“Let’s go back to town,” Michael says, pulling me out of my thoughts. “We can go to your cousin’s shop that the lorry driver’s friend was talking about. And maybe my dad’s around by now.”
I put my phone in my pocket and follow Michael out of the guesthouse, still not sure whether or not to call. I’ll think about it while we’re on our way. There’s nothing to do at the guesthouse anyway except drive Boyboy crazy. Sister Dorothy is too busy to talk and Mwika’s email is proving harder to crack than Boyboy would have thought. A call to the First Solutions guy hadn’t given us any more to go on.
Getting to town at least gives me a sense of purpose, but I still haven’t decided what to do by the time we arrive. Kiki’s safer at school than most places, I tell myself, but I know it’s not true. If the Goondas know where she is, they can get to her. I wish there were someone I could call to go and keep an eye on her, but the only person I trust is back at the guesthouse, trying to hack David Mwika’s email. And what could he do anyway, to protect my sister from Goondas?
As we walk toward the market, I check my phone to make sure Boyboy hasn’t tried getting in touch while we were on piki-piki, but the only call is from Ketchup. Again.
“Look,” Michael says, “you have to believe me. I didn’t know Mwika was dead. I wouldn’t have come all the way out here with you. I wouldn’t have let you go, period.”
He must think I’m being weird because I’m still mad at him. I scowl down the street, not responding. Should I tell him what’s going on with Kiki? No. She’s my sister and I’ll handle it. He would remind me that technically we’re both related to her the same way, but whatever. It’s not the same. I’ll call Bug Eye when we get back to the guesthouse, I decide. I can go find a quiet corner to talk where no one will hear me. I’ll convince him everything’s going according to plan.
I have to.
When we get there, my cousin’s shop is closed.
Of course it is.
And no one we pass in the busy market seems to be gossiping about the arrival of a rich, white stranger in their tiny town.
Of course they’re not.
I give the locked door of the overambitiously named Grace of Jesus MegaSuperMart a good kick. It scares away a bony cat that’s been sleeping in the tin shack’s shade, but nothing else moves.
Michael doesn’t even try to make me feel better, which is good, because I’m ready to kick him too. We just turn in silence and walk back the way we came, through women presiding over produce, young men hacking sugarcane into pieces for children to suck on, chickens in wire cages, pots and pans, sweet-smelling straw baskets, bold sides of meat hung for shoppers’ inspection.
Michael absently picks up a mango from a fruit seller’s stall, tosses it gently in his palm. “I’m as frustrated as you are that we didn’t find Mwika.”
I snort.
“How am I supposed to prove my dad didn’t kill your mother without his video?” he asks.
The mango seller eyes Michael over her piles of fruit. “Buy that or quit squeezing, kijana.”
“Sorry,” Michael says, and quickly replaces the mango.
As we walk away, I give him a sideways glance. “You really didn’t know he was dead? You didn’t just make this whole crazy bargain to distract me or something?”
Michael stops and reaches for my arm to stop me too. He comes around to face me. “No. I didn’t know he was dead. I promise. Why would I go to all this trouble? Basically running away to Congo? I could have taken Boyboy’s computer a long time ago. Or had you both fed to sharks.” He waits, trying for a smile.
My shoulders slump. I’m so tired. I feel a corner of my mouth lift without my permission. “All right,” I finally concede, “I believe you. Mostly.”
Michael returns my smile. “Come on.”
We’ve only gone a few meters when I feel it. My smile fades as I get that weird prickly sensation like someone’s watching me, and when I look up, I swear I see Ketchup duck into an alley. My heart pounding, I race to the gap between the buildings, but no one is there except a woman washing pots behind a restaurant.
“What?” Michael asks, catching up with me.
“Nothing,” I mutter. “Thought I saw someone.”
“Who?”
“No one. It wasn’t him.”
Ketchup is not here, I tell myself. You’ve just got him on the brain. I wish he were here. At least that way I wouldn’t have to worry about how close he is to Kiki.
The breeze has picked up and whorls of dust go flinging through the narrow lanes between the goods. Clouds are gathering, the clear skies of the morning a distant memory. Shoppers and hawkers start to take note of the change in weather. Women adjust their wrappers and fuss with their wares. They eye the sky, not wanting to pull plastic over their stacks until the last minute.
Suddenly Michael grabs my hand and lurches into a stall with blue tarpaulin walls.
“What are you doing?”
He pulls me past disemboweled electronics on the vendor’s tables and through to the other side. The vendor stares at us as we peer back around the corner.
“I—nothing.”
“Look, I didn’t see anyone back there,” I say. “Don’t worry.”
He continues to scan the shoppers. “Yeah, I know. It’s just that, right before you said you saw someone, I was trying to figure out if a couple of guys were following us.” He looks down and notices he’s still holding my hand. “Sorry,” he says, and drops it quickly, which for some stupid reason makes me blush and wish I’d pulled my hand away first.
I look around too, avoiding his eyes. “Do you see them now?”
“No.”
“There are plenty of people around. Nothing’s going to happen to us here.”
Michael gives me a look. “You say that like you’re expecting something to happen.”
