Out of the Shadows (2 page)

CHAPTER ONE

T
HE
FIRST
THING
Leslie Carpenter noticed as she stepped off the British Airways jet in Nairobi was the smell. It was earthy, rich with the scents of soil, manure, tropical flowers and sweat. After being confined in the stuffy, crowded 747 for more than ten hours, she welcomed it.

Leslie shouldered her large canvas tote and joined the slow line of passengers. She was struck by the odd mix of people carrying loose clothing, bags, sacks, briefcases and children as they made their way down the corridor into the terminal. Most were African, with a significant number of white and Asian faces in the crowd. These, she surmised, were tourists or expatriates, although a smattering appeared to be businesspeople.

As she headed toward the immigration officials working at glass-enclosed desks, Leslie noticed soldiers scattered throughout the processing area. They were dressed in camouflage fatigues and carried wicked-looking machine guns. She could see at least three from her location in the passport control line, and their presence reminded her of the acts of terror that were relatively common in Eastern Africa. She took a deep breath and told herself the situation had calmed in recent months.

After getting her passport stamped, she followed the crowd to the baggage-claim area. The conveyer belt was already laden with suitcases, boxes, foam containers wrapped with duct tape, duffels and even heavy black garbage bags. Various emotions tugged at her as she watched the carousel, feelings she hadn’t experienced in many months. She recognized excitement and anticipation along with nervousness and more than a twinge of fear. Feeling very alone, she wondered for the twentieth time—
What am I doing?

The incongruity of standing in the capital of a developing country hit her, and not for the first time. For the past year and a half she had depended on her family and friends in Dallas. Their love and patience, along with her compassionate colleagues at the nursing school, had helped her through the tragedy that had shattered her life. The very idea that she could leave them and fly halfway across the world struck her as preposterous—even now that she had done it.

It had taken months to recover from the emotional assault that followed the accident. Living with her parents had helped.

More than a year had passed when a colleague mentioned the need for a volunteer nurse-practitioner to run a rural clinic in Africa for six months, allowing a long-term missionary to return home for a much needed sabbatical.

Leslie had contacted the East Africa Mission office in Atlanta, and less than five weeks later, she tearfully kissed her parents, sisters and closest friends goodbye at Dallas’s DFW airport, promising to email as often as possible.

Now, following two ten-hour flights, she was in Nairobi.

She located her bags and stood in the slow line for Customs. After presenting the required forms, she took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders and moved toward the exit.

Anna MacDonald, also known as Mama Joe—the nurse who would be heading home for sabbatical—was supposed to meet her at the airport and accompany her back to the village clinic. Leslie had seen pictures of the veteran nurse and, scanning the faces, she quickly spied the petite woman in the crowd. She was easy to spot, with her white face, silver-gray bun and black-framed glasses, standing beside a smallish, middle-aged white man. Leslie waved to the pair and was relieved when they waved back. Mama Joe and her companion hurried forward and, without hesitation, she scooped Leslie into a warm hug.

“Hello, dear! You must be Leslie. I’m Mama Joe. We are so happy that you’ve come!” Her voice was a little deep and a bit raspy, with the hint of a Southern accent. “You’re a wonderful answer to my prayer.” She pulled back and smiled, taking Leslie’s hand. Behind the heavy glasses, her eyes were a soft brown.

“I’m very happy to meet you, too, Mama Joe.” Leslie hoped the warmth in her voice matched that of the older woman. “I can’t believe I’m actually here, and I can’t wait to get started at the clinic.”

Mama Joe’s smile widened, and lines creased her tanned face. “We’ll be heading out for Namanga—our village—later this afternoon. I’ll be able to show you everything before I leave in a couple of weeks.” She indicated the man beside her. “Leslie, this is Dennis Williams. Dennis is the regional director of the East Africa Mission.”

Leslie shook his hand. “Yes, Mr. Williams, we spoke on the telephone a few weeks ago. It’s good to meet you.”

