The Divided Child (53 page)

           
"Yes,"
he agreed, flashing me a mischievous look, "I suppose it might cause
problems if I fainted again and fell over onto someone's automobile."

           
Despite
the quip, he sank down onto the shaded bench I led him to with a grimace of
relief, and murmuring that he would have to make his apologies to Geoffrey,
soon closed his eyes and fell asleep with his head and good shoulder cradled in
my lap.

           
The
crossing from Corfu to Igoumenitsa took nearly two hours.
 
I spent the time staring out at the
rippling sea, my worried thoughts teetering between concern for Paul and
anxiety that Spiro might even then be sneaking up on Geoffrey and Michael in a
surprise attack.
 
Despite the
gentle rocking of the ship and the soothing touch of the breeze, by the time we
reached Igoumenitsa's harbor I was glad for the excuse to rouse Paul and start
making my way down to the car; if I'd been forced to remain still much longer
with those thoughts, I think I would have screamed.

           
Strangely,
once I was in the car again, I regained my equanimity.
 
So much so, that when a policeman
suddenly called out something and motioned for us to stop as we were leaving
the docks headed for the Ioannina road, I was able to pull over and inquire
calmly in Greek, "Yes, officer, is something wrong?"

           
The
policeman gave me a long, appraising look and then shifted his attention to
Paul.
 
"Did you know your left
front tire is almost flat?"
 
Paul assured him we'd see to it right away, and declined the policeman's
offer of an escort to the nearest garage.
 

           
It
was nearly nine when we finally turned, new tire and all, down a quiet Ioannina
street and pulled to a stop before a modern two-story building which contained
the offices and home of Paul’s cousin, who, according to Paul, also happened to
be one of the best doctors in all Greece.

           
Paul
managed the steps under his own power, but his pallor was worsening, and his
skin was beginning to feel warm to the touch.
 
Impatiently I jabbed the small, buzzer-like doorbell, only
afterwards noticing the plaque that served as a sign for the doctor cousin's
clinic.

           
"My
God, Paul!
 
She's an
obstetrician!
 
What in the
world is she going to know about treating a bullet wound?"

           
The
door opened as I said these last words.
 
A pretty, dark-haired woman glanced quickly from me to my
companion.
 
"A bullet wound?
 
Paul?
 
What's going on?"

           
"Marina,
excuse the late visit, but I have need of a doctor."

           
"You've
been shot?"

           
He
nodded.
 
"My left
shoulder.
 
The bullet passed
through, but I've lost some blood and I think I'm beginning to run a
fever."

           
"Come
inside."
 
She took him by the
hand, seeming to take his pulse as she led the way to an examination room.
 
"Can you help him up onto the
table while I get some things I need?" she asked as she disappeared down
the hall.
 
"And please cover
him with one of the blankets you'll find folded on the chair in the
corner."

           
I
did as I was told, and by the time she returned Paul was stretched out and
covered.
 
Without a wasted motion,
she crossed to him with a pair of round-edged scissors and cut away his shirt
and the not-so-clean bandage underneath.
 
"How long has the wound been like this?" she demanded in a
fierce whisper.

           
I
looked across at Paul, but his eyes were closed.
 
"I'm not sure.
 
Eight or nine hours I think."

           
She
muttered something under her breath and gave him an injection of local
anesthetic.
 
Paul's eyes fluttered
open.
 
"You doctors and your
needles!" he grumbled, but his eyes slowly closed again, and when Marina
began cleaning the wound he didn't flinch.

           
"I
presume he's had no other medical attention?" she asked.

           
"No,
I'm afraid not," I said apologetically.

           
"I
don't suppose you'd care to tell me why that is, or what it is my cousin has
been doing to get himself shot?"

           
I
shook my head.
 
"I'm
sorry.
 
I'm afraid I can't."

           
She
shrugged.
 
"No matter.
 
He'll be with us for a few days.
 
I'll get it out of him
eventually."
 
She began
suturing the wound closed.
 
"In the meantime, thank you for taking care of him and bringing him
here to me."

           
"It
was the least I could do.
 
But I'm
afraid I have to ask a favor in return.
 
I've no car of my own, and I need to get back to Igoumenitsa before ten
so I can catch the ferry back to Corfu."

           
"I'm
afraid my husband won't be back until late, but I can drive you, if you don't
mind waiting a few minutes more.
 
I
want to give Paul an injection against the tetanus and some antibiotics before
putting him to bed."

           
"Do
you realize," she said some fifteen minutes later as we transferred my
luggage from Paul's car to hers, "that I don't even know your name?"

           
"It's
Christine, Christine Stewart."

           
"And
I am Marina Iliadis."
 
She
held out her hand.
 
"It is
nice to meet you.

           
"Nice
to meet you, too,” I said, “though I'm sorry it isn't under better
circumstances."

           
She
smiled.
 
"Me, too.
 
But don't worry.
 
