Sacrifice Page 4

  At least they didn’t give me any painkillers. Can’t afford to be both injured and sluggish.

  She tried putting weight on her right leg and found that the pain was bearable by her standards. She was mobile. She went in search of clothing but was prepared to make her exit in the undignified gown if she had to. There was a noise at the door to the hall. Maliha slipped into the bathroom and pulled the door closed so that she could just see out.

  “Miss Winters?” It was a nurse checking on her.

  Maliha used the identity Marsha Winters as her public identity, the one who actually worked and provided a livelihood that justified a wealthy lifestyle. Marsha was a novelist who wrote popular pulp-fiction books featuring Dick Stallion, intrepid adventurer and crime solver who galloped through his cases with his libido leading the way. Her income as a novelist, while substantial, was a just a cover story for the massive wealth accumulated over centuries of collecting and investing, everything from pirate booty to precious gems to stock purchases. She’d had three hundred years to amass a fortune, and her methods in the days when she’d been a demon’s slave weren’t always pure. In fact, they’d rarely been pure.

  “I’m Winters, right here.” Maliha stepped out of the bathroom and sat down on the bed.

  “How are you feeling? You should probably not be out of bed until the doctor approves.”

  “I had to pee. How are my friends?”

  “You are in the finest new hospital in Khartoum,” the nurse said, straightening her back and lifting her chin with pride. “Fedail Hospital. You and your friends are receiving top-quality care. Your woman friend is in the ICU. The man is with her most of the time.”

  Khartoum. I came out on the evac copter then. I don’t remember that. I must have been out cold.

  “I need to change your dressings. Would you lie down please?”

  Maliha remained seated. “Who do I need to see to pay my bill?”

  “I hear from others that you have already paid, plus made a donation to the hospital’s good works. Do I need to call an aide to ensure your cooperation?”

  Amaro must have sent money. Lots of it.

  Amaro Reese was the second of Maliha’s loyal trio of friends, the people who knew Maliha’s story and had joined her struggle. It didn’t hurt that she’d saved all their lives, too. Amaro and his sister Rosie were Brazilian orphans brutalized by gang members until Maliha intervened. She brought the two to America, where Amaro discovered his knack for all things computerized and Rosie discovered her knack for having babies. She was married and had recently given birth to her third child.

  Maliha locked eyes with the nurse, who was a middle-aged woman with a no-nonsense demeanor. “I have to leave now,” Maliha said. “Is there a robe or clothing in the room? Otherwise I will leave in this immodest way.”

  The nurse moved to a phone by the door. Switching from English to Arabic, assuming that her American patient wouldn’t understand, she requested a security guard in the room.

  Maliha sighed. It would be easier to go along than make a fuss, and there were patients in nearby rooms she should consider. Some of them might be disturbed if she got tough with the guard. “Okay, you don’t need a guard. See, I’m lying down now.”

  “Thank you.” The nurse changed the dressings and commented that Maliha was healing well.

  “Due to your top-quality care. Now, the clothing?”

  “Right here.” She handed over a zippered bag from a drawer nearby. “This is not a good idea until the doctor releases you.”

  Maliha deftly wrapped the length of red and yellow cotton inside the bag around her body like a sari, but left her head and face exposed for now. It wasn’t the first time she’d worn desert garb.

  “Where are the things I came in with?”

  “The man took them.”

  Getting in to see Glass in the ICU took some persuading, but finally she fell into a chair next to Hound at her bedside.

  “It’s good to see you,” she said. Some of the tension went out of his body when he heard her voice. The niche next to Glass was empty, and Hound had taken over the space. He’d pushed the empty bed out into the middle of the workspace, forcing someone to move it away.

  At least I hope the bed was empty. He might just do that with someone in the bed, though.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  “Me? I’m okay. Some damn nurse keeps pestering me about my dressing, though. You look good in that outfit.”

  “Really? I never thought yellow and red were my colors.”

  He smiled, and it warmed her heart. Hound was doing okay.

