Lioness

by Nell Brien

  On the fifth ring, his machine picked up. “Paul Neville. If it’s urgent, call the bureau. They usually know how to contact me.”

  Cat hung up without leaving a message, but the sound of his voice had brought a comfort she had not realized she needed.

  She ordered a salad from room service, ate on her balcony, then dialed Stephen’s number again with the same result. Finally, she picked up her purse, left to kill time with some sight-seeing until she could call him again later in the evening.

  She smiled at the doorman, enjoying the flourish with which he opened the heavy glass doors, and turned toward Kamathi Street. The afternoon sun was bright, but the streets were not oppressively hot. Nairobi, her guidebook had told her, was the Maasai word for “cool fresh water.” The city was a mile above sea level, its temperature always moderate. A handful of wooden buildings surrounding a railhead only a hundred years ago, it was now a modern city.

  Ignoring her exhaustion—this might be the only time she’d have to look at the city—she walked aimlessly, soaking up the atmosphere. The buildings left over from colonial times were interesting, a few of the hotels were excellent, but most new construction looked as if it had been thrown together, and she wondered how local architects made a living.

  The streets teemed with people. Beggars crouching in the shade of buildings. Men in three-piece suits and jeans and T-shirts. Fresh young girls in colorful saris and immaculate makeup. Pregnant women who looked already worn-out by childbearing, small children clinging to their legs, babies suckling at the breast.

  Easy to believe Kenya had one of the fastest-growing birthrates in Africa.

  For the first time in her life, Cat was conscious of her color, a white face in a sea of black. Even to her untutored eye, tribal differences were obvious. Fine Nilotic features and slender-boned bodies, heavy faces that matched strong square figures, skin colors from pale ivory to a rich blue-black.

  Joel had seen this tumult of life and color, she thought. His artist’s eye had caught every detail; he’d probably taken a thousand photographs, each one with his unique take on life. And all lost. She would never see them.

  She stumbled, then realized a skinny hand was clamped around her arm, pulling her off balance. Deep in thought, she had not been aware that a beggar was keeping pace with her until he grabbed her.

  She gagged at the smell of his rags, his unwashed body. Incoherent words burbled from his throat. His temples were sunken, the bones of his face barely covered with flesh.

  Cat pulled her arm free and backed up, reached in her bag for a few Kenyan pound notes. Trying not to shudder, she pressed them into a clawlike hand, then attempted to step around him. Still mumbling, the man blocked her path. White foam flecked his lips, flew from his mouth. Cat jerked her head back, trying not to think of the AIDS epidemic sweeping through Africa.

  The beggar clutched her arm again, shouting now, his face thrust into hers. She struggled to free herself, but his long bony fingers tightened.

  Then a tall heavy woman with skin the color of ebony stopped and began to yell. More people gathered, calling out questions to which the woman shouted answers. Within seconds it seemed, Cat was the center of an angry noisy crowd, she and the crazy beggar alone in the middle of a circle, the crowd carefully keeping its distance.

  Heart pounding, Cat looked from face to face.

  “What’s going on here?” A loud, authoritative voice rose above the din. “Let me through.”

  Still shouting, the crowd drew apart.

  “What’s happening? Are you all right?” The voice had a strong European accent. A priest in a black cassock peered at her.

  “Yes, but they’re shouting so loud I can’t understand what they’re saying.”

  “Ah.” The priest turned to the woman who’d started the noisy exchange. “What is wrong here?”

  “This diseased person is stealing,” the woman answered. Her voice was loud, but at least she no longer shouted. “He should be arrested by police.” The woman stabbed an accusing finger at the beggar while the rest of the onlookers yelled their agreement. No one seemed inclined to back off.

  “They seem to think this man was robbing you,” the priest said to Cat. “They are determined to hold him for the police, but they will not touch him because he probably has AIDS and they don’t want to catch it.” He spread his hands, gave a Gallic shrug. “They are good people but frightened, you understand.”

