by Nell Brien
Cat linked her hands around his neck and leaned back against his encircling arms. “You’re right. I am nervous. Don’t throw me to the wolves.”
A discreet clearing of the throat echoed in the enclosed space of the small hangar. In the doorway, two dark figures were silhouetted against the brilliance outside.
“Jock!” Morag said in a loud stage whisper. “Don’t! They’re so sweet.”
Cat rolled her eyes. Campbell grinned, held her around the waist and walked toward them. With each step, Cat felt the tear in her pants flap against her knee.
“’Afternoon, Jock. So you’re out of school, Mogs. How did you manage it this time?”
“The nuns are having a teachers’ conference. Honestly. Isn’t that true, Jock?”
“True enough, puss. Welcome to Erukenya, Miss Stanton.” Jock Campbell greeted Cat with an outstretched hand, covering hers in a warm grasp. He looked at his son. “How are you, lad?”
“Fine, Jock, thanks.” Campbell put his arm around Morag and kissed her. “I never managed to get out of school as often as you do.”
“Not what Jock says. He says he used to have to run you down on a horse and throw a rope over you.”
Campbell laughed. “Tall tales.”
Cat greeted Morag, then turned her attention to Jock, studying him as frankly as he studied her. Campbell had said his father was sixty. He looked ten years younger. Over six feet, he carried more weight than his son, but was muscular and fit. Weathered skin, thick, close-cut iron-gray hair with the same tendency to curl. Eyes a shade lighter than Campbell’s navy blue. A thin white scar, running from the corner of his left eye to his mouth, looked as it had been carved by a blade.
A man who has paid his dues, Cat thought. Powerful and aware of it. Attractive to women still. But she was one woman who viewed him with reserve. Underneath that charm and good looks, he was ruthless. Why had he not told his son that a pregnant Fiona needed him? And he had managed to put her off about the police report and make it plausible.
Jock Campbell tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and turned to the open doors of the hangar. “I’m glad to have a chance to extend my sympathies personally,” he said softly. “The accident must have been a terrible shock to you.”
For a second, Cat looked at him. “Thank you. And for the arrangements you made. You were very kind.” And very glib, she thought silently.
Jock nodded, patted her hand. He led her to an open Land Rover parked in the shade of the building.
“You’ll stay a few days, I hope. Should think you’d be needing a bit of a rest by now.”
Cat felt herself flush with embarrassment.
“Yes, it’s been quite an arduous trip,” she said coolly.
“No joke that, a run-in with a wildebeest,” Jock went on. He opened the door of the Land Rover. “They can be frightening beasts, en masse.”
Cat breathed again and climbed into the back seat. Campbell slid in beside her, Jock settled himself in the front passenger seat. Morag got behind the wheel and crashed the gears. Tires screamed, dust and rock flew and Cat’s back slammed against hot leather. She struggled to regain her balance. Campbell grinned and pushed her upright. Jock twisted in the front seat, one arm braced on the frame of the windshield, and pointed out landmarks on the way: cattle barns and stables, an orchard of experimental trees, the cemetery where four generations of Campbells were buried. Cat nodded numbly, vainly trying to keep hair out of her eyes. The journey was a blur of blinding sun and shade.
At last she saw a gravel drive, an avenue of trees, and the Land Rover swept up to the house. Morag jammed on the brakes, her passengers lurched forward.
“Good show, Mogs,” Campbell said. “Your driving is improving, I see.”
Morag tossed her head, jumped out and slid Cat a sly grin. Cat smiled back.
Close-up the house looked as if it had grown as a family had grown, a generation at a time. Architecturally, it wasn’t much, but the long, meandering structure had weathered well, and it had been loved into beauty.
“This is N’kosi.” Jock introduced the short, stout man waiting for them. “Couldn’t run this place without him. And Mary takes care of everything else. I think you met in Nairobi.”
Cat murmured a greeting to each in turn.
