by Estelle Ryan
“Meh.” Celma waved her gun at us. “It was either-or. At least I got the rest of your precious little team to follow the breadcrumbs. They won’t make it back to you.” She paused, her smile filled with malice. “You see, I’ve organised a little death party for them.”
Her words devastated me for a millisecond until her expression registered. She was lying.
Francine uttered an anguished sound and stumbled to the side.
Celma shrugged. “But now that you and your gal pal are here, you might as well join this lovely conversation I’m having with these two.”
I was growing concerned with the way Celma was waving that weapon at us, then at the presidents. Even though her finger was resting next to the trigger, she didn’t seem to care about the proper handling of a handgun.
I was also growing more perplexed with Francine’s behaviour. I had no doubt that she was in pain and that she would soon feel the effects of blood loss, but her faint voice, her slumped posture was overkill. Unable to look at the growing bloodstain on Francine’s shirt, I turned my attention back to Celma.
She took a step closer to her uncle.
“Celma, por favor.” He raised his hand, palm out. “Não faça isso.”
“Não faça isso.” Her sing-song tone was mocking. “Oh, uncle, please. Speak English. We have guests. You don’t want to be rude now, do you?”
“Why are you doing this?” President Katombi’s English was heavily accented, but clear. His eyebrows were drawn together in confusion. These and his other nonverbal cues left no doubt in my mind that he was not part of Celma’s current plan. Had my unvoiced theory been right?
“Why am I doing this? Oh, I don’t know.” She rolled her eyes. “To right some wrongs.” She turned her glare to President Pedroso. “Many wrongs.”
The Portuguese leader kept his expression neutral, his tone quiet. “Have I done something to you?”
Celma’s top lip curled as she pointed the gun at him. “You turned us into slaves, took away our autonomy, our culture, our language. You forced us to work in mines, took us to different continents to serve masters who would abuse us in the worst ways possible. And then you became rich from your human trafficking and slavery.”
“Our ancestors did a lot to be ashamed of.” President Pedroso’s expression showed that he felt some of that shame and guilt. “My predecessors and I have tried hard to make it right.”
“Make it right?” Her laugh was cruel. “How? By entering into treaties with this traitor?” She waved her gun at her uncle and glared at him. “And you? You’re all talk about the Angolan people being your first concern, yet you invite these slavers into our economy, our industries, our homes.”
“Ooh.” Francine stumbled towards the table. “Not feeling so good.”
Darkness pushed closer. The pain on Francine’s face was real. The blood on her shirt was real. But I knew her. This was her performance voice, her melodrama face. The darkness receded slightly.
She whimpered and leaned heavily against the chair. “Um... I’m going... um...”
She collapsed on the floor by my feet. I took a step back, then rushed to kneel next to her. Her quick wink had me gasping in shock.
“Is she dead?” The pleasure in Celma’s voice pulled my attention away from Francine pretending to be unconscious.
I slowly got up. “No.”
“Pity.” Celma shrugged and I exhaled in relief that she didn’t ask for more detail. In my state of distress, it would be hard to lie about Francine being unconscious. Celma looked at her uncle. “I’ll just finish the job later.”
“Oh, Celma. Please.” President Katombi leaned his elbows on the table, his palms pressed together in supplication. “Don’t hurt these people. President Pedroso has been helping us as a nation develop stronger infrastructure, grow our technology to truly compete with the best. You were the one who stole from your own people.” His expression and tone weren’t accusatory. He was confused. “Your anger about colonisation isn’t making sense here. What is this really about?”
Celma stared at her uncle with such disgust and hatred that my heart rate increased. This was why I was here. To analyse nonverbal expressions and then use my expertise to defuse the situation until Manny and the others could come and take over.
The nonverbal cues I was seeing on Celma’s face as she put her finger on the trigger brought the darkness back. I cleared my throat, hoping I’d schooled my face into a neutral, but sympathetic expression. “Tell your uncle, Celma. Tell him why you are doing this. He should know.”
