A Touch of Betrayal

by Catherine Palmer

  “Oh, he does?” Alexandra lifted her chin and soaked in the vision of the starry night sky as they walked along side by side. “The truth is, I’ve always felt different from most people. I haven’t ever really fit. In school, I was too rich for the regular kids, and I was too artsy for the highbrow bunch. I chose a career in design, but my coworkers are intimidated by the money thing. Everyone who isn’t intimidated is trying to manipulate it away from me. I really can’t trust anyone. I’m sure you wouldn’t understand what that’s like.”

  “I trust people. But I know what it’s like to feel different. Try growing up as a white kid in Africa with Mama Hannah for a mother. When I got to college, I could speak five languages, and I’d been to the Nile, the Sahara, and the top of Mount Kilimanjaro. But I didn’t know how to work a Coke machine.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Go ahead. Laugh at my pain.”

  “I’m not laughing.”

  “You’re laughing.” He reached over and poked her in the ribs. When she let out a giggle, he did it again. “There you go again.”

  “You rat!” She gave him a gentle shove, and he caught her fingers.

  “Oops—I forgot. No touching.” He dropped her hand. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I’m better, I guess. At least I think I am.”

  “You mean you semi-trust me—another human being? You don’t think I’m after your money?”

  “You’d be smart to go after my money. If you want permanent funding for all your anthropological research projects, you ought to reconsider Sambeke’s idea.”

  “Last I heard, your finances were in chaos. Maybe you ought to listen to Sambeke and make a play for me.”

  “The Man with Seven Socks.”

  “Don’t forget I now own a valuable silver chain.” He pulled it out of his pocket and dangled it in front of her. “You are getting very sleepy, Alexandra. Very sleepy. You are in a trance. When you awaken, you will have a strong affinity for blood milkshakes and canvas tents and anthropologists.”

  “Get that chain out of my face, Houdini. I can’t see where I’m—” She stopped and peered at the campsite. One of the lanterns was swaying in a widening arc as the tent pole that held it snapped back and forth. “Look at that, Grant. What’s going on?”

  He swung around. “Mama Hannah,” he breathed. “Someone’s in her tent. Stay here!”

  Grant broke into a run, the flashlight beam swinging across the grass as he dashed toward the tent. Suddenly terrified, Alexandra glanced behind her. Images of shadowy creatures reared up from the brush. Wild dogs. Wild men. She couldn’t stay alone in the bush—there was no place to hide, no safety. She clenched her fists and sprinted after Grant.

  “Loomali!” he was shouting to the Maasai guard. “Loomali—kaji negol? What’s going on? Who’s there?”

  Alexandra saw a shadow emerge from the tent a second before it collapsed in a puff of canvas. Grant let out a bellow of rage. “Hey—who are you? What have you done to my mother? Stop!”

  Dear God, is it him? Is it Nick Jones? What’s happened to Mama Hannah? Her palms clammy, Alexandra threw herself down in the deep grass. Oh, God, save us! Save us!

  She covered her head with her arms as she listened to the shouts—Grant, another man, and then another. English words mingled with Maasai. The sounds of scuffling echoed across the darkness. A heavy weight slammed into something metal. More shouts, more cries.

  Alexandra squeezed her eyes shut. She had brought this. She had brought the killer to Grant’s campsite. Oh, God, what shall I do? The kraal! She should run back to the kraal and call the warriors. How could she make them understand what was happening?

  Sambeke would know.

  She forced herself to her feet. But which direction was the kraal? She searched the darkness for familiar markers. In the campsite clearing, the men thrashed around the fallen tent. Was Mama Hannah still inside it? What if she needed help? Someone should go to her. Alexandra bit her lip. She didn’t want to be anywhere near the clearing. Nick Jones would see her and attack again.

  But Mama Hannah might be hurt. At the very least, she would be terrified. Alexandra swallowed at the knot of fear in her throat. Lord, I’m so scared! Help me!

  She gritted her teeth and started toward the clearing. Grant’s tent was still standing, its lantern swinging as the silhouetted men brawled around it. The other lantern lay on the ground. A patch of burning kerosene spread across the grass toward the crumpled tent.

  Fire!