  She noticed that he was slanted in his chair, his shoulders more uneven than usual, favoring his left side. He was wearing several layers of gowns, alternating opening in the back and opening in the front, and a robe over that. Changing his dressing would have been a major excavation job just to get down to skin level.

  His eyes reassured her she needn’t worry about him. She turned her attention to Glass. She looked far better than the last time Maliha had seen her. Pristine white blankets concealed everything but her neck and face. No twisted legs visible, no limp hand, no ripped clothing. She was awake, although groggy with painkillers.

  “Glass, can you hear me?” Maliha said.

  Glass’s head turned toward her, but without any sign of recognition. She murmured something Maliha couldn’t make out.

  “What’s she saying?”

  “I think it’s ‘canteen.’ That’s about all she says, plus something else that sounds like ‘dead.’ We figure she’s either delirious or thinks she’s still in the desert or something. I don’t think she’s physically thirsty. With all those la-la drugs and fluids they’re pumping into her, there’s no telling what’s she’s saying.”

  Hound put his face to Glass’s ear. “It’s okay, everything’s going to be all right.”

  He straightened up and motioned for Maliha to step out of the room with him. She did, and they talked in the hall.

  “I don’t want her to hear us, in case she’s awake enough. There’s a chance she’ll lose her left hand,” Hound said. “Her legs are in temporary traction splints. She’ll probably need several surgeries on her legs but since there wasn’t any major bleeding, other things have to come first. The problem is the head injury. A CT scan detected a small amount of bleeding in her brain. Right now it’s not a big problem, but pressure could build up.”

  “A subdural hematoma.”

  Hound nodded. “The doctor says he doesn’t think there’s major brain damage underneath it.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “I don’t know about continuing to treat her here. They did all right patching her up from the field, but for the complicated stuff, I don’t know. Could be okay, could be not. I want her to have the best chance. I’d like to take her to that clinic you arranged for me the time my hand got crushed. I have confidence in them.”

  Maliha nodded. “Clinique des Montagnes. Is Glass safe to transport?”

  “As far as I can tell from the docs here, yeah, although I’m worried about the altitude and the brain swelling. But it’s got to be done soon.” His eyes dropped to the floor. “Uh, there’s a problem. A guy like me can’t afford—”

  “Enough. You don’t have to ask.” She stood up. “I’m going out to find a phone. I’ll be back soon.”

  The clinic, hidden away in the Swiss Alps, catered to the rich from all countries. Outside those circles, the place didn’t exist. Marsha Winters called and informed them that she was checking in a family member and his wife as soon as she could get them there. She gave a brief description of the situation.

  “Do they both need to be treated by Dr. Corvernis?”

  There was one doctor on staff who treated her and was sworn to secrecy about it, guaranteed not to reveal anything due to the perfect snare she’d trapped him in: she gave him money for his clinic and kept silent about a scandal in the doctor’s past that she was aware of from a previous life of hers. D
r. Corvernis provided medical support for Maliha without questioning her healing prowess. A few times she’d recovered from broken bones at the clinic, treating her stay like a luxury resort with a little health care thrown in.

  “No. The woman I’m bringing is a kidnap victim with multiple traumas. She’s been treated physically here in Khartoum, but I suggest you start from the beginning. There is some question about her transport. I need to have one of your doctors contact the hospital here and give the okay. The man is her…husband, and he has a gunshot wound. Bring in any specialists you need. I’ll have this hospital send her CT scan. You’ll send the jet, right?”

  The clinic had a private jet that picked up and delivered patients.

  “Pick up location?”

  “Fedail Hospital in Khartoum. We’ll need a copter to the airport. Transportation is to be secure and discreet. I want a full emergency medical team on board.”

  “No problem. I’ll have our transportation director make the arrangements himself.”

  Back in the ICU, an hour went by while she and Hound talked quietly.

  She told him everything she’d done in Darfur, through taking a horse and pursuing the Janjaweed, and the attack with the militiamen clustered around her.

