Keeping Her Close

by Suzanne Rock

  “Tanzania, to be more specific. There, people with albinism are believed to hold magical powers. They are hunted like animals, and their body parts are ground up and sold in the marketplace as cures for a wide range of diseases.” She shuddered and tightened her arms around her middle. “Anyway, Peter encouraged me to go to university—not online, but in real life. By that point I was eighteen, and there wasn’t much my father could do to hold me back. I started working toward my degree in international studies.” She frowned. “It was during my first two years there that I lost my virginity and learned that men only wanted one thing from a woman.”

  “Tess, I—”

  She held up her hand. “It wasn’t all bad. My junior year some guy was making unwanted advances and Kami came to my rescue. He was an exchange student from Tanzania and understood what it was like to be considered a freak. He’s gay, and homosexuality is an abomination in his country. Men like him are also killed.

  “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

  “Not many people do. That’s why I have the blog and my charity. The more people who become aware of the injustices in places like this, the more we can help those who are affected.”

  I couldn’t help the relief I felt over knowing that her friend was gay. That meant her interest in him really was just friendship and not something more intimate. It was strange, this possessiveness I felt toward her, but I couldn’t deny that knowing this new information made me want to do a fist pump in the air.

  “After graduation,” she said, ignoring my elation, “I was desperate to get away from my father and the people who had hurt me. I had missed my mother terribly and wanted to find more people like me. After talking with Peter and Kami, I decided to visit Tanzania and see what I could do to help those who were suffering.” She glanced up at me. “Kami said that he had connections in Tanzania, and could be my translator.”

  “That was very nice of him.” A little too nice. “Did he have goals of his own?”

  “He had always intended to go home after graduation, so helping me seemed natural. Peter and I quickly realized that we could help a lot more people through his family connections, and the rest, as they say, was history.”

  “Family connections?”

  “His parents work with the government, and he has relatives who own a big shipping company stationed out of Zanzibar. We’re quite the team. Kami works from the ground in Tanzania, Peter from his charity headquarters in Canada, and I . . .”

  “Bring about awareness through your blog.”

  “Yes, as well as human rights violations around the world. Over the past year, I’ve branched out to include some Middle Eastern cultures and the Far East. My heart has always been in Tanzania, however. Perhaps it is because the people who are being persecuted are so much like me.”

  “So you planned a trip to Africa to connect to your roots, in a manner of speaking.”

  “Yes. I had lost touch with the charity’s efforts in Africa over the past several months, and a lot had changed. Peter’s family had arranged it so that people who wanted to move out of the country could do so through their shipping connections. They had built several shelters for those who wished to stay, places protected by the government and kept safe from the local witch doctors.”

  “You take the children away from their families?”

  “There’s no other way. They are in constant danger if they stay in the villages. There are visiting hours, so it isn’t like their families never see them.” She pressed her lips together for a moment in thought. “Although quite a number of them are abandoned.”

  “How do you find money for all of this?”

  “Fundraising mostly. I also try to find help within the country when I can. On this last trip, I had hoped to find more families like Kami’s, people who could work from inside the country to make a change. People who were kind and saw people like me as human beings, not commodities, or something fragile and delicate.” She took in a deep breath and let it out. “Then you came along, and I thought . . .”

  “Thought what?” I asked when she didn’t continue.

  She glanced up at me, and I could see the tears in her eyes. “I thought you were different. I thought you cared about me, not how I looked, or what type of publicity I could provide.”

  “I do.” I took a step closer, but she took several steps back, putting more distance between us.

  “But it was all a lie, wasn’t it? You didn’t really care about me. I’m just a job, an opportunity. And hey, since we have to wait around with nothing to do, why don’t we have a little fun as well.” When I just stared at her in shock, she shook her head. “Women are human beings, Max. We have needs and feelings. You just can’t keep using us for your whims and expect us to keep coming back to you for affection.”

  “Where are you going?” I asked as she started out of the kitchen.

  “Can I leave the apartment?”

  “Of course not. It’s too dangerous.”

  She shrugged. “Then it looks as if I’m going nowhere.” She turned back toward the hallway. “I’m going to the bedroom to watch some television. I don’t want to be disturbed.” She marched out of view before I could respond. Seconds later, I heard the door slam and the television turn on.

  Swearing under my breath, I started to pick up breakfast. How dare she lump me in with those other men. I didn’t think of her like that, and I sure as heck would never treat her like some sex toy that I could bring out when the mood suited me.

  And yet, wasn’t that exactly what I was doing? I wanted our relationship to be about sex, nothing more.

  Scowling, I shoved the paper goods into the trash and wiped down the table. There had to be some way to get through to her, to make her understand. I wasn’t like those other men from her university days. I didn’t think of her as some fragile thing, either. She had already proven her strength and her intelligence. She was a remarkable woman, but that didn’t change the fact that we couldn’t be together. There were a lot of reasons for this, not the least of which was that it would be more difficult to protect her if I was distracted. No, we couldn’t be together, but that didn’t mean that she had to feel as if she didn’t matter.

