“I suspect that’s what you think about me. Grant Thornton, the unrepentant skeptic.”
“I think you’re a seeker. Nothing wrong with that.” The bristles inside Grant softened as she slipped her arm through his and they began walking. He steered them toward the Passage of the Arches, which would lead up to the fort’s curtain wall. “You know, the Bible promises that if you seek, you’ll find the answers to your questions.”
“My years researching mythology haven’t led me to the answer you hope I’ll find,” he said. “Most of the stories in our body of oral and written legends contain similar elements— reluctant heroes, wise old men, even instances of resurrection. The stories also overlap in the morals they’re trying to teach. In fact, there’s a distinct pattern to myths and to the whole myth cycle. You find the same elements across the board in the world’s oldest religions—Shamanism, Hinduism, Buddhism, Islam, Judaism.”
“And Christianity.”
“That’s right. My work with African tribal stories shows that they follow the same patterns as ancient Greek myths and early Native American oral legends. The religious doctrines of the world’s great faiths are just highly evolved collections of myths.”
Grant cast Alexandra a sideways glance, anticipating a strong reaction to his statement. After all, he’d just blatantly debunked her spirituality. If she was anything like his sisters, she’d probably clobber him. Instead, she was running her fingers along the sides of the pink coral passageway, her concentration on the rough path that led under the arches.
“In all your research,” she said softly, “all your study of world religions and mythology, have you ever found a single story you believe is true?”
Grant pondered her question as they climbed the inclined archway path. “Let’s see now . . . do I believe the Ganges River arose out of the hair of the Hindu god, Shiva? Or that Muhammad moved a mountain? Or that Moses held out a walking staff and the Red Sea parted?”
“Or that Jesus fed five thousand men with five loaves of bread and two fishes?”
“You’ve got to admit that’s a lot of people. And if I decide to believe the Jesus legend is true, then why shouldn’t the others be true, too?”
They turned onto a narrow set of steps that led to the ramparts and gun platforms Grant had explored as a child. He reminded himself to be alert to danger as they approached this vulnerable spot. Their detective in the green thongs was already waiting at the top. All the same, Grant was reluctant to cut off the conversation with Alexandra.
“What makes the biblical miracles authentic?” he asked, taking her elbow to guide her onto the walkway. “And what makes the Maasai stories Kakombe tells me merely fiction?”
Alexandra leaned against the wall that faced the Indian Ocean and let out a sigh. “I think you’re looking in the wrong place, Grant.” Her voice was soft. “You need to look at Jesus Christ. Learn who he was. Listen to what he said about himself. Study the things he did. His focus wasn’t miracles. It was people’s hearts.”
She opened her sketch pad and turned through the pages. In her drawings, Grant recognized the interplay of paisleys from an Indian sari she must have seen in Nairobi, the blossom of a bougainvillea vine, and the mottled geometrics of a giraffe’s hide. Her work was careful and detailed, but it showed a creative flair he would not have expected from the citified lady he had met at the airport.
“Those are good,” he said. “You’ve captured the colors of the giraffe.”
She smiled and turned to a clean page. “The colors of the giraffe are part of the reason I’m a believer,” she said. “‘In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.’ I’m no scientist, but you’ll never convince me this world evolved out of some random accident. I don’t need proof. I have giraffes.”
Flipping open a thin leather case holding a row of colored pencils, she selected a blue one. “If I can believe in the miracle of Creation,” she continued, “then I’m open to other miracles, right? And if I accept the presence of a Creator, why not allow him to have the name God? Given those two assumptions, I guess that makes me ripe to believe other things I can’t prove. Are you with me?”
“More than you realize.” Grant watched, bemused, as the colors of ocean began to spill across the white page beneath her hand. He had to admit she made a pretty good case for her beliefs when she saw the hand of God on Kenya. His childhood in the splendor of the African savanna had led him to deep doubts about the theories of a spontaneous formation of the earth and the chance appearance of life-forming DNA. So maybe . . . maybe . . . he, too, could say he actually believed in a Creator. Odd he’d never thought of it that way.
