A Whisper of Danger (7 page)

“I thought I read somewhere that he died recently. Cancer or something.”

“I do not know,
Bwana
. There are many rumors.”

They crossed a room with a stone
daka
, entered another room with a curving staircase, and then stepped out onto the porch surrounding the courtyard. Hunky Wallace and his men filled the chairs around a long table that had been piled with fresh bread, mangoes, boiled eggs, and white cornmeal
posho
mounded high in a bowl.

“McTaggart!” Hunky pushed back his chair and beckoned with a wave of his beefy hand. “Join us, won’t you? We’ve a long day ahead of us, and a man needs a good breakfast when he’s working the waters of the Indian Ocean. Make room there, my good lad. That’s it.”

A boy of ten or twelve moved down a chair to leave room beside the treasure hunter. Rick accepted the place of honor, cocked his elbows on the table, and eyed his host. “So, what’s all this about, Wallace? Yesterday you claimed you didn’t even have a wreck—said you didn’t have any idea what I was talking about. You called me every name in the book. You announced that the government of Tanzania and I could go straight to—”

“Not in front of the boy, I beg you.” Hunky clapped a hand on Rick’s shoulder. “We’ve a special guest here this morning, Mr. McTaggart. Meet young Spencer. He insists we’re to call him Splint.”

The boy turned a pair of wide violet eyes on him. “Are you a treasure hunter, too?”

“I’m a marine archaeologist, Splint. There’s a big difference.”

Hunky snorted. “Ach, it’s a fancy name for the very same thing. McTaggart searches the seawaters for shipwrecks, same as I do. And when he can’t find any of his own, he comes pestering me to have a look at mine. Then he gets out all his fancy books and charts and pipes and chains—and he slows me down to a snail’s pace. What I could do in a month, he stretches out to a year.”

“What you could do in a month,” Rick countered, “is blast a ship’s fragile timbers to smithereens with your airlift, shatter conglomerate with a hammer, and haul off truckloads of valuable but undocumented historical data to throw in your warehouse and sell to the first antiques dealer who shows his face at your door.”

“Now, listen here, McTaggart—”

“You listen to me, Wallace—”

“Can I go out to the wreck with you?” The boy’s voice cut through the argument. “I’m a good swimmer, and I could help you—”

“Absolutely not.”

The words spoken from the stairway in the hallway at the far end of the courtyard drew the attention of every man at the table. Rick swung around, and there stood Jessie. Jessie with her hair cut short and shining red brown in the sunshine. Jessie with her violet eyes rimmed in long, black lashes. Jessie with a yellow T-shirt over a gathered skirt of gauzy fabric in every shade of the rainbow. Beautiful Jessica. His wife.

“Did I give you permission to come down here, Spencer?” she asked the boy, her voice tight. “Get upstairs this minute.”

“But I’m eating breakfast.”

“Upstairs.” One long arm shot out, a finger pointed at the rear staircase. “Now.”

“Okay, Mom.”

The word skittered down Rick’s spine like cold marbles.
Mom.
Jessica Thornton was a mother? He watched the boy push away from the table and plod sullenly toward the steps. How old was the kid? Eight? Ten? He had no idea. Had Jessie remarried? And what was she doing in Zanzibar . . . at Uchungu House . . . with Hunky Wallace?

“Jessie,” he began.

“I have one thing to say, Mr.Wallace,” she interrupted, her eyes trained on the Scotsman. “I want you and every single one of your men out of my house now. This is my home and my land. I want you all to get in your trucks and leave me alone.”

“Now then, lass, you’ve a grand knot in your knickers, haven’t you?” Hunky stood and rubbed his hands over his bare belly. “What have we done to distress you? We’re merely eating our breakfast before we set out to sea. And you might like to know that we’ve been joined by an esteemed representative of the Tanzanian government. May I present Mr. Richard McTaggart? Rick, this is Ms. Jessica Thornton, the new owner of Uchungu House.”

“We’ve met,” she said, never taking her eyes from Wallace. “Look, I don’t care about your shipwreck. I just want you off my property.”

“You may not care about the wreck, but the government does. Isn’t that true, Mr. McTaggart?”

“That’s true.” It was all Rick could make himself say. His mouth felt as dry as an old sea sponge. He could hardly believe he was standing in the same room with Jessie again. After all these years . . .

“The government has papers,” Hunky told her. “Important documentation of their regulations. Don’t they, Mr. McTaggart? They’ve a right to explore the wreck.”

“I don’t care who explores the wreck,” she said. “Just don’t come onto my property again.”

“Listen to me now, lass.” Hunky put a hand on Jessie’s elbow and turned her toward the door. “Why don’t you just come with me and see what I’ve got to show you? You’ll understand in a minute how vital this shipwreck is. And you’ll see why Wallace Diving, Ltd., and the Tanzanian government have no choice but to . . .”

Rick watched as Hunky led Jessie out of the courtyard toward the front verandah. He picked up a napkin and mopped his forehead. Jessica. Here in Zanzibar.

So he hadn’t imagined it. She was living here in the old artist’s house. She had a son. And she despised Rick McTaggart. Above all else, that last fact could not be denied. She hated him. Hated him so much she couldn’t even bring herself to look at him.

He couldn’t blame her. He’d walked out on their marriage years ago. How many years? He couldn’t even remember. He’d been a kid, and things had been so . . . so confusing. So mixed up. At the time he hadn’t known much of anything except that he loved Jessica Thornton. Loved her and was hurting her. Loved her and couldn’t satisfy her. Loved her and would eventually destroy her.

“You’re the guy my mom barfed on.”

The voice at his elbow brought Rick back to reality. A pair of eyes the same luminous blue violet as Jessie’s scrutinized him. “Hey, Splint,” Rick said. “Gonna have another go at breakfast?”

