A Touch of Betrayal

by Catherine Palmer

  Grant straightened and wrapped his arms around his sister, pulling her close. “You know me pretty well, Tillie. Think I’d be any good at the husband and dad routine?”

  “With the right woman by your side, you would.” She tugged on one of his curls. “I like Alexandra a lot.”

  “I do, too.” He focused on the tall blonde as she stacked plates in a cabinet. “But she lives in New York.”

  “Mmm.”

  “She’s an artist.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “She’s rich.”

  “Ooh.”

  “And she’s religious. Christian.”

  “You’d better marry her quick.”

  Grant laughed. “Come on, Tillie. You know I couldn’t live in a big city like New York any better than you could. I’d be a fish out of water.”

  “I don’t see that as much of a problem. It’s the religion thing that’s going to doom you. If Alexandra is really a believer, she’s not going to want to be yoked to a pagan like you.”

  “I’m not a pagan.”

  “What are you, then?”

  “I’m a scientist. I need proof before I believe something exists.”

  Tillie took his hand and laid it on the moving mound of her stomach. “Feel this, and tell me there’s not a God, Grant. This baby is your proof. And Mama Hannah is your proof. After Mom died, Dad could have hired any number of women to look after us kids. He chose her. Don’t tell me that was an accident.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Alexandra is your proof, too. You don’t think gorgeous blondes come walking into the lives of renegade anthropologists every day, do you? God has a plan for you, Grant Thornton. He wants your love. He wants your surrender. If you’d just take off your blinders, maybe you’d see him as clearly as Alexandra does.”

  She leaned over and kissed his cheek. Then she heaved herself off the sofa and padded into the kitchen. “Hey, everybody,” she said. “Let’s divvy up the rooms and hit the hay. I’m bushed.”

  Before Grant could put in his two cents’ worth, his little sister had assigned him the living room couch and plopped a pile of blankets and pillows on a nearby chair. Alexandra and Mama Hannah disappeared into the spare room, while Tillie made a beeline for her own bed. Graeme remained for a moment, switching off lights and checking the water level in some of his wife’s plants.

  “Need anything?” he asked, pausing beside the couch.

  Grant gave a little chuckle. Yeah, he needed a lot. Explanations. Reasons. Answers.

  “Not unless you’re smarter than I am,” he said finally.

  Graeme’s dark brows lifted. “Maybe I am, maybe not. At least I was smart enough to know a good thing when I saw it. And I married her.”

  “Treat my little sister right, buddy.”

  “I do.” He smiled. “She loves you a lot, you know. Not a day goes by that Tillie doesn’t mention you in her prayers.”

  “You listen to her praying?”

  “Sure. We pray together. The first time we did it, I felt pretty ridiculous down on my knees on the living room floor talking out loud to God. Now, my day doesn’t go right without it.” He shrugged. “Prayer is part of the bond between Tillie and me. Our faith is our foundation, you know?”

  No, I don’t know, Grant wanted to say. And what’s an intelligent guy like you doing down on his knees talking to some nebulous entity? And how can faith be a foundation when you can’t even put your finger on it?

  “Whatever,” Grant said.

  Graeme glanced down the hall. “Looks like the bathroom’s all yours.” He started for his bedroom. “Tomorrow, then.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  Grant stood, picked up his bag, and rooted around for his toothbrush, hoping somebody had left a tube of toothpaste in the bathroom. Down in the bag, his hand brushed the little Bible he had found in Alexandra’s suitcase and put into his pocket. He’d intended to return the book to her, but he hadn’t gotten around to it.

  Picking it up now, he opened the burgundy-leather cover and turned through the pages. His eye scanned familiar names, familiar stories, familiar words. How many hours had he spent on Mama Hannah’s lap listening to her read from her own little Bible? He had loved those times. Perhaps they had even been the spark that led to his fascination with the study of ancient oral myths.

  But truth? Could truth really be hidden somewhere in the black printed words of the Bible? Alexandra had said she believed that Jesus Christ himself was Truth. Grant flipped to the concordance in the back of the little book. In a moment, he had sunk onto the couch again and was riffling through the thin, crinkly pages.