  “I got hit on the head,” she said. “I don’t remember anything after that.”

  “Then let me take it from there. When I saw you next, the evac copter was twenty feet off the ground and all of a sudden you appeared at the end of the clearing with a lit flashlight tied to your belt. We touched back down for you.”

  The centurion bent down, the crosswise brush on his helmet elegant and untouched by the gore of battle. Stars sparkled in the sky behind him. He sheathed the sword and leaned toward her.

  “I must have gotten away but with a concussion from being stoned. When I got to the clearing, I collapsed.”

  Hound nodded slowly. “Plausible, especially since you’re not going to tell me the real story. After the evac, I sent a team back to finish off anyone who was left and search the place in general. They were all already dead. So you killed them all after they had you on the ground throwing stones at you? With a concussion? You’re good, woman, but maybe not that good.”

  Maliha was ready to sputter and deny that she wasn’t telling him the real story, but Hound waved the subject away.

  “Keep your secrets. I’ve sure as hell got mine.”

  Relieved, she nodded. “We have twelve or thirteen more hours to wait for the jet to get here. I think we should both try to get some sleep.”

  “You go ahead. I’ll wait here and just sleep in my chair. Hope my snoring doesn’t disturb anybody.”

  “You don’t snore.”

  “How do you know? You’ve never stayed around long enough to find out.”

  Not true. I’ve watched you sleep for hours. I just wasn’t there when you woke up.

  She and Hound had been lovers, since long before Maliha knew about his relationship with Glass. As Hound and Glass headed toward marriage, Maliha had eased out of the picture. She’d had enough of love triangles in her lengthy life and was always the one to duck and leave.

  Back in her room, Maliha slept ten dreamless hours and popped awake suddenly, with the feeling that she’d just put her head on the pillow a few seconds ago. In the ICU she found Hound asleep in his chair and sat next to him. When she got news that the jet had arrived, she shook him gently.

  A buzz of activity began to prepare Glass for transport. When things got busy, Hound handed her a couple of duffel bags and asked her to bring them while he located some clothes.

  “I’m gonna strip one of these doctors if they don’t have a decent pair of pants around here. I’m not wearing one of those wraparound things you have on.”

  Maliha moved out of the way and examined the contents of the bags. Inside, Glass’s clothing had been tossed in, down to the boots she’d worn, her medic’s vest, and her blood-spattered shirt and trousers.

  In a separate bag next to Glass’s, Maliha found her throwing knives, whip sword, and pistol. Hound’s search team must have brought them out. She rested her hands lightly on them, feeling the familiar textures under her fingertips, glad that Hound had arranged this for her.

  Digging around in Glass’s bag, she came across her survival gear. Among the items was a canteen. Maliha remembered Glass talking about a canteen. She picked it up and shook it. There was a sloshing sound from inside, but it sounded like something thick, like Jell-O that hadn’t quite set yet.

  Maybe she’s not delirious. Maybe there’s something important about this canteen.

  Maliha was curious and started to open the canteen. She twisted the cap until it was almost off, then thought better of it. Glass might have added something to the water, or done something else to it, that was important.

  Something that could condemn the Janjaweed even further and draw attention to Darfur. It’s worth a try.

  Maliha asked a nurse for a bag that would seal, a medical isolation bag. With the canteen safely preserved, she prepared the rest of Glass’s possessions for shipment back to the U.S.

  She called Amaro. After telling him the latest news, she asked where her private jet was.

  “You mean you don’t know?”

  “It’s never where I want it to be, when I want it. Just check, would you?”

  She heard the tapping of keys.

  “It’s in Cairo, where you left it six weeks ago. Do you even know where I am, or did you misplace me, too?”

  “Of course I know where you are. You’re in Seoul at some conference.”

