The Rhythm of the August Rain (4 page)

“You're coming with me and that's that.”

To the curling of Eve's lips, Shannon raised her eyebrows to remind her daughter that she'd brought this on herself. She was lucky Mr. Kim hadn't pressed charges. “Your father said he was looking forward to seeing you. Besides, you'll like Jamaica. It's a very cool place, lots of beaches and mountains.”

“I bet they have bugs, and you know I hate bugs.”

“What do you expect? It's a tropical country—of course they have bugs. But they also have great food, great music, all kinds of stuff.”

“Whatever.”

Life had been like this for the last six months: silences interrupted by short-tempered answers or slammed doors. More and more, Shannon found herself watching Eve to assess her mood, controlling the tone and volume she used, weighing what to say. Whenever Eve exploded, Shannon would breathe deeply as the counselor had advised. It was a game of control and she was the adult, she'd remind herself, even if she sometimes felt like crying under the weight of it.

“I thought we could go by my office tomorrow,” Shannon said. “I have to fill out some paperwork, and you can thank Angie for letting you go along with me on the trip.”

“Since you're
making
me go, do I have to be nice to her?”

“At least be polite, Eve.”

The conversation getting exhausting, Shannon started clearing the table. She needed a few minutes to clear her head, too, to think through yet again what she'd discussed with her editor, what would make this assignment different from the work she'd done for the magazine for the last three years—and what could put her life in danger if she didn't watch it.

When she'd signed on to work freelance for
Culture
, Shannon hadn't thought of the job as anything approaching perilous. Modeled after
National Geographic
, the magazine was designed to educate Canadians about the diverse societies crowding the globe and was now known as a journal of some merit. Angie, the middle-aged editor of
Culture
, had recruited Shannon as a photographer by allowing the then forty-six-year-old single mother to work from home. It had been the perfect opportunity to leave her newspaper job at the
Toronto Star.
On the downside, however, the magazine expected her to drop everything and fly off whenever they called. This year alone, she'd been to five different locations, including Texas, for an article on modern Tex-Mex; Australia, for an aboriginal arts festival; and the Netherlands, for the Keukenhof Tulip Festival.

Her latest assignment had come as a shock when Angie had asked her in early June to do a feature on Jamaica's Rastafarians. It was to be a double assignment with double pay. She'd be paid for the photography as well as for writing the article, since the other journalists were on summer holiday or already assigned.

“You're a good writer,” Angie had said. “I've seen what you wrote for the Louisiana article when Jeff came down with food poisoning. Not bad, pretty good in fact. We want to use you more to work both sides, copy and visuals—saves us money on expenses and increases your income.”

Shannon had laughed. “I guess I'll have to pull out my old journalism textbooks then.”

“You'll be fine. You've never disappointed me before.”

“Doing the whole article, though, that's a pretty big job.”

“I thought you'd be the best person. I mean, you started going to Jamaica—”

“In 1997,” Shannon had shot back, “and for two years after that.”

She'd agreed to go after some inner twisting, after admitting to herself that she wanted to return to Largo Bay. It had been too long and she'd loved the place. On her first trip to Jamaica, then a freelance photographer in her early thirties, she'd fallen in love not only with the owner of the Largo Bay Inn but with the island's scenic countryside. Her regular visits during those years had produced thousands of photographs, many of which she'd sold to travel websites, photographs she still looked at when she was feeling nostalgic.

After Eve slouched upstairs to do her homework, Shannon called Chantrelle and invited her over for one of their after-dinner chats. Fifteen minutes later, she was handing a glass of merlot across the kitchen counter to her friend.

“Suppose Eric has met someone, is even living with someone?” Chantrelle asked.

“He's a free man,” Shannon replied briskly.

“Right, like you haven't been jogging every morning at the break of day, trying to get back in shape, eh?”

“Oh, stop,” Shannon said, a blush coming on. “Just a few extra pounds I need to get rid of. Every bite I eat goes straight to my waist. Anyway, it wouldn't hurt to look good in a bathing suit, but I'm telling you, I have no fantasies about Eric, none whatsoever.”

“You can kid yourself, but you can't kid me.” Chantrelle took a sip and licked her lips. “What's so great about him, anyway?”

One side of Shannon's mouth slid up. “He's one of the nice guys—you know, authentic, down-to-earth, no airs.”

“Why'd you split up then?”

“We never did, actually—after I got pregnant, he just never invited me back. Then I started working with the
Star
and I didn't have time.” Shannon looked through the darkened window. “To tell you the truth, I've had this open sore called Eric Keller for fourteen years, and it needs to be cauterized. Anyway, he needs to know his daughter, whatever happens between us.”

“Best not to get Eve's hopes up, don't you think?”

“He hurts her enough when he calls on her birthday and says he's coming to see her soon, but soon never comes. And his own son, Joseph, didn't even
know
he had a sister until he went down to Jamaica last year.” Shannon gave a little laugh. “I didn't say he was perfect.”

After fetching a bottle of olives and two forks, Shannon returned to the counter. “I'm just hoping that spending time with Eric will settle Eve down, you know?” She lowered her voice. “She seems like a lost soul. A year ago she was fine, a bit quiet, maybe, but not a child who would walk into a store and steal anything. I don't know what's come over her.”

“It really seems weird.”

“Unless it's the friends she's been hanging around with at the new school. I don't even know if she has any friends. She never brings them home. And
stealing
? Where did she get this idea from, to steal something? She refuses to talk about it, too. I tried to get it out of her, but they tell me I'm just to let the counselor handle it.”

Popping an olive into her mouth, Shannon shook her head. “
Cigarettes
, of all things? She doesn't even smoke—at least I hope she doesn't.”

“Did you tell Eric?”

