A Whisper of Danger

by Catherine Palmer

  “Maa-aaa-aaa!”

  The sound was coming from Splint’s bedroom.

  “Maa-maa! Maa-maa!”

  Rick took the back staircase two steps at a time. Emerging from the enclosed stairwell, he nearly ran full force into Jessie. At that moment, Hannah flung open the door of the next room.

  “Splinter! I’m here,” Rick shouted. “Stay back, Jessie.”

  He burst into the narrow room, and the door smacked against the wall. Brandishing his weapon, Rick looked around. No intruders. No thieves. No murderers. On the bed, inside a ball of wadded blankets, Splint groaned. Rick dropped the ebony sculpture and bounded to Splint’s side, gathering up the damp tangle and cradling the boy against his chest.

  “Hey, now. What’s wrong, Splinter?”

  “I want my mom!” he said, his voice trembling. “Mom!”

  “I’m here, sweetheart.” Jessie stepped into the room and sat next to Rick on the bed. She pulled the hood of blanket from around her son’s head and kissed his cheek. “Shh, now. It’s okay. I’m here.”

  Two long skinny arms snaked out from the blanket and wrapped around her neck. Rick looked up in time to see Hannah disappear from the doorway, a moonlit smile softening the lines on her face. As Splint lay half in Jessie’s arms and half in his, Rick let out a deep breath.

  “Whew,” he murmured.

  “I had a bad dream, Mom,” Splint choked out. “These two bad guys were chasing me, and it was like one of those video games, you know, where the villains are throwing bombs and stuff at you? They were throwing pots and vases at me, like that one I found in the storage closet.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, it was just a dream.” Her hand smoothed over his sweaty hair. “I know it must have been scary.”

  “Yeah, and I ran and ran, but they kept on throwing pots at me. Then the pots would explode. Boom! I was going down all these narrow hallways, and then I ran outside and jumped into a little boat. But then a storm came, and these huge waves were crashing onto me just like . . . just like . . .”

  “Like this afternoon.”

  “Yeah.”

  For a moment Rick thought the realization of the dream’s source had calmed Splint. Then the boy burst into a fresh round of sobs. His body shook, and he pressed his head against his mother’s neck.

  Never in his life had Rick felt so completely helpless. He had faced sharks. He knew what to do with an angry eel. He could handle a sea snake or a puffer or a stonefish. But a frightened little boy? His whole heart poured out for the child, and he felt the strongest urge to nestle Splint close and kiss his downy cheek—but what right did he have? For all Rick knew, something like that might scare him even further.

  “The worst part of the dream, Mom . . .” Splint said in a strangled voice, “was that you were chasing me.”

  “Me?” Jessie looked up at Rick, her eyes alarmed. “I was chasing you, Splint?”

  “Uh-huh. You weren’t throwing pots, but you were after me. You weren’t like my real mom. You were different. You were scary. You kept calling me, but I kept running away from you because . . . because I didn’t trust you.”

  “Oh, Splinter!” Jessie hugged her son more tightly, burying her own face in his blankets. “Splinter, you know I would never hurt you. You can always trust me, honey. I’ve always taken care of you, haven’t I?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m always here for you. I always tell you the truth. Don’t I?”

  “I guess. Except when you think I’m too young to know it.”

  “Splint, we’ve talked about this before.” Jessie tucked her hair behind her ear. “Now, I want you to settle down and try to get back to sleep. Hannah’s right next door. I’m just down the hall, and Rick is in the living room. Nothing’s going to hurt you, okay?”

  “Okay.” Sniffling, Splint detached his arms from his mother’s neck. Then he lifted his head and gave Rick a quick peck on the cheek. “I wish you wouldn’t have to go back to your apartment tomorrow. I wish you would stay here with us.”

  Flooded with warmth at the boy’s need for him, Rick had to force out his words. “This is a good safe house, buddy,” he managed. “If I didn’t think it was, I wouldn’t leave you and your mom alone here for a second. You’re going to be okay.”

  “What if I have another nightmare? Will you sleep in my room, Rick?”