  Cat let out her breath in a small puff of relief. She smiled at the woman. “I gave him the money, but he seems to be sick in his mind. I think we should let him go.”

  The woman looked doubtful. She turned to the crowd, the discussion continued. Seeming to enjoy the excitement, the crowd did not disperse, and the priest took Cat’s arm.

  “There is nothing for you to do here.”

  He drew her away. Reluctant to leave the beggar to their judgment, Cat looked back and was relieved to see that somehow he had managed to slip away.

  She turned to the priest. “Things were really getting away from me there.” She gave a small laugh to cover her embarrassment. “I couldn’t understand their accent. I’m sorry. I feel pretty stupid. Anyway, thank you.”

  “No, no. I am delighted to have been of service. People here hate thieves, they’ll always hold them for the police. Only the fact that he looked as if he had AIDS prevented him from being handled very roughly.”

  He was staring at her. Cat smiled uncertainly, and held out her hand. “Well, thank you again.”

  He took her hand, hesitated, then said, “Forgive my impertinence. You look quite pale. Perhaps you would allow me to give you a cup of coffee?”

  “Well—”

  “Come,” he said. “A brief rest, a cup of coffee. It will be good for you.”

  Cat found herself nodding. “Yes, thank you, that sounds wonderful.”

  The priest guided her across the street, weaving expertly through cars that made no attempt to slow down. Miraculously, they reached the safety of the sidewalk, and he led her to tables outside a hotel. He waved to a white-jacketed waiter, then seated her in the shade of a blue and white umbrella.

  He took the chair opposite, and said, “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Father Yves Gaston.”

  Before she could give her own name, the waiter was at the table, and Father Gaston said, “Mademoiselle? Coffee?” He glanced at his watch. “Ah. After five. Perhaps you would prefer something a little stronger?”

  “No, thank you. Coffee would be fine.”

  He gave the order in Swahili, then smiled at her. “I did not get your name, mademoiselle.”

  “Catherine Stanton. From Los Angeles.”

  “California. Beautiful I am told.” He reached across the table and they shook hands once more. He hesitated, then said, “Mademoiselle Stanton you say, yes?”

  Cat nodded.

  “Ah.”

  Cat looked at him expectantly. Long bony face, fierce dark eyes, olive skin. A wonderful mane of unruly iron gray hair, over which, she would guess, he waged a losing battle with vanity. She tried to pinpoint his accent. It was attractive, but not French.

  “Forgive me if I intrude, mademoiselle, but are you by chance the sister of the young American, Joel Stanton?”

  The noise and color of the street receded, leaving her alone with the man on the other side of the table. It seemed an age passed before she could respond, but it could have been only seconds.

  “Yes. Joel was my…” Her voice strangled.

  Father Gaston allowed a moment of silence, then said, “You have my deepest sympathy, mademoiselle. I read about the accident. It was a terrible thing.”

  Cat fought to find words, but could only nod her thanks. The waiter arrived, set out the coffeepot and sugar cookies, filled the cups. The interlude gave her a moment to recover her equilibrium, and she picked up her cup with a steady hand and drank, feeling gratitude as the caffeine hit her system.

  Father Gaston replaced his own cup and said, “I h
ad the pleasure of meeting your brother, you know. Of course, now I see the strong resemblance between you.”

  “You met him?” Cat stared at him in astonishment. “Did you rescue him, too?”

  Father Gaston gave a small laugh. “No, no. We met quite by chance when he was visiting the Cathedral of the Holy Family here in Nairobi. We walked around the Cathedral together, and I invited him to visit my own little church.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  Smiling, Father Gaston shook his head. “No, my dear. He was not getting religion.”

  Cat smiled back. “No, I didn’t think so.”

  “He was a fine young man, nevertheless. We discovered we shared an interest in church architecture.”

  Cat felt a small stab of amusement. Joel had studied just enough church architecture to get him through his exams. As far as she knew, he had never looked at it again. But Joel always knew when to be kind.

