by DiAnn Mills
“You’re going too fast.” Nathan’s high-pitched voice couldn’t get to her now. She needed to work through this.
“It’s okay, honey. I know how to drive.”
Paige stepped on the gas, weaving through traffic. The SUV did not let up. Another bullet whizzed past, and from the clunk, she knew it had hit her door.
“We’ll be safe soon,” she said, taking a sharp turn to the left.
The SUV followed. They were heading into Kibera, the slum district. People loitered in the streets—children too. She slowed to a quick stop amid a crowd of people, all hammering the car for a handout. Good. They’d do the same for the SUV. She pulled Nathan from the floorboard and hobbled through the busy crowd, one hand firmly clasped in his and the other wrapped around her Smith 9 mm. They rounded a hut and squeezed between it and another. The lack of sanitation gagged her. She swung Nathan up into her arms and hurried on.
“Nathan,” she heard a man call. “Nathan.”
Paige caught her breath and swung her attention toward the voice.
“Isn’t that Miss Bobbie’s son?” The large man had one arm, and a scar zigzagged down his shirtless chest. But if he knew Bobbie . . .
“Mr. Charles?” Nathan pointed. “I know him.”
Paige glanced behind her at a sea of black faces. “Sir, a couple of men are trying to rob us. They fired at our car.”
He motioned. “Come; I’ll keep you safe. God would want us to help you.” He turned toward a group of men and shouted orders to stop anyone coming through.
Thank You, Lord, for keeping my son safe.
Chapter 22
“What do you mean, you lost her?” I cannot fathom such incompetence.
“I was told she disappeared in Kibera with a kid,” Zuriel’s voice on the phone rises.
“What do you mean, disappeared? And what was she doing with a kid?” This doesn’t make sense. Zuriel was supposed to follow Paige, hopefully to Rosa, and eliminate both of them. With the recent turmoil in Nairobi, it could easily be mistaken for an accident.
“She visited a Bobbie Landerson in the hospital, a woman dying of cancer. Then she—”
“I read the report.” I give myself a moment to process what I’ve learned. She hasn’t been seen with anyone who resembles Rosa. But why else would she be in Nairobi? “What I want to know is why she was with a kid. Who is he?”
“I have no idea, but I’m working on it. We found a picture of him in the car with some other woman. Don’t know who she is. It might be his mother.”
“Send it to me.”
I hear Zuriel tap computer keys. “It’s headed your way.”
Chapter 23
Friday night after Labor Day, Miles watched the team warm up before the first district game of the season. Excitement seemed to radiate from the field. The rivalry between Chris and Walt had apparently smoothed over, or the two finally realized that unless they worked together, the Bobcats would not have a chance at state. Walt had taken a lot of abuse from Chris and his buds, and the dispute needed to end before Walt retaliated with a few of his own friends.
Miles sensed someone approaching him and swung his attention toward Ty Dalton. The man reminded Miles of a bull ready to charge. The local gossip from well-meaning church people and cafeteria talk indicated Ty Dalton intended for his son to play first-string quarterback, just like Ty had done at Split Creek High twenty-two years ago, or Miles would no longer have a job.
Dalton’s eyes narrowed. “I need to point out a few things that need your attention.”
A little tension was good for the soul, kept a man relying on God. Conflict, on the other hand, caused ulcers and heart attacks and kept a man grasping on to God with both hands. Miles preferred the easier route. He’d prayed about the possible confrontation with the school board in hopes he wouldn’t lose his temper.
“Are your concerns as a fan, a father, or as president of the school board?”
“You sound antagonistic, Coach. Makes me wonder if you know what this is about.”
Miles sensed his wannabe ulcer sending up a fire signal. “I take my job seriously, and anything that takes me away from practice takes me away from helping the boys be successful.”
“Then I’ll make this short. The school board wants to see Chris play first-string quarterback. OU is looking for a quarterback. One of the coaches—”
“Coach Netterfield never called you. I checked with him. Somebody played a rotten joke on Chris and you.” Miles started to say that Dalton should have recognized a hoax call when he heard one—unless he’d made up the call.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Why don’t you call Netterfield and verify it?”
“I will.” Dalton inhaled deeply. “You won’t be destroying my boy’s chances to play college ball by using a dirt-poor Indian. The school board’s waited through the scrimmages for you to put Chris where he—”
“Excuse me? And this is from the football coach. I was hired to train and equip young men to play a great game. I was hired to look at their skills and assign them to a position in which each player could excel and learn the value of teamwork. There is no clause that states the school board will dictate to me what player plays what position.”
Dalton’s nostrils flared. “You can be replaced. I thought you had more sense than this.” He took in one of Chris’s passes. “I warn you. I’m not the man to mess with.”
The words fueled Miles’s anger. “Don’t threaten me. I have a game to coach.” Without giving the man another look, Miles strode onto the field before he could explode and put on a show.
Miles paced the sidelines in front of his team. “You look good out there tonight. I see great plays, passes, and catches. Do you want to know why?”
“Teamwork.” Walt’s response led to many others echoing him.
