A Touch of Betrayal

by Catherine Palmer

  “Understood what?” She lifted her head. “Grant, what are you trying to tell me?”

  “Surrender. I know what it means. I get it now.” Still searching for the right way to explain, he focused on the other climbers in the distance. The burly man had assembled his camera. Now he lifted it and swung it into position.

  “I saw my own life for what it was,” Grant continued. “The emptiness overwhelmed me and I knew—”

  A muffled pop cut off his words. Alexandra jerked backward in Grant’s arms. Then she cried out in pain and slumped against him. He turned toward the sound.

  A nine-inch silver barrel gleamed in the early light. It was not a camera. The burly man held a gun. Jones. Recognition dawned slowly in Grant’s stunned mind. Too slowly. The metal slide on the semiautomatic pistol slipped back to click in another round.

  As Jones squeezed the trigger a second time, Grant shoved Alexandra toward the ground. The bullet slammed into her arm, and she lurched. Grant pushed her down and threw himself over her.

  Amid a chorus of shrieks, the shooter whirled and fired into the group of terrified onlookers. Pop, pop, pop. The climbers began running. Falling to the ground. Diving for cover. Someone sobbed. Pop, pop, pop.

  Beneath Grant, Alexandra moaned. He shifted, searching for a weapon. Looking for protection. His hand closed on a stone. He lifted it and hurled. But Jones was already scrambling back down the cinder cone, his feet skittering on the loose scree.

  “Go after him!” someone shouted.

  Another cry. “Somebody help me!”

  “I’m dying!”

  “Catch that man!”

  Grant rolled off Alexandra and scrambled to his feet. Get him. Get him. Alone, he started down the wind-whipped cone in pursuit of the gunman.

  “Jones!” he shouted.

  The hit man swung around and took aim. Pop, pop.

  Cinders sprayed upward at Grant’s feet. He slid to the ground. Catch him! Get him! How many more rounds in the pistol? Crawling on hands and knees, he watched Jones race down the slope. In moments the man would disappear into the trees. Impossible to catch him.

  An image of Alexandra slumped against him hit Grant full force. He rose unsteadily. Alexandra! Sucking air into his aching lungs, he scrambled back up the cinder cone. No time for the zigzag path. He had to get to her. Had to save her.

  At the summit he found a scene of complete chaos. Moaning, crying, the wounded climbers huddled in agony. The uninjured stumbled from one victim to another attempting to help. Grant clawed his way across the loose cinders to the place where Alexandra lay. On her side, she had curled into a fetal ball. Her breath escaped in shallow, wheezing bubbles.

  Grant cupped her white face between his hands. “Alexandra, it’s me. Talk to me.”

  “Can’t . . . breathe.” Her blue eyes slid open. “Help me.”

  He rolled her over to examine her wound, but what he saw made him draw back in disbelief. The bullet had entered her chest, torn through her lung, and exited her back. Bright blood seeped through the dark hole in her jacket in a widening stain.

  Gurgling, she clutched at him. “Grant . . .”

  He staggered to his feet. “I need help over here!”

  Hubert looked up from the climber whose leg he was wrapping. “What’s wrong?”

  “Lung!” Grant shouted.

  White-faced, his lips an ugly shade of gray blue, Hubert lugged a first-aid kit across the cone. “I was a medic,” he puffed, falling to his knees beside Alexandra. “Vietnam. Find me some plastic. Get Vaseline.”

  Grant tore through his pockets, locating the sandwich bag that held a chocolate candy bar and banana he’d planned to snack on. He shook them out onto the ground and tore open the plastic. In the first-aid kit, he found a tube of petroleum jelly.

  “Gotta cover the chest with plastic,” Hubert panted as he smeared gauze with the sticky jelly and began packing it into the wound. “Lung is collapsing.”

  “Grant?” Alexandra gripped his hand, her eyes filled with terror. Pale as snow, her skin was already turning clammy. “Sm . . . smothering!”

  “Keep her warm,” Hubert muttered. “She goes into shock, we’ve got real trouble. Body shuts down to keep blood in the heart and head. Wrap her up.”

  “What about the bleeding?” Grant demanded. “Should I put pressure on her chest?”

  “Not the lung. Can’t use pressure there. Clamp down on her arm. She’s been hit there, too.”

