The following morning, my body felt heavy, but I dragged myself out of bed. I felt weak. I had not eaten well the last few days. I thought a cup of coffee would perk me up. Then I saw my handbag: The weapon of the dead gunman was there.
Last night’s events came back in all their clarity and hit me afresh. Where I had felt calm under pressure, now I felt my heart soften. I was trembling. I began to weep. Silently. My calm had been a self-protective façade. As hard as it was to accept what had happened, I had to get ahold of myself.
I called Ben. My feelings toward him were suspended between suspicion and gratitude. The pattern of good alternating with evil after every meeting or contact had followed me to Kenya. His appearance could be a setup.
“Ben, what happened after?” I asked after he picked up the phone.
“Sister, the time I took talking you out of shooting me gave him and Melinda a head start. I lost them completely.”
“I am sorry,” I said.
“I told you about white conspiracy. Rosie agrees—”
“Don’t you even go there,” I said. “I am slowly recovering from the shock of revelations.”
“I am sorry, sister.”
“Ben, I would have liked to welcome you better in Kenya than with the muzzle of a gun snatched from the hands of a man killed by my husband. Tell me, did Joe really think I was crazy?”
“Yes, when he first contacted me, but when I questioned him and his story did not add up, I got worried. I questioned him again, even threatened him. You know the rest. I must say, I am upset that you did not use the hotline.”
“This needs a face-to-face,” I said, returning his words to him. I can then read your body language, I thought. The case of Zack and Melinda had deepened my distrust of appearances. “I have a lot on my plate right now. Perhaps after I have more things figured out.”
I remembered Wangeci, her mother, Betty, and all the other victims of wombs for hire. I was on a mission. I had more dots to connect. It was time to get back to work, despite the shambles that my personal life had become.
I remembered the papers that Wainaina and I had pilfered from Susan’s place. I made some coffee, then sat at the dining table with all the papers spread out. There was the sheet with the names of women and X or Y and dollar figures. Then there was the list of foreign names. Recipients of the adopted children, I guessed. “Abducted” was a better description. Adopt, abduct, adoption, abduction. Next to the foreign names were acronyms of their home countries, covering Europe and North America.
Standing out on the “donor” list were some names crossed out in red, with “replaced” written next to them. I recalled my encounter with Kivete, the director of appearance. The Miracle Church was constantly being cleansed of people who might bad-mouth it. Cleaning. Cleansing. Could these be the women who had resisted giving up their babies? Or posed a threat to the nefarious goings-on? Oh, and Betty was going to resist. I had not been in touch with her. She had warned me against Wakitabu. I must get in touch with her. I dialed her number. No answer.
I continued to study the list. I stopped when I came to Wangeci’s name. The X or Y next to her name had been crossed out. Why cross out the letters when her name was already crossed out? Was it because, as Betty had said, Wangeci was a special case? Wait. There was some faint writing at the top. I sat back in the chair and took a deep breath and then looked at it again. It was almost as if I feared to know. The name stared at me.
Kobi, my son, was Wangeci’s son.
I stood up, holding the piece of paper. Then I sat down again. Though I closed my eyes, thoughts continued drumming. Kobi, my son: Wangeci’s son. No wonder her niece had looked so familiar when we visited their home. She resembled Kobi. I felt relief that her son, my son, was alive and well and that I loved him. But that feeling came along with deep sadness, even panic. I had no right to him. I pulled out my wallet and looked at the picture of Kobi that I always carried. He looked like Wangeci. No, I had no right to him. But I loved him, even more so now that I knew I would have to protect him from Zack. What madness was this? Why was this happening to me? Had I done something wrong? My life had been rather stable, but everything had fallen apart. Did I deserve it? I felt like I was being punished for having sold my soul to a devil.
There had to be some other explanation. How was I going to deal with this? I would have to fight fate, if necessary. If I quietly slipped out of the country, I could keep my son. Wangeci had already lost him. For a moment I pictured a life of bliss for Kobi and me, away from Zack, away from anybody who might be in a position to know.
