Gold Trap

by Lilly Maytree

  Then (like a prophecy fulfilled) she caught sight of a dilapidated blue bus, with the words Bremen Tours painted in colorful letters across the side and a giant mound of luggage piled on top, lumber away with her fellow Bremen tourists from coach fare. She stood stock-still for a few moments and stared after it. Of all things! Now, she would have to hire one of those “bush taxis” just to catch up with them, again. Another unexpected expense.

  But she would think about that later. For now, she judiciously caught up with her film professor and the skycap, and followed them through the small one-story airport building to the customs counter. There, they waited their turn amongst the few remaining passengers who had not been put through speedily with the departing tour.

  There seemed to be only one elderly official at this late hour to handle everything. What’s more, when her turn finally came up, he was far less concerned with what she had in her bags than what was to be done with “that old man.” He didn’t open the duffel, or even the carryall, much less ask her what was inside. If Meg really had been a private investigator, she would have made a note of that.

  Private investigator. Of all things! Just where on earth had Vidalia come up with that? And as for being kindred spirits, they would make miserable roommates if they had to put up with each other for the entire tour. She was going to have to have a serious talk with that woman, but she would think about that later, too. At the moment, there was much bantering going back and forth between the skycap and the agent about what was to be done, right now. Most of which was in a quick and unusual sort of French, that Meg found difficult to follow.

  But that didn’t keep her from putting her foot down when they began to wheel Professor Anderson into a dark adjoining room that seemed to be something of a storage place for unclaimed baggage. The idea! He wouldn’t even know the difference, the skycap argued, and the health inspector could look at him first thing in the morning.

  “Entirely unacceptable,” said Meg, with a definite shake of her head and taking no nonsense from either of them. “You will kindly call for a taxi and point us toward the nearest hotel.”

  The skycap nailed her with an uncomfortably piercing glare and said, “As you wish, Megan Jennings!” in a way that made her feel as if she had asked to be shot off in the next rocket to the moon instead of just asking for a taxi. He flung a string of words, not even French, to the agent behind the counter that made the older man in uniform jump to his orders as if he had just been poked with a cattle prod.

  When the agent disappeared into the baggage room and then hustled out a few minutes later with a golf cart, the bossy skycap quickly loaded it down with their luggage, along with the professor in his wheelchair, and then hopped up behind the wheel. Meg wondered if that was to be the taxi.

  “Come, come!” He impatiently motioned her to get into the front seat with him. “I will take you to L’ Hôtel Bonne Nuit.”

  She set her carryall between them on the seat and had barely settled in before he tromped on the pedal that sent them barreling down a wide corridor and out of the deserted passenger waiting area at an uncomfortably fast clip.

  “It is only a few blocks away, and I will send a doctor to you there.” The golf cart sailed through a set of glass double doors (hurriedly opened by a security guard), and then they were suddenly flying down a deserted main street in a town that bore more resemblance to old New Orleans than her ideas of the real Africa. (And this was the taxi!) The shocks on the little vehicle weren’t what they should have been, and Meg found it necessary to keep one hand on the bar in front of her and the other on the wheelchair behind in order to avert catastrophe.

  After passing several establishments, they finally came to another relatively small building, three stories high, with a few balconies facing out over the quiet street. The words, L’Hôtel Bonne Nuit hung in buzzing pink and lavender neon over a beautifully carved wooden door, proclaiming the remnants of a culture past and that of the modern day. At least, that’s what popped into Meg’s mind at one o’clock in the morning, universal time, after such a strange and awkward arrival in the land of her great adventure.

  At the desk, the skycap continued to make all the arrangements. It was simpler, he explained, since she didn’t understand the language well enough. There would also be no misunderstandings about the doctor. All delivered with another of those piercing looks that sent a chill down Meg’s spine. Definitely something strange about the man. He was only in his late twenties, no older, yet, he had such a demanding way about him. It made people hop to his every word. Including Meg. But it had been a long day, and she was probably just overtired.

