Kifaru, p.1
Kifaru, page 1
part #4 of Enigma Series
KIFARU
By
Tierney James
KIFARU
TIERNEY JAMES
Copyright © 2016 -2017 - Tierney James
Cover Design by Sweet ’N Spicy Designs
All cover art copyright © 2016 - 2017
All Rights Reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, businesses, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only. The publisher does not have any control over or assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their contents.
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Dedication
This book is dedicated to my dear friend who likes cowboys, camping, books and art.
Melanie Cox Smith
Acknowledgments
Every book has a group of people who help bring the story to life. In this case, I’ll have to say they helped polish a diamond in the rough. Many thanks to the following people:
Wizards of Publishing: Kate you are a wonder. You continue to make me a better writer and encourage me to see things another way.
Paperback-Press: Sharon, thank you for your hard work and hand holding when I need it. You are a gem. No pun intended! Well maybe a little.
My street team: So many of you offer to read my books ahead of publication, offering insight to areas where I have slipped up or left out a key component to a character’s dilemma. You always help get the word out, never expecting anything in return. I love you.
Sweet & Spicy Designs: Jaycee always surprises me in creating book covers. When I have no idea which direction to go, she always manages to help me find my way. Thank you for your patience and beautiful art.
The Three Musketeers: Willy Robbins, Shirley McCann and Melanie Smith, I owe so much to you creative people for believing in me along this author road filled with potholes and incomplete stories. It takes people like you to give me the confidence to continue and the courage to finish the journey each time I start a new book.
Sleuths’ Ink Mystery Writers: I would never have continued writing if it weren’t for all of you. Bless you and the support you give to all new writers.
Prologue
Botswana, Africa Thirty-Seven Years Ago
The rains refused to come for yet another day to the parched land of the Okavango. The end of winter often reflected a temperamental attitude toward reviving the edges of the Kalahari. The pools that refreshed elephants, marabou storks, and wildebeests shrank to puddles, forcing many species to gather there on a daily basis, ignoring the competition in order to survive yet another cruel trick of Mother Nature.
The only upside of the situation was it provided tourists on safari the advantage of seeing so many species, up close and personal, from their camouflaged Land Rovers. Besides the yip of zebra and trumpet sounds of wary elephants, the wind rustling across brittle grasses created the kind of National Geographic moment they paid good money to experience. The click of cameras mingling with the soft purr of an engine moving across the earth, back toward camp, lulled guests into a satisfied reverie.
The sun painted a postcard sunset as it dipped into the Okavango Delta. Native workers from a nearby village built fires under kettles of water, so returning tourists could shower away the dust kicked up by animals and vehicles. A campfire blazed under the grand community shelter of thatch and timber. Lanterns glowed in the fading light of day to establish an ambience of romance. Linens placed on an eight-foot, rough-hewn table added yet another layer of sparkle to a desperate land thirsty for the life-giving rain promised by hundreds of years of monotonous predictability.
Refreshed and hungry from his daily adventure, Dr. Girard meandered toward the open-air dining room. John, now dressed in khaki-colored clothes, holding a tray of fluted glasses filled with tepid champagne, greeted him by name. The young man had been their guide for three days, sharing the folklore of various birds and plants. His infectious, wide smile drew compliments on his endeavors to entertain them each day. The easy way he mingled with them added to the overall experience promised by the brochures of exotic travel. But the man tended to be more interested in his budding friendship with Dr. Girard than the others. They shared long talks when poling through the Okavango on one of the boats called mokoros.
A member of the Tswana tribe, John bore the smooth, cocoa-colored skin and features of his people. Dr. Girard smiled when the tall, broad-shouldered man told him he knew the tourists compared him to California movie stars. He hadn’t seen many movies, but had met a number of the actors who came for adventure. Dr. Girard agreed with him that many of them were self-centered and egotistical braggarts who cared nothing for the environment or the turmoil brewing in the capitol, Gaborone. Yet John ignored the attempt at flattery, and confessed the guests knew nothing of movie stars or geopolitical conflict. They were innocent of such things. Dr. Girard agreed with him.
Laughter floated into the darkness along with the tinkling of silverware against china, and glasses lifted in toasts as stars emerged to form the Southern Cross. Roasted pork simmered with pearl onions and creamy potatoes surrounded by sliced red tomatoes satisfied appetites until the bread pudding arrived with more champagne.
“Join us, John!” one Australian invited as he pointed with his glass to an empty chair. “Tell us more stories.”
The guide glanced to the white camp director. Dr. Girard noticed the director frown at such an invitation and gave a small head shake. “I think I will clear these dishes and call it a night. My wife is expecting a baby any day. I hate to leave her too long.” John offered a wide, almost mischievous smile.
