Errand of Mercy: How far do you run, and where do you hide?

by William Walker

  “Gary, remember in the plane...we talked about my background?”

  “As I recall you said you had something to do with special tactics in the Air Force. As if I couldn’t have figured that out this afternoon in the bar.”

  O’Brien nodded. “I was part of a kind of commando unit. It sounds tough and it was. Not that it would take a commando raid to pick up Lucy, but I think I can take care of myself.”

  Starr squared the ashtray with the edge of the table and tapped in a few burning shards of tobacco. “You’d be getting a late start. There are bands of armed soldiers around here.”

  “Then let’s—”

  The screen door banged open and Gina Andreotti clumped in wearing a pair of boots on the bottom end of a pair of nice legs. “Gary, I—” She took in O’Brien leaning against the crates. “Oh...it’s you.”

  “Daniel here is worried about his co-pilot,” Starr said. “And to be honest, I am too. We’re trying to arrange a way to pick her up.” He fanned again at the smoke.

  The woman stared hard at O’Brien, and he looked back into dark Italian eyes, a small, straight nose, and lips that would be full and sensual if they were not at this moment pressed into a thin line. It was a refined, patrician face, one that might have peered down from the imperial box in the Roman Coliseum. He wouldn’t have been surprised at this moment to see her reach out and give him a ‘thumbs down’. He fought a smile that emerged anyway.

  She frowned. “From what Mr. O’Brien said in the car she doesn’t sound all that bad.”

  “I’ve been on the phone with her, and I think she needs medical attention,” Starr said.

  She shrugged. “That’s different.” Then bluntly to O’Brien, “But wouldn’t it have been better if you pilots had just stayed in your plane and left? I mean, you guys don’t normally hang around like this.”

  “The airplane is broken, Gina,” Starr put in. “That’s been the problem all along. The fact that they got us here at all is remarkable.”

  Her eyes shifted to Starr, back to O’Brien, then to Starr. “You know I’m due to rotate out of here when the next one comes through.”

  “They always seem to manage two flights a month so I wouldn’t worry about it,” Starr replied.

  Her gaze wandered to the stacks of supplies. “Gary, I need the case of 25ml syringes. I know they’re around here somewhere.”

  Gina Andreotti was a difficult woman to study, and her hostility made no sense. She repeatedly turned away during his casual observations. Still, he was able to collect a series of pleasing mental snapshots.

  Her face was an interesting composite of soft lines around her mouth and lips, and firm lines set into her jaw and the cast of her eyes. Her features could give her face a changeable look depending upon which mood she wanted to present. At this moment she was projecting firmness and irritation. A delicate lace of smile lines crinkled the corners of her mouth. This was circumstantial evidence that she did indeed smile, though he was not certain he cared either way.

  A tortoise shell clip held back most of her heavy spill of dark hair, but escaping strands fell down onto her shoulders. She wore a washed-out T-shirt with her name tag attached—‘Regina Andreotti’—below her left shoulder. At the exact moment his eyes fell on the interesting and pleasing swell of her breasts she turned and glared at his face.

  Starr huffed and grunted as he switched gears. He gave his pipe another puff or two and finally declared, “Look in the blue storeroom, I think we’ve—”

  “I’ve already looked there and also in the service shed.” She put her hands on her hips and looked behind O’Brien. “Are the new boxes in here yet?”

  “Yes, but they’re not categorized, Gina. I’m not even sure what we’ve got.”

  “Well?”

  “Hang it all then. Daniel, give us a hand, will you?” He took a breath and pulled himself erect. “Let’s go find Ms. Andreotti’s needles.”

  Whatever Ms. Andreotti was looking for was not, as O’Brien discovered, in the top crate, nor was it in a middle crate. Starr led the way reading packing labels, followed by O’Brien, then Gina standing apart. They reached the back of the storeroom.

  “These guys. I swear, the way they stacked these boxes...” Starr mumbled with his head bent low. He slid to the next row leaving O’Brien and Gina standing together.

  “I don’t see the damn thing,” Starr said in a muffled voice. “And I know it’s here.”