“The so-called mythology of Jewish believers,” Alexandra went on, “was recorded thousands of years before Christ’s birth. But it contains detailed prophecies about the coming of a messiah. Jesus fulfilled all those prophecies.”
“You’re saying he was the man who made the stories true?”
“He was the Truth.” She selected a purple pencil. “Jesus said he was the way, the truth, and the life. No man or woman can come to God except through him. That rules out Buddha and Muhammad and any other deities in the religions you’ve studied. You can’t believe them all. You have to choose. It’s Jesus only or not at all.”
Grant studied the fine line of Alexandra’s profile, her straight nose and perfect lips. Her hair shimmered with light in the sinking sun. She was beautiful—but her radiance came from something deeper than bright blue eyes and shiny blonde hair.
“You amaze me,” he said.
“I don’t know why. Christianity is quite simple really. It’s just mind, heart, and life—a conscious decision to believe, an admission of need, and then surrender.” She tucked the pencil back into its slot and turned to him. “I figured surrendering control of your life would be the hardest part for a man like you. But if you can ever come to believe without needing all the scientific evidence, you might come around. I hope so.”
For some reason Grant couldn’t explain, Alexandra’s words evoked a pain inside him. It was a physical ache, and it hurt even to swallow. He wanted Christianity to be simple, the way she said it was. He wanted what she and Mama Hannah had—this simplicity of faith, purity of trust. But how? He didn’t know how. And he certainly couldn’t think why.
“It’s time for you to go now, Grant,” she said.
“Go?”
“So Nick Jones can get at me, remember? That’s why we’re here.”
“Alexandra, I can’t do this. It’s crazy. Let’s head back to the bungalow. The police will track down Jones one way or another. How hard can it be to find a guy like that in the middle of Africa?”
“Not very hard. He’s standing right over there on the rampart.”
“Wha—?”
“Don’t look!” She caught his arm. “I spotted him a few minutes ago. At first I didn’t recognize him. He’s changed. But it’s him. Grant, I’m scared to death, but I want you to help me with this. Please walk away from me. If he comes over here and tries to touch me, you and the detective can grab him.”
Grant regarded the woman, considering her request. What if he couldn’t get back to her in time? What if the detective let them down? One shove, and Alexandra would be over the edge, her body crumpled on the rocks below the fort. One quick stab with a knife, and she’d fall dead. Jones had claimed to be able to snap a neck. He had proven with Mama Hannah that he had no heart. And he had overpowered an armed Maasai warrior.
“I’ve got another idea,” he said. “Let’s stroll over to the detective, and point out Jones. He can radio in for reinforcements, and they’ll arrest the guy.”
“For what? Visiting a tourist monument?”
“For attacking you and Mama Hannah.”
“How will I ever prove he did it, Grant?” She lowered her voice. “His hair is blond now, and he shaved off the little mustache. The report I gave the police doesn’t match his description anymore. Besides, it was dark when he attacked Mama Hanna
h and me. Our stories won’t hold up in a court. I want him caught red-handed—the way we planned. Grant, please, would you go?”
He took a deep breath. Alexandra was a woman of deep conviction. He had the feeling that once she made up her mind about anything—from religion to game strategy— nothing would dissuade her. But what a deadly game.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll walk down toward the Passage of Stairs and skirt around so I can keep an eye on you. But you scream if he so much as looks at you funny. Do you promise?”
She smiled. “I trust you, remember?”
“I remember.” He bent and kissed her cheek. As he turned his back on her, he wished he had someone other than himself to place his faith in.
Alexandra’s hand was shaking so hard she could barely control her pencil. Completely alone for the first time since Jones’s attack, she felt vulnerable and fragile. Grant’s religion quiz hadn’t helped. If this had been the Inquisition, she would be slowly roasting at the stake right now.
