Night Must Wait (42 page)

Gilman had once told Lowenstein that she thought she was being followed by a Yoruba man, and he'd invited her to his home in Deerfield and his matronly wife for dinner and asked a few questions that even now made her uneasy. He must not have believed her then. Too much to expect him to believe all that she would have to explain, especially what she would have to say of Lindsey.

Purest paranoid fantasy. Bring on the prescriptions, bring on the psychoanalysis. Not quite straightjacket level but getting there. Ever since that one slip, she'd held back. But none of this had importance now. Rescuing Wilton took precedence.

"Yeah, I know, Lowenstein," she said, not looking at him. "When I'm ready to rip off the scabs, I'll tell you. I appreciate the offer."

Lowenstein fingered a sheet of paper on his desk.

"Well," he said. "Are you ready to go?"

"Now? Today?"

"Yes. Now. Today." He looked at her and smiled. "You see," he said, as if he could not resist the opportunity to bait her, "I thought I knew my patient."

Gilman brushed an unruly curl of hair from her sticky forehead. The tide of panic rose with each step up the stairs. Pastel-pink walls, gray steps, she tried to distract herself with the ugliness. Wilton hated pink. With that thought, she felt better. She tried to slow her steps, realizing that she was racing up the stairs, and felt for the first time how quickly her breath came and the pound of her pulse. It seemed louder than the Muzak floating through the halls. Impatience mastered her. She hurried on.

So what if she disobeyed Lowenstein's order to wait downstairs in the office. Hell, she was a doctor too. He tried to protect her. She thought in that unguarded moment of Tom, and stopped. Protecting didn't work. No one could ever do that. Forcing herself on, she reached the top of the flight and looked down a long naked corridor. Hyperventilating, she derided herself and went on. She almost passed the open door before she caught herself and swung around.

Everyone in the room wore white except for Lowenstein. Her gaze went to him in his casual and comforting blue jacket, then to the small figure at his side. She barely registered the horror that passed over Lowenstein's face. She stepped toward them, her stare locked on Wilton.

"Doctor," Lowenstein said. Warning her, pushing her back with his voice.

Wilton straightened, gaunt face lifting. Enormous black eyes found Gilman and lost the dull placidity of drugs in an abrupt transformation.

"Wilton." She felt the name tear from her throat. She stopped. "It's me. Gilman."

Wilton stiffened, her lips drawing back from her teeth. When Wilton tore free of Lowenstein's restraining hands to hurl herself to the floor, Gilman stepped back.

Wilton clawed the floor, beating at the waxed surface with both hands, breath coming in gasps, short nails breaking against the linoleum. Gilman thought she heard a tile snap just before the orderlies pinned Wilton's arms. They dragged Wilton to her feet, her head thrashing. But she made no words, only the harsh moan of her breathing.

Gilman stood rigid, taking in the wide eyes and crooked mouth, a thin smear of spittle oozing down the chin. Already the right cheekbone darkened with the promise of an enormous bruise. The last startling detail was the close-cropped black hair, so thickly mixed with white. Wilton with a crew cut. God.

"Doctor Gilman," Lowenstein said.

Gilman turned to him, fighting back the need to strike someone, to hurt whoever had done this.

"Doctor Gilman," Lowenstein said again softer now, as if reminding her of who she was. A doctor should never run. A doctor had control. "Go down to the office and wait."

She found herself complying, like a bad dog. She forced her feet to move, to carry her through the doorway, and stumbled down the corridor alone.

After the long ride, hands jammed into her pockets, Gilman stood on the walk and watched Lowenstein and an orderly lead Wilton off. There were a few lights on in the modern wing the Lowensteins had added to their farmhouse. Each window of the private hospital cast its yellow square on the broad black expanse of lawn. Somewhere a door opened and closed, but the smallness and distinctness of the sound only emphasized the rural silence. She nudged her suitcase with one foot, nervous, reassured by the familiar scrape of Samsonite on concrete.

A figure from the dark impinged on her vision and Gilman spun to meet it.

