The Good Deed

by Doug Walker

  “And at the same time award you, Andy, with a good deed, an excellent deed, although few will know.”

  “Very few.”

  “Shakespeare says murder will out.”

  “This is more in the way of being an execution, Woody. He also said conscience makes cowards of us all. I have overcome that for the time being, but may live to regret my act, if I live.”

  “You might join me in death?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “Consider my plight, Andy,” Woody said, draining his cup of jungle juice. I hastened to refill both our cups. “And consider other words from the Immortal Bard, nothing is good or bad, but thinking makes it so.”

  My head was beginning to feel a bit light. I wondered if that might be his plan, to watch me pass out and then club me to death. He could then bribe the two brothers.

  “Perhaps you’re right, perhaps my brain is overactive and has shaped you into being something you are not. However, not long ago I read a profile of you in a popular magazine, I forget which one. It was a chilling story, the vast amount of money you have at your disposal, and will have, it keeps piling up, and your generous support of an array of what many people call hate groups.”

  “That profile was unauthorized,” he said sharply.

  “And it will be the death of you. Another reason for the dead security men. What foul tricks fate does play.” I had placed food and water on the stand by his bed. Now I put the flask of jungle juice within his reach. I rose to go. “I’m deeply sorry, Woody. Tomorrow morning. Try to reconcile yourself to the fact.”

  “Let me talk with the boys,” he pleaded.

  “I’m sorry, Woody. We have crossed the Rubicon, or the Niger, or whatever. Good night.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Woody could have crawled off into the bush during the night, but he was smart enough to know he would simply die out there, or we would find him. As it was, he seemed to have imbibed most of the jungle juice and was in a deep slumber when I entered his hut the next morning. Better for him, better for me. No last minute confrontation.

  So I put a .38 caliber bullet through his heart. That stopped his deep breathing and put him in a permanent slumber. Of course the thought of shooting a sleeping man, such a cowardly act, would haunt my dreams. But simply taking human life – was I playing God, or simply judge and jury? No jury would have convicted him. So I could settle for vigilante. Judge Roy Bean. The only law West of the Niger.

  The boys were just outside and I invited them in. Each of them took a shot at his chest. There was little blood and it would have seemed sinful to mar his head. So my good deed was accomplished. It was all over except the consequences.

  We talked about dropping him in the volcano and decided to wait until dusk to avoid all chance of detection. The night before the execution had been restless and dragon haunted. So I repaired to my hut and found deep sleep in my hammock until mid-afternoon. The tension was off, the deed accomplished. But was it over?

  We drove the body to the rim of the crater that evening, carried-dragged it from the trunk and dropped it into the molten lava. A hiss and a spout of steam, the sum total of a notorious life. A puff of steam on its way to hell. I’ll join you soon, thought I.

  “Toguna,” I said. “Is that Woody’s watch you are wearing?”

  “Yes, Andy. It’s a handsome timepiece.”

  “Let me see it.” He handed it over and I tossed it into the volcano. “That watch could have been your death sentence. Highly recognizable, probably worth thousands of dollars, but marked with the stench of death. Others will come. They will find the crash site and search for Woody. I gave the nurse certain information.”

  “I could have sold the watch,” Toguna angrily insisted.

  “It would have been traced to you and to all three of us. That’s why it’s important you use the ATM card for only ten days, then destroy it and move as far away as possible with your gains. Don’t gamble with our lives.”

  “I agree,” Tu said. “I have the card. Ten days.”

  There was good reason not to tarry. The boys loaded their few possessions on the truck, then dropped me off at the river landing and we said goodbye, partners in crime.

  That same evening I boarded a crowded river vessel headed for Timbuktu and settled down among the natives, goats and chickens, the sights and smells of ancient Africa.

  Timbuktu wasn’t far away, except by riverboat. There is a world famous music and fun festival, complete with camel rides, forty-five miles northeast of Timbuktu at a place called Essakane. It’s called the Festival in the Desert, for these are the southern reaches of the Sahara, a word that means desert.

