road between the capital city and Soufriere. Gordon knew the road well, and he watched the city tenements slowly dissipate and lush fields of banana and mango rise from the jungle clearings. The road, a two-lane goat path that Gordon swore was the training ground for New York cabbies, weaved its way through steep Lucian valleys. Occasionally, as he glanced out the right side of the van, he caught a quick glimpse of the ocean, far below them with tiny whitecaps as the waves approached shore. As they drove south, the Pitons came into view.
Petit Piton and Gros Piton were the primary memories most tourists took home from St. Lucia. Towering above the adjacent jungle-clad hills, the cone-shaped volcanic rocks graced the cover of almost every St. Lucia publication. Gordon took a passing interest in them as the road turned inland and the jungle thickened. The interior of St. Lucia is in places a true rain forest, and the best example is in the Edmond Forest Reserve. They followed the West Coast Road to St. Jacques Road, then headed due east into the forest. The road was thinner now, at times almost impassible by a single vehicle. Encountering another car driving the opposite direction was scary in many places, as someone had to back up. They reached The Gap without incident, and Christopher drove three kilometers onto the Enbas Saut Trail and stopped. Ahead of them was a switchback, the road dropping off into an abyss. There was no guardrail.
“This is the place,” Christopher said. “I read the police report after I picked it up last night. I know this corner. Lots of people go over this cliff. They should put up a concrete barrier or something. It would save lives.”
Gordon stepped from the van into the jungle heat and humidity. There had been no rain over the past twenty-four hours, but the dirt surface was slick with moisture just from the mist settling out from the surrounding air. Gordon had read the police report on the drive up and knew that the vehicle in which Kenga had been the passenger had been traveling toward the switchback from the opposite direction. He walked up to the corner and glanced up the hill. A hundred feet farther, there was another sharp corner the vehicle would have had to navigate prior to reaching the switchback. That severely limited the speed at which the driver would have been approaching this curve. That and the fact that he should know the road would suggest he had been traveling extremely slowly. Yet the police report stated that the vehicle had left the road at an estimated thirty kilometers an hour.
He glanced over at Christopher. “No one in their right mind would attempt this corner at thirty kilometers an hour. Not even in a Ferrari with dry roads.”