“I guess so. My mom’s weird, isn’t she? You’ll just have to get used to her. She goes along fine for a while, and then all of a sudden she heads off on an emotional tangent.”

“An emotional tangent?” The boy’s choice of words brought a smile to Rick’s mouth.

“You know. She starts crying for no reason. Or she blows her top over some little thing. I chalk it up to her artistic temperament.”

“Your mother’s an artist?”

“Ever heard of the Kima the Monkey series? You know,
Kima the Monkey and the Appalling Anteater
,
Kima the Monkey and the Brilliant Baboon
,
Kima the Monkey and the Crafty Crocodile
. James Perrott writes them, and my mom illustrates. They’ve won scads of awards. They’re working on the
Irritable Impala
, and that’s why we moved to Africa. Mom thinks she’ll paint better here.”

“So . . . uh . . . where’s your dad?”

“Who knows? He’s been out of the picture a long time.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Hey, let’s check out the beach. I can’t wait to go swimming.”

“You’re a good swimmer?” Rick walked beside the boy through the cool interior of the house. He felt off-kilter. Like he had stepped onto a boat on a stormy ocean. Nothing looked quite right. Nothing seemed exactly the way it had before.

Who was this Spencer Thornton? Could the boy possibly be his own son? No, of course not. Jessie hadn’t been expecting a baby when they separated. She would have told him about something as important as that. Wouldn’t she?

He had to talk to her. Now. Had to straighten everything out. After all these years . . . How many years?

“I was on the swim team at my school in London,” Splint was saying. “I won a lot of races. I even earned a certificate in lifesaving. I may be skinny, but I’m strong for my age.”

“How old are you?”

“Ten. You?”

“I’m thirty-one.”

“Getting up there, aren’t you? I guess after a while a man has to rely on his intellect. The body starts to cave in, and the brain’s all you’ve got to work with. So, how did you get to be a marine archaeologist anyway?”

They had reached the edge of the cliff that bordered the sea. A sturdy fence ran along the perimeter where the lawn of thick grass suddenly dropped a hundred feet down a coral precipice to the sandy beach below. Rough steps had been carved into the cliff, and a corroded iron railing was embedded in concrete to form a handrail.

At the thought of the boy starting down those narrow, uneven steps, a jolt of protective fear ran through Rick’s chest. He put out a hand. “Hold up a second, Splint. You’d better wait right here until your mom gets back from her tour. She may not want you taking those steps on your own.”

The boy shot him a look of utter disbelief. “I’m not hanging around up here in the yard. The swimming’s down there.” He grabbed the handrail and started down the steps two at a time. “You sound just like my mom. Gosh, you guys are two of a kind.”

Jessica dug her bare toes into the sand. A playful breeze tugged at her skirt, flipping it this way and that around her calves. On any other day, she might have felt utter ecstasy. The beach below Uchungu House was magnificent. A crescent of shimmering white sand, it was rimmed on one side by tall palm trees and on the other by the lapping turquoise waves of the Indian Ocean. High cliffs bordered the semicircle of beach, and where the sand ended, sheer rock precipices ran out into the water to form the arcs of an almost perfect circle. At the far end of the bay, the cliffs stopped abruptly, leaving an opening to the wide blue sea.

“There’s a reef between those cliffs,” Hunky Wallace said, his thick finger drawing a line across the ocean’s horizon. “A reef of coral so sharp and jagged not a shark can pass over it. You’ve your own grand swimming pool here, lass. As safe and protected as any bathtub.”

“Fine. I’m glad to hear it.”

“That reef keeps out not only the sharks. A hundred years ago, more or less, it caused the destruction of a grand sailing bark whose bones lie rotting on the floor of your lovely bathtub. Now, if the bark couldn’t cross the reef, you can be sure no little treasure hunter’s rig can cross it either. In fact, I was forced to lower my diving boat over the cliff—and let me assure you, that was no easy matter. It took winches, pulleys, a large crane, and twice my normal crew. That killer reef is the sole reason the bark has lain undiscovered these many years.”

“How did you find it?”

“A good treasure hunter lives and dies on rumors. Tales. Whispers around a saloon table. Like every other seaman in the area, I’d heard stories of gold coins washed ashore on the beach below Uchungu House—not to mention a hundred other Zanzibar beaches. The old artist, God rest his soul, wouldn’t allow anyone to have a look in his bay. After his death, I was the first man out there, and within a couple of weeks I’d found the ballast. Now I’ve located the wreck itself, and a fine specimen it is.”

“I’m happy for you. I just don’t want you bothering—”

“We’ll be no bother to you, lass. But you must understand that my crew and I cannot approach the wreck except by way of your drive, your front garden, your cliff-side stairway, and your lovely beach. Without your permission and cooperation, our task is impossible.”

“Look, I’m sorry, but—”

“You mustn’t discount the importance of the Tanzanian government’s interest in this project. I assure you I’ve stood up to the bureaucracy many a time, and I’m not afraid of a good fight. But I can tell you one thing: Richard McTaggart is not a man to let go of things easily. If he wants something—
truly
wants it—he’ll have it.”

Jess thought of her whirlwind romance with Rick. His unbridled passion. His determination to make her his wife. And his easy saunter out of her life. Not a man to let go? Rick McTaggart was the quintessential quitter.

“You sound very sure of yourself, Mr. Wallace,” she said. “Maybe you haven’t known McTaggart very long.”

“That man has dogged me for years about one wreck or another. I’ve never successfully outwitted Rick McTaggart. And now that he knows there’s a virgin find in your bay, he’ll be after it until he’s got it all staked out, tagged, and recorded. I mean to have in on that business, lassie, and I’m not a man to turn loose of things either. You’d do well to pack away your privacy for a few weeks and let us have at the wreck.”