The Oracle Read online

  “I’m worried about her,” Remi said. “Hank saw her hiding something this morning just before he took off. A stash of missing nails. I’m hoping I didn’t make a mistake bringing her here, but I can’t see turning her over to protective services. I hate to think where she might end up.”

  Amal looked over at Remi. “I would have done the same thing. Brought her here, I mean.”

  “Do you think you can talk to her?” Remi asked. “We need to find out where she’s from if we hope to get permission to bring her in.”

  “Me?” Amal’s glance strayed toward the girl. “I … I could try.”

  Remi smiled to herself. When she’d last spoken to Renee on the phone, her friend had mentioned that Amal tended toward the shy side, keeping to herself and rarely interacting with strangers. In fact, that was one of the reasons Renee had been insistent about sending Amal on to the school without her. Even after the traumatic events on the road from Jalingo, the young woman certainly seemed to be coming into her own out there. For a few moments, they sat in peaceful silence, watching the younger girls jump rope. Eventually, Nasha peered around the corner at them.

  Remi nodded toward her. “What do you suppose we’ll find in that backpack she never takes off? Or up in that tree she hides in?”

  “I know exactly what you’d find. Food. And about anything else that isn’t nailed down, including some of those missing nails.” She smiled at the pun. “I’ve talked to her quite a bit. She’s a sweet girl, but that sort of behavior won’t stop until she starts to feel secure.”

  “How do you know so much about this?”

  Amal watched as the older girls now jumped and she smiled. “Originally, my major was in child psychology. And I might have continued in that direction except I had one of my seizures one afternoon and the person helping me brought me into the wrong lecture hall. It happened to be Dr. LaBelle, talking about the part of Tunisia where I grew up. The more I listened to her, the more I realized I was supposed to be there. It felt right. Like all those stories my grandmother had told me about the people who lived centuries ago were meant to—”

  She stopped when one of the girls raced across the courtyard toward them, calling out, “Mrs. Fargo. Miss Amal.” She stopped in front of them, out of breath, pointing toward the mess hall. “Come quick. I think Mr. Hank is dying.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  If you give bad food to your stomach, it drums for you to dance.

  – AFRICAN PROVERB –

  Sam lifted the final roll of tarpaper over his shoulder and was about to climb up the ladder when Remi and Amal ran past him toward the mess hall. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s Hank,” Remi called out.

  Which didn’t tell him much. He lowered the heavy roll to the ground, then followed them into the cafeteria. Hank was leaning over a garbage can, heaving. A half-dozen girls stood on the other side of the room, their hands over their mouths, looking as though they were seconds from getting sick themselves. The acrid scent hit Sam the moment he walked in.

  “Is he dying?” one of the girls asked.

  “I doubt it,” Sam said, opening up one of the windows.

  Remi scooted the kids out the door, grabbed a roll of paper towels, and returned to his side. “Maybe you should check on him.”

  “Me?” Sam said, eyeing the mess on the floor near Hank’s feet. Apparently, he hadn’t quite made it to the trash can when he became ill. “What about that whole he’s the friend of your friend thing?”

  “That was when he was in trouble. This is different.”

  “How?”

  “He’s sick. What if he’s contagious?”

  “So it’s okay if I get sick?” he said as Pete walked in, saw what was going on, then did an immediate about-face.

  She smiled sweetly. “If that happens, I’ll promise to take good care of you.”

  Sam took the towels and walked over to Hank, noticing his pale, clammy skin. “You okay?”

  “I feel like—” He pivoted toward the garbage can, racked with the dry heaves. “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine.” Sam tore off several sheets, giving them to the man.

  Fingers shaking, Hank wiped his mouth and dropped the spent sheets into the garbage. “Hoping it’s just something I ate from the market this morning and not something contagious. Maybe I caught whatever bug LaBelle had when she got sick at the hotel.”

