Do-Gooder Read online

  “You.” The Slav motioned for Henry to follow him.

  Henry looked to me, but I couldn’t meet his eyes. They were going to question him too. And I couldn’t stop it or change it in any way. I turned away from him and slid to the ground with my back against the rough wall. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes.

  Thump.

  Thump, thump.

  Chapter 12

  I MOVED to the corner of the room. Something about having two sides protected by walls instead of just the one made me feel more secure. A false sense of security, maybe, but I’d take what I could get.

  I couldn’t get warm. It had to be ninety degrees outside, and I couldn’t get warm. Shock or fear? A drastic blood sugar drop? I hadn’t eaten anything since the cassava porridge Mrs. Okono gave us the day before, but I didn’t feel hungry. There wasn’t room for hunger in the mix of everything else fighting for dominance in my body. Even the thought of food….

  I scrambled forward to the bucket that had been tossed in earlier, distantly relieved to see Henry hadn’t needed to use it, as my body heaved. Dry, unproductive heaves, given my empty stomach. Didn’t make them less nasty. My body spasmed repeatedly, and I curled over the bucket, gagging with the need to vomit. Tears streamed down my face minutes later when my body finally decided to give up. Any more and I was likely to throw up my liver or a kidney or something. Given the soreness of my abdomen, I wasn’t entirely convinced I hadn’t lost an organ or two. Maybe my useless pancreas.

  I lay on my side with my knees drawn up nearly to my chest and my arms wrapped around them. My brain ran sluggishly, every word, every thought, floating in gel. Interspaced between each hard-won thought was a single fear: Henry. What were they doing to Henry? Surely Henry had the answers they were looking for? Right?

  And when they got the information they wanted? What then? Would the mercenaries drop us off in the nearest town with cab fare? Sure.

  And where the hell was Chuck? He had to have noticed we didn’t make it to the camp, right? Unless he was so busy saving the world he couldn’t be bothered to save his son.

  The Sahara covered the northernmost part of Cameroon, right? It wasn’t supposed to be in my mouth. I licked my lips, but it didn’t do any good. Still dry as… well, the Sahara. Without much interest, I looked over at the water jug. Water would be good, but… yeah, not worth the effort.

  When would they bring Henry back?

  Why was it so fricking hot?

  Hadn’t I just been cold?

  Whatever.

  I couldn’t keep my eyes open and, after the most disturbing morning ever, I let myself fall asleep.

  I blink the spring sunlight out of my eyes as I peer around the corner of the gym. I am supposed to be in chemistry, but when Wendy didn’t show up for lunch, I knew something was going on. She sits on the bench of the old metro bus stop just off campus. She’d chopped her hair off short yesterday, right at her ears. Not a real haircut, but as if she’d hacked at it with a knife or kitchen scissors or something.

  I sit on the bench next to her, dangling my hands nonthreateningly between my knees. I don’t look at her. I figure it’s better to let her get used to my presence before pressuring her for more than she is ready to give.

  I pretend not to see the gun sitting in her lap.

  “Hey.” I pull a bottle of water out of my backpack—why is the red fabric so bright?—and hold it out for her. I start counting in my head. I reach forty-five before she takes the bottle from me and twists the cap off. She takes the sip, but I swear I taste the clear, filtered water and feel it seeping past my lips and into my dry mouth.

  “So,” I say, “want to talk about it?”

  Her fingernails are bitten down to the quick. She’d even gnawed at her cuticles, which are red and ragged. She shrugs.

  “Is it loaded?”

  My heart stutters in my chest when she engages some mechanism that spits the magazine out of the gun.

  “Why do you need that?”

  A big red bus drives past, splashing through the puddles left by a heavy rain. I blink away the spattering of water and try to wipe the excess moisture from my face.

  When had it rained?

  Another big red bus speeds past, drenching us in more rainwater.

  When my vision clears, I see a figure on the other side of the street. A tall, hulking figure. Sunlight glints off a piece of metal on his chest, and the breeze ruffles the knee-length jacket he wears. The sheriff facing the gunslinger. Or is he the gunslinger? He feels like the bad guy.

