The Audi has a big trunk and the three spider boys are small. It’s snug but they all fit. “Here’s some prizes for your bright idea.” I give the Englishman three Snickers, six more oxycodone pills, and our last two cans of warm Cola. “Have fun and remember what doesn’t kill you will make you stronger.”
We’re oblivious to the sounds of trucks, the possibility of someone looking through the open windows, or the progress of the pill and snickers party behind us.
“Oh, Layla . . . Layla . . . god . . . perfect . . . oh, god . . . Layla,” Andy chants.
“Mumm . . . Andy . . . Mumm . . . You’re perfect,” I hear myself moan.
It’s short, sweet, and wonderful. “Yes . . . yes . . . oh . . . damn . . . yes Layla,” he screams.
Afterward, I run my fingers over my new Yin-Yang medallion. It’s the only thing I’m wearing.
We dress, get out of the car, stretch, and look at each other. “I’ve learned two things today,” I say.
“They are?”
“I’m not religious, but I know that I’ve been chosen to come to this country to save those girls. I know it sounds crazy, but I’m certain. I can’t explain why I know it, but I do.”
“The second?”
“You remember when you said you loved me outside my trailer and I hesitated before responding?”
“I think of it all the time.”
“I was afraid of what my screwed up family traits would do to you—afraid to be myself. I’m clearer now and I want to say, without a doubt I love you, too, Andy Mason.”
“And, Tim?”
“I . . . I’m confused. To be honest . . . there’s an attraction . . . but I think he may have played me . . . manipulated me to get to the U.S. . . . I don’t know what else to say and—”
“You’ve said enough. Your love is enough. Your honesty is enough.” He captures me with his melting eyes. “Just like you know you’ve been picked to be here—to save those girls—I know we’ve been chosen to be together. That’s enough for me—for now—Tim will find his own way—won’t be with you—not in the cards.”
We stand looking at each other, letting the emotion behind the words sink in, until the mood is broken by another truck horn. He turns, looks at the trunk, and smiles. “I wonder if they heard us back there.”
“Heard you, you mean. Let’s let them out and get moving.”
* * *
At four in the afternoon, the central market in Cambui is a maze of people, narrow alleys, and traffic jams. Andy can’t find a way around so he waits for the crowd to part and pulls up on a sidewalk behind a vegetable stall. The web soldiers in the back seat are dozing so I nudge the Englishman with the 30-30.
“All right, sunshine, where do we find this Jeffery?”
The oxy has done its work. He blinks and gives me a vacant look “Boko Haram controls the town . . . Jeffery . . . has camp . . . few kilometers away . . . guarded . . . can’t get in without invitation,” he mumbles.
“You mean you can’t just go there on your own?”
“If Jeffery wants to see you, someone will take you to him.”
“You were supposed to capture us but you didn’t have a way to get us here. Once you got us here, your plan was to just hang around town until someone found you?”
“Maybe . . . go to square . . . maybe find . . . convoy.”
“Dumb, dumber, and dumbest. You guys better find another line of work. Get the hell out, if you can figure out how to open the door.”
We watch them stumble forward and disappear into the crowd. “We better move in case they blunder into someone who actually knows what they’re doing and they give away our location,” says Andy.
It takes ten minutes to go six blocks. We finally pull between two trucks parked behind a three sided restaurant with the opening facing a narrow alley.
We sit and look at each other. “What now?” asks Andy.
“We’re as bad as the spider boys. Don’t have a plan either.”
“We can’t sit here all night. Let’s get out and wander around. See if we can find a clue.”
“Kind of sounds like a plan.”
“We’re not so dumb after all,” he says.
In this neighborhood a vacant new Audi is an open invitation. Andy takes the pack and the 30-30 from the trunk. We bury them and Andy’s carry bag under some leaves in a row of bushes. Andy takes the .22 I stole from the troll.
The crowd smothers us. We hold hands to keep together as we’re herded down the alley to a small square where I see a fat man in a robe standing on a platform making a speech. We pull away from the stream of bodies and stop under a speaker. He’s not speaking English and the loud echo makes understanding what he’s saying impossible in any language.