I think that cousin of mine, despite
his idiocy, will be fine."

           
Later
on, as we were making our way out of town, she glanced over and caught me
looking at my watch.
 
"You do
not need to worry," she assured me.
 
"My husband scolds me that I still think I am in the war, because I
drive so quickly."
 
She
pressed the accelerator and sent the car flying down the highway.
 
"You see?
 
We will arrive at the ferry on
time."

           
"You
were in a war?" I asked in surprise.

           
She
shrugged.
 
"In a manner of
speaking.
 
When I was younger I
spent two years in Bosnia working with a group of doctors who treated wounded
civilians and refugees.
 
We were often
close to battles, and we became accustomed to driving crazily to avoid
snipers."

           
I
stared at her calm profile in admiration.
 
"No wonder Paul felt so confident you'd be able to handle a bullet
wound!"

           
"Yes,
I've treated more than a few of those I'm afraid."
 
She fell silent, lost in far-away
thoughts, and I tried hard not to think about one particular sniper who had
already struck twice -- and missed his target.
 
I prayed there would be no third try.

           
We
arrived at the ferry in time, though only just, and Marina and I said quick
goodbyes as I scrambled aboard, suitcases in hand, only a moment before the
ferry’s muttering engine roared to life and the shore began to drift away into
the darkening night.

*
                                 
*
                                 
*

           
I
slept badly that night.
 
I dreamt of
careening cars and menacing snipers and Geoffrey standing alone in a square
keening Michael's name.
 
It was a
relief when I finally woke to the ringing of the telephone and the comforting
pink light of dawn.
 
I reached over
shakily and lifted the receiver.

           
"Hello?"

           
"I'm
glad you finally answered.
 
I was
ready to ring off."

           
"I
was asleep.
 
Do you have any idea
what time it is?"

           
"Five-thirty,"
Geoffrey replied promptly,
 
"and lest you complain, let me say that I've had a devil of a time
waiting even this long to assure myself you're still in one piece.
 
When I phoned last night, you hadn't
yet arrived."

           
"It
took longer than expected to get Paul settled with his cousin, but I think he's
going to be all right."

           
"And
you?"

           
"I'm
okay.
 
I have to go see Lieutenant
Mavros this morning to discuss my disappearing act yesterday, but what can he
do besides throw me in jail?"

           
"Christine!"

           
"I'm
just kidding.
 
Though there
are
two policemen sitting outside my door who look like they mean business.
 
They were waiting for me when I got
back last night, along with a rather curt note from the Lieutenant.
 
I suspect they have orders not to let
me out of their sight."

           
"As
it may be a few days before I can keep an eye on you myself, I'm pleased to
hear it."

           
"Easy
for you!" I grumbled.
 
Then I
had a disquieting thought.
 
"You don't think this phone is tapped, do you?"

           
He
laughed, and the sound was warm and rich and reassuring.
 
"Sweetheart, this isn't the
States!
 
I doubt Mavros can even
get a wiretap, let alone have one installed on such short notice."

           
I
sighed with relief.
 
"In that
case, have you found someplace safe to stay?"

           
"Yes,"
he replied quietly.

           
"Don't
worry.
 
I don't expect you to tell
me where."

           
"I
think you're safer not knowing," he said.

           
"What
if I need to get in touch with you for some reason?"

           
"Leave
a message with George at the 'Bella Roma'.
 
I'll check in with him from time to time to see if you've
called.
 
Have you a pencil?” he
asked.
 
“I'll give you the
number.”
 
I wrote it down. Sounding
reluctant, he said, "I'm afraid I'd best be going now, Christine.
 
I don't wish to leave Michael alone too
long."

           
"Give
him a hug from me."

           
"I
will.
 
Goodbye."

           
"Goodbye."
 
I imagined him lowering the receiver
back into the cradle.
 
"Geoffrey!"

           
"Yes?"

           
"You
will be careful, won't you?"

           
I
thought I heard him smiling.
 
"Don't worry, my dear, you won't be rid of me that easily."

*
                                 
*
                                 
*

           
Kyria
Andriatsis bustled in a little after eight to bring me breakfast and indulge
her curiosity about the two policemen stationed in the hallway.
 
"There is some kind of trouble,
koritsi
?"

           
I
told her briefly about the attacks on Michael, the shot fired at me, and
Helen's murder.
 
Her grandmotherly
heart was outraged.
 
"This is
terrible!
 
The boy, he is safe
now?"
 
Reluctantly, I said I
didn't know.
 
I described how
Michael had disappeared from the hospital two days before.

           
Her
eyes widened in alarm.
 
"You
do not know where he is?"

           
I
shook my head, trying to be convincing.
 
"No, I don't.
 
I wish I
did."

           
"
Panagia
!
 
Perhaps he is in the hands of this pig,
this murderer!"

           
"
No!
"
I exclaimed without thinking.
 
"I mean, it's possible he just ran away on his own because he was
frightened."