The lioness, p.15
The Lioness, page 15
“No,” she said.
“Good. I’m untying you because I want you comfortable. More comfortable. But you can’t leave this hut unless we bring you outside. I hope you are all home soon, including your child.”
“So, this is a…a kidnapping?”
It was odd: now that the flashlight was pointed at the ground, she could barely see his face, and he could barely see hers.
“Yes, this is a kidnapping,” he replied, and there was a lightness to his voice. It was reminiscent of the way she had heard Billy laugh when he was confirming something for his little boy that was obvious to grown-ups. Yes, a starfish needs to be in the water to live. Yes, the sand does stick to our feet when we come out of the ocean. Yes, once upon a time you were as little as that baby. These were all things that Billy had said to Marc when they had been at the Santa Monica beach that summer.
“Are you…” she paused, worried that she shouldn’t be asking any more questions. Perhaps questions were like wishes in fairy tales and she’d been given her one and she’d used it. (No, that wasn’t right. If this were a fairy tale, which it sure as hell wasn’t, wouldn’t she have three?)
“Go ahead,” he said.
“Are you going to untie the others?”
“I untied your movie star friend.”
She knew that he was referring to Katie, not Terrance. A woman. She supposed that also meant the three men were still bound to the sleeping pallets. “Thank you for giving my husband some aspirin. Is he”—and, again, her voice wavered briefly—“in a lot of pain?”
“Probably.” He pointed the flashlight at his own nose. “But he’ll live.”
This fellow seemed so civilized, so unlike the man who had swatted Billy or the crew that had murdered a pair of rangers and Juma. She wanted to ask him his name, but knew she didn’t dare. That was definitely going too far.
“How long will we be here?” she inquired instead.
He reached into her hair, and she was able to restrain a flinch. He pulled out a leaf and a twig and showed them to her with his flashlight. “Don’t leave the hut,” he told her, his tone at once kind and firm. Clearly, he had no intention of answering her question. “My boys are edgy. Do you know the expression ‘trigger-happy’?”
“I do.”
“Good.” He dropped the leaf and the twig on the ground, and she thought he was going to leave her alone. He turned toward the entry and may even have moved slightly in that direction, and she regretted that she had not mentioned her own wounds, especially the cut on her stomach. He had that flashlight. Perhaps he would allow her to examine it. But then, as if he had read her mind, he paused and turned back toward her.
* * *
. . .
This morning she had awoken and put her bare feet down on the canvas groundsheet in their tent. Sunlight had pulled her from sleep before the porters. Each day one had arrived and called, “Jambo!” outside the flaps, and left a pot of steaming coffee, a little pitcher of milk, and two porcelain mugs on the ground before the tent’s wide zipper. She’d felt the uneven earth beneath her toes and placed her hands low on her stomach, her way of saying good morning (and she said it every morning) to her baby. She saw Billy was still sleeping deeply in his cot. He’d awaken when the java arrived. Then she’d stood, a little awed that she was here, so very far from her and Billy’s modest place in L.A., and climbed out from beneath the mosquito netting. Outside a bird sang, but she knew almost nothing of birds and had no idea what kind it was. Then she heard some snuffling behind the tent, the side where the porters had set up the bathtub, and went there. She had brought a nightgown to sleep in, but the first night she had opened her eyes around two thirty, sweating as if she were in a sauna, and since then had slept in only a T-shirt and underwear. Still, however, inside this tent she felt strangely invulnerable.
She carried the camp chair from the tent over to the tub and stood upon it. She peered through the strip of mesh that separated the roof from the wall, and there they were: easily two dozen wildebeest, walking and grazing, a procession no more than nine or ten feet from where she was standing on a chair. They were either oblivious to her or they didn’t care. They looked, she decided, rather like thin cows with beards. There were no calves or babies in this group, and once more she touched the small of her belly. She had felt a special affinity on this safari for animals when they were spotted with their young. Juma had told her that wildebeest calves were precocious: running (and running fast) within weeks of their birth. They had to be quick learners if they wanted to live. Her kid? Lord, it would be months before he or she would be crawling. A year or so before walking. And running? She had no idea when toddlers began running.
She jumped when she felt something on her hips before realizing that it was but Billy’s hands.
“You scared me,” she told him. He lifted her down from the chair to the canvas.
“I’m sorry. But your bottom was irresistible. I hope you never return to nightgowns when we’re back in L.A.”
“There are wildebeest just outside the tent. They’re within feet of us. Stand on the chair and peek.”
“I thought I heard them,” he said. He was sleeping in underwear and a T-shirt too, and she held the chair while he climbed onto it and glanced at them through the mesh. Then he hopped down.
“That’s it? You just needed a peek?” she asked.
“You sound disappointed in me.”
“Weren’t you amazed?”
He shrugged. “They were wildebeest, that’s all.”
“That’s all,” she said, mimicking him. She poked him in the side with two fingers.
“I guess I’ve become a junkie. A wildebeest doesn’t fly me to the moon anymore. I need lions.”
“And elephants.”
“Exactly.”
She shook her head. “How will you ever again bear the boredom of L.A.?”
