The Summoner: (12 page)

Before you judge
, he told the Inspector,
remember that Juju was born out of fear of the unknown—as were most, if not all, ancient religions
.

Words that, the deeper he probed into Juju, he knew were a gross understatement. Juju was not just born out of fear—Juju thrived on fear. Juju was fear.

During the case he explored the Juju community in London and witnessed a few tricks of the local babalawos. He saw an alleged spirit possession, someone who claimed a babalawo took away his sister’s power of speech, and a couple claiming their babalawo had cured their son’s epilepsy. Viktor told his contact, a Nigerian émigré who had converted to Catholicism, that after the case he wanted to keep studying. He wanted to throw back the secret doors of Yoruba religion.

The contact told Viktor to forget everything he had learned and seen.
Go back to your university
, he said,
and never talk of Juju again. The Juju in London is nothing compared to the Juju in Nigeria. There are babalawos there, in the dark forests of Yorubaland and the hidden basements of Lagos, who can do things that will break your mind. Impossible things
.

And they don’t like being watched.

Viktor returned to Prague. He acquired videotapes of anthropologists in Yorubaland, and read as many books on Juju as he could. But he never had another case involving the religion.

Life took Viktor away from Juju, but he had found his calling in London, along with an addiction to wormwood when the nightmares wouldn’t go away. Since then he’d participated in hundreds of investigations into other religions and quasi-religions, some of which revealed other, perhaps equally important mysteries. But none possessed the dark allure of Juju.

Viktor still did not have a traditional faith, but he had seen enough, in Juju and elsewhere, to know that the universe harbored secrets. And he wanted answers.

He had come far since that first case. He had investigated cults on six continents, hardened, saved lives, killed men. He had delved into many secret things. He would no longer be cowed by the mere mention of the word
babalawo
.

• • •

His eyes slinked to the thing he’d kept from London: a horned, expressive mask poised in terrible splendor on the table in front of him. A babalawo’s mask. He had thought the texture strange when he first touched it, like supple sandpaper. That was before he’d learned it was made from human skin.

He stood. Enough.

He had inquiries to make today. Inquiries into the darkness.

17

G
rey woke to Nya hovering over him. Her slender form shielded the brunt of the morning sun’s assault on his throbbing head. She dabbed his forehead with a cool towel as he blinked and tried to remember where he was.

The memories of the night before returned with unwanted clarity. Grey sat and scanned the clearing; they were alone with the innocence of nature. He saw no altar, no goat, no horde of people, no captive who had… he swallowed.

He said, “How long have you been awake?”

“Not long.”

Grey ran a hand through his hair and cupped the back of his head. “I can’t believe they left us here.”

“My disappearance would draw too much unwanted attention.”

Grey didn’t answer.

“We didn’t see his face,” she said. “We don’t know anything more about the
N’anga
than we did before last night, except the rumors are true. I can’t believe-” she broke off, and stared at the ground.

He eased to his feet. “What the hell happened last night?”

She started walking towards the clearing, head bent. “I don’t know. But I plan on finding out.”

When she reached the clearing she stooped, then moved around the circle in a squat-like position. Grey moved towards her, but she held out her hand and then motioned. “You can come, but walk around this way. You mustn’t disturb the scene.”

She pointed out two different impressions in the dirt. Grey could tell one of them belonged to a shoe, but that was about it.

“The man trapped in the clearing last night was barefoot,” Nya said. “And the
N’anga
was the only other person inside the clearing. Do you see this imprint? It’s a boot. It has to be his. The clearing is rife with it. It’s difficult to find a full imprint, because his robes obscured most of the tracks. But the heel left indentations.”

Grey peered at the ground. “I don’t see any more indentations.”

“That’s because you’re not a tracker.”

“And you are?”

“I spent part of my childhood in a village. I learned how to track.”

Grey waited as she moved around the clearing, then stepped into the circle still outlined in a rust-colored stain. She paused.

“What is it?”

