Only His Touch ( Forever Friends, Book 2 of 4)

by Webb, Peggy

  Outside his office, his secretary was already at her desk. In her midforties, she had the look of a woman who could battle dragons and come out a winner. He had chosen her for the reasons he chose all his employees, because of her intelligence and her ability to keep her own counsel. She was loyal from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. Even if Hunter’s personality hadn’t inspired that kind of loyalty, the exorbitant salaries he paid guaranteed it.

  “Laura Lee, Miss Shaw is in my office and is not to be disturbed. When she wakes up, see that breakfast is brought to her, then have someone bring Jake over.”

  “Certainly.” Laura Lee made quick, precise notes. “Anything else?”

  “I’m sending extra guards for the perimeters of this building, and when Miss Shaw leaves, they are to accompany her to the studio. I’ll be back sometime tonight.”

  “Is there a number where you can be reached.”

  “No.”

  Laura Lee didn’t blink an eye at that bit of information. She was accustomed to her boss leaving on the spur of the moment for places that didn’t even have toilets, let alone telephones.

  “Be careful, Hunter.”

  He laughed. “You always say that.”

  “That’s because you’re always going into places fraught with danger.”

  “Fraught? Now that’s an old-fashioned word.”

  “I’m an old-fashioned woman. And if I may be so bold as to say so, I think Kathleen Shaw has been good for you. Softened your edges a bit. I hope she’ll stay.”

  “I’m doing my damnedest to see that she does.”

  “Maybe I’ll put in a good word for you while you’re gone.”

  “Put in several.”

  Outside, the air was clear and sweet, filled with the song of the sugarbird and the fragrance of flowers. In the bright yellow glow of the sun, the compound looked peaceful, a paradise set apart from the rest of the dark continent. Hunter slipped on his sunglasses and looked upward where guards were posted around the top of the thick stucco walls. Their holstered guns were at odds with the birdsong and the gentle swaying of the parasol trees.

  A vision of Kathleen lying naked on the sofa, dreaming, came to him swiftly.

  “This time I won’t let the music stop for you, my love.”

  With one last glimpse at the guards, he climbed into his Jeep and drove off to slay his demons.

  o0o

  When the phone call finally came, it took Tokolosh by surprise.

  He listened, then muttered darkly and placed the receiver back on the hook. Walking on legs that felt wobbly from booze, he made his way to the bathroom. The sight in the mirror was not a pretty one. As a matter of fact, it was enough to scare women and frighten little children.

  Cursing under his breath, he drew hot water and tried to make repairs. Even as he cursed he admired La Farge’s tactics. Catch the enemy off guard. It was the first rule in jungle warfare.

  As he scraped the straight-edged razor over his scraggly whiskers, he harbored no doubts about the imminent meeting with Hunter La Farge. It would be jungle warfare, a seasoned old lion being challenged by one full of the vigor and power of youth.

  When he was satisfied that he’d done the best he could with his face, he slicked his gray hair back with water and tied it with a leather thong. Then he twisted his head to get a side view.

  “Not bad for an old man,” he said. Tokolosh could still set women’s hearts aflutter.

  Unexpectedly he thought of her, standing beside the river with the wind blowing her dress against her legs. She had tasted sweeter than any woman he’d ever known, like magnolia blossoms mixed with the rich dark molasses favored by her people.

  Light from the naked bulb in the bathroom fell across his face and caught the glisten of tears. With a curse, he bent over the sink and dashed water on his face.

  He could afford to show no weakness today.

  o0o

  She knew she was alone the minute she woke up. Kathleen felt the cushions anyhow, then called his name.

  “Hunter?”

  There was no answer. Only the hum of the air-conditioning and the gentle swell of music. She stretched, luxuriating in the heavy, sated feel of her body. If she let herself, she could stay forever in this sweet, secret prison.

  She cast off the afghan Hunter had covered her with, then reached for her clothes. The note was on top. Quickly she ran her hands over the raised dots.

  My love, I’ll see you tonight.

  No explanation. No signature.

