Lioness

by Nell Brien

  But Joel had been very much present. After a few toasts, talk had turned to him, his humor, his formidable talent. They’d mourned his loss. For the first time since his death, she’d been able to talk about him, even found herself laughing about some of his idiosyncrasies with the people who’d worked with him and had known him well. If that could be said of anyone, apart from herself, and maybe Jess.

  The terrier followed her while she closed the curtains, shutting out the night. This morning when she left, the ocean in front of the windows had been wreathed in mist. Now the mist had deepened into a dense sea fog. Cat plugged in the tree lights and switched on some Christmas carols. Waves boomed as they struck the beach, water hissing as it flowed back across the sand into the sea. The house had the distinctive smell of old beach houses, familiar from childhood, the sea and wood smoke, and now with Christmas, the resinous scent of Rosie’s tree.

  Determinedly humming along with the carols, she poured a glass of white wine, puttered about in the kitchen, opening a can of dog food and pouring kibble. “Just you and me, babe, for the whole weekend.” She put the dish down in the service porch. “Yum, yum. Home cookin’.”

  It hadn’t been hard for Jess to persuade her to stay. The three-day weekend stretched ahead, alone with the dog, a little work, long walks on the winter beach, the sound of the waves soothing her to sleep. She was exhausted from the running she had done since being back—every minute filled with activity, the days so empty. Occasionally, in the depths of the night, the thought came to her that she’d killed a man, but not very often anymore.

  Gradually, Reitholder’s face had come back to her, in dreams at first, then later she’d been able to conjure him up at will. Stare at him with her mind’s eye, allow her father’s face to be superimposed over his, know what she had done. Mostly she felt as if a great weight had been lifted from her—a weight that had pressed upon her for as long as she could remember. As well as Reitholder, she had killed her father that night, and she was at peace with what she had done. Sometimes she wondered if she ought to be worried about that.

  Given time, work would be fulfilling again, becoming the reward it always had been. Campbell would fade into the past. He’d made it plain there was no going back.

  A couple of weeks ago, alone in the office late, she’d dialed the number of the house in Nairobi. She’d listened to the phone ring a dozen times and had been about to hang up when a deep voice answered.

  “Campbell.”

  She’d licked dry lips with a drier tongue. “Hi. It’s Cat.”

  “How good to hear from you, my dear. How are you? Recovering?”

  Her heart bumped with disappointment. Their voices were so alike. “I’m fine, Jock, thanks. Working hard. How are things in Nairobi?”

  “Well, behind the scenes, a great deal of turmoil. There is a real determination to clean up poaching, but a lot of pockets are lined by the slaughter. Did you see that President Moi publicly burned three million dollars’ worth of tusks taken from a ship inside our territorial waters?”

  “It was front-page news here,” Cat said.

  “Good. That could have been sold for hard currency the country needs, so it sends a message. If he hadn’t done it, the Kenya Wildlife Service was going to torch what they had been stockpiling for that purpose. The president had his hand forced, but it was better for him to do it.”

  “That was the ivory in the barn?”

  “That was only part of it,” Jock said. “Publicity is what’s needed. Stephen’s going to get plenty of that when he brings Gaston to trial. A lot of people in Johannesburg will be very uncomfortable.”

  “That’s good. Stephen must be pleased.” She was suddenly tired of it, the danger and the blood. “How’s Morag?”

  “Busy working with her math tutor. Still says she’s going to be an architect. She’s over at the Terrys’. She’ll be sorry she missed you.”

  “Give her my love.”

  They chatted about the project in Maasai Springs. Jock didn’t seem too saddened it wouldn’t go ahead. Tembo had adjusted to the new herd. The eland project was doing well, a lot of females in calf, but the white peacock had been taken by a lioness. Neither mentioned Reitholder’s death. Conversation petered out, and there was a pause. She couldn’t bring herself to ask for him.

  “Dan isn’t here, Cat,” Jock said at last. “He left Erukenya just after you did.”

  “Oh. Just tell him I called, will you, Jock?”

  She waited for him to tell her where Campbell was, when he was expected, but he volunteered nothing and she didn’t ask.

  Campbell had never called her, and that itself was the message.