“I only see the footprints of one man.”

Grey licked his lips.

“Something happened inside this circle. It looks as if there was a struggle. He was on his knees and crawling towards the altar… maybe even dragged across the circle. But there are no more footprints.”

“Then what?” he asked.

“Hey?”

“Can you tell what happened next?”

“No,” she murmured. “It’s as if he just vanished.”

She stopped moving, and again they regarded the scene.

“Come,” she said. “We’re going to find out where the
N’anga
went after he left the ceremony. He had to have gone somewhere.”

“Won’t it be impossible to track one man among the crowd?”

“In the immediate vicinity around the clearing, yes. We’ll have to try and pick up the trail further out.” She turned and pointed, to the right of Leopard’s Castle looming in the distance. “His entourage entered the clearing from over there.” She tossed him the keys. “Follow me with the car.”

Grey returned to find Nya already far beyond the clearing, bent to the ground again. After a few minutes she waved him over, excited. Grey left the car and hurried over.

He leaned down and saw a miniscule impression in the grass similar to the one in the clearing. His eyebrows rose; she was good.

“How do you know it’s his? Someone else might’ve been wearing the same boots.”

“It’s possible. But there are parallel imprints on both sides. As if he were being shadowed.”

“His bodyguards.”

“Yes.”

He returned to the car and they followed the tracks for half an hour. At times Nya would point in silence to animal tracks that crossed the path. Finally she stopped in front of a set of tire tracks.

“See that impression in the grass? There was a car parked here. Can you bring the camera in the glove compartment?”

Nya took the photos, then let Grey continue driving. She kept her eyes trained on the faint, day-old path of the car barely noticeable in the low grass and scrub ahead of them. Ten minutes later the tire tracks led to a pitted dirt road, which Nya said was probably used by poachers. The dirt road eventually merged onto the main highway, and after a few kilometers they saw a sign.

They were on the road to Harare.

18

T
hey returned to Harare encased in a weary, contemplative silence. Nya tried not to dwell too long on the things she had witnessed the night before. They would have to be revisited soon, the
N’anga
and his world entered once again, but for now she let the warm fresh air cleanse and renew her spirit.

She dropped Grey off at his apartment, each of them murmuring a promise to talk later in the day. Nya watched him as he moved towards his building, his step spry and sure. He had an undeniable strength about him.

She experienced a flash of memory of the night before, and set her jaw. She’d be damned if she’d let herself be frightened. The
N’anga
was merely a man, and she was going to find him. He
would
be held accountable.

She stopped at home for a quick shower and change of clothes, then headed to forensics to drop off the photos of the tire treads. After picking up a croissant she headed to her office, intending to catch up on some long overdue paperwork. Halfway down Second she changed her mind. She made an abrupt right onto Samora Machel, then a left on Takawira. The office could wait. This couldn’t.

Minutes later she turned into the entrance to Waterfalls, retracing the route she’d taken two days earlier. She parked and knocked on the cottage door.

The door swung open, and Tapiwa Chakawa stood to the side of the doorway. Swollen semicircles floated under her eyes. Nya saw her glance down the street before she invited her inside.

“Have you found William?” she asked, with the nervous hesitation used by people who are afraid of the answer.

“I’m afraid not.”

Taps looked away. “Do you think he is…”

“I don’t know. I assure you we’re doing everything we can. Ms. Chakawa, I need your help with something.”

Taps lowered her head and didn’t answer.

“Ms. Chakawa?”

When she looked up, Nya saw a wild look in her eyes. Taps crafted her right forefinger into a point, lifted it, moved it across the room and held it. Nya’s eyes followed the finger to the object of its attention: a closed doorway.

“I found it in there,” she said, her voice raw with fear. “The night after you left, I came home from my aunt’s and it was there. On my bed.”

“What was?”

“The dead monkey. I haven’t slept since. Let me tell you, it was the most horrible thing I’ve ever seen. It was-” she cut herself off. “I still smell it in my mind. I buried it and scrubbed the room a hundred times, but it’s still there.”