“Call me Dennis, please. Thank you again for helping out at the last minute like this. We feel very lucky to have you take over the clinic for the next six months.” He took her suitcases and headed toward the exit. “If you aren’t too tired, we could show you a little of the city, have lunch with my wife—then our driver can bring you back to catch your flight to Namanga.”

“The village is a couple of hours south of here by plane,” Mama Joe explained. “It takes six hours to drive because the roads are riddled with potholes, so we fly when we can.” She took a quick breath and continued, “I came up this morning with Ben Murphy. He’s one of the pilots who help us from time to time. We’re supposed to meet him here at three.”

Leslie glanced at her watch. It was a little after ten. It had been more than twenty-four hours since she left Dallas for London. After a three-hour layover at Heathrow, she’d been able to doze with her head propped against the small window of her red-eye flight. Yet, despite the grueling trip and minimal sleep, she was wide-awake. “That sounds terrific!” She smiled. “I’d love to see Nairobi.”

Leslie accompanied Mama Joe and Dennis toward the busy terminal’s exit. She’d passed her first hurdle and she felt welcomed by her new colleagues.
Maybe,
she thought,
I’ve made the right decision after all....

* * *

T
HE
TRIP
FROM
the airport was like nothing Leslie had ever experienced. In the parking area, she was introduced to a young Kenyan named Marcus who chauffeured the mission’s van. “I rarely drive,” Dennis explained. “I’ve lived in Nairobi for more than five years, but I still can’t get used to driving on the left.”

Mama Joe acted as tour guide, pointing out the various sights. As they neared the city, the trees and lush grassland quickly gave way to signs of human habitation. People walked and jogged on a roadside path, their numbers growing as the van progressed. Mama Joe explained, “Most people don’t have cars. They grow up running everywhere. That’s why so many of the great runners are from Kenya.”

Leslie watched in amazement as the van passed men in dress pants and sometimes even suits jogging toward town, often carrying briefcases or backpacks. The women wore dresses or skirts and blouses of batik cottons in a rainbow of colors. A lot of them carried bundles, often on their heads, and babies in cloth slings on their backs. Many pedestrians lugged wooden carts filled with bananas, mangoes and other fruits, building materials, chickens, bolts of cloth, and what appeared to be car parts. She stared when she saw two men leading a Cape buffalo.

Leslie tried to absorb the sights of the engulfing commotion when they reached the city. The streets were crowded with trucks, cars and buses, many of which appeared decrepit, with rusting fenders and duct-taped bumpers. With surprising frequency, their relatively new and well-maintained van was passed by large passenger vans overflowing with people. Following her stare, Mama Joe laughed. “Those are
matutus,
Kenya’s primary means of public transportation. The vans are supposed to hold about fifteen people, but as you can see, they typically carry at least twice that number.”

Leslie shook her head slightly in sympathy as she continued to look through the window. Drivers here were aggressive—really aggressive. She watched in astonishment as a rust-covered car swerved around them and nearly cut them off, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision with a car in the right-hand lane. Leslie clutched the seat and glanced at Mama Joe and Dennis. They didn’t seem the least bit fazed by the darting traffic, sudden stops and starts and blaring horns. With slightly nervous resignation, she determined to avoid watching the traffic ahead and concentrated on the sights from her window.

The city’s skyline loomed. Modern skyscrapers were interspersed with two-and three-story buildings that appeared to date back to British colonial rule. Occasionally ramshackle structures were adjacent to office buildings, and a variety of crowded shops and stores could be seen only a few feet off the busy street.

“I’m surprised there are so many tall buildings,” Leslie said as they approached the city center. “Nairobi reminds me a little of Chicago or even New York.”

Dennis nodded. “Nairobi is very cosmopolitan. Of course, the majority of people are African. But because of British colonization, there’s a large contingent of Europeans here. And there are a lot of immigrants from South Asia, particularly India and Pakistan.”

“This is
very
different from where we live,” Mama Joe added. “In our area, there aren’t many who aren’t African. Mostly farmers. We also take care of quite a few Masai—the nomads who tend cattle.”

