A Whisper of Danger (17 page)

He flipped on a flashlight and brushed through the crinkly pages until he came to the concordance. After considerable fumbling and muttering, Andrew cleared his throat. “‘And you husbands must love your wives with the same love Christ showed the church. He gave up his life for her.’ Tah dah! ‘Husbands ought to love their wives as they love their own bodies. For a man is actually loving himself when he loves his wife.’ Tah dah! ‘So again I say, each man must love his wife as he loves himself, and the wife must respect her husband.’ Tah dah!”

“Wait a minute. Is that in there? That
tah dah
business?”

Andrew rolled his eyes. “You think you’re going to get out of this by making jokes, man? If you really believe what you’ve been telling me you believe, you’re going to have to love that woman at Uchungu House, no matter how nasty she is. Love her. Respect her. Honor her. Even if she hates your guts from now to the day you die.”

Rick studied his friend’s face. “You think that’s what it means?”

“How are you going to argue with it? Look at this one, man.” He adjusted the flashlight on the page of Matthew’s Gospel. “‘They record that from the beginning “God made them male and female.” And he said, “this explains why a man leaves his father and mother and is joined to his wife, and the two are united into one.” Since they are no longer two but one, let no one separate them, for God has joined them together.’”

Andrew shut the Bible and set it firmly on Rick’s thigh. “You’re a man,” the African said. “You got a wife. You believe this book. You better do what it says.”

Rick picked up the book and stroked his fingers across the smooth leather. “‘Let no one separate them, for God has joined them together.’ I’m not going to be the man to break the sanctity of my marriage any longer, Andrew. I’m going to love Jessie. I’m going to love her . . . and I’m going to win back my wife.”

“And I’m going to watch you do it. If you can pull this one off, man, I may just be tempted to start following this little book myself. You never know . . . I might even give my own life to your friend Jesus Christ.”

E
IGHT

Jess peered over Solomon’s shoulder as he studied the intricacies of the Renault’s engine. His dark hands stroked over the wires and hoses as she had seen them move over the leaves and flowers of a plant. He touched the battery, wiped off a blob of grease, tugged on a rubber belt.

“I do not know what is wrong,” he said, straightening. “Perhaps I shall have to take it out.”

“Take what out?”

“The motor.”

“But it probably weighs several hundred pounds, Solomon. You can’t take it out. Besides, I have to get into town. I have an appointment with the headmaster of Splint’s new school. Can’t you just pour some water in the radiator or something?”

The man stared at her. His dark eyes were hard, cold. “This car does not want to go to town today.”

“Well, that’s just great.” She slapped her palm on the hood. “Fantastic. I don’t have a car. I don’t even have a telephone to let Mr. Ogambo know why I’m not coming.”

Jess crossed her arms. It wasn’t just missing the appointment with the school headmaster that was a problem. She needed to mail some preliminary sketches to her editor. Without a phone, she’d had no contact with her publisher or with the Kima the Monkey books’ author, James Perrott, since she arrived on Zanzibar Island. She had no electricity, so she couldn’t send a fax or an e-mail message, even if she had a computer. For all she knew, they might have replaced her with a more accessible illustrator. She could have been dismissed from the Kima project, which would leave her an unemployed starving artist. Again.

“Do you think you can fix the car soon?” she asked Solomon.

“I will work on the motor this morning.”

Jess let out a sigh. That told her nothing. “Look, I’m going to walk down to the village near the main road. Mdogo, I think it’s called. Maybe I can get a taxi or a bus. Will you tell Miriamu?”

Solomon looked at her feet. “Those shoes will not wish to walk to the village.”

“These shoes will walk wherever I tell them to. Splinter and Mama Hannah are over at Nettie Cameron’s house. They’ll be back around noon. If I’m not home by then, tell them where I’ve gone, okay?”

“You will not be home by then.”

“And if you get the car started, come to town and look for me. I’ll be at the school first, then the electric company, then the post office, and then I’m going to buy Splint’s uniforms. All right?”

The man gave an unintelligible grunt and returned his attention to the Renault. Jess started down the driveway. The village wasn’t all that far. She could make it, sandals or not. Finding a taxi might be another matter.

She brushed a hand around the back of her neck. The morning was going to be hot. So far, her visions of early-morning swims with Splinter and whole days of sketching and painting had barely materialized. She was doing well to spend any time at all with her son, whose fascination with the beach knew no bounds. Uchungu House demanded so much time—organizing, cleaning, and maintaining—that she’d managed to eke out only short stretches at her desk uninterrupted.

Jess studied the thick growth of vines and shrubbery growing along the sides of the narrow road. As the artist for the Kima series, she had no doubt Zanzibar was the perfect place to live. She could paint each type of flower, each variety of grass, each species of leaf onto the pages of her books. The series had won awards for the lush details of its art, and she knew the island was fertile with images that would enrich her work.

But could she ever get beyond the mounting problems that threatened her serenity? Her heart burdened with doubt, Jess plodded down the long dirt road. After twenty minutes, she finally walked into the little town that had grown up near the main thoroughfare. Tin-roofed shops lined Mdogo’s single unpaved street. Hand-painted signs in bright colors advertised the nature of each business—shoes, groceries, clothing.

At this hour of the morning, the town bustled with activity. Children in patched and faded blue uniforms danced around in the yard of a small school. Women sauntered past the shops, large square tin cans of water balanced on their heads—the water drawn from a public faucet in an alley. Men strolled together discussing business and making plans. Few people offered even a glance at the white-skinned woman who had entered their town.

