The Lawyer and the Killer Ch. 07

After the policemen left, Susan sat back at her desk; Camulos an honest citizen? She didn't believe that. They think she planned the whole thing; a lie detector test? They are crazy. She told them what they needed to know. There wasn't any more to say. She closed up early. There wasn't much to do anyway. She'd put some ads in the paper about jobs. She wanted to get home, take a hot bath, and play with Tom. She knew the law. There wasn't much chance of any legal proceedings against her. The only thing that would accomplish would be to further erode her client base and add a tiny blemish on an otherwise sterling reputation.

Susan went home, took her bath, played with her cat, and lay awake all night worrying. Shawn had been right. Her abduction, coupled with her earlier disappearance which had also been a kidnapping, placed her in an unenviable position. But she was confident. She'd work it out.

The next morning Susan found her concerns from the day before had escalated. Calls from two of the local televisions stations resurrected her worst nighttime fears. They wanted to do interviews, but the interview requests weren't coming from the news departments, the entertainment divisions wanted to do 'human interest' stories. The by lines from each station were almost identical; 'Abduction or Illusion, Where is Susan Slattery?' They wanted to scoop a story about a young attorney who may have gone off the deep end. If they had their way her career would crash and burn.

Susan rejected their requests, and pursued her quest for replacements for her lost staff and for the recovery of her lost clientele.

There were dozens of interesting people ready to go to work, but none had the qualifications she was looking for. As far as lost clientele they'd all found new sources of legal representation. She hadn't been back to work more than a week, and already she saw her career was on a downward spiral. She needed a break, and needed one fast.

That evening the break came; a break in the worst possible direction. She made the nightly news on all three the big local news networks. Susan Slattery, one time prominent local lawyer, had become queen of the tabloids. One nightly edition started a story about her with references to Brittany Spears. 'Had another young woman gone too far too fast?' Another station introduced her situation with references to Los Angeles; 'Susan Slattery Kidnap Victim or Our Very Own Lindsay Lohan.' The third station hit the hardest; 'A New Way to Spell Fraud- Susan Slattery!' She wondered how long it would take before she got a call from Oprah.

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The relief team's plane landed in Cairo, Egypt. It was the last leg of a three flight trip. First they'd traveled from New York to Heathrow, from there to Frankfurt, Germany, and last a bird took them to Egypt. From Cairo they traveled by bus to southern Egypt where they hooked up with another team who'd brought the supplies they'd need when they got to Darfur.

The supply lists were simple if varied. There were several tons of items such as tents, sleeping bags, bolts of cloth, rope, safety pins, sewing kits, two old manual sewing machines, hammers, nails, shovels, picks, a few axes, several rakes, and an assortment of smaller tools.

Additional supplies included the vitally important medical provisions; antiseptics, band aids, hundreds of feet of gauze, cotton, scalpels, utility knives, dozens of pairs of scissors, lengths of rubber presumably for tourniquets and similar uses, mosquito netting, alcohol, antibiotics of all types, injection needles, sundry boxes filled with an array of types of vaccines, and what seemed like an endless supply of washes, soaps, mouth cleansers, plasters and pastes, lotions and balms, insecticides, and scrubs.

By far the largest inventory included food supplies; dehydrated this, dried that, bags of salt, canned items of all types, box after box of dried beans, wheat, dehydrated milk, and sack after sack of wheat, barley, corn, and rice. There were dozens of bottles of distilled water for specific medical purposes, and drum after drum of low grade petroleum products to be used to boil contaminated water or sterilize equipment.

Last on the inventory, but not carried on any invoice was a much smaller cache of highly specialized items. This last list included boxes of ammunition, small arms, a crate of AK 47s, and last there were twelve shoeboxes filled with American money.

It took the crew several days to organize everything and get it all loaded in twenty different trucks. They weren't sure yet exactly where they were going, but they knew there weren't any airports or landing strips close by. Once they reached their destination they'd be pretty much on their own.

