Out of the Shadows

“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

THE 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.

* * *

BEN MURPHY 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.

* * *

LESLIE’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.

In silence, Ben opened the passenger door and adjusted the seat forward. He stepped back and motioned for Leslie to climb into the rear seat. “Be sure to watch your step.” His tone was short, and his gesture hinted at annoyance.

Leslie moved forward to comply, but Mama Joe took her arm. “No. No. Here, let me ride in the back. The view is much better from the front!”

Leslie looked at the narrow opening leading to the rear seat and recognized that it would be difficult to maneuver into. She started to protest, but Mama Joe waved her away. “I may be old, but I’m agile!” Ben assisted the elderly nurse as she stepped up and crawled deftly into the rear of the plane. He readjusted the front passenger seat and then stood back to allow Leslie room to board.

She shifted her large canvas bag to her left shoulder and placed her right foot on the small metal step welded to the landing-gear strut as Mama Joe had done. She was determined to appear as coordinated and capable as the woman who was almost forty years her senior, and she grasped the door to pull herself up into the plane. But her bag slipped off her shoulder and the strap snagged on a small hook that held the seat belt. She let go of the door’s frame to free the strap, but became unbalanced. Groping frantically for something to hold on to, she found nothing but air.

A well-placed hand to her bottom caught Leslie. Ben held her weight easily with one hand as he loosened the strap of her bag with the other. Then he pushed her into the seat. He watched as she cleared the door before closing it firmly. Without comment, he turned and walked toward the back of the plane.

Leslie felt her face turn scarlet. She couldn’t believe that for the second time in less than an hour, Ben’s quick response had kept her from falling flat on her rear. She clenched her teeth as she settled into her seat. In humiliation she realized that she could still feel the pressure of his hand.

She took deep, calming breaths and studied her surroundings. The plane was compact. The front bucket seats were separated by only a few inches, and a dizzying array of dials, gauges, knobs, indicators, switches and buttons comprised the instrument panel.

“Have you ever flown in a small plane before?” Mama Joe asked, leaning forward.

Leslie turned awkwardly in the confined space to face the older woman and shook her head. “No, this is my first time.” She wondered again if she should mention Ben’s drinking.

Her nervousness must have been evident, because Mama Joe patted her arm. “There’s no need to worry. Ben’s an excellent pilot. He was in the air force, you know. Besides,” she added cheerfully, “it’s much safer than driving.”

Leslie wanted to answer that it wasn’t the flight she feared—it was the pilot’s level of sobriety. She managed to keep her concerns to herself and merely nodded in reply.

Leslie watched Ben walk around the plane, examining the fuselage as he commenced his preflight inspection. At least he didn’t seem drunk. “Do you need to fly often in your practice, Mama Joe?”

“Oh, every now and then. If a call is nearby and the distance can be traveled in a few hours, I’ll have Titus take me—he’s my driver. But for an emergency, or if it’ll be more than three hours by car, I’ll fly if I can.” She took a breath. “It seems like it goes in clusters. Sometimes I’ll stay near Namanga for weeks without being called away, and at other times I’ll fly to distant villages or to Nairobi several times in one week. There’s really no way to predict it.”

“Does Ben always take you when you fly?” Leslie tried to keep her tone casual.

“About half the time. He’s freelance, and for the most part he ferries supplies and equipment all over East Africa. Sometimes he flies tourists from one game park to another.” She leaned forward and added conspiratorially, “I don’t think he likes flying tourists, but it pays well.”

“So, how much does he charge you?” Against her will, Leslie found herself watching him inspect the propeller. His shirt stretched across his wide chest as he reached up to run his hands along the length of the blade.

Mama Joe smiled. “Oh, he doesn’t charge us. If we need him, and if he’s around, he’ll take us wherever we want to go for free.” She looked at Leslie and added, “But if he’s off somewhere, we call one of the guys from MASS—that’s Mission Aviation Support Services.”

“Are they nearby?”

“Andy Singleton works out of Mutomo, about seventy miles northwest of us. Ed Jones is in Tsavo, about fifty miles southeast. The problem is it takes at least an hour for them to get to Namanga. Ben is local. Also, if we use Andy or Ed, they won’t be available for others. Besides, we have to pay a small fee for their services—just enough to cover fuel and maintenance, but it adds up.” She frowned slightly. “Now that I think about it, I’m not really sure how Ben manages to work for free.”

The conversation halted as the object of their discussion opened the pilot’s door and climbed in. All three were silent as Ben finished his preparations; Leslie watched as he flipped several switches and turned some knobs. He pulled a pair of headphones from under his seat and put them on. The propeller began to revolve, and within seconds the cabin was filled with a loud roar. Ben pushed a button on the flight control, and Leslie heard him speak to someone in the tower through the microphone attached to the headphones.

“Roger that, Ground,” he said. “Clear for taxiway Delta. Stop short of runway one-eight.”

Ben taxied the plane toward the end of the runway, and they waited in silence as another plane took off. It was a little unnerving to be sitting in such a small aircraft among the much-larger cargo and passenger jets. Over her shoulder, she saw that Mama Joe was reading a book and didn’t seem the least bit nervous. She shifted and glanced at Ben. He was wearing dark glasses and appeared to be idly watching the other planes on the runway.

Suddenly he spoke, startling her. “Roger, Tower. Centurion, November-Four-Two-Alpha-Romeo cleared for takeoff.” With that, he pushed in the throttle and released the brakes. Within seconds, they were in the air. Even before they had reached the end of the enormous runway below, he turned the control and the plane banked gently to the right. It straightened briefly and then turned toward the left, all the while in a gradual climb.

The view from Leslie’s window was spectacular. She was awed by the striking beauty of the land and the brilliant colors. The greens of the grass and foliage seemed deeper, and the cloudless sky more brilliantly blue, than any she had ever seen.

They had been airborne about fifteen minutes when Ben lightly touched her arm.

“Look just below us,” Ben said loudly. He banked the plane sharply to the left and pointed down. Her eyes followed where he indicated, and she saw a large herd of zebras. As she watched the animals move gracefully through the high grass, Leslie forgot her concerns.

Ben circled and descended to bring the herd into view again. As he maneuvered the plane, Leslie had to shift her gaze from looking out of the left window back to the right, and, as she did, her eyes met his. She smiled with sincere appreciation and said “Thank you,” pitching her voice so that he would hear.

Something in Leslie’s expression made Ben’s heart accelerate. She’d looked at him with childlike amazement, and her lovely eyes, which had held an unmistakably desolate look and then irritation, were shining. The discomfort he’d felt in the bar returned. Unconsciously, he rubbed his hand against his leg. He forced his attention back to the instrument panel, adjusting the directional gyros to guide the small aircraft home. But after engaging the autopilot, he found his mind drifting, and he wished she’d look at him with the same excitement she had just shown a herd of zebras.

Irritably, he shook the thought away. It was her eyes—her spooky eyes. He didn’t like what they did to him. He frowned as he stared at the controls. No, he didn’t like it at all.

Intent on the views from her window, Leslie did not see the flicker of response that crossed Ben’s face, or the furtive glances that followed. But Mama Joe did.

Concerned, she watched the man she had known since childhood. She’d been worried for him since his return to Kenya almost three years before. It had been disheartening to see how much he’d changed from the friendly, eager-to-please and focused youth she had known, and she was keenly aware of the rumors that followed him.

She was well acquainted with his solitary lifestyle, had heard reports of heavy drinking and knew he was often seen with the daughters of wealthy tourists. His questionable employment led to periodic absences from Namanga, and the words smuggling and guns were frequently used in conversations about him.