Fever

by V. K. Powell

  “Go ahead and say whatever’s on your mind. You think she’s right, don’t you? Do you think I should tell her everything and let her make her own decision?”

  “Grief and anger blind. You forget how to be with people.” Ben’s stance was tall and erect, his eyes never leaving Zak’s. This was his preferred method of delivering what he considered unpleasant news, with honesty and respect. “Tell her. She can help.”

  “I’m afraid. What if she gets hurt? I couldn’t live with another loss like—”

  Sara entered the tent and approached Zak, her brown eyes watery with tears. “I’m so sorry for what I said. It was cruel and thoughtless. Please forgive me.”

  Zak could hardly bear to see her in such distress. Sara’s remark had hurt, but Sara’s regret and plea for forgiveness touched Zak’s heart. She was the one who should be asking for Sara’s forgiveness, telling her the truth about her past with Wachira and the potential impact on the school project. She should be finding another guide and removing herself from this assignment. But something inside her refused to let logic and reason lead her. “No problem. Let’s forget it. Help me gather some firewood?”

  As they left, Ben said, “This one is strong,” and Zak knew he wasn’t talking about her.

  It was almost dark by the time the wood was collected, the camp secured with the wire-mesh consistency of thorn bushes, and a fire blazed in the center of their space. They sat on canvas chairs, ate the vegetable medley Ben had prepared, and watched stars populate the pitch-black sky. No one spoke as the baboons grunted and settled down for the night and a Maasai herdsman drove his cattle to the riverbed to drink. Zak heard lions in the distance, taking down their prey. She’d almost forgotten how quickly things could go from peaceful to deadly in this country. The reality had always been invigorating, but now it was daunting in a way that threatened her professional and personal stability.

  How had her past in Africa become so entwined with Sara Ambrosini’s present? Their current situation was precarious and could turn lethal just as quickly as a lion’s hunt. Tomorrow she’d contact Stewart and find out who the other players were in this game they’d stumbled into. She needed to know what demons she was fighting besides her own.

  *

  Sara hugged Ben good night and followed Zak toward her tent. The beam of the lantern she carried was powerful and flooded the area. When they reached the entrance, Zak spoke for the first time in hours. “There’s a pallet on the floor under your sleeping bag, which should make it comfortable enough. We’ve put a washtub and a latrine bucket in the back. Unzip the flap in the right corner for the water hoses. The green one is cold, the red one hot, or probably lukewarm. Be stingy with both. Use only the bottled water to brush your teeth and drink.”

  This was the most Zak had spoken since her hours-long briefing on the plane from London. She rattled off her list as she looked around the roomy sleeping quarters and waited for Sara to light the two lanterns. She seemed in a hurry to issue her instructions and leave. When she paused, Sara asked quickly, “Where will you sleep?”

  “I have first watch. After that, I’ll toss my bag under your overhang.”

  “Outside? Why don’t you come in? There’s more than enough room.”

  “I prefer the outdoors. If you need anything, just call. You have a flashlight on the table over there. Sleep well.”

  Sara knew Zak hadn’t recovered from her tactless comparison to Wachira. She avoided eye contact during dinner and spoke only when directly addressed. Sometimes Sara’s careless tongue could damage more severely than others, and today had certainly been one of those times. It was obvious how much Zak despised Wachira, but Sara wasn’t terribly concerned about how that animosity might affect her project. She’d dealt with corruption in other countries and knew how to get what she wanted. Her interest was Zak and how to help without seeming like a meddlesome outsider. Tomorrow she’d start taking care of herself. At least Zak wouldn’t have to worry about Sara’s problems and her own.

  A stiff breeze pushed against the sides of her canvas home and it recoiled with a sharp flapping noise. It echoed in the spacious enclosure and reminded her how alone she was in an undeveloped country with two strangers. She checked her cell phone one last time before shutting it down. Still no message from Rikki.

