Lioness

by Nell Brien

  For once, a guidebook did not do justice to its subject. Light from high clerestory windows flooded the immense building. Tiny open-fronted shops crammed together under the great canopy of roof offered wood carvings, many showing great skill and artistry. Handwoven sisal baskets, mats, rugs. Gourd dishes. Flowers, fruit, vegetables. Market women shouted back and forth, everyone haggled over price, a lot of body language, a lot of laughter. Cat wandered from shop to shop, buoyed by the vitality.

  On the second-floor gallery, a seller of tribal drums pushed padded drumsticks into her hand. She tapped a zebra-skin drum softly. The man took the sticks from her.

  “No, no, memsahib. Like this.” He thumped loudly. The sound reverberated, and she thought of Moses and Olentwalla and the nights she had listened to them weaving their complex rhythms. He thrust the sticks back into her hand.

  “How much?” She pointed to a couple of three-legged drums as large as tables. One for herself—God knows where it would fit in her high-rise condo overlooking the Pacific—the other for Rosie.

  “Ah, you have a good eye, memsahib. My very best drums. Good zebra skin. First quality.” He named a price in Kenya shillings.

  Cat shook her head.

  “What you pay, memsahib?”

  Cat offered a third of what he asked. He jumped back as if she had stabbed him to the heart, hands clenched to his chest, eyes rolled back in horror.

  “Jambo, Cat.”

  She looked around. “Tom!”

  He smiled, a trace of reserve in his face.

  “How are Thomas and Olentwalla?” she asked.

  “Better. Going back to their villages so their wives can wait on them. They don’t trust hospitals. Can’t say I blame them. I don’t, either.”

  “How many wives do they have?” The conversation was strange and stilted.

  “Enough to keep them busy.” He looked around at the drums. “You are thinking of buying one of these for yourself?”

  “A couple of them. One for me, another for my goddaughter.”

  “They’re not zebra skin, you know. They’re cow.”

  “Oh, thank God. Zebra skin would just make me feel guilty.”

  Tom snorted in derision.

  “We’re at a ticklish part of the negotiation,” she said. “Only separated by about sixty-six percent.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll do it for you.”

  He took over the haggling in Swahili. The drum man looked as if Tom were extracting the gold from his teeth, but finally she was the owner of the drums at about a third of what she had been prepared to pay. The drum seller bowed happily, golden teeth still shining, so it looked as if he, too, had gotten a good deal. Everyone came out a winner. Everything in life should be so simple, Cat thought.

  While Tom filled in the custom forms for her, she looked around, her skin rippling with a strange disquiet. Someone was watching.

  “Is Miriam with you, Tom?”

  “No, she’s taken our boys upcountry to her father’s shamba.” He leaned over the wooden railing of the gallery. “Dan’s down there somewhere.”

  Surprised, she said, “I thought it would take him days to get back to Nairobi.”

  “I flew back and picked him up. Moses and Sambeke are driving back.”

  “They’re traveling alone?”

  “I took a couple more of our men to join them.” He waved. “There they are.”

  The hall was a mosaic of color. Great purple mounds of eggplant, golden pawpaw, bins overflowing with yams and ears of unshucked pale green corn. Red and yellow gladioli, gerbera daisies the dusty red of Kenyan earth, delphinium from pale blue to almost navy. Shoppers in tribal cottons, saris, turbans, western suits and light summer dresses.

  Campbell was easy to spot—the bright blond hair of the young woman beside him stood out like a beacon. She held a cantaloupe to her nose with both hands. Her light eyes were fixed on Cat.

  For a long moment their eyes locked, then the girl turned and nodded to the stall keeper, handing the melon to him. She spoke to Campbell.

  He looked up. Unsmiling, he raised a hand in greeting. He looked tired.

  “Why don’t you have dinner with us, Cat?” Tom said. He leaned over the railing, mimed eating, pointed at Cat.

  “Thanks, Tom, but I can’t. I have work to do.”

  “Come on, you have to eat. Leave early. It’s just us, we’re cooking for ourselves. Mary’s upcountry with Jock at the farm.”