  He handed the entire roll of paper towels to Hank. “Do me a favor and clean that up the best you can. If you are contagious, we wouldn’t want anyone else to get sick.”

  Hank tore off several sheets, again wiping his mouth. “Is it my imagination? I get the feeling that you don’t like me.”

  “I’m reserving judgment.”

  Hank glanced past him to where Amal and Remi waited near the doorway, and, just beyond, a group of curious girls peering in to see what was happening. “I don’t think I should be here,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to get the kids sick. Maybe I should drive back to Jalingo and get a hotel room. Maybe even a doctor’s appointment. I’ll probably need medical clearance to even get on a plane.”

  He was right about that. Ever since the Ebola crisis, the airlines were under orders to disallow passengers with a fever. “If you are sick, you shouldn’t really be driving yourself. Let’s hope it’s food poisoning.”

  Sam moved to the doorway, anxious to be in the fresh air.

  Remi crossed her arms, giving him the look. “You’re making him clean it up himself?”

  “It’s not like he’s dying or anything.”

  Amal laughed. “I do like your husband.”

  Remi gave him a quick jab with her elbow. “Good thing I do, too.” She glanced at Hank, her smile fading. “Let’s hope he’s better after a good night’s sleep.”

  But the next morning, when Sam and Remi went to check on him, Hank was still sick. He looked at them from his cot, his face pale, his hand resting on the edge of a bucket that Pete or Wendy had brought to him.

  Hank gave a wan smile when he saw them. “Sorry to be such a burden. Something tells me this isn’t food poisoning.”

  Remi moved closer, putting her hand on his forehead. “You do feel a bit warm.”

  “I think I might need to see a doctor. I’d be glad to drive myself into Jalingo. I don’t want to take anyone away from work.”

  “Get some rest,” Sam said. “We’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Well?” Wendy asked. She, Pete, and Amal stood just outside the office, waiting for the prognosis.

  “He looks pretty sick,” Sam said.

  Remi nodded. “I know he didn’t ask, but maybe we should offer to fly him back to Tunisia. It’s not like we’re going anywhere in the next week. And you have to go pick up Lazlo anyway.”

  “He’d never make it through Immigration without a medical clearance.” Sam glanced behind Remi at the closed door. “More importantly, I’m not overly thrilled with the idea of putting a sick man with our crew. I’ll drive him in.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Pete said.

  “No. If he really did see this Makao character in the village, I’d rather you stayed to help Remi. If we have any hope of keeping on schedule, you’re better off here. Besides, I have an appointment with the last of the Kalu brothers,” he said as the dorm room door opened and several girls emerged, walking toward the mess hall.

  “What sort of appointment?” Pete asked.

  “The kind that works better when I’m by myself.”

  Pete nodded. “I’ll go in and tell him to pack his things.” He emerged a minute later, carrying the man’s duffel bag, dropping it on the porch. “He’s washing up now. Maybe you should eat a quick breakfast while you can.”

  Wendy had a plate ready for Sam the moment he and Remi walked into the mess. Remi took her cup of coffee and sat next to him as he ate. “I could always go with you.”

  He shook his head. “Until we assess if that threat at the marketplace is real, Pete and Wendy n
eed you here.”

  She agreed. “Let’s hope your trip back to Jalingo is less eventful than the trip here.”

  Thirty minutes later, they were ready to leave. Hank, carrying a bucket, emerged from the building, his hair still damp from his shower. As Sam opened the tailgate of the Land Rover, Hank set the bucket down next to his duffel on the porch, then suddenly kneeled, riffling through the duffel. “Someone’s gone through my shave kit.” He pulled out a black toiletries bag, a look of desperation on his face as he searched through it.

  Still kneeling, Hank looked around the grounds, his gaze landing on Nasha, who seemed inordinately interested in whatever he was doing. When he stood, she darted around the corner, out of sight.

  “Anything missing?” Sam asked.