  And who wouldn’t be at this point?

  The room was simple but clean, decorated in a brown and white print that resembled some modern art version of palm fronds. The skycap helped deposit the still sleeping professor into the single bed, fully clothed, and stayed only long enough to pull their luggage inside and roll the empty wheelchair back out, again. After that, Meg handed him two American dollars for his services. A fleeting expression of surprise crossed his face before he finally stuffed them into a pocket and walked away, laughing.

  Such audacity!

  This was not how she had imagined her first night in Africa would be. At this moment, she should be drifting off to sleep in an authentic thatch bungalow that was situated close enough to the river to hear animal noises. That after having been welcomed into the compound to the sounds of traditional native drums. She might even have taken a few pictures already. But Meg was not one to feel sorry for herself.

  Instead, she removed the professor’s shoes, jostled him out of his suit jacket, and pulled the brown and white bedspread up over his sleeping form. Then she sat down in a wicker chair, cushioned in the same palm tree print, to look through the jacket pockets in search of that cell phone. It was time to find out if there really was a son named Tom. And if (in some miraculous way) this really was her second chance at that divine appointment she had prayed for. But did God give people second chances like that? If Tom Anderson really was the same man who had stood watching her in the rain…

  A glimmer of thrill passed through her.

  Gold Trap

  6

  Citizen’s Arrest

  “At this point in the affair, there entered a highly dramatic figure. He came onto the scene suddenly and with much uproar…”

  Mary Kingsley

  In the end, the idea didn’t hold up to scrutiny. Not that she didn’t believe that God (who had created the heavens and the earth) was fully capable of moving people around in any number of ways. Except that He almost always added a logical explanation to go along with it. This situation didn’t seem to have one of those. Because if the man in the rain really had been Tom Anderson, what was he doing at the cafe if he was supposed to be somewhere in wine country? It was the professor mentioning he spoke French like one of the locals that had made her jump to conclusions.

  That along with the mustache and blue eyes.

  But enough of all that. At this point, nothing made any sense, and she was getting far too tired to do anything but finish with her Samaritan duties and then check herself into a hotel room of her own. Catching up with the tour would simply have to wait until tomorrow. Who knew how long it would take for that hotel clerk to find a doctor at this hour?

  Meg had a twinge of verging on an invasion of privacy as she turned the professor’s cell phone on, but she decided an emergency was an emergency, and chose the phone book option. Then she quickly scrolled down to the first “Tom” listed. She clicked on it and was automatically put through. One…two…three rings…

  He wasn’t going to pick up.

  She sighed and waited for the message, thinking she should go back and look for a John or a Robert, when a pleasantly resonant, but rather impatient voice said, “This is Tom. I’m on a plane so leave a message. Pop…if it’s you…wait for me in Accra. Turn your phone on, will you? And quit dumping Gilbert. It isn’t safe traveling alone down th
ere anymore, no matter who you are. I should catch up with you sometime in the afternoon. We’ll rent a car and drive up together. You and me. Just like old times. Wait for me, Pop.”

  A few seconds of silence and then a beep, at which point Meg piped in and said, “Hello, Tom? This is Megan Jennings. I sat next to your father on the plane out of Paris. He isn’t in Accra, he’s in St. Louis. At L’Hôtel Bonne Nuit. Room 307. I’m afraid he mixed too many drinks with his medications and won’t wake up. Don’t worry. A doctor is coming by to look at him. I’ll let you know what he says. I think you should come here instead of Accra, though. The professor is…well, he’s…”

  Just as she was trying to decide how best to phrase her concerns without betraying the professor’s confidence, the sleeping man suddenly threw off his cover like a rising bull, and with a tremendous bellow, hollered, “Put ‘em up! Put ‘em up, you cowards, I can take every one of you!”

  Such behavior! It startled Meg so that she dropped the phone and lost the connection. Then she forgot about Tom Anderson entirely as she struggled to keep his delirious father from flinging open the door and running off down the hall. He was still caught up in some disturbing dream about people who were out to get him, and not really awake at all. But finally, her soothing voice and forceful help sent him back to bed, and he was out like a light, again, as if nothing had happened.

