Stranger In The Night

“Listen, I appreciate your interest in refugees, Sergeant.”

“Joshua.”

“I don’t need your help picking up this family, and I can’t take the time to explain our system to you right now. It’s very complicated. I have a lot on my mind.”

“I’ll drive while you think.” He imitated her frown. “You’re not going to use your favorite word again are you, Liz?”

Letting out a breath, she shrugged. “Oh, come on, then. But I’ll do the driving. Agency policy.”

“You sure? You look tired.”

“Thanks.”

“Beautiful but tired.”

At the expression of surprise on her face, Joshua mentally chastised himself. Bad form, Duff. You don’t tell a woman she’s beautiful right off the bat.

On the other hand, Liz Wallace was gorgeous. Slim and not too tall, she had the sort of understated figure he liked. Nothing demure about that hair, though. Big, glossy brown curls crowned her head, settled onto her shoulders and trickled down her back. Her skin was pale, almost milky. Those melted-chocolate eyes stirred something deep inside him. But it was her lips that drew his focus every time she spoke.

“We have twenty minutes to make it to the airport.” She pushed back her hair as they approached a mammoth white van sprinkled with rust spots. “When we get there, we’ll be going to the area where international flights arrive.”

“Been through those gates a few times myself.” He smiled as yet another look of surprise crossed Liz’s face.

“I’ve seen the Army grunts at Lambert,” she said. “In and out of Fort Leonard Wood for basic training. I didn’t think the Marine Corps used the airport.”

“You might be surprised at what Marines do.”

She opened the van’s door and with some effort clambered into the driver’s seat. Joshua had all he could do to keep from picking her up and depositing her in place. But he knew better than to manhandle Liz Wallace. She might be small and delicate, but the woman had a razor-sharp streak he didn’t want to mess around with.

“I’ve flown out of Lambert, too,” she said as Joshua settled into the passenger’s seat. Starting the engine, she added, “I left the international area on my way to the DRC.”

At that, she glanced his way. The slightest smirk tilted those sumptuous lips. Clearly this was a test she hoped he would fail. A little global one-upmanship.

He fastened his seat belt and tried to relax. It wasn’t easy. Liz had on a khaki skirt that had seemed more than modest in the agency building. But in the van, it formed to the curve of her hip and revealed just enough leg to mesmerize him. He slipped his sunglasses from his pocket and put them on.

Concentrate on the conversation, Duff.

“So, did you land in Kinshasa?” he asked. “Or maybe you were headed for the eastern part of the country. A lot of people fly into Kampala and travel across the border from there, don’t they?”

She laughed easily. “Okay, you’ve been around. My group landed in Kinshasa. Have you ever visited Congo?”

“You mean the DRC?” He returned her smirk. “Nah. North Africa mostly. How’d you like it?”

“Interesting. It changed me. I’m planning to spend the rest of my life working with refugees in Africa.”

“Africa?” He frowned at the thought of settlements plagued with disease, hunger, violence. “You’re doing a good thing right here, Liz.”

“The people who make it to St. Louis are the lucky ones. All I do is mop up. Try to repair what’s already been broken. I’d prefer to go into the UN camps where I can really make a difference.”

“You’re making a difference now.”

The brown eyes slid his way for an instant. “How do you know?”

“I saw what you do.”

“Not what I want to do. My job is too much about lists and quotas. It’s all red tape and documents and files.”

“It’s people.”

“It was once. In the beginning, I thought I was really helping. But there are so many people, and the needs are overwhelming. I don’t speak anyone’s language well enough to communicate the important things I want to say.”

“What is it you want to say?”

Again she glanced at him. “Were you an interrogator?”

“Tracker.” That left out a lot, but he didn’t want to drag his military service into the open. “I did a little interviewing.”

She nodded, her attention on the traffic again. “What I want to say is…meaningful things. But I can’t. My Swahili is horrible. I’m doing well to meet my refugees’ basic needs. I don’t have time to follow through with schools to make sure the kids are adjusting. I can’t teach the mothers how to provide good nutrition. Most don’t know the simplest things about life here.”

“Like what?”

“That eggs and milk go in the refrigerator. How to use hangers in a closet. Where to put a lamp. How to microwave popcorn or make brownies from a mix. What to do with credit card offers that pour in through the mail. A lot of them don’t realize children need to wear shoes in America. Especially in the winter. But it goes beyond that.”

Joshua held his breath as she swung the van into four-lane traffic. Interstate 70 at midmorning was a free-flowing river of passenger cars and 18-wheelers. The van nestled in behind a semi, then darted out to take a spot vacated by a cab. Liz drove as he did, fearlessly. Maybe recklessly.

“I don’t know the subtext,” she was saying. “So many people groups come through Refugee Hope, and I’ve only learned a few things. Each culture is different. If I were to ask about your family in Texas, you’d give me the names of your closest relatives, right?”

“Maybe.”

“Of course you would. But a Somali would recite twenty generations back to the name of his clan father. In Somalia, men and women don’t touch each other in greeting. Elders—even total strangers—are addressed as aunt or uncle. And babies aren’t diapered. Now, that’s been interesting in St. Louis.”

“I’ll bet.”

“The Burmese—people from Myanmar—have complicated customs that involve naming a baby by the day of the week he’s born on, and his age and gender. And the name changes according to who’s talking to them. In Somalia, it’s polite to give gifts to a mother before her baby is born, like in the U. S. But you’d never do that in Burma. It would bring misfortune on the child. And you don’t give scissors or knives or anything black—to anyone. Trust and honesty are important to the Burmese. Inconsistency and vagueness are considered good manners in Somalia. It’s a positive thing to be crafty, even sly and devious.”

“The tip of the cultural iceberg.”

“A society’s rules are subtle. You were where? Afghanistan? I’m sure you learned their ways.”

“Oh, yeah.” He leaned back in the seat and verbally checked off some of the idiosyncrasies he’d been taught. “The people may seem to be standing too close, but don’t step back. It’s their way. Men walk arm in arm or hold hands—it means they’re friends and nothing more. Never point with one finger. Greet male friends with a handshake and a pat on the back. Belch in appreciation of a good meal. Never drink alcohol or eat pork in front of an Afghan. Don’t wink, blow your nose in public, eat with your left hand or sit with the soles of your feet showing.”

“Well done, Sergeant Duff,” she said. “Then you know that until you begin to understand people, you can’t help them much.”

“And you’re all about helping.”

She pulled the van into a space in the short-term parking area at Lambert. “So are you, Sergeant. We’ve just chosen different ways to go about it.”

Before he could unbuckle his seat belt, Liz hopped out of the van and started for the terminal. Joshua had never considered tracking insurgents a mercy mission. He was a huntsman. A sniper. A warrior who set out on a mission and didn’t stop until he’d accomplished it.