Blood Ransom

by Lisa Harris

  Natalie had only heard stories from friends about the current president’s takeover seventeen years ago. Two elections had taken place since then and were assumed by all to have been rigged. But with increasing pressure from the United States, the European Union, and the African Union, President Tau had promised a fair election this time no matter the results. And despite random incidences of pre-election violence, even the United Nations was predicting a fair turnover under their supervision—something that, to her mind, remained to be seen.

  Natalie took a step back to avoid a group of uniformed students making their way through the market and smiled at her friend. After eighteen months of working together, Rachel had moved back to the capital to take a job with the minister of health, which meant Natalie rarely saw her anymore. Something they both missed. “What are you doing in Kasili?”

  “I’m heading back to Bogama tomorrow, but I’m in town because Patrick has been meeting with my parents to work out the labola.”

  “Really? That’s wonderful.” Her sentiment was genuine, even though she happened to find Patrick overbearing and controlling—as no doubt he would be in deciding on a bride price. She hugged her friend. “When’s the wedding ceremony?”

  Rachel’s white teeth gleamed against her dark skin, but Natalie didn’t miss the shadow that crossed her expression. “We’re still discussing details with our families, but soon. Very soon.”

  “Then I’ll expect an invitation.”

  “Of course.” Rachel’s laugh competed with the buzz of the crowd that filed past them. “And by the way, I don’t know if Patrick mentioned it to you, but Stephen invited us to the birthday party you’re throwing for him tonight. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course I don’t mind.” Natalie suppressed a frown. Stephen had invited Patrick to the party? She cleared her throat. “Stephen just called to tell me Patrick was looking for me, but it had something to do with my demographic reports. Apparently he has more questions.”

  “Patrick can be a bit…persistent.” Rachel flashed another broad smile, but Natalie caught something else in her eyes she couldn’t read. Hesitation? Fear? “I’ll tell him to wait until they are compiled. Then he can look at them.”

  Natalie laughed. “Well, you know I’m thrilled you’re coming.”

  She would enjoy catching up with Rachel, and she had already prepared enough food to feed a small army. It was Patrick and his antagonistic political views she dreaded. She’d probably end up spending the whole evening trying to avoid them both.

  “I’m looking forward to it as well.” Rachel shifted the bag on her shoulder. “But I do need to hurry off. I’m meeting Patrick now, but I’ll see you tonight.”

  Natalie watched until her friend disappeared into the crowd, wondering what she’d seen in her friend’s gaze. It was probably nothing. Rachel had been right. Her own frayed nerves were simply a reaction of the tension everyone felt. By next week the election would be over and things would be back to normal.

  A rooster brushed her legs, and she skirted to the left to avoid stepping on the squawking bird. The owner managed to catch it and mumbled a string of apologies before shoving it back in its cage.

  Natalie laughed at the cackling bird, realizing that this was as normal as life was going to get.

  Spotting a woman selling spices and baskets of fruit two shops down, she slipped into the tiny stall, determined to enjoy the rest of the day. She had nothing to worry about. Just like the UN predicted, the week would pass without any major incidents. And in the meantime, she had enough on her hands.

  She picked up a tiny sack of cloves, held it up to her nose, and took in a deep breath. With the holiday season around the corner, she’d buy some extra. Her mother had sent a care package last week filled with canned pumpkin, chocolate chips, French-fried onions, and marshmallows. This year Natalie planned to invite a few friends over for a real Thanksgiving dinner. Turkey, mashed potatoes, greenbean casserole, pumpkin pie—

  Fingers grasped her arm from behind. Natalie screamed and struggled to keep her balance as someone pulled her into the shadows.

  TWO

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 16, 3:34 P.M.

  KASILI OUTDOOR MARKET

  Natalie’s heart pounded in her ears. She jerked her arm free from her attacker and fell hard against a wooden post supporting the shop’s tin roof. Tiny splinters pricked her forearm as she scraped against the rough wood. Rubbing the tender spot, she peered into the darkened corner behind a fat basket overflowing with ripe mangos to where a young boy hovered in the shadows.