  Cat glanced below. Morag was discussing gladioli with a flower seller now, carefully examining each stem before placing it in Campbell’s arms. Cat shook her head. “No, thanks. I have too much to do.”

  Morag was laughing with the flower seller, counting rumpled notes into his outstretched hand. Campbell’s arms were piled with blossoms. They looked good together, she as fair as he was dark. It was a sweet domestic scene.

  “I’ll call you, Tom. We still have some business to discuss. Thanks for your help with the drums.”

  Suddenly she’d had enough of the City Market, the color and noise, the exotic smells, the crush of humanity. Enough of watching Campbell trail after the lovely, laughing girl.

  The following day dragged. Cat felt caught in a nightmare, unsafe on the streets surrounded by people, any one of whom could be a threat.

  One more day that Stephen N’toya did not answer his telephone.

  Another twenty-four hours waiting for Father Gaston to contact her.

  She completed her own calls by noon. Patel Brothers were working hard, they said. When she pressed them for a time commitment, Mr. Patel the Elder had been soothing. Four days, memsahib. No longer. Frustrated, she’d hung up.

  Later, in the Nairobi Museum, she thought she’d picked up another follower, this time a well-dressed young man, meandering from room to room as she did, keeping her in sight. In front of the glass case of skulls recovered from the Rift, he’d engaged her in conversation, then asked her if she would like some tea. She had fled, leaving him staring after her. A teksi brought her back to the hotel. She spent the rest of the day in her room, working, close to the telephone.

  It didn’t ring.

  She took another shower, the third that day, wrapped her hair in a towel and inspected the contents of the tiny hotel refrigerator. The usual giant bottles of Tusker, several cans of apricot nectar. The ubiquitous Coca-Cola. A couple of bottles of wine. She poured a glass from a bottle of wine with a picture of Mount Kilimanjaro on the label and turned on the television. A rhinoceros appeared on the screen, the picture flipped unsteadily and she fiddled with the knobs. When the maid rapped on the door, she called, “Bed’s already turned down. Good night, see you tomorrow.”

  “This ancient animal,” the voice-over said, “less than two hundred left in the wild—”

  The picture steadied. She stood back. The screen turned green. The maid rapped louder. Cat turned off the set and, rubbing her damp hair with the towel, crossed the room and opened the door.

  She stared unbelieving at the figure in front of her.

  Thirty-Two

  Automatically Cat registered details. Eyes the pale gray of glacial ice, not blue as she’d thought. Skin finely textured, a light golden tan. Hair colored to give that silvery sheen, but it was over a natural blond. And up close it was clear she was much younger than she had appeared. Seventeen, no more. Self-possessed. Beautiful. The portrait above the fireplace in Campbell’s gun room, vibrant and alive.

  “I would have called first, but I thought you might find you had another appointment.” Morag’s voice was light, sweet, English. Her eyes flickered over Cat’s shabby terry-cloth robe. “You didn’t wait to say hello yesterday in the market.”

  “No, I had to run. Morag, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Can I come in?”

  “I’m sorry. You’re right. You should have called first. I’m just getting ready to go out to dinner.”

  “For a minute. I won’t keep you.”

  “I’m sorry. This is not a good time—”


  “Please.” Morag’s throat jerked. The large gray eyes filled. She looked down, the tip of her tongue moved over her lips. “I did want to talk to you. I won’t stay long.”

  A master manipulator, Cat thought. Feeling like a prize fool, she opened the door wider and stood back. “Okay. A few minutes then.”

  Morag moved past her in a cloud of Opium. She wore a scarlet jacket cut close to her body, deep vee neck showing a hint of golden cleavage, short narrow white skirt, high-heeled white sandals, bare legs. Her body was slender but mature. Cat closed the door behind her, tossed the damp towel through the open door of the bathroom. The truth was, the girl’s body was fabulous. And she’d probably never seen the inside of a gym in her life.

  As she followed Morag into the room, Cat scooped up a crumpled chocolate-bar wrapper from the floor, dropped it on top of the detritus of a day’s work overflowing the waste-paper basket.

  “What can I do for you, Morag?”