  “He mentioned our little meetings, perhaps?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.” She stared out at the passing crowd, felt Father Gaston’s eyes on her and looked at him. “What did you hear about his death?”

  “Hear? Well, the same thing you did, I imagine. Just what I read in the newspaper. I understood he was caught up in some sort of rampage. Buffalo, was it not?”

  “Isn’t that unusual?”

  He seemed startled. “Well, I don’t know. What do you mean?”

  “I mean, how many people do you hear about getting killed like that?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t think about it, mademoiselle. You must forgive me, I confess to having little interest in the wilderness. Pastoral work among a rather wild flock is about all I can manage. You are troubled by this explanation of his death?”

  Cat hesitated, then said, “I just can’t imagine how this could have happened to my brother. He was experienced in the wild. He was a very good wildlife photographer. He knew how to handle himself.”

  “My dear.” Father Gaston reached across the table, placed his hand over hers. “The loss of a loved one is hard to accept, especially someone so young and so talented as your brother.”

  Alone in the middle of this city where she was unknown, the touch of the priest’s hand was oddly consoling. She couldn’t imagine seeking out such contact in Los Angeles. She allowed her hand to stay where it was.

  “Well, I think there is something—I don’t know—wrong about his death.” The words just slipped out.

  Father Gaston nodded. “With our limited understanding, we always believe it is wrong for someone so young to die, but we cannot know the divine plan. What good does it do to question God?”

  “I mean the way he is supposed to have died. I don’t think he would have been caught like that, in the open where he could be trampled by buffalo.” She could feel the sweat building where the priest’s palm touched the skin on the back of her hand. But his dark eyes were warm and sympathetic. “We were twins,” she said. “We were born twelve minutes apart. I would know…” But she didn’t know. She had only nightmares she could not remember when daylight came.

  “It is very human to struggle against the finality of death by raising questions,” he said gently. “At first it can provide a connection of sorts to our loved one. But do not, I beg of you, dear mademoiselle, allow it to continue. Do not torment yourself with these thoughts.”

  Cat removed her hand, reaching for her cup to make the withdrawal seem less abrupt. “You’re right, I guess.” For a second she had been about to tell him of her disquiet about the missing film, the lack of a police report. The urgency Joel seemed to have felt, somehow managing to send a note and unfinished sketches even though he’d been deep in the bush, miles from civilization. But the moment passed, and she was glad she had kept silent. She glanced at her watch.

  “So, what brings you here, Miss Catherine?”

  “Please, I’m usually called Cat.” Only Derek Stanton called her Catherine. She had learned to hate the name.

  “Yes, of course, Joel mentioned that. I’d forgotten. So I, too, will call you Cat. So, what brings you here?”

  “I’m sure Joel told you about the site for a hotel. Our clients still need it.”

  “Ah. You will be traveling into the bush, then?”

  “Yes, I expect to be leaving in a day or two.” She glanced at her watch again. “I’m sorry, I hope you will excuse me. I have some calls I must make tonight.”

  “Ah, young people, always working. You will be taking the same route taken by Joel?”

  “Yes. That’s the plan.” She felt under her chair for her purse.

  “You must be very careful. The bush can be very dangerous—” He stopped. “But, of course, you know the risks more than most. Forgive me.”

  Cat stood and the priest jumped to his feet.

  “Well, I must not keep you. Perhaps before you leave you will give me the pleasure of showing you my little church? Some tea, perhaps, one afternoon?” He smiled. “I promise I will not ask you for a donation.”

  Suddenly, she was eager to be gone. “Yes. Thank you,” she said. “I’d like that. Thanks again for rescuing me.”

  Father Gaston took a small notebook from a pocket in his cassock, scribbled a few lines. “This is the address of my church and my telephone number. Regard me as a friend while you are in Kenya. Call if you need, just to talk, you understand. Sharing your grief will help. Especially with one who knew your brother.”

  Her throat tightened. “Thank you.” She folded the note, slipped it into her pocket although she knew she would never call. She had neither the time nor the temperament for pastoral counsel.

