When I Found You (A Box Set)

by Webb, Peggy

Sometimes he felt as if he were the parent and Joseph and Eleanor the children. It wasn’t that they didn’t love Malone; it was merely that they were too busy to notice him, too absorbed in their work and in the son they’d planned for and pinned all their hopes on.

  Brett had done his best to compensate, but he’d seen how his brother was shaped by their parents’ neglect.

  The Jeep burst from the jungle and fishtailed as the road suddenly dropped away. Brett fought the wheel for control and was finally bumping along the plains toward the group of huts that could only loosely be called a village. Another time he’d have been lost in appreciation of the stark, primitive beauty of the village, reveling in the lack of smog and traffic and noise.

  Today his focus was the large hut at the edge of the village. The bar. Unless Malone had come into the village to be with a woman, it was the only place he could be.

  He heard the shouting before he reached the hut. The voices rose and fell like the beat of war drums, the Swahili words filled with the lust for excitement and the thirst for blood. Out of the cacophony of sound came one name, chanted like a mantra.

  “Batubu ... Batubu ... Batubu!”

  Batubu Simbi. The Watusi warrior. He was revered by a small band of rebels, hated and feared by everyone else.

  Though he was suspected of being behind most of the poaching activity in the Virungas, he had never been caught, never even been seen in the vicinity of the crimes. The Corday family referred to him as the Bat, for like that nocturnal creature, he passed unseen through the jungles at night.

  Brett had no desire to walk into a brawl involving the Bat on his first day back home. He’d inquire about Malone at one of the huts down the lane. He was turning the Jeep away when he heard a name that froze his blood.

  “Little Gorilla Man. Kill the Little Gorilla Man.”

  Brett was out of the Jeep almost before he’d brought it to a halt. Leaving the motor running, he raced toward the bar.

  A storm of sound assaulted him, and a wall of bodies blocked his view.

  “Kill ... kill ... kill.”

  The chant grew to epic proportions, and the wall of bodies swayed with the frenzy of warriors sensing victory. Brett was a big man, over six feet of solid muscle, but the Watusis were giants. There was no way he could work his way through that imposing barricade of flesh.

  “Malone!”

  Brett’s bellow startled the onlookers. They parted just enough to leave a small opening. Using techniques he’d learned on university football fields, Brett lowered his right shoulder and plowed through.

  In the flash before he connected with his target, he saw his brother sprawled on the floor with the blade of a bush knife at his throat. Brett went in low, hitting the Bat hard in the solar plexus with the edge of his shoulder.

  The blade of the panga flashed, scoring Brett’s arm before he could roll out of the way. The smell of his own blood was added to the smell of sweat and fear.

  “Run, Malone,” he yelled on all fours. “Get out of here.”

  “Brett!”

  “Go.” The blade was coming at him again. He twisted sideways, then brought himself upright. “Now!”

  Adrenaline pumped through him. The warm blood on his arm was no more than a trickle, but he knew he wouldn’t be so lucky next time. He was no match for an angry Watusi with a lethal weapon.

  The Bat arced his knife in the air high over Brett’s head. Out of the corner of his eye Brett could see Malone hovering on the sidelines.

  “Go,” he yelled once more, never taking his gaze from his opponent.

  Malone bolted.

  “The Little Gorilla Man can’t fight his own battles.” The knife blade whistled as it sliced air over Brett’s head, then in front of his chest.

  The Bat was toying with Brett. Unarmed and overmatched, knowing his life hung in the balance, Brett decided to try for diplomacy.

  “He’s just a kid, Batubu. He’s no threat to you.”

  “He touched my woman.”

  Malone. Malone. What have you done?

  “He’s full of pombe and arrogance. Today is his eighteenth birthday.”

  The big Watusi flung back his head and laughed. The sound raised chills on the back of Brett’s neck.

  “Do you plead for his life or yours, Gorilla Man?”

  “His.”

  “You would sacrifice your own?” The knife whistled closer. Brett felt its tip score his chest as it ripped the front of his shirt.