“Ah-huh. He asked me if it was her first time—like he thinks his daughter is a thief and I've been hiding it from him.”

“Should be interesting, the two of them getting to know each other.”

“I don't expect them to bond or anything, but at least he can help keep an eye on her while I'm out working. He'll have some idea what I go through every day. I can't leave her with Mom. She seems more afraid of Eve than anything; it's like the tail wagging the dog. She lets Eve play video games the whole day if she wants to. If she tried to steal something again—”

“If ever there was a time for her father to step in, this is it.”

After Chantrelle left, Shannon stretched out on the sofa to watch the news, but her mind flew back to her second meeting with her editor about the Jamaican project, the meeting that had been nagging at her for the last two weeks.

“I've been planning this for a while,” Angie had said in a conspiratorial tone, leaning her ample chest over the desk, “but I didn't want to say anything to you before I had the money. Getting the editorial board's approval for an article on Rastafarians was the easy part.” The older woman had lowered her reading glasses and left them dangling on their chain. “If you decide to take on the job—the whole job—I will personally
double
what the magazine is paying you for the photography and the narrative, so you'll be making four times what you normally make for a photo shoot.”

Shannon had stopped breathing as she did the math: C$16,000 plus expenses. “I'm interested in hearing what
the whole job
is.”

“It's not only the article, you see. I'm doubling the money because you'd also be solving a mystery that's been hanging over my head for thirty-five years. I want you to take it on because you know Jamaica better than anyone I know.”

Shannon had leaned back in her chair, shaking her head. “It's been fourteen years, Angie, and I only used to make brief visits. I still have some connections there, but I—”

“Listen to me first before you decide,
please
.” Angie had looked down at the onyx ring she was rubbing. “I want you to find out whatever you can about a woman named Katlyn Carrington. She was my best friend. We went through high school and college together.
Kate
-lyn, but without an
e
. Write it down.”

Jotting down the name, Shannon had continued to protest. “I'm not sure I'll be able to get anywhere with it. It would be easy for a person to disappear in Jamaica and never be heard from again—all those mountains—and the country can be a difficult place for a foreigner to burrow into. Remember, I was just a photographer when I was there. Looking for a missing person is going to require more inside access than I've ever had. I can try my best, but—”

“You're my only hope,” the editor had said with begging eyes, a woman who wasn't used to begging anybody for anything. “I have absolutely no contacts in Jamaica, zilch, zero.”

“Tell me about her, anyway.” Shannon sighed.

“She was a dancer, only twenty-seven years old, an exquisite dancer, and she wanted to start her own school here in Toronto. She wanted it to be—different, multiethnic—and since she loved Caribbean music, she decided to move to Jamaica to study traditional dance, so she could integrate it into her new studio. That was back in the seventies, when there was very little black anything here in Canada other than Afros, but Katlyn was always the idealist in our group. She loved Bob Marley, you know, and believed everyone should live together and be happy. So, off she went to Jamaica and ended up renting a room in a town called Gordon Gap. I'll never forget the name because I was dating a guy named Gordon at the time. Anyway, she wrote me a couple of times to say she was loving it, the whole experience, and she was learning a lot about the original music and dances of the island. That was in the days of pen and paper, remember, so mail took a while to go back and forth.

“She was in Gordon Gap for about six months when she started having a relationship with a man, a Rastafarian man. ‘A man among men,' she wrote me. She left the house where she was staying, and nobody heard from her for almost a year. No letters, nada. Then, she turns up outside a hospital one morning, dying, literally, and her family in Toronto hears that she's . . .
dead
.”

Angie voice had dived to a whisper on the last word, still incredulous after all the years. “Her parents didn't have a lot of money and they weren't very—very, well, educated, but they were just distraught. Her father flew down to get the body—but, lo and behold, the body had disappeared from the hospital morgue the night after her death.”

“I can't imagine. What did he do then?”

“Well, her father wasn't the sharpest pencil in the box, you know, so he didn't get very far with the authorities down there. He just came back to Canada and I think he wrote a few letters, but nothing really came of it. Both he and Katlyn's mother grieved themselves to death after that.”

“Which hospital did she show up at, do you know?”

“I think he told me once, he might have, anyway, but I cannot for the life of me remember the name now.”

“What did the police have to say? They must have filed a report.”

“I called the police headquarters myself, a bunch of times, but I always reached a dead end. They passed me from one department to another, one cop's desk to another. As far as I know, the police were never able to track down either the body or the person who took it. I don't know if they even tried.”

“I can believe that,” Shannon had said flatly, remembering when Eric had called the Port Antonio police about the robbery of a guest's wallet. The policeman had told him to interrogate the workers himself and call them back. They had no vehicle to come to the hotel, the constable had said.

Angie had shaken her head. “I seem to be the only person who even cares what happened. I tried to round up some of our former college friends to make inquiries, but they were either busy working or just didn't want to get involved. I couldn't go down because I had a young family to take care of, not to mention a job.”

“What happens if I try but don't find her?”

“If you don't find her, there'll be no money, I'm afraid. I'll use it to hire a private detective or something.”

Shannon, always equal to a challenge, had straightened in her chair, mentally dusting off her journalist's hat. “There must have been a postmortem, some sort of coroner's report. What did she die of?”

“Her father said it was something internal, that's what I remember. They were very private people and I didn't know them very well. He didn't seem to want to talk about it at the memorial service.” Angie had started counting off points on her fingers. “There are too many questions: Where did she go when she left Gordon Gap? What exactly did she die from? Was she murdered? Was the Rastafarian man responsible for her death? What happened to her body? If there's one thing I want to find out before I die, it's what happened to Katlyn—I owe it to her—and I'm willing to pay to find out.”