  “You don’t need me looking over you. God is always with you, Splint. How about if I say a prayer and ask him to keep an extra-close watch on you tonight?”

  “I’d like that.”

  Rick prayed words his own father had spoken when he was a little boy frightened by scary dreams. As he prayed, he could feel the tension ebb out of Splint’s body. When he tucked the boy back into his bed, those long arms slipped around his neck once again.

  “Good night, Rick,” Splint murmured. “I love you.”

  A lump formed in Rick’s throat. “I love you, too, Splinter.”

  He made it out of the room before the tears that had welled in his eyes spilled down his cheeks. Jessie caught up with him before he could make it down the stairs. Her hand fell on his arm, and he stopped. He leaned on the balcony rail and stared down at the courtyard, unwilling to let her see his face.

  “Rick,” she whispered, “thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For being here with us. For going to Splint. For your prayer.”

  He nodded. It wasn’t enough. He wanted more than the occasional afternoon visit with the boy. More than childlike hero worship. More than the rare “I love you.” He ached to become a part of Splint’s daily life—to share with him not only his knowledge but also his values. He wanted to have a hand in molding Splint, in creating a strong man capable of becoming everything God intended him to be.

  But what right did he have to desire any of that? Jessie might be his wife, but they didn’t live together. They’d had no relationship for ten years. He had forfeited his rights with her—and with her son.

  Jessie had been correct that night she had lashed out at him in the kitchen of Uchungu House. Splint was her son, and only hers. Rick had no idea who the child’s father really was, and what difference did it make anyway? Even if Splint was his own flesh and blood, Rick had no right to him. For the first time in his life, he fully understood Jessie’s anger and bitterness toward him. And he knew he deserved it.

  “Looks like Dr. bin Yusuf ’s artwork is doing a lot of double time as weaponry these days,” Jessie said.

  Rick tried to smile. “Yeah. I guess you grab what’s available.”

  “Are you available?”

  He lifted his head. “What?”

  “You’ve been coming in awfully handy these days.” She took a step closer to him and slipped her arms around his waist. “Maybe I’d better grab you while I’ve got the chance.”

  Rick stared down in paralyzed shock as she laid her head on his chest. His heart felt like it was going to hammer its way right through his ribs. Uncertain, unwilling to risk breaking the spell of the moment, he gingerly laid a hand on her back. She let out a deep breath.

  “I am so tired of fighting everything,” she said. “Just when things seem to be falling into place, they get out of whack again.”

  “Yeah,” he said. Not exactly eloquent, but it was about all he could manage. Her hair smelled like rain-washed lilacs, and he struggled to keep from burying his face in it and drinking the scent like a famished man. She was thinner than he remembered, and her skin felt warm through the fabric of her robe. He let himself run his fingers up to the ends of her hair and touch it gently. She tightened her arms around his chest.

  “All these years,” she murmured.

  “Mm-hm.”

  “I’ve been doing the best I could all these years.”

  “You’re wonderful.”

  She laughed a low husky laugh. “I’m talking about Splint here.”

  “Oh, yeah.” He sifted his fingers through her hair, reveling in its silkiness. “Splint.”

&nb
sp; “He’s just such a handful, you know. One minute he’s spouting off words like he’s Daniel Webster himself. The next he’s sobbing about nightmares. It was always okay, just the two of us. Somehow I was all he seemed to need. Mommy this and mommy that. But as he gets older, he’s so complicated. He’s either brave or scared to death. He’s angry or he’s dancing up and down. He’s sullen or he’s talking a blue streak. You know what I mean, Rick?”

  He tried to pull himself back from the heady ecstasy of holding Jessie tightly against him, smelling her skin, touching her hair, feeling her arms pressing him close. He needed to listen. Needed to hear what she was saying. But he needed her, too! It had been so long since he’d held this woman in his arms, and now it felt so very right.

  “Splint’s growing up,” he said. “I remember how that felt. Things get crazy when you’re ten, eleven, twelve. Thirteen and fourteen—I don’t even want to think about those years. Hormones zinging and zanging. Voice up and down like a Swiss yodeler. Hair sprouting on my chin—”

  He sucked in a breath as Jessie reached up and touched his jaw. “I don’t think you were this bristly ten years ago.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “Definitely not.” Her fingers stroked toward his ear, grazing the dark stubble he had to shave off every morning. “I don’t know what I’m going to do when Splint starts into his teenage years.”