  Grant grabbed Alexandra’s arm. Already her eyes were glazing over. He wrapped a wool mitten around the wound and pressed it tightly. She winced. “Hurts. Can’t . . . can’t breathe.”

  “It’s your ribs,” Hubert said as he worked. “Bone chips in the wound. Punctured the lung tissue. I’ve packed the bullet hole, and I’m putting the plastic on now.”

  “Gra . . . ,” she mumbled. “Not the blue . . . it’s daddy . . . but . . .”

  “Don’t let her go into shock!” Hubert shouted at Grant. “Get her a blanket. Hold her. Keep her warm. Alert.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Five others wounded. Gotta help.”

  As Hubert staggered away, Grant lifted Alexandra into his lap. Eyes glassy, she moved her lips in random, meaningless messages.

  “Ice cre . . . that bell . . . but I don’t . . .”

  “Alexandra,” Grant said. Sick with disbelief, he kissed her icy cheeks and lips. “Alexandra, stay with me. Please be all right.” He threw back his head and shouted into the howling wind. “God, let her be all right!”

  SIXTEEN

  Alexandra was sure she had died. She knew she had because, first of all, she couldn’t breathe. Second, she couldn’t hear. Third, she couldn’t see. But most significant, she felt no pain.

  Floating in a liquid world of soft, translucent bubbles, she knew the certainty of God all around her. Yes, she had been shot in the chest. That truth was evident but completely unimportant. How could such a thing matter? It was nothing at all when compared to the overwhelming sense of glory that surrounded and suffused her.

  God held her in his arms, bathed her in his protection, warmed her with his love. In the golden light of the Father’s presence, Alexandra felt the power of his Son and knew the holy comfort of his Spirit. Immeasurable joy flooded her body and lifted her soul.

  And then she realized she could see again. Distant, beyond a shimmering curtain, she recognized someone waiting for her. More than one. Her mother stood on the shore of a gleaming river. Daddy was there, too. And Grandma Prescott. Was that Uncle Zeke, the ranch hand she had idolized when she was a child?

  Hi, Uncle Zeke! Hi, Daddy! Wait for me, okay? I’m coming.

  “Alexandra, stay with me.”

  Who said that? She tried to locate the source of the voice. Someone precious and beloved had spoken those words. All the same, she didn’t want to stay. She wanted to go on. She ached to slip through the curtain and cross that shining river in the distance.

  Let me go, Lord, she pleaded.

  “Alexandra, please. Please don’t go.”

  The words compelled her, but she didn’t want to obey them. Joy awaited her on the other side. Peace. Eternity in the Father’s presence.

  Let me go, Lord. I want to cross over now.

  “Alexandra, I love you. I need you. Please . . . please . . .”

  Torn, she again searched for the source of the voice. It was a treasure. An earthly treasure, to be sure, but that voice was valuable to her all the same. Wanting it made her tremble inside.

  But, oh, Lord, I want to go on with you even more. Please allow me to cross the river.

  In response to her plea, a voice that was beautiful, powerful, dear, and intimately known echoed through her soul. Not yet, my beloved child. In time I will welcome you into my arms . . . but not yet.

  “Alexandra. Alexandra.”

  No, Father, don’t send me back! She reached for the shimmering curtain, trying to hold onto it. But it faded to a gray mist that lifted before her eyes. Acacia trees formed a
canopy over her head. White clouds like puffs of cotton hung in the thorny branches.

  “Alexandra? Are you awake?” Grant Thornton’s face appeared where the trees had been. Eyes filled with unspeakable torment, he gazed down at her. “Are you here with me?”

  At his words, pain rushed in a torrent through Alexandra’s body. She convulsed in agony and grasped again for the blissful curtain. Instead, Grant gathered her close, his strength enveloping her.

  “Don’t go, Alexandra,” he murmured in a ragged voice. “You have to stay with me until we can get you to a hospital. Can you hear me, my love?”

  Oh, Grant, she tried to say. You don’t know where I’ve been! If you had seen that river, you wouldn’t beg me to stay. If you had felt the arms of God as I did, you’d never want to leave them.

