43

Jace opened his eyes. He was in the back of an old car traveling somewhere fast. How long had he been out? The sky was dark, and he’d gone home just before sunset, so it had to have been at least thirty minutes. He studied his surroundings. He was unrestrained, but didn’t move as there was a large African man on the bench seat beside him, carrying an automatic weapon, like something Jace had seen on cop shows in America. The man didn’t seem to know that Jace was awake. He stared out the window at passing trees in a thick forest. Are we on the highway yet? There were two men in the front seat, arguing loudly in Kiswahili, saying something about a payment.

If Jace was to take advantage of the element of surprise, he’d have to do something quickly before they knew he was conscious. Could he jump from the vehicle? No, they were traveling too fast. He closed his eyes, in case his captors looked at him—then risked a quick glance at the weapon. The man held it loosely, unsuspecting.

Jace lunged for the gun, bringing his fingers over the man’s within the circular guard over the trigger mechanism. The gun’s barrel swung in an arc across the floor away from Jace as it began to fire. The sound was deafening and soon accompanied by the man’s screams as he shot himself in the left foot. Reflexively he dropped the gun. Jace popped open the door on the other side of the man.

The men in the front seat screamed as the injured captor dove forward in an attempt to grab Jace’s neck. Jace evaded him by sliding off the seat onto the floor. The man toppled into the space of the open doorway. Jace kicked hard and connected with the man’s butt, sending him tumbling onto the pavement. Next, Jace reached forward and grabbed the driver by his hair, snapping his neck backward. The car careened from the road, crashed through a roadside fruit stand, and dropped into a ditch. Jace bounced off the ceiling, then the backseat.

He took a quick inventory of himself for injuries, then lifted his head and looked around. The two men in the front seat were now half in and half out, sprawled awkwardly through the broken windshield onto the hood.

Jace’s door had slammed shut and was lodged against a stump. He crawled through the open window and glanced up the street. A woman ran in his direction and would be at the car in a few moments. He squinted toward the forest. Time to get out of here.

He ran into the trees, pausing to get his breath and listen to the growing crowd only after he was sure he hadn’t been followed.

He looked at the moon. For now, he was on the run.

And alone.

 

Back in Kijabe, Dave Fitzgerald picked up the phone. “Calm down, Purity. What’s the problem?”

“A mzee with low blood pressure. I know you are not on call, but we have tried over and over to raise the surgeon on call and have no response.”

“Dr. Rawlings?”

“Yes.”

“He’s probably up in the HDU with his heart patients.”

“We’ve checked. Meanwhile, I fear for this patient. I cannot find a pressure.”

Dave sighed. “On my way.”

In four minutes, he entered casualty. “Where’s Mwaka? The intern needs to be with this patient.”

“He left to find Dr. Rawlings,” Purity answered. “He thought this was an aneurysm.”

The surgeon stepped to the bedside. The patient moaned. Dave looked at his eyes. His conjunctiva were pasty pale, a sign of severe anemia. He laid his hand upon the belly and felt the pulsatile bulge above his navel. “Yes, Dr. Mwaka is right.” He looked around. “Call blood bank. Tell them I will need as much blood as they have available.”

Nearby stood an elderly woman in an orange sweater and a purple headscarf. The patient’s wife. Dave spoke to her, using Purity as a translator. “Your husband’s condition is very critical. He has one slim chance for survival. That chance is surgery.” Deciding that it was better to skip the details of what he needed to do, he said, “The only other option would be to give him pain medication to keep him comfortable, and let nature take its course.”

“Let him die?”

Dave nodded.

The woman shook her head. “Save him. He isn’t ready to die.”

“We will do all we can. Please pray.”

Dave called an emergency team, including Evan Martin to do anesthesia.

“Have you seen Jace?” Dave asked.

Evan shook his head. “Not since leaving the HDU about an hour ago.”

Ten minutes later, they were just rolling the patient into theater number one when the medical director walked up, looking pale.

“Hey, Blake, good timing. I could use an assistant. Ruptured aneurysm. Can’t find Jace.”