  Four

  She called Stephen’s number again from her room. This time, after only one ring, a voice said, “N’toya.”

  “Stephen.” A spurt of gladness warmed her at the sound of his voice. Someone who had known Joel as a student, who’d laughed with him, argued, fought sometimes. An old friend and irreplaceable. “This is Cat.”

  There was silence. Then a click, a faint mechanical hum. She could hear him breathe.

  “Stephen,” she said. “It’s Cat Stanton.” At Harvard they’d all spent hours together arguing until dawn over pizza and jug red. “I’m here in Nairobi.”

  “Cat. What are you doing here?” There was no greeting, no lilt of pleasure in his voice at hearing from her. He must have realized the starkness of his words because he gave a small strained laugh. “What a surprise.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is—”

  “Wait. I’ll call you back.”

  “Oh. Okay. I’m at—”

  But he’d hung up. Frowning, Cat replaced the phone and wondered how he would know where to reach her. She sat staring at the telephone. Fifteen minutes ticked by. Then it rang, and she snatched up the receiver.

  “Stephen?”

  “Yes. How are you, Cat?” He sounded more relaxed.

  “I’m fine. How did you know where to find me?”

  “I guessed. I’m sorry about Joel.”

  “Yes.” He’d written a note and she had responded, but it had been in a fog of grief, and she could hardly remember it. He had not mentioned meeting up with Joel. Nor leaving the attorney general’s office.

  “So, how are you, Cat?”

  “Okay.” Behind his voice she could hear traffic noise, the shouts of a street vendor. It sounded as if he was at a public phone. Certainly no place for a long cozy chat with an old friend. She got right to the point.

  “Stephen, I need some help. I have some questions about Joel’s death.”

  A beat of silence, then, “What kind of questions?”

  “I wonder if we could meet for a drink, or if you haven’t eaten yet, maybe dinner. We could talk.”

  “Cat, I don’t know what I can do to help you.”

  Her gut clenched and she realized how much she had been relying on him to come through for her. She said, “If this is not a convenient time for you, Stephen, I can call tomorrow. We could meet for lunch.”

  “
I’m afraid I can’t tomorrow.”

  “Do you have a new job?”

  “No, same old grind, you know how it is.”

  “Stephen, I called your office today. They didn’t seem to know your name.”

  “Typical. Government offices, can’t find anything.”

  She waited for him to continue, but he didn’t. She said, “Well, when can we get together?”

  “Cat, I feel terrible about this, but you’ve caught me flat-footed. I have to go out of town on a case upcountry. You should have let me know you were coming.”

  “I can come to your office tomorrow and wait until you have some time, if you like. Any hour. I don’t mind waiting. Just name it.”

  He was silent.

  “Stephen,” she said. “What’s going on? Joel was killed in Kenya. He said he was going to see you while he was here, and I don’t know whether he did, but I’m here and I need some help. I can’t believe you can’t squeeze me in, no matter how busy you are. Do you want me to just park myself in your office? Because I will.”

  She heard him expel a loud breath. “I’m sorry, Cat. I really am going out of town. Let’s make it tonight. I’ll meet you at the Kenyatta statue in the square. Ten o’clock.”

  “Stephen, for God’s sake! What’s wrong with the bar in the hotel?”

  “It’s better this way. If you leave the hotel at three minutes to ten, you’ll be at the statue at ten.” He hesitated, then said, “Be discreet. Do not draw attention to yourself.” A warmer note crept into his voice. “I’ll be glad to see you, Cat.”

  “What do you mean by discreet?” Cat asked. But the dial tone hummed in her ear. He’d hung up. Cat stared at the phone in her hand. What the hell was that all about? She looked at her watch, saw that it was only seven o’clock. She called the front desk, waited forever until they answered and asked if they had a list of safari guides they could recommend.

  Downstairs, she pushed into the crowd surrounding the desk and leaned over, trying to catch the eye of a harassed desk clerk. Failing, she raised her voice, adding to the clamor.