  I approached the bedroom door and knocked.

  “Go away.”

  I tried opening the door. It was locked. “Tess, we need to talk.”

  “I don’t want to talk. I want to be left alone.” Her voice sounded shaky. Had she been crying?

  “Tess, come on, this is important.”

  “No.” She turned up the television.

  Women. Fisting my hand, I considered breaking the door down, but realized that doing so would get me nowhere. It would be much better to focus on my job. All of this would mean nothing if we both ended up dead.

  When I went out to get breakfast earlier, I had left a message for Vash through our usual channels. Perhaps he had gotten it and responded by now. It was worth a shot. Anything was better than sitting around here and moping.

  “I’m going out for a little bit. I want you to stay here,” I said.

  She didn’t respond. Grinding my teeth, I stomped out the door and down to the sidewalk. Hopefully Vash would have some information for us. At the very least, I’d be able to talk to someone who understood me and who’d didn’t make me feel as if I had just done something horribly wrong.

  Chapter Eleven

  Tess

  As soon as the bedroom door closed, I fisted my hands and let out a frustrated growl. Men. I should have known better than to trust Max.

  Flicking on the television, I turned it to a local morning program and tried to relax. Anger was getting me nowhere. Right now, there was someone out there trying to hurt me and I had no idea who it was or why they wanted me dead. The sooner I figured this out, the sooner I’d be able to get back to my normal life.

  “Lots of activity in New York City today as the search continues to find the missing daughter of Alexander Abbott, the United Nations ambassador from the United K
ingdom. Although the U.N. is not in session right now, Mr. Abbott has come back from his vacation early to make a personal plea to whoever is holding his daughter.”

  I snorted and crossed my arms. As if. My father was so overprotective. As a child, he had never let me go out on my own. I had always been cautioned about the sun and how there were people in the world who didn’t take kindly to those who looked different from them. His overbearing nature started when my mother died of skin cancer. He felt guilt over not doing more for her while she was alive. He had turned that guilt into an overprotecting nature when it came to me.

  We had fought constantly about my actions over the years, but never so much as when I told him I was going back to Tanzania. My mother, a woman with albinism like me, barely escaped Africa with her life. Pregnant and with no firm grasp of the English language, she arrived in England with nothing but the clothes on her back. I understood that my father was afraid I’d suffer a similar fate, but I argued that fear should never keep us from doing what was right. I felt I had a duty to go back and help people like me. My father just wanted to keep me safe.

  “Please.” My father pushed the reporter out of the way and got close to the television screen. His hair had gotten grayer over the past several months, and the fine lines in his face had gotten deeper.

  “To the person who has my daughter: please bring her back in one piece. I’ll pay you anything. I’ll give you anything. I just want to see and talk to her again.”

  He paused to wipe his eye with the back of his hand, and I felt a twinge of guilt. He had lost his wife and now believed that he was going to lose his adoptive daughter. I needed to find a way to reach out to him without putting myself in more danger.

  “What do you think about the rumors that an unstable police officer has kidnapped her in order to protest the recent freeze in salaries across all precincts in the city?”

  “You heard me, if it’s money he wants, I’ll give it to him. I just want my daughter to come back home.”

  The television camera cut away from him and back to the reporter. “Tess Abbott was last seen at the corner of . . .”

  As the reporter talked, the picture switched over to a prior recording, and I gasped as I saw myself and Max, getting into our getaway car. I remembered the incident well. We had been arguing, which was why I looked so angry. I put my hands to my lips as Max punched a hole in the driver’s-side window.

  “The phone.” There must have been security cameras from the surrounding stores. If that’s the case, then they should know that Max was not trying to harm me. He was just following protocols and trying to save my life.

  “This isn’t right,” I muttered to myself. His friend had said that someone had infiltrated the police force. It was possible that the same someone had been manipulating things behind the scenes with the media as well.

  Who did I know who had that kind of pull with both the New York police and the local media outlets? My father definitely. Any of his friends, probably. Peter? No, Peter was in Canada, and while he had a lot of clout in the charity world, I doubted he would have the necessary resources to pull something like this off. Kami’s family had a lot of influence in Tanzania but not much outside the country. At least, none that I was aware of. Besides, he had been with me the entire time. He’d never do such a thing and put his own life in jeopardy. I also couldn’t conceive any reason why he’d want to hurt me.

  The reporter’s voice continued over the footage. “Tess Abbot runs the ‘Shine the Light’ blog, a political blog exposing the social injustices around the world,” the reporter said. “The outpouring of support on that blog has been overwhelming. If you have heard or seen anything, please contact us at this number.”

