Night Must Wait

by Robin Winter

  Now she saw the abrasions and filth that smeared Wilton's skin, in tropical Africa an invitation to blood poisoning and God only knew what other sorts of infection. Sandy unbuttoned and pushed up the sleeve on Wilton's left arm and found bruises marching up the surface. Marks on her throat, the bruising Sandy had half seen by lantern light became clear, and a split along the cheekbone. Beaten and dragged? Sandy found a raw, slow-bleeding patch on the back of Wilton's head, where a sizable tuft of hair was missing. She glanced down at the wig on the floor. Blackened blood in it and a mat of hair. Blunt object blow. Reason to bless that wig.

  "Goddamnit." Sandy hesitated. Couldn't call for help—she didn't know what the fallout might be for Wilton. She turned down the kerosene lantern but left it lit in case they lost power again, then went to the storage cabinet for her first-aid kit, cursing under her breath. The sink in the corner would provide water and soap. Unlike Gilman with her love of broken bones and cutting people open, Sandy didn't like blood. But the abrasions needed cleaning before infection set in. Sandy had learned that much in her years in Nigeria.

  Crazy night, crazy night, she kept telling herself. But why would those men bother to soften up a random victim like Wilton? For simple robbery, quick death worked best. Professionals would begin to work a victim the way Wilton had been handled only if they had nastier plans. Long-term torture. A bad death, Wilton said, as if she knew. Which meant that there was nothing random about this at all.

  No broken bones, lucky Wilton. Couple of loosened teeth for sure, maybe one missing if that swelling of her lower lip meant anything, but Sandy wasn't about to open Wilton's mouth and check. No way.

  "What do you do, Wilton, you loopy kid? Is it all sleight of hand and smoke and mirrors? Or something fucking serious? Don't you know better?"

  What did Sandy have for proof, after all? Just a handful of incoherent minutes with Wilton in the dark, that was it, that was all. Wilton who prowled around through the country looking for birds with binoculars in her hand and a life list in her pocket. And a camera. Wilton, who apparently went birding in the night streets of Lagos. She shivered at the thought. Sandy went to work. One bandage at a time.

  When she finished, Wilton had a patchwork of smeared antibiotic cream on her legs and arms, and a clumsy gauze bandage on the back of her head. Sandy sat Indian-style on her desk, tumbler in hand. The hands of the office clock had passed three when Sandy finally swung her crossed legs down and stretched. She replaced the nearly empty whiskey bottle in her bottom drawer, then stared across at Wilton, asleep on the long bench.

  "Fuck, shit and piss," she heard herself say, but it did not ease her at all. High-school words without power.

  She looked at Wilton with aching eyes. Wilton seemed a lost child, thin brown wrists and slender bruised throat. Someone she should damned well take care of, watch over. If Wilton went down, would she and Lindsey go on without her? Sandy went to the closet again and found a blanket she had once used to wrap some fossil-bearing rocks. She spread it over Wilton's sleeping form.

  No matter what she might try to tell Lindsey about Wilton, all the old college memories, all the perceptions that Wilton herself had built over the years would make Sandy sound totally weird. Paranoid too. Lindsey would possibly believe Wilton had delusions. Clumsy inattentive Wilton with her eyes on the birds in the sky. What good would that do? Lindsey was too busy laying plans and moving money. Even Sandy didn't know how much Lindsey was worth now. Sandy lit herself a much-needed cigarette.

  Besides, she'd fucking promised not to tell. Whatever else might come, whatever friend gave her secrets better told, Sandy didn't break promises.

  Chapter 18: Lindsey

  March 1967

  Lagos, Western Region, Nigeria

  "Madam, Lionel Inara is here. Do you wish to see him?"

  Lindsey's mouth went dry.

  "Yes," she said before any doubt could interrupt the smoothness of her voice. She rose and took the needle off the record on the player behind her desk. Tchaikovsky wasn't appropriate for this meeting. She glanced once at her reflection in the glass of her bookcase. Neat, cool, formal.