  Natalie paused. There was something familiar about his face. High cheekbones, broad nose, and a scar that jetted across his chin before fading at the jawline. He couldn’t be more than fourteen or fifteen. She dug through the recesses of her mind. She knew this boy.

  He took a tentative step forward. “It’s me, ma’am. Joseph Komboli.”

  Natalie shook her head. “Joseph?”

  “From Maponi. I worked for you.”

  One of my translators.

  Joseph Komboli had helped her communicate with a dozen remote villages in the mountains until someone in the government insisted she focus her efforts on the more densely populated segments of the country.

  The whites of his eyes stood out against his dark face as he looked up at her. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  Natalie reached out her hand to greet him, then noticed a bandage tied haphazardly around his forehead. She tugged him out from the shadows to where light filtered through holes in the tin roof. The cloth was stained with dried blood. “Joseph, what happened?”

  “I…I fell.” He picked up a handful of cinnamon sticks and rubbed them between his fingers, all the time keeping his gaze on her face. Slivers of brown bark crumbled and scattered to the ground.

  “Hey! You will pay for that—”

  Natalie retrieved a handful of coins from her front pocket and thrust them at the angry shopkeeper who’d appeared from out front. Worries of pre-election violence vanished. “You need to see a doctor.”

  “No…I can’t.” He made his way toward the edge of the shop and paused. Raindrops pinged against the metal roof. If they didn’t leave now, they’d be caught in an afternoon downpour. “You don’t…understand.” His voice cracked. “They are gone. All of them.” The patter of rain intensified, as if trying to drown out his voice. “The Ghost Soldiers came…I managed to escape.”

  The words hit Natalie harder than a punch to her gut. She’d heard the rumors. Entire villages vanishing overnight, their inhabitants spirited away to work in slave labor camps that confined them to isolated mines in the mountains. All of which contradicted the government’s assertion that such rumors were false.

  Joseph looked around and took a step toward her, ignoring the stares of the shopkeeper who scrambled to secure her wares from the impending downpour. “They took my family—everyone able to work—and dragged them out of the village. Aina is only seven, and my father…”

  Natalie shuddered at the thought of what a man could do to a seven-year-old girl. But Ghost Soldiers were supposed to be nothing more than rumors…like stories whispered at summer camp about the boogeyman or other fabled monsters that hid under her bed and in her closet while she slept. And while she wasn’t so naïve to think that human atrocities didn’t exist here as they did in places like Sudan and Rwanda, the government had told her they had proof the Ghost Soldiers did not exist. Hadn’t Stephen tried to convince her of the very same thing?

  “But the demographic numbers don’t add up, Stephen. What if the rumors are true and people are disappearing from their villages? Hundreds…Thousands…”

  No. Natalie worked to steady her ragged breathing. Stephen’s calm assurances had been correct. “This is Africa. The government census is an estimate at best. No one verifies the numbers or expects them to be one hundred percent accurate.”

  The numbers didn’t have to add up. There was no such thing as Ghost Soldiers.

 
; But the gnawing thought in the back of her mind remained. Hundreds of people lived isolated in the mountains never to be counted by the government. If they disappeared, no one would know. Their nomadic existence among the mountainous forests did nothing to prove the existence of the Ghost Soldiers. Or disprove it.

  “Ma’am?”

  “I’m sorry.” Natalie pressed her hand against her forehead. “I parked my car in front of the market. Let’s get out of here before we get completely drenched.”

  “But I can’t—”

  “I’m taking you to a doctor, Joseph. Period. Then we’ll talk.”

  Natalie grasped Joseph’s elbow and steered him through the market, past vendors busy securing plastic tarps over their goods and leaky roofs. She didn’t want to admit the fear she’d seen in Joseph’s eyes. She’d known him as a bright young man, eager to work and sympathetic to the people she’d come to help. Today a haunted look hovered behind his gaze.

