The Secret Rival

by Rachel Woods

  The Secret Rival

  A Palmchat Islands Mystery - Short Story

  Rachel Woods

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  The Silent Enemy Excerpt

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Also by Rachel Woods

  About the Author ~ Rachel Woods

  About the Publisher

  1

  Rural Malawi

  “Vampires? Are you serious?” asked Matilda. “That’s why we have to leave? Because the villagers might think we’re vampires?”

  “That’s what I heard,” said Francine. “That’s what I was told.”

  “Is that true, Gus?” asked Matilda. “Are we leaving because the villagers think we’re vampires?”

  Cursing under his breath, Gustave Stewart made sure his seatbelt was fastened securely as the Range Rover jostled them to and fro, making its way over the dusty, narrow unpaved road, marked by deep grooves from last week’s torrential rains.

  Pausing before answering Matilda, Gus stared through the windshield. Ahead of them, the sun slowly sank behind the mountain, the hazy orb casting an eerie orange glow across the rural Malawian landscape.

  A week ago, during an emergency meeting with the founder of Instruct-Africa, Wilhelm Weschenfelder, Gus had been informed that the staff and volunteers would have to leave the compound, which was located at the center of three rural Malawian villages. As the director of the foundation, Gus would be responsible for facilitating and organizing the evacuation.

  Yesterday, Gus, the foundation’s assistant director, Matilda Ross, and the principal of the school, Francine Xarras, had been cleared to leave the compound. As the three essential staff members, they’d been required to remain until all non-essential personnel had been safely transported to the organization’s temporary lodging—a small boutique hotel in the capital.

  As the sun sank lower, Gus thought about how to answer Matilda’s question, which annoyed him as much as she did. Gus should have known why they were leaving. He should have been told, he felt, given his position, but he had been given no other information besides the fact that all of the aid workers had to be evacuated from the compound within one week.

  The message he’d received from Weschenfelder had been abrupt and succinct: Leave immediately without hesitation. Something was up, Gus suspected. But what? At first, he’d thought they had to leave because of an outbreak of Ebola.

  Now he wondered if maybe the staff removal had to do with funding issues.

  Weschenfelder’s family was as rich as Midas, but the parents were supposedly sick of his “teach the world, make it a better place” disposition. They wanted him to join the family business, which was oil and gas.

  Rumor was the family planned to cut funding to his little volunteer project, which cost them a fortune because they had seen very few rewards. The family expected Weschenfelder to make contacts and help them secure oil leases in Nigeria, but the kid was an altruistic, anti-capitalist.

  “Gus?” prompted Matilda, sitting directly behind their driver, on the rear bench seat.

  “This business about vampires is nonsense,” said Gus, opting for an indirect response so as not to reveal his ignorance concerning the organization’s flight into the capital.

  After some silence, Matilda asked, “Frannie, who told you about the vampire rumors?”

  Gus groaned inwardly. Removing a cigarette from the breast pocket of his denim shirt, he held it between his fingers and longed for a match. He’d stopped smoking years ago, but sometimes the craving returned like a beast. Usually, he wanted a smoke when he was pissed off. And nothing annoyed him more than the two women in the back seat.

  Francine answered, “One of the teachers’ aides, Judy Shenango, has a brother who’s a cop. He heard about the vampire rumors.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” said Matilda. “How could the villagers think vampires are real?”

  “Witchcraft and voodoo abound in rural Africa,” said Francine, “Villagers are often superstitious. So yes, it’s possible they believe vampires are real.”

  “Ridiculous rumors should not be spread,” warned Gus, turning in his seat to face the women. “We have a dozen much-needed volunteers that we don’t want to scare into leaving for good, so please don’t—”

  “What’s going on up there?” asked Matilda. “Why are we stopping?”

  “It looks like some sort of roadblock,” said Francine, craning her neck.

  Gus faced the windshield. About thirty feet ahead, nearly a dozen villagers, all of them men, stood around the back of an old, faded pick-up. Dressed in American cast-offs, they wore dingy jeans and faded T-shirts. And several of them carried flaming torches. The fire was not uncommon. Villagers didn’t carry flashlights, and the sun was setting. Soon, it would be as black as death, and the flickering illumination would be necessary. Still, an unsettling unease slithered through Gus.

  “Why would the road be blocked?” asked Matilda.

  “Sometimes to catch criminals, fugitives,” said Francine.

  Gus doubted it. This wasn’t a roadblock. More likely, it was a shakedown. Gus recalled the first “roadblock” he’d encountered in Nigeria, during his first trip to Africa, several years ago. The Nigerian police officer, casually holding an AK-47, had asked him to identify himself and provide a driver’s license. Then the cop had searched the trunk of his car, looking to make sure he had a fire extinguisher, a warning triangle, and other documentation, insurance, and a roadworthiness certificate. Having all those things, Gus had thought he’d be free to go on his way. He’d been wrong. The policeman had made mention of how hot the weather was and Gus discerned that the man wanted money to buy himself a drink.