She swung around to look at me, the gun still trained on President Katombi. “What do you know?”
“I know about George, Noah and Thomas.” Or more accurately, I had a theory.
Her anguished cry had me taking a step back. She pressed both wrists against her temples, the gun still in her hand, her finger still on the trigger. This was all the confirmation I’d needed.
I took a small step closer, ignoring Francine grabbing my ankle. She was out of Celma’s line of sight. I had to focus on this woman and prevent her from using that weapon. I softened my expression. “They raped you, didn’t they?”
President Katombi jerked. “Celma? What is she talking about?”
She swung around, facing her uncle. The gun was loose in her grip, seemingly forgotten. For now. “She’s talking about you sending me to a different continent when Mom and Dad died. She’s talking about you turning your back on me, treating me like one of those slaves. She’s talking about you not coming when I needed you. She’s talking about you not taking my calls!”
“I had to distance myself from you. You stole from Nzin—”
“I’m not talking about the oil company!” She pointed the gun at him again, her hand shaking. With her free hand she ripped off her scarf and pushed up her sleeves. “I’m talking about this!”
A wide, uneven scar stretched around her neck, similar scars around her wrists.
President Katombi stared at her scars, his face filled with horror. “What happened?”
“What happened?” Her voice rose, the last word ending in a high-pitched shout. “Powerful, white people happened. Nineteenth October happened. An uncle who cared nothing about family happened. Rich, white mothers happened.”
“I don’t understand.” His voice was low, filled with fear and sorrow.
“Of course you don’t. You’re a man. You’re protected. I wasn’t!” She leaned forward as she screamed at him. A raw sob escaped. “And they got away with it.”
“Who?” He nodded towards me. “Is she right? Were you raped?”
“Over and over and over and over.” Her words came out ragged, filled with remembered agony. As if this had happened recently, not over thirty years ago. “I was only fourteen!”
President Pedroso pressed his fist against his mouth, his face no longer a controlled expression.
But his shock was not as severe as that displayed on President Katombi’s ashen complexion. “I didn’t know. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I tried. You wouldn’t take my calls.”
President Katombi closed his eyes and hung his head. “I thought you were crying wolf again.”
“I wasn’t!”
He raised his head. “Celma, you phoned every day, complaining about everything.” His voice was gentle, but it was having the opposite effect. He didn’t realise he was enraging Celma more. “Your parents spoiled you. They gave in to your every demand. They did everything for you. I saw your intellect, your potential. I didn’t want it to be ruined by laziness. I wanted you to become independent and learn how to work hard. When you complained about everything in the beginning, your aunt and I decided to practice tough love and let you fight your own battles.”
“Well, congratulations. I learned that lesson. I learned how to fight my own battles.” She angrily wiped her cheeks with the back of the hand not holding the gun. “But not before three rich white boys took turns raping the poor black girl from deep, dark
Africa. They tied me up with rope. Rope!” She pointed angrily at her neck. “This. You see this? This was when they put a noose around my neck. I fought. I fought so hard. By the time it was over, all the skin on my neck and wrists were gone.
“When I told the headmaster, he didn’t believe me. He said you told him I was always making up stories. His precious male students would never do such a thing to a girl with a heavy accent. Those were his words. It was a female teacher who believed me. And when the parents were finally confronted, it was the mothers who turned on me. They protected their sweet boys. They said these boys’ lives shouldn’t be destroyed because of one silly mistake.” She shook her weapon at her uncle. “A silly mistake. They raped me. For three hours!”
A tear ran down President Katombi’s cheek into his beard. “And now you want to kill me?”
“No, I want to do more than kill you.” She took a shaky breath, a hard glint entering her expression. “I will destroy you like I’ll destroy those mothers. I managed to do some minor damage to their reputations soon after their sons raped me. But this time I’ll be more successful. Those years I only had six months to plan.” She leaned closer to him. “I’ve been planning this moment for six years. I started when you became president.”