  “May I sit down?”

  Cat walked to a green velvet chair, swept the drawings covering it into a pile, dumped them on the desk. “Please.”

  “Is this your work?” Morag picked up several sketches, the paper rustled in her hand. She was shaking. “They’re very nice.” Cat let her eyes drop to the girl’s left hand. No rings.

  “Thanks.” Cat perched on the edge of the desk and folded her arms. “Look, I don’t wish to be inhospitable, but perhaps you’d better get to the point.”

  Morag eyed the open bottle of wine. “May I have a glass of wine?”

  Cat opened the tiny refrigerator. “Apricot nectar. Coke.” She turned, waiting.

  “Coke, then, please.”

  Cat filled a glass with ice, poured the soda, handed it to her. She popped the top on a can of apricot nectar for herself, filled a glass with the bright, cloudy liquid and resumed her perch on the edge of the desk.

  “Okay,” Cat said. “Now let’s cut the bullshit. What’s going on here?”

  “It’s Dan. He’s terribly upset.”

  Cat shrugged. “I’m sorry. But that’s hardly my business.”

  “Well, yes, it is. You’ve been sleeping with him.”

  Cat felt the blood rush to her face. She stood, put down the glass of nectar. “Now wait a minute. I’m not going to listen to this.”

  “No, you don’t understand. I didn’t mean…You’re old enough to do what you like…I mean—”

  “I know what you mean. Let me explain something to you. I’m an architect here to do work that’s important to me and to a number of other people. Campbell Safaris was employed to facilitate that work. That is the extent of my interest. Come on. Time’s up.”

  “Wait. Just a minute. He wrote you a letter. It was propped up on his desk this morning. It wasn’t sealed and…It wasn’t a letter to a safari client—”

  “You read other people’s mail? Well, any correspondence with me should be addressed to my office. Now, please do not drag me into your love affairs.”

  A horn in the square below seemed to be stuck, bellowing on and on. Morag’s face crumpled. “You know about that? Dan came back and almost killed poor Dougie Maxwell—”

  “Don’t tell me all this. I really don’t want to know. I’m a stranger in Nairobi, and I don’t give a damn who you sleep with. Who Campbell sleeps with—”

  “This is all my fault. All of it. I don’t know what to do now.”

  “Just smile and say you’re sorry,” Cat said dryly. “You’ll think of what to do next.”

  The noise of the car horn filled the room. Cat slammed the balcony door closed, shutting off the sound. The air was too hot to breathe. Cat turned down the thermostat to sixty-eight degrees, and the air conditioner kicked in with a crash.

  Morag stared into her glass, sloshing the liquid back and forth, rattling the ice cubes. “Poor Dougie can’t speak or anything. He has to eat through a straw. His jaw’s broken. And some ribs. I’ll never get another boyfriend. Every man in Kenya will be afraid to come near me after this.”

  Confused, Cat stared at her. A light was beginning to dawn. “My God,” she said. “I don’t believe it. You’re his daughter.”

  “No. I’m not.” Morag raised a hand to her hair, lifted it from her neck. Her breasts moved, she tossed her head, a deliberate attempt to look provocative. Except that her lips were trembling and she was on the point of tears. “Do I look like his daughter?”

  “No, I can’t say that you do. If you’re not his daughter, who are you?”

  “I’m my mother’s daughter. So I’m told. Go and ask him. He’s at home now, mean as an old hippo.”

  “Don’t play games with me, Morag. You came here, remember?”

  “I’m not playing games. You could drop me off on the way. I’ll have dinner at my friend Jane Terry’s house. I called, so Mrs. Terry’s expecting me. He won’t mind that.” She smiled, showing small white teeth. “I’m not supposed to be out, but he won’t mind when you tell him where I am. Mrs. Terry hates poor old Dougie, too.”

  “I can’t go anywhere. I’m having an early night.”

  “I thought you were going out to dinner.”

  “I lied.”

  “Then you do have the time. Please. You have to go and talk to him now. I counted on that. If you don’t, I’m really going to catch it. I’m already in trouble for causing all this. If you don’t go, it’ll be worse—”

  “You should have thought of that.”

