“Thank God, or you’d have killed me.” He rubbed an unconscious hand over his stomach, took one slow, deep breath, and then another. “Swing like that ought to be registered as a weapon.”
“Pushing people around who are smaller than you…” She blew her nose. “Well, maybe you’ll think twice next time.”
“I will.”
“Serves you right. But you made me lose my temper, and I hate that!”
“I’m sorry.”
You’ve got me bawling, like a baby, and I can’t stop!”
“I said, I’m sorry.”
“Well, just…” She sniffed, again. And then hiccupped (for heaven’s sake!). “Just save your apologies for your wife and kids and let me go back to my tour! Or, home even! I’m that upset.”
“I can’t let you go, yet, Meg.”
“Why, because you need me to smuggle more illegal documents for you? Take me to the consulate. I want to talk to the ambassador!”
“Listen.” He took another deep breath, let it out slowly, and got gingerly to his feet. “I didn’t put that thing in your bag, Pop did.”
“I don’t believe it! And there’s not a thing you can say to…”
“It wasn’t my signature on the bottom of that deed.” He reached for her arm and helped her up. “It was his.”
“I’m not going!”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’d rather go to jail!”
“No, you wouldn’t.” He resituated her duffel and his backpack on his other shoulder. “Will you please not make me force you? I’m a little worn out myself after all this.”
Megan took a deep breath of her own, held her chin up (like a good martyr) and rose slowly to her feet. She put the tissue into her pocket, but had to take it out again when she realized she was still wearing the same clothes since yesterday, and succumbed to another jag of tears. Tom held onto her arm as they started walking, but it was more to steer her clear of obstacles than drag her along this time.
When they came to the glass doors that led outside, he held the nearest one open for her. “And I don’t have any wife, or kids,” he informed her as she went through ahead of him, still sniffing. “Don’t think I’ll even be tempted after this experience.”
They took the first taxi he could flag down.
It was old and run down and smelled like grease. The windows were either open all the way or missing, and an uncomfortably warm humidity that seemed practically stifling hung heavily around them. And it was rush hour. The streets were crowded with people coming and going everywhere. Horns honking, loud music spilling out of dingy little bars and nightclubs they passed. This was not the Africa Meg had come to see.
The taxi driver was a heavyset older man with a bald head and a face that reminded her of a raisin. When he smiled, one of his teeth was gold. Tom rattled off an address as if he had done it a dozen times and knew right where he wanted to go. Which seemed very suspicious, under the circumstances, and made her uncomfortable all over, again.
“I thought you said we were going to sit at the airport and check every flight in from St. Louis,” she accused. “Now, where are we going?”
“Somewhere I can pick up a car. We’ve got to drive to Akosombo. Pop talked a friend into taking him there in a private plane so he could avoid being detained at customs. We have better connections there.”
“So, if you already heard from him, why do I have to go? He told you I was innocent, right? Did you even ask him? Hopefully you mentioned I’ve been accused of smuggling, now! “
“I haven’t heard from him, personally. Only Mother has, and she has a tendency to get overly excited about things.” He reached for his wallet and removed several bills. “He told her he was robbed. And since you had everything he said was stolen…”
He paused to lean forward as the cab pulled in toward the curb and handed the money to the driver. They were stopped in front of a rundown car lot that also had several goats and chickens meandering around the yard (right in the middle of the city). How long was this nightmare going to continue?
Meg slid across the seat to get out on the curb side, and refused Tom’s outstretched hand to assist her. But she didn’t let herself lag very far behind when he turned and entered the building: there were several strange-looking characters milling around the sidewalk in front of the entrance. A little bell on the door rang as they came in, and after a few moments, a dark man in a red t-shirt that said Uhuru on it, entered from a door behind the counter. Meg had seen that word before, but she couldn’t remember what it meant.
“Tom Anderson!” A white, brilliant smile in a handsome face.
“Hello, Mick.” They shook hands.
“Welcome, welcome! I didn’t expect you until next week.”
“Something came up, and I’m in need of a quick ride to Akosombo.” He set their bags on the counter. “Can you do it?”
“I can. But man, that road! Hard rains the last few days and it’s not so good over the mountain.”
“What’s it doing raining so hard this time of year?”
“You tell me. The whole planet is going crazy. My cousin says the road crews are out, but I don’t know how far they are. Might make it if you take it slow, though.”
“Well, I have to get there, so I’ll take my chances.” He reached for his wallet. “Give me something that can handle it.”
“I always do, my man. I always do.” He turned away to retrieve a set of keys from a row of others on a cork wallboard before stepping up to an outdated computer to begin typing in information with a quick agility. He hit the execute button, and as a printer under the counter began to tap out the paperwork in a steady hum, he looked up and flashed Meg a smile.
“First trip?”
She nodded, waiting for some off-color remark about her relationship with Tom. Well, she wasn’t going to say a word…not one word. Let him do the explaining this time, she was tired of it all.