  A wave of panic swelled in her chest as she unlocked the passenger door of her car just before the heavens let forth their fury. Conversing while driving was impossible. So was calming her imagination. Instead she wove through the muddied streets and focused on getting Joseph the medical care he needed. The front tire of her car hit a pothole as she turned the corner, sending a splash of water toward the row of vendors that edged the street. The windshield wipers clicked each passing second with a steady thump that matched her quickened heartbeat.

  By the time Natalie reached the clinic, the deluge had ended, leaving behind an eerie silence as the sun poked its yellow rays through the darkened clouds once again. She’d have Joseph’s wound stitched up, then take him to a café she knew that served cold soft drinks and decent pastries. She might get home later than planned, but everything, including the food, was pretty much ready for the party.

  She glanced at her passenger, praying she’d find a way to make sense of his rambling about Ghost Soldiers.

  THREE

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 16, 3:58 P.M.

  KASILI HEALTH CENTER

  Chad Talcott checked the drip of the peripheral IV line that contained a dose of diazepam for the young woman who lay motionless on the mattress. Barely ninety pounds, Hanna’s body suffered from a high fever and repeated muscle spasms. He’d diagnosed her with tetanus, caused by the dirty knife used to cut the umbilical cord. It had taken her relatives eight hours to carry her to the clinic and another six for her premature baby to succumb to the disease. And if his fears were correct, Hanna didn’t have long. This was the part he hated: death that stole mothers from their families and pushed babies into the grave before they had a chance to live.

  He crossed the tiled floor and scrubbed his hands in the stainless-steel sink that hung at the end of a row of ten uniform beds. Three other wards, mirroring this one, comprised the majority of the compound funded by Volunteers for Hope International. Temporarily recruited doctors and nurses from the States, Europe, and Australia worked alongside national staff to make a difference.

  Except sometimes a difference wasn’t enough.

  The remote rural areas, in particular, were problematic. There, women gave birth on reed mats on mud floors with no means of sanitation. Tetanus was far too common when traditional midwives had to cope without sterile instruments. Attempts to ensure all childbearing women were vaccinated against the disease had improved the situation over the past five years, but there were still too many women living in outlying areas, often inaccessible to aid workers’ help.

  Chad watched Hanna’s chest rise and fall beneath the worn sheet and prayed that she’d make it. The typical Dhambizan woman had ten pregnancies during her fertile years and was fortunate if a third of her children survived. One out of every twenty mothers didn’t survive childbirth. If that wasn’t enough, malaria and diarrhea were widespread. Water sources ran contaminated when drinking and washing sources doubled as latrines. The list—and suffering—went on and on.

  His glance shifted to the woman next to Hanna, and he reminded himself that there was another side.

  Malaika wouldn’t have survived her difficult delivery lying on a mud floor. At the moment, though, she rested peacefully while her two-day-old baby nursed contentedly at her side. Tomorrow they would both go home.

  Chad rubbed his eyes before returning his gaze to Hanna. His father, always the optimist, had seen hope for this country and had stayed twenty years to prove it. But hope wouldn’t keep this mother of three alive or tell a grandmother that her only living child was going to die.

  Sometimes there was simply nothing anyone could do.

  His stomach growled, and he glanced at the lopsided clock hanging on the wall. All he’d found time to eat today was two bananas and a handful of peanuts—not enough to sustain him through seven surgeries and eight hours on his feet.

  He nodded to the nurse on the other side of the room. “I’m going to take a five-minute break.”

  His twelve years living in the country as a missionary kid, along with all his medical training and two years in one of Portland’s emergency rooms, hadn’t prepared him for work in the Republic of Dhambizao. Just like five minutes of fresh air wouldn’t erase the heaviness he felt in his heart or change Hanna’s situation. But it would clear his head and help him finish the day.