  Where did Grant keep his water? Alexandra raced to the edge of the camp and located the heavy plastic tank. Hurling her shoulder against it, she managed to topple it to the ground. Then she rolled it toward the fire. As she neared the tent, she could see a huddled shape moving beneath the canvas.

  “Grant?” Mama Hannah’s voice called weakly. “Toto?”

  Terrified to respond for fear that the attacker might hear her, Alexandra uncapped the tank and allowed the sloshing water to gurgle out onto the licking flames. Then she plunged toward the tent.

  “Mama Hannah!” she whispered. “I’m coming for you!”

  She found the tent opening just as a car started up at the edge of the clearing. Was Grant running away? Or was Nick escaping? Determined to help the only person she could truly trust in this wilderness, she tunneled under the folds of canvas. In the utter darkness, she bumped into the edge of an overturned cot, then crawled over it. She banged her forehead on the corner of a metal trunk.

  “Ouch! Mama Hannah?”

  “Alexandra, I am here!”

  “I’m coming for you. Hold out your hand.” She reached into the void and felt the touch of warm fingers. “Are you all right, Mama Hannah?”

  “Oh, Alexandra, my toto!” Mama Hannah’s arms slipped around the younger woman. “I have been praying for you! But now I see you are well.”

  “Praying for me? What about you?”

  “God is with me,” Mama Hannah whispered. “‘The Lord is my light and my salvation—so why should I be afraid?’ It is for you I fear, and for my Grant.”

  Alexandra huddled under the tent, her head on Mama Hannah’s shoulder. “Nick Jones is out there,” she said, listening to the frightening silence outside. “He came for me. He’s going to hurt us.”

  “Pray, child. Pray. ‘You are my God! Listen, O Lord, to my cries for mercy! O Sovereign Lord, my strong savior—’”

  “Mama Hannah?” Grant’s voice broke through the murmured prayer. “Where are you, Mama Hannah?”

  “Here, toto! We are in the tent.”

  “Who’s with you?”

  “Alexandra. She is protecting me.”

  The tent began to lift overhead, and Alexandra struggled to push away the sagging fabric. Mama Hannah was the protector, she sensed—and not the other way around. Alexandra had been so frightened. She was frightened even now. But the old woman’s calm voice and gentle words of hope and comfort gave her strength.

  “Come with me, Mama Hannah,” she said, rising to a crouch. “We need to get you out of here.”

  “Oh, toto, allow me to sit until the tent has risen. The man caused me a small injury.”

  “What did he do? Did he hit you?” Alexandra fell to her knees again as Grant emerged through the tent opening with the flashlight. He wedged the central tent pole into the canvas peak and propped it up; then he swung the flashlight beam toward the two women.

  “Mama Hannah, your head! You’re bleeding.” Grant sank to the ground and gathered the old woman in his arms. “I’m here now, Mama. How bad does it hurt?”

  “It is nothing, toto. The man had a knife, and he believed his weapon would make me speak to him.”

  Grant stripped off his shirt and began dabbing it against Mama Hannah’s temple. “He cut you to make you talk?”

  “Ehh. He said he would like to slit my throat. But I asked him, ‘Sir, how then will I speak to you?’ I think he is not a very clever man.”

  “It must have been Nick Jones,” Alexandr
a whispered, feeling faint. “Oh, Grant, she’s bleeding so much!”

  He pressed on the wound where the knife had sliced through skin and muscle. “The guy’s a demon. He tied Loomali up and strung him from a tree by his arms and legs. Humiliating. The poor man’s gone back to the kraal to get help.”

  “Grant, I’m so sorry,” Alexandra said. “This is all my fault. I never should have come here.”

  “Forget it. The main thing now is to take care of Mama Hannah. We’ve got to get her to a doctor.”

  “Toto, the wound is not so bad.”

  “Alexandra, press this against her head,” Grant said, ignoring Mama Hannah’s protest. “I’m going to my tent for my first-aid kit.”

  “What about Jones?”

  “He’s gone. He didn’t get what he came for.”

  Me, Alexandra thought as Grant disappeared through the tent opening. He came for me. He tracked me out here to the middle of nowhere. He tried to force Mama Hannah to tell him where I was. And soon he’s going to kill me!

