An Open Heart

by Harry Kraus

  Jace wondered how much to tell the officers. If the police were involved in setting up a hit, he would be wading into murky waters.

  The trio stood silently for a moment. Finally, Jace spoke again. “I think the victim may have been looking for me.”

  The officer touched his chin scar. “And why is that?”

  “My friend found a photocopy of a newspaper picture, a picture of me.”

  The second officer laughed. “Maybe he was a fan. Maybe he wanted surgery.”

  “Seriously,” Jace said. “The man was crossing the street, staring at me, not paying attention to the road. When he was struck by the matatu, some sort of gun came flying out from under his coat.”

  “No one else mentioned a gun.”

  “It was taken from the scene.”

  “And how do you know this?”

  “I looked for it a few moments later. It must have been taken.”

  The darker-skinned officer made a note. “This complicates things.”

  “Look, this whole thing bothers me.”

  “As it should.” The man paused. “And yet you neglected to inform the police.”

  “Because I was afraid. Look, put yourself in my shoes. A man with my picture in his pocket shows up with a gun. Why would he be looking for me there unless he knew I would be there at a certain time? And how would I be there at a certain time without it being set up with the police checkpoint?”

  “You think our police set this up?”

  “Maybe not the police. Maybe our driver. He had to have me at a certain place at a certain time.”

  “You are accusing a government official?”

  “I’m not accusing anyone,” Jace said, immediately regretting the loud volume of his response. “Look,” he said, lowering his voice, “I didn’t know what to do.”

  The man with the scar studied Jace for a moment. “You will need to come with us to the station to give a formal statement.”

  “I’m not interested in trouble.”

  “I know, Dr. Rawlings.” The man smiled, revealing a perfect row of white teeth standing out against his black skin. “But we are.” He paused before adding, “We are very interested in trouble.”

  Two hours later, Jace sat in a small room in the Uplands Police Station answering questions from Detective Ndemi, a man of medium stature, with a shaved head and teeth etched brown from too much fluoride as a child, an endemic problem in Kenya.

  The detective leaned back in his chair, linking his fingers behind his shiny head. “It seems that what began as a simple hit-and-run investigation has raised more questions than answers,” he said quietly. “You know, Dr. Rawlings, that police corruption is a problem very difficult to root out because the wages are low.”

  Ndemi’s cell phone rang. He looked at the phone and sighed. “Hello,” he said, punching a button.

  From that moment on, he listened, saying “Eh … eh … eh …” every few seconds, the Kikuyu way of saying yes, I’m getting you. After two minutes, Ndemi switched off the phone and smiled at Jace. “My wife,” he said.

  Jace looked around the room. Painted a drab gray, the walls were bare except for a picture of the Kenyan president, a requirement for all government buildings.

  “Where was I?” the detective continued. “Oh, yes, the corruption of our police. It would not surprise me that our police could be bribed to set up a checkpoint in a particular location.” He paused, leaning forward and pointing at Jace. “But I would be very careful about lodging complaints against government officials, especially a man of national reputation like the Honorable John Okombo.”

  “I am not accusing him. I was afraid. Maybe I’ve let my imagination run away with me.”

  Detective Ndemi paused, thinking. “Yes, of course.” He tapped his pen on the metal table that separated them. “The Mungiki are a troublesome group, and they have connections. If they had a reason to target you, they could have bribed the police themselves.” He hesitated. “Of course, we will question Minister Okombo’s driver and see what we can find out. Perhaps the Mungiki only wanted the police to stop your vehicle long enough to do their work. The flattened tire may have been coincidental.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Of course not. It is not your job.”

  “I am afraid of stirring up trouble.” Jace shrugged. “That’s why I didn’t go to the police in the first place. I thought if the police or someone inside government was involved, it could be dangerous for me to raise concerns.”

  “It seems you have no choice now.”

  Jace nodded.

  “Minister Okombo’s influence reaches beyond his role as the minister of health. He has traveled widely, securing trade deals even with your country. His father was the ambassador to the US, I believe, so the role was a natural one for him.”

  “I do not want to disrespect Minister Okombo.”

  “Of course.”

  “Why would the Mungiki target me?”

  “They may not have had a motive on their own, but money is a powerful motivator. Perhaps someone else paid them to do it. Unfortunately, the man who knows why he was targeting you has been killed, and we have failed to identify his accomplices.”

  “How can I protect myself?”

  The detective ignored Jace’s question, only giving him a look of sympathy and continuing. “Tell me about the police at the checkpoint. Were they uniformed? Did you see badges, official papers?”

  “They were wearing blue uniforms and police hats. They appeared legitimate to me. I didn’t see any papers.”

  “They may not have been police at all. We’ve had some thievery of our metal spike strips.”

  “So perhaps the police aren’t involved at all.”

  “A possibility.” He made a note on the paper in front of him. “Some Luos used our equipment to set up blockades after the last election, stopping cars and threatening the Kikuyu.” He shook his head. “They claimed Kibaki stole the election from Odinga.” He slammed his hand on the table. “Foolishness!”