Her answers had been so lame—mumblings about giraffes and miracles and the creation of the world. The moment Grant had started his inquiry in the Passage of Arches, she had prayed that God would speak through her. But what a jumbled mass of words had poured out. She had no background in myths or world religions. And she certainly should know better than to reason with a scientist.
Let him go.
The voice was almost audible, echoing somewhere deep inside her. Let go, Alexandra. Give all your worries and cares to God, for he cares about what happens to you. Trembling, she clutched her pencil. How could she let go? A man she had come to care about was slipping through her fingers.
She moistened her lower lip. The detective in the green thongs had vanished. Grant was gone. Dear God, where are you? Are you with me?
Determined not to betray her fears, she worked her pencil across the sheet of white paper. Though her focus stayed on the ocean and her sketch pad, she could see the hulking blond man edging across the narrow walkway. She made up her mind to scream the instant he grabbed her. Then Grant would come running, and the detective would appear. And that would be it.
Oh, Father, let it be over soon. Please, Lord!
Jones paused two yards away and leaned on the battlement, his face hidden by the thick wall of the gunport through which he peered. Every nerve ending in Alexandra’s body warned her to run. This was her chance to get away. If she stayed, he would attack.
But if she ran, he would find her again. Find her somewhere else. Track her down.
Now was the time.
She sucked in a deep breath and picked out of her case the tiny, single-edged razor blade she used to sharpen her pencils. It wasn’t much, but the cold steel between her fingertips gave her some defense. She tilted it, watching the sun glint off the metal.
“We meet again, Miss Prescott.” Jones’s arm slipped around her shoulders, and a click sent his switchblade skimming across the delicate skin of her throat. “One sound, and you’re dead.”
Alexandra’s voice hung in her throat. She shuddered at the man’s touch, his smell. Revulsion rose in her stomach and splashed bitterness into her mouth. Blood hammered through her temples.
“Walk with me nice and slow, baby,” he said, holding her firmly against him. “We wouldn’t want your boyfriend to get suspicious.”
“I’m staying here,” Alexandra hissed.
“But I wrote you a poem.” He shoved her, and she stumbled forward. “Don’t you wanna hear it?
“We walk through the African night.
I hold you so tight.
It feels just right
To keep you in my sight.
“It’s almost like a song, huh? I can hear the music. Drums, you know. And maybe a little violin in the background.”
Alexandra gripped her tiny razor blade as Jones propelled her along the battlement toward the southern bastion. Where was Grant? What had happened to the detective? Somebody was supposed to rescue her right about now!
“I did not like losing you the other night, babe,” the thug said against her ear. “But anyway I got a new hairdo out of the deal. Think I look handsome as a blond?”
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to breathe. “Please move the knife, Nick. I’m going with you.”
“Yeah, but your boyfriend might come along. I don’t want him to get too close. I got a job to do here.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Aw, if I told you, it might hurt your feelings. You’d be brokenhearted, and I never could stand to see a lady cry.”
He moved her past a round turret, up another shallow flight of stairs, and toward a long, low prison that had been built at the top of the bastion. Alexandra scanned the fortress grounds for Grant. An African—their detective in the green thongs—emerged at the far end of the gun platform. Too far! He was much too far away to do her any good.
She stiffened as she realized that Jones was pressing her toward a deeply shadowed gunport beside the prison building. The narrow window had been left unbarred, a view of the old town of Mombasa stretching out from fifty feet below it. The waist-high stone sill gave tourists a measure of protection from the precipitous drop to the ground, but Jones shoved Alexandra hard against it.
“Sit down, pretty lady,” he said, forcing her up onto the windowsill. “I’m sorry to say this, Miss Prescott, but you’re about to have a very bad fall.”
“You won’t get my money b-by killing me,” Alexandra stammered.
“It’s not your money I want.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
“I told you not to ask me, baby. Now just relax and lean back.” Still holding the knife to her throat, he began to tilt her through the narrow open window, slowly forcing her off-balance. “Back, sweetheart. Back, back—”
“No!” Alexandra swiped her razor blade across his bare arm, then down the side of his face. He jerked back in surprise.
