A Touch of Betrayal (32 page)

As Jones squeezed the trigger a second time, Grant shoved Alexandra toward the ground. The bullet slammed into her arm, and she lurched. Grant pushed her down and threw himself over her.

Amid a chorus of shrieks, the shooter whirled and fired into the group of terrified onlookers.
Pop, pop, pop.
The climbers began running. Falling to the ground. Diving for cover. Someone sobbed.
Pop, pop, pop.

Beneath Grant, Alexandra moaned. He shifted, searching for a weapon. Looking for protection. His hand closed on a stone. He lifted it and hurled. But Jones was already scrambling back down the cinder cone, his feet skittering on the loose scree.

“Go after him!” someone shouted.

Another cry. “Somebody help me!”

“I’m dying!”

“Catch that man!”

Grant rolled off Alexandra and scrambled to his feet.
Get him. Get him.
Alone, he started down the wind-whipped cone in pursuit of the gunman.

“Jones!” he shouted.

The hit man swung around and took aim.
Pop, pop.

Cinders sprayed upward at Grant’s feet. He slid to the ground.
Catch him! Get him!
How many more rounds in the pistol? Crawling on hands and knees, he watched Jones race down the slope. In moments the man would disappear into the trees. Impossible to catch him.

An image of Alexandra slumped against him hit Grant full force. He rose unsteadily. Alexandra! Sucking air into his aching lungs, he scrambled back up the cinder cone. No time for the zigzag path. He had to get to her. Had to save her.

At the summit he found a scene of complete chaos. Moaning, crying, the wounded climbers huddled in agony. The uninjured stumbled from one victim to another attempting to help. Grant clawed his way across the loose cinders to the place where Alexandra lay. On her side, she had curled into a fetal ball. Her breath escaped in shallow, wheezing bubbles.

Grant cupped her white face between his hands. “Alexandra, it’s me. Talk to me.”

“Can’t . . . breathe.” Her blue eyes slid open. “Help me.”

He rolled her over to examine her wound, but what he saw made him draw back in disbelief. The bullet had entered her chest, torn through her lung, and exited her back. Bright blood seeped through the dark hole in her jacket in a widening stain.

Gurgling, she clutched at him. “Grant . . .”

He staggered to his feet. “I need help over here!”

Hubert looked up from the climber whose leg he was wrapping. “What’s wrong?”

“Lung!” Grant shouted.

White-faced, his lips an ugly shade of gray blue, Hubert lugged a first-aid kit across the cone. “I was a medic,” he puffed, falling to his knees beside Alexandra. “Vietnam. Find me some plastic. Get Vaseline.”

Grant tore through his pockets, locating the sandwich bag that held a chocolate candy bar and banana he’d planned to snack on. He shook them out onto the ground and tore open the plastic. In the first-aid kit, he found a tube of petroleum jelly.

“Gotta cover the chest with plastic,” Hubert panted as he smeared gauze with the sticky jelly and began packing it into the wound. “Lung is collapsing.”

“Grant?” Alexandra gripped his hand, her eyes filled with terror. Pale as snow, her skin was already turning clammy. “Sm . . . smothering!”

“Keep her warm,” Hubert muttered. “She goes into shock, we’ve got real trouble. Body shuts down to keep blood in the heart and head. Wrap her up.”

“What about the bleeding?” Grant demanded. “Should I put pressure on her chest?”

“Not the lung. Can’t use pressure there. Clamp down on her arm. She’s been hit there, too.”

Grant grabbed Alexandra’s arm. Already her eyes were glazing over. He wrapped a wool mitten around the wound and pressed it tightly. She winced. “Hurts. Can’t . . . can’t breathe.”

“It’s your ribs,” Hubert said as he worked. “Bone chips in the wound. Punctured the lung tissue. I’ve packed the bullet hole, and I’m putting the plastic on now.”

“Gra . . . ,” she mumbled. “Not the blue . . . it’s daddy . . . but . . .”

“Don’t let her go into shock!” Hubert shouted at Grant. “Get her a blanket. Hold her. Keep her warm. Alert.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Five others wounded. Gotta help.”

As Hubert staggered away, Grant lifted Alexandra into his lap. Eyes glassy, she moved her lips in random, meaningless messages.

“Ice cre . . . that bell . . . but I don’t . . .”

“Alexandra,” Grant said. Sick with disbelief, he kissed her icy cheeks and lips. “Alexandra, stay with me. Please be all right.” He threw back his head and shouted into the howling wind. “God, let her be all right!”

S
IXTEEN

Alexandra was sure she had died. She knew she had because, first of all, she couldn’t breathe. Second, she couldn’t hear. Third, she couldn’t see. But most significant, she felt no pain.

Floating in a liquid world of soft, translucent bubbles, she knew the certainty of God all around her. Yes, she had been shot in the chest. That truth was evident but completely unimportant. How could such a thing matter? It was nothing at all when compared to the overwhelming sense of glory that surrounded and suffused her.

God held her in his arms, bathed her in his protection, warmed her with his love. In the golden light of the Father’s presence, Alexandra felt the power of his Son and knew the holy comfort of his Spirit. Immeasurable joy flooded her body and lifted her soul.

And then she realized she could see again. Distant, beyond a shimmering curtain, she recognized someone waiting for her. More than one. Her mother stood on the shore of a gleaming river. Daddy was there, too. And Grandma Prescott. Was that Uncle Zeke, the ranch hand she had idolized when she was a child?