The trip out was slow. The roads were bad. The trucks were all old and tired, and the heat was absolutely unbearable. The air was so arid it was impossible to sweat, and water, being scarce, made any physical exertion beyond the minimum foolhardy.

On the fourth day out they confronted their first crisis. It was more a crisis of conscience than anything else. Off to the side of the road someone espied a group of vultures, three actually, squatting in a circle around something barely moving on the rocky soil.

Shawn remembered reading how African vultures were different from the typical North American buzzard he'd grown up with. The modern African vulture was much larger and more aggressive. Shawn also remembered how the modern vulture, regardless of where in the world it might be found had become a more highly evolved creature. Scientists long believed these animals, and some of their aviary kindred such as the crow, magpie, and raven, had developed a more sophisticated pineal gland that had enabled them to adapt, to think as it were. With wingspans sometimes approaching eighteen feet these grotesque animals had learned over the centuries to solve rudimentary problems and to work in groups.

For Shawn it wasn't just the vultures that had caught his eye. They were all apparently encircling something, waiting for it to die. Shawn had no love for carrion animals, but he didn't despise them either. They served a purpose in life's continuum.

It was what he thought they were waiting on that caught his eye. He persuaded his driver to stop, meaning the whole caravan came to a screeching halt while he hiked over to the scene of the disturbance. There kneeling in the midst of the birds was a small child, a feeble little toddler. The child had been abandoned, left alone, left to die. The child was certainly going to die regardless of anything anybody did, but he couldn't bear the thought of the scene that would follow once the caravan left.

He drove off the birds and picked up the pathetic little person. He'd found a little girl, perhaps three or four years old and weighing scarcely more than fifteen perhaps twenty pounds. He wrapped her frail wrinkled body in his shirt. Her withered dehydrated little black hand fit easily in his pink and healthy palm.

He understood death was a daily part of life in these parts of the world. He'd seen it in Berkina-Fasso, in Uganda, in Thailand, and in Nepal. He understood the futility of most of what he and his comrades tried to accomplish, but he'd never been able to accept any death without a fight. He carried the little girl back to the truck. He was sure she'd be dead before the sun went down, but she wasn't going to die out here, alone, out in the desert, under a scorching sun, only to be a meal for vultures, her delicate flesh shredded by cruel talons and sharp jagged beaks.

Yes she was going to die, but she'd die with one last cool cloth on that sweet little brow. It was the least he could do. Back in the truck he curled her close to his chest. The man driving the truck looked at him, at the little girl, and then looked away.

Shawn took a rag and poured some water on it. He touched the rag to her parched lips, and watched her mouth move to get at it. He squeezed a little of the water on her forehead, and allowed it to trickle down over her eyebrows. She opened her eyes, those innocent little black orbs. It had been wrong to stop the caravan, just a waste of time, but it was right for her, right for him.

The little girl lasted all that first night, but she died shortly after sunrise the next day. He named her Lauren. Susan's middle name was Lauren. He made a note of her passing in his diary. He decided to bury her in the road so the trucks would pack down the soil hopefully guaranteeing no animal would burrow into the ground to pull out her little body. He thought about leaving some kind of marker, but decided against it. Some human scavenger might see it and start digging. The caravan reached its destination two days later.

The site of their base camp was overflowing. There were hundreds of people. The team they were relieving looked like they'd aged a hundred years in the few months they'd been there. It wasn't a promising beginning.

The typical problems were apparent; hunger, overcrowding, and a stark shortage of able bodied men. But there were other disquieting signs. The passive behavior of so many of the adult refugees was deeply disturbing, fires off in the distance were a clear sign of active militant groups, and the omnipresence of certain insects, especially flies, were sure signs of disease.

The situation was puzzling to some, but Shawn and Shai put the pieces together. The flies in the immediate area were big and brown, a particularly dangerous species. They were Tsetse flies, carriers of a dreaded microbe that caused Trypanosomiasis.

Trypanosomiasis was the scientific term for African Sleeping Sickness. The fly itself was infected. When it bit into the flesh of a human it injected a parasite with a pathogen that attacked the nervous system.