No, no. I banished those thoughts. It would never work. Conscience would never let me rest: Wangeci’s appeal would haunt me forever. I had to do the right thing. I had no claims on him. I must reunite mother and child. I would show Wangeci the picture.
I could not handle it alone. Not with the events of yesterday coming back to me in a very different light. Dangling the piece of paper from my hands, I half ran to Jane’s room and knocked. I knocked again, a little bit more insistently. Eventually, a sleepy Jane stood at the door, wrapped in a robe. Wainaina stepped up behind her.
“My son is Wangeci’s son,” I blurted.
“What son?” Jane asked.
“Kobi,” I said, and looked at them.
“The boy who was taken away from her,” Wainaina said, somewhere between a statement and a question.
“Give us a minute to get dressed,” Jane said as she pushed her way back into the room. So I walked back to the kitchen to wait.
“This is not a matter that I can tell Wangeci on the phone,” I told Jane and Wainaina as they entered the kitchen. “I must see her in person.” They agreed.
When I called Wangeci, there was no answer. I called the landline. Her mother answered, crying. “Wangeci has been kidnapped. Help.”
I did not have the words. “I’m coming now.”
I called Ben. He and Detective Johnston came over to Jane’s place. “Please help us rescue her,” I said.
“You stay put,” Detective Johnston said. “Ben and I will go there with my boys.”
“Oh no, Detective,”I said. “We are coming.”
“These guys are dangerous. You stay here.”
“Don’t underestimate her,” Ben intervened. “I know she can handle a weapon.”
“It’s true,” Wainaina said.
Ben and Johnston looked at each other. Of course they had talked about what had happened at the hotel. In fact, Wainaina had told me that Johnston had called and begged him not to publish the story yet.
“You still got it?” Johnston asked.
I nodded.
“Let’s get on with it.”
Detective Johnston was at the wheel, Ben next to him. Wainaina and I sat in the back. Wainaina had printed the pictures he took at the Festival of Rags. I looked at them one by one. I leaned forward and handed a photo to Ben. “This was the man at the Manhattan curio shop.”
“This explains his sudden disappearance from New York. He was coming to the Festival of Rags.”
“And to get more curios from Susan.” I explained the connection between Miwani of the sunglasses logo. “Ben, you pooh-poohed my attempts to link the two. Remember?”
“At this rate, sister, you’ll soon take my job,” Ben said, and laughed, and then told me that David West had confirmed the connection with Edward and Palmer, but he did not elaborate.
“There’s a connection between Kasla and Alaska,” I explained. “And Father Brian is the father—”
“Catholic priests don’t marry,” Ben interrupted.
The word “priest” brought back the memory of Brian and his threat. I told Ben about my encounter with the priest. “The priest who sent those messages,” Ben said.
I took out the envelope with the picture and explained that it had been taken outside Shamrock, the same scene
I’d told Ben about at the airport. Ben became serious. “Sister, can I keep the envelope and the picture? I want to send it to our labs in America tonight,” he said without explaining.
Of course it was okay. I was glad that I had not thrown it away. I called Wangeci again. As before, it rang without a response. I was about to hang up when a man’s voice came on. “I was told by a friend that you were asking too many questions. You didn’t stop. It looks like only death will stop you from asking questions.” Click!
I must have looked like I had seen a ghost. It was the same voice that had threatened me on the phone back in the States. It was the voice of the Rhino Man, Miles Jackson Sanders. I briefed Detective Johnston. “Ben is aware of Miles. We have been looking at his picture, thanks to Wainaina,” Johnston said.
Within a few minutes we were in Tigoni. We drove up the palm-lined road to the compound, but instead of the beauty I had seen on my first visit, I saw hiding places for thugs and murderers.