  “Not without a fight.”

  The watchers were getting impatient. They’d hoped for a good fight and found all the talk boring. Some of them walked away, but the others began to chant.

  “Gorilla Man ... Gorilla Man ... Gorilla Man.”

  “They want your blood.” The Bat circled closer.

  “Brett!” Malone yelled from the back of the hut. “I’ve got you a knife!”

  “Stay back!”

  The bush knife came at him again. Brett ducked low and charged. The impact took them both to the floor. He caught the Bat’s powerful arm, grunting with the effort to hold the knife away from his body. Locked together, they rolled across the floor, each trying to gain dominance.

  The knife edged closer. Brett felt his strength ebbing. The muscles in his arms and legs began to burn.

  The Bat gave a mighty heave and pinned Brett to the floor. In that moment before he knew his life would end, he had no lofty thoughts, no dazzling insights, no flashbacks of his entire life. He wondered if he would ever know the taste of coconut cake again.

  The blade sliced downward. Pain seared his face. Blood blinded him. His roar of outrage nearly choked him.

  He waited for the end, waited for the final blow that would plunge the knife into his heart.

  The weight that was pressing him down lifted. Through a haze of blood he saw the giant Watusi standing over him, the blade of his knife turned red.

  “See no evil, Gorilla Man.” The Bat grabbed the arm of a beautiful woman in a red sarong, then turned and walked away.

  The sound of voices pounded at Brett while his life’s blood pumped from him at an alarming rate. He struggled onto his knees, willing the walls to stop closing in on him.

  Somewhere through the red haze there was a door. By sheer force of will he brought himself upright, then stood swaying, peering through a curtain of red for a means of escape.

  The smell of sweat and blood nearly overpowered him. His knees wanted to buckle, but he refused to let them.

  For a moment he heard the roar of waterfalls and the sound of birds calling for the dawn, but he fought the hallucination, fought the weakness that wanted him to lie down on the floor and wait for the blessed peace of unconsciousness to envelop him. Onward he struggled. Finally he felt the fresh air on his face, and he knew he’d made it to the door.

  Someone took his arm. He couldn’t see through the blood.

  “Malone?”

  “Oh, my God ... your eye.”

  Malone’s voice was a piteous wail.

  “Get me into the Jeep, Malone.”

  The effort took the last of Brett’s will. He leaned his head against the seat.

  “I’m sorry, Brett, I’m sorry, I’m sorry... .”

  “Drive, Malone.”

  “Where?”

  “The clinic. Ruhengeri.” Hot pokers stabbed his left eye. “Hurry.”

  Chapter 6

  OXFORD, MISSISSIPPI, 1982

  Everybody in her class was normal except Ruth. She slouched low in her chair, wondering if her classmates could tell what she had done just by looking at her.

  Up front the music teacher was talking about the jazz greats, but she didn’t listen. Music used to be her favorite class, but she didn’t care about anything anymore. Except her kitten. She could tell Miranda everything, and it didn’t make a bit of difference. Miranda loved her anyhow.

  She wished she could shut her eyes and sleep till the end of May, and then school would be out and she wouldn’t have to do so much pretendin
g.

  “Now, listen up, students.” Mr. Carr always said that right before he played the music. It was the best part of the class. Mr. Carr glanced her way, and she bent over her notebook pretending she’d been taking notes all along.

  “This is an artist you won’t hear anywhere except on this album. Blue Janeau. He cut only one record, then dropped out of the music scene. Some say he died of a drug overdose. Some say he survived, that members of his band still take care of him in a remote part of the country. Nobody knows. Nobody agrees on anything except that he was one of the jazz greats.”

  Ruth caught her breath when she heard the first dark, haunting note. It was a trumpet, played with such clarity, the music got inside her skin. She could feel it pulsing in her throat and throbbing through her chest.

  She didn’t know the song. She didn’t even remember the name of the musician. Now she wished she’d listened more closely to Mr. Carr’s lecture.