“A baby! How marvelous,” a middle-aged Englishwoman said as she pushed her gray-streaked hair away from her face. “Do you have names picked out, John?”
“Yes. But, after meeting all of you, I think perhaps, I should add a few more to the list.”
Laughter burst forth, adding another layer of relaxation to the group. Dr. Girard couldn’t help but wonder about how well John was treated when tourists weren’t around. Congratulations were offered and in return, he promised to keep them informed of any good news concerning his family. The conversation continued as he slipped away.
Dr. Girard leaned back in his chair and listened to the conversation.
“John is full of such wonderful stories and information, Clive. Was he educated at a university?” The Australian slipped a beefy arm to the back of his wife’s chair.
Clive drained his glass and stood to hunt for another bottle. “Yes. His father and grandfather came from the village nearby and rose through the ranks of government in the early days. They were instrumental in the creation of our democracy. Their hard work pulled in the surrounding tribes. It was a tough go at first, but, today, we are a stable country. John was given the opportunity for an education in engineering. After graduation, he decided to come home and marry his childhood sweetheart.”
“I’ve heard the Autonomy Party is trying to change things. What is it all about?” interjected Dr. Girard.
“Yes, it’s all rubbish, of course. They feel the minority of whites who occupy the Workers Party have too much control over the minerals industry and don’t pay enough taxes, which would shore up schools and medical services in rural areas like here.” The guests nodded as if they understood. “Can you imagine getting a doctor to come here? Or teachers?”
“I’m a doctor, and I’d gladly donate my time to help these people several weeks of the year. I’m sure mission groups from countries like the United States would love serving time in such a stable country.” Dr. Girard covered his glass when the director tried to refill it.
“Do-gooders come and go, but they mostly do more damage than good.”
“How so?” The doctor took another nibble of his bread pudding.
“They put ideas into the heads of these people. The natives begin to think they can have a better life. Next thing you know, they are poaching the black rhino to have enough money to send their kids away to school or buy a satellite system to watch CNN. Then they will want highways to drain the Okavango. The tourists bring in lots of money that filters to the villages. These people need to work, not dream about impossible things unavailable in this part of the world for another fifty years.”
“What of the diamond mines?” The English lady held her hand up to let the light bounce off her diamond. “Surely, there are jobs there.”
“The current government shut some of them down when it surfaced the diamonds were being used to sponsor rebels in neighboring countries who wanted to take down their governments. So, for now, this is not an option.
“And all of this wild land?” Dr. Girard leaned forward, thinking of John and his village.
“Would be underwater. The animals displaced or drowned. Tourism dried up. Villagers homeless and moved to urban areas where they’d be exposed to drugs and other criminal endeavors. This hope generates conflict. We don’t need any more nonsense. John came here to escape the discord. He was expected to go into politics or mining. He chose to help his village and family here. Good man, although I suspect he is into something else at times. I keep an eye on him.”
The conversation drifted into less controversial topics as a breeze from the Okavango River swept across the camp and fruit bats made their puppy-like bark from high in the trees. The fire pit glowed with dying embers as the group separated with huge flashlights in hand to guide them back to their tents. They were reminded of an early wake-up call as they said good night to rest for another adventure at morning’s first light.
With the rising sun, two Tswana girls, not more than twenty, made the rounds with trays for the campers. Pots of hot tea and small plates of biscuits were placed on a folding chair outside each tent. The girls offered a warm greeting in hopes of stirring them awake. Dr. Girard was already dressed and ready as the sun rose above the horizon. He watched the blue waters of the Okavango turn to blades of wavy silver. When a troop of baboons wandered through camp, the sound of the rapid click of his camera hurried them along.
As the last of the campers entered the dining area, Clive rushed in to speak to the group.
“I’m so sorry to tell you this.”
“What is it, Clive?” The Australian couple stepped forward as if they wanted to comfort him.
“Three of our workers were attacked by a Cape buffalo this morning on their way to camp.”
“Oh Lord, not John!” fussed the English lady as she laid her hand on her heart.
“Thankfully, no.”
A sigh of relief went up among the group.
“Two managed to climb trees, but the third man was gored severely. I must ask you to be cautious of your picture taking. Animals sense when something has gone wrong. Your morning activities must be postponed for a short time.”
Dr. Girard placed a hand on Clive’s shoulder. “Take me to him. Maybe I can help.”
“I hope so. I’ve put a call in on my radio. A seaplane will be here within the hour. Come. He’s on the outskirts of camp.”
“How did he get there?” Both men jogged toward a shack where several men stood nervously, speaking in whispers.
