The Fall of Saints

by Wanjiku wa Ngugi

  Swing low, sweet chariot

  Coming for to carry me home

  Swing low, sweet chariot

  Coming for to carry me home

  I looked over Jordan, and what did I see

  Coming for to carry me home

  A band of angels coming after me,

  Coming for to carry me home.

  A wireless mike in hand, Melinda moved among the crowd as if singing to each and every individual in that gathering. By the time she came back to the stage, everybody was clapping and singing with her. A thunderous roar greeted her when she asked in song:

  If you get there before I do,

  Coming for to carry me home

  Tell all my friends I’m coming too

  Coming for to carry me hoooooooooooome.

  She was not faking it. She sang her heart out. Wainaina stood there, his camera frozen in his hands, glued to the flawless soulful performance. Jane was singing along. For a moment even I forgot the events of the night at the Miracle Church, thinking with regret, even pain, How could so many Melindas inhabit the same body? I missed this Melinda, the woman with the voice of an angel, the one whose voice blessed my first night out with Zack, the voice that sang for me at my wedding. Her preaching—the side I had not seen—told me why she and Susan had clicked; from all accounts, Susan, though she could not hold a note, had the power of the word.

  And then the master of ceremonies called for silence. The expected guests had come. I had not seen their arrival because of the hysteria all around. Like Melinda before them, they emerged from behind the tent one at a time. I recognized the first guest immediately: Daktari of the Supa Duka, introduced as Dr. Peter Kunyiha. I had hardly recovered from the shock when the master of ceremonies announced another special guest from America: Miles Jackson Sanders. He was more than a name to me. He was the Rhino Man from the Manhattan curio shop. He was part of the Susan and Melinda entourage.

  I motioned Jane and directed her to Wainaina to make sure he captured pictures of Daktari and Miles, any grouping that showed them together and singly. Jane moved and was soon lost in the crowd of rags.

  Strange, I was thinking, that every time I thought I was about to connect the dots, others appeared to complicate the process. There was some progress: The Daktari and the Rhino Man had names, and I had been able to connect them to Susan. What about Father Brian? Could he be here, dressed in rags of the Catholic order?

  Suddenly I felt something jab my ribs. It was a gun. The man wore a leopard mask and motioned me with jabs to walk to the side. Wakitabu, I thought, and froze with fear. A scream would have been lost in the noise, besides blowing my cover wide open. I walked slowly, as directed, trying to figure a way out. Sam’s dad had said I should arm myself. I wished I had a gun of my own, but it was a wish born of despair. At the edges of the crowd, the man took off his mask, deliberately revealing his face and then masking it again. It was not Wakitabu.

  It was the suited gunman.

  “Tell me where he is hiding, and you’re free.”

  “Who?” I asked, perplexed.

  “Don’t play games with me. Give us Zack.”

  “Zack is in Estonia,” I said.

  “He was there, all right. He vanished in Tallinn, the devil. I followed him in Latvia and lost him, but he can’t escape me forever. Lead me to where he is hiding or—”

  “He’s in Estonia,” I said firmly. “Not here. Not in Kenya. He does not even know that I am here. If you want to kill me, do so, but I have no information on Zack.”

  I heard the click of the gun. I closed my eyes and waited for the pain.

  “What are you doing here? Eyes closed? You scared me,” I heard Jane’s voice beside me.

  I opened my eyes. The gunman had gone. I held on to Jane, trembling, tears flowing. She asked, “What’s the matter?” I did not have the voice or the strength to answer her but hoarsely said: “Didn’t you see him? In a leopard mask?” Jane asked, “Who? Where?”

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” I said finally.

  Melinda was singing again, and the crowd was going crazy, as we wound our way back to the car. Jane phoned Wainaina to join us. He was bubbling with excitement because he had managed to get Melinda’s business card and an invitation to set up an interview. One look at me was enough to cool him down.

  • • •

  We drove in silence, and it was only when we were safe in Jane’s house that I was able to tell them about the suited gunman. The noose around me was tightening. Just to check up on things, I called Zack. No answer. Dammit. Ben, no answer.

