The Summoner: (13 page)

Because he did. He always understood. He’d understood
her
. She pushed back the flood of memories she didn’t want to touch her anymore. Forgetting was far, far easier than remembering. If only time would hurry up and work its magic, allow her meticulously constructed numbness to consume her.

She caught the tear before it came. She did what she knew best, more adeptly than a master alchemist, and turned the sadness into anger. She had one thing left to do before the time for grieving arrived.

Nya gathered herself, chin high, and straightened her svelte frame into the erect posture he’d practiced with her.

• • •

Soft light feathered the nave and sanctuary from hundreds of flickering candles. She stood in the doorway and allowed her eyes to adjust to the dim light. A young priest, hands clasped in front of him, approached her.

“May I help you?”

Nya introduced herself and flashed her identification, and the priest’s eyes widened. Nya recoiled at the look of fear that inevitably appeared when she revealed her employer.

“I trust everything is all right?” he asked.

“Yes, Father. I’m here on official business, but it doesn’t concern the church. I’m merely looking for information. I need to speak with the priest who gives confession to William Addison.”

“Well, I—hold on please.”

He disappeared, and returned moments later.

“You’re in luck. Father Cowden is taking confession today, and he attended William Addison at times. He’s unoccupied at the moment. If necessary, I can step into the confessional for him.”

“If you don’t mind.”

“One moment.”

The priest left and soon reappeared. “Come. He’s in the library.”

He led her into a narrow corridor to the left of the nave, down a short hallway and into a small, bookshelf-lined room bathed in monastic equanimity. A much older man rose as she entered. Head bowed, he moved forward to cradle her hand. His short tuft of ash-colored hair contrasted pleasantly with the ebony hues of his creased skin, giving him a dignified presence. His hand warmed her; he exuded the comforting aura of a man at peace with the state of his soul.

“Please. Take a seat.” His voice wavered with age, propped up by the firmness of conviction.

She sat in a straight-backed chair, and he sat across from her. “How may I help you? Father Tandekai mentioned William Addison?”

“Do you know him?”

“He gives confession to me most Thursdays.”

“When did you last take his confession?”

“Let me see—I believe it would be Thursday before last.”

“You haven’t seen him since?”

“No. Is there a problem?”

“Father—I’m sorry to have to tell you that William Addison has disappeared. He was last seen this past Saturday.”

His face bunched. “Disappeared? Is it certain? Perhaps he decided to take a leave of absence?”

“Perhaps. Although I’m afraid we can’t rule out anything at this point.”

“I am sorry to hear that.”

“I can’t divulge details, but I do need to ask you a few questions.”

“I’ll do anything in my power to assist, but Ms. Mashumba, you must know I cannot discuss anything revealed through confession. And I’m afraid my relationship with Mr. Addison was limited to that venue.”

“I understand, but we don’t know where else to turn. I wouldn’t be here if that wasn’t the case. Father, is there anything—
anything
—he told you that might aid this investigation?”

“Have you heard of the Seal of the Confessional?”

Her posture slowly deflated, and she didn’t answer. She had known this would happen.

“Under Catholic law, anything learned from penitents during confession is inviolable,” he said. “There are no exceptions—including the divulgence of knowledge of imminent crimes. Even murder. The penalty for violation of the Seal is excommunication.”

“You’re a priest. How can you not help save a life?”

“The penitent confesses to Christ, not to the priest. We are merely the conduit. If the possibility of divulgence existed, the confessor could not speak freely.”

Nya turned her head away, and his voice softened. “I’m not permitted to reveal what I hear during confession. But I know of no doctrine preventing me from telling you what I have not heard. And what I have not heard is anything that would help locate William.”

Nya bit her lip in frustration, unable to face another dead end.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be of help.”

“I need answers, Father.”

He touched her arm. “I sense a powerful grief. Were you acquainted with Mr. Addison?”

“I’ve never even seen him before.”

“Then you must be a very empathetic soul. I sense your distress at this man’s troubles.”

She forced back a bitter response. From what little she knew of William Addison, she doubted very much she had even a trace amount of empathy for him. She remained silent in her chair, feeling an almost uncontrollable urge to ask Father Cowden a simple question. The urge grew the longer she remained in the comforting presence of this man, until it overpowered her, her need for commiseration amplified to an unbearable level by the memories that lived in the fabric of this place.

She looked straight ahead, her mouth tight. “Father, did you know a man named Jeremiah Mashumba?”

He contemplated the question, and then his eyes widened in recognition. He took her hand. “You’re his daughter.”

For the first time in many months, she fought a losing battle against her emotions.

19

“T
hank God for air conditioning,” Harris said as he and Grey made their way to the second floor of the Embassy. “Third best invention after fire and birth control.”

Grey took a seat in a metal chair across from Harris’s desk. Harris smirked. “So where’s Addison? Back in his apartment drinking himself into oblivion? Opium den in Nairobi? Country club in Durban?”

“You’re a pretty funny guy, Harris.”

“So?”

“I don’t know where he is.”

“I don’t understand how a white man can disappear during a tribal ceremony in the middle of the African bush. Someone saw him leave that night. Someone knows where he is. Why can’t you find that someone?”

