by Emma Castle
“I have the ginkgo leaf necklace. The one Amelia wore.” She unclasped it from her neck. “I can send you a picture. Her initials are engraved on the back.”
“Quite a few people knew about that necklace. She wore it every day. You could have faked a necklace just like that.” His tone was dismissive.
“And the signet ring, the one that belonged to your brother—”
“Another easy replication. The ring is a family heirloom, one well recorded. Many people knew what it looked like.” Cameron’s tone was hardening, more than two decades of anger and pain building behind his voice. But until he believed her about the plane, he would not believe the news about Thorne. That gave her a sudden idea.
“I have The Jungle Alphabet, the book Thorne had with him, along with a photo that was tucked inside.” She took the weathered book from her bag, having managed to clean it early that morning at Bwanbale’s house. “And I have Jacob’s journal from the cockpit. Please, let me text you a few pictures. Then call me back at this number. I have so much to share with you. I have the answers you need.”
“Very well, but don’t expect a call back. If you contact me again without permission, I will find out exactly who you are and you will face the consequences.”
“I understand, Lord Somerset.”
Cameron hung up, and Eden retrieved the alphabet book, the necklace, the ring, and the journal, as well as the family photo of Thorne with his parents. She took close-up pictures of each of the items, then sent the pictures to Cameron’s cell number. She anxiously waited.
After a few minutes, her phone rang.
“Hello?”
She heard nothing for a moment, then a world-weary sigh, as if he expected to be disappointed once again but had just enough hope left in him to try one more time.
“I’m listening, Ms. Matthews. Tell me everything.”
11
The moment Eden’s phone rang, she’d felt like a plucked string on a violin, vibrating with tension. But when he’d asked for her to tell him everything, that tension had ebbed away. He believed her.
“First of all, you should know that you can contact the US Embassy in Kampala to confirm my story. They’re following up on everything I’m about to tell you.”
“Very well, I’m sure I will. Proceed.”
“I was hiking in the Bwindi Impenetrable Forest with a group of tourists to see the gorillas. Our group went deep into the jungle and found the gorillas. But shortly after that . . .” She took a deep breath and once again relived that horrible day. A lump formed in her throat as she struggled to retell these memories.
“Ms. Matthews, you need not share the details if it pains you,” Cameron said in a gentlemanly tone that reminded her of Thorne.
“No, I’m afraid I have to.” She cleared her throat and wiped her eyes before she continued. “I was about to be shot, but a man rescued me. He literally came out of the jungle and killed the poachers with his bare hands. I thought he might kill me too, but he helped me instead. He took me to his home in the jungle.” She had to avoid some of the details; otherwise, her story would sound too fantastic to be believed. “When I had recovered, he took me to what he called the white rock. But it wasn’t a rock—it was a plane. The door was open, and when I went inside I found two sets of remains. One bore a signet ring and the other a ginkgo leaf necklace. I found the alphabet book on the floor, with the photo of your brother and his family tucked inside.” She paused, trying to decide how best to continue.
“And the journal?” Cameron questioned.
“That was in the cockpit.”
“You mentioned two bodies. There should have been a third, the pilot. And a small toddler’s body. Did you see either of those?” His tone was quiet, and Eden could hear his heartbreak.
“No. The pilot died in the crash. Your brother buried him. According to the journal, Jacob and Amelia lived for a couple of weeks in the wreck, waiting for rescue. As for the child . . .” Eden closed her eyes. “Lord Somerset, the man who rescued me, the man who showed me the plane . . . is your nephew. He survived.”
“Thorne!” Cameron uttered the name hoarsely, as if he suddenly was disgusted. “Ms. Matthews, now I know you’re lying. A toddler could not survive alone in the jungle.”
“He wasn’t alone. He was taken in by a family of gorillas.”
“A family of gorillas? You must think me mad to think I’ll believe that.”
“I have pictures of him.” From the laptop, she forwarded him one of Thorne facing her, smiling at the camera, but the line had already disconnected. Cameron Haywood hadn’t believed her—at least not about the most important part of all of this.