I don’t respond. “Come on, let’s get back before the storm starts.”
We hurry, following the crowds toward the street. The purple sky looks like it’s about to explode. In the distance I see sheets of gray where rain is already coming down.
We aim for the spot we found piki-piki the day before. A drop plops down on my face, and I see the ground ahead freckle with rain. I look back at Michael, who’s still checking over his shoulder. “It’s nothing,” he says.
We start to jog. I can see the piki-piki in the distance, but they’re quickly disbanding, either taking on riders or going to seek shelter. I curse under my breath.
“Aren’t you supposed to be a hard-core street kid or something? Can’t take a little rain?” Michael asks. His tone is light, but I can hear the worry underneath.
“The guy in the blue shirt and his buddy in the hat?” I ask.
“Yeah, how did you—?”
“Stop looking. They’ll know we’re on to them.”
“Pickpockets maybe?”
We pick up our pace, and I’m holding out hope for the last motorcycle, which is idling and ready, but then a plump woman bustles over and scoots on sidesaddle. The piki-piki driver buzzes off.
“Same guys you saw in the market?” I ask. The rain is starting in earnest now. Tap, tap on my skull.
“Yeah.”
“Then probably not pickpockets. They would have got you there.”
“Me? Why me?”
“You’re obviously the one with cash.” Before he can protest, I add, “Next street corner, turn fast to the right and follow me. Don’t speed up until then. Act normal. Don’t look back,” I add as he starts to turn his head. “Okay, one, two, three, now.”
We pop sideways, sliding a little on the mud, and Michael follows my lead when I take off in a sprint. I swerve around a corner, and we’re suddenly in a maze of tin-shack homes. The sky opens. The rain comes too hard to hear footsteps, but I’m pretty sure I hear a shout behind us.
/> I duck between two shacks and send a flock of wet chickens scattering. An old man protests toothlessly from a doorway. I’m totally drenched now, and little rivers of mud are starting to fill the pathways. I glance behind and can’t see anyone, but hear another yell. Michael is right at my heels. We dodge between wet laundry flapping on lines, leap over a pushcart, wrench a turn, and come suddenly to a dead end.
“Here!” Michael says, and webs his hands for me to step into and launch over the rickety wall.
“What about you?”
“I’ll be fine! Go!”
He pushes me up and over the fence and I land on the other side, splattering mud. I can hear him scrambling behind me. At the same time I hear someone yell, “There he is!”
Michael drops down beside me with a hiss. It looks like he’s sliced his hand, but there’s no time to check; we take off. We slide around a corner and Michael goes down, holding his hand to his chest. I catch a flash of dripping red as I grab him up by the elbow and we keep on, trying to listen for the splash of running feet behind us. Then without warning the shacks end and we’re at the edge of a half-finished apartment block, something that looks like it was way too ambitious for this place. Someone obviously didn’t anticipate the rainy season making this area a swamp, and water fills the bottom floor. Algae and duckweed and floating trash clump in the gaping spaces where doors would be. Michael starts down the path that leads back into the shacks, but I grab him—“This way!”—and we slip into the water, moving toward the abandoned building’s door.
We slosh through, and in the half-light I see there’s a man already inside the building, perched on a rickety-looking platform raised on concrete blocks, up out of the water. He stands, skinny, jaundice-eyed, ready to shoo us out. On the platform I see the minimal trappings of a squatter.
“Get your wallet,” I whisper at Michael.
“What?”
“Do it!”
Michael retrieves it, and the man watches hungrily as I yank out a handful of bills. “You didn’t see us,” I tell him, waving the money toward his nose. I make sure he’s paying attention, wad the cash in my hand, and pull Michael along with me, through the swamp and down a hallway, toward other rooms that I hope to God have an exit. We slosh through water up to our knees and turn a corner into a room with a stairwell.
I nod at it, and Michael follows me. We can hear more shouting now, and I can only hope the other guys won’t offer the squatter man cash too. We slide up the moss-slicked stairs and into a room with a window that looks back out the way we came. We crouch on either side of it, the spray of rain catching us, and it’s only then that I realize how crazily my heart is pounding.
“Who are they?” Michael mouths, breathing hard.
I shake my head and risk a peek out the window. I quickly pull back. “They’re right outside,” I breathe.
Michael sneaks a glance too, while I scan the room for something, anything, to use as a weapon, but the best we’ve got is an old beer bottle.
The men are stopped at the edge of the water, arguing over whether to keep going down the path or look in the building. I hear one of them whistle and shout, “Mzee! You seen a couple of kids? They stole my phone!”
I hold my breath and squeeze my eyes shut, hoping.
Below I hear a splash, which must be the old man climbing down from his perch and coming to the doorway. “They go that way,” he yells, and I pray his gnarled finger is pointing toward the path. “Girl and boy? You catch them! Beat them for me too!”
I hear feet running, wait a second, then take another quick look. The guys are sprinting away from us, down the path through the rain.
“Sweet Jesus.” I collapse against the wall. Michael does the same, and we just sit there for a few seconds, catching our breath.
