own as a woman, wouldn't I look a whore? It's that simple. Don't look for mysteries that have no significance.
"After all, Sandy, why would a man Oroko knows and hates, want to kill me?"
Sandy flinched. Every time she thought she followed what Wilton meant, Wilton confused the picture.
Wilton slumped, pulling back over herself that look of a tired helpless woman.
"Oh, don't fret. It was all a mistake. How could a man Oroko hates know me? In disguise, too? My attacker and his friends are dead. Mistaken identity. And I've been spewing silly extravagant stuff, Sandy, merely to tease you. It's nothing but accident and circumstance, of course. Lagos is filled to bursting with killers and would-be killers."
She sighed. "I'm drunk. Don't worry about my ramblings. Oroko saved my life and I got a little crazy tonight. We're all a little insane these days. I stumbled into the wrong place, wrong time, ran afoul of thugs. So lucky Oroko and his chum came by. So sorry for my nonsense, but you looked as if you'd believe anything. The robbers must've mistaken me for someone else. This evening was a mugging gone wrong."
She was lying again. Sandy squinted in the dim light as if she might be able to see how. What the fuck was going on? A disguise, a beating. Would Oroko know what lay behind it? Would she violate Wilton's trust by asking him?
Wilton slid down onto the bench in a long slow slump. The body seemed almost a child's, thin boned and limp, the spilt whiskey smell filling the hot room. Sandy stopped her before she slipped all the way off the bench, straightened Wilton on the pillows. The electric lights flickered and came on. Sandy caught her breath.
Now she saw the abrasions and filth that smeared Wilton's skin, in tropical Africa an invitation to blood poisoning and God only knew what other sorts of infection. Sandy unbuttoned and pushed up the sleeve on Wilton's left arm and found bruises marching up the surface. Marks on her throat, the bruising Sandy had half seen by lantern light became clear, and a split along the cheekbone. Beaten and dragged? Sandy found a raw, slow-bleeding patch on the back of Wilton's head, where a sizable tuft of hair was missing. She glanced down at the wig on the floor. Blackened blood in it and a mat of hair. Blunt object blow. Reason to bless that wig.
"Goddamnit." Sandy hesitated. Couldn't call for help—she didn't know what the fallout might be for Wilton. She turned down the kerosene lantern but left it lit in case they lost power again, then went to the storage cabinet for her first-aid kit, cursing under her breath. The sink in the corner would provide water and soap. Unlike Gilman with her love of broken bones and cutting people open, Sandy didn't like blood. But the abrasions needed cleaning before infection set in. Sandy had learned that much in her years in Nigeria.
Crazy night, crazy night, she kept telling herself. But why would those men bother to soften up a random victim like Wilton? For simple robbery, quick death worked best. Professionals would begin to work a victim the way Wilton had been handled only if they had nastier plans. Long-term torture. A bad death, Wilton said, as if she knew. Which meant that there was nothing random about this at all.
No broken bones, lucky Wilton. Couple of loosened teeth for sure, maybe one missing if that swelling of her lower lip meant anything, but Sandy wasn't about to open Wilton's mouth and check. No way.
"What do you do, Wilton, you loopy kid? Is it all sleight of hand and smoke and mirrors? Or something fucking serious? Don't you know better?"
What did Sandy have for proof, after all? Just a handful of incoherent minutes with Wilton in the dark, that was it, that was all. Wilton who prowled around through the country looking for birds with binoculars in her hand and a life list in her pocket. And a camera. Wilton, who apparently went birding in the night streets of Lagos. She shivered at the thought. Sandy went to work. One
"After all, Sandy, why would a man Oroko knows and hates, want to kill me?"
Sandy flinched. Every time she thought she followed what Wilton meant, Wilton confused the picture.
Wilton slumped, pulling back over herself that look of a tired helpless woman.
"Oh, don't fret. It was all a mistake. How could a man Oroko hates know me? In disguise, too? My attacker and his friends are dead. Mistaken identity. And I've been spewing silly extravagant stuff, Sandy, merely to tease you. It's nothing but accident and circumstance, of course. Lagos is filled to bursting with killers and would-be killers."
She sighed. "I'm drunk. Don't worry about my ramblings. Oroko saved my life and I got a little crazy tonight. We're all a little insane these days. I stumbled into the wrong place, wrong time, ran afoul of thugs. So lucky Oroko and his chum came by. So sorry for my nonsense, but you looked as if you'd believe anything. The robbers must've mistaken me for someone else. This evening was a mugging gone wrong."
She was lying again. Sandy squinted in the dim light as if she might be able to see how. What the fuck was going on? A disguise, a beating. Would Oroko know what lay behind it? Would she violate Wilton's trust by asking him?
Wilton slid down onto the bench in a long slow slump. The body seemed almost a child's, thin boned and limp, the spilt whiskey smell filling the hot room. Sandy stopped her before she slipped all the way off the bench, straightened Wilton on the pillows. The electric lights flickered and came on. Sandy caught her breath.
Now she saw the abrasions and filth that smeared Wilton's skin, in tropical Africa an invitation to blood poisoning and God only knew what other sorts of infection. Sandy unbuttoned and pushed up the sleeve on Wilton's left arm and found bruises marching up the surface. Marks on her throat, the bruising Sandy had half seen by lantern light became clear, and a split along the cheekbone. Beaten and dragged? Sandy found a raw, slow-bleeding patch on the back of Wilton's head, where a sizable tuft of hair was missing. She glanced down at the wig on the floor. Blackened blood in it and a mat of hair. Blunt object blow. Reason to bless that wig.
"Goddamnit." Sandy hesitated. Couldn't call for help—she didn't know what the fallout might be for Wilton. She turned down the kerosene lantern but left it lit in case they lost power again, then went to the storage cabinet for her first-aid kit, cursing under her breath. The sink in the corner would provide water and soap. Unlike Gilman with her love of broken bones and cutting people open, Sandy didn't like blood. But the abrasions needed cleaning before infection set in. Sandy had learned that much in her years in Nigeria.
Crazy night, crazy night, she kept telling herself. But why would those men bother to soften up a random victim like Wilton? For simple robbery, quick death worked best. Professionals would begin to work a victim the way Wilton had been handled only if they had nastier plans. Long-term torture. A bad death, Wilton said, as if she knew. Which meant that there was nothing random about this at all.
No broken bones, lucky Wilton. Couple of loosened teeth for sure, maybe one missing if that swelling of her lower lip meant anything, but Sandy wasn't about to open Wilton's mouth and check. No way.
"What do you do, Wilton, you loopy kid? Is it all sleight of hand and smoke and mirrors? Or something fucking serious? Don't you know better?"
What did Sandy have for proof, after all? Just a handful of incoherent minutes with Wilton in the dark, that was it, that was all. Wilton who prowled around through the country looking for birds with binoculars in her hand and a life list in her pocket. And a camera. Wilton, who apparently went birding in the night streets of Lagos. She shivered at the thought. Sandy went to work. One
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