Jess stepped into a small grocery and approached the counter. A basket of fresh eggs sat beside a pyramid of mangoes on the clear glass case. Cans of lard; bottles of shampoo; and packets of rice, tea, and sugar lined the whitewashed walls. Flip-flop sandals slapping softly on the cool concrete floor, a young African man walked in from the back to meet his customer.

“Good morning, madam,” he said in perfect English. “May I help you?”

“I hope so. Is there a bus going into Zanzibar town this morning?”

“The morning bus has already departed from Mdogo, madam. The next bus will leave at three.”

“This afternoon? But I—” She stopped herself. “What about a taxi?”

The young man smiled, strong white teeth shining in his dark face. “Oh, madam, you will not find a taxi in Mdogo. But perhaps you will ride with my brother, Akim. He is carrying five hens and a goat into the market on his bicycle this morning. You may ride on the back, if you wish. I am certain my brother will not charge you more than twenty shillings.”

Jess stared at the shopkeeper. On the back of a heavily laden bicycle, she wouldn’t make it into town by noon. “Thank you, but I don’t think—”

“Perhaps he may charge only fifteen shillings—if you will hold the goat.”

“Hold the goat . . .”

“In your lap.” The man smiled. “It is a small goat.”

“I see. . . .” Jess blinked at the image of herself riding into Zanzibar on the back of a weaving bicycle—with a goat in her lap. She’d better come up with another plan. “Do you have a telephone I could use?”

“Not here. You must walk down the road to the petrol station. There you will find a telephone. It is not more than two miles.”

Feeling sick, Jess nodded. “Two miles.”

“I will tell my brother, Akim, to look for you there. Perhaps you will wish to ride on his bicycle after you have made your telephone call?”

“Perhaps.” She tried to summon a smile. “Thank you, sir.”

“Not at all, madam. Do come again.”

Jess walked out into the blinding sunlight. She had no choice but to start for the gas station. At the very least she needed to cancel her appointment with the school headmaster. She could call the electric company, too, though she doubted they would do a thing toward restoring Uchungu House’s lights unless she went in and spoke with them personally. And what about her sketches? Jess gripped the envelope she had so carefully prepared. Could she entrust that precious parcel to a stranger on a bicycle?

As she trudged down the shoulder of the main road, the occasional car blew past. Jess momentarily considered hitchhiking, but she abandoned the idea immediately. She was a mother, after all. She had responsibilities, and she knew thumbing a ride could be dangerous. Maybe she would find transportation at the gas station. She really needed to get into town. She had to buy Spencer’s school uniforms. It wouldn’t be long before—

“Jessie?” A black motorcycle slowed to a stop beside her.

She knew before she even looked that it was Rick.
Oh, Lord.
For the first time in years, she breathed a spontaneous prayer.
Lord, help me. I can’t do this by myself anymore.

“You’re walking?” he asked. “Where’s your car?”

“Solomon’s working on the engine.” She tried to sound casual, like tramping down a road on blistered feet under a burning sun was no big deal. “I needed to make a phone call.”

“I thought you were going into Zanzibar town to run some errands this morning.”

“I was, but . . . I guess I’ll go another day.”

He fell silent for a moment. The rumble of the motorcycle vibrated through Jess’s sandals into her bare feet. She knew she should start walking again, move away from him, show him how little she cared that he had stopped to check on her.

When he looked at her again, his eyes were searching. “Can I give you a ride, Jessie? I’m on my way to my office.”

She gave a disinterested shrug. “Oh, no thanks. I may go in with another man I heard about in the village back there. He’s supposed to meet me at the petrol station.”

“Okay.” He looked her up and down; then he turned away. She knew he wanted to say something, but she didn’t want to hear it.

“Well, bye.” She started walking. Maybe he would leave quietly. Maybe she wouldn’t have to—
“Memsahib!”
A bicycle bell jangled behind her.

“
Memsahib
, my name is Akim! My brother told me you may wish to ride to Zanzibar town with me!”

The man swung his wobbly bicycle onto the shoulder just ahead of Jess. Five chickens tied by their scrawny yellow feet were hanging from his handlebars, wings flapping and feathers flying. A goat had been strapped to the rear rack, its spindly legs dangling on either side. Bleating, it regarded her with large brown eyes.

“You see,
memsahib
,” the man said, stopping the bike in a skid that sent up a small cloud of dust. “You can sit here on the rack.”

“Well . . . there’s, uh . . . there’s a goat on the rack.”

“You may hold my goat on your lap. You will keep her safe.”

Jess glanced at Rick. His lips were working hard as he fought to suppress a smile. “I don’t think so,” she said to the man. “But thank you very much.”

“Only twelve shillings. A good price for such a long journey.”

“Thank you, but I think I’ll just walk to the station over there and make my phone calls.”

“Ten shillings. It is a small goat. You will hardly notice it.”

Jess gave the goat a skeptical look. “That’s kind of you, sir, but—”

“Eight shillings. A very good price, madam.”

She glanced at Rick. He raised his eyebrows. “It
is
a nice little goat, Jessie.”

Biting her lip, she faced the cyclist again. “I appreciate your offer, sir, but . . .” Finally she made up her mind. “But I think this motorcycle would be faster. I have an appointment in town, you see. I need to be there in half an hour.”

“I see.” The man nodded. “But this man will charge you much more than eight shillings. Perhaps next time you will ride with me.”