Any person afflicted with the 'sickness' usually lost all verve all energy. Slowly but surely they'd lose so much energy they were incapable of doing anything. They'd then fall victim to some other disease or to malnutrition. They'd be so severely afflicted they'd lose the energy even to eat. In the last days of the illness the victim typically lost control of all basic functions, even the ability to control their own facial muscles. The image on the face of a victim was always the same, one of utter and total despondency. Africans called the visage 'silent grief'.

Shawn, Shai, Kia, Kim and the others had walked into a cauldron of misery and death. The next weeks were going to challenge all their emotional and intellectual resources.

Kim was the unofficial head of the team. Before they unloaded the trucks they worked out a strategy to attack the Sleeping Sickness, or Souma as it was called in that part of the Sudan. DDT was a pesticide outlawed in many parts of the world, but was still available where they were. In fact they'd brought a large quantity of it with them. They're first order of business over the next several days was to deluge the camp area and its surroundings with the pesticide. Hopefully that would drive off the fly.

They needed medicine for those already ill. That very night Kia used her cell phone and called back to Omdurman; the main supply center for all aid camps like theirs. She put in a special order for Eflornithine, a medicine that had proved effective against the early onset of the disease in Uganda just a few years before. The team agreed if they could wipe out or reduce the fly population and get the medicine they needed quickly enough they could avert a medical catastrophe.

Within a week the needed medicine had arrived. Injections began for the least ill. The DDT had been spread and the fly population had been cut down dramatically. Disaster had been averted!

Shawn had never considered himself a particularly religious man. He remembered reading once; religion was for women, God was for men. There was a time he believed that, not anymore. His experiences around the world had taught him God was a gift to all people. Religion was the property of fanatics. Regardless, since the little girl on the road, little Lauren, he'd been praying every night.

During those early days Shawn marveled at Shai's strength, her determination, her optimism. She was always first to be roused in the morning and last to bed at night. She spoke the dialects of the people fluently. Her bedside manner was one of warmth and kindness. The people, long accustomed to abuse and manipulation came to trust her; from that, their feelings evolved into genuine love.

He admired her. She was more than just a beautiful woman. She was beautiful on the inside as well as out. He found himself, more and more, working close, often beside her. If there wasn't another woman's name etched on the inside of his belt, it would have been easy to fall in love with her.

During their first weeks the team worked tirelessly with the small indigenous male population digging slit trenches for latrines, laying out an organized network of walkways and roads, finding areas well away from the main camp for the disposal of all other waste, setting up a substantial tent city, finding the few existing water resources, constructing a water purification and filtration station, building a central headquarters for the distribution of food, and setting up two small aid stations and one main field hospital.

The more they worked the larger their refugee population grew. But success was as much a problem as a reward. The distant gunfire, the fires on the horizon at night, the sporadic radio reports of gun battles, and the occasional appearance of small groups of irregular soldiers were persistent reminders they were in the midst of a turbulent part of the world. It was their fondest hope the battles going on without would not spill over into their tiny enclave of safety and sanity.

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Susan's life was degenerating into a parody of what it had once been. No one wanted her services. She couldn't find reliable people to work for her. The local police had insisted she meet with them twice at their headquarters, and both times her arrival and departure was punctuated by television cameras and a sea of local reporters looking for something, anything, to report. It was all a big farce.

Susan had refused to take a lie detector test. She wasn't afraid the test would prove her claims of abduction untrue. She was afraid they might ask questions about her rescuer, and she was determined to keep Shawn's name out of the limelight.

On a more positive note her pregnancy was fine. The doctors estimated she had perhaps another six weeks before she'd deliver. That was the one bright spot in an otherwise pretty discouraging time. They asked if she'd like to get a preview regarding the baby's sex, but she declined. She knew one thing; this baby knew how to kick. Feeling the movement, the unexpected kicks; it was all so new. It was a splendid thing. She enjoyed the queasy feeling she got every time the baby moved. It excited her.

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Shai was at Shawn's tent whispering intently, "Shawn. Wake up."