  I put my hand over the gun in Wendy’s lap. “Whatever you think you need to do, you don’t. Let me help.”

  Water pours into my mouth again. What the fuck is the deal with these stupid buses? Do they have to hit every damn puddle?

  “Let me help.”

  More water fills my mouth, and I panic, batting at the source of the liquid.

  “Damn it, Isaiah, let me help.”

  I STRUGGLED awake and found myself propped against Henry’s knees as he tried to get me to drink from the jug of water. I sat up, wincing as every joint protested the movement. I held up a hand to stop him. “Are you trying to drown me?”

  “You need to drink,” Henry said, the jug still poised at my face.

  “You couldn’t wake me up first?”

  “I tried. You kept muttering something about water, but you wouldn’t wake up. Your lips are dry and your face is hot, and you’re not sweating. No sweat in this humidity? Dehydration is not a pretty thing.”

  “Yeah, well, dehydration is the least of my worries.” Despite the muttered words, I reached for the jug and took several deep swallows. Still stale. Still warm. Still more refreshing than a pitcher of ice-cold lemonade.

  Henry was here. Which meant he’d returned from his round of questioning. I dropped the jug and only Henry’s quick response kept it from spilling over the ground. “You’re okay?” I searched his face for signs of bruising. There, marring the pretty line of his cheek, a patch of abraded, swollen skin. I traced my fingers alongside the bruising. “They hit you?”

  The left side of his mouth quirked up. “Just once. They hit you too.”

  Yeah. My face throbbed at the reminder. “What do they want?”

  “They never said, not directly. I think there was something in the boxes we picked up at the university.”

  “The canisters?” Even saying the words made me feel like I was part of some Cold War-era spy parody. Like maybe the canisters held microfilm or something.

  “Yeah.”

  “Why do they want them? Drugs, you think?” The idea of traveling through Cameroon with a car full of drugs…. Christ, talk about a recipe for life in an African prison. Of course, looking around, I wasn’t far from there. No bars, but no freedom either.

  “God, I hope not.” Henry outlined his Q&A with Shorty. From what he told me, it sounded like they had asked Henry the same questions they’d asked me. Henry knew a bit more than me—for example, he could tell them that we picked up the cases from Claude Behgha in the Sciences building at L’Université de Yaoundé, details I couldn’t provide.

  I lowered my voice. I didn’t think anyone was listening in, but what did I know? “Did you tell them about Mrs. Okono?”

  Henry leaned close. “No, I left her out of it. You know that’s where the stuff went, right?”

  “You don’t think she’s involved, do you?”

  “Mrs. O? Nah. She’s good people. I can’t imagine she’d be part of this. But remember those footprints? Someone must have gotten into the Range Rover and removed the canisters, whatever they are.”

  My dry tongue swept across my equally dry lips. I lifted the water jug and took another swallow. My stomach growled, completely at odds with the earlier dry heaves and the nausea that still roiled in my belly.

  Henry’s eyes darted to mine, and he sucked in a breath. “Shit.” His hand patted at my side and fumbled to lift the edge of my T-shirt. “Damn, damn, damn. They took your insuli
n pump yesterday, didn’t they?”

  I pushed aside his hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

  His face was pale in the dim light of the hut. “What do you mean, don’t worry about it? What happens if you don’t get your insulin?”

  Shrugging, I said, “Depends on whether they feed us or not.”

  “Look at me,” he demanded.

  I hadn’t realized I’d been avoiding his gaze. Not that I was going to make eye contact now.

  Henry reached over and guided my face around, tipping my chin up until I was forced to meet his eyes. “What’s going to happen?”

  “I don’t know. It’s never happened to me before,” I said, hoping Henry would accept it.

  Of course he wouldn’t. “Seriously, Isaiah.”

  Maybe if I pissed him off he’d let it go. “You’ve worked in a clinic for almost two years. Shouldn’t you know this kind of stuff?”

  Henry scowled. “I’m an aide, a gofer, not a doctor.”

