Lipstick in Afghanistan

by Roberta Gately

  Abby sat back on her heels and tried to think of what to do. She was a pediatric nurse, but she knew traumatic death when she saw it. The woman’s bracelet sparkled in the streetlight’s glow, and though Abby wanted to look away, she found herself riveted by the flashing gems.

  “You!” A menacing voice cut through the quiet, and Abby looked up to see the man who’d thrown the woman. He was leaning far over the balcony, his hands planted firmly on the ledge. He teetered there for only an instant. “Don’t move!” he shouted, and Abby rose and stepped away from the body.

  “You!” he called again. “Stay there—I’m coming down!”

  Abby’s heart thumped wildly, and her eyes scanned the street. Surely, someone had heard the commotion, but the street remained empty, making the quiet seem all the more sinister.

  Where was everyone? She had to get help. She stepped back and looked warily around. Should she run? Should she hide? She couldn’t think. There wasn’t time. She wouldn’t get far out in the open. She hurriedly looked for a place to hide. A row of full, unclipped hedges bordered the building just to her left, and she pushed her way through them to a spot low against the wall. She crouched low, pressed against the granite, willing herself to be invisible.

  She huddled and waited, and then he appeared in the doorway, looking around, his head twitching as his eyes scanned the street. Abby watched as he bent over the body, pulling at something on the woman. Suddenly he stood and turned. Abby pushed herself against the old building and watched through the tiny gaps in the lush shrubbery. She tried to memorize the details of him—his slight build, the soft woolen sweater in a charcoal hue, the thinning gray hair. The man hesitated, then walked right toward the hedges where Abby hid. She held her breath and her thoughts raced. Did he see her? Surely he could hear the pounding of her heart. The street was still empty, Geneva was not yet awake. Even if she screamed, no one would hear her cries for help.

  His footsteps drew closer. She held her breath and prayed for the pounding in her heart to stop. . . .

  Abby crouched lower and watched as, inexplicably, he walked right past the shrub where she cowered. He hadn’t seen her after all. She listened as his footsteps faded and moved away. Abby squinted and kept him in her line of sight as he peered up and down the street, searching, she was certain, for her. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone, furiously punching in numbers. He turned then, and almost facing her, he spoke into the phone, his tone urgent and forceful.

  “Allez, allez!” he barked. “Tu comprends?” He scratched at his head, his eyes locking then on the body in the street, and almost in response his voice rose, a swelling anger evident in his tone. “Immédiatement!” he shouted, turning abruptly. Abby watched as he headed back to the building, his footsteps fading, his silhouette lost in a sudden surge of steam from the grates. He disappeared into the building from which he’d just emerged.

  Abby didn’t hesitate. This might be her only chance to escape, and she sprang to her feet, pushing through the hedges before taking flight, running madly through the streets and back to her hotel. After what seemed an eternity, she spied the smiling Claude at the door. Panting, she almost fell into him.

  “Oh, miss, slow down. You’ve had a good run?”

  “Oh, Claude, call the police!” Abby gasped for air. “Something terrible’s happened.”

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