Detective Johnston’s phone rang as we were getting out of the car, and he remained in the car to answer it. Ben stayed with him. Wangeci’s mother was standing outside. I ran to her. She hugged me. We went inside the house, holding hands. Her eyes were red and swollen. Inside was a host of people I presumed were Wangeci’s relatives and/or friends. The mood was somber.
“Can we talk somewhere?” I asked her mother.
“Yes, let’s walk outside,” she said.
Wangeci had been snatched outside the gates of the house, she told me. She was about to get to the details when Ben and Johnston came over. I introduced them. Detective Johnston pulled me to the side, leaving Wangeci’s mother watching us three confer.
“They have found her,” he said. “They found her body at Tigoni Dam.”
Everything stood still for a few seconds. I wanted to erase what I had just heard.
“Mugure, you have to let them know,” Johnston said, almost in a whisper. “It’s always best when someone in the family breaks the news. I will go to the dam and then the Tigoni police station, but I’ll be back in a short while. Ben is coming with me. I need cover. Those bastards cannot be very far. We’ll phone for dog service at Tigoni. Now, Mugure, listen to me: Do not, I repeat, do not leave this house without us.” The two walked away. He reiterated the bit about not leaving the premises to Wainaina. And they were gone.
I turned toward Wangeci’s mother. The look on my face must have spoken a million words. Before I could say anything, she retreated, shaking her head. “No, don’t tell me . . . don’t tell me. Don’t say the words.”
But I told her exactly what Johnston had just told me. She collapsed in a heap on the veranda. I let her cry. I sat next to a very quiet Wainaina on the couch near the entrance, giving her the space to weep alone.
Then a woman came out of nowhere and rushed toward me, grabbed me by the shoulders, and pushed me backward. I tried to regain my footing but tripped and slammed into the table full of drinks, then rolled over and hit a couch with my back. Wainaina was on his feet, restraining the woman, who was screaming at me, “It was you, you who got her killed. She had been quiet, but you, you made her talk, and now she’s gone.”
I could not speak. Two men got up and pulled her out of the room as she kicked and screamed obscenities at me. Another woman helped me up, apologizing. “I am sorry, she is just mourning. Wangeci is her cousin and best friend. You are doing the right thing, and I hope you get the bastards.”
That didn’t make me feel better. I felt guilty and confused. It was best if I removed my face from the scene. There was enough pain without my adding to it.
“I badly need some fresh air,” I told Wainaina, who followed, cautioning me against going outside the compound, repeating Detective Johnston’s warning. “Leave me alone,” I said.
As soon as I was well out of view from the house, I started crying. I cried for Wangeci; I cried for the women in the house; I cried for the women who had been forced to sell their own flesh and blood; and I cried because I was not sure I could do much to help them.
By now I had reached the gate. I turned and saw Wainaina walking fast after me, at the same time dialing his cell phone, perhaps calling Ben and Johnston. Outside the gate, I started walking faster, faster, faster, though not sure where I was going. Everything seemed unreal. I could feel my body shutting down, as in the moments before you fall asleep. I tripped on a stone on the roadside. The shooting pain from my toe woke me from my delirious state. I looked back to see Wainaina frantically looking around. I stopped.
“Let’s go back in and wait for the detective by the gate,” Wainaina implored me.
The words were hardly out of his mouth when we saw a black SUV coming toward us at high speed. I started to run to the gate, but I felt as though stones had been attached to my feet. I dragged them along against the cold Tigoni wind. The SUV was gaining on me. Kobi’s face flashed before me. I must not die. I felt a surge of adrenaline. My feet were not obeying me. I tried to stay focused on the gate, but I kept glancing at the oncoming car. It was here. I heard Sam’s father’s voice: Aim, aim. In a matter of seconds, I had pulled out the gun and held it firmly in my hands. Aim, aim, aim, Sam’s father urged me. I shot at the SUV, shattering the windshield.
The SUV swerved and drove past. I aimed and fired again, trying to get one of the tires. It drove on.
