Johnathan was scared. The woman lay stretched out on the rude cot in the corner of the small hovel he sometimes used when he didn’t want to be found. Kathleen Shaw, her identification said. The world-famous prima ballerina. The woman everybody had thought was dead.
“You’ve gone and done it now,” he muttered.
In the light of day, his plan to bring Hunter around by capturing his woman seemed ill-conceived and foolhardy. For thirty-something years he had escaped a bum rap for murder only to blunder into a kidnapping so sensational, it would make headlines around the globe.
Sweating like a pig in the slaughterhouse, he put his hand on the woman’s throat and felt for her pulse. It was weak and thready.
Groaning, he held his own head. It hurt like hell. She’d landed him quite a blow with the lamp.
If only she hadn’t fought so hard. He glared at her as if the whole situation were entirely her fault.
“Wake up, damn you.”
He gave her one last accusing look, then stomped across the plank floor to his stash of liquor. When in doubt, get drunk. That was his motto.
He uncapped the bottle and took a long swig. Then holding it close to his chest, he slumped into the corner of the room so he could keep an eye on his prisoner.
Maybe he ought to tie her up. Not that she was going anywhere, and her blind as a betsy bug.
Now that he had her, what in the hell was he going to do with her?
He upended the bottle once more and drank until the liquor ran down his chin and into his collar. Then he closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall.
His life would have been different if only he and Janice hadn’t gone to the bar that night. If only that man hadn’t attacked her. If only...
He felt a lump of self-pity rising in his throat and knew that soon he’d be soggy with whiskey and tears. Before he reached that wretched state of oblivion, he conjured up a vision of Janice.
“You’re well rid of me, my darling,” he whispered.
o0o
Most of the wildlife in the Serengeti had taken cover from the torrential rain, but one old leopard refused to leave his kill. Hunkered down over the baby waterbuck, he defied both rain and other animals to deprive him of his hard-earned dinner.
Hunter crouched in the bushes, his cameras slung over his shoulder. It was raining too hard for good photographs. In any case, his purpose for being in Tanzania was not photography but forgetfulness. Even as he watched the rare sight, standing close enough to see the blood on the leopard’s jaws, he was achingly aware of Kathleen... and of his loss.
He lost track of time as he stood in the rain, and only when the leopard finished his meal did Hunter leave. He didn’t see Rick until he was a few feet from his campsite. Sitting on a camp stool in the rain, he was a forlorn sight, with his clothes soaked and the brim of his hat hanging limply around his ears.
“Rick... what brings you here?”
“Thank God you’ve come.”
Hunter’s heart froze. As the hard rain bit into their skin and drummed against the tent, the two friends stood facing each other, one silent with fear, the other silent with grief.
Hunter was the first to move.
“Let’s go inside.”
They ducked into the tent. Hunter unslung his cameras and set about making a cup of coffee.
Not Kathleen, his mind screamed.
“Trouble at the mines?” He handed Rick the steaming mug, then sat cross-legged on a colorful woven blanket, nursing his own coffee between his chilled hands.
“No. Everything is fine at the mines and at the headquarters.” Rick took a long drink from his mug. His hands shook. “I’ve been trying to find you for two weeks.”
Two weeks. Just one day short of his entire stay in the Serengeti. And not a day of it free from visions of Kathleen, dressed in white, standing beside his fire and calling his name.
“It’s Kathleen,” Rick said.
Hunter held up his hand as if he were warding off a blow. Silent screams were trapped in his throat.
“What has happened to Kathleen?”
“She’s gone.”
“Gone?” Hunter didn’t know it was possible for dead men to speak, but he was speaking, moving, breathing.
“Somebody kidnapped her from the hotel room in Johannesburg.”
“Martha and Jake?”
“Drugged. Kathleen was the only one taken.”
“What’s being done to find her?”
“A search is being conducted through official channels, of course. And those women Kat calls the Forever Friends are raising all manner of hell with the media in the U.S.”
“No doubt.” Since he and Kat had come to Africa, he’d talked to Helen and B. J. and Maxie enough to know they wouldn’t sit back and do nothing. Neither would Rick. “What have you found?”
“Not a clue. I’ve hired a team of investigators.”
Rick’s shoulders slumped as he gazed down at his cup.
“And?”
“So far they’ve found nothing. Not a trace.”
Hunter didn’t have to be told in order to understand the grave consequences. Each day that passed lessened the chances of finding her.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“Can we fly in this rain?”
“I’ll fly through hell if I have to.”
Without another word, they began to break camp. Hunter held back his rage. He would save it for the man who had taken Kathleen.
o0o
Kathleen woke up to the sound of crying. She lay in the darkness listening. The sound was harsh and guttural. Made by a man, she guessed.
She lay perfectly still, trying to learn as much as she could. There were no traffic sounds, no animal sounds, only the sound of wind and the sound of weeping.
Somebody had covered her with a light blanket. The wool scratched against her chin. Her feet were not bound, nor her hands. With great stealth she moved them under the covers. The mattress was thin and lumpy. The wall beside her bed was cool and smooth.
Was it night or day? How long had it been since her kidnapping?
She remembered the hotel room, the scuffle, the feel of the lamp breaking against the intruder’s body. She thought she’d hit his head. She was proud of her aim.
The weeping stopped, and the man blew his nose. There was the sound of uneven footsteps, then glass breaking against metal.
Terror seized her as she waited. What would he do now that she was awake?
