Naomoni aaayai
The one who is prayed for and I also pray.
Nairkurukur nesha,
God of the thunder and the rain,
Iye oshi ak-aaomon.
Thee I always pray.
Mama Hannah wouldn’t like it if she knew he compared her devotion to Jehovah to the Maasai’s veneration of Engai. But to Grant, it was all so much mumbo jumbo. Alexandra Prescott would get better if she rested, drank a lot of water, and took a round of antibiotics.
Infectious germs could be seen through a microscope. So could the medicines that would attack and destroy them. But God . . . Engai . . . was ephemeral. The Indescribable Color, the Maasai called their unseen deity. Christians called him the Holy Spirit. Either way, scientific evidence was definitely lacking.
Grant filled a bowl from the twenty-gallon plastic tank of city water he had hauled from Nairobi on his last visit. Then he went over to his own tent and dug around in his first-aid kit. By this time the visiting Maasai warriors had wandered to the nearby kraal to seek shelter for the night with others who were preparing for the initiation ceremony.
“‘He lets me rest in green meadows.’” Hannah’s voice sounded through the canvas tent wall as Grant approached. “‘He leads me beside peaceful streams. He renews my strength.’”
“But can he do anything about a bad sunburn?” Grant asked, pushing back the flap that was intended to keep mosquitoes outside. “How’s the patient?”
“Calm.” Hannah touched Grant’s arm. “This is more than a sickness of the body. Something terrible has happened to our friend.”
Friend? We don’t even know this woman, Grant thought. He knelt beside the cot and slipped his hand behind her neck. “Time for a drink of fresh water, Miss Prescott.”
She moaned and placed her swollen lips on the rim of the cup he had poured. As she gulped the cool water, Grant pondered what on earth could have happened to the sophisticated lady he had met in Nairobi. An unexpected stab of fear ran through him. What if she was sicker than he thought? What if she took a turn for the worse? She was acting a little shell-shocked, and the burn was pretty serious—not to mention the scratch on her arm and those flies. . . . He should take her to Nairobi as soon as possible. Better yet, he could drive her to the lodge at Amboseli Game Park. Small planes regularly flew in and out of there. She could be in a Nairobi hospital by tomorrow night.
“Miss Prescott,” Grant said. “Can you hear me? Can you understand what I’m saying?”
She nodded.
“You’ve been badly sunburned. I suspect you may have heatstroke. You may need professional medical attention. I’d like to drive you over to the lodge at Amboseli and put you on a plane—”
“No!” Her eyes flew open, and she gripped his arm. “Not there! The man . . .”
“You are upsetting her again,” Mama Hannah said. “Come, Miss Prescott. Take some more water. Grant, you wash her face while I go to the other tent and prepare some broth from the stew.”
“I’ll do the broth,” he said quickly.
“You bathe her.”
When Mama Hannah spoke in that tone, Grant knew there was to be no argument. He set the bowl on his lap and dipped a rag into the water. Brushing back strands of the woman’s blonde hair, he stroked the wet cloth over her forehead. She moaned slightly.
“Miss Prescott . . . Alexandra,” he said in a low voice. “Can you tell me why you left your tour? Has someone tried to hurt you?”
“Man,” she muttered.
“Which man? Was it one of the Maasai? The African warriors?”
She shook her head. Her eyes opened. “Jones.”
“A white man?”
“The lodge.”
“Someone attacked you at the lodge? One of the guests?”
“Jones. Nick Jones.” She reached up and laid her hand over his. “Please . . . Grant. Don’t take me there.”
He studied the dark bruises on her skin. “Look, I’m going to drive over to Oloitokitok tomorrow morning. With a white woman disappearing from a lodge and her tour, this is going to be all over the news. The police are searching for you already, I’m sure. I’ll tell them what’s happened, and they can haul the guy into custody.”
“No—”
“Yes, Alexandra. If some maniac is out there attacking women, the authorities need to know about it.”
“Please, Grant.” She swallowed hard. “Can’t talk. More water.”
He helped her take another sip. “You’d better rest. Mama Hannah will be in with the broth in a minute.”