My knees gave way. I felt Wainaina grab my hand and pull me forward, with such force that I almost fell. He dragged me along and did not let go till I collapsed in a trembling heap on the sidewalk inside the gates. Wainaina sat opposite with a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead. We sat like that until a honk at the gate announced Ben and Johnston’s arrival. Wainaina told them about the shoot-out.
They didn’t even get out of the vehicle but drove in the direction of the SUV. They came back after an hour to report that they had caught up with the assassins. The vehicle had rolled over on the side a quarter mile after I had fired the gun: Rhino Man, aka Jackson, had been at the wheel with a bullet in his forehead, they reported. They didn’t know if he had an accomplice; they had handed over the case to Tigoni police.
“Let’s go after Father Brian,” I told the two detectives.
They looked at each other and then at me. “Take a rest. We can resume the hunt for Brian tomorrow,” Johnston said.
Johnston dropped Wainaina and me at Jane’s house, telling me again to “just rest. You’ve done plenty.” They were going to work on all the leads. I thanked them. “Give me more bullets, I shot my gun empty,” I said, and Ben did. But the way he looked at me told he was not sure that I would obey the order to stay put.
I turned to Jane and Wainaina. “Brian is the missing link, and we must get him to talk. He must know that something has happened to his gunman. If he hears through his criminal grapevine, he may vanish. We must get him by hook, crook, or gun. Today. Tonight.”
24
Jane was behind the wheel, Wainaina in the passenger seat, and I was in the back. He talked ceaselessly about my way with guns. I had taken him by surprise first at the hotel and later, at Tigoni, when I hit a moving target. I could tell that Jane was anticipating the next phase of our quest: a kind of citizen’s arrest of Father Brian.
Carts loaded with goods told us that we had reached the Donkey City. Wainaina jumped out of the car to ask for directions to Father Brian’s church or house. Jane sat in the car. I took the opportunity to stretch my legs. Then I spotted a small open-air market selling bananas and oranges. I felt hungry. I was picking out the best bananas when a woman approached me.
“Are you one of them?” The contrast between her ragged clothes, torn in places, and the tote bag she was swinging was striking. “God sees you, He sees all of you,” she said, and then walked away, laughing. A few steps down the road, she changed her gait to imitate the walk of a high-heeled lady, swinging her bag in rhythm. “Don’t mind her, she has been like that for many y
ears,” said the woman selling fruit.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Her baby died. Born with a single kidney, they told her. They would not show her the body. She became depressed. Sometimes she will ask you to look in her bag for the baby sleeping in there.”
Wainaina was already in the car when I got back. He and Jane pounced on the ripe bananas, and as we munched, I told them about my encounter with the woman. Some aspects of her story were similar to Wangeci’s, I said. And the tote bag. I had seen similar bags with Wangeci, Philomena, and Betty. I remembered that I had not made the second call to Betty and immediately dialed the number. Again, there was no answer. I voiced my concern: Betty had told me she wanted to keep her baby. She had said she would run away but . . .
“Why don’t you call Philomena?” Wainaina said.
I did. Philomena answered but did not let me edge in a word. She spoke in a whisper. “Please don’t call again. They took her away last night.”
When I tried to ask who “they” were, she hung up. I tried again, but she had switched off her phone.
“They have taken Betty,” I said.
I called Detective Johnston. No answer.
We waited until the first cover of darkness and drove to Father Brian’s church. An old white Datsun pickup was parked beside of the church. I got out of the car and gingerly approached it. There was no driver inside. I made out MCC, written on the driver’s side. I guessed it referred to the Mashingo Catholic Church.
A line of toilets was built on the right side of the church. I went back to our car. Jane suggested she remain in the car in case things turned sour. I took my bag and flung it over my shoulder. The gun was still there.
So Wainaina and I were on the hunt for Father Brian. The doors were locked. I peeked inside at the wooden benches on which were hymnbooks and Bibles. Father Brian was not around. But did I really expect to see him on his knees? I walked around the back.
The Fall of Saints Page 18