  From what Jace had heard, the claim was far from foolish. To see that the conflict between the tribes was still able to stir such an emotional outburst from the Kikuyu detective demonstrated that the rift in the culture was deep and ongoing.

  “You may want to stay in Kijabe for a while. My people will investigate this,” Ndemi said.

  Jace shifted in his seat.

  “Don’t worry, Dr. Rawlings. I can be discreet.”

  “I don’t need any more attention. I just want to do my work as a surgeon without disturbance.”

  The man smiled through brown teeth with an expression that made Jace shudder. “I hope that works out for you.” He paused. “You can catch a matatu back to Kijabe. I’ll be in touch if I have any more questions.”

  With that, the man walked out, leaving Jace alone.

  Alone was exactly what he felt.

  32

  Heather picked up the phone, noting the caller ID: “unrecognized number.”

  “Hello.”

  “Heather, Ryan Meadows here.”

  “Yes,” she said, her stomach beginning to churn as soon as she heard his name. Ryan had promised to call her with information about the night of Jace’s accident.

  “How are you?”

  She bristled. She wasn’t interested in small talk. “Fine. Did you find out any information for me?”

  “I’m fine too, thanks for asking. I was hoping we could meet for lunch. The Tobacco Company is close for me. Is that too far out of your way?”

  “I’m really just interested in what you found out.”

  “I’d rather discuss this face-to-face. Shall we say noon?”

  Heather shook her head. “What did you find out?”

  She listened to Ryan sigh. “Heather, some of this stuff may be difficult
to hear. You didn’t let me buy you dinner the other night. Can we meet for lunch? Having a friend may make bad news easier to take.”

  A friend? Is that what you are now? “I appreciate your concern, Mr. Meadows,” she said. “But I am prepared to hear whatever you tell me.”

  Another sigh into the phone. “Okay, but I’ll take a rain check on the meal together.” He paused.

  She imagined he wanted a hopeful response, but she wasn’t about to give it.

  “The hotel manager, Mr. Baker, usually took care of Mrs. Franks personally. I asked him about the night she died. He remembered a few things, even made a few notes so he could tell the police if they ever questioned him. Fortunately, they haven’t.”

  She waited and finally prompted, “Well?”

  “Let’s see,” he said as if he were reading. “At approximately nine p.m., Mr. Baker assisted Mrs. Franks with her bags, taking them to her suite. At ten p.m., he received a call from her asking him to escort up her physician. Dr. Rawlings arrived a few minutes later.”

  “The news said they were seen leaving together at eleven thirty.”

  “Heather, I’m so sorry.” Ryan paused. “Listen, I hope you won’t think I’m too forward. I know that you’ve separated from your husband, but this must be horrible for you. I do hope you’ll let me take you to dinner sometime.”

  “Why don’t we keep this just business?” she said. “Thank you for the information.” With that, she hung up.

  Ten p.m.? Heather walked to a calendar on the wall of the study and paged back. I was with Jace at ten p.m. that evening. We got out of the theater at ten forty-five. We’d driven separately because he came straight from the hospital and went back there after the film.

  Something just doesn’t smell right.

  Is Mr. Meadows lying? Or just misinformed?

  Jace arrived back in Kijabe after two crowded matatu rides from Uplands. He stared at his refrigerator and sighed. A wilted head of lettuce, a half-empty can of tuna, some grape jelly, an overripe mango, and some carrot sticks stared back at him, an offering fit for the starving, but not for Jace. He couldn’t face another PBJ. What he wanted was stew and chapatis, but he didn’t have the energy to walk down to Mama Chiku’s.

  After morning rounds, the day had been a whirl. His conversations with Chaplain Otieno and the police had left him uneasy. He hated the unknown. If he didn’t know the source of a threat, real or perceived, how could he do anything about it?

  What disturbed him most was a sense of déjà vu. The warnings the chaplain gave him sounded eerily like those his sister had issued in the weeks before her death.

  During Jace’s last weeks in Kijabe before leaving for college, Janice’s urging had become stronger, prompted by a sense that her chances to warn him would soon pass.

  As it turned out, she was right. But it was her time that was short, not his. He’d wondered about it later. Could she have had a premonition of death, yet misunderstood?

  He remembered how she’d pleaded with him to join her and some friends for a last campout at Malewa River before their graduation. He should have known it would be another spiritual ambush.

  She had rolled the red-checked Maasai blankets the day they left, tying each one with a short segment of rope. “I’m glad you’re coming, Jace,” she said. “Most of the station kids are going. Bruce, Mark, Eric, Joel, Stephanie, and Linda.”

  He nodded. “I want to roast a goat. I can slaughter it with the guys the night before we leave. We can roast the meat at the campsite.”

  She smiled and shoved a rebellious strand of blonde hair behind her ear. She picked up a pen and added something to a list of supplies before pausing. “Jace, Bruce is bringing his guitar. He wants to lead a time of prayer and worship, kind of a dedication—a send-off, since we’re not going to see much of each other after grad.”

  “We’ll see each other.”

  “Not so much. Our group is going to be everywhere. Air Force Academy, Wheaton, University of Virginia, John Brown University.” She seemed to hesitate. “I just don’t want you to feel weird.”