  Knowing I had missed that festival, I would have to put up with the small wonders of Timbuktu. One is the Dyingerey Ber Mosque that dates to the early 14th Century. On days when the electricity is out of whack, the muezzin still climbs aloft to the pyramidal minaret to call the faithful to worship.

  Although the city is a far cry from its glory days hundreds of years ago when caravans from the north supplied West Africa, the explorer’s story is a thing to relish. Between 1588 and 1853 as many as 43 Europeans tried to reach the storied city. Four made it, but only three made it back home.

  Rene Caillie took a year to learn Arabic and study Islam before setting off disguised as a Muslim. He was the first to reach the city and return alive, but his true description as a city that had seen much better days provoked some hard feelings.

  Then there was Heinrich Barth and an amazing five-year journey that began in Tripoli, reaching Timbuktu disguised as a Tuareg, spending the better part of a year there and barely escaping with his life to return home.

  And on and on. As these men were drawn to the city of mystery and delight, so came I. Through the sand blown streets and in and out of shabby watering holes and food stalls I trekked, in splendid isolation, savoring the rhythmic name of that most exotic of cities.

  Then home, to Asheville, North Carolina, itself often called freak city for the varied lifestyles and bizarre behavior of its inhabitants. Add to that, the Paris of the South, or Village East South and a few more clever sobriquets.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  It was a matter of weeks, not days, before they caught up with me. A voice on the telephone. “Bella Harris,” then a substantial pause. “Married to Woodrow Wilson Harris.”

  My turn to hesitate. Finally, “Good day, Mrs. Harris. What can I do for you?”

  “Find Woodrow.”

  “I didn’t know he was lost.”

  “You are very likely the last American to have seen him in Africa.”

  “I left him at a clinic. There were people, a small store, natives, an occasional nurse.”

  “I’ve heard. You might know we have a great deal of money. I’ve sent people looking for him, also looking for you.”

  “I know you have gobs of money, or Woody pretended to. He offered to buy the nurse’s truck.”

  “Why didn’t he?”

  “She’s a nurse, helping sick people in the Mali bush. Her truck is her transportation and carries medical supplies.”

  “A dedicated person.”

  “I suppose. Incidentally, I’m not hiding. I’ve lived at the same address for many years.”

  “Andy Blake. That’s all we had to go on and the fact that you are an American. No home town, no state, nothing.”

  “I really didn’t know you cared. I gave what information I had to the nurse. I’ll be happy to answer your questions.”

  “Good. I’m coming to Asheville. I’ve booked a room at the Biltmore Estate Hotel. I’ll fly in tomorrow and call you from the hotel. We can get together.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t, Mrs. Harris.”

  “Call me Bella. You wish I wouldn’t come to Asheville?”

  “No, stay at the Biltmore Estate. It’s not close to my house and it’s difficult to get into the estate to get to the hotel. Not totally difficult, but they don’t want just anybody driving into the esta
te without paying.”

  “But it’s the hotel.”

  “Not necessarily. The Grove Park is an internationally known resort hotel, fairly ancient by American standards, first drawer, also not all that far from my house.”

  “You must live in a ritzy neighborhood.” Her voice sounded light and friendly. Was this a clever cat stalking a mouse, I wondered?

  “I live in a lunch box section of North Asheville. But it’s not a big town. Call me when you get in. We’ll do lunch.”

  “Yes, by all means, let’s do lunch and maybe even do the morning and afternoon. I have a lot of questions. Africa swallowed poor Woody.” She signed off.

  Poor Woody, I thought. Is he up there looking down, maybe laughing?

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Her call came just before noon the following day and I drove to the Grove Park for our luncheon date. Bella Harris was an attractive woman about my age. I wondered if she had been a trophy bride, but then Woody and I were about the same age, so no prize, but a good-looking, intelligent woman.