  I sighed. “Without the pump and without food? Diabetic ketoacidosis, probably.”

  “Which means?”

  “Well, according to my doctor, it means my body will, essentially, poison itself. Without sugar to burn, and without the insulin to regulate it, fat and protein cells will break down, causing a nasty chemical reaction in my body. Dehydration for sure. Depending on how long it lasts, there could be delirium, coma. You know, fun times.” I didn’t mention the possibilities of death, liver disease, or brain damage. That way I wouldn’t have to think about it either. Or something like that.

  “How soon?”

  “I don’t really know.” That was a fib. Actually, it was a bold-faced lie. I’d hit crisis point soon—I could last maybe a week, two at the most—if I was lucky. Too bad nothing about any of this had been lucky.

  “What do we need to do?”

  Suddenly I was angry. I liked anger better than fear. “What can we do? Short of getting my insulin back, I’m pretty well screwed.”

  “So we get your insulin back.”

  I flopped back onto the hard ground. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re sort of hostages here. It’s not like I can walk out and request my backpack. They’ve probably already trashed it.”

  “Why can’t we?”

  I jerked back up, ignoring the protesting muscles of my back and stomach. Dry heaves were a bitch. “Excuse me?”

  “Why can’t we? Why can’t we walk out and ask for your backpack?”

  “Um, in case you missed it, there are several big, bad, and bald men out there with scary guns. Guns, I might add, they like to point at us. Besides,” I added, “I’ve already asked.”

  “What are they going to do if I ask too? Shoot me?”

  “Maybe!” Dread was a physical entity, squeezing my throat. “Don’t be stupid, Hank,” I croaked out as he stood and walked to the door. “Please, don’t.”

  Henry knocked on the door before crossing his arms over his chest.

  The door swung open and the barrel of a gun appeared, closely followed by the man with snakelike green eyes. “Stand back,” he ordered. Even his French-accented voice was snakelike, with a sibilant emphasis on the S sound.

  Henry took two steps back and watched the creepy guy with enviable calm.

  “What do you want?” Snake Eyes asked.

  “We had a red backpack when we were… taken.”

  “So?”

  “Can we have it?”

  Snake Eyes snorted and started to step away from the open door.

  “Wait!” Henry reached forward, stopping at the last second when Snake Eyes raised his gun a few inches. “Why can’t we have the pack? There’s nothing in it that could do any damage.”

  “Then why do you want it?”

  Clearly Snake Eyes didn’t care. I wasn’t really sure he even paid attention. His assessing, reptilian eyes traveled up and down Henry’s body in a way that left me cold. Snake Eyes’s tongue darted out to lick his lips. I shuddered. Gross.

  “It’s got some medication that I need.”

  Why did Henry claim the meds were for him? And how did he keep his voice so calm? I was jittery as hell, and the guard hadn’t even looked at me. I closed my eyes. Damned do-gooder. Stupid, self-sacrificing son of a bitch. He did it on purpose, deliberately keeping the guard’s focus away from me.

  My vision swam and staticky flashes of numbness rippled through me. Anger? Fear? DKA?

  “Medication? You must want it very badly, yes?” Those cold green eyes narrowed and thin lips twisted into a mockery of a smile. “What will you trade for the backpack?”

  Neither Henry’s body language nor voice changed. “As you can see,” he said, gesturing around the empty room, “I don’t exactly have anything to barter.”

  Maybe that’s how Henry had survived as long as he had on the street. Putting up this cool, confident front, not showing his insecurity or fear. I wished I had that kind of skill. On the other hand, it made him kind of hard to read. Who was the real Henry? The do-gooder who worked at a refugee camp and who good-naturedly practiced his French with university clerks? The charming guy who flirted harmlessly with Mrs. Okono? The angry, defensive guy who dared a person to judge his past? The calm, cool guy who showed no fear?

  I liked all versions of Henry. And could there be a worse time to crush on someone?

  Snake Eyes licked his lips again. “We could come to an agreement, I think.” He cupped himself crudely.