  Gina looked obliquely at O’Brien. “What is it about men and—”

  “Finding things?” He was trying to be helpful.

  “Yeah.” She defrosted a minimum smile.

  “Here it is,” Starr called out. He rapped a box in triumph. “Now if you two kids will help me move this crate to the front, we can get Gina’s supplies.” Starr pushed the crate around the corner of the aisle with his foot.

  O’Brien grabbed the box and hefted the weight onto his shoulder. He expected something heavier. “What’s your specialty here?” he said to Gina as he followed her to the front of Starr’s office.

  She cleared her throat. “I’m a pediatric specialist. I’m...I work with all kinds of kids. They’re sick, battered, sometimes burned and crippled from landmine explosions.”

  O’Brien waited. “Well, I know what being burned feels like,” he said. She looked back at him quickly and without comment.

  Starr arranged the box on the desk and fished into his shorts. He withdrew a large pocketknife hinged with various attachments, one of which looked like an implement for his pipe. “Hold on for a minute,” he said with a glance at each of them in turn. “Gina, before you make off with this stuff…”

  “What?” She gave her chin an uptick and folded her arms.

  “I’d like you in on the arrangement to pick up Daniel’s co-pilot.” He nodded to O’Brien. “I’ll need Daniel’s help and advice, but you’re kind of essential as a female doc.”

  She took in a breath and released a sigh that sounded half professional and half put-upon. “Okay. What time?”

  Starr ran a hand through his hair and seemed to sharpen his focus. He appeared less a fussy doctor now and more a guy used to getting what he wanted. “I’ve got to talk to the UN commander and round up Kurt, have him fuel the Rover. Let’s say an hour from now.” He added, “I’ll check with Pamela, or maybe Claudia in the French section and see if they’re off duty. They seem to be up for these types of excursions.”

  9

  Lucy Amudsen broke into a moment of consciousness riding the edge of a bad dream. She raised her head from the drenched pillow, reached for the water bottle, and took a swallow. Was she back at her house? No. She was somewhere else, but where? The chills came back, not as bad as before, but she was cold again. Her head fell back onto the pillow. Why was she so cold?

  The house was always that way, especially in the winter. It began to snow. Flakes swirled in from the night and gathered into small drifts on the porch and on the windowsills around the house.

  “I don’t know why you’re so pissed at me?” Hank said to her. He brought a tumbler of scotch to his lips. He was relaxed in a soft leather chair—her chair in her house beside her fire. Her whiskey, she also reminded herself, and he was blocking the heat.

  “I’m pissed at you because you’re a lying asshole.” He was several years older and rapidly developing a belly. He didn’t exercise. That was the problem. He worked in a bank.

  “You’re gone all the time, Lucy.”

  “A lot of couples live that way.”

  “So?”

  “So stand up and tell me about the girl you’ve been screwing, Hank!” Wetness gathered in the corners of her eyes. She couldn’t help it, and she couldn’t help yelling at the guy, even though she made herself promise she wouldn’t. “We’ve been together two years. Two years!” The tears came in a rush. “If you wanted out you could’ve said something.”

  “It was not…it was not love.” He seemed too comfortable, as if he was arguing the merits of a f
oreclosure on a pathetic homeowner.

  “You piece of shit! What was it then, the six weeks you’ve been sleeping with her?”

  “Who said it was six weeks? Have you been following me?”

  The gall! He was accusing her?

  He drained his scotch, maximizing the last freebee as if he knew the end was near. He was a cheap ass. She’d forgotten about that.

  “See this ring?” She slipped off the diamond engagement band, stepped forward and tossed it in the fireplace. He didn’t blink an eye. She was right all along. It was cubic zirconium, probably in a fake platinum setting. A piece of crap.

  “Out, you asshole. Out of my house.”

  “You’re overreacting, Lucy. Think you can find someone better?” He laughed and came to his feet. “Here’s a news flash from Hank Somerfield. I’m the best you’re gonna get. And you just blew it.”