  The trumpet ceased, and the musician began to sing. Ruth closed her eyes. The music grew inside her until she was the song, clear and beautiful and clean.

  “Ruth?”

  Mr. Carr was standing over her desk, a frown pinching his face. The rest of her classmates had vanished. There was nothing except an expanse of empty seats and the unforgettable strains of music.

  Ruth grabbed her books and clutched them to her chest.

  “Is anything wrong, Ruth?”

  “No.” To her mortification, she realized she’d been crying. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “I gotta be going. I’ll be late for math.”

  “I’ll write you a note.”

  She was trapped. When a teacher said he’d write a note, that meant you had to stay. She squeezed her legs together as hard as she could and held on to her books.

  “I’m concerned when a straight-A student fails two tests in a row.”

  “I ... didn’t have time to study.”

  “Can you tell me why?”

  “No. I just ... got lazy, I guess.”

  The way he stood there looking at her made Ruth want to cry all over again. His face was nice, the kind she’d imagine on Santa Claus if she still believed in fairy tales.

  She wished she could still believe.

  “Ruth ...” Mr. Carr sighed, as if he couldn’t quite recall what he’d meant to say and regretted his forgetfulness. “You’re the only person besides me who has ever been moved to tears by that music. If you’ll drop by after school, I’ll give you a duplicate tape.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Carr.”

  “And, Ruth, if you ever want to talk, I’ll be glad to listen. I have three daughters of my own. I understand the problems of teenage girls.”

  She wondered whether he would understand why she had lain naked on silk sheets while scented oils were rubbed into her skin.

  o0o

  Margaret Anne looked at the closed door. She didn’t have to turn the knob to know it was locked.

  “Ruth, dinner is ready.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Margaret Anne counted to ten. Losing one’s temper was a sign of weakness. Besides that, she would not give Ruth the satisfaction of causing a scene.

  “Do you have that kitten in there?”

  No answer.

  Margaret Anne had regretted her decision a thousand times. When she had agreed for Ruth to have one of Wanda’s kittens, it had seemed like a good idea, the only way to make peace after her daughter had returned home from her week of rebellion.

  She felt herself getting worked up over that week all over again, as if it had happened only the day before instead of a month before. The worst part hadn’t been Ruth’s disappearance, for she was perfectly satisfied that a resourceful girl like her daughter could take care of herself, especially after Max had trained her. But the furor that Max had created nearly drove her crazy.

  “How could you let her leave?” he’d said after her guests had departed and they were finally alone the evening he and Ruth had returned from New Orleans.

  “She’s almost fourteen, Max.”

  “She’s hardly more than a child.”

  In all their years together she’d never crossed Max, had in fact been afraid to: Her livelihood depended on his good graces. Now old hurts resurfaced—the birthdays he’d forgotten, the Christmas he’d given her a gold charm bracelet while his dowdy wife had got emeralds, the time their trip to Hawaii had been canceled because that weak fool he was married to had slit her wrists with a knife used to fillet dead fish and ended up in the hospital surrounded by bouquets. Margaret Anne could have bought groceries for a week with the money Max had spent on flowers.

  Now, for the first time in their relationship, she was in the catbird seat. She had a secret weapon, the thing Max wanted most: Ruth.

  “Is that what you thought when you were raping her, Max? That she was only a child?”

  She had never seen Max lose his temper. Now a muscle tightened in his jaw, and he closed one fist around the Waterford paperweight on the Victorian table beside his chair.

  Margaret Anne stood her ground. Let him hit her. She’d sue his pants off. By the time she’d finished with him, she’d own Hollywood.

  Slowly he brought himself under control. His jaw relaxed, and he reached for his pipe.

  “Don’t even think about toying with me, Margaret Anne.”

  It wasn’t what he said so much as the way he said it that sent chills through her. If she crossed Maxwell Jones, he would ruin her without so much as blinking an eye. If he told the things he knew about her background and Ruth’s father, Margaret Anne would never be able to hold her head up in Oxford again. Not only Oxford, but the whole state of Mississippi.