Eden had hoped to put these two broken family members back together, and she had failed. She had silently vowed that she would repay Thorne for saving her life, and the most important way would have been reuniting him with his family. That was the part that hurt most. The taste of defeat left her empty and cold inside. She’d been so hopeful, so sure that if he just looked at that picture of Thorne, he would have to believe her.
Eden closed the laptop and started to pack. Cara had texted her to let her know that her luggage had been picked up from the hotel in Mbarara and was now at her new room in Kampala. She would leave for the hotel straightaway and take a few more days to figure things out. She needed time to think about Thorne and what she should do next.
Cameron Haywood dropped his mobile onto his desk and buried his face in his hands. How dangerous a thing it was to hope. For a brief moment he had been full of it, hope of knowing the truth of Jacob, Amelia, and Thorne. But the young woman was just another charlatan. She’d lied with an exquisite perfection that had tricked him, until she grew too greedy.
Thorne, alive? Preposterous. It had to be some ploy, like Anna Anderson claiming to be the lost Princess Anastasia in the early twentieth century.
His phone vibrated, and he dragged his hands through his dark hair, pulling at the strands. Reluctantly, he looked at his phone. It was another text from Ms. Matthews, with an attachment. He knew better than to look, but damnation, hope was a hard thing to crush. He opened the text and saw a photograph.
For a second he simply stared at the picture’s subject. Then he reached for his glass of brandy on the desk. A good stiff drink would do him some good. But the second he lifted the glass up, his hand began to tremble so badly that he dropped the glass. It hit the hardwood floor and shattered.
His wife rushed into his study a few seconds later. “Darling?”
Cameron looked up from his phone. His wife joined him at his desk and bent to pick up the broken glass. Her gaze strayed to his phone.
“Is that a photo of Jacob? I haven’t seen that one before.” Isabelle smiled and then chuckled. “That hair . . . I bet when he met Amelia he had to cut it. He looks like he would have been at Woodstock.”
Cameron’s eyes drifted back to the phone and the face of the young man who looked exactly like Jacob except for his smile. It was softer, less rakish than Jacob’s, though it was no less charming. But it held a boyish innocence. It was a smile that reminded Cameron more of Amelia.
“No, it isn’t Jacob. You think it looks like him?” he asked Isabelle.
“Of course. You’re sure it isn’t him?” His wife picked up his phone and examined it closely. “I suppose it’s not, but look at that cleft chin, those blue eyes.” She placed a loving hand on his shoulder. Then she bit her lip. “If it’s not Jacob, then who is it?”
He took a long, slow breath. “It just might be his son.”
Isabelle gasped. “Cam, what on earth . . . ?”
Cameron pulled his wife down on his lap, suddenly desperate to hold her, as he told her about the call from Eden Matthews. He showed her the photos of the artifacts and admitted how he’d hung up when Ms. Matthews had said Thorne was alive.
“I didn’t believe her. How could I? Wouldn’t we have found him by now? How could he have survived all these years if he was alone?”
“But he wasn’t—the woman said he was raised by gorillas.”
“Isabelle, you can’t believe that, surely. Wild animals don’t just raise human foundlings. Thorne did not grow up like Mowgli from Kipling’s The Jungle Book.”
“Mowgli was raised by wolves,” Isabelle noted. “But I see your point. It’s difficult to believe. And yet . . .” His wife stared at the photo of the young man with long hair and was silent for a moment. Then she tapped the screen. “As impossible as this may seem, darling, I think we need to call Ms. Matthews back and arrange for a DNA test with this man. It would tell us straightaway what we have. If it’s a confidence game they’re playing at, they will look for some excuse not to allow it, and no doubt will miraculously forget how to find the plane.”
Isabelle was right. And if this was an elaborate ruse, by God they would feel his wrath and see the next years of their lives in prison. But if it wasn’t . . .