  She hit him, made a fist and drove it into his overhanging belly. He doubled over. The glass went flying. “Lucy!” he coughed.

  “Out, you asshole.”

  He slid sideways to the door, a hand over his gut. “I’m suing.”

  “Out!” She opened the door and gave his butt a kick with her shoe. She experienced a rush of satisfaction as he tumbled into the snow.

  “I’m suing!” he yelled, staggering to his feet and brushing at his clothes.

  “Suing? How can such a lousy lover sue anyone?” she shouted. “Ever heard of the word ‘foreplay’? Look it up sometime!” She slammed the door, leaned against the knob, and let out a long breath. If she could count to ten before the tears came again she’d be okay. She didn’t make it. The window on the opposite wall was black and opaque with the night outside and she stared mindlessly into the void. She couldn’t get a break. Nothing in her life seemed to work for her anymore.

  She curled in front of the fireplace later on, gathered a blanket around her and watched the logs burn down to red-hot coals. The wind picked up, converging into a forecast blizzard. She turned off the lights and drew her blanket closer. She couldn’t go into her room. He’d been there. The space was dirty and soiled with his presence.

  The sun was just below the frigid Wisconsin horizon when she awoke. The house had gone cold but she was warm inside her blanket. Still, she pulled it tighter about her and absorbed the quiet tranquility of the room. The moment seemed to offer reflection. Like, why did she make such stupid choices in men? Her desires were not that complicated. She wanted a partner in life, a decent guy. Hell, he didn’t even have to be a good lover as long as he was considerate. She could train him, ring his bells like a mad choirboy up a church steeple. And then, well, he’d come to her with a hard-on response like Pavlov’s dog to a bowl of food.

  And children. She wanted children. She had already decided on names for both her daughters and sons, although she wouldn’t tell a soul, not even her husband when and if the time came. They would discuss all the possibilities like rational parents-to-be, and after an intelligent discourse they would somehow arrive at the names she’d already chosen. She smiled at the thought of a family, and of marriage in general, and of a future going forward.

  Cocooned within her blanket she walked barefoot over the cold floor and up the stairs to her room. The stain seemed to be gone from the house with the new day, an ugly part of her life excised forever.

  10

  O’Brien missed his weapons. Instead of his assault rifle and a dozen M67 grenades on the seat beside him he had Gina. He preferred a box of grenades.

  The convoy of two vehicles worked slowly over the hard-packed surface of the dirt road. There was no moon. The sun had set hours earlier and a sloppy layer of cumulus clouds obscured the nighttime sky. The headlights of the lead car, a light-blue jeep marked with a UN designation, stabbed through the black terrain. Inside sat three armed UN observers.

  Kurt was driving the Rover and following closely behind the jeep. Starr sat with his stocky torso spread over the front passenger seat. O’Brien and Gina were in the back.

  This was almost routine, according to Kurt. O’Brien didn’t think so. The group was tense and worried about the wrong things. If stopped by soldiers the small convoy would supposedly rely on their special status as a UN Medical Team. Bullshit. You didn’t let anyone stop you, especially since the Rover was clearly defined with large red crosses magnetically attached to the doors. Hostages were the currency of every armed group nowadays.

  Gina was quiet. He had no idea what she was thinking.

  The radio burped with a squelch of static and Kurt picked it up and responded in a flat voice. “Rover to base, go ahead.” After a few garbled transmissions from the receiver he handed the mike to Starr.

  Following a short discharge of questions it became clear that they’d gotten through to Lucy again. She was awake and coherent, but dizzy and barely able to get to the bathroom. She’d heard men outside, some pounding on the door. After a few more bursts of static Starr signed off and turned to face O’Brien. “She says she’ll be ready to go, but I guess you heard everything Dr. Barnett.”

  O’Brien faked a pained expression. He did feel a little idiotic. “Let’s hope I don’t have to assault anyone with this stethoscope around my neck,” he replied. A faded, white lab coat with the name ‘Dr. Barnett’ on the lapel covered his clothes. The heavy end of the stethoscope rested inside one of the large pockets. He would have preferred a .40 caliber Glock.