  Kathleen laid the note on the end table, then went into Hunter’s shower and stood while the warm water rushed over her. Drawing the soapy washcloth over her body, she could feel the shape and tone of her muscles. Weeks of dancing had made her stronger. Excitement and energy surged through her.

  When she was dressed, she snapped open her Braille watch. Eleven o’clock. Almost half the day was gone already.

  She hurried from the office.

  “Miss Shaw?”

  The voice belonged to Hunter’s secretary.

  “Please... call me Kathleen.”

  “I’ve ordered breakfast for you. After you eat, I’ll send someone for Jake.”

  “Thank you, Laura Lee.”

  “Hunter’s orders.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know Miss... Kathleen. He left early this morning and said he couldn’t be reached.”

  Loss and something like panic filled Kathleen. Until that moment she hadn’t realized how heavily she’d come to depend on Hunter. He was always nearby, always accessible. And the few times he’d left her side—in Jefferson Parish to take Braille lessons or to do some small errand—he’d always told her where he would be. In fact he’d been meticulous about that.

  “Trust me, Kat,” he said. “I’ll always be there for you.”

  Why hadn’t he told her where he was going?

  She reached out for something to touch, something to anchor her. Her hand closed over the back of a chair, and she drew in deep, steadying breaths.

  “Are you all right?” Laura Lee’s voice was filled with concern.

  “Yes. I’m fine.”

  “Breakfast will be right up. I thought fresh fruit and croissants would be good.”

  “Thank you. That sounds wonderful.”

  Without Hunter, nothing sounded wonderful. Where was he?

  Laura Lee served her breakfast on the glass table in the employees’ lounge, where sun and birdsong poured through the open windows. Jake was brought in midway through the meal, and he rubbed against her legs, whining.

  “It’s okay, boy. Everything is all right.”

  But he knew that it wasn’t. The mystical bond between them made it impossible for Kathleen to hide her true feelings from her guide dog. He sensed her turmoil, and although he didn’t know its source, he empathized.

  Sitting in the sun alone with her dog, Kathleen felt her blindness. It whispered around her like a dark ghost, beat through her like the wings of a raven.

  She clenched her fists and lifted her chin.

  “No,” she whispered. “I will not give in to this weakness.”

  Jake thumped his tail against the floor, and she leaned down to pat his head.

  “Come, boy, we have work to do.”

  Pushing her food aside, she caught his harness and left the room.

  “Laura Lee, I’ll be at the studio in case anyone asks.”

  “Kaliba and Bantu will go with you.”

  “Kaliba and Bantu?”

  “Bodyguards.”

  Kathleen stiffened. “I don’t need bodyguards.”

  “Those are Hunter’s orders.”

  Kathleen would not argue and place Laura Lee in the position of disobeying her boss. Nor would she send Kaliba and Bantu away for the same reason.

  She had the long walk to the studio and the rest of the day to think about what she would say to Hunter.

  o0o

  He hadn’t expected to feel anything. Standing i
n the doorway of the hotel room staring at the tall man with the riveting blue eyes, Hunter felt a deep curiosity and a flutter of something that others might have called filial longings. He stoutly refused to acknowledge any such feelings, either by expression or gesture.

  “Tokolosh,” he said, moving into the room like a panther set to spring.

  “Hunter La Farge.” Tokolosh didn’t offer his hand, didn’t show by so much as a tic in his cheek that Hunter was more to him than a casual visitor.

  The two men stood two feet apart, taking measure. Tokolosh was the first to fold. He averted his eyes from Hunter’s fierce stare and sank onto the edge of the bed, leaving the chair for his guest.

  In the game they were playing, it was a small triumph for Hunter. He straddled the chair, his eyes giving lie to his relaxed body.

  “What do you want from me?” Hunter asked.

  Tokolosh hadn’t expected the blunt question. He considered making up a pretty lie, embroidering the truth with fiction about an old man’s longings to see his son. But one look at Hunter’s eyes stopped him.

  “Money,” he said.

  “How much?”