  Oroko didn't go. She sat down and continued moving her pencil across the checked boxes on the indexing sheet before her. Everything in its place. He to his. What was wrong with him? She jerked her head at him, signaling him to leave.

  "Not alone," Oroko said.

  She took a considering breath, noticing the aura of patience that he seemed to carry. So academic in appearance with his steel-rimmed glasses.

  "Alone."

  "Inappropriate confidence," Oroko said.

  "That will suffice. I know what I'm doing." She went back to her forms. He moved without a sound across the room and the door clicked shut.

  Less than a minute later Lionel came in, a big man, noisy with mouth-breathing enthusiasm.

  "Madam Kinner. Lindsey. May I say you look simply splendid today." His rich voice sounded too large for her office.

  He took a seat without invitation and she felt herself slow down, taking in the details. The European cut of his suit, the silk tie, the white shirt too tight across his midriff. He probably couldn't see that, but he should feel it. Everything new. Maybe he imagined that if he wore a smaller size it might make him appear slim. He had a fine-featured face, too small of nose and mouth for the heaviness of his jowls.

  "I am seriously vexed at you, my friend," he said.

  "How did I annoy you?"

  "You failed to attend my party last weekend. I felt it too deeply."

  She folded her hands on the top of her papers. She had seen him trying to read them upside down and now his eyes moved back to her face and she realized he didn't want to look at her. The scent of his aftershave was expensive and too strong.

  "Such a disappointment. You are all business," he said, the note of complaint exaggerated.

  "That should not be a problem."

  "Ah, but it is," he said. "You have pressed me, good madam. Pressed me too hard. Without kindness. Are we not old best friends? How many years have you held my note for the hotels in the North?"

  "Four years and three months."

  "And I have paid you hand over fist, more than you would have made on any other loan." His voice sharpened.

  "One percent under market and you have always paid late," she said. "I am willing to sell the loan if you can provide a buyer."

  How he sweated.

  "It's a difficult time. As an economist you understand that. Troubled times call for a little kindness between old friends."

  "This is business," she said. "It always was."

  Though perhaps not the sort of business that he thought. Lindsey considered his puzzled dismay and how he tried to hide it.

  His smile slipped again. "Surely you don't hold my vote for the new transport tax against me. Friends can differ in professional matters. You are not a foolish emotional woman."

  "This is business."

  "But you do not understand." He got to his feet as if it would be easier to find words that way. "Can't we talk this over in better spirit? You have no reason to cause me harm. Calling my note, I assure you dear lady, would harm me right now. I have always been your champion even when matters have gone in wrong directions."

  "No," she said. "I recollect no such championship."

  He could name nothing. He shook his head, shrugged, opened his hands as if to embrace air. "People have known we were friends. That makes a business difference."

  "You have done exactly as you pleased when and how you pleased and that is fine, because I never asked for anything. Did I?" Lindsey said.

  No, she hadn't. Never explicitly. And because the loan to him didn't produce the desired results, she planned to invest her money elsewhere. But looking at him as he leaned in over her, she felt her head lighten with adrenaline. She wanted to laugh. Riding a monster. She noted his perspiration. She looked at his fists. Sitting there behind her desk in total control felt like no other thrill she'd ever exp
erienced. She was glad Oroko was out of the room. She knew she didn't want anyone but Lionel Inara to see her face.

  "Your railway vote," she said. "You understood without being told what it was you needed to do for your country. And you chose not to do it."

  "Must I beg? His voice went soft, testing.

  "If you like," she said. "It makes no difference. I'm initiating foreclosure."

  "I can take you down. The merest suggestion to my friends," he said. "It is not wise to annoy me. We should be on good terms."

  "That doesn't sound like begging."

  "Don't deceive yourself." He stood straight, took a step back.

  He had enough wisdom to understand that more would be useless. Enough control left to know he couldn't afford direct physical violence. But she smelled the wish for it on him and read it in the tiny deep marks between his eyes. He turned and went out.

  Lindsey looked at the closed door. Next time she would make the man she squeezed beg. She'd like to know how that tasted.

  Chapter 19: Gilman

  April 1967

  Port Harcourt, Eastern Region, Nigeria

  "You know, my friend Kate Wilton told me before Christmas to get out of Nigeria because civil war was coming."

