Do-Gooder

by J. Leigh Bailey

  The words kept coming, tumbling over each other in a rush. “If I hadn’t been sick, maybe Chuck would have been able to take the time to make a deal that included Henry. Then you wouldn’t have had to fly halfway around the world because I ended up in the hospital.”

  Mom collapsed into her abandoned chair. Chuck rested his hand on her shoulder. “Isaiah,” he said, “I could make a few calls, but there’s nothing we can do that the agency can’t do more effectively.”

  “But, Dad,” I said, a tear escaping from the corner of my eye, “they don’t care about Henry.” I tried not to notice I’d slipped and called him Dad.

  I pushed the lunch tray away from me and drew my knees up so I could wrap my arms around them. “Let’s be honest. If I could figure out where the mercenaries are camped out using deductive reasoning and Google, your Nameless Agency friends probably already have the location figured out. But it will take them time to plan their strike, or whatever you call it. Right?”

  At Chuck’s considering nod, I continued. “And I know things that might prove helpful. I know some of their schedules. I know which building the rat-faced scientist is working from. I know where they are storing most of their weapons.” I took a breath, steeling myself for the bluff. “I won’t tell them any of it unless they extract—that’s the word, right?—Henry first.”

  “You’d do that? You’d risk the lives of hundreds, possibly thousands of innocent people to save Henry?” Mom asked. She knew me too well.

  No. Ultimately I’d make sure whatever force they sent in after Shorty and his crew had all the information I could give them, but they didn’t need to know that yet. Not as long as there was a chance they’d buy my bluff. “Yes.”

  Chuck tapped his fingers on the armrest of his chair. “That’s the second time you called the scientist rat faced. Why?”

  “Because the dude reminds me of a rat. Long nose. Fuzzy hair. Twitchy.”

  “Is he German?” He leaned forward intently.

  “Yeah, I think so,” I said slowly.

  Chuck slapped the armrest of his chair and stood up. “I’ve got a couple of calls to make.”

  “Wait. What?”

  “Charlie?” Mom asked.

  “Let me check a couple of things. There may be something….” His voice trailed off as he left the room.

  No sooner had Chuck gone than a nurse strolled in. “Bonjour,” she said. “How are you this afternoon?” she asked in French. I was glad we were in Brussels. In any other part of Belgium, chances were just as good that the people would speak Flemish or German. My knowledge of German was limited, and I didn’t know squat about Flemish.

  “Fine. I’m good.”

  “Bien.”

  “Has the doctor said when Isaiah will be released?” Mom asked the nurse.

  The nurse looked up from her portable computer. “As long as his glucose and potassium levels stay even, the doctor says your son will be released in the morning. You will want to make your travel plans, oui? To go home?”

  “Oui,” Mom agreed.

  “Non,” I disagreed.

  Mom pursed her lips. “Isaiah.”

  “Mom.” I held her stare. For once I was going to be more stubborn than she. “I will empty out my college savings account and travel to Yaoundé on my own if you won’t help me. Either way, I’m going.”

  Her phone chimed at her before she could answer. She sighed. “This conversation isn’t over,” she warned as she swiped a finger across the screen of her phone. “It’s an e-mail from… oh, no.” She closed her eyes.

  My heart stuttered in my chest. “What? What’s the matter?”

  She covered her mouth.

  “Mom.”

  “It’s Wendy,” she said.

  “What?” I stilled, my body turning cold.

  “She attempted suicide last week.”

  I felt sick to my stomach. I lay back in the bed, trying to breathe through the pressure in my chest. “Attempted?”

  Bright blue-green eyes—the same shade as my own—met mine. “She’s alive, but in the hospital. She got a hold of some pills. Overdosed. The lady her father hires to clean the house each week found her and called 9-1-1. She was rushed to the hospital where they pumped her stomach. She’s stable now, but they’re keeping her under observation.”

  “Does it say anything about her father?”

  “Nothing specifically.”

  I wrapped my arms around my stomach. “I should have told someone. Why didn’t I tell someone?”