  It was a moment before he answered, finally zipping the bag and dropping it into his duffel. “Nothing important.”

  “Good. Grab your bucket. It’s a long trip.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  There are many colorful flowers on the path of life,

  but the prettiest have the sharpest thorns.

  – AFRICAN PROVERB –

  The car just came down the hill. They’re passing the farm now.”

  Makao held up his hand, signaling for his crew to stop talking so that he could hear what was being said on his cell phone. Eight men in all, they were gathered round their two vehicles parked near the road just outside of Gembu. “You’re sure it’s the same car we saw in the village? The Land Rover?”

  “No doubt.”

  “How many passengers?”

  “Two men. The driver had yellow hair. That’s all I could tell.”

  “Good. Which way did they go?”

  “It looks like they’re headed back toward Jalingo.”

  “Perfect.” Jalingo was a good six-hour drive, double that for the return trip. It would give him and his men plenty of time to work. “The four of you stay there. If they come back, call.” Makao smiled as he returned his phone to his pocket. “They’ve left.”

  Jimi was watching him. “You think one of them is this Fargo?”

  “So it seems.” It wasn’t hard to confirm the names, Sam Fargo and his wife, Remi. All the villagers in Gembu knew of the school they’d built up in the forest. It made finding them extremely easy. What hadn’t been easy was coming up with a way to get to the school without running into Sam Fargo himself. Verifying that he was actually at the wheel on the way down the hill heading toward Jalingo made Makao’s job a lot simpler. That meant that the dangerous half of the Fargos was gone. He had a feeling that Remi Fargo was like most beautiful rich women, able to wield a credit card, but beyond that not much of a threat. She’d want to protect the children, which would be her weakness.

  He’d make sure to use that to his advantage.

  Though he’d gone over the plans once with his men, he wanted to make sure there was no confusion. After their failed robbery out in the bush, he knew better than to leave anything to chance. Never before had he encountered anyone like Fargo, the man who’d been driving the truck. The way he’d created the dust screen to hide from view …

  If there was one thing Makao admired, it was brilliance. Had Fargo not killed two of his best boys, he’d be far more appreciative of how he’d lost the upper hand in that failed ambush. Typically, he didn’t dwell on collateral damage, but in this case he was taking it personally. His swift loss had made him look like a fool in front of his own men and it took every ounce of his willpower to ignore such a blow and carry on. As much as he relished the idea of personally putting a bullet in the head of the man responsible, that particular joy would have to wait.

  Makao had a far more profitable goal. And even though he felt certain they could move in now, patience was the key.

  The school was set high on the hillside, open ground surrounded by thick forest. A single winding dirt road leading up to the compound made getting to it without being seen nearly impossible. Yet the relative isolation meant that they wouldn’t have to worry about anyone else suddenly showing up. More importantly, he was bringing enough men to ensure that if they were seen, any attempt to stop them would be quickly ended. Sam Fargo may have thwarted their ambush out in the bush, even making off with a couple of his automatic rifles, but with Fargo gone Makao doubted that anyone at the school was about to pull one out and start shooting.

  In fact, he was counting on it.

  From everything he learned from his inquiries in the village, the school was not officially open yet. The staff was too small to present an obstacle to eight men armed with AK-47s.

  “When do we go in?” Jimi asked.

  Though he wanted to wait for dark, he needed enough light for their initial entry. “We’ll wait a couple of hours, then hit hard and fast. I don’t want to give anyone time to call for help.”

  “What if some of them escape?”

  “I doubt it. This is the only road in,” he said, tracing his finger along the map. “If anyone gets past the farm, either direction, they’ll call.”

  “What if they go up?”

  The possibility always existed, but he doubted anyone would make the attempt. The trek was far too dangerous, especially with young girls. “Only a fool would go that way. These people aren’t fools.” He studied the map one last time and looked up at his men. “Load up. It’s time to go.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  No matter how beautiful and well crafted a coffin might look,

  it will not make anyone wish for death.