  In the Gospel written by Jesus’ disciple John he found an intriguing verse. “While Jesus was teaching in the Temple, he called out, ‘Yes, you know me, and you know where I come from. But I represent one you don’t know, and he is true. I know him because I have come from him, and he sent me to you.’”

  Grant studied the words a moment. Like the people in the temple, he didn’t know the truth Jesus claimed to represent. Mama Hannah wouldn’t like it, but her toto was probably as great a doubter as the worst traitors in the Bible.

  He scanned through further chapters, searching for a character who might represent himself in this elaborate mythology. What about Pontius Pilate, the governor of Judea? At the trial of Jesus, Pilate was as full of questions as Grant would have been. Are you the king of the Jews? Why have you been brought here? What have you done? Are you an earthly king, then?

  And finally the biggie. “‘What is truth?’ Pilate asked.”

  Jesus didn’t answer that question, probably because he’d already given Pilate a sort of explanation. “I came to bring truth to the world. All who love the truth recognize that what I say is true.” Grant pondered the enigmatic response. He loved the truth. So why didn’t he recognize Jesus’ words as true?

  Blinders. Tillie had accused him of wearing blinders. But how could a man in obvious pursuit of knowledge be wearing blinders? Maybe because he was looking with his mind instead of with his heart, as Alexandra had insisted he must.

  Grant stared down at the Bible, his eyes unfocused as he searched inside himself. “I want to know the truth,” he whispered. His own words startled him—they sounded uncomfortably like a prayer. A prayer? Whoa!

  Could a man like him really pray? Grant wiped a hand across his brow. Why not? Tillie, Mama Hannah, Alexandra, and even Graeme prayed. Kakombe prayed. Every Maasai he knew prayed.

  “Creator,” he murmured, starting at the only place in the morass of his own doubt that he could pin down. “Creator, I want to know the truth. Show me. Do you exist? Do you care about us down here? About me? Do you . . . do you love me?”

  For some reason a knot formed in his throat. When he spoke again, his whispered voice was husky with emotion. “I want to know the truth. Was Jesus the Nazarene who he claimed to be? Was God sent to earth in human form? Did he really die and rise again in order to bring forgiveness and the promise of life after death?” He swallowed. “Is Jesus the Truth I’m looking for?”

  Grant lifted his head. Feeling foolish, he dropped the Bible back into his bag and took out his toothbrush. But before he could stand, a wave of emotion swept through him. Powerful, tormenting, it washed open the black hole inside his soul. He bent over and knotted his fists.

  “Tell me!” he ground out, his eyes finally brimming. “I need to know! I’m tired . . . so tired . . . of searching. Give me the truth.”

  Struggling to cover again the gaping hole inside, the vacuum he had denied so long, he shook his head in misery. Where were the brave, shining trophies he had always used to fill it? Education. Intellect. Logic. Reason. Like little grains of salt, they rolled around inside the raw, empty wound. What could heal him?

  “Alexandra.” He whispered the name that haunted him. No, that was wrong. She wouldn’t fill the emptiness. Couldn’t. But maybe she could help him. Teach him. Show him the way.

  “If you’re out there, God,” he mouth
ed, “don’t let Alexandra go. Not yet. I’ve got to have time. I’ve got to find my heart . . . and then . . . I’ve got to find a way to heal it.”

  “You cannot leave Kenya for the time being, Miss Prescott.” The official at the United States consulate in Nairobi shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

  Seated in the man’s tidy, sterile office the following morning, Alexandra felt her blood rise clear to the tips of her ears. “What do you mean I can’t leave? I came to this country on a working vacation, and I’ve decided my business is done. I need to get back to the States immediately. My financial situation—”

  “I understand your predicament, ma’am. You’ve explained yourself clearly. If it’s any comfort to you, the Kenya immigration authorities believe the man who attacked you may have left the country traveling under a different name than the one he gave you. They reported to us here at the consulate that an unaccompanied American male departed on a flight to New York right after the Fort Jesus incident.”