  “She’ll get the help she needs now.”

  “But… will she tell them about him, do you think?”

  “I don’t know. I hope so. You’ll be able to check on her when we get back home.” She reached for her tablet, which still sat on the rolling table next to my half-finished lunch. “I need to make our flight reservations.”

  “Mom….”

  She sighed and set the tablet on her lap. “There’s no use putting it off.”

  “Please, Mom.” I put every bit of pleading and need into my voice as I could. This mattered. Henry mattered. I needed her to see that. “Can we at least wait to see what Chuck comes up with before we make any decisions?”

  Her hands clutched convulsively on her thighs. Was she wavering?

  “Please, Mom.”

  She sucked in a deep breath. “Fine. We’ll wait until your father gets back. But I still think we should go home and get back to our normal lives. And stop calling him Chuck. He’s your father, not some stranger.”

  “Mom, Henry saved my life. At least once, maybe twice. I can’t just abandon him. I can’t let him die thinking everyone in his life betrayed him.”

  “It’s more than that, isn’t it? You have feelings for him.”

  Feelings? I didn’t know what I felt for him. I was attracted, sure. He was hot. Was it more than that? Maybe if we’d met somewhere else under any other circumstances I’d have made a play for him. Even though so much had happened, it had been a total of what, ten days? Ten days of stress, adrenaline, and fear. And illness and delirium. No, it wasn’t the little crush I had that pushed me to take action. I didn’t know him quite well enough. But I really, really wanted to know him. And that couldn’t happen if he wasn’t alive.

  More importantly, I owed him. A lot.

  “I care about him,” I told Mom. “I’m not ready to pick out wedding decorations or anything, but I like him. He deserves this chance. Assuming, of course, he’s not already dead. And,” I added, “I can’t do anything to help Wendy, but I can, maybe, do something good for Henry.”

  Mom stood up and bent over me until she could kiss my forehead. “You’re turning into such a good man, Isaiah. We’ll wait. For now. But if there’s nothing your father can do by the time you’re released from the hospital, we’re going home. If he can’t figure something out, it can’t be done.”

  I thought about that for a while. She’d called me a good man. I’d hated it whenever someone told me Chuck—I really should probably start calling him Dad—was a good man. Doing so many good things. The anger and resentment that always flooded me when I thought about all the years that he had ignored me had settled down to a trickle. It was still there—I hadn’t completely forgiven him—but seeing the refugees and negative impact the conflict in the region had on the people put some things into perspective.

  Maybe being a bit like Chuck—Dad—wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

  DAD RETURNED two hours later. In the time he was gone I’d managed to drive myself batty. I tried watching television, but most of what came on was in Flemish. A daytime drama may not have required a lot of translation, but it certainly didn’t hold my interest. Finally I asked Mom if I could download a book on her tablet. She’d been surprised when I told her I wanted to read The Perks of Being a Wallflower. She probably expected me to mention one of the science fiction/fantasy novels I generally preferred.

  I’d gotten halfway through the novel when Dad arrived. And he brought company. Suit #1 a
nd Suit #2 from the day before walked in behind Dad. Rather than crowding around the bed for our little conversation, The Suits had commandeered a small conference room in the hospital. I held my tongue as we were escorted into the meeting room. I even managed not to ask any of the hundreds of questions exploding in my brain while we all got situated. Me with my IV stand, and The Suits with a couple of briefcases they hadn’t had yesterday.

  Mom sat next to me, in full lawyer mode. Dad sat on the other side of me, wrapped in the man-in-charge attitude he’d used when getting me the necessary medical treatments. The Suits sat on the other side of the table facing us. The whole thing had a real us-versus-them vibe.

  When everyone was settled, I finally asked, “What’s going on?”

  “We’d like you to look at some photos, see if you can identify any of the known associates of Averyanov. We’d like to get a feel for who’s on-site.”

  “Are you going to save Henry?”

  The Suits looked at each other and then at Dad.

  “They are willing to make an attempt, provided certain things are in place first. In order to verify that, they need you to look at the photos.”