“The man,” she said, catching his sleeve before he could move away. Her voice was deep and hoarse as she spoke. “If you tell anyone, it’ll get into the newspapers. Then he’ll know I’m still alive. Where I am. He’ll come after me. He wants to kill me.”
“Kill you? Why would anyone want to do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“That settles it. Whether you approve or not, I’m going to the authorities with this.”
“Please don’t.” Her face tensed with emotion. “He swore he’d find me. He has a wire. A knife.”
“This is unbelievable. You’re a couple of tourists, right? So what’s the guy’s problem? He chases women all the way to Africa to kill them? I don’t get it.”
Grant continued bathing her swollen skin in silence. The whole thing made no sense—unless Alexandra had been involved in some kind of relationship with the jerk. A love affair gone wrong. Maybe this Nick Jones had gotten too serious too fast. Or maybe he had wanted more than she was prepared to give.
But to threaten to kill her? Leave her out in the wilderness to die? That went beyond anything Grant could fathom.
“How long have you known this Jones fellow?” he asked.
“That evening. Sitting by the pool. Bad poetry.” She squeezed her eyes shut. Her words were barely audible. “A cablegram came. I had to make a call. A deficit. He ordered me a sandwich. And I told him I didn’t want to . . . to go . . . and he grabbed me . . . the tree . . . under the tree . . . the leopard.” Her eyes opened. “I saw a leopard.”
Grant scowled. What on earth was she babbling about?
“It’s the strange part,” she said. “A leopard in the tree.”
“In the game park? I don’t think so. Leopards prefer dense bush like the forests on Mount Kilimanjaro. I doubt you’d ever see a leopard in Amboseli.”
“Yes,” she insisted as a tear squeezed out of the corner of her eye and began to slide down her cheek. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“Do you make her cry now, Grant?” Mama Hannah asked when she walked into the tent. “A woman so ill, and you cause her to weep?”
“I was just asking her a few questions.”
“The scientist. Always the scientist.” The old woman motioned Grant away from the cot and bent over Alexandra. “I bring you warm soup. This is made in the way of my tribe, the Kikuyu,” she said softly. “It is not like the food of the Maasai. We are farmers, and they are owners of cattle. This soup is rich with beef and good vegetables. Potatoes, beans, cauliflower. You will try it?”
Mama Hannah cradled Alexandra’s shoulders and lifted the spoon to the injured woman’s lips. “It will warm your stomach,” the African coaxed her. “Your body must become well first. Then your spirit will begin to heal.”
Feeling left out and—if the truth be known—a little stupid, Grant hunkered down on a camp stool and studied the two women. Hannah was right, of course. He shouldn’t have begun with a barrage of questions. The correct response to a woman in Alexandra Prescott’s condition was tenderness. But Grant couldn’t recall the last time he had needed to display a gentle side. In fact, he wasn’t sure he had one.
Mama Hannah was correct in referring to him as a scientist, always a scientist. He liked to analyze things, not feel them. He preferred objects that could be measured and quantified rather than emotions that needed nurturing. He liked people as the subjects of his objective anthropological studies. But he had ma
de it a policy never to become too involved in their lives. It was one more reason he steered clear of relationships with women. They tended to need things he didn’t know how to give.
This Alexandra Prescott was a perfect example. Attractive. Talented in her field. Probably intelligent. Under certain circumstances he might consider her a candidate for lunch out or maybe even a movie. But right now she needed the kind of gentleness better suited to Mama Hannah. She needed warmth, compassion, empathy. Grant felt pretty sure he didn’t have a drop of those qualities anywhere in his body.
“Better?” Mama Hannah murmured. “Is your stomach warm?”
“The soup is delicious.” Alexandra was sitting up against the pillows now, her flushed face looking slightly more reminiscent of the woman Grant had met in Nairobi. “Thank you. Both of you.”
“We are happy to care for you,” Mama Hannah said. “Are we not, Grant?”
“Sure. But I still think she needs a doctor.” From his camp stool, he examined the younger woman. “That burn is pretty bad in some places. Blisters across the nose and cheeks. And the bruising looks serious, too.”