I feel Andy’s hand jerk away. I turn and see a guy in a dirty white robe with a thick black beard, pulling him into the crowd. An older man in camouflage fatigues blocks my way and someone grabs my collar and pulls me backward. Someone else trips me and I’m on the ground with people looking down at me. When I get up I see Andy about thirty yards away. He’s surrounded by uniformed men, all screaming at him.
“No, get out of my way.” I charge into the crowd but people fill in between us and he’s now almost forty yards in front and I have a hard time picking him out of the crowd. “Godamn it, you can’t have him,” I shout but it’s too late. A camouflaged pick-up pulls out of a side alley, and I watch them throw him in the back. Four men jump in with him and I lose sight of the truck when it pulls behind a row of merchant stalls.
Chapter 36
Now I’m the target. I spot four behind me, spread across the street in a line, moving through the crowd, pushing people away. I see two more ahead, blocking my escape. Trapped, I duck into a narrow alley to my right. A hundred yards down, it dead ends at a ten foot high brick wall with barbed wire on top. Looking back, I see the posse enter the ally. They’re walking, not running, because they know I’m boxed in.
When they’re fifty yards away, one—younger than the rest, judging by his full black beard compared to the scruffy white variety sported by the other four—pulls a pistol out of his fatigue jacket and points it at me. I hear two shoots, the sound amplified by the narrow alley. The odds of hitting me at that distance are not good, but they increase the closer they get. I’ve got to get over that wall and I’ve got to do it now, barb wire be dammed.
Moving back, I take a run at the wall, jump, grab the top, and use my momentum to scramble up. I get my feet under me without touching the wire and teeter between falling backward or forward into the wire. The ping of a round ricocheting of the wall makes the decision for me. I twist, lean away from the alley, hit the wire with my back, bounce over and land face down on the other side. I’m wearing jeans, running shoes and have my jacket on over a cotton turtle neck. My pack cushions my back and the jacket padding and jeans help protect my legs but my back aches and I feel stings on my left leg from the barb wire. The drop knocks the wind out of me and I wait at the base of the wall until I get it back. I hear loud voices shouting in a Nigerian language on the other side, then three fast shots into the wall. They must either be frustrated or think they have magic bullets that can penetrate concrete.
Getting to my feet, I see that I’m in a small park facing a pond. The wall forms a semi-circle with each end stopping at a corner of the pond. The pond is rectangular. I face the wide side and wall-to-wall buildings frame both narrow ends. I see a gate fifty yards to my right. It’s the only way in or out. The posse’s not going to climb that wall. They’re going to backtrack and come in that gate. I’m still trapped.
Running past a group of women with baby strollers, I hit the shoreline. I’m two hundred yards from the gate, and see the posse, led by the black bearded wall shooter, entering the park. My only way out is the water. I take off my backpack, throw in my shoes and get in. The water’s warm and the bottom’s mucky, filled with slimy weeds. A couple of mangy brown ducks look me over and swim away. I’m not impressed with
them either and I take a deep breath and drop below the surface.
The pond’s only a little more than five feet deep so I can keep my feet on the bottom, duck my head down and walk. It’s slow going, and I try swimming but, with the backpack and my clothes it isn’t any faster. I settle on a hybrid system—half walking—half lurching forward in a kind of side stroke. I stay under until I’m forced to come up for air. Looking back, I see that I’m about a quarter of the way across and the posse’s milling around the shoreline. I duck down again. This time I make better progress and when I next surface I’m more than half-way to the other shore. The posse is still engaged in animated conversation with the stroller pushing moms. Apparently they don’t want to get wet, don’t want to shoot in front of the women, and don’t think they can catch up by circling the pond. I wade the rest of the way across, slogging through the bottom muck. The ducks give me a final arrogant look as I struggle to dry ground.
