A Whisper of Danger

by Catherine Palmer

  The boy turned a pair of wide violet eyes on him. “Are you a treasure hunter, too?”

  “I’m a marine archaeologist, Splint. There’s a big difference.”

  Hunky snorted. “Ach, it’s a fancy name for the very same thing. McTaggart searches the seawaters for shipwrecks, same as I do. And when he can’t find any of his own, he comes pestering me to have a look at mine. Then he gets out all his fancy books and charts and pipes and chains—and he slows me down to a snail’s pace. What I could do in a month, he stretches out to a year.”

  “What you could do in a month,” Rick countered, “is blast a ship’s fragile timbers to smithereens with your airlift, shatter conglomerate with a hammer, and haul off truckloads of valuable but undocumented historical data to throw in your warehouse and sell to the first antiques dealer who shows his face at your door.”

  “Now, listen here, McTaggart—”

  “You listen to me, Wallace—”

  “Can I go out to the wreck with you?” The boy’s voice cut through the argument. “I’m a good swimmer, and I could help you—”

  “Absolutely not.”

  The words spoken from the stairway in the hallway at the far end of the courtyard drew the attention of every man at the table. Rick swung around, and there stood Jessie. Jessie with her hair cut short and shining red brown in the sunshine. Jessie with her violet eyes rimmed in long, black lashes. Jessie with a yellow T-shirt over a gathered skirt of gauzy fabric in every shade of the rainbow. Beautiful Jessica. His wife.

  “Did I give you permission to come down here, Spencer?” she asked the boy, her voice tight. “Get upstairs this minute.”

  “But I’m eating breakfast.”

  “Upstairs.” One long arm shot out, a finger pointed at the rear staircase. “Now.”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  The word skittered down Rick’s spine like cold marbles. Mom. Jessica Thornton was a mother? He watched the boy push away from the table and plod sullenly toward the steps. How old was the kid? Eight? Ten? He had no idea. Had Jessie remarried? And what was she doing in Zanzibar . . . at Uchungu House . . . with Hunky Wallace?

  “Jessie,” he began.

  “I have one thing to say, Mr.Wallace,” she interrupted, her eyes trained on the Scotsman. “I want you and every single one of your men out of my house now. This is my home and my land. I want you all to get in your trucks and leave me alone.”

  “Now then, lass, you’ve a grand knot in your knickers, haven’t you?” Hunky stood and rubbed his hands over his bare belly. “What have we done to distress you? We’re merely eating our breakfast before we set out to sea. And you might like to know that we’ve been joined by an esteemed representative of the Tanzanian government. May I present Mr. Richard McTaggart? Rick, this is Ms. Jessica Thornton, the new owner of Uchungu House.”

  “We’ve met,” she said, never taking her eyes from Wallace. “Look, I don’t care about your shipwreck. I just want you off my property.”

  “You may not care about the wreck, but the government does. Isn’t that true, Mr. McTaggart?”

  “That’s true.” It was all Rick could make himself say. His mouth felt as dry as an old sea sponge. He could hardly believe he was standing in the same room with Jessie again. After all these years . . .

  “The government has papers,” Hunky told her. “Important documentation of their regulations. Don’t they, Mr. McTaggart? They’ve a right to explore the wreck.”

  “I don’t care who explores the wreck,” she said. “Just don’t come onto my property again.”

  “Listen to me now, lass.” Hunky put a hand on Jessie’s elbow and turned her toward the door. “Why don’t you just come with me and see what I’ve got to show you? You’ll understand in a minute how vital this shipwreck is. And you’ll see why Wallace Diving, Ltd., and the Tanzanian government have no choice but to . . .”

  Rick watched as Hunky led Jessie out of the courtyard toward the front verandah. He picked up a napkin and mopped his forehead. Jessica. Here in Zanzibar.

  So he hadn’t imagined it. She was living here in the old artist’s house. She had a son. And she despised Rick McTaggart. Above all else, that last fact could not be denied. She hated him. Hated him so much she couldn’t even bring herself to look at him.

