Mists of the Serengeti(12)

“It’s Jack.” Bahati tilted his head toward the covered porch. “Come. I will introduce you.”

“No. You stay in the car with Scholastica. I’ll go talk to him.” I didn’t want to drag Scholastica into the situation until I had spoken to Jack myself.

Lightning split the sky as I stepped onto the veranda. “Jack Warden?” I asked the man who was sitting on a kiwi green porch swing.

He didn’t respond. It was as if he hadn’t heard me. He was holding his phone out, eyes trained on the horizon, recording something. The storm. The lightning. When the thunder hit, he got up and walked to the railing, still recording.

He stood tall and rawboned against the rolling expanse of the farm—square faced and square shouldered—wearing a dark hooded sweatshirt and dusty work pants. He had the kind of beard I imagined would grow on a man if he hibernated all winter. It was shorter around the side and fuller on his chin. His hair was thick and tawny—darker at the roots, with ends that were bleached blond from the sun. It hung around his shoulders, wild and forgotten, like a jungle of beautiful chaos.

As the first drops of rain started falling, he tucked his phone away and braced the railing, staring up at the sky. I was about to try to get his attention again when he started laughing.

“I told her to dance up a storm,” he repeated, but he wasn’t saying it to me. He was talking to himself.

He held his hands out, letting the water slip through his fingers, and he laughed again. It was a heavy, heaving laughter with big, gasping breaths in-between, unlike anything I’d heard before. Then the gasps grew louder, longer, and I realized why it sounded so odd. I had never heard someone laughing in pain, and Jack Warden was doubled over with it, weeping and laughing in the same breath.

“Jack?” I called again. “Are you okay?”

He whipped around, seeing me for the first time. I sensed all the loose, unraveled threads of him getting reeled back into his core. It happened so quickly, I felt like I was facing a different man: detached and emotionless—every nuance, every expression locked away. The air around him crackled, as if he had just thrown up an electric fence. Against the backdrop of dark, stormy clouds, he stood like Thor, glaring at me with lightning in his eyes

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I’m . . .” I trailed off, knowing that I had just intruded on a very private, unguarded moment. That was the only reason he was eyeing me like that, like he was about to chew me up and spit me out. “My name is Rodel Emerson.”

“What do you want?” He kept his eyes trained on me.

Cat eyes, I recalled Mo saying, from some unbidden memory. Because cats don’t hide their utter hatred and disdain for all mankind. I had laughed then because it had been funny, but I wasn’t laughing now. I was miserable and self-conscious, wishing I’d opted for something more substantial than a gauzy top and washed out jeans.

“Maybe this isn’t the best time,” I said. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”

“And tomorrow will be better because . . . ?”

He took a step toward me, and my first instinct was to turn and run. But this wasn’t about me. It was about Mo, Scholastica, and the other kids. Still, I hated that I needed anyone to do what I had to do, man or woman.

“I need your help getting some kids to Wanza,” I said.

“You need my help,” he said slowly, chewing on the words. He turned around and called to no one in particular, “She needs my help.” Then he started laughing. Not the gut-wrenching type of laughter like before, but mirthless, without any humor.

“Get off my property,” he said. “You’re trespassing. You’re also barking up the wrong tree. I am in no position to help you or anyone else. And more importantly, I don’t care to.”

“You’re Jack Warden, right?” I held my ground. I had promised Anna I’d get Scholastica to Wanza. I wasn’t about to crumble at the first sign of a challenge.

“I am.” He straightened to his full height, and I was tempted to take a step back. Holy crap, he was a big man.

“Then you’re the man who is going to get me to Wanza.”

“And why exactly should I give a fuck about you? Or Wanza?”

I stared at him, the schoolteacher in me wanting to reprimand him for his manners, his uncalled-for attitude. He hadn’t even bothered to listen to what I had to say.

“You hear that?” he said, cupping his hand to his ear. “That silence is exactly how many fucks I give.”

My face burned a bright red. “You know what? Whatever was tearing you up earlier, you damn well deserve it.” I pivoted on my heel and marched into the pouring rain, water running down my hot, inflamed cheeks.

“Let’s go, Bahati.” I slammed the car door shut. “I’ll have to figure out some other way.”

But Bahati was looking at the man staring into the rain. “Something is not right with his eyes, Miss Ro. That is not the Jack Warden I know.”

“Well, it’s the Jack Warden that I talked to. And he’s a . . .” I bit back the words even though Scholastica wouldn’t understand me. “Let’s just go.”

We were almost at the gates when a red jeep, going the other way nearly careened into us. Bahati slammed on the brakes and we skidded to a halt barely a few feet from it. The other driver pounded on the horn, a loud, blaring, continuous beep.