  There was silence, meaning she’d gotten it correct. “As for the jet, I would have made it back there sometime. Tell the pilot, Jackson I think, to come here and pick up some things I want flown back to Chicago. The package—it’s a duffel bag—will be left with the clinic receptionist. Remind him he has to get permission to land here. Tell the pilot I want that duffel bag delivered to the University of Chicago medical school, professors Tyson and Claire Rainier. I’ll get in touch with them so they know to expect the bag.”

  “What’s so important about this duffel bag that it gets a private jet across the Atlantic?”

  “It’s just some beat-up clothes with Janjaweed cooties on them, plus some kind of strange desert glop. I’d rather preserve them now than wish I had done so later. Maybe they’ll be evidence.”

  Amaro snorted. “Like you’re going to bring the Janjaweed to international justice? Get real, Maliha. Besides, the men who beat up Glass are dead.”

  “There are more where those came from.”

  Amaro sighed. “Okay, I’ll take care of it. How’s everyone doing?”

  “You know about Glass. Hound has a bullet wound, and I’m missing a pound of flesh.”

  “What?”

  She told him about her injury.

  “Well, no bikini for you for a while.”

  “My thoughts exactly. Listen, I haven’t had a chance to make plans for the other women who were abducted along with Glass. I want excellent care for them, physical and mental, and I want resettlement somewhere that isn’t in a refugee camp. See if they have relatives elsewhere. If not, figure something out.”

  “I will. I’ll follow up and keep following up. I should probably fly in there. We can’t undo the trauma they’ve been through but we can make a fresh start for them.”

  “Don’t forget they are widows now. Even if their husbands are alive, they won’t have them back. The younger girls are orphans. Same thing, with their parents.”

  “I understand what you’re saying. I’ll do the best I can.”

  Next she phoned Ty. There was no answer, so she left a message. “Ty, it’s Marsha. I’m sending you and Claire something to analyze for me. Some kind of goo in a canteen.” As an afterthought, she said, “Be careful with it. See you soon.”

  She hurried out the door and made it to the roof just as the helicopter arrived. It was an uneventful trip to the airport.

  With Glass settled abo
ard the jet and the clinic’s medical team fussing over her, they took off into the night sky. Hound promptly fell asleep. Maliha withdrew to the rear of the cabin, determined to alleviate her thigh pain, which had grown worse with increased movement and her lack of attention to it. She estimated it would be about four days before the edges of the wound closed, leaving a pocket underneath to heal at a slower pace.

  Closing her eyes, she began to meditate as Master Liu, her Ageless martial arts instructor, had taught her a long time ago. First she slowed and deepened her breathing, then relaxed muscle groups in her body. After reciting mantras about healing and the perception of pain, she reached the deepest level of her meditation. Mentally, she turned on one of the concentration points she used, an infinity symbol that pulsed with a golden glow that matched her lowered heartbeat.

  Pain receded from her mind. Focusing all her attention on the infinity symbol, she let it expand into the dark corners of her thoughts. With her senses tuned in to the throbbing glow, she opened her mind to whatever experience came her way. This time, she had an unusual vision of walking on the surface of her brain. Under her feet was a rainbow, with each successive color of the spectrum lighting up and clicking into place as she traversed it. When she had all the colors in place, they melded into white and the radiance extended outside her skull, further and further into the world, then beyond the conscious plane. She had created the experience of a fully realized being, if only for a while. It was good imagery that left her refreshed and with less pain.

  For several days at the clinic, Maliha did nothing but heal, write, support Hound, and be frustrated because the Rainiers were away at a conference and hadn’t done any analysis on the canteen sample.

  Glass was gradually weaned off the barbiturates that had kept her in a coma while her brain swelling decreased. One evening when Maliha entered her room, Glass was not only sitting up, but chatting as though she wanted to make up all the time she been in the coma in one evening.

  If Maliha didn’t look too hard, she wouldn’t notice that the arm tucked under the cheery blanket covered with daisies had no hand and the legs under that blanket were extra large due to casts. Hound was beaming, his lopsided grin showing more teeth than a beauty contest winner.