The Fall of Saints (22 page)

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.

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.