"Did I startle you, Doctor? You look as if you'd seen a ghost."

Gilman had to smile even if it hurt.

"There's a lot of that going around."

Mrs. Lowenstein's round cheerful face stilled briefly, but Gilman knew she had long training in how not to pry. A man came striding up, and she stared, for he was surely African, casually dressed as if he might be a groundskeeper. He smiled at her the full pleased smile that she'd never seen on the face of an American black and took her suitcase.

"You must be exhausted. Alan will show you the arrangements. Every room has several assistance pulls, for any need at any time. I bet you'd like to go to bed, especially since I hear you've got to leave us and be back at work tomorrow, but I have strict orders to put you in the library until Alan can come back and report on your friend. Of course, that can't wait until morning. I should warn you that he will dawdle over his patients. Once it took him two hours to give someone an aspirin," she said with pride.

"We were late to a dinner party over an aspirin. Don't ever marry a doctor, dear. But I guess you're the last person I should say that to? Not that I don't admire you. Wouldn't change a thing about doctors, really. But I want you to know it isn't my idea you can't go straight to your room."

She loved the feeling of Lowenstein's study—though the fireplace stood cold and dark, the rest of the room had the warmth of old wood and books. She wondered what it would be like if she made a place of comfort for herself here in America. An old farmhouse like this with rest in it, and peace. For a few minutes she managed to believe in the possibility. She turned when Lowenstein opened the door and came in.

"Not much to tell you, Doctor," Lowenstein said. "No more than the obvious. Withdrawn, malnourished. Broke a finger on the floor this afternoon when she went into fugue. Give me a while to see what I can add to the file."

"Of course," Gilman said.

She found it hard to say the next thing, but made herself go on.

"I apologize," she said. "I shouldn't—"

"Too late for that," he said, "I should have known you wouldn't wait for us. That was my fault."

She would have contradicted him but he spoke first.

"Shut up, Doctor Gilman. If you want to make me happy, you know what I want. You're still living in blackest Africa in your head and until you have the guts to talk about it with someone, you'll never leave. Now that's enough for tonight, isn't it?"

"Yes sir," she said, angry again at him for prodding a sore spot. Therapy about Africa? Like it was a disease to be cut out of her? He had no idea and he didn't believe the few things she'd said anyway. At least Wilton would be safe in his hands—of that she felt sure.

"You have a Nigerian on your staff. The man who took my suitcase?"

"Bothers you? His name is Leviticus Johnson. There's a community of Nigerians in the next town over, started with a fellow brought over for high school by a missionary some time back. This is his cousin who picks up odd jobs."

"How can it not bother me? Brings back memories." Gilman made it casual. She knew how to do that, didn't she? "Been with you long?"

"A year or two. No, Gilman, he didn't just show up a week ago and ask for a job. He's a good gardener though the accent's thick."

"He came to the US to be a gardener?"

"His cousin brought him to go through high school and try after that for college. I think he's bright enough to make it."

In the night, Gilman awoke out of heavy sleep, afraid. She tensed in her bed, waiting, not sure what sound or touch had yanked her from oblivion. She thought she heard bodies breathing, and her mind's eye saw them, massed, stacked brown and black bodies, with seeping blood in a slow soundless drip. Horror stopped her voice, and that whispered breathing grew louder and louder in the room.

She held herself still with an effort. She felt that something alive moved near her bed. She tried to remember where she was. What or who stood by her now? Then memory woke, and she knew. Lowenstein's private hospital. The only thing that stood by her was ghostly. Wilton slept a drugged sleep a few passageways away. She was no threat. But how crazy to dream that Wilton threatened her. Her muscles remained ready for action. She waited, chilled by her dread.

Impossible dread. You never go home. You'll never be free. Things that go bump in the night. God. She should be taking pills for this, but what if they made it worse? Took control? No one was going to get in her head, fix her up. Not shrinks or drugs.

Blackest Africa, God help her. Lowenstein saw too many movies.

Chapter 97: Wilton

July 1971

Massachusetts, USA

Wilton always listened for the sound of engines overhead. Only a matter of time before the bombers found her again.