  Between collecting her nerves and waiting for the doctor, Meg didn’t ring back. Not that she forgot. She had mentioned the name of the hotel and room number, and the fact that his father had landed himself on the wrong continent. How much farther was a Good Samaritan expected to go? Besides that, it was obvious that Tom Anderson was not the same man she had seen at the cafe.

  He couldn’t be. Even if he could speak French “like one of the locals,” he was too abrupt and bossy with his father to be the same man who had been so courteous and attentive to the older woman at the cafe. Nor could she imagine anyone who said things like “Turn your phone on, will you? And quit dumping Gilbert…” could have the patience to write such a polite and formal invitation as the one she still had tucked away in her purse. The realization of which made her suddenly feel rather disappointed and impatient, herself.

  She also had quite enough of experiments with dressing like someone out of the past or seeking out her destiny. It was obviously giving her more trouble than insights, anyway. Besides that, it was stifling in here, and while her outfit might be perfect for walking through jungles, it was much too warm for a stuffy hotel room with an old-fashioned swamp-cooler instead of an air-conditioner.

  So, she unzipped her duffel and took out a pair of leather sandals, a mid-length khaki skirt, and a cooler blouse to change in to. One with pale pink orchids over zebra print. Oh, why hadn’t she brought even one pair of shorts or comfortable jeans along? The decision not to bring anything other than skirts and one crinkle-cloth dress for the gala dinners, now seemed utterly ridiculous.

  This whole situation was ridiculous.

  And for heaven’s sake, where was that doctor? If he didn’t get here within the next fifteen minutes, she would have to muster up enough French to call down to the desk and find out what was going on. Except it had entirely slipped her mind at the moment just how to say she was calling from room three-oh-seven. Three-hundred and seven, probably. Oh…hopefully, the switchboard was modern enough to let them know automatically which room was calling…or maybe the doctor would come…and she wouldn’t have to figure it out…such an absurd situation…

  ****

  Falling asleep in the chair was an accident.

  When Meg woke up the next morning, she had a crook in her neck and the professor was snoring. What happened to the doctor? None had ever arrived. Now, she would not only miss the first day of her authentic African safari, she had spent the entire night in a strange man’s hotel room! What would people think? Not to mention the opportunities she would miss out on to collect a few establishing shots for her documentary. Because somewhere out beyond this bizarre situation, the real Africa was waiting for her.

  The thought gave her a sudden sense of urgency.

  “Professor Anderson?” She cautiously shook his shoulder, but, as she had predicted, he was still sleeping like the dead. After that, she got down on her hands and knees to retrieve the professor’s cell phone from under the chair where it had fallen the night before. “Ten forty-five! Professor!” She leapt to her feet and shook him again. “Professor, wake up. I have to…oh, I’ll just leave you a note!”

  After which she gathered up her things and hustled off to the hotel lobby. There were people coming and going, tourists mostly, as if some flight had just come in and a wave of more tours was about to launch. Meg moved out of the flow to where another rattan chair (also with palm print padding) was placed next to a large potted plant in an obscure corner. At least it would be a quiet out-of-the-way place where she could sort things out and decide what to do next.

  Inquiring at the desk as to the whereabouts of the doctor would be the first thing. Then she would find something to eat. She could smell a wonderful aroma of rich, dark coffee coming from somewhere.

  But at that thought, she suddenly felt disheveled and chided herself for not at least freshening up in the hotel room. She hadn’t even combed her hair. Behavior which was obviously the result of trying to adhere to rule number twelve: “I will avoid even the appearance of wrongdoing.” Which she made a mental note to readjust the next time she had a moment. She would add (in parentheses) “except in cases of emergency.” After all, what good were a set of personal rules if they were impossible to follow?

