The Crocodile's Last Embrace (2 page)

Any mistakes are my own, despite the best efforts of my excellent instructors.

—The Traveler

FROM HIS HIDDEN VANTAGE POINT, the man watched the young American woman called Simba Jike. The name fit not only because she moved with the unconscious fluidity and grace of a lioness but because she held herself with a lion’s assurance as well. Only once had he ever seen her truly vulnerable, the day she stood in the deluge of rain at the train depot, watching the American leave her behind. He’d watched, too, recognizing that his opportunity had come.

A slight sound escaped his lips, half sigh, half groan, born of both desire and sorrow.

He’d heard about her and her exploits before he’d ever met her. All the colony talked about her unconventional behavior and attire, and she might have been shunned by Nairobi society but for the approval she’d received from old Lord Colridge and Lord and Lady Dunbury.

Simba Jike in her dusty tan trousers, scuffed boots, khaki shirt, and that worn-out old slouch ranch hat seemed to embody Africa more than the British women in their Paris frocks and flowered straw hats. He’d also heard of her from his lover, who told a different tale. No grudging admiration there, and that was the source of his sorrow.

He could almost feel the strength radiating out of this American, see the pent-up passion. It smoldered inside her, flaring and flashing like green fire from eyes that could be as hard as emeralds or as soft as spring moss. Eyes that inspired desire.

He recalled that passion in his lover, but they’d been apart for so long, his memory was as remote as a real person was from a photograph. And now her passion had flared into anger and hatred. Other men might have freed themselves, moved on, perhaps towards someone like this human lioness, but he was bound to his mistress, tied by want and need and the remnants of love as well as by their past deeds.

When he’d first met this Jade del Cameron he’d expected most of the stories to be exaggerations, embellished tales told by needy people longing to draw everyone’s attention. Instead, he found the tales fell short of the reality, and he’d come to admire her.

That made his job all the more difficult.

He’d been ordered to break her.

 

THE ANTLER HILT FELT COOL IN HER HAND, the well-polished knobs and curves as familiar to her fingers as a sweetheart’s face. The hilt nicely balanced the length and heft of the blade. In short, the knife promised no surprises, provided the body did its part. It would. She’d practiced often enough and once, years ago, had pinned a rattler that had been menacing her sheepdog.

Her gaze locked on the target, gauging the distance, calculating the number of rotations before the blade struck. She stepped back a half pace and raised her right forearm even with her ear, willing a connection between her vision and her hand. She took a deep breath and dropped her arm on the exhale at the same time that she shifted her weight to her left foot. Her arm shot straight out in front of her, wrist taut, making one perfect line and freezing in position as abruptly as it had moved. As her fingers splayed, the blade spun twice in a graceful somersault like a diver teasing the air before piercing the water.

Jade del Cameron heard the satisfying
thunk
as the blade bit into the wood and stuck, quivering slightly. A smattering of applause followed.

“Bravo, Jade,” called Beverly Dunbury. “Spot on the bull’s-eye.” The speaker was British, classically lovely with shimmering corn-silk hair, watercolor blue eyes, and the fair complexion generally associated with English ladies. She presented an interesting contrast to Jade, whose olive complexion, short, wavy black hair, and green eyes spoke of her exotic bloodlines.

Beverly nodded towards the target board. “Did you all observe how Lieutenant Jade kept her focus on the target? That’s what
you
are supposed to do with your sling.”

Lady Dunbury addressed a small herd of eleven girls ranging in age and deportment from three gangly, restless ten-year-olds to a pretty, well-mannered brunette of thirteen. All were dressed in khaki blouses and dark blue serge skirts that came more or less to their knees. Beneath the skirts were dark blue knickers and black woolen stockings. Each had an indigo blue campaign hat held in place with a chin strap. A powder blue neckerchief hung knotted around each neck. Most of the girls had tied additional knots on the dangling ends, a reminder to do the daily good turn. The two oldest girls’ knots were already undone. A brown belt around each waist completed the military uniform of the 1st Nairobi Company Girl Guides, Ivy Leaf Patrol.

To mark their patrol allegiance, an ivy leaf was embroidered on each blouse’s left-front pocket. Mary Postlewaithe, who would turn thirteen in a week, had lobbied extensively for the patrol to adopt a native flower—in particular, the fireball lily. The flower was spectacular, with its globe of hundreds of slender red florets exploding outwards like some aerial fireworks. And Jade had to agree that most of these girls were more like fireballs than the lilies and roses that had also been up for consideration. But in the end, no one could manage to embroider the complex fireball lily flower on her shirt or paint it on a banner without making it look like a squashed bug. Beverly suggested that they adopt the ivy leaf in honor of the 1st London Company.

“Will you teach us how to throw like that, Lieutenant Jade?” asked Helen Butterfield, the oldest girl. The daughter of a recently arrived settler, she boarded at the English school and showed the most interest in outdoor lore.

Jade winced at the title. “Please, Helen, you do not have to address me as lieutenant. I’m only assisting your, er, captain,” she said, casting a sidewise look at Beverly. Her friend wore a simple walking dress of blue cotton serge and a campaign hat similar to the girls’, only Beverly’s hat sported a cock’s feather plume and no chin strap. A whistle hung around her neck from a white lanyard. A Girl Guide was supposed to dress plainly, not call undue attention to herself, which, ironically, was what the uniform did.