  He slipped through the front door and let the wooden frame slam shut behind him. Beyond the green lawn, bougainvillea covered the eight-foot cement wall surrounding the two-acre compound, splashing orange, pink, and purple against the gray mortar. A breeze brushed against his face but did little to lessen the heavy humidity in the air.

  At the side of the building the generator clicked and he turned to look. The power was off…again. But conditions could be worse. One of his friends worked in a field hospital in Sudan comprised only of inflatable tents. At least the clinic here in Kasili could boast of solid cement walls and a handful of ceiling fans.

  As he lounged against the wall, an attractive white woman, her hand at the back of a young African boy, swept across the sidewalk from the small parking area and up the stairs toward the clinic. Chad tugged on the bottom of his navy-blue scrub top. He’d enjoyed few moments of quiet since his arrival eight weeks ago, and the one he’d just found was obviously over considering he was the only doctor on duty at the moment. “Can I help you?”

  The woman stopped at the edge of the sidewalk. “This is Joseph. I think he might need stitch—” She stopped on the top stair and took a hard look at him. “Chad…Chad Talcott?”

  “Yes?” He stared into her toffee-brown eyes and his hand automatically reached for the ID badge above his left pocket. Then he remembered he’d left it behind in the States along with Dr. Pepper, Doritos, and the Thanksgiving dinner he’d miss next week. “Do I know you?”

  “Natalie Sinclair.” She held out her hand. “If I’m not mistaken, we went to the same high school back in Portland.”

  “You went to Central High? Wow. That was a long time ago.”

  Worry lines etching her mouth softened. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  Natalie Sinclair. He tried to place the name as he shook her hand, but the only image that came to mind was a short, awkward teenager with unruly hair and braces. The woman standing before him was neither short nor gangly. Light makeup, shapely brows, subtle curves beneath her bright yellow sundress…

  Chad cleared his throat. “I remember the name…You helped lead our academic decathlon team to the state championship.”

  “You have a good memory.” She smiled. “And I remember that you were quite the athlete back then.”

  “‘Back then’ being the key words.” Chad laughed. “That was a long time ago. Back home I still manage to run five miles a day and dabble in martial arts, but football’s a thing of the past.”

  She pushed back the lock of damp, coppery hair that had tumbled across her eyes and glanced at the boy. Her smile faded. “Would you mind looking at his wound?”

  Chad greeted Joseph in Dha, which brought a lo
ok of surprise to the boy’s face. He mumbled a response in return.

  Eyeing the bloody wrap that covered a wound, Chad motioned them both inside. “Do you speak English, Joseph?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Well, you happened to catch me during my one free moment all day. Come in and I’ll take a look at what you’ve done to yourself. When did this happen?”

  The boy stared at the floor and shrugged. “This morning.”

  Chad led them inside a small room and had the boy sit on the end of the examination table before pulling on a pair of surgical gloves. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

  Joseph’s chin dipped to the tiled floor. “No.”

  Chad glanced at Natalie, wondering if the boy could speak anything beyond monosyllables. He unwrapped the cloth so he could assess the injury, thankful when he realized it wasn’t too serious. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

  “I…fell outside my village.”

  “How’d you get here?”

  “I got a ride.”

  “Well, that’s a start.” Chad pulled out what he needed from the supply tray. “I’m going to numb the spot, but the stitches still might sting a bit.”

  Chad worked quickly, assessing the boy’s behavior as he cleaned the wound and began stitching. The boy never flinched a muscle, staring straight ahead at a poster about polio that hung on the white wall.

  “There you go,” Chad said once he had finished. “Are you feeling any dizziness?”

  “A little.”

  He checked the boy’s pupils. “What about a headache?”

  “Yes.”

  Chad dropped his penlight into his front pocket. “You’ve got a slight concussion, which means you need to rest for the next twenty-four hours.”