  “Can’t we go around them,” asked Matilda.

  The driver shook his head. “Not a good idea,” he said, decreasing the SUV’s speed.

  Matilda asked, “Why are we stopping?”

  “I’ll be back,” said the driver, cutting the engine before he exited the vehicle.

  Gus said, “Be prepared to pay a bribe.”

  Matilda asked, “Will the driver negotiate for us?”

  “A few US dollars from each of us should suffice,” said Gus, reaching for his small backpack, stored beneath the seat.

  “Not so sure about that,” said Francine.

  “Doesn’t seem as though the negotiations are going so well,” said Matilda.

  Concerned by the worry in Matilda’s tone, Gus looked up.

  Ahead, the village men made threatening advances toward the driver. Rolling down his window, Gus heard muffled, raised voices. Harsh, tense, angry words in the tribal language Gus had long since given up trying to understand invaded the interior of the SUV.

  “Are they arguing?” asked Matilda.

  “Negotiating,” Gus corrected, wanting to believe that was the truth, but not so sure. The driver, a burly tall, well-built man, normally confident, and macho, seemed to be cowering as the men surrounded him.

  “Sounds like an argument to me,” said Francine.

  “The driver probably insulted the leader with a low ball offer,” said Gus, annoyed by Francine’s unfounded conjecture. “The men probably know who we are. Wealthy westerners.”

  “Can’t we just pay them whatever they want so
we can pass?” asked Matilda, her voice tense with traces of panic.

  Gus tried to stay calm, and not allow Matilda’s panic to infect him, but he felt his annoyance dissipating, being replaced by apprehension.

  “Is there another road we can take?” Asked Matilda.

  Gus shook his head. No other road except the one they were on. They weren’t that far from the paved tarmac which led to the capital—to safety. Safety. His thought of the word bothered him. Was that why they’d been ordered to leave the compound? Was something not safe among the villages where they worked? If so, why not tell them? Maybe Weschenfelder hadn’t wanted to scare them.

  Shaking the apprehensive thoughts away, Gus struggled to remain logical. Nevertheless, he couldn’t stop thinking that they were so close to the paved road and yet so far away. And he couldn’t fathom why he felt a strange foreboding flooding him, seeping slowly into his veins.

  He’d experienced “roadblocks” before. He knew the rules, how the game was played. Pay, and you could go. This time would be no different. Or, would it?

  The men grew louder. As they pointed at the Range Rover, their words and shouting sounded like angry, rabid snarls. In the fading sunlight, their dark faces glistened, the fire from the burning torches casting shadows, making the men appear as ghoulish skeletons, with black sockets where there should have been eyes.

  The driver started to back away from the men, hands raised in surrender.

  “What’s happening?” asked Matilda.

  The driver dropped to his knees on the ground.

  Gus felt something in his chest drop like a stone into his gut where it twisted.

  One of the men, wielding a machete, swung it toward the kneeling driver.

  Matilda screamed as the driver’s head fell to the ground.

  Gus stifled a gasp as the headless body toppled over into the dirt.

  “We need to get out of here,” commanded Francine.

  Trembling, his heart hammering, Gus climbed over into the driver’s seat and reached for the ignition.

  “No keys!” Gus cried, anguish battling the apprehension. “He must have taken the keys when he got out of the car.”

  Francine cursed.

  “Oh, God, what do we do?” cried Matilda.

  Frozen, Gus stared at the women. They stared back at him, gazes haunted with panic and fear. They expected him to do something, he knew. As the director of the organization, and most importantly, he felt, as a man, he was expected to come up with and then carry out some bold, decisive action. But, what should he do? What could he do? What—

  Something smashed against the windshield.

  Matilda screamed.

  Gus whipped his head forward. The driver’s lifeless eyes stared at him seconds before the severed head bounced off the glass and rolled off the side of the hood.

  Repulsed and terrified, Gus recoiled. Matilda's screams intensified to an ear-splitting wail.

  “Do we have any weapons?” asked Francine, a determined tenacity in her voice, devoid of shrill hysterics.

  Still half frozen, Gus stammered, “I’m not sure. I don’t know.”

  “We’re going to die,” shouted Matilda, her eyes wide, glazed with a horrified fervor. “They’re going to kill us.”

  “Not if we stay calm,” said Francine. “We can’t give in to panic.”

  Gus was both envious of and impressed by Francine’s willingness to take charge. How was she so calm in the face of danger when he was about to shit his pants?

  “We may be able to ransom our lives,” said Francine. “How much money do we have?”

  “We need to run,” screeched Matilda. “I don’t want to die.”

  Matilda opened the SUV door.

  “Mattie wait.” Francine grabbed her. “You can’t—“

  “Let me go!” Possessed by hysteria, Matilda slapped Francine, yanked away from her, and jumped out of the SUV.

  Shocked, and secretly envious of Matilda’s self-preservation, Gus stared as she went running into the dark, dense pineapple fields.

  “Should we go after her?” asked Gus.