  He couldn’t blame her. He’d walked out on their marriage years ago. How many years? He couldn’t even remember. He’d been a kid, and things had been so . . . so confusing. So mixed up. At the time he hadn’t known much of anything except that he loved Jessica Thornton. Loved her and was hurting her. Loved her and couldn’t satisfy her. Loved her and would eventually destroy her.

  “You’re the guy my mom barfed on.”

  The voice at his elbow brought Rick back to reality. A pair of eyes the same luminous blue violet as Jessie’s scrutinized him. “Hey, Splint,” Rick said. “Gonna have another go at breakfast?”

  “I guess so. My mom’s weird, isn’t she? You’ll just have to get used to her. She goes along fine for a while, and then all of a sudden she heads off on an emotional tangent.”

  “An emotional tangent?” The boy’s choice of words brought a smile to Rick’s mouth.

  “You know. She starts crying for no reason. Or she blows her top over some little thing. I chalk it up to her artistic temperament.”

  “Your mother’s an artist?”

  “Ever heard of the Kima the Monkey series? You know, Kima the Monkey and the Appalling Anteater, Kima the Monkey and the Brilliant Baboon, Kima the Monkey and the Crafty Crocodile. James Perrott writes them, and my mom illustrates. They’ve won scads of awards. They’re working on the Irritable Impala, and that’s why we moved to Africa. Mom thinks she’ll paint better here.”

  “So . . . uh . . . where’s your dad?”

  “Who knows? He’s been out of the picture a long time.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Hey, let’s check out the beach. I can’t wait to go swimming.”

  “You’re a good swimmer?” Rick walked beside the boy through the cool interior of the house. He felt off-kilter. Like he had stepped onto a boat on a stormy ocean. Nothing looked quite right. Nothing seemed exactly the way it had before.

  Who was this Spencer Thornton? Could the boy possibly be his own son? No, of course not. Jessie hadn’t been expecting a baby when they separated. She would have told him about something as important as that. Wouldn’t she?

  He had to talk to her. Now. Had to straighten everything out. After all these years . . . How many years?

  “I was on the swim team at my school in London,” Splint was saying. “I won a lot of races. I even earned a certificate in lifesaving. I may be skinny, but I’m strong for my age.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Ten. You?”

  “I’m thirty-one.”

  “Getting up there, aren’t you? I guess after a while a man has to rely on his intellect. The body starts to cave in, and the brain’s all you’ve got to work with. So, how did you get to be a marine archaeologist anyway?”

  They had reached the edge of the cliff that bordered the sea. A sturdy fence ran along the perimeter where the lawn of thick grass suddenly dropped a hundred feet down a coral precipice to the sandy beach below. Rough steps had been carved into the cliff, and a corroded iron railing was embedded in concrete to form a handrail.

  At the thought of the boy starting down those narrow, uneven steps, a jolt of protective fear ran through Rick’s chest. He put out a hand. “Hold up a second, Splint. You’d better wait right here until your mom gets back from her tour. She may not want you taking those steps on your own.”

  The boy shot him a look of utter disbelief. “I’m not hanging around up here in the yard. The swimming’s down there.” He grabbed the handrail and started down the steps two at a time. “You sound just like my mom. Gosh, you guys are two of a kind.”

  Jessica dug her bare toes into the sand. A playful breeze tugged at her skirt, flipping it this way and that around her calve
s. On any other day, she might have felt utter ecstasy. The beach below Uchungu House was magnificent. A crescent of shimmering white sand, it was rimmed on one side by tall palm trees and on the other by the lapping turquoise waves of the Indian Ocean. High cliffs bordered the semicircle of beach, and where the sand ended, sheer rock precipices ran out into the water to form the arcs of an almost perfect circle. At the far end of the bay, the cliffs stopped abruptly, leaving an opening to the wide blue sea.

  “There’s a reef between those cliffs,” Hunky Wallace said, his thick finger drawing a line across the ocean’s horizon. “A reef of coral so sharp and jagged not a shark can pass over it. You’ve your own grand swimming pool here, lass. As safe and protected as any bathtub.”

  “Fine. I’m glad to hear it.”