Good. He was stepping into leading the team. “Right. I saw you play as athletes who put their personal agendas aside for the good of the team. Tonight we’re up against the Mustangs, a team that tied the Warriors during a scrimmage. Anyone want to tell the rest of us what’s going to happen?”
“We’re not going to lose.” Chris slowly stood from a kneeling position. “I don’t want to feel like I did the night of the Warrior game.”
“You’re all winners—a notch above the other high school teams. If you look at the stats and what the papers are saying, we have a fantastic opportunity to take the team into the play-offs and bring home a trophy. Anyone interested?”
Cheers rose from the group. Miles raised his hands. “I’m willing to do whatever it takes. What about you?”
* * *
Nearly two weeks had passed since Paige had returned from Kenya. Raif and Anissa had taken Nathan with them the same night that Paige and Nathan had found refuge within Kibera. The investigation had taken a slow turn. Keary hadn’t bothered her, but she hadn’t turned up any new information. Every day that ticked by brought him closer to the election and kept her apart from Nathan. She questioned her motives in wanting her son. If selfishness caused her to place him in harm’s way, then she needed to give him up to a couple who could keep him safe.
Her bright spot came in seeing Miles. Lately her thoughts had turned to a home with her two favorite men. It wouldn’t happen, but she’d dream anyway.
Paige had worn the boot cast a little over two weeks, and she was ready to toss the clumsy, in-her-way encumbrance in the county dump.
She pasted a smile on her face and stared at the top of the stadium. The nosebleed section would be a great place to sit. She could observe the crowd while keeping track of yardage and touchdowns on the field. A mole was in Split Creek, and she’d never had much use for furry little creatures that lived underground—and were hard to get rid of. Wilhelm Busch said it much better:
A gardener by the name of Knoll
Goes for a joyful garden stroll.
His joyfulness, however, sours:
A mole is digging up the flowers.
“Gir
lfriend, where are you going?” Voleta called from behind her, panting like the two were climbing Mount Everest.
“To the top.”
“Why?”
Paige turned to Voleta and grinned. “Because I can.”
“You are the most stubborn woman I know.”
“I’ve heard that before. This is good for you. Gets the blood pumping.”
“You should know, Miss Run-a-Marathon. Have you forgotten what’s attached to your right foot?”
“Absolutely not. Just keeping in shape.”
“Don’t forget our jobs at halftime.”
“I haven’t.”
Once seated, she scanned the crowd, those who watched from the sidelines, and anyone else strolling about. Nathan would love this. She’d called him every day since he’d returned. This afternoon he’d cried for her, but as much as she wanted to see him, she couldn’t risk it. Palmer had him placed at a safe house in Dallas. Oh, the two worlds she lived in. Tonight, despite the aggravation of the boot cast and her longing for Nathan, she felt the old enthusiasm for her job, the sense of purpose, and the excitement of being a part of the CIA. Some might call her sentiments hokey, but she didn’t.
An hour and a half lay ahead with good visibility before night settled in, and she intended to use every minute of daylight to scope out those lingering in the crowd—those who were not Split Creek fans but Daniel Keary fans. That person or persons would mix in with the crowd, pretending interest while keeping an eye on her. The inability to view their microexpressions issued a challenge, but one she welcomed. Just let the mole get a read on Paige the librarian. The adrenaline pumped faster into her veins while her exterior remained calm and interested in the battle about to begin on the field.
With a satisfied grin, she picked up her binoculars and focused briefly on Miles. Then she used them to search the crowd before focusing on the team.
“What are you grinning about?” Voleta asked. “Oh, I know. You’re checking out the coach.”
“Where did you get a ridiculous idea like that?”
Voleta pointed to an invisible line from Paige’s nose to the field. “Now I know why you wanted to sit up here.”
“I like to see the looks on the players’ faces.”
“Sure. Keep telling yourself that and before the season’s over, you might believe it.”
“Honestly there is nothing between us but friendship.”
Voleta patted Paige’s knee. “I may not be the smartest kid on the block, but I see in your eyes what you refuse to admit.”
Paige locked onto Miles watching his boys practice. Life was full of if onlys, and she understood the path ahead with Miles led to misery.
At halftime, the Bobcats and the Mustangs were tied. No pressure there. She and Voleta made it to the concession stand before the clock ran out. Paige zeroed in on a man and then a woman while answering the call for drinks, chips, hot dogs, and nachos. Using her phone, she snapped their pictures.
With less than one minute left in the fourth quarter and the score still tied, Paige picked up the binoculars and zeroed in on the tension etched across each player’s face, especially Walt’s. She swung the binoculars to Chris. His face was marked with the same determination. Out of curiosity, she focused on Ty Dalton, who stood behind the sidelines. From the way he set his jaw, anger and disgust were playing their own game. Why couldn’t that man just let those kids play ball?
Chris leaped into the air and caught a pass from Walt, then took off down the field toward the Mustangs goal as if the field were on fire.