“Freedom,” Mick explained to her as he reached back under the counter for the paperwork and then slid it across with a pen so that Tom could sign. “It means freedom. But it is also the name of a music group. And so the drums.”
There were two large drums under the black lettering on his shirt, and she had been staring at them. “I see,” she murmured, trying at least to be polite. After all, it wasn’t his fault that she was in this predicament.
“You shall have to hear them sometime when you get back this way.”
He led them out a side door then, and pointed towards an ancient jeep that not only looked like something left over from the world war, but also seemed as if it had been pieced together from several different vehicles. Tom tossed their things into the back and opened the passenger door for Meg. Then he went over to where Mick was taking five-gallon cans of gasoline out of a shed and began to help carry them. They set three in the area behind the back seat that opened from the outside.
“Good luck, my friend,” said Mick as they shook hands, again.
“Thanks.” Tom opened the door and climbed in. “I have a feeling we’ll need it.”
“Goodbye, lady friend.” He smiled at Meg through the open window as he closed the door after Tom. “Stay out of the jungle at night.”
“I’ll try.” His ready friendliness made the situation seem a little less sinister, somehow.
****
That melancholy time between light and dark didn’t last long in the tropics. By the time Tom had made a second stop on the outskirts of the city for some fresh fruit and bottled water, along with a box of crackers and canned American cheese to take along, night had fallen. Meg refused the offerings. She wasn’t hungry (how could she be under circumstances like this?). Things were growing worse by the minute.
She knew it was going to be a long drive, and she was not looking forward to it. The engine was noisy, and a distinct smell of gasoline seemed to waft in through the windows after every acceleration. It was still uncomfortably hot and humid, and the longing for a cool shower was almo
st overpowering at this point. She hadn’t slept in a decent bed for days, and suddenly she was close to tears, again. Of all things…why…she hadn’t been this emotional in years!
She reached into her bag sitting on the seat between them, and rummaged around in the dark for her package of tissue. Tom took a long swallow from a bottle of water he had been drinking and then set it back into a plastic cup holder that looked as if it had been added as an improvement sometime back in the eighties.
“Why don’t you crawl into the back seat and try to get some sleep, Meg. Should be a better breeze back there with all the windows down. It’ll cool off more once we get higher up the mountain, too.”
“Why do I think you’ve done this before?”
“I’ve done it quite a few times. Our company has some business going with one of the towns up here, and we make the trip every couple years. Don’t worry about what Mick said about the road, I know where I’m going.”
He didn’t have to offer twice. At least she could stretch out back there, and she wouldn’t have to keep up appearances. She really didn’t care what he thought about her anymore. Looks weren’t everything. Which just goes to show how low a person can go when they let themselves slip into a decline. Her own behavior over the last forty-eight hours had shocked even herself. Why she had broken nearly half of all those personal rules she had kept under control for years!
By all rights, she should probably at least help him stay awake. Especially since the faster they found that errant professor (who had some definite explaining to do, in her estimation), the faster she could get back to being her own normal self. The trouble was, she wasn’t exactly sure who that was anymore. But there was one thing she did know. Any person who could be accused of a felony, practically kidnapped and hauled across two countries by an intimidating stranger without losing her mind entirely, had to at least be halfway stable. Maybe even commendable. And who was to say she wouldn’t come out of these trying experiences a stronger and better person because of them?
That’s what they always said in church, anyway. That trials and tribulations made you stronger. Well, if they did, Meg decided, (as she plumped up her duffel to use as a pillow) she ought to be feeling like one of those Amazon women by now. Considering the fact that there was little left that could be worse, she gratefully surrendered herself to the welcome escape of total exhaustion, with a comforting assurance that if the car broke down, or even ran itself into a ditch…it could wait until tomorrow to be dealt with.
No, let Tom Anderson deal with it.
Gold Trap
11
End of the Road
“Clearly that road was not yet really healthy…”
Mary Kingsley
Meg fell asleep to an unending series of bumps and jolts, twists and turns, and an endless changing of ancient gears that ushered her into welcome oblivion. But, in what seemed like only moments later, she woke to a fragrant, humid warmth that had replaced the stifling heat of the night. A slight almost cool breeze moved across her face. Was she dreaming? When she opened her eyes, it was only to be met with a ragged tear hanging from the cracked and aging canvas-topped jeep, which reminded her exactly where she was.
But it was much too quiet.
The first thing she saw when she pulled herself up to look over the front seat was that Tom Anderson was not there. The second thing she saw made her gasp and lean as far over as she could to gaze up through the windshield with an astonished, “Uh-oh…oh…oh, dear!”
An enormous tree had fallen across the road and now towered nearly ten feet in front of them without any possible way around. On the driver’s side, a steep, heavily wooded hillside barred their way, and on the other, an equally steep embankment that tumbled off toward…she stuck her head out the open window on the passenger side. It was a wide lazy river that looked like a molten strand of silver in the early morning sun. It lay some several hundred feet below. And there in the crook of the closest bend an entire herd of hippos were lounging in the cool depths. She could faintly hear the explosive blasts of air as they surfaced. Why, they sounded like whales when they came up! Yet, they also honked at each other like giant, deep-throated geese. The incredible scene nearly took her breath away.