  “No way. Absolutely not!” I wanted to barf, and it had nothing to do with diabetes or dehydration or whatever other health issues I dealt with. I glowered at Henry. “You even think about it, I’ll kick your ass.”

  Henry whipped his head around and glared at me. At me! Like I was the one who’d said something inappropriate. I snapped my mouth closed. He turned his attention back to Snake Eyes. “Any chance we’ll get some food? Or do you guys intend to starve the hostages?”

  Snake Eyes snorted and shook his head. This time, when he swung the door closed, Henry didn’t try to stop him.

  Chapter 13

  AS DARKNESS shadowed the room—a result of the descending sun—activity resumed outside. I hadn’t realized until then things had quieted down during the height of the sun’s heat. Now the murmur of voices and the rev of engines livened the place up a bit.

  “What’s the deal with you and my dad?”

  Henry looked at me from where he sat on the opposite side of the hut. We’d each drifted to our own side of the building as the afternoon progressed. Our water bottle hadn’t been filled or replaced, and they hadn’t fed us anything yet. I didn’t know if they planned on starving us, or if they knew they were going to kill us. After all, if we were slated to die anyway, why waste the food? I’d decided that my shakiness and dehydration were natural reactions to the heat and lack of food. Sure, the diabetes played a part, but the heat, humidity, and lack of water would have affected anyone. He didn’t say anything, but I could tell Henry was having similar difficulties. Sweat covered his body, and his lips were dry and cracked. His head rested against the wall and his eyes were closed, but I knew he was awake.

  “What do you mean?” He didn’t open his eyes when he asked.

  “I mean, you’re so… so… you’re like the Dr. Martin fan club. It’s almost like you idolize him. I’m just curious as to why.”

  “He’s a good man,” Henry said.

  I interrupted before he could say anything else. “But what does that mean? Good is relative. Good men don’t ignore their children. So good doesn’t mean anything to me. What does it mean to you?”

  “My first day at the camp,” Henry said, his eyes still closed, “there were three of us new volunteers, and he needed someone to help him out. He picked me. These other two volunteers were recent college graduates. One was premed, the other in civil engineering. Both were eager, practically begging for the chance to do something good.” He opened one eye and stared at me when he said it, then closed it again. “Then there was me, the runaway rent
boy. He was the first person to ever actually pick me. For anything. There was no reason for him to, no advantage that I brought, but he chose me.”

  He looked up, his face serious. “He’s been the father I didn’t have, the coach, the mentor. He sees me for who I am, accepts me, and helps me be a better person. I don’t know why you and he haven’t talked in all these years. I don’t have that story, but I do know that he loves you, and misses you more than you can know.”

  I snorted, but my heart wasn’t in it. I swallowed, afraid to ask the next question, but desperate to know. “How do you know that?”

  “He doesn’t have many personal possessions. In fact, he’s got five things that don’t have anything to do with the clinic or the work at the camp. That’s it. Five things. One is a picture of him, your mom, and you sitting on a big rock. You had to be maybe four or five.”

  I bit my lip, trying to stave off the prickling at the back of my eyes. I remembered that picture. We were on a day trip in the CAR, and we’d talked someone into taking our photo. It was the closest thing we had to a family portrait. I have a copy of that photo buried somewhere in a box in my closet.

  “The second is a school picture of you. He said it was your first official school picture.”

  I remembered that picture too. The minute the package of photos arrived from the photographer, I’d carefully cut out the five-by-seven image and put it into the frame that Mom wrapped in a padded envelope and mailed to Dad. I had hoped maybe if he saw it, he might come to us in Milwaukee, or, if not that, ask us to come back to Africa. I believed, I really, truly believed, that the photo would bring us together again.

  I never sent him another photograph after that.

  “The third is a baby picture of you as a newborn.”

  I wanted to tell him to stop. I couldn’t face it. I couldn’t take any more.

  “The fourth is a picture of you from your middle school graduation.”

  Mom hadn’t told me about that one. I always thought a middle school graduation was kind of silly. It wasn’t like you actually finished something. There were still four years of school left; the only difference was where you went. But it was a milestone, and Mom had shared it with him.