  He leaned across his desk and continued in a low voice. “If you want to know the truth, Miss Prescott, we think the guy is long gone.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “He blew his cover at Fort Jesus. The police are onto him now. Every border crossing and every airport is on the alert. Unless he’s very clever—or very stupid—he hotfooted it out of this country.”

  “Then why do I have to stay?”

  “Unfortunately, the government will not allow you to exit the country until the case is resolved. They want confirmation that the man did indeed leave Kenya, and they need your help to prove it. You’re the primary witness to two brutal attacks—”

  “Witness! Try participant. That maniac has tried to kill me twice.”

  “Believe me, your well-being is of utmost importance. The Kenya police have assured us that you’ll be protected to the best of their ability.” The official lowered his voice again. “Look, I’ll be frank, Miss Prescott. This is not really about you. It’s about tourism.”

  “Tourism?” Alexandra gripped the arms of the chair. “I can’t leave Kenya because of tourism?”

  “Tourism accounts for a large part of this country’s economy. Unfortunately, every time a report of violence leaks out—especially violence toward an American—the tourism industry here takes a nosedive. Kenya can’t afford to let you go. They’ve got to prove that the perpetrator left the country, or they’ve got to catch him, put him behind bars, and then show you off to the world as a happy camper. A happy, safe camper.”

  Alexandra looked down at the passport, tickets, and official documents lying in her lap. At a travel agency that morning, she had been told she couldn’t get a flight out for another two days unless she was willing to wait at the airport as a standby passenger. But when the travel agent examined her visa, she recognized Alexandra’s name. Following the agent’s suggestion to take her case to the consulate, Alexandra had wound up with this big, fat no.

  “Are you telling me that if I tried to leave the airport, I’d be stopped?”

  “I’m telling you that you cannot leave Kenya without government permission. You’ll need an exit visa stamped into your passport—and you’re not going to be issued one. If you try to leave, you won’t get past the airport-security people.”

  “But I haven’t done anything wrong. Look, I’m an American citizen. I insist that you get me out of this mess.”

  “As I said before, I’ll do everything I can to help you, Miss Prescott. Believe me, the last thing we want is an incident. When you disappeared from that lodge, we thought we had a huge problem on our hands. Now that we know you’re all right and we think the perpetrator has fled, we’d like to keep the damage to a minimum. I’ll talk with the authorities again and see if I can explain the urgency of your situation. I’m afraid that’s the best I can offer you right now.”

  “So, what am I supposed to do? Just sit around and twiddle my thumbs?”

  “You were on a tour. Why don’t you resume your vacation?”

  Alexandra dug into her purse and pulled out her wrinkled itinerary. “This is how I got into trouble in the first place. Do you think I really want to go trekking around in the wilderness again?”

  The bureaucrat heaved a sigh. “It really doesn’t matter to us what you choose to do with your free time, Miss Prescott. Just stay in contact with us and with the police. As soon as we have approval for your exit visa, we’ll let you know.”

  Fuming, Alexandra stood. “I’ll be in touch.”

  She walked out into the lobby feeling as helpless as she’d ever felt in her life. How could they force her to stay here? Jones had victimized her. Now the Kenya government was doing the same thing.

  Emerging into the bright sunlight of the afternoon, she searched the parking spaces for the car Grant had rented. He had told her he was going to run a few errands, but he’d be waiting when she came out of the consulate. He wasn’t.

  Great. She leaned against the side of the building and shut her eyes in frustration. How could this all be happening to her? How could God let her fall into such a mess?

  Lifting her head, she stared up at the blue sky and the flag fluttering overhead. Is there a reason for this, Lord? Are you trying to teach me something? Do you have a plan here? Because if you do, I sure wish you’d let me in on it.

  “The old red, white, and blue,” Grant said, appearing beside her. “So, how’d it go?”