She saw the doctor take notes. He watched her when he sat in her rooms. She sensed some days that he stared from the mirror, from the ceiling, from the walls.

It was quiet here in her exile. New England, America, soft and chill. No throb of music from fireside drums, no radios competing each with each, no chatter of voices singing stories. No heat, nor joy, nor babble of wonder. Her blood moved slow. In this place, day and night slipped each over the other without vibration or color. No screams to keep her from her sleep. She could sleep forever. Perhaps she would in this place of negatives.

Only occasionally did Wilton hear a jet, or some small plane. Distant. None of them came near. Not yet. But she waited and listened. Maybe her attention kept them from the skies. There's power in listening. Wilton had always known that.

She remembered the trembling of a jet around her. She remembered night lights, the red and orange wavering flare of torches reflected off the runway in the jungle. The hollow bowl of night tipped to spill from God's black hands.

American airport lights shone blue, rich blue against tarmac, and they never failed. The long runways spun smooth ribbons across gentle flats, clean, wiped of dangers. Never had she seen the splash of fire ripple crazy on an American runway, nor heard American voices screech fear, or vent the speechless shrill of burning skin—not here. Not yet.

The distant engines thrumming through clouds and space. One long, long night and she could travel to the singing land. Could lean on the seat back, looking at the window, waiting while the magic jet took her home. White moon on jet's wing, black airless night. If she went from this place, she could find her way. If God forgave. Every night she tested the door, pressed the clean glass at the windows, measured the spaces between the smooth cold bars. The doctor watched and she knew it, but she could not help herself.

Yes, the doctor knew how she looked for the jets. How she listened, all hours, maybe even in her sleep. Planes promised no threats. Now the doctor asked her questions about the jets. Wilton could not bear it if one should come down low, and he asked why. As if he could not know. As if knowing were a matter of choice.

Chapter 98: Lindsey

August 1971

Lagos, Western Region, Nigeria

Oroko came into Lindsey's office. News about Gilman? She saw him gesture to David, who left. Oroko waited for the door to close, straightening his spectacles.

"Ojorome hired two new men," Oroko said.

Lindsey touched the
Daily Times
newspaper on her desk and glanced again at Oroko. Oroko waxed prosperous in her service. He didn't flaunt his money, still dressed with conservatism. She supposed he was putting his money aside for the day when she lost her influence. She knew that he didn't spend freely on an extended family. No obvious chain of mistresses. Unusual. She wondered why. Most men had long complex obligations back in the village. Sandy would have known.

"Do you have plans for what you're going to do if something happens to me?" she said, surprised at her own sudden mood of mischief.

Oroko barely twitched.

"Ojorome has hired two new men," he said again, in precisely the same intonation.

Oh, so that's not a question to ask your bodyguard. Lindsey turned the
Daily Times
over and opened it to the third page, bypassing the short article that denounced the employment of foreigners in government offices.

"Who's Ojorome paying at the
Times
office?" she said, pointing out the photo of Ojorome, smiling in his European business suit.

"William Asuka. A venial man."

"With many debts, I suppose. Extended obligations."

Oroko nodded.

"Where does Ojorome obtain his money?"

"His father was wealthy. I think these foreign businessmen give Ojorome money for promises. Ojorome claims he can make Lindsey Kinner agree to exclusive arrangements for distribution and expansion of trade goods."

"He has no discretion," Lindsey said.

She sensed that Oroko felt pleased. His diction delighted her sometimes. She'd never asked Sandy or Wilton much about him—he'd always kept his origins secret. She respected that. He must come from one of the minority tribes, fluent though he was in Yoruba, Hausa and Igbo.

"So tell me, why did Ojorome hire two new men?"

His mouth thinned as though in disgust.

"I think that they are hired to kill you."

"To kill me?" She looked at him. "Only two?"

"Do not believe there is no danger."

"No," Lindsey said, "even the best bodyguard can't guarantee safety. Though you come close."

When Oroko spoke again, she heard anxiety in his voice. It moved her.