  We met in the cavernous lobby, a room that could swallow up a small hotel, with gigantic stone fireplaces at either end, a large patio restaurant with a view out over the meticulously kept golf course and the city and mountains beyond. On a clear day you could hear the angels sing.

  At my suggestion we left the hotel and walked to a nearby restaurant, the Grovewood, a particular favorite of mine. Hunkered down over steaming bowls of clam chowder, the grilling began.

  “Where could Woody have gone?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where did you last see him?”

  “At the clinic, resting and waiting for transportation.”

  “Did he ask for your help?”

  “I had already helped him. Me and two natives pulled his body out of range of the exploding airplane. He would have been incinerated if left alone.”

  “For that I owe you thanks.”

  I shrugged and started in on my chowder. It was delicious and I had heard that the chef spends two days in its preparation. Two days well spent. “You have had professionals looking for him?”

  “I have. To no avail.”

  So the conversation went through lunch, getting nowhere. She did say someone had been using his ATM card and had dates of the last withdrawals in Mopti. She asked if I was in Mopti at that time, which seemed to make me a suspect.

  “I doubt it very much,” I responded. “I traveled through Mopti on the way to the place where the plane crashed. After that I did not return, I was heading east toward Timbuktu, a destination which I did finally reach.”

  “You have proof of that?”

  “I need no proof.”

  “Have a care. You were the last one to see him.”

  “You have a care. I’ll walk you back to the hotel.”

  At the hotel she suggested a cooling-off period and dinner. I suggested we dine on the hotel patio looking over vast expanses of expanses. She agreed. We would meet at 6:30 in the spacious lobby.

  “By the by,” my parting shot for the afternoon, “With all your money and influence, all of your sleuths prancing this way and that at your command, if you can hack into my American Express account you can track my movements through hotel bills.”

  “Well then, bring me your card number and a letter authorizing such entry.”

  I actually laughed. “I’ve set you on the path. Surely your semi-criminal cronies can do the rest. See you at dinner.”

  She smiled and nodded her head.

  I entered the grand lobby that evening, and it was alive with beautiful people. Bella was seated in one of the crafted chairs, a hallmark of the hotel, and rose to greet me.

  “I have reservations on the patio.” She looked radiant in a dinner dress. “I can’t thank you enough for recommending this hotel. I treated myself to a massage this afternoon. Superb.”

  “Asheville has many surprises. You should stick around. It’s a fun town. You look beautiful.”

  “Thanks. So do you. Shall we dine?” She took my arm and we walked to the reservation desk.

  The evening could be described as a good social time. We started with dirty martinis and lingered over them, chatting away about nothing in particular. She went for a steak crusted with truffles, while I had large grilled shrimp with a peanut and vinaigrette sauce, crisp and delicious.

  A strawberry soup with lime sorbet wrapped up the meal. During the meal we knocked off a bottle of Mumm Champagne. Instead of coffee, we decided on a second bottle.

  It was during the second bottle that she disclosed what was on her mind. “I’d like you to go to Mali and find Woody.”

  “Some trick. A job for Jungle Jim, or that Stanley fellow who ferreted out Livingston.”

  “Or someone who’s spent time in Mali. I’ll give you $10,000 plus airfare. What do you think?”

  “After all this time, after you’ve sent experts in there, I think Woody might be dead.”

  “That thought had occurred to me. If he’s dead, I want to find out where he’s buried. It could speed up a declaration of death. You’ve been there. If he was murdered, or died naturally, there would be a body. Even if he perished alone in the jungle, there would be bones. You’re just the one to find them.”

  “Oh, I’m the one. There must be a hundred natives of Mali, people who live near the Niger, who would be better qualified.”

  “Not to my thinking. You and the nurse saw him. The two of you plus those natives who helped pull him from the wreckage. You’re a natural.”

  “It might take a little time and $10,000 seems a bit on the cheap.”