“You lousy—” He lunged at her flailing arms. His knife nicked her earlobe and clanged into the bastion wall. “When I get—”
“Let her go!” Grant’s fist slammed into Jones’s jaw, smashing his head against the coral. “Alexandra, get out of there!”
“Back off,” Jones growled, slashing out at Grant. At the same time, his foot caught Alexandra in the chest, knocking her through the window.
She screamed and grabbed at the rough coral as she tumbled backward. Wedging her knees against the window’s sides, she managed to break her momentum. Her shoulders swung in midair, the stone tearing at her knees as her body slid slowly down. Fifty feet below her head, the earth spun in dizzy circles.
A chunk of coral broke loose beneath her and dropped through the air toward the ground. It struck the hard sand, and a puff of white dust drifted away on the wind.
TEN
“Alexandra! Alexandra!”
She recognized Grant’s voice. Dangling upside down, braced only by her knees, Alexandra buttressed her hands against the outer wall of the fort. Her fingers dug into the coral as she tried to pull herself onto the windowsill. At her touch, the wall fragmented, pebbles and dust skittering to the sand below.
She grabbed at another chunk of coral. It broke loose beneath her weight. Her hand swung free, and her knees began to give out. “Grant,” she groaned. “Help me, Grant!”
A pair of strong hands gripped her ankles. Jones! She screamed, shut her eyes, flailed at the coral wall. “Grant! Gra—”
“I’ve got you, Alexandra!” Grant shouted. “Hang on. You’re gonna make it.”
Hands—it seemed like a hundred—gripped her ankles and legs, pulling, easing her slowly upward, onto the windowsill. The hands raised her back, her shoulders, then her head. Five frightened faces peered at her as Grant lifted her down from the open window.
“Are you quite all right, madam?” an Englishman inquired, his forehead beaded with perspiration.
“Who was that man?” an African asked. “We thought you would fall from the window!”
<
br /> Three Japanese tourists stared open-mouthed as Grant drew Alexandra into the shelter of his arms. She pressed her head against his chest and fought the tears welling in her eyes.
“Where’s Jones?” she whispered.
“The detective went after him.”
He got away. She couldn’t bring herself to say the words aloud. He had escaped, and he would come after her again. She could hear Grant reassuring the frightened tourists, telling them he would take care of her now, insisting that the detective would catch her assailant.
But he wouldn’t. As Alexandra knotted her fists around clumps of Grant’s shirt, she knew the truth. Jones would kill her.
“Alexandra?” Grant’s hand cupped her head, holding it against his chest as the tourists left. “You’re bleeding. Did he cut you?”
“My ear.” She couldn’t make herself let go of him. “Grant, I’m going to die.”
“You’re not. The police have seen Jones in action. They know their man, and they’ll catch him.”
“He’s too good. He had already picked out the window. Grant, he knows what he’s doing.”
“I can’t believe he got his hands on you,” Grant muttered under his breath. “I couldn’t get to you in time. I thought he might . . . I couldn’t let him hurt you. It was the knife that held me back. He pulled it on you so fast. He’s a pro, all right.”
As his words sank in, she lifted her face to his. “Yes . . . he is a professional. A hired killer.”
Grant’s eyes narrowed. “What makes you say that?”
“He told me this was a job. A job.” She swallowed. “And the first time . . . under the tree . . . he said he had committed dozens of murders. There was a man in Mexico . . . his only other killing outside the States. Jones said he was a bodyguard in New York, but he knew all about my family, my background. It was like he had a dossier on me. He even knew my travel plans. Grant, I think . . . I think someone hired Nick Jones to murder me.”
Falling silent, he brushed the hair away from her ear and neck. His fingers dabbed at the trickle of blood running down her skin. “We ought to wash this off. You might need stitches.”
A Touch of Betrayal Page 13