  “That reef keeps out not only the sharks. A hundred years ago, more or less, it caused the destruction of a grand sailing bark whose bones lie rotting on the floor of your lovely bathtub. Now, if the bark couldn’t cross the reef, you can be sure no little treasure hunter’s rig can cross it either. In fact, I was forced to lower my diving boat over the cliff—and let me assure you, that was no easy matter. It took winches, pulleys, a large crane, and twice my normal crew. That killer reef is the sole reason the bark has lain undiscovered these many years.”

  “How did you find it?”

  “A good treasure hunter lives and dies on rumors. Tales. Whispers around a saloon table. Like every other seaman in the area, I’d heard stories of gold coins washed ashore on the beach below Uchungu House—not to mention a hundred other Zanzibar beaches. The old artist, God rest his soul, wouldn’t allow anyone to have a look in his bay. After his death, I was the first man out there, and within a couple of weeks I’d found the ballast. Now I’ve located the wreck itself, and a fine specimen it is.”

  “I’m happy for you. I just don’t want you bothering—”

  “We’ll be no bother to you, lass. But you must understand that my crew and I cannot approach the wreck except by way of your drive, your front garden, your cliff-side stairway, and your lovely beach. Without your permission and cooperation, our task is impossible.”

  “Look, I’m sorry, but—”

  “You mustn’t discount the importance of the Tanzanian government’s interest in this project. I assure you I’ve stood up to the bureaucracy many a time, and I’m not afraid of a good fight. But I can tell you one thing: Richard McTaggart is not a man to let go of things easily. If he wants something— truly wants it—he’ll have it.”

  Jess thought of her whirlwind romance with Rick. His unbridled passion. His determination to make her his wife. And his easy saunter out of her life. Not a man to let go? Rick McTaggart was the quintessential quitter.

  “You sound very sure of yourself, Mr. Wallace,” she said. “Maybe you haven’t known McTaggart very long.”

  “That man has dogged me for years about one wreck or another. I’ve never successfully outwitted Rick McTaggart. And now that he knows there’s a virgin find in your bay, he’ll be after it until he’s got it all staked out, tagged, and recorded. I mean to have in on that business, lassie, and I’m not a man to turn loose of things either. You’d do well to pack away your privacy for a few weeks and let us have at the wreck.”

  Jess crossed her arms and stared into the treasure hunter’s eyes. “You don’t know McTaggart as well as you think. And you don’t know me at all. I guarantee I’ll get him off my back, and when he’s gone, you’ll have no choice but to leave me in peace too.”

  Anger, fear, and bitterness curled into a hard ball inside her stomach as she turned from Wallace and started toward the steps. Tears stung the corners of her eyes. She didn’t know why she’d bothered to pray the night before. It hadn’t done a bit of good. It never did. Look at this mess! Rick was back in her life. This stupid wreck was causing trouble. Things couldn’t be worse.

  At that moment Splinter bounded down from the bottom step on the cliff wall and jumped barefoot onto the white sand. Spotting his mother, he threw up his arms and danced around in crazy circles.

  “Our beach!” he shouted. “Mom, this whole place is ours! It’s great! It’s the best!”

  He raced across the sand, slammed into her with a bear hug that almost knocked her down, and turned her around and around. Unable to resist his joy, she wrapped both arms around her son and allowed him to dance them toward the water.

  “I love this place!” he said. “I love Zanzibar. You’re the best mom in the world! I’m going in, okay? Okay?”

  “Sure,” she said with a laugh. “Go on. Mr. Wallace says it’s safe. Just stay where I can see you.”

  “Come on, Hunky!” Splinter shouted over her shoulder. “Come on in. I’ll show you how long I can stay under. I won first place at the swim meet last year!”

  Before she could catch her son and tell him she didn’t want him anywhere near the treasure hunter, Splint grabbed the man’s hand and began tugging him toward the ocean. Chuckling, Hunky Wallace tore off his white hat, tossed it onto the beach, and splashed into the tide behind Splinter.

  “Looks like he’s found a friend.”

  She would have known Rick’s voice anywhere. Jess swung around to find him standing on the sand two paces away. Her joy evaporated.

  “I have just one thing to say to you,” she said, unable to make herself meet his gaze. “Get off my land. Stay away from my son. And take your treasure-hunter friend with you.”