“Very well.” Cameron dialed the number, but it went to voice mail. “Ms. Matthews, this is Cameron Haywood. I’ve seen the picture you sent of the man. I would like to arrange for a DNA test to be run at your earliest convenience. I would also like a team to be sent to the plane crash site to verify the wreck. Please call me back.” After he hung up, he placed the mobile on the desk and wrapped his arms around his wife, holding her close.
Was it possible that Thorne might be alive, after all these years? Cameron’s heart quivered at the thought. Jacob’s little boy might come home. He would be the Earl of Somerset, and Cameron could, over time, release some of the duties of the title to the boy, until he was ready and able to fully assume his position as the earl. Cameron had never wanted the title, nor had his wife. All he’d wanted was for his family to be alive. Jacob and Amelia were gone, but Thorne? Thorne could come home.
Hope could be a dangerous thing, like tinder beneath dry logs. Once a spark was lit, it caught fire, burning brightly into the night.
Jean Carillet followed Archibald Holt through the jungle, toward the site of the killings. Even though Holt hadn’t been there with him, he seemed to know where to go better than Jean did, even without the expensive GPS devices they both held, but that shouldn’t have surprised him. Holt had lived in Uganda for more than twenty years. Holt had a fancy manor house in England, but he spent nearly all his time here in Uganda. He’d been only twenty when he’d first come here to hunt for gold and diamonds.
“Up there!” Jean recognized a peculiar growth hugging a tree that was shaped like a fork. Holt pressed on, and in another dozen feet, a rotting smell overwhelmed them as the hum of hundreds of flies grew so loud that Jean nearly emptied the contents of his stomach.
The bodies of the tourists mixed with those of Holt’s men lay strewn everywhere. Decay and the environment had set in, bloating the bodies, though no large animals had scavenged them as of yet.
Holt examined the surroundings, unmoved by the sight of so many corpses.
“You bloody fool,” Holt growled as he kicked Cash’s leg.
Jean flinched at Holt’s impotent anger, which was unmarred by any other emotions than frustration and disappointment.
“We need to move Cash’s body. He’s the only one who could be tied to my company.” Holt nodded at Cash’s body. “Leave the rest where they lie.”
Despite the corpse’s bloating, it was clear that Cash’s neck had been snapped. Holt seemed to notice the same thing.
“You’re right, Carillet. No animal would do this.” He pointed down at a very human-looking footprint, made by a bare foot. “Someone hunted them down, someone human. Are you sure it wasn’t someone from the Batwa tribe? I know they were pushed out of the forests and national parks, but I wouldn’t be surprised if a few still hid out here.”
Jean remembered hearing how the ancient hunter-gatherer Batwa tribes had been displaced all over Rwanda, Uganda, and Burundi, all for the sake of park development, but he personally hadn’t seen any evidence of the tribes during the six months he’d been here.
“I’m quite positive it wasn’t the Batwa.”
“Then we face a much bigger problem, don’t we?” Holt said, his tone hard-edged.
Jean didn’t know if Holt told him this to reassure him that he wasn’t going mad, or if he wanted to scare Jean with the idea of some madman running about the forest.
“Grab his legs,” Holt ordered as he reached for Cash’s arms. “We’ll carry him to the river.”
Jean grabbed Cash’s booted feet, and they began to drag the body between them. They were about a hundred yards away when they heard voices shouting in the woods.
“Drop him behind this thicket and get down.” Holt shoved Jean down to a low crouch as they hid.
Through the tangle of branches, Jean made out a group of ten people approaching the clearing where the other bodies were.
“Here they are! Just like she said!” one man shouted. Then he got on his radio. Holt reached for a radio on his belt and turned it on, keeping the volume low as he scanned the channels until he found the one the man was speaking on.
“This is Landry. We found the site where Ms. Matthews said the massacre took place. Stand by for details . . .” There was a pause, and then he continued. “I see seven tourists and two guides, but there’s at least three other bodies here, all armed. They must be the poachers. No signs of bullet wounds, though. The guy killed the bastards with his bare hands. Jesus . . .”