Nya cupped her hand in her own. “I need you to help me stop these men.”

Taps’ voice quivered. “They know I’ve talked. They’ll do the same to me, I know they will. I’ve seen them—I’ve seen their ceremony.”

“So have I.”

Taps paused. “Hey?”

“Last night. I saw everything.”

“Then you know. You know he can do things, isn’t it.”

“He’s just a man.”

“Oh no,” she said. “If you were there, then you should know.”

“You saw more at that ceremony than you told us, didn’t you?”

Taps buried her face again and said nothing.

“I understand your fear. But you must talk to me. We-”

Taps lifted her head. “Are you going to protect me, Ms. Mashumba? Will you send detectives to watch my house, like in the American movies? I live in
Waterfalls
, hey? They’ll come for me, and they’ll drag me to their ceremony, and they’ll put me inside that circle and-”

“He’s not going to stop,” Nya interrupted, her voice colder than before. “Think of the future victims.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t.”

“I believe William’s still alive.”

Taps stilled.

“You can help us find him. You need to tell me everything he did, everyone he saw, the week before he disappeared. I must know how he found that ceremony.”

Taps eyes wandered around her apartment again. “I can’t,” she said again, and sobbed. “Ms. Mashumba—I can’t.”

“If there’s the smallest chance you can help us find William, isn’t it worth it, no matter what the risk?”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Just information, Ms. Chakawa. That’s all I need.”

She was quiet for a long time, and again looked out the window before she spoke. “They’ll know I talked. You remember that when something happens to me. There’s really nothing to tell, but I’ll tell you what I know. I’ll tell you for William.”

“Thank you.”

She ran a trembling hand along her braids. “I don’t know where he went some nights, if anywhere. We stayed together two nights a week; I work at the hospital the other five. I know he’d see friends on Wednesdays, and on Thursdays he went to the priest.”

“He was seeing a priest?”

“He began a few months ago. For confession. He said he needed insurance for the next life.”

“Do you know who this priest is? Where his church is?”

“I do.”

Nya scribbled down the information. She looked at the paper in disbelief, then composed herself before she looked up. “Anyone else?”

“The Ambassador, of course.”

“Yes.”

“I know he had more friends at the Embassy—I’m not sure of their names. To be honest, I’ve never known that much about William outside of our relationship. I know he loves me,” she said, “and that’s enough.”

“Is there anyone else you can think of? Anyone or anything at all?”

“That’s all I can tell you. Please leave now. And please don’t come here any more.”

Nya wanted to be sympathetic to her plight, but found herself unable to identify with her weakness. “Thank you. You have my card. Call me at any hour if anything else happens. You have my word I’ll protect you to the best of my ability.”

Taps didn’t answer.

• • •

Nya crumpled the piece of paper Taps had given her. She didn’t need an address to find this church.

She drove back into town, heading straight for Africa Unity Square. She parked on Third and backtracked a block through the square. She stopped on the corner of Second and Nelson Mandela, two blocks from her office, and faced the quaint stone façade of the Cathedral of Saint Mary and All Saints.

A single low tower with recessed oval windows fronted the modest church. Lantern-crested double doors and the sweet smell of frangipani welcomed visitors.

Why did it have to be here?

She was tempted to give the address to Grey and let him follow up—no
.
She was stronger than this. She was not…
Taps
.

She approached the entrance, trembling at the sight of a place he used to frequent, climbing steps he used to climb. It was different at home. Home was familiar, her past as well as his, and no longer the debilitating reminder of him it had been at first. Or perhaps, through sheer necessity, she’d numbed to it.

She hesitated in front of the doors. This was different. Nya had attended Mass on Sundays at the church near her house, but this was his place. Every Wednesday, without fail, for as long as she could remember, he had come here. She imagined him coming by after work, bending over and wiping his glasses before he entered, smiling his smile that told the world, even when it wasn’t watching, that he understood.