  Piling a plate with the tiny English mince pies Jess had left for her, Cat took her wine and the mail, kicked off her shoes and stretched out on the sofa in front of the fire. Scroungy jumped up beside her, settled across her feet, sighing noisily. Cat wiggled her toes, scratching his belly as she slid the brown paper sleeve from a newsmagazine, riffled through the pages.

  A headline leaped at her.

  Richard the Lionheart under attack.

  The subtitle read: Attempt made on life of head of the Kenya Wildlife Service.

  She sat up, spread the magazine on the table and leaned over it, scanning the printed page.

  Richard Leakey, recently appointed by President Daniel Arap Moi to head the Kenya Wildlife Service, the agency that oversees all of Kenya’s conservation efforts, was severely injured when his small aircraft came under rocket attack while flying over Tsavo National Park, an 8,000-square-mile territory southeast of Nairobi that is the last refuge of some 7,000 elephants.

  The pilot, Tom M’Bala, also injured in the attack, managed to land the damaged plane, but Mr. Leakey suffered broken legs and other unspecified injuries.

  A full-scale battle later erupted between a highly secret commando unit of the Kenya Wildlife Service and a well-armed company of the regular army equipped with rockets and a helicopter gunship. Heavy casualties are reported to have been suffered by both sides.

  Last night, General Josephus Kalinda, a long-time supporter of Mr. Moi, was arrested at his home in Nairobi. General Kalinda is said to have extensive financial dealings involving poached ivory with South Africa’s Afrikaner Broederhood, an organization that is said to have officers on active duty in South Africa’s military, as well as cabinet ministers of the de Klerk government among its membership.

  In Nairobi, Mr. Moi reiterated his support for the shoot-to-kill policy to curb poaching in Kenya’s national parks. He issued a clear warning that no one should assume they are above the law.

  Johannesburg refused comment.

  Cat ripped the paper sleeves from the rest of the newsmagazines and fumbled through the pages. Two more magazines covered the action, one giving an analysis of the political implications for Kenya. She scanned it—three hundred million dollars in loans secured from the World Bank…half earmarked for the KWS to improve wildlife conservation, now jeopardized unless Leakey remains at the helm…democratic multiparty elections tied into loans. She threw the magazine aside.

  Her imagination jumped from one terrible scenario to the next. Campbell maimed, his body broken. She tried to calm her fears, and full-throated terror roared back at her. Maybe he was dead and no one had thought to call her. And Tom? Would anyone call her about Tom, or Thomas, or the others?

  Her hands refused to obey her, the telephone seemed to jump, clattering to the floor as she reached for it. She forced herself to move with deliberation. Her fingers felt thick, almost nerveless, as she punched out the number of the house in Nairobi. The ringing went on and on, but she couldn’t bring herself to hang up. Frail and nebulous though it was, the sound seemed suddenly the only connection she had with him—a telephone ringing in his home.

  Finally she forced herself to hang up so that she could call Erukenya. The same. She redialed the house in Nairobi without result. Then she remembered it was Christmas.

  The terrier pushed his
head under her hand. Cat looked down at him. Seven o’clock on Christmas Eve was an impossible time to find someone to take care of a dog. Everyone she knew well enough to ask was out of town. Tomorrow, though, she would hammer on the door of every kennel in Malibu until someone took him in. As soon as that was done, she would get on a plane for Nairobi.

  The decision made, she felt marginally better. On every hour, she called both Campbell and Stephen N’toya. On the half hour, she dialed Erukenya. At midnight, finally, Stephen’s machine answered with a message in Swahili. She asked him to call and left Jess’s number.

  Cat opened her eyes. The gray light of early dawn filtered through the drawn curtains. The fire had burned out, the room was cold and she was stiff from falling asleep on the sofa, and from the weight of the dog across her legs. Her mouth felt like ashes.

  Scroungy jumped down and stood patiently at the door. She let him out, watched him scamper down the wooden steps to the beach and disappear into the mist. She turned back into the house, relit the fire, plugged in coffee and called American Airlines. She booked a flight to London, trusting the Kenya Airline flight to Nairobi leaving an hour after her arrival at Heathrow would have a seat available. If not, she’d find something. At least she was in action.