She closed her eyes quickly and tried to get her breathing back to normal. Being in a state of drugged sleep seemed safer than being awake.
The footsteps came closer, and the smell of liquor almost overwhelmed her.
“Shrill shleeping?” A finger poked her ribs. “Wake up, dammit.”
Was he the only one? She listened for other footsteps, other voices.
The man standing beside her bed lifted her arm and pressed his fingers into her wrists.
“Pulsh shrill going.”
He let her wrist drop, and Kathleen tried to let her arm fall naturally. The man was obviously very drunk. And alone, judging from what she could hear.
What would her chances be if she ran? Then what? A blind woman lost in the wilds of Africa... Unthinkable. She’d have to take her chances with her captor.
Her decision made, she took a deep breath, then threw back her covers and sat up.
“Who are you?” Her voice sounded stronger and more authoritative than she felt.
The man made a squawking sound, and there was a thump as he fell against the floor. She pressed her advantage.
“How dare you take me by force.” She wanted to ask where she was, but she didn’t want to give herself away. Perhaps he didn’t know she was blind. “Are you going to answer me, or are you going to sit there like a sniveling coward?”
The man sniffled, but there was no movement. He was probably in no condition to get off the floor.
“Wish I could give you back. Ish too late... too late.”
He sounded as mournful as the raven in Poe’s famous poem.
“Nonsense. It’s never too late.” Kathleen felt dizzy. She gripped the edges of the bed to keep from passing out. How long since she had eaten? She remembered a blow to the side of her head. Maybe she had a concussion.
“Get me a drink and some food and we’ll talk about how we can rectify this unfortunate situation. I won’t even demand restitution.”
“Ish not you that worries me.... Ish Hunter.”
Every nerve in her body went numb. Hysteria bubbled in her throat, and she fought it down.
“Hunter?” Her voice shook, but maybe he was too drunk to notice. “Who is Hunter?”
There was the sound of sniffling again, and then the slow rhythm of footsteps against a wooden floor. Something squeaked, a door or a drawer perhaps, being drawn open. Glassware rattled and liquid splashed against its sides.
She smelled the liquor before he pressed the cup into her hand.
“Who is Hunter?” he asked, mocking her. The walk across the floor seemed to have sobered him. That or the gravity of the question. “Hunter is my son.”
Anguish almost bent her double... anguish not for herself but for Hunter. How would he ever survive his father’s final betrayal?
“Please,” she said. “We have to go back. For your sake as well as for his.”
Hunter’s father didn’t move, didn’t speak. In the long dreadful silence, all she heard was the harsh sound of his breathing. Like a race car out of control, her mind careened in all different directions. Would he kill her? Why couldn’t she remember the opening segment of the Nutcracker Suite ballet? If only she could hear the music. Would she ever smell gardenias blooming against the fence in Jefferson Parish again? Was the sun shining? She didn’t want to die on a rainy day. There had been too much water on the day of Earl’s death.
She tried to bring her mind under control. What were the statistics on heredity versus environment? Surely there was something of Hunter’s noble nature in his father. She would appeal to that nature.
“Hunter searched for you for years. He desperately wanted a father.” There was nothing but darkness and silence. She took a deep breath and tried again. “He was hurting terribly the day he came to see you. He was once again the little boy whose father rejected him.”
Could she risk reaching out for him? If he had a soul, he was hurting as much as Hunter. If her aim was off, he would certainly know that she couldn’t see, and that would make her twice as vulnerable.
She had to take the risk. For Hunter’s sake.
Kathleen used all her powers of concentration to see the man standing beside her. Her senses told her he was tall. She’d have to reach high.
Were his hands hanging at his side? Was he holding a drink in one? Which one?
“Please,” she whispered, taking the chance, reaching out to him. Her hand encountered flesh, a sinewy forearm covered with thick, crisp hair. She slid her hand down and caught his.
“We can work everything out. Hunter is a wonderful man.”
Growling like an animal in the jungle, he shook off her hand.
“Can’t take you back... Hunter would kill me.”
His footsteps were heavy on the wooden floor. A door creaked open, and for a moment Kathleen felt a breeze and caught a whiff of exotic flowers. Then the door slammed, the lock clicked, and she was left alone with nothing to comfort her except a drink of whiskey.
Shivering, she pressed her hand over her mouth to hold back the rising hysteria. Her survival depended upon keeping her sanity.
She raised the glass to her lips and took a sip of whiskey. It helped stop the shivering. She took another cautious sip.
She’d survived an explosion and a cold, unrelenting ocean. She had no intention of buckling under to a desperate alcoholic.
Using the bed as her point of reference, she explored the room so she could learn about her prison.
o0o
Hunter sat in the police station listening to a report on the evidence gathered from the hotel room.
“Some of the blood belonged to Kathleen Shaw,” the man said. He was small, wiry, intense, and baffled. A two-week search had yielded very little.
“Some?” Hunter asked.
“Yes. The other was the same type as the man who calls himself Tokolosh.”
Tokolosh. Mongo. The Black Knight. Johnathan McFarland. His father. The man who could vanish for years and never be found.
“Mr. La Farge? Do you need something... a cup of coffee? A drink of water?”
Hunter left his chair to stand beside the window. It was dark outside. Kathleen was always in the dark. He rammed his hands into his pockets to keep from smashing them through the wall; then he turned back to the earnest young man sitting at the desk.
“I need a miracle.”