“Landry, send in your GPS coordinates, and we’ll get a recovery team out to you as soon as possible,” the man over the radio ordered.
“Copy that.” Landry clicked the radio back on his belt and pulled out his GPS device.
Holt turned his radio off so no one would hear it if it picked up any chatter. “Come on, we need to move.” Jean helped him resume dragging Cash’s body toward the river.
“You didn’t tell me that bitch Cash was going to kill survived,” Holt said once they were far enough away to not be seen or heard.
Jean hoisted Cash’s legs even higher to step over a fallen log. “I didn’t know. I assumed that whatever creature had killed Cash and the others would have killed her too.”
Holt’s cold blue eyes met Jean’s for a long moment, until Jean wondered with dread if Holt might shoot him and toss him into the river too.
“You will help me find this Matthews woman, and she’s going to have a little accident, understood? She might have heard something that ties back to me, and we need to make sure that any details she might remember die with her.”
“Oui, Monsieur Holt,” Jean murmured, his stomach knotted as they carried Cash’s corpse deeper into the dark jungle.
Thorne couldn’t stop staring at his reflection in the mirror Afiya held up. He looked strange. His long dark hair had only ever been shorn with sharp bits of shale until Bwanbale had given him a knife. Even then, the task had not been all that much easier.
Afiya and her scissors, as he learned the blades were called, had effortlessly created a great change in his appearance. Now his hair was just barely above his ears in places, though it still fell in his eyes. When he had questioned Afiya about why she had left it long enough to cover his eyes, she laughed and told him that Eden would prefer it this way, that it made him very attractive to women. Thorne didn’t care about women—he only cared about what Eden thought.
“There. You look good.” Afiya chuckled and headed back to the kitchen to put her scissors away.
Thorne turned to Bwanbale. “You agree? This is good?”
“It is.” He flashed Thorne a mischievous smile. “Eden will definitely approve.” Bwanbale suddenly tensed as something in his pocket buzzed. He pulled it out. Thorne recognized it as something called a cell phone. Bwanbale had explained it to him, along with some other devices like the TV, something Thorne vaguely remembered having watched as a child. He also remembered phones, but he thought you were supposed to talk to them. This Bwanbale seemed to read instead.
“It’s Eden,” Bwanbale said. “She says she is moving out of t
he embassy to a hotel.”
“A hotel?” The new word made him restless. Was this yet another obstacle he would face in order to get to his mate?
“This is good news, old friend. You will not have as hard a time reaching her. Come, we’ll leave now and be there in a few hours if I drive fast.”
“Shouldn’t you tell Eden he is coming?” Afiya asked.
Bwanbale flashed a grin at her, then Thorne. “My heart, you forget young love. Surprises are best for romance.”
“What is romance?” Thorne asked suspiciously.
His friend chuckled. “Mating is what I believe you call it. We will surprise Eden.”
Afiya rolled her eyes. “I hope you do not make her angry. A heartbroken woman doesn’t always like surprises.”
“Not even good ones?” Bwanbale challenged with a teasing chuckle at her before he kissed her and Dembe goodbye.
Then Bwanbale took Thorne to a massive strange object outside that made Thorne grin as he recognized it.
“Truck!” he exclaimed. Memories of holding a tiny truck as big as a child’s hand came back to him. He remembered he used to play with the toy truck.
“It’s good to see you remember more words, but you have many more to learn if you wish to be out in the world.”
Thorne nodded solemnly. He needed to leave the language of the birds behind and speak the language of men and women.
As Bwanbale drove, Thorne listened to all the advice his friend could give him. It was a little hard to focus on what Bwanbale said at times, because Thorne was distracted by being inside a moving vehicle for the first time since he was three. The roads were bumpy, and the old leather of the seat squeaked as he shifted on it, but there was something intrinsically fun about the experience that had him grinning the entire time.
“Are you listening, Thorne?” Bwanbale’s laughing question pulled Thorne away from staring out the window as they flew past faster than he could ever move on foot.