  I swallowed my pride, my anger, my hurt, and decided to try the number Ben had texted me. I went to my room and dialed the Criminal Investigations Department.“May I speak to Detective Johnston?”

  “Speaking,” a deep voice boomed. “What can I do for you?”

  “Hi, my name is Mugure. I got your number from Detective Ben—”

  “I have been expecting your call,” he interrupted. “I understand you have some information for me?”

  “Yes, sir, but now it’s urgent. My life is in danger. Where can we meet?”

  “How about you come to my office?” he replied.

  “I am not so sure that is a good idea. I believe I am being followed. Being seen coming to the CID headquarters may send a signal.”

  “Not a bad signal to send to a person with criminal intent, but shall we say the Serena Hotel?”

  “Sir, come to the anti-corruption offices within the hour. Someone will meet you there and bring you to me.”

  He chuckled. So patronizing, I thought, but I was not about to take chances. Every time Ben contacted me, something bad followed. I had to keep in mind that Johnston was Ben’s friend.

  “Okay,” he said, “I will play along. But the information better be useful.”

  I told Jane and Wainaina my fears, and we came up with a plan. Jane sent her secretary to meet Johnston at the anti-corruption offices and bring him to Room 54, booked under Jane’s name.

  My first thought when I saw the tall detective enter the room was that he was too lean and too bald to be in law enforcement. He wore a tennis shirt with a pair of blue jeans and white sneakers. “Oh, it’s Wainaina. I am a fan,” Johnston said as soon as he spotted him.

  “Thanks,” Wainaina replied.

  “You,” Jane exclaimed.

  “What a small world, ha?” he said, stretching out his hand to her. “The last time we met, you wanted to strangle me.”

  I looked at them, wondering if they had been seeing each other. “Why?” I asked.

  “Remember the case I was telling you about?” Jane said. “He was the detective fighting me. The guy who relied on a corrupt Catholic clergy to fight a virtuous Catholic clergy.”

  “If I recall, you are the ones who painted criminals to look like they were women’s rights advocates. Man, you guys would do anything to win a court case,” Detective Johnston said.

  “But we did not rely on rumors and a secret document,” Jane responded.

  “The Vatican agreed with us. Father Brian was commended and your ‘holy’ sisters reprimanded.”

  “Whoa, cease fire,” I said, sensing this might not end up well.

  “I agree with that,” Johnston said. “Look, Jane, the case is closed, so there’s little point in talking about it.”

  “Okay, Detective Johnston, let’s shake hands. A truce,” she said.

  Then she excused herself. She would be at home or in her office if we needed anything. She left with her secretary.

  Wainaina and I sat on the bed and Detective Johnston on the chair next to the bed. A small world indeed, I thought. Ben’s Johnston the “brave” was Jane’s Detective “Mbaya.”

  I gave him a narrative of everything I’d learned since my return to Kenya. When I got to the part about in vitro fertilizati
on, Detective Johnston could not hide his disbelief. “Some woman who has been fired from her job tells you she suspects that Reverend Susan is manufacturing babies, and you buy the story? Are you sure?”

  “If you just let me finish,” I said. I then told him about the women in Kambera and about my visit to the Supa Duka clinic in Mashingo.

  “What?” he said in shock, then repeated, “Are you sure?”

  Now I had his attention. “Look, I am not insane. Naive, maybe, but of sound mind and, I believe, some bit of intelligence.”

  “This is interesting. If it is true, you—we—have to be careful,” he said, as if to himself. “Especially if Maxwell Kaguta is involved. He is well connected. He can make one disappear into thin air like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Yes, we have to be careful.”

  His inclusive “we” was encouraging. I felt at ease. I poured my heart out. But the moment I mentioned Wakitabu and the suited gunman, he became skeptical. I held my ground. “Wakitabu is a police officer,” I continued. “He terrorizes the women. And he is after me.”

  “Are you accusing the police force of being stalkers, murderers, and kidnappers?”