“Oh, I have a feeling the kid will bring plenty of excitement into my world. I remember when Marc was a baby.”
“Babies aren’t exciting for men. I’m not sure they’re all that exciting for women. They’re messy and chaotic, but—”
“It will be fine. It will be wonderful.”
“Are you”—and she emphasized the word—“excited for today?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“Even if you don’t get your lion fix?”
“Even if.”
“Don’t take this for granted, Billy. This is special.”
“I know.”
She couldn’t quite read his tone. If anyone understood the strange dynamics of a brother so thoroughly diminished by a younger sibling, it was Billy. He probably had patients in which he saw himself. Katie made more money than him (God, she made more money than everyone), and she was certainly more famous than him (because he wasn’t famous at all), and…
And there was nothing else in Hollywood. Nothing. There was only money and fame.
Katie had been the Stepanovs’ favorite child; now she was America’s favorite daughter.
“Just because it’s a gift from your little sister—” she continued, her plan to remind him that this was a moment that was singular and he should savor it. But he cut her off.
“I’m fine, sweetheart,” he said. “I resent none of this.”
She kissed him on the cheek. “I’m glad,” she said. She didn’t believe him, but she was pleased he was pretending to be content. That was half the battle.
From the other side of the tent she heard more rustling and for a moment imagined the wildebeest had moved toward the front of the camp. But then she heard a porter calling out, “Jambo, jambo!” and she knew the sounds were young men, and that their coffee had arrived.
* * *
. . .
Well, now. Billy had his excitement. They all did. And if he wanted inarguable cause for resentment, he had that, too.
For a moment the fellow with those blue eyes looked back at her from the doorway, and she wished he would shine his flashlight up again so she could see his face and try to gauge his intentions. The idea that he might rape her crossed her mind, and abruptly she felt her stomach turn and her body grew rigid.
“Tell me something,” he said.
“Yes?” She didn’t know what else to say. Did he know also about the wound on her stomach? Had the driver told him and it had just now dawned on him to ask?
But, no, it wasn’t that. “Why is your husband a Stepanov and his sister a Barstow?”
“She changed her name. Katie did. For the movies.”
He seemed to take this in. “Should I be insulted?”
“Is that your name? Stepanov?”
“No, it’s not,” he told her, and she heard mirth in that short sentence, as if the idea that he would ever respond with his real name was utterly absurd. Which, of course, it was. “But Stepanov is a very common name. I know two families with that name.”
“Then why would you wonder if you should be insulted?” She knew now—she knew it with a confidence that she hadn’t felt about anything since they had been abducted—that he wasn’t going to rape her. He wasn’t going to hurt her. She relaxed.
“Because changing it is disrespectful to Russians. And to her family.”
Now that she was sure he wasn’t going to assault her, she found herself hoping that she could keep him here with her for another few minutes. Perhaps if she really won him over, he might untie Billy. He might untie all the other men.
“I think she was just doing what the studio wanted.”
“Hollywood doesn’t hate the Soviet Union.”
“I wouldn’t know about that. But they do make pictures for America, and they don’t want to upset that apple cart.”
“Apple cart? Who has apple carts? This is 1964.”
“It’s an expression. It means—”
“I know what it means. I was teasing you. I actually have family in America.”
“Really?”
“I was jesting when I asked if I should be insulted. I know why she changed her name. I changed my name too. It used to be Washington.”
“And now you’re”—and she considered using the word jesting, the way he had, but was afraid it would sound condescending—“teasing me again.”
He nodded. “My name was never Washington and I never changed it.”
She was surprised at his playfulness. He was rather funny. “It wouldn’t make sense for you to tell me your name. Obviously,” she agreed.
“Obviously.”
“Your English is excellent.”
“I would make a joke that it was my native language, but you’d probably believe that, too.”
“Yes. I probably would.”
“But you’re not a gullible woman. So, why is that?”
She took a breath, buying time, unsure how far to press him. Finally, she replied, “Perhaps because I’m scared to death? Because I was tied up for hours? Because I’m here alone in the dark? Because this morning I saw people murdered?”
“You don’t need to be scared.”
“I saw men killed.”
“They were raising their rifles. They had guns.”
“The guide didn’t. Juma.”
“But the person who shot him thought he did. My guy thought he was raising his hands to fire.” He shook his head, a motion she could see even here in the deep gloaming on the inside of the hut. “All of you have value when you’re breathing. None of you have value when you’re dead.”
“Unless you’re a ranger or a guide,” she said. God. She was alive only because she happened to have been born in America.
“Yes. I have very little use for either rangers or guides. Nevertheless: I don’t want to see them dead. I don’t want to see anyone innocent dead.”
Innocent. So, here was the logic: you lived if you were innocent or valuable. She understood who could be pegged as one or the other. But guilty? She had no idea how he defined that. Since her captor was Russian, might the guilty be capitalists? If so, it was apparently better to be valuable and guilty than worthless and innocent. But if this were a kidnapping, that meant these men cared a hell of a lot about money—more than even the most ruthless capitalists. It wasn’t as if the most cold-blooded and merciless among the Rockefellers or Carnegies were shooting people seventy and eighty years ago.
“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.