  “Pray,” Rick said. “Pray hard.”

  She fell silent for a moment. Then she looked up into his eyes. “That’s another thing. All these years I thought I was doing such a great job as a mother, and I failed to give Splint the most important foundation he needs to succeed in life. I rarely took him to church. We almost never prayed together. He doesn’t know . . . he doesn’t know the Lord, Rick.”

  “It’s never too late.” Dismayed at the tears glistening in Jessie’s eyes, he pulled her closer. “You can always—”

  “No, you,” she said. “You showed me how important faith is. You convinced me it can change a person. You taught me how to let go, how to forgive. You teach Splinter, Rick.”

  “Me . . .”

  “You heard what he said about his dream. He can’t trust me. He doesn’t think I tell him the truth.” Openly crying now, she swallowed down tears that threatened to choke her. “He’s right. I haven’t told him the truth.”

  “Jessie . . .”

  “No, I mean it. He has to know!” She pushed back from him. “Splint is your son, Rick. You’re his father. You tell him about Christ. You help him into his teenage years. You be there for him when he’s scared and angry and sullen. Show him and teach him. I can’t do it all. Not anymore. Not since he found you. Splint needs you, Rick. . . . Will you be his father?”

  Breathing hard, Rick gripped Jessie’s shoulders. “I’m his father? Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I was pregnant when you walked out on me. I found out a week later. Mama Hannah stayed with me.”

  “Hannah knows?”

  “Everything.”

  “Does Splint know?”

  “He suspects.” She took a step backward and gave a laugh that was half sob. “The two of you look exactly alike, Rick. You walk the same. You talk the same. You like the same things. It’s so obvious! I’ve been so scared you would both find out—and tonight . . . in Splint’s room . . . I suddenly knew you both had to find out. You need each other so much.”

  “Jessie . . .”

  “Be a good father to him, Rick,” she said. Then she turned and ran down the hall to her bedroom.

  Splint is my son! Rick thought. My son! Oh, God, how I need him. He heard the bedroom door shut. I need her, too, Lord. I need my wife so much.

  SIXTEEN

  “I don’t believe I did it,” Jess whispered to Hannah the next morning in the kitchen. The two women, along with Miriamu, were preparing to carry breakfast out onto the courtyard dining table. “It seemed so right at the time. But then I lay awake all night worrying and praying and wondering if I’d made the biggest mistake of my life.”

  “You used to tell me that marrying Rick was your biggest mistake,” Hannah said. She scored a mango half and flipped it inside out to expose the orange fruit. “I did not agree with you then. And I do not agree now. You were right to tell him. When will you tell the boy?”

  “I can’t even think about that!” Jess handed Miriamu a basket of fresh rolls and croissants. “Bwana McTaggart spent the night here at Uchungu House, Miriamu. He slept on the sofa in the living room, so we’ll need to put away the blanket and pillow later. He’ll be joining us for breakfast this morning.”

  “Yes, memsahib. And tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know about tomorrow.” Jess paused. “No, definitely not. He’ll be going back to his apartment this afternoon.”

  “Memsahib,” Miriamu said. Her dark eyes stared intently at Jess. “Two policemen came yesterday morning to talk to Solomon. They think someone killed Bwana bin Yusuf.”

  “Yes, Miriamu. I know they talked to Solomon about it.”

  “Solomon believes there may be danger here at Uchungu House for you and the boy.”

  “He does?”

  “Perhaps it would be good for Bwana McTaggart to stay here with you until the policemen catch the bad man.”

  Jess picked up a bowl of steaming scrambled eggs. It was odd to think of Solomon Mazrui expressing concern over her and Splint. For so long now, she’d been thinking of him as the prime suspect.

  “No, Miriamu,” she said. “I don’t believe that’s necessary.”

  “Then Solomon can sleep here at Uchungu House. We have no children, so my husband is not needed to protect a family each night.”

