by J. R. Wolfe
All four police officers ducked, but one was hit. He screamed in agony and fell to the ground, clasping his right leg.
“Go, go, go!” Vincent yelled.
A primal instinct to survive electrified Portia’s body. She jumped up and, with Vincent close behind, began racing away from the police and toward Altan, who was further down the bridge.
Moyo bounced upward, as if he were on a trampoline. When he couldn’t rise any higher, he plummeted downward toward the river. Before reaching the water, he sprang skyward again. He lifted his torso toward the bungee cord and tried to grab it.
Pop, pop, pop.
The three remaining policemen were now firing at Moyo.
With Vincent half a step behind her, Portia finally reached Altan. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” she said.
“I’m with you,” Altan said.
They sprinted side by side toward safety. Portia’s last view of Moyo was a surprise.
With his upper body struggling to defy gravity by gaining an upright position, Moyo cut the bungee cord with his knife. The cable shot skyward. He plunged head first into the river. The rapid speed of the current could easily drag him under the water to his death. Amazingly, he resurfaced. He gasped for air and looked up at the bridge with a happy smile. He took a big breath and purposely vanished into the raging waters.
Portia felt a sense of relief that was unfortunately fleeting. An uncomfortable fatigue began to grip her legs. Yet, she kept running with the spirit of a wild mustang.
“Moyo’s guard is following us,” Altan said.
“He’s going to help us find Imma,” she said.
“You can’t be serious.”
The sound of rapid gunfire engulfed them.
“Damn it!” Altan’s voice shrieked with pain. He abruptly stopped, wobbled, and grabbed his thigh.
“Keep going,” Vincent said.
Altan’s amber eyes were firestorms. “I’ve been shot.”
CHAPTER 17
The South African sun was a brilliant yellow globe that choked the cloudless sky with a daunting heat. The kiss of a cool breeze would’ve been sublime, Portia thought, but pleasures, even little ones, were hard to find in the bleakness of a refugee camp. She stood next to Vincent in the wispy shade of a thorny tree. Little beads of sweat trickled down her forehead, but she hardly noticed. Daya Gumbi dominated her attention.
The petite young woman sat cross-legged on red dirt in front of a white, tubular tent, wearing a pretty African head wrap that had swirls of blue and pink. She was in her late twenties and wore no makeup, but she was a beauty with a pear-shaped face, smooth skin that had a rich dark glow from the sun, deep-set eyes, and plump lips. Because she was sitting, it was impossible to know her stature, but she kept her spine in a straight line, as though she were a princess. Her sleeveless cotton dress showed off delicate shoulders and slender long arms.
Daya’s expression was surprisingly stoic and calm as she stared up at a large brute. He stood over her like a bar bouncer, his arms crossed over a stout gut and his hefty legs spread apart. His neck was strangely modest, seemingly not sturdy enough for his immense bald head. The khakis and leather sandals he wore were unremarkable, but his short-sleeved, button-down shirt was noticeably oversized, fitting him like a sack rather than a garment. He spoke rapidly, his eyebrows glued together so tightly that his forehead was a row of trenches.
“We need to hurry,” Portia whispered. “The sooner I talk to Daya Gumbi, the sooner we can go back to the medical clinic and pick up Altan. Do you think we can interrupt their conversation?”
“It’s too dangerous right now,” Vincent answered in a low voice. “We must wait until that man goes away.” He glanced at her. “Do not worry. Mr. Boyer is in good hands. I know the doctor who treats him. He is from Zimbabwe and trained in India. He healed my cousin who was shot in the arm.”
“Yes, you told me, and I’m sure he’s quite competent, but I’m worried the police will track us down, and that means Altan is vulnerable.”
“Perhaps you are right, but I covered our tracks. Besides, the police won’t come to this refugee camp.”
“Why?”
“We’re in Musina, not Zimbabwe anymore. It would be too much trouble for them. They are probably trying to find Moyo.”