“Jambo, memsahib.” A smiling N’kosi reached for a bag. Clad in a parrot-green dress, her feet bare, Mary nodded, as serious as she’d been in Nairobi, then turned her smile toward Campbell, who put his arms around her and kissed her. Cat remembered that he’d told her that Mary had been the only mother he’d known after his own mother had been killed.
As N’kosi turned to greet Campbell, Cat had to struggle to keep her face neutral. One side of his head was completely naked, the shiny black skin criss-crossed with horrendous scars. At some time in his life, someone had made a hacking attempt to scalp him.
After the almost painful brilliance of the sun and the vivid flowers surrounding the house, the interior was restful. A large hall—from the layout it looked as if it had once been the entire house—opened into a room whose windows framed Mount Kenya. It was filled with hand-loomed rugs, couches the color of old ivory, large deep chairs, hammered-copper bowls filled with roses. No trophies or animal skins. The walls were decorated with African art that would grace a museum. The air was sweet with the roses and the cedar logs in the stone fireplace.
“How beautiful!” Cat exclaimed.
“Dan’s mother loved this place,” Jock said. “Always thought of Erukenya as home. We keep it as she left it. Well, I know you’ll want to rest for an hour. Morag, show Cat to her room.” He turned to Campbell. “You should take a look at the farm, lad. You’ll be pleased.”
Campbell nodded. “See you at dinner, Cat.”
The two men left, their heads together, talking in an undertone. Cat watched him, but Campbell didn’t look back.
Morag led the way through the house, then threw open a door. A vase filled with bird of paradise, their exotic orange and purple blossoms looking exactly like their name, were on a low table. In the hearth, a fire was just beginning to flame.
Morag opened French doors leading into a small enclosed garden still dappled with the last of the sun. Blue plumbago spilled over a rear wall, and the sound of trickling water came from a mossy stone catch basin in one corner.
“You’ll have to be a bit careful of cobras, but a mongoose lives in those bushes, so you should be all right.”
Cat nodded. “Snakes don’t bother me. We see a lot of rattlers around Los Angeles. I just shake out my boots every morning.”
Morag caught her eye, and they both laughed. The girl peeked into the bathroom, then nodded toward a connecting door.
“That’s Dan’s room.” She grinned. “Mary wanted to put you in the other wing—she’s Presbyterian—but N’kosi and I wouldn’t let her. You’ve got time to rest, if you want, but we usually have dinner early at the farm. We don’t dress up or anything.” She eyed Cat’s pants. “Just as well, really.”
She disappeared through the door, then thrust her head back into the room. “Dinner’s at seven. You’ll hear the gong.”
“Ah!” Jock looked approvingly at the dishes N’kosi deposited upon the table. “Seven-boy curry.” He turned to Cat. “That’s pretty mild. Mary’s going easy on you, Cat.” Jock pushed a tiered stand across the dark refectory table. Mango chutney, pale green watermelon rind coated with a thin syrup, peach chutney, peanuts, raisins, shredded coconut, spears of banana, a sticky yellow fruit Cat didn’t recognize. “In India under the Raj, each condiment was carried around the table by a young boy. It was usually their first job and they took it very seriously. You knew what you were in for by the number of youngsters marching around. Eight condiments, an eight-boy curry, nine condiments, a nine-boy—”
“Oh, Grandpa, everyone knows that,” Morag said.
“No, they don’t, Mogs. You think that because you do—”
“Grandpa, you’ve got to get into the moder
n era, really you do. No one cares about all that colonial stuff anymore. You’ve got to get more up to date.”
“What do you mean, up to date? I think I’m very up to date.”
“What, just because you wear those terrible old jeans?”
Campbell winked at Cat, and she looked down at her plate, suppressing the urge to giggle at the wrangling between Jock and the young girl so plainly the apple of his eye. The flames of thick beeswax candles flanking the bowl of roses trembled in the cool breeze from the open doors to the terrace.
Dessert was a raspberry tart with rich yellow cream, produced on the farm, Jock said. He turned to listen as N’kosi reentered the room and bent to murmur in his ear.