  “Please, Detective Johnston, talk to him, at least. And while we are at it, can I please look at the document?”

  “What document?”

  “The one you and Jane were talking about. I believe it contains the solution to the mystery—a master plan for evil, as Sister Paulina described it.”

  “You talked to her? Then why did she not tell you its content?”

  “Because she did not write it. And she’s so full of integrity that she refused to impute any improper motives to you or Brian.”

  “Please, Mugure,” he said, clearly trying to be as polite as possible but hardly able to disguise the fact that he had been touched by Paulina’s refusal to assign blame. “Leave everything in our hands.”

  The gunman from the festival took his attention. He asked details of face and dress and mask and gait. He asked me to repeat the words spoken. He wore a serious countenance. “Tell you what: Should the gunman accost you again, please call me.”

  As a token of his serious intent, he gave me a code to his direct line. He stood up to leave, looked at me as if he had something else to tell me, changed his mind, and left.

  “We are on our own, it seems, “ I told Wainaina. “Do you know how I can get a gun?”

  Wainaina was taken aback, but if he thought I was crazy, he did not show it. “I am afraid I know more about the pen than the gun,” he said.

  “Okay. Tell me, when and where is the interview with Melinda?”

  23

  The interview was going to take place at the International Hotel on Grand Street in the city center. Jane lent us her car. Armed with a camera and a flash, I posed as Wainaina’s assistant. There was no answer from Melinda’s room when we arrived, so we went to wait at the bar. We ordered mineral water. On our second attempt, she answered and invited Wainaina up to her penthouse suite.

  Melinda was all smiles when Wainaina entered, and she apologized for being late. She had been to a meeting of the organizing committee for a possible international Festival of Rags, to be held in New York City. At first she did not recognize me, but when she did, she froze. Then she turned around and pulled the door to the sleeping chamber shut, presumably to give herself the time to get composed.

  “Mugure, when did you . . . ? What a nice surprise.” She smiled as she walked toward me, then stopped in her tracks. My face must have said it all. What I really wanted was to jump on her and pull the demons out myself. I remained calm, or rather, I tried.

  I said, “That glory thing was wonderful. And the panegyric about slavery and the birth of the spiritual . . .”

  “You heard me? Were you at the festival?”

  “How could I miss it? So how many clients did you get in Rio?”

  She offered us seats. Wainaina sat down on a sofa, but I remained standing.

  “What are you talking about, Mugure?”

  “Oh, you have forgotten so soon. I’m talking about babies snatched from their mothers. Cheap labor, slave labor, the poor made to produce for your clients in Rio and Hollywood?”

  She seemed baffled. Then again, this was what she was good at.

  “And Sanders. Miles. No wonder you took me there to confirm that Kasla was closed. Melinda, you really knew what you were doing, didn’t you?”

  She was silent, almost paralyzed; she did not try to deny or confirm, just stared at me with wide eyes. Did I detect fear? But I was not armed. I had not even threatened her. I went on, suppressing my anger with difficulty at the memory of the deception, the crocodile tears, the manufactured sympathy.

  “And Mark, your Mark, breeds babies in Africa. How can you? You are back with him, I know. But how can you?”

  This seemed to unfreeze the statue she had become. She came to life. “Listen, Mugure. Mark has never set foot in Africa. All those landscaping dreams were exactly that: pipe dreams. To impress you.”

  “You lie. You lie, preacher woman. Protecting Mark?” I said as I moved toward her, determined to make her talk.

  I don’t know what overcame me, but I started taking pictures of a frightened Melinda. She may have thought the camera click and flash were some sort of weapon, because she let out a scream and took a step back. But her eyes were looking past me. I turned around.

  The suited gunman stood at the door, gun drawn. I had not heard him fling open the door. He pointed the gun at me as he took steps toward me. I thought he and Melinda had plotted this: They must have met at Shamrock. But when he got closer, he waved me to a corner, with a warning to Wainaina and me not to do anything silly: “You scream, you die.” We hid behind the sofa. It was now Melinda and the gunman.