“I hope you’re right, Vincent.” She untied a zebra-patterned bandana that was wrapped around her neck. She wiped her brow and dabbed her neck where Moyo had held his knife. The area was luckily painless, and to her relief, she saw only sweat, no blood, on the handkerchief. She knew she’d been lucky. Moyo could’ve killed or seriously injured her on Victoria Falls Bridge. As she scanned their immediate surroundings, she wondered if she’d have the same good fortune in Musina.
The refugee camp was an overpopulated slum haven of tents, brick buildings, and shacks. Many of the men, stress lines embedded on their foreheads and dark circles stamped under their eyes, walked aimlessly about. Some balanced suitcases on their heads. Slender women, their faces weathered and long, held crying infants in their arms. Young children, barely clothed, played with sticks and underinflated soccer balls.
A heavy despair for these poor people tried to buckle Portia’s knees. She swallowed hard, picturing her favorite bottle of vodka. She swallowed again and forced herself to concentrate on the task at hand. “Who’s that man with Daya?” she asked, tying the bandana around her neck. “What do you think he wants?”
“My guess is that she borrowed money from him,” Vincent answered, “and he wants her to repay.”
“What if she doesn’t have the money?”
“It’s hard to say. He may give her a chance to come up with the payment or he might teach her a lesson she won’t forget.”
The image of soiled female shoes and a torn cotton skirt spotted with droplets of blood flashed through Portia’s mind. The items were left abandoned on a dirt road near the border between Zimbabwe and South Africa. No doubt the owner had been abducted and sexually assaulted by roaming bandits. “So is he part of the gang that uses the border as a playground for crime?” she asked.
“Maybe,” Vincent said, “but he seems to be alone, so I don’t think he’s a gang member, and Daya doesn’t seem afraid. She probably has dealt with him before. She is smart and knows how to survive.”
“Good, but we should help her if she needs it.”
“I know. Her husband was a good friend of Moyo.”
“Is her husband ali—”
The pleasant whiff of chicken barbecuing on an open flame fluttered under Portia’s nose. To her delight, the vile odors of sweat and urine that had found a home in the warm air were momentarily evicted. She breathed deeply and enjoyed the oaky bouquet. Out of curiosity, she looked around to see who was cooking.
A line of refugees stood in front of three barbecues. The cooks, men who were tall and slim as rods, rapidly grilled meats that were likely donated by humanitarian aid organizations.
“Look over there.” Portia pointed toward the hungry crowd. “Let’s pay one of them to invite Daya’s loan shark for lunch. That’ll get him away from her.”
“I do not think so,” Vincent answered flatly.
“Why?”
“If I say I have money, they’ll swarm around me. I’ll attract too much attention and that would be dangerous.”
“Do you have a better idea?”
“We wait until he leaves.”
Portia fiddled with her wide-brimmed safari hat. She then checked the time on the jumbo-sized digital wristwatch Altan had given her when they first arrived in Zimbabwe.
It was almost two o’clock.
She needed to do something so she could talk to Gumbi alone, but what? Her Glock was waiting patiently in her messenger bag for action, but all that was really required was a distraction. Taking a heavy breath, she studied the camp. An inspiring opportunity luckily presented itself.
Four men, all appearing to be in their thirties, wearing shorts, sandals, and razor-thin T-shirts, pla
yed a game of cards. They sat at a folding table in front of a weather-beaten tent. One of the men placed a card face up on the middle of the table, while another reached under his chair and grabbed a bottle that was wrapped in a newspaper. After taking a long swig, he passed the bottle to one of his companions.
“Are they playing poker?” Portia asked.
“I don’t think so,” Vincent said. “They have more than one deck of cards. They’re probably playing samba. It’s a gambling game, though, like poker.”
Portia had never heard of samba, but her ignorance didn’t bother her. What interested her was the not-so-hidden bottle, which was being passed around the table and guzzled with relish. She briefly wondered if she could pilfer a shot for herself. “What do you think they’re drinking?” she asked.