“Other workers came along with pistols they used to scare the animals away in cases like this. Usually they travel together, but these three set out early and got caught off guard.” He opened the door wider to let the doctor pass through. “I’m going to check on the plane. Tell these men if you need anything that isn’t already here. Thank you, Doctor. Mose is a trusted worker. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.”
The doctor stared at the unconscious man covered in blood and knew, even before he drew closer, the seaplane would do him no good. The wounds were deep and all in the wrong places to survive. Dr. Girard decided he would go with the man to offer what comfort he could. A few of the men asked him questions, and he made a conscious effort to sound encouraging but vague.
“He is my father,” one man confessed. “I have no money to save him.”
The doctor frowned and took the wounded man’s wrist for a pulse. “I will see he gets what he needs.”
Heads bobbed with thankfulness as they spoke in a language the doctor couldn’t understand.
The sound of a plane circling reached their ears as he ran outside to search the sky. He blocked the glare of the morning sun with a hand over his eyes. The buzz of an engine drawing closer finally helped him pinpoint the white plane descending to the calm waters of the snake-shaped Okavango River. A flock of birds near the water’s edge flew up and away, adding squawking to the revved-up sound of the plane.
At a popping sound, the group of men turned their heads toward the noise. They cried out as they pointed toward the bush separating the village and the safari camp, some eight hundred meters away where a plume of smoke rose. They ran toward the village when the doctor cried out.
“What is going on? Stop. I need help carrying this man to the plane.”
The son stopped, tears flowing down his cheeks. “I must go. Thank you for what you tried to do.” Then he joined the others scurrying through the bush like impalas in fear of a lion stalking them.
The doctor ran inside and recognized the death stare of a man long gone to meet his chosen maker. He wanted to whisper a prayer, but the rapid popping noise drew him back outside where the sound of a plane touching water drew his attention for mere seconds. He heard other disturbing noises: screams from the camp where he’d left his newfound friends. More rapid popping, he admitted, must be automatic gunfire.
A movement caught his attention coming from the bush. It was a tall man carrying a bundle. Blood gushed from a head wound as he stumbled forward.
“Doctor!” It was John, their guide. “Doctor, help me.”
“John, what on earth is going on? You’re hurt.” He reached to touch his head, but John jerked away. He smelled of smoke, feces, and fear.
“The government men are coming for me, for my village. They are killing everyone. You must escape.” Dr. Girard followed John’s gaze to where a man disembarked from the plane to the dock. John shoved the bundle into the doctor’s arms. “Take my son, Doctor, and give him a life I cannot.”
Before he could protest, more shots buzzed overhead, and both of them ducked.
“Please, Doctor.” John ran back toward the danger as the doctor stared at the child squirming in his arms. The guide circled back, pressing an object into the hand of Dr. Girard who cradled his son. “This is for my son, his legacy, his promise, good doctor. I am trusting you with the future of my village and country.” He bent to kiss the top of the baby’s head and whispered, “You are the Kifaru.”
Another voice reached the doctor. Clive, the camp director, staggered out into the open, a dark spot spreading across his chest, and reached toward him before falling facedown into the ground covered in the droppings left by elephants. Without another thought, he whirled around to see the pilot wave him forward in wide desperate motions before hustling back onboard. By the time the doctor reached the door, the propeller already spun.
The seaplane moved forward even as he slammed the door shut. The mewing of the newborn child brought an anxiousness to his heart, yet he couldn’t resist looking down at the Okavango River, the camp, and the bush crawling with men carrying guns. They surrounded one man, who he believed might be John. The muzzle flash of several weapons dropped the man to his back. When the soldiers ran away, the doctor thought he saw the body raise his hand up toward them, but the plane banked away, leaving the slaughter for the evening news.
For the rest of his life, the doctor would wonder if there was more he could have done. He would also ponder why he had been spared by the wings of an angel pilot rescuing him and a baby boy at the exact time when they needed help.
He buckled the seat belt and pulled the child to his chest. “Your father gave you to me for safekeeping. I will find out why.”
The child did not fuss or demand to be fed. It was as if he knew this was not a time to protest what could not be changed. The two stared at each other until the plane reached safety. The two had forged a love by then, and life for the doctor would never be the same.
Chapter One
Present Day – Lake Tahoe, California
Tessa sighed as she waited in the hardware store parking lot for the seat belts of her three children to click. The California blue skies of ten minutes earlier were now clotted with ominous waves of black clouds indicating a weather change. The smell of fresh snow layered with the crunching sound of tire chains pushed through the open windows of her dated SUV. It reminded her of Gatlinburg, Tennessee, where she’d learned to ski in college. The soft murmur of her daughter’s singing brought a smile to lips she’d covered with peach-flavored lip balm. After she closed the windows and pulled out into traffic, she focused on her middle child in the rearview mirror.