Hi, Uncle Zeke! Hi, Daddy! Wait for me, okay? I’m coming.

“Alexandra, stay with me.”

Who said that?
She tried to locate the source of the voice. Someone precious and beloved had spoken those words. All the same, she didn’t want to stay. She wanted to go on. She ached to slip through the curtain and cross that shining river in the distance.

Let me go, Lord,
she pleaded.

“Alexandra, please. Please don’t go.”

The words compelled her, but she didn’t want to obey them. Joy awaited her on the other side. Peace. Eternity in the Father’s presence.

Let me go, Lord. I want to cross over now.

“Alexandra, I love you. I need you. Please . . . please . . .”

Torn, she again searched for the source of the voice. It was a treasure. An earthly treasure, to be sure, but that voice was valuable to her all the same. Wanting it made her tremble inside.

But, oh, Lord, I want to go on with you even more. Please allow me to cross the river.

In response to her plea, a voice that was beautiful, powerful, dear, and intimately known echoed through her soul.
Not yet, my beloved child. In time I will welcome you into my arms . . . but not yet.

“Alexandra. Alexandra.”

No, Father, don’t send me back!
She reached for the shimmering curtain, trying to hold onto it. But it faded to a gray mist that lifted before her eyes. Acacia trees formed a canopy over her head. White clouds like puffs of cotton hung in the thorny branches.

“Alexandra? Are you awake?” Grant Thornton’s face appeared where the trees had been. Eyes filled with unspeakable torment, he gazed down at her. “Are you here with me?”

At his words, pain rushed in a torrent through Alexandra’s body. She convulsed in agony and grasped again for the blissful curtain. Instead, Grant gathered her close, his strength enveloping her.

“Don’t go, Alexandra,” he murmured in a ragged voice. “You have to stay with me until we can get you to a hospital. Can you hear me, my love?”

Oh, Grant,
she tried to say.
You don’t know where I’ve been! If you had seen that river, you wouldn’t beg me to stay. If you had felt the arms of God as I did, you’d never want to leave them.

“Everything’s going to be all right now,” he was saying, as though he hadn’t heard her. “The tour guide radioed Amboseli for a plane. We’re not far from my campsite, and the plane should be here any minute. We got you and the others down the mountain about half an hour ago. Six of you were wounded. You were hurt the worst, but you’re going to be okay, Alexandra. Can you hear me? You’re going to be all right.”

The searing pain in her chest and shoulder belied his words. She
wasn’t
all right. Somehow she had been forced to leave that golden place and return to the ache and fear and uncertainty of this life. Why? Why was she here—and how could she bear the agony?

“We’ll be flying into Nairobi,” Grant said. “The hospital already knows about you. In an hour or so, you’ll be in surgery.”

Surgery?
Alexandra opened her eyes again.
But I just want to rest, Grant. Let me sleep, okay?

“I called Mama Hannah and Tillie from Oloitokitok,” he went on. “They’ll meet us at the hospital. We’ll take care of you. You’ll be fine.”

The last of his words were drowned by the throb of propellers beating the air, the roar of an engine, and the shouts of welcome. Grant settled Alexandra on a sleeping bag beneath the acacia tree and vanished from her side.

She couldn’t take much air into her lungs, and every breath hurt beyond belief. She thought about not bothering with the effort. If she could just rest completely, just stop the trouble of breathing altogether, she might be able to get back to the shining river.

But Grant appeared again, and with him were several people she didn’t recognize. They all spoke at once, giving each other directions, pushing on her, lifting. In a blaze of white pain, she moved through space until she was hauled up a flight of steps and loaded like an old carpet into the belly of the airplane.

Someone moved over her in the dim light. Was it Hubert? She tried to smile, but he was squeezing on her arm and pushing at her chest—which didn’t seem very kind considering how much it hurt. And then he stuck a needle into her hip.
Oh, Hubert, did you have to do that?

“Listen, Alexandra,” Grant said, suddenly appearing above her. “The pilot just told me there’s not enough room for me on the plane. It’s already overloaded with the six injured, and we want to send Hubert to keep an eye on everybody.”

His warm hand touched her cheek. “Gra . . . ,” she managed.

“Shh. It’s okay.” Struggling for control, Grant bent down and gently kissed her lips. “Tillie and Mama Hannah will meet you at the hospital in Nairobi. And I’ll get there as soon as I can. I love you, Alexandra.”

Oh yes,
she wanted to say.
Now I understand why it wasn’t time. Now I remember why I came back. For you. I want to live this earthly life with you. I love you, Grant.

But he was gone. The airplane door shut, the engines rattled to life; the plane shuddered as it moved down the bumpy roadway.

“We’re going up now.” Hubert took her hand and patted it. “We’re flying. Before long, you’ll feel good again—maybe better than you’ve ever felt.”

Alexandra stared up at the row of narrow lights on the airplane’s ceiling, and she thought about that shimmering curtain. One day—maybe very soon—she’d go back there. And that would be the best place of all.

Grant knotted his fists and choked back a cry of rage. The tiny airplane skimmed toward the clouds, fading to a mere whine in the distance. Around him, the uninjured climbers were getting back into the waiting Land Rovers. Subdued, nervous, they hardly spoke. Grant couldn’t blame them. The group had endured shock, unexpected terror, and helplessness.