  “‘I am trusting you, O Lord, saying, “You are my God!”’” Mama Hannah murmured as Alexandra cradled her. Her words gradually began to stumble and slur. “‘My future is in your hands. Rescue me from those . . . from those who hunt me down . . .’”

  “Mama Hannah?” Alexandra said, hearing the panic in her own voice.

  “I need to rest, toto.”

  “Please try to stay awake. You’ve lost a lot of blood.” She fought back tears. “This is terrible!”

  “Do you blame yourself for the work of an evil man?”

  “Shh, don’t try to talk. Are you in pain?”

  “Yes, very much. I think it would be good to sing.” She hummed for a moment. “Let us go to heaven.”

  “Heaven?” The word sent a chill of terror racing through Alexandra. “Mama Hannah, please don’t die!”

  “Relax,” Grant said calmly, coming back into the tent. “‘Let us go to heaven’ is an African way of introducing a song. You’re not going to die on us, are you, Mama Hannah?”

  “Sing to me, toto. Sing to your mama.”

  Alexandra could see Grant struggling to maintain his composure as he lifted away the bloody shirt and pressed a clean bandage to the old woman’s head. “I don’t know any songs,” he muttered. “You’re bleeding here, and I can’t . . . can’t . . .”

  “‘Jesus loves me, this I know,’” Mama Hannah sang in a wavering voice. “Sing to me, toto.”

  “‘Jesus loves me, this I know,’” Grant sang, his voice rough-edged. “‘For the Bible tells me so. Little ones to him belong. They are weak . . . but . . . but . . .’”

  “‘They are weak,’” Alexandra finished, “‘but he is strong.’”

  “Mombasa.” The manager of Kilanguni Lodge eyed the injured woman lying on a pallet of blankets in the back of Grant’s Land Rover. “We have a small airplane leaving our runway for the coast in fifteen minutes. The plane is only half-full, and I think I can hold it for you. But you’ll have to hurry.”

  Grant considered a moment. “I’d rather take her to Nairobi. The hospital there is bigger and better equipped.”

  “We won’t have a plane going to Nairobi until tomorrow evening. It is your choice.”

  Grant shook his head. There was no choice.

  Mama Hannah had faded during the overland trip from the campsite to the lodge at Tsavo West National Park. Even now, Alexandra huddled over her in the backseat, trying to keep her alert and encouraging her to take small sips of water. Every time Grant thought about the brutal beast who had attacked a helpless old woman, fury surged through his veins like wildfire.

  “Hold that plane for us,” he told the manager. “And radio ahead to the hospital. I want the best doctors they’ve got. Have them standing by.”

  “Yes, Dr. Thornton. Of course.” He hesitated a moment. “I think it would be appropriate to bring the police into this matter. The disappearance of the tourist from Amboseli Lodge several days ago created quite a disturbance. The news of the search for her has been in all the papers. Now this attack on your camp. Such things are very bad for tourism.”

  “The woman who disappeared from Amboseli is sitting right there in the backseat,” Grant said, cocking a thumb at Alexandra. “Look, I want you to put Miss Prescott on that plane to Nairobi tomorrow. And watch her closely. The man who wounded Hannah Wambua is the same one who attacked Miss Prescott.”

  “The same man? Do you have a name?”

  “Nick Jones. Tourist from New York. If the police don’t track down that guy, I will.” Grant opened the back door. “Alexandra, there’s a plane to Nairobi tomorrow evening. You can stay here at the lodge until then. You’ll be safe.”

  “Yes, madam, I will assign a guard to you immediately,” the manager said as he hurried toward his office.

  Alexandra tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m not leaving,” she said firmly. “I’m going with Mama Hannah, Grant.”

  “In ten minutes I’m putting her on a plane to Mombasa. That’s three hundred miles from Nairobi. If you want out of this trouble—and out of this country—now’s your chance.”

  She looked into his eyes. “I’m not leaving her, Grant. I can’t.”

  “Why? Because you blame yourself for what Jones did?”

  “Because I care about her.”

  “I care about her, too, and I’ll see that she gets safely to the hospital. You get back to the States, where you belong.”