  Sara took a quick sponge bath, climbed into her sleeping bag, and pulled it up around her neck. She’d been warned about the cold nights on the savannah, and already the air held a chill. Where was Rikki and why hadn’t she returned her call? The wind continued its rhythmic lapping against the tent sides, and in the distance a nocturnal creature emitted a lonesome howl. She drew her knees up to her chest, scrunched into a tight ball, and imagined her lover next to her, warm and comforting. But as she drifted into sleep it was Zak Chambers’s face she saw, not Rikki’s.

  The next morning the aroma of brewing coffee roused Sara from her restless slumber. She’d tossed and turned most of the night, fighting images of Zak and Rikki and trying to ignore the pitiful moans of animals too close to their site. She splashed cold water on her face and brushed her teeth before joining Ben at the campfire.

  “Morning, Miss Sara.” Ben poured her a cup of coffee from a large pot sitting on the coals.

  She accepted and wrapped her hands around its warmth. “Good morning, Ben. Where’s Zak?”

  “Running.”

  She looked out across the flat plain toward a sunrise that promised to be spectacular. “Physically running?” Ben’s nod and cagey smile said her implication wasn’t lost.

  “She runs far.”

  “And often, I imagine,” Sara said without thinking. They watched the sun top the horizon and sipped their coffee in silence. She respected this young man and his devotion to Zak, but she also needed answers. “Ben, can you tell me anything about the animosity between Zak and Wachira? I’m worried for her.”

  Ben looked around as if searching for eavesdroppers, picked up a stick, and doodled on the ground. “Stories have many sides. With time they change. Ebony was hurt. She blames Wachira.”

  “Is he to blame? Was it his fault?”

  “Maybe some, not all.”

  “Can whatever it is be resolved?”

  “Only when guilt and reality meet, and Ebony does not wish this to happen. It is easier to hold on to the past.”

  Ben’s answer reminded her more of a Zen koan than an explanation, but it was all she would get.

  Zak was running toward them, sweat and the bright red color of exertion drenching her body. A pair of khaki-colored shorts and a tank top clung to her wet frame, outlining every nuance of femininity. Sara tingled with excitement as she stared in unapologetic appraisal, then asked, “Good run?”

  “Great.” Zak sounded barely winded. “There’s nothing like seeing an African night change into day. It’s easy to imagine outrunning all your troubles, leaving them in the darkness.”

  “Good luck with that,” Sara replied as she started toward her tent. Zak seemed almost sad as she walked away, but Sara was probably projecting. “I’m going to change clothes and get ready for the day. Don’t hold breakfast. I’m not hungry.” Turning to Ben she added, “Thanks for the coffee.”

  She changed while listening to Zak and Ben discuss the day’s activities. It was interesting to hear them talk about her project like she wasn’t a part of it. But the decision she’d made last night to take care of her own problems remained firm. When Zak went to shower and Ben was busy making breakfast, Sara made her move. Her window of opportunity was small so she acted quickly. She zipped the note she’d written earlier into the opening of her tent and ran up the side of the incline, over the top, and out of sight.

  Luckily the road was only a short distance from camp. The morning sun was already sucking the color out of the sky as heat rose around her. Zak had told her in one of her long-winded briefings that bus taxis on the back roads provided rides to the locals. She’d said something else about them, but Sara wasn’t interested in the details
. While she walked she passed several people with canvas or burlap-wrapped bundles on their backs heading toward town. Everyone smiled in greeting but gave her a quizzical look. They talked to her in English and told stories about the items they were taking to market. She wanted to ask about transport but felt silly when she looked around at the vast nothingness that surrounded them.

  About thirty minutes later a car horn sounded behind her. When she turned, she saw a small panel van with people hanging out of every door and window. It skidded to a halt next to her and the driver said something in Swahili. She shook her head and asked for a ride, though she didn’t see how she could possibly fit inside the already overcrowded vehicle. He motioned for her to get in and, miraculously, people scrunched closer together, making room. She wedged between two young men who smelled like they hadn’t bathed in weeks. Every bump in the slotted highway jostled the passengers back and forth against each other. She felt uncomfortable as something Zak said about shady taxi drivers and thieves filtered into her mind. Sara clutched her purse against her chest as the men on either side pushed and rolled against her. At the first stop, two passengers got off and the driver motioned Sara to a seat in the front of the van.