It was close to sunrise, much too early for anything to be happening. Shawn rolled off his grimy cot, pulled the mosquito netting away, "What is it?"

Shai answered, "We have visitors."

Before Shawn stepped from his tent he asked, "Who?"

Shai answered, "I'm not sure. They're in a uniform of sorts. Most look to be about fourteen or fifteen. They're all dirty and bedraggled. Local bandits I think."

Shawn was wide awake and alert, "Go wake up Kim. Tell him what you just told me. Get Kia, Jesus, and Amin. I'll go and talk with them."

While Shai hurried off Shawn slipped on his trousers and boots, and went to find their visitors. He found them snooping into some of the supplies, "Good morning. I'm Shawn McClellan one of the aid workers here."

They responded in a dialect he recognized, so he shifted his speech, "I'm Shawn McClellan. Can I help you?"

An older man stepped from the shadows, "You have medicines?"

Shawn answered, "We're here to help the people. Yes we have some medicines."

"You have medicine for Souma?" the older man asked.

Shawn answered his question with a question, "You have people with Souma?"

The man responded, "We need your medicine."

Shawn replied, "Bring your people here and we'll help them."

The older man replied, "No, you give us the medicine."

Shawn realized he was talking to some warlord's lieutenant, "We can help you if you come in for treatment, but we can't give away the medicine."

"We need the medicine. You must give it to us."

Shawn held his hands out, palms upward as a sign of non-belligerence, "We want to do that, but we have to record how we give it out, and to whom it is given. If we don't the people who command us will think we sold it or it was stolen and they won't give us anymore."

Some of our soldiers are sick. You will give us the medicine."

By then Kim had arrived, "Greetings. I recognize you're dialect. You're a northern people and at war with the Dinka, the peaceful people who live near here. What do you want?"

The old man looked at Kim, "We need medicine for Souma. You must give it to us."

Kim looked at Shawn and then back at the soldier, "How much do you want?"

"All of it."

Kim held his hands out to his sides, "We can't do that. We all have to share."

By then the older man was well accompanied. Nearly twenty other very young men had stepped out of the shadows and stood behind him. Some of them were well armed with AK 47s, but most had more primitive weapons. Some carried nothing more than a stick. The older man rephrased his first comment, "We are here to get all your medical supplies. You must give us everything you have."

Kim stepped away from Shawn, Kia, Amin, and Kia, "We want to help you. Bring in your sick people, and we will help them."

The older man looked over the small group of five. He turned to one of the boys and spoke to him in a dialect Shawn didn't recognize. Shai spoke up immediately, "Step away Kia."

The younger boy stepped toward Kia and made as if to grab her. She stepped backward and away.

The boy reached into his trousers and pulled a large knife.

Kim flipped a Smith and Wesson from the holster he had strapped to his back and aimed the weapon at the boy.

The boy disregarded Kim's threat and grabbed Kia's arm.

One shot rang out and the boy dropped to the ground, a bullet was lodged in his forehead. He dropped like a rock, instantly dead.

Shawn saw the spot where the bullet penetrated the boy's head. He knew it would be a fatal wound the second Kim fired. Kim was ROK, a former member of the Army of the Republic of Korea. They were the toughest of the tough, the very best.

The older man made as if to raise his rifle, but Kim pulled back the hammer of his pistol. It made an ominous clicking sound. He took aim at the man's stomach, "Drop your rifle to the ground, and tell your comrades to do the same." Kim was using a dialect Shawn didn't clearly recognize, but understood its meaning clearly.

All the boys in the man's company dropped their weapons.

Kim kept his pistol trained on the older man's belly, "You are welcome to bring any of your sick or hungry to our camp. We will be glad to help them, but we cannot give away what doesn't belong to us." He gave the older man a look of genuine entreaty, "We're only here to help the people; nothing more nothing less. If you come here for help, we will help you. We ask no questions, we keep no records other than how many come and how many we help."

The older man offered no comment. He turned to his comrades and signaled for them to follow. They disappeared as quietly as they had come.

As soon as the group of men disappeared everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

Shawn asked, "Was that what I think it was?"