  “Janice,” he said, trying to hide his irritation, “I’m fine, okay? I’ve been around this stuff all my life. It’s not like I’m gonna get all weirded out because of some songs.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “I told you, it’s not that I don’t like it. I just wished I believed it, like you and Bruce.” He looked away. “I’m just not going to fake it anymore.”

  “No one’s asking you to fake anything.”

  “Besides,” he said, “if there’s any place where I feel close to the Creator, it’s sleeping out under the dust of the Milky Way.”

  “I know,” she said, smiling. “I know.” She took a deep breath. “Just promise me you’ll ask God to make Himself real to you.”

  “You still think I’m going to die?”

  “Jace, I don’t know what to make of my feelings. I’ve never felt this way before. Like I know I’m supposed to get you a message, ’cause I might not have many more chances.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “Except America.” He made a popping sound with his mouth, implying a popping of the Christian bubble he’d lived in at Rift Valley Academy. The students often complained about the restrictive bubble when they were at RVA, but graduates would come back and tell them how comfortable the bubble really was. “Bye-bye, RVA,” he said.

  “Promise me,” she said.

  “Just lay off, Janice. You are not me.”

  The Honorable John Okombo pressed his stomach and wished he could belch away his pain. He found some antacid tablets in his top desk drawer and shoved the day’s copy of The Standard aside. He’d been quoted on the front page as saying a Mungiki leader, Anthony Kimathi, had met a just end. In truth, he had said that, but as quoted it seemed out of context. A reporter had implied that the Kenyan police were incompetent, since they had been searching for Kimathi for quite some time. Another reporter had linked Okombo to the story and asked for his comment because his vehicle was at the scene of Kimathi’s death. What he’d actually said was, “What we couldn’t do, God intervened and did. Kimathi may have escaped the police, but he couldn’t escape God.”

  Okombo knew that his comments would be distorted. Kikuyu-Luo tensions were bound to escalate in the wake of the Mungiki leader’s death, and Okombo didn’t need the negative attention. He cursed his luck and called Simeon Okayo.

  While the phone on the other end rang, Okombo stood and shut the door to his study. Alone, he waited.

  “Hello.”

  “Simeon, did you hear about Anthony?”

  “He was an idiot.”

  “Perhaps.” He sighed. “We’ve got other problems.”

  “We?”

  “Rawlings told the police about it. They are asking my driver questions. Seems like some Detective Ndemi is concerned about police corruption.”

  “Maybe he wants to run for Parliament,” Simeon said, laughing at his own joke. “But I don’t see this as a problem, especially not my problem. Anthony is dead. He can’t talk.”

  “You need to help me here. Now there is double reason to take care of Rawlings. You should have never bragged to the governor’s staff.”

  “He only asked me what kind of work I was capable of. He seemed fascinated with curses.”

  The MP listened to what sounded like liquid sloshing in a jar. He imagined the witch doctor mixing a potion. “Westerners always find black magic exciting.”

  “I had no idea the man would ask for a favor,” Simeon said.

  “Well, he did. And if we want to keep our trading partners happy, we’re going to have to follow through.”

  “Certainly you have other contacts.”

  “I thought you’d do what you do best,” Okombo rejoined.

  “Curse him?”

  “Exactly. Instead you hire a Mungiki friend.”r />
  “He owed me a favor.”

  “I counted on you.”

  Okombo listened as the old doctor’s breath blew into the phone. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “A blood oath.”

  “Better if you don’t know.”

  That night, Jace found Evan Martin eating in the little restaurant within the hospital grounds. Catering mostly to employees and patients’ families, the service was friendly and the food fried.

  Jace saw Evan attacking a plate of chicken and chips, a cup of sweet chai in front of him. Jace fetched a mug of tea from the counter and sat on a white plastic chair opposite Evan. “Keep eating like that, and you’re going to need me.”

  Evan shook his head. “I have GPS in my cell phone. There’s this cool app that tells me how far I walk every day. I’m doing at least three miles more here than I did in Virginia.”

  Jace leaned forward and kept his voice low. “I talked to the chaplain about our patients’ experiences. He thinks they may have been contacted by some sort of spirit.”

  Evan raised his eyebrows. “A spirit?”

  “You know, an angel.” Jace studied his friend for a reaction. Nothing. So he added. “Or a demon.”

  Another subtle raise of the eyebrow, but no comment from Evan.

  “I know it sounds weird, but Africans have a bit more respect for this kind of thing.” He paused. “He seems to think I might be under some sort of attack.”

  “An attack?”

  “Spiritually. Like a curse.”

  “I don’t like it, Jace.” Evan sipped his tea. “Look, this is all getting to be a little much for me.” He lifted his index finger. “We have a pretty good idea that this Anthony guy had you in his sights.” He held up a second finger. “And now you’re talking about weird spiritual stuff.”

  “You’re the one who told me I should pay attention.”

  “Sure, but this whole thing is getting out of hand.” He set down his mug and shook his head. “I’ve got a family, Jace. I came over here to do a few cases, get you started, test the waters. But this—well, this is getting a little scary.”