  "She couldn't possibly have known back then," Matt Turner said. He parked his boat of a Bel Air in the Port Harcourt airport lot. "How could she have any idea that nut Ojukwu would refuse reason at the peace talks after he declared the Eastern Region the 'Republic of Biafra'? Stupid name. What's it mean?"

  "I think there's a 'Bight of Biafra' on the coast or something. My friend grew up here. She knew there would be serious trouble."

  Gilman wouldn't have offered to help if she didn't like Matt's wife, Hannah.

  "We've got Ironsi and his supporters assassinated, Gowon's the military leader of Nigeria and Colonel Ojukwu's Supreme Commander of Biafra. Wilton saw this coming."

  "No way could she have predicted all that," Matt said. "Of course it's all about the oil."

  "I don't know," Gilman said. "Not all. I think old tribal problems are at the bottom of the trouble. What do you think of Gowon?"

  She tried not to quarrel with Matt for Hannah's sake. In the back she heard the baby coo in Hannah's arms.

  "It's always about the money. Gowon? Good Christian leader," Matt said. "Weird that he's from the north—I thought all the Christians came from Igbos or at least Easterners. I hear he's a fine guy. Let's get this show on the road. I think you're crazy not to bail with us. Kind of you to help out."

  "Gowon has no legitimacy, not even seniority and you think he's a Christian guy and that's enough," Gilman said out loud but quiet enough that Matt in his plunge out the door wouldn't hear her. She sure as hell wasn't going to miss Matt. Except for when she had to drive this huge swaying car with marshmallow shocks back to town.

  "Gowon's got the right idea." Matt dragged the suitcases out of the trunk. "A police action. Nothing so grandiose as a civil war. Gowon will set everything right and slap this Ojukwu rebel into jail where he belongs."

  "Well that's reassuring," Gilman said. "No reason to get out of the country after all, see?"

  Police action her ass. Wilton was right about civil war. Those massacres of Igbo in the North shed enough blood to make the first battle of a war. Ojukwu had been right—close the borders down and declare independence. How could anyone not see it? What else could he do to protect them? The Federal government acted helpless. Maybe complicit.

  Matt gave Hannah a hand out of the backseat, baby and all. He didn't answer.

  Gilman helped the Turners take their luggage into the Port Harcourt terminal. Not for the faint of heart. Utter chaos, with screaming babies, big-eyed toddlers, women in degrees of distress from unnatural silence to racking sobs. Yup, over there in the corner a kid maybe six years old on her belly, kicking, hitting her mother's legs with both fists and howling something unintelligible. Gilman had meant to leave the Turners and get the heck out of the way, but she now saw it was impossible.

  "Here," she said, reaching. "I'll take the baby while you get in line and see what you're supposed to do. I'll go out to the parking lot. There's less noise."

  Less smell, too. It was clear that some of the younger mothers had forgotten to bring enough diapers.

  "Teddy," a woman said behind Gilman. "They can't separate us. I'm not going if you're not. No one can expect me to handle the children by myself…"

  Gilman looked at the etiolated pair, noting that it was the red-headed man who held the sleeping toddler draped over his shoulder while another girl tugged hard at her blonde mother's hand. Pale, all of them, as though none of the family had ever been out in the sun for so much as one day.

  "It's women and children first," the man with the red crew cut said. "Don't worry Dottie. It's perfectly safe. I'm sure I'll be on a flight before tomorrow night or a boat if that's all they have."

  "I can't manage, Teddy, it's impossible…You've got to do something. Tell them…"

  Gilman saw a cluster of three quiet children in one corner with their mother. They seemed to be looking at everything with the intent of memorizing it. How old was the oldest, just at the edge of adolescence? But it was the middle one who fixed Gilman with intent gaze. She said nothing. Clinging to the fist of her fat baby sister, she stared at Gilman as if she thought there should be some explanation forthcoming.