The park is bigger and more open on this side. A small crowd watches me climb to a bench. They step back when I take off my sopping jeans, turtle neck, and jacket. I strap on the backpack and, holding my clothes, jog across a mix of dirt and grass, through a playground filled with rusted equipment and around another gathering of moms and kids. Behind a scraggly row of trees, half hidden by a clump of bushes, I spot a storage shed. It’s secured by a paddle lock. I put on a wet shoe, give it a kick, break the hinge and slip in. I stand motionless inside the door, smelling machine oil and mildew. When no one comes, I wring out my clothes and hang them over more rusty playground equipment.
I’m alone, wet, cold, tired, and naked. The dirt floor feels clammy, the musty air makes my throat constrict, and my leg and ass hurt from barbwire scratches. I’ve lost Andy and the local Boko Haram thugs are hunting me. Every time I take a step forward, something knocks me three steps back. For a moment I consider giving up. What the hell else can they do to me? I sit on a battered metal bench and let my mind drift.
Eventually one thing becomes clear: I don’t have the option of feeling sorry for myself and quitting. If I was sent to this country to get those girls back—now I can add Andy to the list—I need to get on with it. I stand, do some jumping jacks to warm up, rub my fingers over the Yin-Yang medallion hanging from my neck, and feel the power of purpose giving me strength.
One thing I learned from Uncle Gus was to make things simple when life gets too complicated. The first simple thing I do is check out the condition of Youssef’s pack. All is not bad, maybe my luck’s turning. The Tugo police department invested in waterproof backpacks. I find the small the bag of medical supplies I kept from what I gave to Doctor Mason, and put antiseptic on the wire scratches. I stay in the shed another hour, and leave with a simple plan: Get my 30-30, find my way to Jeffrey’s camp, free the girls and get Andy back. See, Gus, I got the message. Nothing’s hard with the right plan. I laugh to myself as I emerge back into the African night.
* * *
My clothes are still wet and a layer of slime from the pond still coats my skin but I press on. The playground has shut down and the people have gone. I can see a row of streetlights along the lake shore and I head toward them. The trees and shrubs give me some cover when I start but there’s open ground by the shore. I’m tempted to run, but years of hunting experience tell me going slow is better. A lone park bench sits under a tree overlooking the shore, a good place to sit and plan my next moves. I come at it from behind the tree.
“Where you going, pretty young white girl?” A pudgy woman looks up at me from the bench. “Looking for some companionship tonight? I do women just as good as men.” She stands and takes off an outer robe, reviling a pair of tight shorts stretched over a plump round ass and a halter holding an oversized pair of tits.
“Only half white. Other half’s Ojibwe. And, no, I’m not interested.”
’“I bet you’re the one the Boko Haram been looking for. You’re all wet. Come, sit down.”
“No, I’m just on spring break. No one’s looking for me.”
“Don’t lie. Not many tall, good looking American girls wandering around this park tonight. My name’s Shelia. Got a place back there we can go to.” She points in the direction of the storage shed. “Shelia treat you right, whatever you want, won’t cost much and satisfaction guaranteed.”
“No, I said I’m not interested. I’ve got to get moving.” I start to stand but she pulls me down.
“Relax, I’m no friend of Boko Haram. Since they came all the men leave. Business dry-up.”
The odds of getting around that lake and finding the car without help are slim. Time to take a chance, stretch the truth a bit, too. “Shelia, I’m really tempted. You’re an attractive woman but I don’t want sex. I need help. I can pay you for that.”
“What you need—how much you pay?”
I can be generous. It’s Olson’s money. “Get me to my car and find me a place to stay for the night and I’ll give you two hundred U.S. dollars. Help me find out where Jeffrey’s located and I’ll give you another hundred.”
Her eyes light up, two hundred is a lot of money in her world, but she’s a shrewd negotiator. “Give me five hundred and I’ll take you to where the morning convoy starts. You can stay with me tonight after we find the car.”
“Sure, what the hell. In for a penny, in for a pound.”
“Don’t know what that mean.”
“Means we got a deal, Shelia.”