  “Okay,” I said slowly.

  Suit #1 pulled a manila envelope out of his briefcase and handed me the first photo. It had been taken at a distance, probably with some kind of long-range lens. The image was fuzzy, but it clearly showed Shorty standing next to a dark vehicle talking on a cell phone. “This is Shorty,” I said. “Avery-what’s-his-face.”

  Suit #1 nodded, set the photo aside, and pulled out the next. This guy I didn’t recognize. Maybe because the picture showed him in a suit instead of the camo uniform, but if I’d seen him at the camp, I didn’t remember. The third photo they showed me was Snake Eyes. This one had been taken up close and personal. No fuzzy edges, no blurry images. Because the photo was in black-and-white I couldn’t see the evil green eyes, but the thin mouth and cold expression were him to a T. The glossy paper crinkled a bit in my grip.

  “Snake Eyes. He’s the one Henry—”

  Mom stopped my words with a squeeze to my knee. She shook her head. Clearly she didn’t want me sharing details.

  “He was there,” I finished.

  “Frédéric Marchande.” Suit #1 set the picture aside.

  I identified four others—The Slav and Mike and two others I hadn’t interacted with enough to give them nicknames. The sixteenth photo The Suits showed me was Rat Man the scientist. He was smiling in the picture, which I found odd. The rest of the pictures were candid shots, most taken from a distance, and the subjects all wore serious or bored expressions. This picture looked like it came off an ID badge.

  “Adelbert Braun,” Dad said, smiling in satisfaction.

  “You know him?” I asked.

  “He’s one of the good guys.”

  The Suits looked a little peeved, and Suit #2 made notes in his phone.

  “Seriously? Like one of The Suits’ good guys?”

  “Dr. Braun is part of the Horizon Brotherhood,” Suit #1 told me.

  “The Horizon Brotherhood?” I’d never heard of it.

  “It’s the group Delphine worked with,” Dad explained. “They have a number of their members undercover, so to speak. I knew they’d been trying to get someone into Averyanov’s group, but I didn’t know they’d managed it.”

  At a sharp look from Suit #1, Dad said, “I’m not a member. I was once peripherally connected to the group. I’ve spent the last few years trying to distance myself from them as much as possible. My only connection now is—was—Delphine.”

  Mom must have noticed the same hint of sorrow that I had in Dad’s tone when he spoke of Mrs. Okono. It occurred to me that he must have really cared about her. Her death had hit him harder than he’d been able to let on. Having to rush in to save me, he hadn’t had a chance to process her death. Especially since he probably found out when I told him.

  “So he’s like a double agent?” I asked. Partly because I wanted to know, and partly because I wanted to distract Dad from thoughts of Mrs. Okono.

  “Something like that,” Dad agreed. “The thing is, if he’s there undercover he may be able to delay letting Averyanov and his crew know about the fake chemicals.”

  I may have been grasping at straws allowing myself to hope, but I clung to Dad’s words. “You think so? Do you know how to contact him?”

  Dad shook his head. “No, but I do know how to reach some people who might know how to reach him.”

  Suit #2 raised a stalling hand. “It’s inadvisable. If you draw too much attention to Dr. Braun, it puts everything—everything we’re working for and everything he’s working for—at risk.”

  Dad flattened his palms on the conference table and leaned forward. “There is a kid—an eighteen-year-old kid—at risk. A kid, moreover, who has already been through more than you could possibly imagine. We have an obligation to help him. Besides which, that was the deal. If Isaiah could confirm that Dr. Braun—or someone else from Horizon—was at the camp, an attempt to bring out Henry would be made prior to any strike on the compound.”

  Okay, so my Dad was a little bit kickass. It was kind of cool to see him in action.

  Chapter 26

  WE ARRIVED back in Africa the next evening. Mom came along this time and, instead of road tripping from the airport in Yaoundé to Dad’s refugee camp, we landed in Gemena, a small town in the northernmost part of the Democratic Republic of the Congo. It was the closest airport to the mercenaries’ camp. We crossed the 200 or so miles between Gemena and Bayanga, the nearest town to the Dzanga-Sangha Preservation in the Central African Republic, and, therefore, to the mercenaries.

