A Touch of Betrayal (34 page)

“Stop shouting at me, Grant Thornton!” Tillie hollered back. “What’s so hard to understand about what I said? She flew to the States. She needs more surgery in Dallas.”

“Dallas!” he roared.

“I’m going to hang up in two seconds, big brother.”

“Okay, I’m sorry. Just tell me what happened.” Grant shoved his free hand into his pocket and knotted the silver chain in his fist. “Start at the beginning.”

Tillie recounted the events from Alexandra’s arrival on the small plane, through the time of her surgery and recovery, to her departure at dawn. “I haven’t slept all night, Grant,” his sister said, “and I’ve been having these annoying contractions—”

“Contractions!”

“Stop shouting!”

“Where are you? Are you still at the hospital?”

“I’m at the apartment, Grant.
You
called
me
, remember?”

“Does Graeme know about the contractions?”

“Will you just calm down?”

“You’re about to have a baby!”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Finally Tillie’s voice began again, this time soft and almost fearful. “I’m . . . I’m, uh . . . sort of losing some water all of a sudden. I didn’t think it was . . . I mean, I’ve had contractions before . . . but . . . but . . .”

“Tillie? Are you there?”

“We’re having a baby!” Graeme shouted into the line. “We’re having a baby!”

A clunk sounded at the other end. Grant raked a hand through his hair. “Tillie!” he demanded. “Graeme—what’s going on?”

“Good-bye,
toto
,” Mama Hannah’s voice came on suddenly. “We will go to the hospital again. You must pray for your sister. And be sure to eat a good breakfast today. No Kit Kat bars.”

The line went dead. His heart racing, Grant set the receiver on its cradle. Outside the shop where he had used the telephone, a group of Maasai warriors awaited him. Standing straight and tall, their spears upright, they stared at him. Kakombe stepped forward.

“Come out now, brother,” he said in the Maasai tongue. “Tell us the news of Alinkanda.”

Grant stepped into the pearly light. “She has returned to America.”

Kakombe’s eyes narrowed. “She has left you because you allowed her enemy to injure her.”

“No, she went for treatment of her wounds.”

“Wounds can be treated in Nairobi. There is strong medicine in that place.”

“There is stronger medicine in America.”

Kakombe looked highly skeptical of this news. It was clear he regarded Alexandra’s disappearance as a direct result of Grant’s failure to perform his role as warrior and guardian. “If the elders learn of this,” Kakombe said, “it is possible they will not permit you to enter the
kraal
at the time of
Eunoto
. You must prove your worthiness by capturing the enemy of Alinkanda and returning her to your camp.”

Grant shook his head. “My sister is giving birth now. I must go to Nairobi to be with her.”

At this, the men in the group began to whistle their disapproval. “A man should never go into the hut of a woman who is giving birth,” Loomali said, stepping forward. “That place is for women only. I believe you give us an excuse in order to avoid the true task of a warrior.”

“Our customs are different from yours,” Grant began. How could he explain to these men his need to be near his sister and his mother? He wanted Mama Hannah’s wisdom. He needed Tillie’s love. Even the companionship of Graeme McLeod would be welcome as he began walking the new path onto which he had stepped.

“Our friend speaks truth,” Kakombe said. “His ways are different. But his ways are also the same. Would not any of us wish to be near his family at a difficult time? As elders, we will be called upon to examine many such problems. Let us look at the situation of our friend. Three things have entered his life. His sister will have a baby on this day. His beloved Alinkanda has gone away to America. And he has met God on the top of Kilimanjaro. Shall we also force him to march with us in our quest for justice? I say no. We shall respect his desire for peace.”

Loomali and the other warriors began to confer. Grant stifled his irritation. If they were practicing for elderhood, the debate could last all day. He was about to head back into the shop for supplies when Loomali suddenly tapped the butt of his spear on the ground.

“The choice will be yours, my brother,” the Maasai said to Grant. “Will you go away to Nairobi? Or will you go with us?”

“I would ask you to leave this matter to the government,” Grant said.

“Never. The honor of our tribe is at stake.” Loomali laid a hand on Grant’s shoulder. “My brother—go to your people? Or remain one of us?”

Grant searched his heart, trying to pray for an answer. He felt he had just barely turned away from his old beliefs and onto this new road. How could he know the right decision about such a choice?

Was it a choice between forgiveness and revenge? Not really. The Maasai would go after Jones whether he was with them or not. In fact, his presence might serve to temper their anger if they found the gunman. Maybe he could persuade them to hold back their spears and turn Jones over to the police.

So what was the choice?
Go to your people, or remain one of us,
Loomali had said. How easy it would be to rush to Nairobi and the comfort of his family. Without blinking an eye, he could give up this life he had built. Go to Nairobi. Go to the house he owned. Go all the way to America.

Or stay. Live in the bush. Eat poorly. Sleep in a tent. Be alone. Alone.

“The problem you present is like the story of Engipika in the deserted
kraal
,” Grant said, summoning for them the illustration of a man caught in an impossible dilemma.

The Maasai nodded in understanding. Kakombe spoke. “Only you, who know the stories of our people, can bring us understanding—and only you can help us to bridge the river of confusion that surrounds us. Come, my brother, make your decision.”

Grant turned inward, trying again to form a prayer. But the answer echoed in the words of his friend—
only you, who know the stories . . . only you . . . my brother . . .