  “That’s three things.”

  She looked at him for the first time since the afternoon before. Her breath caught in her throat. He was the same. The same man she had loved with such reckless desperation. The same deep-set blue eyes. The same brown hair. Same straight nose, same square jaw, same mouth that was reluctant to smile but always on the verge of humor.

  And yet, he looked different, too. Ten years in the sun and wind had etched fine creases at the corners of his eyes and painted his skin a deep golden brown. Was he taller? Or had his shoulders just broadened and his waist narrowed? The flaxen down on his jaw had been replaced by the shadow of dark whiskers. Hair sprouted from the V-neck of his white safari shirt. “That’s one thing,” she said before his physical presence overwhelmed her. “Get out.”

  He didn’t respond. Didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. His eyes locked on hers, even and unwavering. She could feel her pulse slow, and she knew her blood was sinking to her knees. She couldn’t suck in enough air to fill her lungs.

  “What are you staring at?” she managed. “Didn’t you hear me?”

  “I hadn’t forgotten how beautiful you are.”

  “I told you to leave.”

  “I thought I’d forgotten. I was sure I’d buried your memory. I was wrong.”

  “I mean it. I didn’t come all the way back to Africa for this.”

  “I’d given up hope of finding you again.” He took a step toward her. “Jessie.”

  “I am not about to let you—”

  “Jessie, I need to—”

  “Don’t come another inch!”

  “—talk to you. I want to—”

  “Stay back!”

  “Jessie.” He touched her arm.

  She let out a muffled cry and jerked back. “Don’t! Don’t call me that.”

  “Jessie.”

  “No!” She fought the tears that hung in the corners of her eyes. “Get out of here. Get out of my life, Rick. I don’t want you. I can’t—”

  “Jessie, I have to talk to you. I have to tell you how I feel about what happened between us.”

  “Nothing happened. Okay? Nothing.” She drank in a trembling breath. “Look, this whole thing is a nightmare. You’re a ghost out of the past, and I don’t want anything to do with you.”

  “I’m no ghost. I’ve been looking for you for years, Jessie.”

  “You’re a liar. A sick, drunken, lazy, hopeless liar.”

  “I was.”

  “You sure were. You’re the biggest mistake I ever made. Okay, I’ve looked you
in the face. I’ve met my demon. Now what will it take to get rid of you again?”

  He shoved his hands into his pockets and studied the sand for a moment. “It’ll take about half an hour.”

  “What?” She shook her head. “You just walk up those steps and get in your car and head back to whatever hole you crawled out of. That ought to take about five minutes.”

  “I need half an hour. That’s all.” He met her gaze. “Give me thirty minutes to talk. You listen. Then I’ll go.”

  “Thirty minutes of your lies? What’s the point?” Anger welled up inside her. She relished it. The heat of her rage gave her power. “I don’t have another second for you, Rick McTaggart. I’m going up to my house, and I’m calling the police. If you’re not gone by the time they get here, they’ll arrest you for trespassing and throw you into the Zanzibar jail.”

  She whirled away from him and ran toward the steps. She was halfway up when she realized she didn’t have a telephone.

  Splinter waded through the foamy tide. The sand felt spongy beneath his feet. In one hand he trailed a long string of black seaweed he intended to examine under his microscope. In the other, he held a small empty shell he had decided to put on the shelf in his new bedroom. He planned to collect one of every type of shell he could find, use his brand-new shell encyclopedia to identify them, and label them for future reference. Maybe he’d even find an undiscovered species and become famous.

  Ahead on the beach, Splint’s two new friends were deep in conversation. Hunky Wallace, still dripping seawater, was attempting to sign a sheaf of papers that Rick McTaggart supported on his leather case. They were talking. Arguing, really. It seemed to be the mode of speech in Zanzibar. If his mother wasn’t shouting at Hunky or Rick, they were shouting at each other or at her.

  “What’s going on?” he asked the men as he approached.

  “Mr. McTaggart here is applying a noose of bureaucratic red tape about my neck, with which he will slowly strangle me until he has drained every ounce of blood from my body.”