The Lioness(46)

“May I ask something else?” She saw him nodding in silhouette from the entry, and so she continued: “How much money are we worth? What are you asking for?”

“Are you asking the money value of a human life?”

“I guess I am,” she agreed, though it was tragically clear that some lives had far greater monetary value than others.

“Well, I will ask you something in response, Mrs. Billy Stepanov. What makes you think we’re interested in money?”

“You admitted this was a kidnapping.”

He kicked at the ground with the toe of his boot, and the gesture was almost boyish. “I would say I was disappointed in you, but that would mean I was surprised. I’m not surprised. You’re American. For Americans, it’s always about the money. It’s only about the money.”

“But a ransom has to be—”

“No,” he said, cutting her off before she could finish. “It doesn’t have to be about money. There are things in this world that matter more. Now, it might be about money. I’m human. But have you looked for one moment beyond Africa’s zebras and lions and giraffes? At the continent’s people? Whole nations are rising up, and all you can see is the wildlife.”

“I understand.” She knew now that she hadn’t won him over enough to broach the idea of untying the others. She’d been a bad student and a poor study, and she was angry at herself for disappointing him because of what it meant for Billy and David and Terrance.

But there was still her baby and that gash on her abdomen. She still had to look out for the kid, and this might be her last chance. “May I…”

He waited.

“My stomach. There’s a cut there. I can’t see it, but I think it’s getting infected. Or already is infected. I also have some cuts I never really got to look at on”—she couldn’t think of a euphemism for ass or bottom—“the back of my legs. The back of my hips.”

“You’re injured?”

“That might be too strong a word, But—”

Instantly he was back beside her with the flashlight. He knelt down on the ground and commanded her to pull up her shirt. She did, her embarrassment small compared to the relief that he was going to examine the wound.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he snapped.

“I was…afraid.”

He shook his head, his annoyance evident. “Yes, it is infected.” He then murmured something in Russian, and she was quite sure it was a curse of some sort. “I’ll be right back. We might have something.” And then he was gone.

She sat very still on the sleeping pallet and gazed into the dark, aware that whatever he had seen on her stomach had alarmed him. And so it alarmed her.

She tried to think of something else. What would happen if she went to the other room, the one with the entrance? She began to imagine what she might see if she stayed inside this hut but allowed herself a peek outside. Yes, she’d see the Land Rovers and the white men with guns. But might she also spot impalas or zebras in the distance? She focused on animals because it frightened her less than the idea she was hurt and the kid might be in danger.

And it was then that she felt her khaki shorts growing wet. For a second, she thought she had peed her pants because the dampness was warm, but then she felt a wrenching cramp that caused her to grunt and grab her abdomen, and it was followed almost instantly by a second one. And she knew. She knew. Whether it was because of the infection or the violent moment that morning when her stomach had been sprayed with shattered glass or the relentless stress she had endured all day, she understood what was happening. She bent over against the pain and began to sob, because she realized that if there were actually any light in this fucking hut, she’d see that her lap was awash in blood.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


    Terrance Dutton





There’s certainly bad blood between the esteemed journalists here at Movie Star Confidential and Dorothy Dandridge, but facts are facts: on Thursday night she was out very (and we mean very) late with married director Otto Preminger and on Friday night we spotted her having a very (and, again, we mean very) intimate dinner with actor Terrance Dutton. Both tête-à-têtes were at the Grotto on Sunset.

—Movie Star Confidential, November 1957



The sky was a deep purple to the east and pink to the west, the kind of great stripes of color you never saw in L.A. They’d taken his watch, but he supposed it was nearly seven p.m. The Russian walking behind him was the smug fellow who’d been guarding them from the very last row of the Land Rover. He’d seemed taller to Terrance when he’d been sitting behind him, and Terrance realized only now that he himself had the height advantage. He made a mental calculation as he was walked behind the acacia to pee. He could probably move fast enough to overpower his guard before getting shot, but he doubted that he could do it quietly enough not to draw attention to the two of them. And if he attacked, he had to win—and he had to win silently. Because only then, in the dim light of dusk, did he have a prayer in hell of sneaking into the huts with David and Billy, untying them, and giving them all a fighting chance against these pricks. There would be three of them, and they’d have a rifle.

And he was feeling a particular urgency now. It wasn’t simply that he had spent most of the afternoon tied up in the dark; it was that something had happened to Margie Stepanov. He didn’t know what, but he’d heard her sobbing. Then he’d heard chaos, and at least a couple of the men who’d arrived in the jeep that afternoon running in and out of her hut. There was someone new in charge, a Russian with ice-blue eyes and a nose that a casting director would kill for if he ever needed a boxer, barking commands. Finally, one of the vehicles was leaving the boma, and if Terrance were a betting man, he would bet it was leaving with Margie.