she said, then tactfully changed the subject. “Any special lady in your life? As I recall, you always had plenty to choose from.”
“Having a special lady requires an investment in time. More time than I can spare.”
“Remind yourself of that when you’re a grumpy, lonely old man,” she teased. “You’re what? Forty?”
“Thirty-eight. Don’t make me out to be more decrepit than I already am.”
“Fine. But one of these days you’re going to look back and wish you’d had a family.”
“You’re a fine one to talk,” he countered.
“Well, at least I tried.” She remembered telling him about the baby. Had Nick let him know she’d miscarried? Or had her statement made him think of her wedding day, when his best man’s toast had congratulated the two of them on the new family they were making together?
His answering silence told Megan she’d pushed the conversation onto painful ground. Cal had been as devastated as she was by Nick’s death. Devastated and angry—or at least, there had been anger on her part, when she’d learned about the embezzlement. Cal had seemed determined to find some way to clear Nick of any blame...which had meant shoving that blame on her, instead. Now, more than two years and half a world away, she was sitting beside him with his coat wrapped around her. It was as if they’d come full circle. She’d done everything in her power to put the past behind her and find peace. But it was no use. Being with Cal had brought it all back.
Three
Cal had offered Benjamin a cab ride back to Dr. Musa’s. The distance wasn’t far but by the time they arrived, jet lag from the long flight had caught up with him. He was nodding off every few minutes.
“Won’t you come in, sir?” the husky youth asked as he climbed out of the cab. “I can make you tea.”
“Another time, thank you. And give my best to the doctor. Tell him I’ll ring him up tomorrow.”
As the cab headed on to the hotel, splashing through the backstreet ruts, Cal reflected on his evening with Megan. Nothing had been as he’d expected. She was so fragile, and yet so powerfully seductive that he’d been caught off guard. It would have been all too easy to forget that the woman had either stolen or driven his best friend to steal millions from the foundation before killing himself, and that the money was still missing. In the days ahead he’d do well to remember that.
A few evenings out weren’t going to break down her resistance. He was going to need more time with her—a lot more time, in a setting calculated to put her at ease. A safari would be perfect—days exploring Africa’s beautiful wildlands, and the kind of pampered nights that a first-class safari company could provide.
Tomorrow he would put his scheme into action. First, as a courtesy, he would ask Dr. Musa’s permission to take Megan out of the clinic for a couple of weeks. If need be, he could fly in another volunteer to take her place. Arranging a photo safari on short notice shouldn’t be a problem. Business tended to slow during the rainy season. Most companies would be eager to accommodate a well-paying client.
Not until everything was in place would he let Megan in on his plan. She might argue. She might even dig in her heels and refuse to go along. But in the end she would go with him. If he had to knock her out and kidnap her, so help him, she would go.
Evenings were long and peaceful on safari, with little to do except eat, drink, rest and talk. As for the nights...But he would let nature take its course. If things went as planned, Megan would soon be stripped of any secrets she was hiding.
But first he wanted to cover all his bases. Tomorrow he would compose an email to Harlan Crandall. If the man was sharp enough to locate Megan, he might also be able to ferret out more details about the last months of Nick’s life. He might even be able to locate the missing money.
For now—Cal punctuated the thought with a tired yawn—all he wanted was to go back to the hotel, crawl between the sheets and sleep off his jet lag.
* * *
On a cot veiled by mosquito netting, Megan writhed in fitful sleep. Her hellish dreams varied from night to night. But this one from her time in Darfur dominated them all, replaying as if it had been burned into her brain.
Saida had been just fifteen, a beautiful child with liquid brown eyes and the doelike grace of her people, the Fur. Because she spoke fair English, and because her family was dead, Megan had given her a translating job at the camp infirmary, with an out-of-the-way corner for sleeping. Bright with promise, Saida had one failing. She had fallen in love with a boy named Gamal, and love had made her careless. Checking on the patients late one night, Megan had found Saida’s pallet empty. Earlier, the starry-eyed girl had mentioned her trysting place with Gamal, a dry well outside the camp. That had to be where she’d gone.
Leaving the camp at night was forbidden. Beyond the boundaries, bands of rogue Janjaweed mercenaries prowled the desert like wild dogs in search of prey. No one was safe out there. Megan had known that she needed to find the two foolish youngsters and bring them back before the unthinkable happened. Arming herself with a loaded pistol, she’d plunged into the darkness.
Now the dream swirled around her like an evil mist. She was sprinting through pools of shadow, the waning moon a razor edge of light above the naked hills. Behind her lay the camp; ahead she could make out the gnarled trunk of a dead acacia, its limbs clutching the sky like the fingers of an arthritic hand. Beyond the tree lay the well, a dry hole marked by a cairn of stones.
Near the cairn she could see the two young lovers. They were locked in a tender embrace, blind and deaf to everything but each other. A turbaned shadow moved behind them. Then another and another. Raising the pistol, Megan cocked it and aimed. Time slowed as her finger tightened on the trigger.
Before she could fire, a huge, sweaty hand clamped over her mouth. Pain shot up her arm as the pistol was wrenched away. She tried to fight, twisting and scratching, but her captor was a wall of muscle. Powerless to move or cry out, she could only watch in horror as a knife sang out of the darkness and buried itself to the hilt in Gamal’s back. He dropped without a sound.
Saida’s screams shattered the darkness as the Janjaweed moved in. One of them flung her to the ground. Two others pinned her legs as the circle of men closed around her. Megan heard the sound of ripping cloth. Again Saida screamed. Again and again...
Megan’s eyes jerked open. She was shaking violently, her skin drenched in sweat beneath her light cotton pajamas. Her heart slammed in the silence of the room.
Easing her feet to the floor, she brushed aside the mosquito netting, leaned over her knees and buried her face in her hands. The dream always ended the same way. She had no memory of how she’d managed to escape. She only knew that Gamal had been found dead outside the camp the next morning, and Saida had vanished without a trace.
She’d soldiered on, hoping time would help her forget. But even here in Arusha the nightmares were getting worse, not better. Maybe Dr. Musa was right. Maybe she did have post-traumatic stress. But so what if she did? As far as she knew, there was no simple cure for the malady. Otherwise, why would so many combat veterans be suffering from it back in the States?
All she could do was go on as if nothing had happened. If she could control her fears, she could still do some good. One day she might even be able to live a normal life.
But