  “I am Joey,” he announced. “Where you going, madam?”

  “The County Development Office. Is it far?”

  “No, madam, but you ride here.” He looked toward the other passengers. “Not in back.”

  Joey reminded her of Ben with his kindness but he looked barely old enough to drive, his face round with the fullness of youth. He certainly drove like a typical teenager, however, looking over his shoulder, talking, and running people and animals off the road. He wore jeans and a blue work shirt that hung loosely from his shoulders and was long at the sleeves, making him appear even younger and smaller. She almost wanted to mother him, but a worldliness in his eyes assured her he didn’t need it.

  “Is this your taxi?” she asked.

  “Taxi? Oh, matatu, my father’s. He is sick. I drive until he returns tomorrow. Then I look for other work. Must work.”

  “What else can you do?” Sara thought about the school and their need for labor. Maybe she could offer him a kindness in return.

  “Many things, miss, anything. I work hard. You have work?”

  “I might.” She gave him a business card and the young man’s face burst into a broad smile. “Give me your number and I’ll call you.”

  “Very good, miss.” He stopped in front of the County Development Office, scribbled his number on the card, and handed it back. “I pick you up later. Wait here.”

  The small office reminded Sara of a one-room schoolhouse without any of the tools. A long table sat in the middle of the space and four people worked busily around it, each with a phone to her ear and a notepad and pen in hand. One antiquated computer hummed noisily against a wall surrounded by metal filing cabinets and bookshelves filled with loose-leaf binders. In spite of their outdated equipment the clerical staff was quite helpful, especially when Sara encouraged them by strategically disseminating cash.

  She paid the fees and filled out the necessary forms again, and the clerk assured her the documents would be filed by the end of the week and her permits would be official. They even provided an expedited permission slip to begin construction since the original had been lost. Zak Chambers couldn’t have done it better or faster. Satisfied with her progress, Sara asked about a place to get a drink, certain a coffee shop was out of the question. The supervisor offered the use of their break area until her ride returned.

  Sara settled into a straight-backed chair in the shade of an umbrella acacia, the CDO’s break area. The afternoon heat was stifling, without the slightest breeze to disperse a ring of flies that buzzed around her head. She closed her eyes, hoping time would pass more quickly if she didn’t watch, then remembered that she’d turned her phone off so Zak couldn’t contact her.

  When the phone powered up again, she had three messages. The first was from Rikki, apologizing for missing her calls and explaining that she’d had trouble getting through. The next one was from Randall Burke, a text message with a picture attachment. His message was cryptic, very unlike him. The only thing that flustered Randall was her love life. He tiptoed around the subject like an overprotective father, not wishing to invade her privacy. He knew she’d hired a private detective, and if he was worried, that wasn’t a good sign. She opened the picture file and waited for the slow, laborious download. Sara had been amazed at how many people in Africa had cell phones. She’d even seen herders on the savannah propped against their staffs talking on them, but receiving pictures or large clumps of data was sluggish at best. Her gut already knew this wasn’t good news or Randall would’ve called and delivered it personally.

  When the file finally popped open, her breath caught in her throat. The pictures showed Rikki in various stages of sexually explicit behavior with two different women. The caption for one read, “Night of return from London,” and the other said, “Trip to Vegas next day.” She trapped her bottom lip between her teeth to keep from screaming aloud. Tears clouded her vision and she was grateful for the obstruction. She couldn’t really call what she was feeling pain, or even surprise. She was just angry for being so gullible, for not believing friends who tried to warn her about Rikki, and for not trusting her own instincts. Jesus, she’d even made excuses for Rikki’s behavior, justifying her flirting and rationalizing her preference for parties over spending time with her. Was she so desperate for companionship that she’d settle for crumbs and pay for the privilege?