“I can’t,” Blake said. “We’ve got a real bad situation here, fellas. I just came from Jace’s house. He’s gone, and two police officers are dead, with their throats slashed.”

“What?”

“I came to see if anyone knows where Jace is. He’s disappeared.”

Dave tied the strings of his mask behind his head. “What’s going on? Where’s Jace?”

“I don’t know what to think. He’s gone.”

Evan spoke up. “Someone wants him dead. They’ve taken him. Where are the police?”

Blake shrugged. “We called them. They are walking up. They don’t have a vehicle.”

Evan looked back at Dave. “We’ve got to do this operation now if this guy is going to have a chance.”

Dave nodded. “Get me some help, Blake. I can’t do this alone.”

 

Gabby sat alone in her Kijabe duplex wishing she could will the clock forward and leave for the airport now. She opened her laptop and connected to the Internet to get her email. There was a note from Heather, frustrated at Jace’s poor communication. She’d done a little digging. She knew something about Anita’s sexual partner. Could Gabby ask Jace about his blood type to see if he’s a match?

Gabby scrolled down to see an attachment, the data on the semen analysis on Anita’s attacker.

As she read, her throat went dry. Oh, Jace!

She needed to talk to him.

She picked up the phone and dialed. He didn’t answer.

Oh well, he probably crashed after his big day in the OR. I suppose this can wait another day. It’s not like he’s going anywhere tonight.

 

Jace pushed on into the forest, pausing occasionally to look at the stars. He thought he must be on the west side of the highway that led north out of Nairobi toward Nakuru. He’d hiked these woods a hundred times growing up. He knew the waterfalls and the caves like his own backyard. If he continued, he should hit the railroad, the infamous line that had stalled at Tsavo during its construction because of the man-eating lions.

He limped on, stepping carefully, looking for a trail. So far, all he’d found were the crisscrossing paths of the ruthless men who illegally cut timber for the charcoal industry. That’s all I need, he thought. A run-in with the charcoal burners.

He listened to the sounds of the night. Everything was alive. As he moved forward, branches overhead swayed from scampering colobus monkeys. After thirty minutes, he stopped, leaning against a tree. The sounds of the highway had vanished; only nature spoke to him now.

He closed his eyes, trying to rid his memory of the gruesome images of his guards killed without mercy. As a surgeon, he was accustomed to blood, but not the uncontrolled release he’d witnessed. He took a deep breath. This is all my fault. It began on a fateful night in Richmond when I walked away from Heather.

He lifted his face toward the night sky. Are You punishing me because of Janice? I thought coming here would make up for my sin.

Jace ran his hand over his right hip where a deep pain seemed to originate. He hadn’t done a proper inventory since crawling from the car. How long ago was that? Are they after me still?

The bone seemed intact, but there was sharp pain every time he pressed against the ligaments of his right hip. A strain. I deserved worse.

A twig snapped nearby. Something moved in the distance, something heavy. A baboon? A man?

A volley of automatic-weapon fire cut through the night. Jace pressed his body against the tree and held his breath.

They were looking, trying to scare him into running.

He heard voices. Shouting. Kikuyu, he thought.

I must get to the railroad. Or to a stream. I can follow it west toward the escarpment over the Rift Valley. Then I’ll know where I am.

The voices passed to his left by fifty meters. They don’t know where I am.

He waited a few moments, then doubled back, limping away from the voices. Tree to tree. Stay in the shadows. He winced when his weight broke a stick. The voices halted. Another burst of gunfire. This time, with bullets spraying the tree above his head. Monkeys squealed and fell silent.

He smelled charcoal. Or was it from the gunfire?

Why does someone want me dead?

Jace crawled away, beneath banana leaves, his clothes now damp with sweat and moisture from the forest floor. He stood again, leaning low, and stumbled onto a path. After a few steps, he came to a mound of fresh dirt. Smoke seeped from several small openings.

A charcoal burning spot.

A rough voice greeted him. “Habari.”

He looked up to see a boy holding up a machete. His teeth were yellow, visibly stained even in the moonlight.

The boy pressed the tip of the machete to Jace’s throat.

Jace lifted his hands in surrender. “Don’t hurt me,” he whispered. “I have money.”