“Vodka or scotch,” Vincent said. “Maybe tequila.”
“Yeah. That’s what I’m guessing too. Let’s convince these gentlemen to start a little trouble.”
Before Vincent could respond, one of the card players slapped the table and forcefully pointed his finger at one of his opponents. They began shouting and making forceful gestures at each other. As quickly as the argument began, however, it stopped. The game resumed.
“They seem ready for a fight,” Vincent said. “How much will you pay them?”
Portia reached inside her messenger bag and took out a wad of euros. Handing it to him, she said, “Will this do?”
He looked at the bills in his hand and stuffed them into the pocket of his cargo shorts. “I think so,” he answered, “but what do you want them to do?”
That was an excellent question. The card players would need to fully capture the attention of Daya’s loan shark. She also needed enough time to convince Daya to talk with her. “Does Daya have children?” she asked.
“She has two boys who are young—maybe five and seven years old. They are somewhere here at the camp. She will travel south with them and live with her sister and her family.”
“Instruct one of the card players to tell Daya that her youngest son is ill, and she must go to him right away.”
“But the man talking to Daya will not let her go.”
“He will if our gamblers offer him something better to do, like drinking.”
“I don’t know. This idea has flaws.”
“Nothing’s perfect, Vincent. Remember, I’m paying you handsomely.”
“I want euros, not US dollars.”
“I’ll pay you however you like.”
“All right. I will make this happen.” He sauntered to the card game and leaned over the table. As he spoke, his inebriated audience listened intently. Finally, he reached inside the pocket of his shorts and extended his hand, displaying their promised reward of money.
The card players stared at Daya. The one who wore his cargo shorts riding low on his spare body vaulted to his feet. He said something to his companions and motioned for them to follow him.
Vincent slouched into a folding chair. He watched Daya with a sense of dread written on his youthful face.
Within moments, the card players surrounded Daya’s loan shark. They shouted, laughed, and skipped around him like drunken clowns. One of the players handed him their bottle of booze. He stared at it, his forehead creasing into deep lines of confusion. He shrugged his big shoulders, as if to say why not, and then he took an ample mouthful.
The card player in cargo shorts bent down and whispered in Daya’s ear. As she listened, her jaw dropped and her pretty face lit with worry. She hurriedly stood and began running away.
The loan shark started after her, but one of the card players grabbed his arm and successfully encouraged him to take another drink. After a long swig, he said, “Zvakanakai! Ndino shevedza mapurisa!”
Portia had no idea what he’d shouted, but it didn’t matter. Her off-the-cuff scheme was appearing to work. Another second couldn’t be wasted. She firmly held her messenger bag next to her side and took off with the speed of a gazelle.
Daya ran with spirit, but she was no match for Portia’s gritty pursuit. Within moments, they were almost side by side.
“Daya!” Portia reached out and touched her arm. “Please stop. I’m a friend. Nothing has happened to your sons.”
Daya stopped running and turned to face her. “That man told me my youngest was sick.”
“I know. What he told you was a ruse, so that I could talk to you alone.”
“You’ve played a cruel joke.”
“That wasn’t my intent. I just want to talk with you.”
“Why?”
“Moyo sent me. He said you could help me.”
“How do you know Moyo?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Are you his friend?”
“Yes.” That was another lie, but what did games with the truth matter? This woman might have useful information. “I’m looking for Dr. Imma Thoms. I believe she’s alive or at least I hope she’s alive. Moyo said you’d know what happened to her after she escaped from prison.”
Daya blinked hard as if she couldn’t believe what she had just heard. She glanced in every direction. The people in the camp were engrossed in their own activities. No one appeared to be paying any attention to them. At last, she pointed toward a nearby building that had a flat roof and sun-hardened wood siding that was badly in need of staining. Over the front door was a metal sign that was engraved “School.” The shades on the windows were all pulled down.