  There should. Gilman nodded to the child, not knowing what else to do and made her way on out of the crowd to the open door. At least the Turners' baby kept quiet. He blew a milky bubble against her throat. She hoped nothing else would be forthcoming. Smell of formula and Karo syrup. She hoped Hannah brought lots of diapers. Babies. There were many reasons she hadn't wanted to go into pediatrics.

  She looked down at the baby's face, smudge nose and blue eyes. It gazed into the distance, maybe distracted by the shiny windshields and chrome in the parking lot.

  "I guess I should talk to you if I'm supposed to keep you happy," Gilman said. "I never wanted to take care of babies. People like Lindsey go all goo-goo over you guys—I guess that's her one soft spot, but it's gonna have to be an immaculate conception if she wants one of her own. I'm not like that. I want patients who can at least tell me what's wrong with them."

  She looked around, bored already. How long was it going to take Hannah to make her arrangements? Gilman sighed. Was it her imagination or was the baby's lower end damp against her arm? She heard a woman sobbing. Hell, don't these people have any self-control? They aren't the people who should be crying. It's Nigeria that should weep for all the broken promises that led to Biafra declaring independence from Nigeria. The tearing apart of a country was worth mourning. Surely these silly women didn't expect that their inability to manage children without husband or servants was going to change a government's mind?

  Gilman would've let everyone stay home in their bungalows. No American would ever be hurt by a Nigerian…or a Biafran. Never. They could ride out the short conflict and avoid all this fuss. Sit on the sidelines and watch to make sure everyone played fair.

  "You're not on the manifest," a familiar voice said.

  Gilman turned and saw Lindsey standing by the door, her unruffled manner almost an offense against the chaos within the terminal. Creamy yellow shirtwaist—by what pact with the devil did she keep it so clean?

  "And I see you have a baby," Lindsey said. "I take it congratulations are due?"

  Gilman gulped and watched Lindsey's calm expression break into laughter.

  "You should see your face, Gilman," she said. "I wasn't sure myself if I could manage to make that crack about the baby."

  "It's the Turners'," Gilman said. God that was lame. She managed to laugh too, imagining how she looked with her face hot with blushing, holding the baby like a potential weapon. "You hold it. You like babies."

  "Not that much," Lindsey said, looking it over. "Is it wet?"

  "Could be." Gilman looked down. Was that a darker patch on the cotton? "What are y
ou doing here, Lindsey?"

  "My job," Lindsey said. "I need to get back in there. I'm glad to see you, Gilman. I never thought you'd be sensible enough to get out and I even asked for an extra day to track you down and bring you to the airport. Or you could take a boat if you prefer. They'd be appreciative of a doctor with all these children on board. Up to you, take your pick."

  "Neither," Gilman said. "I came because the Turners needed a hand. I'm headed back to my hospital soon as I can hand little Mickey here back to Mom."

  Lindsey studied her a moment.

  "That's more what I expected from you, but it's disappointing," she said. "Look Gilman, you're an American. America's neutral. We haven't recognized Biafra. We need to keep our hands clean."

  "I'm staying." Gilman wished for some grand-sounding statement with a real ring to it, but her mind didn't oblige.

  "Look," Lindsey said, lowering her voice. "The Embassy sides with Nigeria's Federal Government. Don't indulge wishful thinking, Gilman. Diplomatic immunity goes only so far."

  Gilman decided that silence might be more dignified. She looked away from Lindsey's composed face.

  "A bomb isn't going to check your nationality before it hits, kid. Come on. Wilton's already left."

  Gilman jerked her head up. "What?"

  "Yes. She's relocated with a missionary group. Safe in Mid-West Nigeria, a good hundred miles inside Federal lines. Maybe we could relocate you too—send you to some needy hospital in the Mid-West or the Western Region near us."

  "I don't need charity," Gilman said.

  "I didn't mean any insult." Lindsey looked out across the rows of cars glittering in the sunshine. "Quite the contrary. But what's important is that you've got to leave Biafran territory, Gilman."

  "I'm not going." God it was awkward, arguing with a baby in her arms, He shifted, restless—maybe he didn't like their tone or it could be the wet diaper. "Save your breath Lindsey and stop telling me what to do."