  “Enough to live comfortably the rest of my life.” An old injury from a bad encounter with a rhino sometimes bothered him. Tokolosh shifted on the bed, trying to get more comfortable. “I’m broke and I’m too old to go out and try to make a living.”

  Hunter studied him in silence. Tokolosh sat still under the fierce inspection.

  “Why should I give you money?”

  “Because I’m your father.”

  Hunter didn’t move, but his muscles tensed as if he were about to pounce.

  “Who are you?” His voice cracked like a whip.

  “Your father. Blood doesn’t lie.”

  “It doesn’t prove the truth, either.”

  Sweat inched down the side of Tokolosh’s face and formed in wet circles under his arms. Hunter sat unmoving, only his black eyes alive. Something welled in the old man’s chest, and if he hadn’t known better, he’d have called it pride.

  “Your mother was a beautiful woman.” There was a low sound of protest from Hunter, like the growl of an angry animal. “When the freighter I was on steamed into port, she was standing on the bank of the river wearing a pink dress and a little corsage of violets. She’d just come from church.”

  Hunter’s heart pounded so hard, he wondered that the other man couldn’t hear. He’d seen that dress hanging in his mother’s closet, the pink faded over the years and the little corsage of dead violets pinned in a plastic bag to keep the petals from shedding.

  “Never underestimate the power of a churchgoing woman.” Tokolosh had a faraway look on his face as if he’d traveled backward in time and left Hunter sitting alone in the hotel room. “Janice made me forget every other woman except her. Sweet. God, she was sweet. Had this little bitty heart-shaped birthmark inside her left elbow right where her pulse beat. I think it was the sight of that little beating heart that made me lose my senses.”

  Tokolosh sounded like a man deeply in love. Hunter hardened his heart. If Tokolosh had been so much in love, why had he left Hunter’s mother pregnant with no money and no job? The question burned in his mind, but he didn’t ask it. He wasn’t ready to acknowledge that the man sitting on the bed had anything to do with him and his mother.

  “That summer I spent with her was the happiest in my life. At night we used to sneak up onto the roof and lie naked on her grandmother’s quilt, drinking cheap wine and counting the stars.”

  The quilt was a star-of-Texas pattern and still hung on the wall of Hunter’s cottage in Jefferson Parish. Now he understood why his mother sometimes cried when she looked at it. Now he knew about the stain in the middle of the star.

  Why? Why did you leave her?

  He felt smothered, but he wouldn’t show any sign of weakness by taking the deep breath he so needed.

  “Who are you?” he asked, his voice harsh in the stillness of the cramped room. “Who in the hell are you?”

  Tokolosh left the bed and studied the view from the window.

  “Mongo,” he whispered. “The Black Knight. Tokolosh.”

  “Who are you?”

  The old man turned around slowly. Backlit by the sunlight, he looked like one of the carved gods Hunter had seen in lost cities of the Congo.

  “My name is Johnathan McFarland.”

  Tokolosh/Johnathan waited, still as a lion while the truth sank in. Hunter’s hands closed around the top of the chair, squeezing so tightly, his knuckles turned white.

  Johnathan McFarland. Thirty-year-old white male. Six-two. One hundred eighty-five pounds. Blue eyes. Black hair.

  He’d seen the old posters in the post office. There had even been a television special once long ago.

  Johnathan McFarland. Wanted for murder.

  o0o

  Kathleen wiped her face with a towel. The front of her leotard was soaked with sweat and her legs felt heavy. She was still out of shape. Two years earlier that much dancing wouldn’t have disturbed a hair on her head, let alone cause her to break out in a sweat.

  “You need anything, Miss Shaw?”

  It was one of the bodyguards. She’d forgotten which one.

  “No, thank you.”

  She flipped back the cover on her Braille watch. Six p.m. Where in the world was Hunter?

  She couldn’t stand the thought of going back to the house and sitting at the dining table without him. She couldn’t endure the thought of the lonely house, the lonely bed.

  “Yes, on second thought. Could you call the kitchen and have them send me a sandwich. I think I’ll take my dinner break here in the studio.”