The agony in Celma’s nonverbal cues caused my heart to feel constricted. To experience such an unimaginable trauma at a tender age and then have to deal with it alone? Few people had the inner strength to come out on the other side with their mental health intact. Celma had been in a strange country, an unfamiliar culture, without any support.
There was no more doubt in my mind. President Katombi might have been a minor catalyst in the genesis of the Collector, but he had no part in any of the crimes we’d uncovered. It was all the doing of a person in severe emotional pain. A pain that had been dictating every decision she made since the day she’d been raped.
Celma straightened and pointed the gun at President Pedroso, all emotion wiped from her expression, her voice cold. “You see, my plan is all coming together beautifully.”
The orbicularis oculi muscles under her eyes contracted. She was going to shoot President Pedroso.
I inhaled sharply and reached for the first question I could come up with. “I know about your art theft, your crimes as the Collector. How did you plan this?”
Her focus faltered. As a narcissist, she would enjoy the attention I was giving her criminal accomplishments. Even more than the revenge plan she was about to execute.
“Why don’t you tell me, autistic genius?” The sneer on her face told me this was meant to be an insult. Yet I was autistic and my IQ was genius-level.
“Hmm.” I took longer than needed to think. The last few minutes had straightened the tangled threads of this case, solidifying my theory. “You created Conhecedor, Oizys and Almada, and developed these companies over the years to make sure they all pointed to your uncle. You didn’t make it too obvious, likely hoping it would look like he was trying to hide his crimes.
“You connected each of those companies to one of the boys’ mothers to implicate them in the crimes you made sure to somehow connect to your uncle. You transferred money to those women on the nineteenth of every month. The day you were raped.” I took another long moment, wishing for Colin’s calming presence. This was the time I needed to use everything I’d learned about Celma and President Katombi. “You used your uncle’s love for art of a specific era and carefully planned the paintings you stole.”
President Katombi inhaled sharply, but I didn’t take my eyes off Celma. She was volatile. I needed to observe every micro-expression if I were to succeed.
Right now, she was intrigued. Her focus was no longer solely on the presidents, but the weapon was still aimed at President Pedroso’s chest. She lifted her chin. “Go on.”
“You bought the house here in Lisbon and registered it in your uncle’s name. Then you displayed all those stolen paintings and arranged the house to look like he lives there.”
“You’re setting me up?” President Katombi shook his head. A glance at the hurt on his face sucked the air from my lungs. “Why?”
“You didn’t answer the phone.” Her jaw tightened, her hold on the gun steadying. “It’s too late now.” She nodded towards the door and looked at me. “Are they dead?”
“I know one is. I think the other two are unconscious.” By now I was sure the man who’d spoken to Francine had also lost consciousness. Darkness pushed closer as I thought about Bianca. “And my friend upstairs is losing a lot of blood.”
With a smug smile, she straightened even more, slowly moving the weapon until it pointed directly at President Pedroso’s head, but she looked at her uncle. “You’re going to kill this colonial bastard. Then you’re going to kill our uninvited guests. Then you’re going to kill yourself with this self-same gun. By the time they find you and investigate, all your illegal business dealings will be discovered in your beautiful Lisbon house. The world will know who you really are. You only pretend, but when it comes down to it, you’ll turn your back on those who really need you.”
“Celma, don’t do this.” President Katombi half-lifted himself out of his chair, both hands out to stop her.
“You don’t get to tell me what to do.” She glanced at me. “You’re right. It feels good that he knows.”
This was it. I saw it on her face. In her posture. She was going to pull the trigger and I couldn’t think of anything else to say or do to prevent this. That knowledge washed through my body and paralysed me until I couldn’t even turn my head to see if Francine was still alive.
It was the widening of President Pedroso’s eyes that warned me.