Leslie wondered anew about the conditions she’d be exposed to in the rural area. She had vaguely pictured mud huts with thatched roofs and cooking over open fires.

They drove out of the primary business district and entered a residential neighborhood. As they progressed down a tree-lined street, the houses grew rapidly in size until they became mansions on huge lots surrounded by high walls. “We are very fortunate,” Dennis said. “The building that houses the East Africa Mission was donated about fifty years ago by a wealthy family who returned to England.”

Marcus turned the van through a gate and parked in front of a large Victorian. Inside the old brick walls, Leslie saw a lush lawn, edged by deep beds with layers of flowers. As they walked to the front door, Leslie recognized the sweet smell of honeysuckle and lilac. Dennis held the door open for the two women. “The main offices of EAM are on the first floor,” he explained. “My family and I live on the second.”

Two African women were seated at desks in the first room of the mansion. The young women smiled shyly at Leslie as they were introduced, revealing beautiful white teeth which contrasted strikingly with their very dark faces. Mama Joe stopped to chat as Dennis led Leslie through the lower floor.

A slightly plump woman with gray-tinged brown hair met them at the top of the stairs. Before Dennis could make the introductions, she took Leslie’s hand. “Hello, I’m Connie. I’m so glad you had time to come by.” She pulled Leslie into the living room. “Please sit down. I know you’re exhausted—that trip is a killer!” Leslie sat back in a cushioned chair with the lemonade Connie had handed her and surveyed the room with its enviable collection of Victorian antiques. It gave her the impression that she was in a parlor in southern England rather than in a missionary’s home in central Kenya.

The disconnect was vaguely perplexing.

At Connie’s suggestion, Leslie spent a few minutes in the modern bathroom freshening up before lunch. She changed into the spare blouse from her carry-on bag. It was slightly wrinkled but clean. The high humidity had caused her wavy, dark brown hair to curl, so she brushed it into a heavy ponytail and confined it with a large barrette. There were faint dark rings under her large blue eyes. She sighed. Only a good night’s sleep would remedy that.

Lunch was anything but exotic: fried chicken, mashed potatoes and salad. The only nod to their being in equatorial Africa was the selection of fruits for dessert—mangoes, pineapples and papayas.

Between bites of flavorful mango, Leslie asked, “So, why are you called Mama Joe?”

“I haven’t thought about that in quite a while.” Easy humor shone in the crinkled corners of the other woman’s brown eyes. “Well, when we first came to Namanga, our kids were very small. As a sign of respect, I was not called by my given name, but by the designation ‘Mama.’ ‘Joe’ is my oldest son, so I was ‘Mama’ of ‘Joe,’ which became ‘Mama Joe.’ I’ve been known by that name for about forty years.” She chuckled. “I doubt many people even know my name is Anna!”

At Leslie’s prompting, Mama Joe recounted how she and her husband had traveled to Kenya in the late 1960s as newlyweds. “We raised four children here,” she said. “In 1994, we retired and moved back to Alabama, but when my Daniel died just a few years later, I decided to come back where I could be useful.”

Leslie sat quietly, thinking about how closely Mama Joe’s reasons for coming to Kenya mirrored her own.

She wanted to help the people here, too.

She wanted to find a place where she could be useful again.

She only hoped she could find that in Africa.

CHAPTER TWO

T
HE
COMBINATION
OF
jet lag, exhaustion and lunch slammed Leslie during the drive back to the airport. The van was nearing the airport when she awoke, surprised she’d slept through the crazy Nairobi traffic.

Marcus offered to wait at the van with Leslie’s bags while the women located the pilot who would take them on the final leg of the journey. “Ben told me to meet him at the Rift Valley Bar around three o’clock.” Mama Joe gestured toward the rear of the terminal. “It’s over there. Back near the gates.”

They were making their way through the crowd when they heard a voice call loudly, “Mama Joe! Mama Joe!” A woman dressed in a bright yellow-and-orange cotton skirt and blouse ran toward them and grabbed Mama Joe’s hand.