  “Your husband? Wait a minute—are you telling me you’re married to Solomon?”

  Miriamu’s black eyebrows arched. “Of course, memsahib. We are married for two years.”

  “I didn’t know that. Then no wonder he walks you home at night. And the village . . . you always go together.”

  The young woman’s face broke into a radiant smile. “Solomon and I live in the village near the shop of Akim, who offered to take you to Zanzibar town on his bicycle.”

  “You know about that? About the goat?”

  “In the village, nothing is a secret.” Miriamu hitched the basket of bread onto the curve of her hip. “Maybe one day you will come to the house of Solomon Mazrui. I will serve you a cup of tea.”

  As she strolled into the courtyard to finish setting the breakfast table, Miriamu left the scent of frangipani blossoms in her wake. Jess turned to Hannah.

  “They’re married. Did you know?”

  “Ehh. She told me one day. They wish very much to have children, but God has not given them any babies. It is a great sadness to them.”

  “Mama Hannah, why didn’t you tell me all this?”

  “You must learn to look and ask questions for yourself. You study many things with your careful eyes. You see the colors and shapes and shadows of everything you paint. But in some things, toto, I believe you are completely blind.”

  Chagrined, Jess followed the old woman into the courtyard in time to catch Rick emerging from a dip under the outdoor shower. Shirtless and barefooted, he was clad only in the jeans he had put on before their boat ride the day before. He rubbed a towel over his wet hair and gave her a lopsided smile.

  “Morning, Jessie,” he said. He hooked the towel around his neck, leaving his hair standing on end in a mass of damp spikes. “Sleep all right?”

  “Okay, I guess. You?”

  “Not a wink.” He walked toward her, so close she could see the water droplets glistening on his neck. “About last night. I’ve decided not to say anything to Splint. I think that should be between the two of you.”

  Jess nodded. For all her self-admonishments about how stupid she had been the night before, it was all she could do to keep from slipping her arms around Rick again. He looked so warm and real. So perfect in his damp jeans and messy hair and goofy grin. Thank goodness Hannah and Miriamu had both
gone back into the kitchen.

  She swallowed. “Okay. I’ll tell Splint. I’ll tell him today.”

  “Will it be all right with you if I take him out on the boat this morning?” He held the ends of the towel in his fists. “I’d like to be with him, if you wouldn’t mind. Sort of just observe him. Get used to the whole thing, you know.”

  “Thank you for asking my permission, Rick. I guess you’ve figured out you really don’t have to anymore. You do have certain rights as his father.”

  “No, Jessie. I surrendered those rights ten years ago. I’ll only take what you choose to give me.”

  She laid her fingertips on his arm. “Rick, I—”

  “Come with us, Jessie,” he urged her, his blue eyes intense. “Come out on the boat with Splint and me. We’ll dive around the new wreck site. You can sketch whatever we haul up in the basket. I’d like to . . . I’d like to be with you, too.”

  She shook her head, feeling off-balance with him standing so close. “I really need to paint today. My illustrations are due in London soon, and I can feel the deadline looming. James Perrott wrote me a letter. He wants sketches for the new book.”

  “The jealous jackal?”

  Jess nodded, her eyes filling with tears again over the fact that Rick knew. He knew about the jealous jackal. He knew about her life, her work, her son. And he cared. He had made her important to him once again.

  “Oh, Rick, I’m so scared about all this!” she said and covered her face with her hands.

  “Jessie, I’ve got you.” He pulled her into his arms, held her close, cupped the back of her head with his hand. “I promised I’d protect you. I said I’d never hurt you again. Please try to trust me—”

  “Mom, did you know some of the caves in the coral cliffs along the coast of Zanzibar . . . were once used . . . to hold . . . slaves . . . ? Hey, what’s going on?”

  Splint was halfway down the stairs before Jess managed to stiffen and pull out of Rick’s arms. Flushing like a guilty teenager caught spooning on the front porch, she brushed at her skirt. Rick cleared his throat.

  “That’s good research, Splint,” he said. “At Mangapwani, about fourteen miles north of town, there’s a slave hole. It’s been covered by a stone slab.”