  Bella smiled. She knew she had me hooked. I refilled our champagne glasses. We made another little toast, clicking our glasses. “I thought of that,” she said. “I don’t want to appear to be cheap or easy.” Was she flirting? “Let’s make it $25,000.”

  “A figure I can’t resist.” Now I was flirting.

  “I’m pleased. This is a form of due diligence, you know. I’ll clear it with my accountant, set the wheels in motion. Could we have lunch tomorrow? I’ll probably fly away in the afternoon.”

  “Of course. I’ll pick you up at the hotel, take you to a delightful spot called 12 Bones and then drive you to the airport.”

  And so I agreed to go looking for Woody in Africa. What a job! Would I find him? Stay tuned. One more twist. On the way to the airport, Bella said she planned to go to Paris in a few days, there was a Harris condo there. After my African excursion, the route back to the States would be via Paris.

  My report would be made directly to her over fine Parisian cuisine. It seemed she owned me body and soul. Who was I to play coy?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Landing in Dakar, there was an awful temptation to look up Oumou. We had kept in touch via e-mail. Temptation resisted, I managed to fly into Mopti, that swinging city located at the Inland Niger Delta. Inland deltas are rare. I had never heard of one before. It simply means that the river hits very low country, splits up into several branches and after quite a few miles rejoins into a single stream. Live and learn.

  After a couple of days in Mopti, I boarded a river boat and was dropped off at the same landing that first brought me to the aircrash, Tu and Toguna and Woody. Deja vu!

  After spending several days walking from place to place, chatting with those I met, drinking a little beer and a small amount of jungle juice, I headed back to civilization and eventually to Paris. After a night in a hotel, I joined Bella at her condo.

  The place had an expensive look and it was in the heart of Paris, but neither on the right or left bank, but right in the middle, on the same island in the Seine that provides space for Notre Dame Cathedral.

  “I was worried about you, Andy,” Bella said over coffee. “You could have e-mailed me, or called.”

  “I had nothing to report. No trace of Woody.”

  She didn’t seem the least surprised, but began telling me about her findings. “I did trace your American Express card
and found you were in Timbuktu when Woody’s ATM card was being used in Mopti.”

  I agreed that cleared me of minor crime and told her that I had waited at the clinic and talked to the nurse. “She was sorry Woody had vanished, but could offer no explanation. I gave her your address here in Paris and she promised to contact you if she learned anything during her travels.”

  “That’s a good thing,” Bella said. “It’s like having a friend in Africa, someone who gets around.” Bella sipped coffee and smiled like the cat who had breakfasted on the canary. “Speaking of getting around, during the course of the credit card tracking it seems you spent a few days sharing a room with a lovely young African girl.”

  There were croissants on the table and I buttered one and took a bite before responding. “That’s a different story.”

  “I’m fascinated, June and December romantic liaisons always intrigue.”

  “More like March and December. There is an unreliable train from Dakar to Bamako, the capital of Mali. If one is in luck, it takes thirty-five hours. The young lady in question sat next to me on that lengthy journey. We talked of many things. She was running away from home to join a boyfriend who wasn’t aware of her coming.”

  “I’m shocked. You caused her to give up her boyfriend. What was the inducement?”

  “You could be right, but what I did was strictly unintentional. We talked about her family, her relationship with this young man, her future life. Her parents were at the time attempting to arrange a marriage for her, not unknown in the Muslim world.”

  “You offered wise counsel?”

  I ate more of the croissant and held my head for a moment. “When we arrived she asked me for a favor. She said she wanted to sleep with me. I said that was not possible, that she was a virgin and that she should save herself for marriage. She had told me that she and the boyfriend had kissed.”

  “So she was the aggressor?”

  “You might say so. But then she revealed that she had also slept with her boyfriend several times. She seemed lost and said her boyfriend might not even accept her. I agreed to sleep with her, as if that was an immense favor, if she would let me buy her an airline ticket back to Dakar where she could return to her family.”