“Mary!” Mama Joe exclaimed. The two embraced, and they conversed for a moment in Swahili before Mama Joe introduced Leslie.

“This is Mary Keino, a dear friend of mine. Mary worked with me many, many years ago, even before we settled in Namanga.” She leaned toward the Kenyan woman, and they talked for a moment more. Mama Joe laughed at something Mary said, then turned to Leslie. “I would really like to visit for a moment. She’s telling me about her grandchildren.” She motioned in the direction of the bar. “Would you mind going to find Ben and letting him know we’re ready?”

Leslie smiled. “No problem. I’ll be right back.” She swiftly covered the remaining distance and was at the door of the Rift Valley Bar before it occurred to her that she’d failed to get Ben’s description. She considered retracing her steps to ask Mama Joe, but glancing across the long terminal, she rejected the idea. Surely she’d be able to recognize their pilot.

The dim lighting forced Leslie to pause a moment just inside the bar to let her eyes adjust.

The patrons—mostly men—were seated at tables haphazardly scattered across the limited floor space. At the table nearest the door sat three well-dressed Indian or Pakistani businessmen. Two couples, probably tourists from Japan, were seated at another table. At one end of the long bar to the left, a white man slouched against the counter, talking with two women perched on stools. An older American-looking couple sat at the other end of the bar.

Leslie frowned. She had expected to find a lone man; so as far as she could tell, Ben wasn’t here.

As she snaked her way among the crowded tables toward the guy tending bar, she caught bits of conversation. The businessmen seemed to be having an intense discussion. Their conversation grew more heated, and as she passed she saw one man trying to convince the angry guy to keep his voice down. The third man stared at her, his expression livid and his gaze eerily disconcerting. Leslie tried to seem uninterested as she continued forward.

The tourists, by contrast, were quite sedate. They talked in low tones and did not acknowledge Leslie or the group arguing at the next table.

The trio at the bar were speaking—or flirting, rather—in French. The man glanced her way as she approached, and his eyes lingered on her with undisguised interest. When he saw he had her attention, he lifted his glass toward her and gave her a nod—as if suggesting that she join the party.

Annoyed, Leslie returned his leer with a glare, much to the satisfaction of the two women, who seemed to realize they were losing his interest. She pointedly dismissed him and turned toward the bartender, who was taking an order from the older couple.

While she waited, Leslie overheard the pretty brunette say something in rapid French. Her tone was unmistakably petulant. Out of the corner of her eye, Leslie saw the guy shrug. He leaned over and pushed aside a strand of hair to whisper something to the second woman, an attractive blonde. She nodded coquettishly and then glanced at Leslie before all three laughed, drawing the attention of the tourists and the businessmen.

Leslie’s cheeks reddened. She tried to appear unaffected as she glanced down at her clothes. She knew she looked wrinkled and shabby. Absently, she reached up to smooth back a strand of hair that had escaped the barrette.

Flustered, she noticed that the man seemed unusually tall and muscular for a Frenchman. Her stereotype was reinforced, however, by his gold-streaked brown hair, which looked like it would reach his wide shoulders if it hadn’t been pulled back into a ponytail. She huffed silently; she had never liked long hair on men.

The women burst into more laughter as he finished a story. Grinning, he reached over and flicked the dangling earring of the blonde, then he took a drink from his glass and turned in Leslie’s direction. His face was deeply tanned, and his leering grin revealed straight white teeth. He was casually dressed in khaki pants and boots, and the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled past his elbows. His eyes were an odd pale green, closely resembling the color of a Coke bottle. Feeling as if she’d been caught staring, she quickly looked away.

Trying to ignore the group at the bar and the stares of the other patrons, she glanced toward the corner of the room. She was surprised to see a man sitting alone at the table farthest from the door, drinking coffee and reading a book—somehow she had missed him. He wore a navy suit with the gold braid and buttons of a pilot.