  “But I did. I was just trying to put it right for him. I thought you’d want to see him, too.” Tears welled in the large gray eyes. “I think he’s in love with you.”

  Stunned, Cat stared into Morag’s eyes.

  What did she really know of Campbell? What proof did she have that he was a poacher? What she did know was that he would drive hundreds of miles of trackless, rain-soaked country when he thought his daughter—or whoever she was—needed him. Her own father had never cared about her or Joel. Never. Not even enough to acknowledge the letter she’d sent him, telling him of Joel’s death.

  Beloved, Campbell had called her that night. She could see the golden light of the fire outside the tent, hear the sounds of the night. Feel him against her skin.

  “Please,” Morag was saying.

  It was an opportunity that might not come again, a chance to talk to him, find out…And Morag would know she was there. Nothing could possibly happen to her.

  The cab drove slowly along a tree-lined road as quiet as it had been the first time Cat saw it, but much darker now. The sun had completely disappeared, and the leaves of the blue gums rustled in a breeze that cooled the air. Cat peered at the tall hedges guarding the privacy of the houses beyond, hoping she would recognize Campbell’s.

  “Stop here.” Cat leaned forward to speak to the cabdriver. They had already dropped Morag at the Terrys’ house on a similar tree-lined road. “And wait, please.” The cabdriver nodded, slid down in his seat, tipping his battered chauffeur’s cap over his eyes.

  The tunnel of Nandi flame trees lining Campbell’s driveway was dark. Cat started toward it. Somewhere out of sight, she heard a car engine whine, catch, increase in volume. A small car, headlights dimmed, tore out of a secondary, smaller driveway without stopping, narrowly missing her. Cat jumped closer to the hedge of scarlet hibiscus. The car tore past.

  The driver was Stephen N’toya.

  Her heart thumped like an ancient generator. She raced back to the cab, threw herself in.

  “That car,” she yelled. “Follow it.”

  The cabdriver struggled upright. He turned to stare at her. Cat banged on the back of his seat in frustration.

  “Follow that car.” In a fever of impatience, she stabbed a finger at the retreating taillights. “Hurry. Hurry. It’s getting away.”

  The driver, a delighted grin splitting his face, switched on the ignition. Cat stared out the rear window. The red dots of the car’s lights were fading into the distance. The cabbie put his rheumy old Chevrolet into a wild three-point turn
in the narrow road, then jammed his foot on the gas, laying down a patch of rubber. At the next crossroad, he paused, dramatically racing the engine while Cat searched in every direction.

  “Turn off that engine,” she said urgently. “I can’t hear anything.”

  “He has left us,” the cabbie said, but he turned the key.

  Only the sound of insects—cicadas, grasshoppers, or whatever their African cousins were called—came through the open window. Not even the murmur of a distant engine.

  “Yes, I guess he has.” She sat back in a cloud of exhaust fumes. “Thanks for trying, anyway. You’d better take me back to the house.”

  “Just like Rambo,” the driver said happily.

  In the pitch black, the tree-enclosed main driveway seemed longer than on her first visit. Underfoot, petals dropped from the flower-laden trees muffled the sound of her footsteps. As she crossed the veranda, crimson bougainvillea drifted around her feet. From the road at the end of the driveway she heard the cab draw away, and her heart hit her sandals. The cabbie must have misunderstood her request. God, she thought, she was stranded here. There was no going back.

  To reassure herself, Cat put her hand in her bag, touched the butt of the friendly Beretta. Then she seized the heavy metal knob of the front door and turned it. This time, at least there would be no announcement of her presence. The door gave. She stepped across the threshold into the hall.

  The silent house smelled of floor polish and roses and had a natural coolness that owed nothing to air-conditioning. Her heels clattered on the polished wooden floor, and she restrained the urge to slip off her sandals. The only light came from an open double doorway along the hall.

  “Morag!” Campbell’s voice was deep, cold and ominous. “Come in here, please. You, miss, are in a lot of bloody trouble.”

  Cat walked toward the door, relieved to step silently onto the zebra skin just inside the room.