  Alexandra shook her head. “You won’t believe this. I’m not allowed to leave the country. I’m stuck here.”

  “Stuck?” Grant’s suntanned face blanched a clammy-looking white. “You’re not leaving?”

  “That’s what I said. The police think Jones fled the country after the Fort Jesus incident, but they want me to hang around anyway. Evidently my problem has threatened the entire economy of Kenya.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “Tourism,” she said. “My story needs a happy ending so the press can spread the word and keep vacationers coming.”

  “So, you’re staying?”

  “I just said that!” She glared at him, unable to contain her frustration. “Don’t worry, I won’t keep bugging you. I’ll get a hotel room somewhere in Nairobi and just . . . I don’t know . . . I’ll just chill out. You can go on back to your research, okay?”

  “I didn’t realize I was such a pain to have around.”

  “Huh?”

  “Hey, if I’m not too much trouble, I’ll hang out with you. Keep my eye on you.”

  “Don’t think you have to protect me, Grant. I can take care of myself.” She wriggled the ring off her finger. “Here. I release you.”

  He took her hand. “Alexandra.” Before she could protest, he slipped the ring back over her knuckle. “Wear it. I don’t know how this happened. . . . I don’t understand it . . . but somehow . . . somehow . . . you’re not leaving Kenya. That’s really . . . odd.”

  “Odd?” She had never seen Grant tongue-tied before. In a way, it was endearing. A measure of the frustration inside her began to ebb. “I’m odd? Or my not leaving is odd?”

  He laughed. “You’re not odd; you’re beautiful. And I’m glad you’re staying. If Jones is no longer a threat, why don’t you come back to the camp with me? You could work on your sketches.”

  Alexandra looked into his eyes, wishing she could read him better. Did he want her to stay? Did he want to be with her? The idea that Grant Thornton’s feelings for her might mirror her own growing attraction to him sent a wave of trepidation through her. She couldn’t care about him. He couldn’t want her. They didn’t belong. Didn’t match.

  “Well, uh . . . I thought . . .” She fumbled for a moment before seizing on an escape route. Reaching into her purse, she brought out her travel schedule. “I thought I might go back to my original plan. Take up my old itinerary.”

  “I see.” He glanced down at the paper. “So, where are you headed?”

  Alexandra studied the schedule for a moment. “Well, it looks like
I’m . . . I’m . . .” She looked up at Grant and grinned. “I’m supposed to be headed for the slopes of Mount Kilimanjaro.”

  THIRTEEN

  “Welcome home!” Tillie sang out, lifting her arms high.

  Grant climbed out of the car and blinked. This was not a tent. Those were not acacia trees. This could not be his home.

  “When did you say you bought this place?” Alexandra asked as she passed him and started up the graveled walkway to the large stone structure in the distance. “Either things were cheaper back then or you had more money than you knew.”

  Grant couldn’t make an answer emerge. He owned this? The empty house stood on a large lot in the Karen suburb of Nairobi—an area named for author Karen Blixen, who had immortalized Kenya in her book Out of Africa. Twelve-foot-tall evergreen hedges rimmed the property. They badly needed pruning. So did the lawn, an expanse of shaggy grass overgrown with a tumble of lantana and vines.

  The house itself sat back on the lot like an aging gray elder, content to survey life as it passed by. Curtainless windows revealed empty rooms, and a scarlet bougainvillea plant threatened to pull down the verandah’s sagging roof. As Grant approached the house, a half-dozen small brown lizards scattered from their sunny spot on the flagstone porch into the tangle of shrubbery.

  “This house is beautiful,” Alexandra said, stepping up onto the verandah. “It has so much character.”

  “It’s rotting,” Grant snorted. He walked over to the door and inserted the key he had retrieved from a lockbox at a downtown bank that morning. “Everybody stand back. This may be the fall of the house of Usher.”

  He pushed open the door. It swung into a large, sun-filled foyer with a parquet floor and white-painted walls. A long staircase with a wooden banister curved upward to the second floor. Grant entered, glanced around, and then beckoned everyone inside.