  “I’m too smart ever to underestimate you, Max.”

  She was certain he knew her smile was false, but that didn’t matter. Everything about their relationship was false, including the passion. They were so tangled in the intricate web of lies they’d woven that neither of them could ever escape.

  She slid onto his lap and ran her hands over his chest, the way he liked her to.

  He got up and switched off the lights. She reached for her zipper.

  “Keep your clothes on, Margaret Anne.”

  He took her with a fierceness that recalled their early days together. For a moment Margaret Anne thought they would go on as if nothing had happened between them. But Max’s cry shattered her illusions. Buried deep inside her, he called out her daughter’s name.

  That was the last time he’d touched her.

  He’d called every day after he got back to Hollywood, not to inquire about Margaret Anne, not to arrange a weekend tryst, but to berate her about Ruth’s disappearance.

  “She hasn’t disappeared, Max. She’s just over at Wanda’s.”

  “When is she coming back?”

  “How should I know?”

  “You’re her mother.”

  “You want me to go over and bodily drag her home?”

  There was a weighty silence.

  “If she’s not back by the end of the week, I’ll be forced to change the terms of our agreement, Margaret Anne.”

  “She’ll be back.”

  Now, standing outside her daughter’s locked door, she felt the fury rising inside her again. She wanted to beat on the door and scream, “How dare you? How dare you put me through hell? How dare you be young? How dare you take my place?”

  Feeling her brows draw together in a vertical frown, she reached up to smooth away the damaging wrinkles.

  “Civilized people don’t keep animals in the house, Ruth.”

  There was movement in the room; then the sound of music drifted through the door.

  “Ruth?” She knocked again.

  Ruth turned the music up louder. Jazz. A familiar trumpet that made the blood pound in Margaret Anne’s temples.

  She listened a while longer, just to be sure; then she raced to her room and flung open the closet door. The metal box was at the top of the closet right where it had been for yea
rs. She had to drag a chair across the room in order to lift the heavy box from the shelf.

  Sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, she took a small key from the locket around her throat. Her hands shook when she flung open the lid.

  Everything was there—the recordings, the letters, the lock of hair. Ruth couldn’t possibly know.

  Margaret Anne was just locking the box when the phone rang.

  “Mrs. Bellafontaine?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Randy Simpson, the counselor at Ruth’s school.”

  As she listened to him, Margaret Anne felt beleaguered on all sides. It wasn’t enough that Ruth didn’t speak to her, didn’t eat meals with her, didn’t so much as acknowledge her presence in the house; now she had to go down to the school and pretend that she was a cross between June Cleaver and Mary Poppins.

  o0o

  “Mrs. Bellafontaine, I’m worried about your daughter. Her teachers say she never participates in class activities anymore.”

  “I’m sure it’s just a phase. You know how teenagers are.”

  “She was always such a vivacious girl, a real classroom leader. Is anything going on at home that would bother her?”

  “Not that I know of. Of course, I have been busier than usual this spring planning the charity ball for the Cancer Society.” Margaret Anne looked down at her hands clasped demurely in her lap, then furrowed her brow, just the tiniest bit. “Oh, dear, I do hope I haven’t been neglectful. I try to be both mother and father to Ruth. Sometimes it’s just ...” She fumbled in her purse for a delicate lace-edged handkerchief, which she brought to her trembling lips. “... so hard to bring up a child alone.”

  “Now, now.” The counselor came around his desk to pat Margaret Anne’s hand. He’d let his body go slightly to pot, but that gleam in his eye was a sure sign of interest.

  For a moment she let herself speculate on having a little something on the side, something just for herself. Lord knew, she could use it.

  If she thought she could get by without Max ever finding out ...

  Margaret Anne brought herself up short. There was no way in heaven or hell she could do anything of the sort and escape Maxwell Jones’s wrath.

  She simpered a while longer, just to watch Randy Simpson’s reaction. He got so red around the ears, she thought he was going to explode. Finally he cleared his throat and went back behind his safe desk.