  “Everything’s going to be all right now,” he was saying, as though he hadn’t heard her. “The tour guide radioed Amboseli for a plane. We’re not far from my campsite, and the plane should be here any minute. We got you and the others down the mountain about half an hour ago. Six of you were wounded. You were hurt the worst, but you’re going to be okay, Alexandra. Can you hear me? You’re going to be all right.”

  The searing pain in her chest and shoulder belied his words. She wasn’t all right. Somehow she had been forced to leave that golden place and return to the ache and fear and uncertainty of this life. Why? Why was she here—and how could she bear the agony?

  “We’ll be flying into Nairobi,” Grant said. “The hospital already knows about you. In an hour or so, you’ll be in surgery.”

  Surgery? Alexandra opened her eyes again. But I just want to rest, Grant. Let me sleep, okay?

  “I called Mama Hannah and Tillie from Oloitokitok,” he went on. “They’ll meet us at the hospital. We’ll take care of you. You’ll be fine.”

  The last of his words were drowned by the throb of propellers beating the air, the roar of an engine, and the shouts of welcome. Grant settled Alexandra on a sleeping bag beneath the acacia tree and vanished from her side.

  She couldn’t take much air into her lungs, and every breath hurt beyond belief. She thought about not bothering with the effort. If she could just rest completely, just stop the trouble of breathing altogether, she might be able to get back to the shining river.

  But Grant appeared again, and with him were several people she didn’t recognize. They all spoke at once, giving each other directions, pushing on her, lifting. In a blaze of white pain, she moved through space until she was hauled up a flight of steps and loaded like an old carpet into the belly of the airplane.

  Someone moved over her in the dim light. Was it Hubert? She tried to smile, but he was squeezing on her arm and pushing at her chest—which didn’t seem very kind considering how much it hurt. And then he stuck a needle into her hip. Oh, Hubert, did you have to do that?

  “Listen, Alexandra,” Grant said, suddenly appearing above her. “The pilot just told me there’s not enough room for me on the plane. It’s already overloaded with the six injured, and we want to send Hubert to keep an eye on everybody.”

  His warm hand touched her cheek. “Gra . . . ,” she managed.

  “Shh. It’s okay.” Struggling for control, Grant bent down and gently kissed her lips. “Tillie and Mama Hannah will meet you at the hospital in Nairobi. And I’ll get there as soon as I can. I love you, Alexandra.”

  Oh yes, she wanted to say. Now I understand why it wasn’t time. Now I remember why I came back. For you. I want to live this earthly life with you. I love you, Grant.

  But he was gone. The airplane door shut, the engines rattled to life; the plane shuddered as it moved down the bumpy roadway.

  “We’re going up now.” Hubert took her hand and patted it. “We’re flying. Before long, you’ll feel good again—maybe better than you’ve ever felt.”

  Alexandra stared up at the row of narrow lights on the airplane’s ceiling, and she thought about that shimmering curtain. One day—maybe very soon—she’d go back there. And that would be the best place of all.

  Grant knotted his fists and choked back a cry of rage. The tiny airplane skimmed toward the clouds, fading to a mere whine in the distance. Around him, the uninjured climbers were getting back into the waiting Land Rovers. Subdued, nervous, they hardly spoke. Grant couldn’t blame them. The group had endured shock, unexpected terror, and helplessness.

  “Ol-oibor siadi.”

  The voice behind Grant startled him. A dark hand gripped his shoulder as he jumped and swung around.

  “Kakombe? Oh . . . it’s you.”

  “E-miureishoyu,” Kakombe said, reassuring his friend that there was no need to be afraid.

  “How did you find me here?” Grant asked in the Maasai tongue. Once the two groups of climbers had made it on foot down to Oloitokitok, they had driven to the meeting place designated for the airplane sent from Amboseli. The pilot had known of a stretch of deserted roadway flat enough to accommodate a landing and takeoff.

  “In the kraal, we learn of many things.” Kakombe stood at Grant’s side to watch the Land Rovers pulling away from the landing area. “She of the long legs was injured?”

  Grant nodded. Wrestling with his memories, he pictured the moment when Jones had pulled the trigger. From that instant—through countless hours as the climbers labored to bring the victims to safety—until this moment, Grant had not allowed himself time to think or even to feel. Now his anger flooded in.