“I’ll be all right,” Alexandra whispered. “I have to take care of this on my own. Is there a telephone I can get to?”
“There’s a little grocery store in Oloitokitok. Sometimes the phone there works. You don’t want me to talk to the police. Who are you planning to call?”
“Grant, it is her business!”
“Mama Hannah, she’s in my camp. It’s my business, too. People are probably looking for you, Miss Prescott.”
“Alexandra. Let them look.” She crossed her arms. “I need to call the States. My broker needs to know—”
“Your broker!” Grant stood, frustration sending hot trails down his spine. “Look, I’m sorry this Jones fellow attacked you. Sorry you’ve been trekking around in the bush. But if your primary concern is the status of your stocks—”
“The cable I got at the lodge was—” She cut herself off, visibly tucking away her true emotions. “My broker is the only person who needs to know I’m alive. He’s a family friend. He does overseas business all the time, and he’ll know who to contact to quietly end any search that may be going on. He can also arrange my flight back to the States.”
Yeah, and take about a month doing it, Grant thought. Some New York City stockbroker wouldn’t have the first clue how to deal with the kind of mess Alexandra Prescott had gotten herself into. All kinds of government red tape would be involved. Maybe even the United States consulate. In the meantime, Grant would be stuck with her.
“You trust this broker of yours to know what to tell the Kenyan authorities?” he asked. “You trust him to help you get out of a foreign country—even though you think some killer is stalking you?”
“Trust him?” She dampened her lip. “Well . . . I have to trust someone, don’t I?”
“Trust me, then.”
“You?”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know you.”
“Yeah, well, take me on faith. I’m not interested in killing you. In fact, I’m very interested in getting you some help—like a doctor, the police, a trip to the airport, that sort of thing. I have a lot of work to do, Miss Prescott— Alexandra—and the truth is, you can count on me to get you up and out and moving on as quickly as I possibly can.”
She glanced at Mama Hannah, and a smile hinted at the corner of her lip. “I think he wants to get rid of me.”
“Ehh,” the old woman said. “But he tells you to have faith in him. This certainly is a new subject for Dr. Grant Thornton. Perhaps you should allow it and see what happens.”
“Is he trustworthy?”
“Hey, did I suddenly leave the room?” Grant asked. “Talk to me if you want to hear an honest answer. Of course I’m trustworthy. Ask any Maasai in Kenya. If Bwana Hadithi says something, he means it.”
“Bwana Hadithi is an anthropologist.” Alexandra looked down at her bruised arms. “I need to get to safety as soon as I can.”
“The Lord is your safe haven,” Mama Hannah said. “He will see you through this.”
“Yes, that’s true,” Alexandra acknowledged.
“Wait a minute now. A guy tries to kill you—and you’re willing to rely on some kind of religious dogma?”
“I’m a Christian, Grant,” she said. “I trust God.”
“I’ve got news for you. God doesn’t fill out government forms. He doesn’t negotiate missed airline reservations. And he sure doesn’t drive the only Land Rover in fifty miles.”
“You’re right. But he did send a leopard to save me from Nick Jones. He led me through the darkness. He rescued me from the pack of wild dogs. I’ll just have to trust him to see me through this.”
“Fine. Go the Jesus route. If you want to count on—”
“He brought me here to you,” she cut in, her voice gentle. “So maybe I can trust you.”
Grant stared at her, suddenly feeling a little sheepish. He’d built a great trap of an argument—and stepped right into it. Now Alexandra saw him as divine provision in her time of need. God’s pawn. Not only that, he’d practically forced her to accept his assistance—help he didn’t really want to give.
“Thank you, Dr. Thornton,” she said, suddenly looking very tired. “I appreciate what you’re doing for me.”
He nodded. “Sure. Anytime.”
As he left the tent, he could feel the jaws of the trap closing around his heart.
FIVE
Alexandra lay on the cot and stared up at the expanse of green canvas over her head. More than a day had passed since the Maasai warriors had brought her to Grant Thornton’s camp. In that time she had hardly budged, gratefully accepting Mama Hannah’s tender care. Though her body still craved rest and nurture, she knew the interlude couldn’t go on. It was time to reenter the land of the living.