  “We have more pressing issues,” said Francine, pointing toward the windshield.

  Gus fought terror as a group of six or seven separated from the pack, rushing away from the old pick-up, heading toward the Range Rover.

  Francine said, “They must want money. We’ll give them every dime we have in exchange for the keys.”

  Gus tried to swallow his fear, but it wouldn’t stay down. The terror kept rising in his throat.

  “We can reason with them,” said Francine.

  Gus stared at the men as they came closer. Ten feet from the SUV, they strode with malicious purpose, like feral dogs on the hunt, searching for prey to tear from limb to limb. Two had torches. Three had machetes, one of which glistened with blood. Gus fought his gag reflex.

  “Do you think so?” asked Gus, embarrassed by how weak and plaintive his voice sounded.

  Francine said, “We have no choice. We’ll die if we don’t.”

  Turning in his seat, Gus said, “But, what if—”

  The back door was snatched open, nearly torn off by two of the village men.

  Francine yelled, commanding the men to take their hands off her but they ignored her harsh demands as they pulled her, screaming and kicking, from the SUV.

  Horrified, paralyzed with fear and self-loathing for his abject cowardice, Gus crouched beneath the steering wheel, hiding in the footwell as Francine protested the men’s savage treatment.

  The door slammed, the sound of it like a death knell, final and fatal, a foregone conclusion.

  As the shouts and screaming continued, Gus opened the driver’s door and slipped out of the SUV, feeling like a yellow-belly.

  His foot landed on something solid and yet spongy, and he nearly tripped. Glancing down, he saw the driver’s severed head and cried out, stumbling back, losing his footing, falling on his ass in the dirt. Flipping over onto his stomach, spitting dust and pebbles, Gus flattened himself and peered beneath the SUV.

  Francine’s pink satin ballet slippers were surrounded by a dozen smudged, dusty sneakers, the canvas frayed and the rubber soles splitting and torn.

  There was a conversation, words he couldn’t understand, and didn’t want to know, sounds like strange chanting, like invectives, and then more shouting, screaming, snarling, growling.

  Francine’s backpack dropped to the ground as the pink slippers rose up and out of sight.

  Gus belly-crawled around to the back of the truck and peeked around the rear left tire.

  Francine yelled for help, screaming his name over and over, like a mantra. The tone of her voice was at first a demand but soon became a whimpering plea. Gus was frozen. What could he do? He had no weapon, no formal training in any of the martial arts, no way to defend her. The driver, who was also their security guard, had been big and burly and strong and fearless and still had been overpowered and easily killed. What could Gus do in the face of an angry mob determined to carry out whatever shameless evil had invaded their collective consciences?

  There was nothing he could do, he thought, paralyzed with fear as the villagers carried out their heinous savagery.

  2

  Zanzibar

  Wiggling his toes in warm, white sand, Leo Bronson basked in the balmy, salty ocean breeze.

  Marveling at the brilliant blue sky and turquoise water, Leo sighed contentedly.

  Yesterday, he and Vivian Thomas, his girlfriend of the past three years, had flown to Zanzibar, a series of islands in the Indian Ocean located off the coast of Tanzania, in East Africa.

  Though technically rivals—he worked for the New York Times while Vivian shilled for the Washington Post—they often collaborated on stories, sharing sources and conducting joint investigations into the crime and corruption that was so prevalent in war-ravaged sub-Saharan Africa.

  Following several huge stories last month, they’d decided to take a weekend getaway to paradi
se. Yesterday, they had spent the day sightseeing. Sometimes arm and arm, other times holding hands, they took their time through the narrow streets of Stone Town, the capital, visiting craft shops, art galleries, fabric stalls, and quaint coffee shops. Without any worries about deadlines, they’d happily lost their way within the labyrinth of ancient streets.

  Early that morning, they’d left the capital, and after a trip down a picturesque road lined with banana palms, mangroves, and coconut trees, they’d arrived in Nungwi, at the northern tip of the island. Once settled in their vacation rental, a quaint cottage on the beach, surrounded by lush vegetation, they’d ventured out to the pristine white sand beach.

  Vivian was a complete mermaid and gravitated to the crystal clear waters, but Leo was fine with napping on a chaise, catching rays and thinking about nothing.

  Vivian walked out of the water, like Ursula Andres in that iconic cinematic scene from “Dr. No” as the afternoon sun blazed bright. Instantly aroused, Leo smiled and indulged in the spectacular sight of the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

  Smiling, squeezing water from her long braids, she walked toward him, hips swaying, her skin tanned to a golden caramel which contrasted perfectly with her white bikini. Leo had never believed in chance encounters until he met her, on a cruise of the Nile River, four years ago. As far as he was concerned, it was the best day of his life.

  If Leo ever changed his mind about getting married, Vivian would be the only woman he could imagine walking down the aisle toward him. But, he wasn’t going to change his mind about marriage, and besides, he was sure Viv felt the same way he did about holy matrimony. Their relationship was great. No need for a piece of paper to ruin things.