  You’d have thought I would have enjoyed my first ride in a helicopter, but mostly it was loud, and my brain was too filled with worry—straight-up anxiety, actually—to notice the trip. Not being part of a secret military operation, Mom, Dad, and I booked a bungalow at the Sangha Lodge, a resort just outside of Bayanga. The place was rustic, but on the whole, not bad. It overlooked the river and was practically buried in the jungle. I could see why tourists came here to get what they probably viewed as the true African experience.

  For us, the biggest draw was the relative quiet. While most of the conflict in the Central African Republic hadn’t spread this far south, I didn’t think there were a lot of tourists clamoring to visit the lodge. In fact, as far as I could tell, there weren’t any other patrons.

  I sat on a wooden deck chair on the patio of our bungalow and stared out at the muddy-looking river. Somewhere on the other side of that water, through several miles of the rain forest, was Henry. Trapped in a small building. Subject to God only knows what kind of treatment. I told myself he was still alive. He had to be. I didn’t know if I could handle knowing he’d died there. Two days in a hospital on an entirely different continent, plus the two days of traveling, meant that Henry had been on his own with the mercenaries for four days.

  Dad slid into the chair next to me.

  “I think Henry would like it here,” I said. I didn’t look away from my view of the river. “He’d probably be able to tell me about all the plants and whatever animals are slinking around down there.”

  “You’re probably right,” Dad said, stretching his legs out in front of him. He looked at home here, somehow. More than he had in Brussels. Of course, the man had spent the last twenty-five years in Africa. It probably was more home to him than anywhere in the States.

  “I don’t think I said, but I’m sorry about Mrs. Okono. I know you two were close.”

  “I’m still processing,” he said. “She was a great woman and the way she died… she didn’t deserve that.”

  “What’s happening at your camp right now? Can you afford to be away as long as you have been?” I didn’t care about the camp, not really, but I didn’t want to think about the mission. Not yet.

  “They can muddle through a few days without me.”

  “But you couldn’t even take a couple of days to pick me u
p from the airport?” As soon as the words came out, I wanted to take them back. Now wasn’t the time to rehash the topic. Especially since Henry had already explained. “Never mind,” I said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “No, I think maybe we should talk about it. It’s long past time.”

  I shook my head, still watching the water. “No, it’s okay. You’ve already explained why you had to stay away. I get it.” Something long and vaguely log shaped floated at the surface. Was it a log? Or a crocodile? Did this part of the world have crocodiles? Maybe a python? Did pythons swim? Henry would know.

  “Once the threat was gone, I could have—I should have—contacted you.” He touched my arm, and the brief gesture caused something anxious to tighten in my chest. “I… could you look at me for a second?”

  I turned to him.

  “You have every right to be angry—”

  “I’m not angry. Not anymore. Not really.”

  “I was scared,” he blurted out.

  That threw me. “Scared?”

  He rubbed his hands on his thighs. I noticed for the first time he’d changed clothes. He now wore the same kind of long, pocketed shorts Henry had worn. “It had been so long, and your mom is such a wonderful person. After all that time, what could I give you? I’m proud of the work I do. I make a difference. But I don’t have much money. Anything you needed, your mom gave you. Anything I could have given would have been too little, too late. So, yes, I was scared.”

  I couldn’t handle the intensity in his green eyes. But I couldn’t look away either. “I didn’t—don’t—need you to give me anything. Except you. I needed to know you cared. That you loved me. A phone call. A birthday card. Anything to let me know that you knew I existed.”

  “Not a day went by that I didn’t think of you. Miss you. I may not have kept in touch with you directly, but I kept up on things in your life.”

  “Mom?”

  “Your grandparents, actually.”

  “Nana and Granddad Piasecki?” I saw Mom’s parents every couple of months. They lived in Michigan, and we went there for holidays and stuff. Dad’s parents had died before I was born. “They never said anything.”