“That’s a lot more worth filming than an airport runway,” Tom spoke quietly beside her, and she only just then noticed that he had been leaning against the side of the car, eating an orange, and watching the antics of the faraway herd, himself.
Meg ducked her head back inside, and her fingers fairly trembled trying to get her camera out. Then she opened the door to step outside. Now, this was what she had come for, this was the Africa she wanted to take back with her! But who knew how long she would have to capture the moment? And what was it she’d read in the book about filming at such distances? No time to look things up, now, because if the herd didn’t move out of sight around the bend, Tom Anderson could very well take a notion to…
“You have a tripod?” he asked.
“Yes, but…”
“It’s the only way you can keep it stable this far away. Then you can use the zoom to close in.” He set his half-eaten orange on the roof of the car and wiped any remaining moisture on his pant leg before taking the camera. “Want to be in the picture?”
“Heavens no, not looking like this.” She leaned back into the car long enough to pull her duffel across the seat and unzip it to search out the tripod.
“You look fine. Besides, you can cut out anything you don’t like later on.”
“Well, I’d have to cut out everything but my lower half, because I don’t want anyone to recognize me.” She brought out the black and silver stand that was telescoped into itself several times and held tightly together with a compact clip.
“Nothing to do with gold, I hope.”
“Oh, honestly! Is my name J.T. Anderson? You’re the one who ought to be worried. Manhandling me across the country like some…” She had never assembled the two items before, and reached for her glasses to give the bottom of the camera a closer inspection. They weren’t on her head. With hardly a second thought, she handed the things to Tom and climbed into the back seat, again, to see where they might have fallen off during the night.
“Well, it’ll be a relief if all I have to do is apologize. Nothing could make me happier.”
“What?” She backed out with the glasses in hand, but by that time he had already set everything up a few feet away on the edge of the road. “Don’t tell me you’re finally starting to believe me!”
“To tell you the truth,”—he leaned down to peer through the lens for a moment— “I believed you the first time you called Gilbert a nincompoop. Only someone who had Pop’s complete confidence would have been let in on that opinion.”
Meg was shocked. “Then, why, in heaven’s name, did you drag me all the way up here?”
He straightened and looked over at her. “You mean, in spite of every piece of evidence pointing to you? Probably because I had the worst feeling the minute I let you out of my sight, something terrible would happen.”
“Tom Anderson!” She stamped her foot. “The only terrible thing that’s happened to me in the last twenty-four hours has been you!”
“Don’t let’s start arguing, again, Meg. It’s too nice a morning. Now, do you want to be in the picture, or not.”
“I do, but I have to put something different on,” she finally replied.
“Well, hurry up before the light changes.”
What else could she do? She wanted that footage, and she might never get such an opportunity again. Especially if she missed every sanctuary and mini-safari in the tour, only to catch up with them when they ended up in Accra. Now, here she was with Tom Anderson not only waiting for her to take pictures, but actually helping.
And that’s how it happened that Meg’s opinion of him suddenly changed as quickly as a coin flipping over onto the other side. What’s more, that momentary flash of temper melted into a mixture of gratitude and the most t
olerant sort of faith in his blustery, but enthusiastic approach to situations. He certainly knew how to get things done. Which left her without feeling the slightest need to explain any of her actions to him. Something that, after the stress of the last two days, was actually quite a relief.
She took her duffel around to the other side of the jeep and removed her Victorian outfit. She put on the black cotton blouse with long sleeves and high collar, and the matching mid-length skirt. She exchanged her sandals for the riding boots and fastened a wide leather belt around her waist. Tom was involved filming the herd by the time she came around, again, and stopped only long enough to give a quick inspection. As if he wasn’t the least bit surprised to see her looking like that.
On the contrary, he reached out and took the glasses from the top of her head, and then, on impulse, it seemed, brushed the curls away from her face. “Where’s your hat?” he asked.
“She wouldn’t wear that kind of hat.”
“But she wore her hair up most of the time. So you better put it back like it was, yesterday.”
Meg stopped fumbling with the antique broach she was trying to pin at her collar, and cast him a questioning glance. Taking it as an appeal for assistance, he put her glasses into his shirt pocket, and then slipped two fingers between her neck and the thin cotton collar before pinning and fastening the clasp. Her pulse quickened at the brush of his fingers, and he answered the response as if she had accused him aloud.
“It was only to keep from pinning it to your throat, miss priss.” Then he turned back to the camera. “For someone who wants to jump into the shoes of Mary Kingsley, you’ve got the inhibitions of a…”
“Tom Anderson, you’ve been reading my journal!”
“Under the circumstances, it would have been foolish not to when I saw the opportunity.”
“You said you believed me since yesterday! In which case you had no right…”
“Believed you were the lady at the cafe.”
Meg gasped.
Gold Trap Page 9