“Let’s go in there,” Daya said. “No one will care. They’ll think we want to get out of the sun.”
“Why don’t you want to stay out here?” Portia asked.
“I don’t want anyone to hear our conversation.”
Daya began walking at a casual pace toward the building. Portia joined her. When they reached the front entrance, Portia opened the door, and they both stepped inside.
The walls of the classroom were unadorned and painted a muddy brown. The raked dirt floor was the color of crimson. Plastic chairs and folding tables were the only furniture. A simple math problem was written on the chalkboard.
Now that Portia was closer to Daya, her impression of her changed. Despite the beauty of a princess, she wasn’t living a royal life. She had red dirt underneath her fingernails and cuts and bruises on her hands. Her shoulders and back were curved, as though she struggled to carry an invisible heavy weight.
“I’m sorry I had to worry you about your sons,” Portia said. “But as I said, I needed some way to get you away from that loan shark.”
“He didn’t loan me money,” Daya said. “I owe him money for protection from the gang here at camp.”
“You haven’t been paying him, have you?”
“I don’t have the money right now. I only have enough money to travel south with my sons.”
“What about your husband?”
“He was killed.” Daya lowered her head. “How do you know Moyo?”
“He’s trying to help me find Dr. Thoms. He said you might know what happened to her.”
“Moyo is a good man. I owe him a debt I’ll never be able to repay.”
“He said you and Dr. Thoms were incarcerated together.”
Daya didn’t respond. Instead, she studied Portia from her wide-brimmed hat, to her bandana, to her sleeveless cotton shirt, to her shorts, and to her hiking boots.
“Are you Madison Walker?” she asked.
Her pulse quickened. How did she know that name? “No. Why do you ask?”
“The police are looking for an American who is five-feet-eight inches tall, shoulder-length brown hair, and greenish eyes. I thought it might be you.”
“No. It’s definitely not me. Why are the police after her?”
“They say she is a political activist who opposes the government. When they find her, they’ll arrest and convict her. You’re lucky you aren’t her.”
“I guess I am.”
“Is Moyo safe?”
“I don’t really know. The last time I saw him he was
bungee jumping off Victoria Falls Bridge. The police arrived to arrest him, so he cut the bungee cord and fell into the river to escape.”
“Good. I wouldn’t have my freedom if it weren’t for him.”
“How so?”
“I was accused of being a thief, but I’m not a thief.”
“So why were you arrested?”
“Three policemen came to our house and wanted food. My husband refused, so they argued.” Daya’s voice shook. “They began beating him. So I kicked them and yelled at them to get off my husband, but one of them dragged me away. He began punching me. All I could do was scream. My husband somehow broke free and pulled the policeman off me.”
“How horrible,” Portia said.
“They shot my husband in the head. He fell dead in my arms.” Daya gasped for air as if her lungs were collapsing. “To make it look like the fight was our fault, they falsely accused me of theft and resisting arrest. There was no lawyer for me, only Moyo. He and my husband were good friends, so Moyo bribed the judge to give me a light sentence.”
Portia’s heart broke for her, but there was nothing she could do to change this poor woman’s past. “Moyo said you were held in the same prison as Dr. Thoms.”
“Yes,” Daya said. “I was badly beaten, but Dr. Thoms took care of me. She befriended the good guards, and they gave her medicine and bandages, even food that she shared with the other prisoners.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“I saw her and Chessa the day before they escaped. Do you know Chessa?”
“No, but I want to help her too. How did they escape?”
“Dr. Thoms and Chessa didn’t go to breakfast,” Daya said. “I told the guards that they were very sick. The guards didn’t like being around sick prisoners, so they would check their cell but not go inside.” A pleasant smile crossed her face, revealing a missing front tooth. “Dr. Thoms and Chessa put pillows underneath the blankets on their beds, so it looked like they were sleeping. The guards were fooled for a full day. That was all the time they needed to escape.”