“I will go with you, my family,” Grant said, once again surrendering. “Come.”

Kakombe lifted his spear. “We go!” he shouted. “And with our running legs, we sing a prayer for our brother!”

The warriors loped up the dusty road toward the forest. With each step of their feet, they beat out a song.

The one who is prayed for and I also pray.
God of the thunder and the rain,
Thee I always pray.
Morning star which rises,
Thee I always pray.
The Indescribable Color . . .

Grant joined them on the final line. “Thee I always pray.”

S
EVENTEEN

In New York City, Nick Jones might have vanished from the scene of his crime without a trace. But on the slopes of Mount Kilimanjaro, he left a trail as vivid as a series of neon signs. The Maasai warriors found this fact highly amusing.

“Here he walks like a hippopotamus through the mud!” Kakombe cried out at the edge of a clear stream of melted snow that trickled down the mountain. “Our fearsome enemy is nothing more than a fat, waddling hippopotamus.”

He threw back his head and blew a spray of saliva into the air in imitation of a hippo spewing water through its nostrils. The other warriors laughed and joined him in mocking their prey. Spears glinting, they began to dance around the obvious boot prints in the sticky black mud.

From the moment Loomali had located the discarded woolen ski mask at the edge of the forest earlier that morning, the Maasai warriors had been onto Jones’s every move. The gunman had wandered around for a while at the edge of the forest. During that time, he had left behind a chewing-gum wrapper, a wad of used gum, an unspent round from his pistol, and an empty airline whiskey bottle.

Once he left the forest—which Kakombe decided must have been sometime in the middle of the night—Jones had tripped over a fallen limb and dropped a pen and a small notepad scribbled with bad poetry. He had lost a shoestring in the tangle of a scrub thornbush. And he had tossed a second gum wrapper.

Now the footprints.

“Here he drinks water!” Loomali exclaimed, pointing out marks the man’s knees had left at the stream’s edge. “But he will be thirsty again soon.”

“And hungry,” Grant said. “If all he’s got on him is chewing gum and candy, he’s probably going to head for some kind of a kiosk.”

“I cannot believe he will show himself to people after such a terrible attack as that on the mountain,” Kakombe said. “I think he will try to travel all the way to Nairobi.”

Grant agreed. “He would be more comfortable in a city. He’s used to that.”

Loomali and the others shook their heads, chuckling in amusement at the notion that such a hopeless bumbler could survive a journey across the plains to Nairobi. After taking judicious sips from their calabashes filled with milk and blood, the Maasai warriors set off again in pursuit of their prey.

As the men loped down onto the open grassland, Grant jogged alongside Kakombe. He was tired from the sleepless night, but the mission to find Jones had begun to consume him as wholly as it filled the chests of his companions. He had not protected Alexandra from injury. He doubted he had even won her heart. But
this
he could do for her. He could capture her enemy. He could save her from any further attacks. With God’s help, he would join his brother warriors and bring justice to the wicked.

Equally important, he now understood the incredible value of human life. Christ loved even scumbags like Nick Jones enough to die on a cross in an offer of salvation from sin. What right did Grant have to cut short any life that might one day claim that offer?

As much as he despised what Jones had done to Alexandra, Grant knew he had chosen to follow the Lord of love. He loved his African brothers enough to join them in their quest. Now Grant had to love his enemy enough to prevent Jones’s death at the hands of the Maasai.

“We should be quiet,” Grant said. “If he hears us, he’ll hide.”

Loomali sneered. “Where would he hide that we could not find him? The man is more obvious than Mount Kilimanjaro.”

“Maybe so, but he has a gun. He will not hesitate to use it.”

“Our brother is right,” Kakombe said. “Although the hippopotamus is a fool, he is dangerous. We must take him by surprise.”

Loomali conceded, and the men fell silent. As they followed Kakombe through the grass, noting broken blades and footprints in the dust, Grant breathed up a prayer of thanks. A warrior’s sense of bravado could outweigh his caution, and if one of these men fell victim to Jones, it would be unbearable.

When Kakombe held out his spear in a horizontal line, the men stopped. Motioning in silence, the warrior pointed in the direction of a cluster of acacia trees. Sitting calmly in the shade, his hair dyed a bright orange, was their hippopotamus.

Nick Jones.

The warriors crouched in the long grass like lionesses on the hunt. “See how he takes off his shirt,” Loomali whispered, “like a snake sheds its skin.”

Kakombe nodded. “He is hot and hungry. Probably thirsty.”

“Shall we wait for him to sleep?” Loomali asked.

Grant had seen Maasai warriors creep up to a dozing Cape buffalo—the most belligerent animal in Africa—and lay a pebble on its back without disturbing the creature. This strategy seemed like a good one when facing an armed man. But Kakombe shook his head.

“He is a fool. He sleeps even when he is awake. We will come upon him from the rear.”

“And then we will slit his throat,” Loomali said.

“Wait a minute.” Grant held up a hand. “I have told Kakombe of my decision to follow Jesus Christ, a man of love. I love you, my brothers, and . . . and I care for the future of my enemy’s heart. I cannot allow you to kill him. Besides, if one among us kills the hippopotamus, we will have to explain the action to the district commissioner. The government will not be happy at the death of an American—even such a wicked man as this.”

“How will the district commissioner know who killed the hippopotamus?”

“Who but a brave Maasai warrior could track and slaughter an armed man?”