Morning sunlight streaming through the acacia trees created a display of spiky shadows across the canvas tent. It would make a perfect pattern for sheets, upholstery, even dresses, Alexandra thought. Even though the world of fabric design and high fashion seemed light-years away, she missed her sketch pad. Gazing up, she tried to memorize the shades of green and the interplay of the long thorns.
Her concentration was jarred by the animated voices of Grant Thornton and a group of men walking into the camp clearing. She paused in her study of the tent and listened for a moment. Though she couldn’t understand their words, Alexandra found herself drawn to the sound of Grant’s low-pitched voice. When he used the African language, his words rolled comfortably in the same rhythmic, melodic tones she had heard among the Maasai as they carried her the long miles.
Now that was poetry.
The men laughed, their deep chuckles tumbling over each other. Grant said something, and they laughed again. How wonderful to speak another tongue with such ease, Alexandra thought. She had studied a little French in high school and college. But she doubted she could order a drink of water—even if she were standing in the middle of Paris.
“Ayia taa,” Grant said, in what sounded like words of farewell to his friends. “Irragie naishi o kule.”
“Toomono,” came the response.
“Knock, knock. Anybody home?” Grant’s head appeared between the flaps of Alexandra’s tent. “Hey, you’re looking better today. Mama Hannah sent me over to—”
“Ol-oibor siadi!” one of the African men called to him.
“Just a sec.” Grant vanished for a moment. “Nyoo, Kakombe?”
“Inotie enainotie le-nkipika te minjani,” the man said. At this, the other Africans burst into hearty guffaws.
Shaking his head, Grant stepped into the tent. “Ha-ha,” he said. “Big joke at my expense.”
“What did they say?”
“Kakombe—he’s a friend of mine—he says I have what the son of Engipika got in the deserted kraal.” Grant pitched a stack of folded clothing onto the end of the cot. “Here’s a pair of my trousers and a shirt. Mama Han
nah wants to wash that dress of yours.”
Alexandra pushed herself up onto one elbow. “Who’s the son of Engipika?”
“It’s just a saying. Don’t worry about it.”
“I want to know what it means.”
“It refers to a Maasai legend.”
“Tell me the story.”
He shrugged. “One day a man named Ole Engipika was eating meat when he was attacked by his enemy. He escaped with the meat, but he left his weapons behind. He ran into a deserted kraal to hide, but he soon discovered that he wasn’t the only occupant. A lion leapt up and growled at him. Deciding he’d better leave, he turned around and saw a snake coiled around the gatepost—the only exit. Then he looked into the distance and saw his enemy coming fast.”
“So what happened?”
“Nobody knows how Ole Engipika escaped. That’s the point of the saying. Inotie enainotie le-nkipika te minjani basically means, ‘Buddy, you are in a fix.’”
Alexandra looked into his eyes. “It’s me, isn’t it? The African men think I’m a problem for you.”
“Yeah, but not in the way you probably imagine. You’ve got to understand that the Maasai are totally structured by clan and family. They can’t figure out why I like to live alone out here. They can’t believe I’m happy without a wife or two and a bunch of children. Your coming along when you did . . . well, they tend to view things from a sort of superstitious perspective.”
“They think God sent me to you?”
“Very perceptive.” He gave her that crooked grin. “Don’t worry about it, though. You and I both know the truth. So, if you’ll pull on those clothes, I’ll drive you up to Oloitokitok to use the phone. Then we’ll figure some way to get you back to Nairobi.”
Alexandra slid her feet over the side of the cot. As her toes touched the tent floor, she winced and glanced at the flat-heeled shoes the Maasai warriors had carried all the way from their kraal. “I’m not sure I can get into those things. My feet are still swollen.”
“Here.” Grant set a pair of sandals made of rubber tire soles and inner-tube straps beside the cot. “I traded a ballpoint pen for these. They’re high fashion in the bush.”
A Touch of Betrayal Page 6