Jade had proudly worn a similar skirt-and-trouser uniform as an ambulance driver for the Hackett-Lowther unit during the Great War, but she refused to truss herself up like a soldier now. She’d agreed to help Beverly with the newly founded troop only if she could still wear her usual trousers, white shirt, and boots. It was the knife scabbard on her boot that had started this knife-throwing demonstration.

“I’m certain Miss del Cameron will be happy to teach the older girls in due time,” said Beverly, “but for now, you had better concentrate on using the sling. Besides being handy for chasing vermin out of your garden, it can be very useful in bringing down small game if you’re lost and in need of food. And it will help you develop hand-to-eye coordination.”

Jade retrieved her knife and slid it into her boot sheath as the girls each selected a small stone and pushed it into the pocket of her leather sling.

“Miss Jade, have you ever killed someone with your knife?” asked Elspeth.

“Elspeth Archibald!” scolded Beverly. “Is that how a Girl Guide talks?”

“I’m sorry,” Elspeth said, although her expression suggested she was sorrier that she was being reprimanded. The downcast look vanished as quickly as a dewdrop under the hot Nairobi sun. “It’s only that I’ve heard all sorts of exciting stories about Miss Jade. How she’s captured criminals, and roped wild animals, and how she’s flown a plane, and—”

“Is it true you’ve been traveling the globe these past months, looking for your lost love?” asked Mary. The other girls’ heads all snapped around in unison to stare wide-eyed at Jade.

“Where in the name of Saint Peter’s goldfish did you hear that load of . . . ?” asked Jade.

Undaunted, Mary persisted. “My mother heard from Nancy, the telephone girl, that your sweetheart died in the war. But Uncle Steven said that your sweetheart left you and went away.” She put a finger to her lips and crinkled her brow as she tried to reconcile the conflicting accounts.

“Uncle Steven?” Jade asked.

“Steven Holly,” said Mary.

“Oh,” replied Jade in a flat tone. She remembered Mr. Holly only too well. During her first visit to the Muthaiga Club, he’d made a drunken pass at her and she’d punched him in the face. And if the telephone operator was spreading stories, everyone in the blooming colony would know by now that her beau, Sam Featherstone, had left her at the train station.

Jade pulled her own sling out of her trouser pocket and picked up a small stone. “Shall we get back to your practice? Perhaps Mary would like to emulate William Tell’s son, put a tin can on her head, and let us try to knock it off.”

Mary hung her head. “I apologize, Miss del Cameron.” Her head popped back up as though on a spring. “It’s just that both you and madame here,” she added, addressing Beverly in the approved Girl Guide manner, “have led such exciting lives driving ambulances and traveling, and we’d dearly love to hear about some of it.” All the girls’ eyes opened wide in expectation.

“No!” Jade’s voice was low, but firm. “Now, if you are ready, we’ll continue with your sling practice.”

She put an empty canned-meat tin on top of a fence post and lined up the girls from youngest to oldest. “Remember what I taught you. Keep one strap wrapped around your hand; hold the other end loosely. Swing around several times to get the proper speed but keep your eye on the target, not on your sling. Release at the top of your downswing and let the stone fly.”

Each girl took a turn. A few stones smacked straight down into the dirt by the girls’ feet. Others made great sweeping arcs up and down, falling short or long, depending on the girl’s strength. One stone went straight up before plunking down on the thrower’s hat. Jade explained to each girl what had gone awry: releasing too late or too soon or without enough speed and force. The last girl, Helen, stepped up and flung the stone with enough accuracy to graze the tin and make it jiggle.

“Very good, Helen,” said Beverly. “It really is just a matter of practice.”

“This is harder than archery,” said Gwendolyn Walker, a plump little blonde. “I can’t see where I’m throwing with the sling.”

“That’s part of practice,” said Jade. “Teaching your hand to obey your eyes. It’s not much different from throwing a ball.” She told the girls to continue practicing, and let her mind drift while keeping half an eye on them. Beverly joined her.

“It’s no good, Jade,” Beverly said softly. “I’m not going to let you stand alone over here and brood. And,” she added when Jade arched one eyebrow as though to express her disagreement, “I know you too well, love. You keep stealing off to be alone, and when I find you, you’re in a dismal mood. I knew I shouldn’t have let you wander off to France for the Armistice remembrance. It simply was not healthy.”

“I couldn’t stay here, Bev. You know that.”

“You could have gone to your home in the States and voted in that election. And you know you always have a home here with Avery and me.”

Jade didn’t argue. It wouldn’t have made any difference anyway. Beverly had always been protective of her friends, and now that she was the mother of a little girl, her maternal instincts had kicked into high gear. Jade had known she had to come back to Nairobi when Beverly had written to her in France, pleading for her help in getting the Girl Guide troop into operation. The four months that Jade had given Sam Featherstone to return to her had been over and she wanted to be here when he came back. The desire had grown into a need, as vital as that for water or air.

She shook her head to chase out the dark thought that had clung to her like a parasite. Since Sam had left in September to sell his motion picture in the States, Jade hadn’t heard a word from him. He’d intimated that he wasn’t the right man for her, that she should forget him, but that was as impossible as forgetting how to breathe.