  “Certainly. What kind?”

  “Anything will do. Whatever they have.”

  What did it matter? Nothing would taste good without Hunter.

  She resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands. One day without him and she was falling apart. What would happen to her when she had to spend days without him? Weeks? Months?

  The thought filled her with stark terror. And it was then that she knew exactly what she had to do when Hunter returned.

  She checked her watch once more. Where was he?

  o0o

  The money lay scattered on the floor. Occasionally a gust of air caught one of the bills and sent it fluttering upward like an awkward bird.

  Johnathan squatted among the money, disbelief and rage warring in him. Every now and then he burst out with a new string of curse words.

  All his years of running had come to this: crawling around on the floor like a dog picking up scraps tossed out by his son.

  His son...

  “Feel, Johnathan. Our son is already kicking.”

  He’d pressed his hands over Janice’s flat abdomen, indulging her. There was no sign of life within, but he pretended to be pushed back by the vigorous kicking. Her quick laughter was his reward.

  Spanning her tiny waist, he picked her up and spun her around and around.

  “You’re making me, dizzy, Johnathan.”

  “You make me dizzy... always have and always will.” He set her on the floor and kissed her soundly. “Tomorrow well get married.”

  They had made frantic love on the smooth wooden floor with the old air conditioning laboring hard to cool the stifling apartment. He thought he’d burst with love.

  That was the night he’d killed for her.

  They had been in a small bar, celebrating. The man came out of nowhere while he’d gone to the bathroom, drunk, putting his hands all over Janice, telling her exactly what he was going to do to her, trying to drag her out into the alley.

  In his red rage, Johnathan never remembered pulling the knife, only the blood and Janice screaming. Newspaper and television reporters called her the “unidentified woman” with descriptions ranging from tall and brunette to petite and blond. They didn’t have the same trouble with him, however. They described him right down to the scar on his cheek.

  “Run,
Johnathan. You have to run.”

  “And hide like a dog?” Already he was hiding like a dog, standing in the alley behind a row of garbage cans, trying to protect Janice with his body. “No. There has to be a way out.”

  “There isn’t. Don’t you see? You’re an out-of- work drifter. They’ll send you to prison... or to the chair.” She clutched the front of his shirt, sobbing. “Oh, Johnathan. I’d die if anything happened to you.”

  “What about the baby?”

  Her chin came up. “Our son will be fine.”

  He tried to turn back time with his kiss, but in the distance the sirens were wailing.

  “Go... hurry.”

  One last kiss. Desperate. Heartsick. Then he was racing down the alley. At the end, he turned to her.

  “I’ll send for you.”

  He never had. He’d meant to. But there was always a reason not to—no money, no job, no place to live. Somehow the days had become months and the months had become years.

  And then, when word drifted through Africa that Hunter La Farge, son of Janice Smith of Jefferson Parish was looking for his father, he’d been afraid, afraid to confront the son he’d tried to put out of his mind.

  Scrabbling around on his hands and knees, he picked up the money. Probably several thousand dollars. Enough to pay off his hotel bill and rent a cheap room somewhere for a few months, buy some cheap whiskey.

  “I have no father, and I won’t be blackmailed,” Hunter had said, tossing the money carelessly, as if it meant nothing to him. “Here. This is more than you ever did for me.”

  And then he’d walked out.

  Johnathan’s hands trembled as he stuffed the money into his pockets and headed out the door. There was nothing to pack except a toothbrush, and he didn’t plan to be in any condition to brush his teeth for the next few weeks.

  He paid off his bill, then headed down the street for the nearest liquor store. Armed with enough booze to keep him drunk for the next few days, he stepped out into the warm night and uncapped one of the bottles. No sense waiting.

  The cheap liquor burned going down. He took another long pull. Some of it dribbled down his chin and spilled on the front of his suit.

  A scrawny cat ran out in front of him, and he turned into the alley where it had been hiding. He took off his jacket and fashioned a pillow for himself, then stretched out, carefully cradling the liquor.