  “You’re the one who should stay here. Attend the Maasai ceremony that’s so important to you, and I’ll go to the coast with Mama Hannah. I’ve got a forty-five-day visa. I can stay with her until you come.”

  Grant hesitated. He hadn’t given the Eunoto ceremony much thought in the urgent hours of driving to the lodge. Missing the elder initiation would be a blow. It could hamper his research by years. His financial backers were expecting a report on the rite. They were also expecting regular articles and a book. Without the account of the Eunoto, he could lose his funding—and his job.

  Torn, Grant looked down at Mama Hannah. Her head on Alexandra’s lap, she was clearly struggling to contain the pain she felt. She had squeezed her eyes shut, and her rigid lips were clenched in agony. In one hand she clutched her little Bible. In the other she gripped Alexandra’s fingers.

  “I’m taking Mama Hannah to the hospital,” Grant said.

  Alexandra’s blue eyes softened. “Then let’s go.”

  The tiny plane thumped and bounced over pockets of air until Alexandra felt like she was riding a bucking bronco. She couldn’t imagine the depth of misery Mama Hannah must be feeling as she lay on a stretcher in the narrow aisle. Grant sat grim-faced, holding the old woman’s hand and staring blankly at the back of the seat in front of him. Beside him, Alexandra rested her head on the tiny oval window and prayed for Mama Hannah.

  What was the Scripture the old woman had quoted when the Maasai had carried Alexandra into Grant’s camp? “Have compassion on me, Lord, for I am weak. Heal me, Lord, for my body is in agony.”

  As she prayed, Alexandra let her eyes wander. Thin clouds like swaths of cotton batting from a torn quilt drifted past the window. Below them, vast waves of golden grass swept in an unending sea. To the south, Mount Kilimanjaro’s snowcapped peak glowed like a ruby in the sunrise as the airplane gradually left it behind. Barely visible on the ground, herds of wildlife grazed—antelope, zebras, elephants, and gazelles. It was going to be another beautiful day in Kenya.

  Alexandra shut her eyes. She was so tired. The night attack had brought back memories of Nick Jones and fears for her own safety. She couldn’t imagine how he had tracked her to the tiny campsite. What if he found her again? What if she had endangered Grant and Mama Hannah all over again by insisting on going with them to the coast? Alexandra had the terrible feeling that if the plane didn’t stop jolting she might be ill. But she had to keep her thoughts focused—focused on Mama Hannah. Pray, Alexandra, pray.

  “Dear Father,” she
murmured. “Please guard us. Please protect us.”

  “Huh?” Grant turned to her, bleary-eyed. “What did you say?”

  “I’m praying.”

  “You’re wasting your breath. This is going to take a doctor.”

  Alexandra swallowed at the harshness in his voice. “You don’t believe in God’s power to heal?”

  “I don’t believe in God. Period.” He scratched his unshaven chin. “How did you fall into the religion thing anyway? Parents?”

  “In the beginning. But as the years went by, my faith became my own. I believe in Christ because I see the effects of his presence in my life.”

  “I hate to mention this, but your life includes a maniac killer.”

  Alexandra sobered. “Terrible things happen to people all the time, Grant. Cancer, abuse, freak accidents. God doesn’t promise us a life free of problems. But I knew he was with me in the bush when Nick Jones attacked me. God led me toward Sambeke’s kraal. He sent Mayani to protect me from the wild dogs. Even if I had died out there, God’s presence would have given me strength to the end. And hope. How can you exist without hope?”

  “Hope of an afterlife, you mean? Come on, Alexandra. Do you have any evidence of heaven?”

  “I don’t need evidence. I have faith.”

  “Yeah, well, I need proof. I’m a scientist, remember?”

  “You needed faith to get on this airplane.”

  “I happen to understand aerodynamics. Besides, I don’t have a lot of faith in this airplane. I’m wagering that if it hits one more bump, the whole thing’s going to come apart.”

  Alexandra leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes. She had never been any good at explaining her faith in Jesus to other people. Through prayer, Bible reading, the church, and the circumstances of her life, she had experienced God’s powerful presence. But to make Dr. Grant Thornton understand the fullness of life in Christ? Impossible. If Mama Hannah’s genuine and unpretentious faith hadn’t been able to convince him, Alexandra Prescott certainly couldn’t.