A head pops up from the stairs. “Money!” the man says, sticking his bony hand out.
“Okay, okay,” I say, lumbering to my feet. “You earned it.”
“Give it all to him,” Michael says. “I’d kiss him, but I’m a mess.”
I’m shocked to find myself grinning like an idiot as I hand the money to the old man, who clutches it to his chest with a high little cackle. “Two minute,” he says, holding out his fingers. I don’t know where the old man comes from, but Swahili isn’t his forte. “Two minute, you go!”
“Sure, mzee, we will,” I say.
He disappears down the stairs and I collapse next to Michael, waiting for my legs to stop trembling.
Michael looks at his hand, peeling back a fistful of his T-shirt that he’s been using to stanch the blood. There’s a jagged cut through his palm. “What was that all about? Who were those guys?”
“I don’t know. Let me see that.” I take his hand and inspect it. “This needs to be cleaned out. We’ll get one of the nurses to patch you up when we get back to the guesthouse.”
Michael is quiet. I rip off the bit from his shirt that he’s already bloodied. My fingertips tingle as they brush against his chest in the process. I wrap the fabric around his wound.
“Are you sure you don’t know?”
I glance up at him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’re keeping stuff from me about your mom. That hidden file behind her photo . . . Catherine—don’t think I didn’t notice you being weird . . . and who did you think you saw back in that alley?”
I don’t answer.
“Look,” Michael says, pulling his hand back, “we can’t figure out who killed your mom if we’re not sharing information.”
“The deal was that you find out. I’m still not convinced it wasn’t your dad.” I’m going for anger, but I’m surprised to hear uncertainty behind my words.
“Come on, Tina! Someone sent those guys. Probably someone who’s heard we’re asking about your mom and doesn’t like it. Why would my dad do that? He wouldn’t have them chase me around.”
“How do you know they wouldn’t have left you alone and only taken me?” I say stubbornly.
Michael starts to answer, but just then I feel a buzzing in my pocket. I pull out my phone. “Hello? Boyboy?”
Boyboy’s voice is crackly on the line. “You better get back here. I found something in Mwika’s email that both of you need to see.”
“What?”
“It’s a video. Hurry.”
THIRTY-ONE
We can’t find a piki-piki, so getting back to the guesthouse takes forever. Plus we’re slowed down by ducking into the bush on the side of the road anytime someone goes by. I can’t tell if it’s because Michael is angry, or his hand is hurting, or he’s just anxious about finally seeing the video, but we don’t talk.
By the time we get in, it’s dusk. We rush to our rooms, where Boyboy is waiting.
“You should have that taken care of,” I say, gesturing to Michael’s hand.
“Not until we see this,” he says firmly. I should make him go—that hand needs stitches—but I don’t. I can’t imagine waiting a second longer than we have to.
As we’re waiting for Boyboy’s computer to boot up, I see that someone has brought plates of matoke and beans to our rooms. It’s only then that I realize I haven’t eaten since breakfast and I pick up a plate. It’s still warm and I take a few bites, but I must be too nervous because everything seems to have a bitter taste. I quickly give up.
“The video was in Mwika’s email?” Michael asks.
“Mwika sent it to someone and said he wanted half a million.”
“Sent it to who? Mr. Greyhill?” I ask.
Boyboy purses his lips. “I haven’t been able to find out yet. It’s a dummy email and I didn’t want to use up my computer battery tracing who it belongs to. I wasn’t able to charge for very long, and I’ve only got enough power left to watch the video. Maybe not even that. And the hospital hasn’t had electricity all day. Apparently there’s no fuel in t
his godforsaken town to run the generators.”
But I’m barely listening. My eyes are glued to the grainy image that he’s opened on his screen. “Is that it?”
“Yeah,” he says, but pauses before clicking PLAY. “But it’s not . . . you shouldn’t . . .”
“Just show us!” I say, and reach over him to start the video.
The scene jerks to life. At first there’s only static and a time stamp: five years earlier, the day my mother was murdered. The time: 1:13 a.m. My breath quickens as a light comes on, illuminating a room in black and white.
I lean forward. “That’s it. That’s Greyhill’s office.” My heart thrums. It’s the same view from the camera mounted on the bookcase door.
The camera pans to the side. The bookcase door is opening, I realize. It closes, showing the office again.
And standing there like a magic trick is my mother.
My vision blurs. I blink rapidly to see through the water springing to my eyes. She’s come through the tunnel. I was right. She had been disappearing in the night, meeting Mr. G in his office.
The dour, black maid uniform she wears utterly fails to mask her beauty. Coming around the desk, she kicks off her shoes. She is so much smaller than I remember her, fragile looking as a sapling tree. As she makes her way slowly toward the sofa, she pulls her braids from a knot at her neck and shakes her head. She rubs her scalp with her fingertips. She takes off her earrings. Puts them in her pocket.
I am having trouble breathing. She looks completely at home. Comfortable.
I can’t watch. I have to watch. I can’t watch. I can’t look away.
The scene swivels again, and Mama is lost from view. I rise to my knees. “What’s—” Then it swings back, showing the room again.
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