  I scrambled around in my purse for a pen and paper and jotted down the number. When I was finished, I shut off the television, unwilling to hear any more. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I stared at the number and tried to figure out what to do next. As the seconds passed, my father’s worried face filled my vision.

  “I should probably call him.” I didn’t want to use the hotel phone—I wasn’t that stupid—so I needed another way to contact him. I tried to remember the path we had taken to get to this apartment and remembered passing several internet cafés on the way. I could try sending them an email from one of those places, I suppose. That seemed safe enough. At the very least I could check my blog. Perhaps a clue could be found there.

  My mind made up, I stuffed the information in my purse and wiped the tears from my eyes. I thought about leaving Max a note and decided against it. If he found it before I came back, he’d just come looking for me, and I didn’t want to create a scene. No, I’d probably be gone and back before he returned anyway.

  Slipping on my hooded jacket, I wrapped it around me and went downstairs to find an internet café. With a little luck, I’ll find the answers I need.

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, I set my tea down on the table next to me and rubbed my hands together. It was surprisingly easy to find a place that suited my needs. I had no idea places offered free Wi-Fi and computers for public use in the city. It was a haven for someone like me.

  My heart beat a little faster as I typed the password the staff gave me and waited for the web page of my blog to load. I had forgotten just how long it had been since I had been online. Chatting and blogging were like breathing to me.

  I quickly logged into the blog, then switched over to my dashboard. Frowning, I read my last entry—before I left for the airport—and then started scrolling through the comments.

  Normally, I never read the comments on my blog. I just knew I had a lot of them. Getting drawn into fights with internet trolls was not how I liked to pass the time. There were a fair share of haters—people commenting on my skin or telling me to get a life—but by and large people supported me and my charity.

  Over the past few days, the supporters had come out in full force, sending me well wishes and prayers through the blog. Tears stung my eyes as I looked through comment after comment from readers and fans.

  I had never known how many people I had touched with my blogs. I mean, I saw the hits to the website, but it never really occurred to me that there were real people visiting my site every day to listen to what I had to say. It was a heady feeling, and one I knew I wasn’t going to forget.

  I sipped my hot tea as I scrolled through the last of the comments, then shook my head. While there were quite a few weirdos, there was nothing that would raise a red flag. Sighing, I decided to switch over to the pending comments and see if there was anything that needed to be moderated.

  Most of the pending comments were the usual stuff, people trying to sell me performance-enhancing pills or diet aids. I immediately deleted them. Others were from long-time trolls, making snarky comments about my lifestyle or my political views. Some of those I approved, but most I deleted. Then I stopped on the final comment and realized that I had missed something rather obvious

  “Well, what do you know,” I murmured under my breath as I applied a filter to the regular comments and then started scrolling through them. “I think we might have a pattern.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Max

  The bell over the door jingled as I walked into the small convenience store. Shoving my hands in my pockets, I tried to look harmless as I meandered to the back and stared at the shelves of corn chips and puffed snacks. From this angle, I could keep an eye on the kid behind the counter as he flipped through his comic book without him noticing me. As seconds passed, I wondered if this was a good idea. While I trusted Vash completely, he still worked at the precinct, and it was possible someone had overheard our conversation and followed him here.

  Shifting my stance, I glanced at my watch and noticed that he was ten minutes late. I considered leaving, but then the door opened and Vash stepped inside the store and adjusted the duffle bag on his shoulder. Relief rushed through me as he made his way to the back of the store.

  “Things are
getting intense down at the station.” Vash settled the bag on the floor and shoved his hands in his pockets.

  “What’s with all of the Feds?”

  Vash tugged his baseball cap over his forehead and kept his face angled toward the shelves.

  “Not sure.” He picked up a package of corn chips, frowned, and put it back. “There seems to be someone with deep pockets or a lot of clout pulling the strings. The Feds aren’t giving us much to go on, only that whoever is after your girl is involved with Homeland Security.”

  “Like a terrorist?”

  “Hard to say. Not a terrorist like we have seen in the news. Someone more controlled and calculating.” He glanced up at me. “This is turning out to be a much bigger deal than we were told.”

  “Like how big?”

  Vash nodded to the duffle bag. “There seems to be a vigilante group working to overthrow the Tanzanian government. All of the information I have is in there, along with the equipment you asked for.”

  “But why would a Tanzanian vigilante group be after Tess? She’s just a blogger.”

  “A political blogger with strong opinions about women, sexual orientation, and skin color.” Vash pressed his lips together for a moment in thought. “She likes to shine a light on controversial topics, not just in America, but overseas.” He shrugged. “It could be that she stepped on some very powerful toes and didn’t know it.”

  I swore under my breath.

  “You might want to have a little sit down with your girlfriend and go through several of her posts. She isn’t as sweet and delicate as she makes herself out to be.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’ve been monitoring the comments and she knows how to get people fired up. Perhaps if she made some sort of public apology of sorts, or took down her more controversial blogs, the perp would lose interest in her.”