  When she got out of the shower, Scroungy was reminding her with small plaintive yelps from outside that he needed his breakfast. She let him in and opened his can, drank some coffee and ate a mince pie from last night, then put on her old gray running sweats.

  The tide was low, ripples in the hard sand gold in the rising sun, and she turned east into an opalescent dawn. Mist hung low over the sea, gulls sounded their plaintive call. Cat swung into an easy rhythm, the dog at her side.

  As she ran, she thought of the last few months. John Rifken was right. It wasn’t good for a woman, for anyone, to be too detached, as she and Joel had been. As children, they’d needed that distance. She didn’t need it anymore. It was not only her father from whom she had to be free. She had to be free from Joel, too. He could not be the other half of herself. Not any longer.

  Her stride lengthened, and sweat bathed her body as she got her second wind. Ahead of her, Scroungy ran barking at a flock of terns and gulls settled on the sand, and they rose, wheeling over the sea. Her bare feet splashed through pools, and she picked up pace, running faster, the fresh, salt-laden air cold on her face. Certainty replaced the terror and anxiety of the night. He was alive. If he had died in that skirmish in Tsavo, she would know it.

  At the end of the Malibu Colony, she turned back. The sun was higher, touching the mist with pink, spreading a silver gilt path across the water. Waves lapped over her feet, soaking her sweats to the knee. She swung down, scooped up a branch of giant kelp, hurling it ahead of her. The dog raced after it.

  Close to the house, she slowed to a walk, damp with sweat and seawater, gritty with sand. Scroungy bounded up the steps and stopped at the top, the hair on his back ridged from neck to tail. He looked around, saw her right behind him and began to bark.

  Her eyes took in the tall figure rising from a chair on the deck. Later, she would wonder why she wasn’t surprised to see him.

  “I called John Rifken from the airport,” Campbell said. “He told me where you were, but he didn’t have the telephone number.”

  He looked older, with more silver in his hair, unshaven and haggard, as if he hadn’t slept for a week.

  “I read about the attack on Leakey. Is Tom okay?”

  “He will be. Olentwalla is dead. Zama. Many others.”

  She went to him, put her arms around him, fitting her body into his, knowing she didn’t want to change him, or the life he had chosen. She held him close, remembering the comradeship she had shared with the men who’d died, Sambeke’s calm reassurance, Olentwalla’s laughter, the intricate rhythms he had woven on his drum.

  “I called you,” she said. “I wanted to tell you that I love you.”

  “And I thought I’d love you enough to let you go back to your own life. But I find I can’t do it. There’s a lot I want to tell you.”

  She felt the secrets of the past breaking loose.

  “Yes. Both of us. Come on, my love, I’ll make you some breakfast. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

  For a moment, Cat watched him sleep, then quietly slipped out of bed. He stirred restlessly, and murmured something unintelligible, but didn’t awaken. She put on her old terrycloth robe and made some coffee, took a mug into Mike’s small study off the living room. She picked up the phone on his desk and punched in a number.

  “What the hell time is this to be calling?” John Rifken’s voice growled in her ear.

  “Merry Christmas, John.”

  “You’re a bit late. It’s almost over.”

  “Well, Happy Hanukkah, anyway.”

  “I guess he found you okay.”

  “Yes, he’s here. I called to thank you.”

  John grunted.

  “I also wanted to talk to you about the Nairobi deal. Have you decided on an architect yet?”

  “Got anyone in mind?”

  “I might.”

  “So talk to me.”

  “My fee is fifteen percent of the cost of construction.”

  He snorted. “In your dreams, sweetpea.”

  Cat laughed, then turned as she felt Campbell behind her. She’d heard nothing—he’d entered the room with his usual animal silence. Cat moved her head to rub her cheek against his hand on her shoulder and leaned back against him.

  “John, I’ll call you in a couple of days. We’ll talk about it.”

  “Okay, but you’d better sharpen your pencil, honey.” He hung up.

  “Was that John Rifken?” Campbell asked. “I’d like to thank him for telling me where to find you.”

  She stood to put her arms around him. “I already did.”

  ISBN: 978-1-4603-6399-7

  LIONESS

  Copyright © 2000 by Shirley Palmer.

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  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

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