Leslie made her way to his table, relieved to escape the obnoxious trio and the attention of the businessman with the creepy stare.

“Excuse me.”

The pilot appeared to be in his forties, with neat, dark hair that was graying at the temples. He glanced up from his book and removed his glasses. “Yes?”

Leslie held out her hand. “I’m Leslie Carpenter. Mama Joe said I should find you and let you know that we’re ready to go.”

The man frowned. “I’m sorry. You must be mistaken. I do not know anyone named Mama Joe.” Although his English was flawless, his accent was European, most likely German.

Leslie glanced at the insignia on the breast of his coat and saw a Lufthansa name pin. Her hand fell to her side and she blushed. “E-excuse me. I—I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else!” She started to back away.

He gave her a nod. “It is no problem.” Replacing his glasses, he returned to his book.

* * *

B
EN
M
URPHY
HAD
a long-standing practice of observing his surroundings, so he noticed Leslie the moment she entered the bar. Although his attention appeared to be focused on his companions, he was keenly aware of her as she made her way through the room. His initial glance revealed a young woman wearing the rumpled clothes of a traveler. When she approached him, he registered a woman in her late twenties, of average height, with a slender, almost thin, build.

He turned slightly to get a better look and did a double take when he saw her eyes. Despite the dim light, he could tell they were a dark, rich blue, highlighted by heavy lashes and expressive eyebrows. She looked directly at him for only an instant, but he was caught off guard by his reaction. He had an odd feeling of vertigo as his heart rate soared and his vision seemed to narrow in on her face.

Unwilling to dwell on the young woman with the extraordinary eyes, Ben dismissed her. Collecting his thoughts, he returned his attention to his companions while keeping an eye out for Mama Joe and the new nurse. He’d been told few details about the substitute, and idly pictured a woman of about fifty, with graying hair, sturdy legs and a critical disposition.

Maintaining his part of the conversation, Ben discreetly watched as the young woman wandered back toward the bar after a short discussion with the commercial pilot seated in the corner. She pointedly ignored Ben, which he found both irritating and amusing. At a tap on his wrist, he leaned toward his new friends, only to be taken aback by the woman with the blue eyes watching him. Rarely did anything or anyone startle him, but
she
did. That fact bothered him, mostly because he didn’t understand it. His life depended on his ability to focus. So, when he found himself unbalanced by the eyes of a strange woman, it was unnerving. He couldn’t peg whether unnerving was good or bad, but he didn’t like it.

Ben kept his expression impassive. She couldn’t know that his heart rate had climbed and his head was swimming a little. With considerable effort, he shook off the moment in time to glimpse Mama Joe entering the bar.

“Excuse me, please, Monique. Helene,” he interrupted in flawless French. “Ladies, there is the dear friend I am waiting for.
Au revoir.
” He paid the tab and gave an apologetic shrug to the two women before walking away.

As Ben approached the older woman standing at the door, he realized Monique’s derogatory comment about rich old cougars was for his benefit. He ignored the insult and smiled at the gray-haired nurse with sincere affection.

He was halfway to the door when he sensed someone following him.

* * *

L
ESLIE
’
S
PATH
TO
Mama Joe was suddenly blocked as the Frenchman cut in front of her. Abruptly, he turned toward her. His movement was so quick and unexpected that she couldn’t stop. Her momentum carried her forward, and she inadvertently rammed into his chest.

He was as hard and immovable as a brick wall, and Leslie would have fallen backward if he hadn’t caught her. She was suddenly aware of the large hand that dug painfully into her upper arm. After quickly regaining her balance she discovered that everyone in the room was staring at them.

Mortified, Leslie shook off his hand and took a small step back. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Keeping you from falling on your butt, lady.... And you’re welcome.” His words were low, almost a growl.

Unceremoniously, Ben turned his back on her and strode the final steps to Mama Joe. He smiled and bent to kiss her on the cheek. “Did your nurse get here okay?”