  When her gaze fell on a small souvenir stand across the room with a rack of hats, she picked up her things and headed over there. Nothing but tourist stuff. But at this point Meg was not picky, and chose a straw hat in the shape of a narrow-brimmed safari helmet, with a brown and white flowered scarf around it that looked suspiciously like all the upholstery and drapes in this establishment. Nearly ten dollars out of her budget, but she no longer cared.

  She also determined to get rid of the Bremen Tours carryall, even if it had been free. Not that it wasn’t quite the handy, well-made thing. It’s just that the voodoo slogan was beginning to weigh heavily on her, and it suddenly felt more important not to even associate with such practices. She had never given it a thought before she met Vidalia. Meg had always relegated unsavory things like voodoo into the same category as a bad movie she had no interest in watching. But it was important to her now.

  So important, in fact, that she ended up with some sort of woven string shoulder bag that looked more like a beach tote (pretty shades of brown, at least) that would barely hold all of her things. But she bought it anyway. It gave a sense of relief to dump everything into the shoulder bag right there at the counter and give the carryall to the sales lady. Who was happy enough afterwards to point her toward the coffee stand where all the good smells were coming from. Things would look better after coffee.

  She ordered an espresso, frothed up with real cream and cane sugar, and the cost was no longer an issue. It was heavenly. She trudged carefully back to her potted fern, seriously regretting not having brought along a suitcase with wheels instead of a canvas duffel that weighed nearly twenty pounds. To make matters worse, the new bag hung much lower from her shoulder than the other one and had a tendency to slip off. But she’d do something to fix that, later. Right now, she was just going to sit and enjoy her coffee for a while.

  Whatever had she gotten herself into? At this moment, she should be filled up on a breakfast of fresh bread and chilled fruit that was included in the price of the tour. Why, she should be halfway through a day of floating down a river lined with real African jungle. She really needed those river shots! Now, here she was staring into a crowd of tourists in a lobby that didn’t look much different than hundreds of other places around the world. Certainly, she had gone the last mile.

  That realization settled things for her. As soon as she was finished
, she would take the professor’s cell phone and his bulging wallet over to the desk and have them put in the hotel safe (one could hardly leave such valuables in a foreign hotel room, so she had brought them along with her). She would leave a message for Tom Anderson there, too, and then phone for a taxi to…oh, of all things! It had completely slipped her mind where her tour group was scheduled to go after Podor. And she had that entire schedule memorized for weeks!

  She set her coffee aside and reached for her new bag to look it up in the brochure. It fell over and a few things spilled out, and it was at the very moment she looked up with an exasperated sigh, that she spotted him. Tom Anderson. He was headed for the front desk with purposeful long strides, blustering through the crowd like a general prepared to kick his troops into line. She would have recognized him anywhere. Because, except for wavy brown hair and a muscular burliness that looked like some advertisement for health and fitness, he was the express image of his father. Just like the professor had said. And he did have a mustache, but that was the end of the mystery. The last thing she could picture this man in was an expensive gray suit, or ordering a late lunch in a sidewalk cafe.

  Instead, he was wearing jeans and a light khaki shirt under a vest of many pockets. And he had a backpack slung over one shoulder in such a way that made her think it had been carried many miles in that fashion. Still, there was something of an uncanny resemblance to the man at the cafe (had to be the mustache) but she decided it was definitely not him. Not with an attitude like that. This man, she felt as if she knew already (an Anderson was an Anderson, obviously). And, rather than any sort of mysterious intrigue, he triggered an impulse to give him a piece of her mind about such foolishness going on between him and his father. Evading and chasing after each other like a couple of children!

  Without as much as a second thought, she shoved her twenty pound duffel beneath the seat to hide it (one couldn’t be too careful in strange places). Then she scooped the scattered items back into her bag, pulled the long strap over her shoulder, and hurried toward the desk. Just in time to hear the girl behind the counter, a young girl, not even twenty, in Meg’s estimation, make the startling announcement (in French, and for once Meg understood it perfectly) that there was no J. T. Anderson registered at this hotel.