  “Her enemy shot her,” he ground out. “The man who attacked my camp many days ago.”

  Kakombe leaned on his spear. “And how was this enemy killed?”

  “He wasn’t killed. He escaped.”

  Kakombe let out a whistle of disbelief. “Then we must find him, my friend. We must put him to death.”

  Grant rubbed the back of his neck. There was nothing he’d like better than to see Jones get his just deserts. But his focus was not revenge.

  “I have to go to Oloitokitok again and speak to my sister on the telephone,” he said. “I want to make sure Alexandra is safely in the hospital. Then I must drive to Nairobi. She needs me.”

  “This is good. I believe you have given Alinkanda the silver chain. She will be your wife.”

  Grant shoved his hand down into his pocket and touched the chain. “I don’t know what will happen about these future matters, Kakombe. I know only one thing. I promised to protect Alexandra, and I failed her. I have to go and be with her now.”

  The Maasai warrior regarded the plumes of red dust rising from the road as the Land Rovers threaded their way toward the main highway. “Night comes soon,” he said. “That wicked man will try to make his escape from the forests of Kilimanjaro soon. Will you permit your enemy to flee?”

  “My first responsibility is to Alexandra.”

  “Yes, you wear her blood on your hands and your shirt. Your love for her is great. It is for this reason you must destroy her enemy. Only then will you truly protect her. Only then will she welcome you to the doorpost of her hut.”

  Grant let out a hot breath. How could he tell his friend what had happened to him as he climbed to the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro? How could he explain the treasure he had found there? Unexpected peace in the face of turmoil now filled his heart—and it lessened his need for vengeance. Sure, he was angry. Enraged. But his focus was on Alexandra. On a new life and a new path.

  “Here is a good plan,” Kakombe said. “Go to your camp and fetch the things you need for your journey. I will return to the kraal and summon the warriors. We will all drive up to Oloitokitok. There—at the edge of the forest—we will begin our search for the enemy of your woman. We will track him like a rogue bull elephant. And we will find him.”

  “Kakombe, I must drive to Nairobi tonight.”

  The Maasai frowned. “This evil man cannot be allowed to go free. Like a mad elephant who attacks a kraal, he has touched many lives with his wicked actions. Do you not know that this man shamed all Maasai people when he tied the great w
arrior Loomali to the tree in your camp? You are our friend, the adopted son of our tribe. Do you not know that your enemy attacked us when he attacked your mother? Do you not know that he wounded us when he injured your beloved woman, Alinkanda? Yes, we warriors have discussed this dangerous man. We have decided he must taste the bitter medicine of justice.”

  Grant understood enough about the Maasai way of thinking to know Kakombe spoke in deadly earnest. But he had to think of Alexandra. Had to get to her as soon as he could.

  “Will you permit that enemy to track down your woman once again?” Kakombe asked. “Will you permit him to kill Alinkanda?”

  “I will never allow that. But, Kakombe . . .” Grant paused, searching for the words to explain himself to his friend. “Today, on Mount Kilimanjaro, I met God—the one, true God. I heard his voice, and I asked his Son, Jesus Christ, to enter my heart and direct the path of my feet. So, how can I take the death of another man into my own hands? Justice must be brought by God.”

  A broad grin spread across Kakombe’s face. “Oh, my friend! This is the way my father has also chosen—a worthy path indeed. But now you must go to your camp. I will return to the kraal and summon the warriors. We will meet soon and drive to Oloitokitok. Perhaps there the justice of God himself will rain down upon the wickedness of our enemy.”

  Grant lifted a hand in farewell as his friend loped away. Filled with a sense of mission, the young warrior would not rest until the honor of Loomali had been restored and the attack on “Alinkanda” had been avenged. As much as Grant loved the Maasai, he knew he would never fully understand their ways. Nor they his.

  All the same, one God had created them both. One God loved them both.

  “God,” Grant said aloud, “please keep her alive. Don’t let Alexandra die!”

  A small brown face materialized above Alexandra. Sharp brown eyes sparkled amid a wreath of wrinkles. A bright scarf in a pattern of lemon yellow and blue provided a jaunty contrast to the scar that ran along one cheekbone.

  “They have not permitted me to return the blood you gave me,” the old woman said solemnly.