  “I think he looks kind of compassionate for a change.” Starr said to Gina.

  “Compassionate is not the word I’d use for Mr. O’Brien,” she said.

  “Dr. Barnett,” O’Brien corrected.

  “Okay, Dr. Barnett,” she said with a touch of sarcasm. O’Brien sensed a smile that would never make it to her lips. Her inclusion in the group had troubled him from the start. This was hardly the place at night for three white Americans, let alone the addition of an attractive woman. This one had no stake in either of their lives. Gina didn’t know Lucy and she obviously could not recognize real danger. He assumed she was seldom outside the compound, living in some safe, parallel universe of good deeds and birthday cards. She had a misplaced loyalty to an idea, not to people. If he jumped out of the Rover and walked off into the night he didn’t think she’d bat an eyelash.

  “Gary, I’m not sure including Gina in this operation was such a good idea,” he said. To hell with what she thought. The words needed to be spoken.

  “I agree.” Starr looked back at him. “But she was the one who insisted on coming.”

  O’Brien turned toward her in surprise. He picked up her shrug.

  “Look guys,” she said. “Lucy’s a woman. I’m a woman. It will look a lot more natural if a female doctor is in on this, and it will be a hell of a lot more comfortable for her. Besides,” she said, “Someone has to save the world from your macho bullshit.”

  “Macho?” Starr huffed.

  “You are, all of you. Even Kurt.”

  “I thought all of you people were total humanitarians, Peace Corps types,” O’Brien said.

  “We’re all different,” Starr said. “And Kurt works out a lot.”

  “Fucking A,” Kurt said.

  The guy had a seriously restricted vocabulary, O’Brien decided. But who was he to say?

  “See what I mean?” Gina said.

  The next few miles passed in silence. It was possible they could work together, and it was necessary. But if anyone started singing KumBaYa he was bailing out.

  A few minutes later Kurt broke in, “There’s a military truck of some kind up ahead.”

  O’Brien peered ahead and picked out an old, two-ton six-by-six in the headlights of the UN jeep in front of them. The truck was parked in the brown, dusty soil by the side of the road. The canvas sides were rolled down, and he could make out five or six soldiers milling around.

  O’Brien leaned forward. “Kurt, keep going, even if they try to stop us.”

  “Got it!”

  The soldiers gaped at them, hard stares as the
two vehicles rumbled past in a swirl of dust and headlights. Several men were smoking, and one had his back to the others with his pants unzipped. O’Brien could see no weapons, which meant they’d left them in the truck, and that implied that the soldiers were just goofing off—a break for a piss and a cigarette. A mile further on he looked back for a final check and could detect no following headlights.

  “Just part of the show,” Starr said, with relief in his voice.

  It took another thirty minutes to reach the outskirts of Monrovia. The streets were almost deserted. Cars with dim, misaligned headlights passed slowly in the opposite direction by ones and twos. Pedestrians began to appear, shuffling along in dark shadows as if they were part of an underwater dreamscape.

  They pulled up in front of the Sheraton Libertado. Years of civil unrest had been hard on the hotel, and the exterior had the bruised, peeling look of a property on the way to becoming a slum dwelling.

  Starr turned in his seat as they parked by the corner entrance to the lobby. “Daniel, as I said before. We’ve made these runs, although never at night. These UN guys—”

  “They’re great troopers,” Kurt put in.

  “One will stay here on the street with Kurt. The other two will be our escorts. I’ll do the talking with the front desk people.” Starr wet his lips. “We shouldn’t have to break any heads here.”

  “I’ll send them down to Kurt if they get in my way.”

  “Fucking A.” Kurt pumped a fist.

  “Gina, you’ve got the cholera quarantines if we need them?”

  “In my pocket.”

  “Maybe you’d better hand me one. I may have to scare the locals.”

  Gina passed one forward. The placard was the size of a sheet of typing paper with a peel-off back. The words ‘Biohazard’ and ‘Cholera’ were etched in red over a vicious looking, orange bacterial symbol.