The Fall of Saints (23 page)

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

J
ane 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 years,” 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.

At the far end, I could make out the outline of a wall. I walked slowly, prying in the darkness, Wainaina following close behind. The wall was too high for me to look over. I spotted a loose rock and dragged it closer to the wall and, standing on it, was able to see on the other side, where I beheld a house whose full size was partly obscured by trees. The entrance must have been on the other side. A pair of jeans, socks, and a tote bag hung on a line to dry, near a security light that dimly lit parts of the compound. The image of the woman and the tote bag flashed in my mind.

“Let’s check out that house,” I said, stepping off the stone.

“How?” Wainaina asked.

“We let ourselves in. The way we did at the Miracle Church. You and I have become experts at this kind of thing,” I said, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

“Burglars who almost bungled it last time,” he said.

Wainaina pushed me up, then jumped over easily. We were burglar, with Jane as the driver of the getaway vehicle.

We lay low under some bushes. A stench that hit my nostrils made me think of dog shit. Dogs! What if they had dogs? But why would they keep attack dogs in a church? It was quiet. A security guard walked across the compound, shining his flashlight here and there, and disappeared in the back. I felt for the barrel of the gun, more as an assurance than anything else. After what appeared to be a long time, the guard walked back and entered his little hut by the gate.

Minutes later, we crept up to a window and peered inside. The room was dimly lit under the door. We walked along the walls of the house past another window whose curtain was not drawn. We were just able to make out a bed and a wardrobe.

“We better leave. There’s nothing here,” Wainaina whispered.

“Yeah,” I said, feeling a bit let down. Then I heard a cry. A baby’s cry.

We moved toward the sound slowly, listening. It turned out to be a big house that went farther into the woods than we had assumed. We came up to another window and listened. This was it. The baby had stopped crying, but we could hear some movements. I looked in the window. This was a nursery. There were ten to fifteen babies asleep in little cribs. A woman was trying to pacify the crying baby with a bottle. She looked somewhat older, and as she rocked the baby, she closed her eyes. Just then another woman, much younger, came in and quickly checked the babies, woke the woman up, gave her a little verbal lashing, and then left. I recognized her as the nurse at the Supa Duka Clinic.

Wainaina stood next to me, and even though I didn’t see his face, I could feel his outrage.

Babies packed in a warehouse, waiting to be shipped out: This was a police case. We must try Johnston again.

25

W
ith Wainaina trailing behind and my armpits drenched in sweat, we tiptoed back to the wall. I struggled and then managed to grip it. Wainaina pushed me up onto a narrow landing on the wall. I was about to jump over when I turned for a last glimpse of the house. I saw a light coming from an obscure place among the trees at the far end of the house, the part adjacent to the church. We had not seen that light when we were peering into the baby warehouse. Someone must have just turned on the light, I thought. That window was lower than all the other ones. I jumped back down and tiptoed quickly toward the little window, about ten yards from the one where we had seen the babies, beckoning Wainaina to follow.

It was a basement window. This raised my curiosity a notch. Basements are an American phenomenon, the East Coast mainly, rare in Kenyan architecture. I bent down to take a peek. The window hadn’t had a wash in a while. I pulled up my sweater sleeve, folded it around my palm, and tried to dust off the window. Then I pressed my face against the pane. All I could see were boxes.

“Can you see anything?” I whispered to Wainaina, who was scrunched over as well.

“Just boxes. Oh, and a fridge, I think,” he said. “They look like kitchen appliances.”

I looked around the yard, trying to figure out what to do next. I wanted to go inside, but I couldn’t see a way in. Except through the window. “We have to break in.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Wainaina said.

“No,” I said.

“There has to be another way,” Wainaina said, feeling his way around the small window. He tugged at it until the little window creaked and then gave way. He was the first to jump in, and I followed. We huddled behind a huge cabinet that stood adjacent to some small filing cabinets. The musky, damp smell was unmistakably mildew. I was standing so close to Wainaina that I could feel the warmth of his breath and his chest going up and down. There was nothing here except the huge boxes we had seen from outside. Some kind of storage, I thought.