weren’t the problem. Nor were the shattered headlights. She could have even dealt with one of the tires being shot, because there was a spare bolted to the vehicle’s rear cargo door. It was the second front wheel lying deflated that did it.
Hot rage boiled. She whirled, looking for a place to vent her anger. The square was quickly filling with people desperate to leave the region. Some soldiers were trying to keep things orderly, while others slouched negligently in doorways out of the rain. None paid her any attention.
“Son of a bitch,” she muttered in frustration. She could blame no one or everyone. It didn’t matter. Finding who shot up the four-wheel drive wouldn’t fix it, and without it she was as helpless as the refugees.
Before she left the States one of the old hands in the office had told Cali an expression that seemed strange at the time but now fit perfectly. Africa wins again. The Lebanese hotelier had said essentially the same thing. Everything fails here. If it wasn’t the weather, it was the disease, or the corruption, or the sheer stupidity of drunken soldiers using her truck for target practice. If it hadn’t been so pathetic it would have been funny, like a Buster Keaton farce where he keeps knocking himself down again and again as he bumbles through his day.
Well this explains why the shots I heard were so loud, she thought as she circled the Land Rover looking for other damage. The lone spare mounted above the tailgate mocked her.
There wouldn’t be a second spare in Kivu so she’d have to hitch a ride to Rafai with the refugees. Not only was Rafai bigger, but the military was there in force and only a handful of businesses had closed. If she got a second tire she could return in an empty truck coming back for the next group of evacuees.
And that would waste a day she was sure she didn’t have.
She had landed in the CAR only two days ago, thinking she would have at least a week to get her work done. Then she’d heard about Caribe Dayce’s lightning thrust. She’d rushed to Kivu as quickly as she could, hoping she could get in and out before he overran the town. Could she lose a day and still do it? Were Dayce’s men far enough out to give her the break she needed?
Cali had no choice. She would have to chance it. With luck she would be back this afternoon. She’d reassess the situation then and make her decision about heading farther north. She’d phone in her report after first getting herself a place on one of the refugee trucks. From her rucksack she withdrew a travel wallet and tucked two fifties into her shorts.
She dodged out of the lean-to and ran back to the hotel, her boots sucking at the clinging mud with each rushed pace. The truck driver was hunched over his breakfast, shoveling food into his mouth even before swallowing the previous bite. Two empty plates were stacked at his elbow. A carton of Marlboros rested on an adjacent chair. The hotel’s owner wasn’t leaving anything for Dayce to loot, so everything was going cheap.
She was about to approach when another heavy truck roared into town. Unlike the other vehicles, this one had come in from the north. In the open bed of the six-wheeled diesel were three dozen Africans trying to keep a piece of plastic tarp over their heads. When the truck braked in front of the hotel, the mass of bodies shifted and gallons of water sluiced over the cab just as the driver jumped clear. The full weight of the water poured over his head and ran down his open rain jacket. He looked up through the bed’s stake sides and must have made a face, because children suddenly started laughing.
Cali watched as the white driver raked rain from his hair and flicked drops at the children, eliciting more shrieks of delight. She hadn’t heard a child laugh since she’d arrived in the country. Judging by the bundles of possessions being handed down from the truck, these people had just fled their homes and somehow this man could make their children laugh. She guessed he was an aid worker and they had known him for some time.
Which meant he knew the situation up country.
She looked behind her. The trucker would be at his meal for a while. She stepped back into the rain and approached the stranger. He paid her no attention as he helped people out of the truck, handing infants to waiting mothers and steadying the arms of old men, affording them dignity while making sure they didn’t fall. He was maybe an inch taller than Cali and with his T-shirt stuck to his chest she saw he had a powerful build. Not the grotesque muscles of a weight lifter, but the lean physique of someone who worked hard for a living.
He must have finally felt her presence because he turned. Cali startled. It was the eyes, she realized instantly. The man was handsome, yes, but his eyes, a shade of gray like storm clouds, were riveting. She’d never known such a color existed or could have imagined they would be so attractive.
“Hi,” he said, an amused lift at the corner of his mouth.
“Hi,” Cali replied before gathering herself. “You just came from the north.”
“That’s right,” he said. “Found these people wandering out of the jungle about twenty miles from here. Thought I’d give them a lift.”
“You’re not an aid worker?”
A lanky farmer passed a caged chicken down to the man. He handed it to Cali, making her part of the human chain unloading the truck. “No. I’m a geologist.” He held out a hand. “Mercer. My name is Philip Mercer.”
His occupation took her by surprise as she absently took his hand. For the second time in just a few moments, Cali startled. Even wet, his palm was as rough as tree bark, callused so that the skin picked against her own. She felt strength in that fleeting touch, but also something more. Assurance, confidence, kindness, an utter lack of guile-she wasn’t sure which, or maybe all of them. He held her gaze as he let her fingers drop.
“And you are?”
“Huh? Oh, I’m Cali Stowe. I’m with the CDC. The Centers for Disease Control. In Atlanta. I’m a field researcher.”
“Believe it or not, disease is the last thing these people need to worry about right now.” He was American but had a trace of an accent that Cali couldn’t quite place.
“So I’ve noticed,” she said. “Mind me asking what you’re doing here?”
Mercer slid a large iron cauldron from the truck and set it on the ground. “Prospecting.”
She laughed. “I always picture prospectors wearing union suits with picks over their shoulders and dragging a stubborn mule on a short rein.”
“Only ass here is me. I’m here doing a favor for a friend.”
“My friends ask me to go shopping or help talk through why their current boyfriend is a total creep. You really have to learn to set boundaries.”
It was Mercer’s turn to laugh. “Point taken.”
“What were you prospecting for?”
“Coltan, colombite-tantalite,” Mercer replied. Cali looked disinterested but he added, “It’s used in the capacitors for small electronics. Especially cell phones.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way but I hope you didn’t find any. There are already too many of those damned things in the world.”
“Amen,” Mercer agreed. “And no I didn’t. This was a UN-sponsored expedition. Some functionary from their economic development office in Bangui heard about a hunter who claimed he found coltan on the Chinko River. More than likely he’d smuggled it from Uganda or the Congo, but the UN guy saw it as an opportunity to create jobs in the area.”
“And get his ticket out of here punched, no doubt.”
“Probably. I’ve spent the past six weeks shifting tons of worthless mud, until I heard slaughter season was starting up again. I waited as long as I dared, then sent my workers out. When I packed it in yesterday I found these people along the way.”
“Listen, I ah, I’m planning on heading north tomorrow. How bad is it?”
Mercer stopped unloading the truck to give her his full attention. “Since this corner of the world isn’t on many tourist maps, I assume whatever you’re doing here is important. I won’t try to talk you out of it, but if you really need to head upriver, do it today. Right now.”
“I can’t,” Cali admitted. “Some hopped-up teenager used my truck for target practice this morning. I have to go down to Rafai to buy a spare tire.”
“Then forget it.”
He wasn’t being dismissive, or protective. He was stating a fact as simply as he could. Cali appreciated that, but she also had to ignore his advice. “I wish I could. I have to go.”
Mercer pushed wet hair off his forehead. Cali thought he was calculating a price he wanted for his truck. “How far?”
“Sorry?”