  She stabbed at the Clear button until the file closed, then listened to her last message. Whatever it was, she needed the distraction. Anything to keep her from thinking about Rikki and her own stupidity. Zak’s deep, throaty voice was too calm and polite as she stated, “Sara, this is dangerous. Come back, now.” A short pause was followed by a single word, “Please.”

  More than anything Sara wanted to be with Zak, to hear her soothing voice tell her that everything would be fine, that she wasn’t a complete fool, and that she deserved better. But that wasn’t what Zak would say at this moment. She’d have to justify why she left without telling her and promise never to do it again. It almost seemed worth it right now because Zak made her feel safe and important in a way she didn’t understand.

  “Okay, miss?”

  When Sara looked up, Joey was standing in front of her. Her vision was blurry and she realized she’d been crying. “I’m fine, thanks. Can we go now?”

  “Yes, miss. You ride with me, then I take you home.”

  “How long?” Sara didn’t really care. She just wanted to stop crying, and being around people she didn’t know seemed a good cure.

  “We finish when night comes. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Sara took her honored seat in the van beside Joey, and as he drove he talked about his family, their small farm, their cattle, and his hopes for the future. It was as if he understood that she needed the distraction. She nodded from time to time, which was enough encouragement to keep the prattle going. Shadows grew long as the sun headed toward the horizon and more passengers got off.

  When the last female rider disembarked, Joey said, “One more stop.” A short distance farther he stopped and seven men, older, stronger, and rougher looking than Joey, climbed on board. Sara felt immediately uncomfortable. What had she gotten herself into now? If she had the chance, maybe she’d listen to Zak next time.

  *

  “Sara?” Zak called as she walked toward her tent. “Sara, the construction materials are on the way. The truck should be here in about—” When she saw the slip of paper sticking out of the canvas flap, she cursed under her breath, already sensing something she wouldn’t like.

  She uncurled the note and read:

  Zak,

  I’ve gone to take care of the fees and permits. Will be back soon. Wait for the materials as you’ve planned. Don’t worry. And don’t be mad.

  Sara

  Waving the
note in the air, she asked Ben, “Did you know about this? Did she talk to you about it this morning?”

  He shook his head.

  “She’s gone—to take care of things herself. I’ve never met such a stubborn and independent woman. How did I get into this mess?”

  “You chose it.”

  Zak read the note again, hoping it might give her a clue of what Sara had been thinking. “She doesn’t know anything about the country—how to travel, who to contact, nothing.”

  “I believe Miss Sara is strong. She will find her way.”

  Zak grabbed a small backpack, filled it with bottled water and snacks, and threw it over her shoulder. “Well, I don’t plan to sit here all day and hope for the best. I’m going after her. Will you be okay waiting for the building materials?”

  Ben nodded and started to say something else.

  “I know what you’re thinking. If I’d told her the truth, this might not have happened. I’m not so sure.”

  “I will call when she returns.” Ben gave her one of his you-don’t-know-anything-about-women looks and returned to his breakfast cleanup.

  Zak mumbled under her breath as she climbed into the truck and drove toward the road. “With my luck she’s gotten a ride in a matatu and has already been robbed, assaulted, and dumped by the side of the road.”

  She drove over the rutted roads like she was on a racetrack, the truck bouncing from side to side. She focused on the path ahead of her, scanning the savannah for any conveyance that might have given Sara a ride. It had been just over an hour since she left, but many things could happen in Africa in that time. Why didn’t Sara trust her or at least respect the warnings she’d given her?

  Zak had been very specific about the dangers of riding in a matatu, the small vans that teenagers and unlicensed taxi drivers used. These people were reckless and their vehicles had not been inspected for proper equipment to transport passengers. Often the drivers operated while dangerously overloaded just for more money. To make matters worse, thieves and rapists utilized the matatu to find victims. The papers were full of these incidents daily.