“There’s a call for you from California, Cat,” Jock told her a moment later. “Why don’t you take it in the office? N’kosi will show you the way.”
“Thank you. Excuse me.”
Following N’kosi, she kept her eyes fixed on a point between his shoulders, avoiding the terrible crosshatch of scars on his head. Earlier, Campbell told her that N’kosi had remained loyal to the Campbells during what the British regarded as the Mau Mau Rebellion—and the Kenyans regarded as the war of independence—the long brutal fight to end colonial rule spearheaded by Jomo Kenyatta and the Kikuyus. Jock had got back to the farm one night in time to fight off attackers, but N’kosi had already been half scalped. Thousands of Africans died in that war, Campbell said, not many Europeans, but his mother had been one of them.
Cat thought of the woman, younger than she was now, smiling into the sun in the photograph on the piano in Nairobi, the two children, Tom and Campbell, clinging to her skirt.
N’kosi led the way across the hall, opened the door to the office and stood back to allow her to enter. Cat crossed the room, noticing the deep chairs flanking the dying fire, the photographs and bookcases lining the walls, the blank computer screen.
She leaned across the green leather-topped desk and picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“How are you doing, honey?” John Rifken’s usually booming voice was tinny in her ear.
“John! How did you know I was here?”
“Lucky guess. Tried the hotel first, then Campbell Safaris in Nairobi. Spoke to Tom M’Bala. Nice boy, but couldn’t tell me a goddamn thing. Jock loves to show off that farm of his, so I took a chance. Doug Jones called me, told me about the site you’ve found. Thought I’d better give you a call since you don’t seem inclined to keep me informed about how you’re spending my money.”
“Now, John, it’s all covered by the fee we negotiated—”
“Just kidding, honey. How’s it going?”
“Fine, John. Never better.”
A burst of laughter penetrated the room, and Cat found herself smiling. Holding the telephone to her ear, the extended cord trailing behind her, she crossed the room and opened the door. On the far side of the hall, an archway framed the dining room, the two men and the young girl around the table. Campbell had a knife balanced on the tips of his fingers and was slowly moving it through the air, demonstrating God knows what. Morag leaned forward, eyes sparkling, lips parted ready to laugh, and Jock watched her, smiling. Cat thought of the silent mealtimes when she was growing up—her mother never seemed to be around—herself and Joel, and whoever was the current live-in help. Juanita, Consuela, Ynez—a parade of women eager to get back to their own children. They never stayed long.
“Did you get on okay with Campbell? Giving you good service?” John was asking.
Cat grinned. “Very good, John, thanks. Why didn’t you tell me they would not deal with a woman?”
“Honey, you want to play in the big leagues, you gotta deal with the curveballs. I figured you had to win that battle without my help.”
“I almost didn’t. You should have warned me what to expect.”
John snorted. “I’m not breaking into a man’s world, kiddo. You are. Toughen up. So, you got any paperwork? Anything I can show the board yet?”
Leaving the door open so that she could watch the scene in the dining room, Cat returned to the desk, picked up a pen. She thought more clearly with a pen in her hand. “Some sketches. I’m having new aerials flown and the land records are being searched. I can fax what I have, if you like.”
“No, you’ll be home in a couple of days, right? Any idea when?”
“I want to get the aerials at least before I leave. Patel Brothers are not the most reliable outfit going. But the site will knock your socks off, John. I guarantee it.”
“That’s fine, honey. But it’s going to depend on the cost, no matter how sensational the site.”
“Sure. But I know what should be done there. Is there any trouble with the banks, John?” She looked for some paper on which to make notes of the conversation for the file. There was nothing on the desk, and she pulled out the top drawer. Rubber bands, extra pens, paper clips. Not a scrap of paper.
“Some carping. Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Anything more you want me to do before I leave?”
“No. Just get back here so that we can go over the figures together before the next board meeting.”
“Okay.”
“Anything about the other business? Joel’s accident?”
She hesitated. “No. I’ll fill you in when I get back. Your buddy Jock is right across the hall. Do you want to talk to him?”