  “Where’s Zack?” he asked Melinda.

  I didn’t know what was more dumbfounding, his question or Melinda’s hesitation. Was he confusing her with me?

  “I count from one to five. At five, I will start shooting. Your leg will go first. Where’s Zack?”

  Melinda hesitated. Looked at me and then at the gunman.

  “Don’t you look at her. She doesn’t know his whereabouts. She does not even know that her Zack knows Africa, Kenya, inside out. I expected him to be at the festival. But you, you do know where he is, you always know where he is, because you work together. And you are going to tell me,” the gunman said, and started counting. “One, two, three . . .”

  “I . . . He is . . .” she stammered in terror.

  It was like something from a horror movie. The bedroom door was flung open. Zack came out, gun blazing. Caught by surprise, the man stood still for a second, then fell to the ground, his gun skidding over to where I was cowering. Zack didn’t once glance at me as he dashed for the door, Melinda following. But he stopped briefly at the door, wagged a finger at me, and ran out. It was almost a replica of the gesture Mark had made when he threatened me over his divorce.

  I did not know what to think or even whether it was not an illusion. Scales had fallen from my eyes, and I saw a Zack I had never set eyes upon. Wainana and I were alone with a dead man. I wanted to get up but continued to stare at the gun and the body. Wainaina stood up, urging me to do the same. Then I heard shuffling by the door. Murderer Zack coming back? I didn’t wait to see. I snatched the gun from the floor, jumped to my feet, and trained it on the man at the door, standing in the same spot the suited gunman had. I could hear the voice of Sam’s father urging me to aim, aim, aim, and shoot.

  “Mugure?” Ben said in shock, with his gun trained on me.

  “Don’t think I won’t shoot. Put the gun down, Ben Underwood,” I said. “Where is Zack?” he asked as he put the gun on the floor.

  “Your friends just left after killing him,” I answered, motioning to the man on the floor.

  “What . . . you think . . . Oh, c’mon,
sister, listen to me. That man on the floor works for Brian. He is a crook, and so is Zack. David West—you remember him?—has been working for me. He told me everything he knows. That’s why we let him out. I have been following the crook, but he has been elusive. I was patient. I knew he would make a false move. And he did: stopping you at the Festival of Rags. Yes, I was there. But I lost him, thanks to the traffic. I have been on their trail. Well, I have, and now Detective Johnston is. The longer you keep me here, the more time Zack has to plan his escape. I can call you later to explain. And I’ll tell Johnston about him.” He pointed at the dead man.

  I lowered the gun, not because I fully trusted Ben but because I did not have the strength or the will to shoot anyone. I needed all my energy to digest what I’d just seen and heard. Ben dashed out. After Zack, I hoped.

  Wainaina and I followed him out. I put the gun in my handbag. Things had happened so swiftly that I did not know what to think or feel. But I had to accept reality. Zack may have been a crook; now he was a killer on the loose with Ben and Johnston after him. I was surprisingly calm as Wainaina said over and over again: “My! You can handle a gun.”

  • • •

  I went straight to my room, switched off the lights, and lay on the bed fully clothed, my mind clogged with thoughts of the unimaginable that had become a reality: Ben and the gunman at the Festival of Rags; Zack and Melinda in the same hotel in Kenya. Though I had seen it, I could hardly envision it. Other images competed for attention: Melinda and Zack had maintained a relationship throughout my marriage; Melinda was a liar, with all that stuff about Mark never setting foot in Africa, maybe carrying on with both Zack and Mark; Melinda, the blood angel, was a key player in Susan’s adoption activities; and Zack was a murderer. Then there were Mark, Miles, Brian, and Joe. How did they all fit in the puzzle? Nothing was stable in my life anymore. No, no, I should not say that. There was Kobi. My thoughts turned to him. His life was going to be greatly affected; there was no way I would let a murderer back in his life. The whirling thoughts and images kept me awake, but finally, somehow, I must have fallen asleep.