Francine jumped up next to me, gun in hand, and pulled the trigger. The shot so close to me caused my ears to ring, adding to the overwhelming stimuli as the two men jumped out of their seats.
“Celma!” President Katombi ran to Celma and knelt down next to her on the floor. There was a round hole in the centre of her forehead, a thin line of blood running into her hairline. She had fallen on the floor close to President Pedroso’s chair. He was standing next to his counterpart, his hand on President Katombi’s shoulder as the older man sobbed.
“I didn’t know. I didn’t know.”
A soft ping sounded from the hallway and footsteps rushed towards us. Daniel was first through the door, his weapon at the ready. Pink followed him, then Vinnie, Manny and Thierry. Their postures relaxed the moment they took in the room.
“Clear.” Daniel walked to President Pedroso.
I exhaled a breath I hadn’t known I’d been holding when Colin ran in, his eyes finding mine. He slowed down to a walk and stopped in front of me. “Jenny?”
I shook my head and couldn’t stop. “Francine. Francine. Francine.”
Colin took me in his arms and pointed at the far end of the room. Manny was shouting into his phone, ordering ambulances to our location. Francine was in his arms, trembling. He ended the call, shoved the phone in his trouser pocket and pulled Francine even closer.
“You’re safe, love.” Colin kissed my forehead. “It’s over.”
His last words echoed endlessly in my overwrought mind. Feeling returned to my legs only to leave them unable to hold my weight. I sank down to the floor, Colin still holding me. He sat down and settled me across his lap, holding me against him, reassuring me over and over that I was safe.
But the last few days had brought too much death and violence into my life. Celma had surrounded herself with destruction the moment those boys had violated her. Healing from such a horrendous trauma was seldom a straight and easy road. With hard work and support, it might’ve been possible for her to live a life very different from the one that had led her to this day. To her death.
I felt warm wetness on my cheeks and realised that I was crying. This didn’t happen often. Through my tears, I took one more look at Francine allowing Manny to inspect every inch of her for more injuries. She was safe. Colin was with me. Vinnie and Daniel were talk
ing to the presidents.
Bianca. More tears ran down my face as the darkness rushed in. I needed the people around me to be unharmed. I needed them to be safe. Loving people was hard.
That was my last thought as the darkness took me.
Chapter TWENTY-FOUR
“NINA. KITTY.” ERIC followed Daniel’s white cat out of the living area towards the hallway. Daniel had introduced Eric to both his cats, the white one named after Nina Simone and the black one after Billie Holiday. Billie had given us one look and disappeared into Daniel’s bedroom.
Nina’s tail was whipping from side to side as she walked slowly into the hallway. Eric stopped. The cat took only a few steps before she stopped and turned her head to look back at Eric. Had that expression been on a human face, it would’ve communicated utter disgust. She uttered a soft call that had Eric moving again. Immediately, Nina turned and continued her trek down the hallway, tail whipping.
It had been a week since we’d returned from Lisbon. It had been a challenging week. The first three nights I’d woken up several times during the night. Horrid nightmares had made it hard to find peace in my rest. Fortunately, the last few nights I’d been able to sleep well, which had helped me immensely in regaining control over my neurodiverse mind.
Francine had spent two days in a private clinic in Lisbon, Manny at her side. The bullet had indeed gone right through her shoulder, missing all the bones and joints. She’d have scars on both sides and wouldn’t have full movement of her arm for a few weeks while her shoulder healed, but she was now sitting on a barstool, watching Daniel cook and laughing at Vinnie suggesting Daniel should add vanilla to his cooking.
“Vin, vanilla is not going to go well with my lamb biryani.” Daniel lifted the lid of a third pot on the stove, his posture relaxed. “I’ll add an extra drop to our dessert. Just for you.”
Vinnie was sitting next to Francine and they’d been bombarding Daniel with cooking instructions. None of which was helpful. Their bantering was helping my mind heal from the events in Lisbon.