Mama Joe peered around Ben to Leslie, who cautiously walked toward them. “Didn’t you meet her? It looked like...um...”

Ben rolled his eyes and sighed audibly. Mama Joe recognized the awkwardness of the moment between the two of them. “Ben, Leslie, uh...well...perhaps we should be going. Marcus is waiting at the van.”

Leslie forced herself to hold out her hand in an attempt at dignity. “I’m Leslie Carpenter. Mama Joe sent me to find you. I guess I didn’t recognize you.” She managed a slight upward movement of her lips, which she hoped resembled a smile.

Ben paused a second before he shook her hand. With a tone that reeked of insincerity, he replied, “Charmed.” He quickly turned back to Mama Joe. “I’ll find Marcus and get the bags. Meet me by the general aviation gate in a couple of minutes.” Without waiting for a reply, he headed toward the terminal entrance.

Leslie felt a need to explain as she walked with Mama Joe toward the portion of the airport that managed noncommercial aircraft. “I didn’t realize who Ben was because he was with two women. And they were speaking French.” She shrugged. “I assumed they were tourists.”

Mama Joe nodded and patted her on the arm. “Oh, I see. That makes sense because Ben was born and raised here. In Kenya—like Europe—most everyone knows more than one language. In the city, people typically speak Swahili, English and their own native dialect. Many people also speak French, because most of central Africa was colonized by France and Belgium.” She paused for a moment before adding, “On the coast, around Mombasa, many people are of Indian or Pakistani heritage, so they also speak Hindi, Urdu or Arabic.”

As they reached the general aviation gate, Mama Joe continued, “Ben learned French at the boarding school he attended with my youngest son, Nathan. But Ben is something of a linguist. In addition to French and Swahili, he speaks at least three tribal dialects. That can be very helpful living here. I’m afraid I’m not much for languages—I’ve had to get by with just Swahili.”

Leslie listened absently as Mama Joe’s conversation shifted to her children. “Joe also went to the boarding school. He’s a pastor now, and he and his wife, Sandra, have three children. They live in Mobile, and I can’t wait to see them.”

The far end of the terminal was much less crowded, and the women sat together facing the entrance to wait for Ben. Leslie’s weariness had returned, and she merely nodded at appropriate times as Mama Joe continued the one-sided conversation.

“Nathan and Ben were good friends. They finished high school here and went to the States for college, like most MKs—that’s what we call missionary kids. Ben was a little different, though, because he went to live with his grandparents in Kansas when he was about fifteen. He always had this hankering to fly airplanes and play football. He eventually got an appointment to the Air Force Academy and became a quarterback. All-Conference or something like that.”

Leslie had to blink quickly and bite her cheek as she grew drowsier. Mama Joe seemed oblivious to her predicament and continued to recall Ben’s athletic exploits.

After a few minutes, Leslie glimpsed Ben through droopy eyelids. Seeing him helped restore some measure of alertness, and she focused on the tall man walking toward them, carrying her two large suitcases. Ordinarily, she would have felt guilty, knowing how heavy her bags were—although he seemed to be managing easily. She’d had enough of Ben Murphy. So what if he
could
speak six languages and throw a football? She knew what he was—a player.

Her thoughts suddenly took a different turn. What had he been drinking at the bar? Could he be
drunk?
A twinge of alarm compounded her annoyance, and she debated whether to say something to Mama Joe.

Ben barely glanced at Leslie as he led the way toward the section of the airport where privately owned aircrafts were secured. He paused by the door and handed a uniformed official a form. A conversation in Swahili followed before the clerk stamped their paperwork and gestured for them to proceed.

They followed Ben into the bright sunlight, passing a number of planes of varying models, sizes and vintages before Ben stopped near a single-engine, high-winged Cessna. The plane was pale beige with a dark green stripe, and it appeared to be well-maintained. He unlocked the plane and heaved Leslie’s bags into the cargo hold. She was thankful she hadn’t packed anything breakable, and as she witnessed his disregard of her belongings, her irritation reached a new high.