Poison

Chapter Five

Chapter Five

A shudder clenched her shoulders and she abruptly hard-focused on the here and now. Lindsey felt gritty. Soiled. But, inexplicably, her hormones were on full alert.

She scanned the top of her desk. There was the leather-bound dictionary and thesaurus that her mother had given her on graduation day. A boxed set. The family photograph, taken on a ski trip to Aspen. The framed, “Award of Merit” from the Boston Globe.

Lindsey’s editor stood by the window, squinting at the last page of her proposal in the sunlight. He hadn’t his reading glasses.

Ten years had passed, and she still held the images of that evening at Stone’s apartment, clearly defined in her mind.

She had fled Doctor Stone’s apartment after watching Ray grab Rebecca. He had caught her behind the bar and backed her into the wall, pinning her by the throat. Lindsey sat, humiliated, on the sofa, clutching her open dress to her breasts; her eyes wide.

“You still whoring around with the women?” Ray had screamed into Rebecca’s face; then he had slapped her across the cheek. “What you need is a good ass-f*****g. That will cure you!”

That was enough for Lindsey. Holding her dress up, she bent and raced toward the apartment door. Ray still had Rebecca by the neck and Farthington had pinned her arms behind as they half carried, half dragged Rebecca’s struggling body into the center of the room. Lindsey’s last memory was of Dr. Stone working Rebecca’s skirt from about her hips as they forced her, face down, over the coffee table.

In the parking lot, Lindsey had purged herself of Doctor Stone and his salmon dinner. After she had vomited, she got behind the wheel of her mother’s Mazda, feeling a little easier. She had left her jacket in Doctor Stone’s closet, her favorite lipstick in the pocket. She could have used that lipstick right about now; but she wasn’t about to go back for it!

Her editor flipped the proposal closed and stood frowning at it.

Maybe I’m not showing enough leg, Lindsey thought. She got up from her chair and turning to face him, eased her bum up onto the desk-top. She lifted one foot from the floor and placed it on her office chair. Then crossed her knees. His eyes slid sideways. That’s better, she thought.

“Okay, okay...” Her editor caved like Lindsey knew he would, dragging his eyes away from her hemline. “Won’t be the first time I’ve made an ass of myself.”

“You will? That’s great!” Lindsey was not much of a gusher, but she did try from time to time. “You won’t be sorry,” she added.

“Easy now. I said I would try. Okay?”

“You can do it, big guy,” she encouraged him while leaning further back. His eyes lowered from the silk stretched tightly across her bust to the hemline of the skirt that had worked its way higher; up to mid-thigh. He looked on Lindsey, unabashedly now, as she shifted her position, c*****g her knee a little, to give him a little reward. She heard his breath falter and wondered, momentarily, if she’d overdone it; given him a glimpse of the white panty-liner that was fastened to the inside of her pantyhose. Easy, Lindsey, she thought to herself and closed her legs, rubbing her thighs together seductively.

“Told you I know how to get things done around here,” Lindsey needled him. Then giggled as his cheeks turned a bright crimson.

“s**t,” he mumbled under his breath and turned toward the door.

“And don’t worry,” Lindsey called after him. “I won’t tell Bernice that she’s married to a misogynist!”

Republica Dominicana

The plane lilted lightly as they descended, buffeted by the Atlantic trade winds. Lindsey peered out the side window and saw the deep cobalt water gradually turn to emerald green and finally to turquoise as it shallowed. Off to her left, a point of land shouldered into the swell. It was vibrantly green and the shores were lined with stuccoed bungalows; the bright sunshine highlighting the red clay tile that formed the rooftops.

Directly below, a flash of white signified that they had passed over the beach and a moment later the wheels were protesting as they met the black-top. Lindsey checked her watch. It was shortly after twelve and she sighed contentedly. She would have the entire afternoon to find her way into Puerto Plata and track down the hotel where she would meet Muriel Mirabal. And with any luck, she would have plenty of time to explore the narrow streets and lane-ways of the old Spanish colonial town.

By 4:30 she was seated in the comfortable lounge of the Hemingway Hotel. Lindsey had purchased three little sun dresses before leaving Miami. They were all the same style but different patterns and colors. Short, sexy, and loose fitting, she thought they would be fun to wear. When she arrived earlier in the afternoon, she had peeled off jeans and shirt and slipped into the first dress. Lindsey laced up walking sandals, tied back her hair and donned large sunglasses. Without bothering to unpack, she had raced out into the sunshine.

Now, having spent a lovely afternoon playing tourist, Lindsey sat enjoying a pre-dinner drink. She was here to work, after all, but the lure of the town was compelling and the tropical weather was close to perfect. The sun was strong but the constant push of the trade winds held the heat at bay and though the temperature hovered in the lower nineties, it seemed cool and comfortable.

The Hemingway was a modest establishment, located on a backstreet in the historic downtown. Its seedy clap-board siding needed paint and the sag in the roof seemed to underscore the lackadaisical attitude of the Dominicans. The lounge was a throwback to a more elegant time. From a corner table she surveyed the walls of rich, hand-rubbed mahogany that had been installed during a century when craftsmen worked cheap and exotic hardwoods were cut from the nearby forests.

Louvered shutters softened the street noise and overhead, ceiling fans slowly turned, moving the stagnant air. It felt more like an exclusive men’s club than a bar on a tropical Caribbean island and indeed, Lindsey found that she was the only woman in the room. Businessmen in pricey silk suits sat at the round tables, noisily hashing out business deals over bottles of whiskey. They chatted, laughed, clasped hands and downed their drinks straight, without benefit of ice or mix, from shot glasses. And they smoked thick Dominican cigars.

Occasionally curious eyes would turn to question the presence of a lone white female in their midst. They glanced her way with interest; slick hair, dark eyes and pencil-line mustachios. But more important matters prevailed: business was at hand, the lure of commerce, crucial alliances were being forged, speculation, money to be made. No time for a silly tourist lady who had obviously wandered too far from the bus.

Lindsey dropped her gaze and was idly stirring the ice cubes in her clamato juice with an index finger when the room went still. She glanced over toward the men. Their mouths were silenced, some gaped, all stared toward the street entrance. Lindsey looked up.