We walk through some scrub trees behind the storage shed and come out in a jumble of shacks, dirt roads, and open sewers. It’s dark and I see people watching from the shadows. “Shelia, stop for a minute. I need to get something from my pack.” I take out the Glock, make sure everyone can see it, and slide the barrel inside my jeans and leave the grip showing. “Just in case you or your friends get any wrong ideas.”
She takes me to her house, an unpainted wooden box facing a wide dirt road. I’m surprised that her combination living room and client reception area looks so clean.
“Wait here, pretty half-white girl,” she points to a couch. “I’ll get us transportation.”
* * *
I sit for ten minutes facing the door with the Glock in my hand until she comes back with a skinny old man with a long, tobacco stained mustache, only four yellow front teeth, and a rheumy, unfocused floating eye. “Our driver,” she says.
“Can he see?”
“Only needs one eye. Works cheap. Keeps his mouth shut.”
It’s hard to tell because of the dents, rust, and caked in mud but we get in what looks like a Volvo. Before sitting, I ask Shelia for a towel and wipe dust and a coating of some kind of slimy liquid from the back seat. I make her take the front and keep the Glock in my hand.
We search mostly empty streets for a half-hour before finding what’s left of the Audi. The wheels are gone, the trunk is popped and the tools and spare are missing. I look inside the broken windows see that the scene of my recent love making, the leather back seat, is also gone. I don’t bother to look under the open hood. They didn’t find what we hid. The 30-30 and Andy’s bag are still where we left them. When we get back to her house Shelia says, “Give him fifty dollars.”
“How about ten?” I say.
“That’s more than enough,” she says, smiling.
I slowly count out fifty. “Ten for the ride, forty for a car wash and an eye patch.”
She smiles again. “Smart pretty girl. You sure you don’t want a little woman to woman boom-boom with Sheila? I’ll give you a good price.”
“I want a shower and a hot meal. You can add it to my bill.”
I take the 30-30 in the shower with me, put it in a corner where it will stay dry, and keep my pack in sight. The water is lukewarm but it takes the remnants of the pond slime off my skin. I apply another dose of disinfectant, change into dry clothes and find her in the kitchen. Unlike the Volvo it’s clean and unlike her shower, her shower her stew is hot. I gorge myself.
“Here’s your tip for a good meal.” I gi
ve her Andy’s overnight bag. I don’t have room to take it where I’m going. “You can sell these clothes to your male clients. Loose a few pounds and some might even fit you.”
“Thank you, I might try that.”
“How did you know the Boko Haram were looking for me?”
“A lot of people saw them take your boyfriend and chase you. Good grapevine. Most of us want to get rid of them. Won’t be long now before the army comes thanks to what happened at that school.”
“Why’s that?”
“Army knew Boko Haram took over this town right away but didn’t do anything about it. Now the U.S. is involved and school girls are captured. Fear of Bad publicity is forcing them to act. They could be here now but they’re wasting time finding excuses.”
I remember Colonel Yambou’s fact-finding, and nod my head. “What’s this about a convoy starting point?”
“They pretend it’s a secret but everyone knows where Jeffrey’s camping. It’s seven Kilometers north and heavily guarded. Most mornings a convoy of trucks brings supplies in. I can get you close to where they start but then you’re on your own.”
“Being on my own is the story of my life.”
* * *
She takes me to a shed behind her house. It smells like the chicken coop it once was but it’s dry and the bed is soft. Emptying the contents of the backpack on the bed, I find Gus’s package and sit on the floor, under a dim lamp, and open it.
Halfway through, I feel my chest tighten and I struggle for breath. The hot stew wants to come up and I head for the door. I don’t make it and another smell competes with wet feathers and old chicken droppings. There’s a bucket of water and some rags outside the door and I wipe up the mess before going back to the packet.
I read each document twice, then go to bed keeping the 30-30 beside me. After ten minutes, I get up and read them again. For the next hour, I lay on my back, re-playing what I read. I finally fall asleep with one thought—this changes everything.
PART IV: BOKO HARAM CAMP
Squaw Girl: A Boxer's Battle for Love Page 21