Paige sprang to her feet with the other Bobcat fans in a wild frenzy—clapping, screaming, whistling. Drumsticks clicked against the snares’ rims. Trumpets and cornets blared the opening notes, and the band ripped the air with the school’s fight song. The crowd thundered its applause in wild excitement, alerting anyone who hadn’t been at the game that the hometown team had won. From the sidelines the remaining sweat-drenched players rushed onto the field to shake the hands of the opposing team members before whirling around to holler and hug each other. The scoreboard read Bobcats 12, Mustangs 6. Grand game. The Bobcats and their charming coach were headed to the top. She could feel it.
Chapter 24
Paige punched her pillow and rolled over to see the numbers on her clock glow 2:48. She’d spent last night rereading every online post she could find about Keary: where he stood on issues and what he’d accomplished at his law firm. Sometimes the obvious was the most concealed. Little had been accomplished this week, and the rising disappointment kept her head spinning. What a lousy operative. In the old days, she’d have been sitting on Zuriel’s or Keary’s lap to find out what she needed.
If she were Keary, with his incredible intelligence cocooned in a drive for money and power, how would she secure the office of governor of Oklahoma? How would she cover up the money earned from the diamonds in Namibia and the oil deal in Angola?
Paige reached up and snapped on the lamp. A notebook and pen lay beside the clock radio. Actually, two pens were there in case one evaporated. She propped her pillow behind her back and began to make side-by-side lists of Keary’s strengths and weaknesses. On a second sheet, she made two columns listing his political views about popular issues locally and nationally and his views regarding U.S. foreign policy. On a third sheet, she listed his personal achievements and hobbies that had nothing to do with his past association with the company. Within those notes lay the one fatal mistake that proved his fallibility.
Paige started a fourth list of the clandestine missions in which she and Keary had worked together. She recalled in detail what occurred in the planning sessions, and the individual and group responsibilities, just as she’d done so many times before. Except this time, something might click and give her new insight into proving his guilt. She then linked the initials of the first names of those operatives who had worked with them, searching for a connection to tie this all together. From what she’d learned about Joel Zuriel and his habit of bragging about his business endeavors, he might let something slip. But she couldn’t approach him until the doctor removed her boot cast.
Tucking the notebook into the zippered pouch of the turquoise and brown quilted Bible cover that Eleanor had made for her last Christmas, she threw back the sheet and blanket and sat on the side of the bed. Her Bible accompanied her everywhere, and someone would have to break her arm or kill her to get it. Besides, Keary’s thugs would never think to look there.
At four o’clock she brewed a pot of coffee so strong that it would jolt like a rabbit punch. She grabbed a half-full bag of Reese’s Pieces and alternated a candy with a sip of coffee. The coffee and sugar put her nerves on alert. If she didn’t eat something substantial before the service, she’d be escorted out because she wouldn’t be able to sit still.
For the next three hours, she drew lines and listed questions for Palmer. Rosa had to be found. At seven, she headed to the kitchen to drop a piece of whole-grain bread into the toaster and pull out a near-empty jar of raisin and cinnamon peanut butter. While the bread toasted, she peeled a banana and sliced it into manageable pieces—sort of how she tried to do life.
Her mind refused to end the brainstorming session, but she needed to focus her attention on church. Her duties with preschool Sunday school were on hold until the cast was removed. Hard to keep up with three-year-olds while hobbling on one foot. Instead, she greeted folks when they arrived for Sunday school and helped visitors find what they needed.
After reading Psalm 39 and 40 and noting she wasn’t the only person in history who had been misunderstood and thought God had forsaken them, she tied a plastic bag over her cast and hurried through her shower. She cut her hair-drying time in half and gathered her shoulder-length hair into a ponytail. Leaning into a magnifying mirror, she applied concealer under her sleep-deprived eyes. Paige started. Tiny crow’s feet extended from the corner of her left eye. Scary. Instantly she snatched up a regular mirror and was relieved to see that the lines wer
e no longer visible.
With a mascara wand in hand, she stole a quick look at the clock. Miles would pick her up at eight thirty. They’d won their first game Friday night, and he’d be talking football all the way to the piano prelude. Escorting her to church was a courtesy on his part, not a date. Who am I kidding? He’d pursued her for nearly two years. . . .
Paige flinched and dropped her mascara wand into the basket of makeup in the sink. Could Miles be the informant? Her thoughts raced back to how he’d taken the relationship slowly right from the start—visiting her at the library, showing up at the same community events. And recently he’d started attending the same church. And the shooting at the library . . . At the time, she’d satisfied herself that he’d been home in bed. But that could have been a cover. The more she pondered the situation, the more plausible the suspicion seemed. Keary had the means to plant him and to train Miles about her cautious nature, plus all of the other things he knew about her.
The clock read 8:25. She snatched up the phone.
“Palmer, I need a favor.”
“When don’t you? I thought you went to church on Sunday mornings.”
She dismissed the momentary irritation. He had access to when her bathroom light flipped on in the dead of night. “This afternoon I’m going to send you a man’s photo—Miles Laird. I want to know what turns up.”
“He’s clean, but I’ll run another one. I was going to call you later. I have a possible locale on Rosa Ngoimgo—South Africa.”
Even with the caffeine and sugar overload, her body relaxed. “Good. I want to be the one to contact her when you get something definite. I appreciate this.”