“No, I’ll talk to him later. Enjoy the time you’ve got there, honey. That’s some spread they’ve got, the Campbells.”
There was another burst of laughter from the dining room.
“Very impressive,” Cat agreed. “Particularly since I heard they’ve had some pretty bad times.” A picture flashed across her mind: Maasai climbing the hill after the raid on Reitholder’s camp, carrying tusks Campbell had told her would be left under guard for the government. “They went broke, I understand.”
“Yeah, had it tough for a few years. Don’t let that Limey charm fool you. Jock’ll fight like a pit bull to keep that place going.” Rifken laughed. “Guarantee he’ll have you on the back of a horse before you leave, showing off his eland project.”
“That sounds like a fun afternoon.”
Opening a lower drawer, she renewed her search for paper, lifting out a buff-colored folder to look beneath it. Photographs spilled out. She started to shuffle them back into the folder, then picked one up to look at it more closely.
What at first glance seemed to be an expanse of empty golden grass, on closer examination was a pride of lionesses, bellies low to the ground, the dark tips of their ears betraying their presence, menace in every line. She looked at another—a rhinoceros knee deep in swamp, both horns removed—no doubt by game wardens in a desperate attempt to make him useless to the poachers destroying a species for horns worth more than gold when ground up and sold in the bazaars of the Orient as a useless aphrodisiac. Joel had captured him perfectly: mutilated, alone in the world, the last of his line.
John’s voice was in her ear. She made appropriate noises, agreement, dissent, sorting almost frantically through the photographs. A herd of Thomson’s gazelle like arrows in flight. A close-up of a bird, brilliant, beautiful and lethal, a small frog in its death throes speared by the curved beak.
“…so okay then, honey, I’ll see you in a few days.”
She said goodbye, put down the phone, sat staring at the photographs in her hand.
“Cat?” Campbell stood in the doorway. “Is everything all right in Los Angeles?”
She looked up. “These are Joel’s photographs.”
Campbell entered the room, closed the door behind him, shutting out the sound of Morag’s teasing laughter, Jock’s admonishing tone. “I was waiting for the right moment to give them to you.”
For a second she was stunned. “And when would be the right moment? You told me they were lost.”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry!”
“Cat, I didn’t know what was on that film—”
> “Why did you need to? They are not yours!”
“No.” He looked at the open drawer. “You were searching the desk?”
She slammed the drawer shut. “Don’t try to put me on the defensive. I was looking for scrap paper to make notes of a conversation for my files. Have you ever told me the truth about anything? Ever, from the beginning?”
He crossed the room to the fireplace, picked up a poker and stirred the embers.
“Campbell, answer me. What is going on?”
He replaced the poker in its stand. “Nothing I can tell you about. All I can do is ask you to trust me.”
“Why? Why should I? These are my brother’s photographs. You told me his film had been lost in the bureaucracy. You lied to me.”
“In some things I have no choice, Cat.”
She stared at him, willing him to go on, thinking the pain in her chest must be her heart breaking. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Cat. Darling. I know you have a lot of reason to doubt me, but believe me in this. Please. If I could tell you more, I would. I can’t.”
Cat gathered the photographs together into the folder.
For a moment, they were silent. Then Campbell crossed to where she stood. He turned her toward him and put his arms around her. For a second she resisted, then melted into him. They had two days, a couple of nights, and then she would return to Nairobi for a flight to Los Angeles. Would she ever feel about anyone, she wondered, as she felt about this man she did not know. And definitely should not trust?
Dressed in the Princeton T-shirt she wore at night, Cat sat on her heels in the middle of her bed, half listening to the sound of Campbell showering. Joel’s photographs were spread around her. She studied each in turn. When she got home she’d organize the best of his wildlife photography over the years into a book, a memorial of sorts, something for his friends to keep. Closure, perhaps, for her. The book would end with the pictures taken in the last weeks of his life.
Then she realized that she was looking at only twenty-four photographs. If Joel had followed his normal practice, in the two weeks on safari before he died he would have taken hundreds.