  – AFRICAN PROVERB –

  The distinct feeling of being watched came over Remi as she sat alone at the staff table in the cafeteria, reading the expense report that Wendy had given her earlier that morning. When she glanced up, she saw Tambara, Jol, and Maryam quickly look away from her, then shyly back.

  Tambara elbowed Jol, whispering something, and all three walked over. “Mrs. Fargo?” Jol said, looking to her two friends, who nodded in encouragement. “Miss Wendy said that you’re a great treasure hunter.”

  Maryam added, “And that you’ve found gold all over the world.”

  “We’ve found a lot of things all over the world,” Remi said as Amal and Nasha walked up to the table, lunch trays in hand.

  Jol gave Nasha a pointed look. “You don’t have to wear your backpack everywhere. No one’s going to steal it.”

  “I know,” Nasha said, putting her tray on the table next to Remi’s. “I like it.”

  Maryam and Tambara giggled, their attention now on Amal as she took the seat on the other side of Nasha. “Are you married?” Maryam asked.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Amal looked down, her expression bittersweet. “There was somebody. Once.”

  Maryam’s eyes widened. “What happened?”

  Remi cleared her throat. “Girls …”

  “It’s okay,” Amal said. “I think I liked him more than he liked me is all.” She gave a wide smile, looking around. “Aren’t you missing a Musketeer?”

  “Zara’s napping,” Maryam said. “Goat-milking duty this morning.” Tambara and Jol concurred.

  Nasha looked up from her lunch with sudden interest. “What’s a Musketeer?”

  “A character,” Amal said. “From a book called The Three Musketeers.”

  “I want to be a Musketeer. I can milk goats.”

  “You can’t,” Tambara said. “There’s no such thing as five Musketeers.”

  “There’s no such thing as four,” Nasha said.

  “D’Artagnan,” Maryam replied.

  Nasha looked at Amal. “Who’s that?”

  “An honorary Musketeer.”

  “See?” Maryam said. “So there are four.”

  Nasha scrambled from her seat, glaring at her. “I hate you. I hate all of you,” she shouted, then ran from the mess hall.

  Remi glanced at Amal, who raised her brows slightly. Both had been warned by Wendy to let the girls work out their own problems. Even so, Remi was torn ab
out whether she should follow Nasha, especially when Maryam gave a dramatic sigh, saying, “She’s so immature.”

  “She’s eleven,” Remi pointed out. “Maybe we could be a tiny bit nicer?”

  Maryam nodded, her gaze moving to the floor. “Sorry,” she whispered.

  Jol, not to be dissuaded from their earlier conversation, looked eagerly at Remi. “We want to know how you can do all those things when you’re just a girl.”

  “Just a girl?” Remi said. “What makes you think girls can’t do that sort of stuff?”

  The three young ladies shrugged their shoulders. Tambara elbowed Jol again. “Ask her,” she whispered.

  “Ask me what?” Remi said.

  “About that time you and Mr. Fargo were trapped in a shipping container in France.”

  They had to have been talking about her and Sam’s search for the stolen prototype of the first-ever Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow. “How’d you hear about that?”

  “Miss Wendy told us,” she said. “Weren’t you scared?”

  Nasha suddenly raced back into the cafeteria, pointing out the door. “Mr. Fargo is back.”

  Remi smiled at the girls. “Tell you what. I’ll share a fun story of one of our adventures after lunch.”

  “Promise?” Maryam said.

  “Promise.”

  Remi followed Nasha out into the courtyard to the front of the compound, curious. “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.” Nasha led her across the drive to the locked gate.

  Something must have happened, because Sam wasn’t due to return until the following night. Remi peered between the two posts of the fence, seeing what looked like a mini dust storm in the distance. A gust of wind blew from the south, clearing the cloud enough for her to see the white truck and an SUV behind it. A chill swept through her. “That’s not Sam,” she said.