“That someone is a psychopathic cult leader with no known address.”

“Have you been listening to that pompous religious urologist, or whatever he is? Grey—William Addison was the best friend of the
Ambassador
. The man who employs us.”

“Then I’d think you’d want to take a little more interest in the fieldwork.”

Harris laughed. “Grey, Grey, Grey. You have absolutely no concept of authority. Why do you think I put you on this case? You are my interest. I have other agents—all of them, actually—who take orders better than you and who will likely retain their jobs for the duration of their posting.” He wagged his finger. “No, you’re the guy. No one else actually enjoys the company of the locals. No one else has your background. Now tell me what you’ve found.”

Grey folded his arms. “I found a box of matches at Addison’s apartment. The name on the matches was Club Lucky.”

“I didn’t realize the old man had it in him.”

“You know the place?”

“Of course.”

“Apparently I’m the only person in Harare who hasn’t heard of it.”

“Every proper letch in Harare knows Club Lucky. It’s famous for the nubile age of its… staff. What does this have to do with the investigation?”

“I think some of the employees might be involved with Juju. They know about the
N’anga
. I don’t have any reason to suspect they know anything about Addison’s disappearance, but someone there might get us closer.”

“So shake them down. Get what you need. I’m sure that feisty little morsel following you around won’t have any problem applying a little pressure. She works for the Zimbabwean government, after all.”

“Nya doesn’t work like that.”

“Are you joking? This is
Zimbabwe
. Of course she works like that. I don’t care what you do, and I don’t care how you do it. Just do something. Go to Club Lucky. Maybe I should go with you,” he mused. “No, it’s bad to mix business and pleasure.”

“Are you finished?”

“Have you interviewed this… what did you call him?”

“
N’anga
. No, I haven’t.”

Harris spread his hands. “Enlighten me.”

“Like you said, Harris, it’s Zimbabwe, and I have no backup and no resources. This man is extremely dangerous, nearly impossible to find, surrounded by hordes of fanatics, and I’m now being targeted by this man and his fanatics. I think the only person helping me is on some kind of personal mission and I have no idea what it is. And when we finally did find out where the
N’anga
was going to be, we attended a ritual and witnessed abominations the likes of which I’ve never seen or even heard of. Not to mention the
N’anga
is some sort of… illusionist or something.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I don’t know for sure what happened. We were drugged at the end of the ceremony. But there was this man who walked, on his own dime, into a circle drawn by the
N’anga
on the ground. Then the man sort of… woke up… like he’d just realized where he was. He tried to leave the circle, but couldn’t.”

“What do you mean, he couldn’t?”

Grey knew how this sounded. “As if he couldn’t push through the air. Then the entire circle where this man was trapped, and only this circle, became filled with dense fog. I couldn’t see inside. The man started screaming like there was something inside the circle with him. When the fog lifted, the man was gone. I’m telling you Harris, I don’t know what was going on, and I’m sure it was some kind of trick, but it was the creepiest damn thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Harris reached for a cigar. “That’s easily the most ridiculous report I’ve heard in twenty-nine years. If it was anyone but you, I’d accuse them of lying. But you’re not a liar, or even an exaggerator.” He took a few long puffs. “You said you were drugged. It probably happened earlier than you remembered.”

“I don’t think so, but…” he trailed off and shrugged.

“How’d they drug you?”

Grey felt embarrassed even saying it. “Two women spewed some sort of liquid into our faces.”

The corners of Harris’s lips curled upward. “You need to stop going to Voodoo ceremonies, stop listening to that idiotic professor, and start finding me something. We have to at least be able to make up a decent story to tell the Ambassador.”

“You know me, I could give a damn about religion. Of course this sounds ridiculous. But this cult, whatever it is—it’s very real to these people. Very real and very dangerous, and Addison got mixed up in it somehow. And it’s Juju, not Voodoo.”

“I don’t give a good god-damn what it’s called. We can’t bring this fairy tale to the Ambassador. I’m not going to tell him that his best friend was trapped inside a circle of air and then carried off by some invisible monster.”

Harris sighed. “Look, kid. I actually like you. You’ve got real skills, you’re a smartass, and you don’t take any shit. I can respect that. But it’s no secret around here you’re not Mister 401K. Do this one right for me, and I’ll try to do something about your insubordinations over the past few years. I’m not trying to be a dick—well, not entirely—but let me spell it out for you, just to be sure. Your
job
hangs in the balance.”

“Addison’s life hangs in the balance,” Grey murmured.

20

G
rey stepped out of the Embassy, rolled up his sleeves in the afternoon heat, and took a couple of deep breaths to calm himself.

Clouds began to gather for an afternoon thundershower, casting the buildings into a shadowy bas-relief that replaced the city’s sun-drenched, tactile skyline. After the first few gigantic drops spattered his forehead, Grey ducked into a café rich with the smell of roasting coffee.

He took a seat by the window and watched as the heavens opened. The rain built in a slow crescendo, nature’s perfect symphony, until the din couldn’t possibly get any louder—and then it grew louder still. Grey saw a new city, a concrete rain forest encased in molten silver that, for the moment, was as pure and unadulterated as anywhere on the planet.

The café reminded him of other cafés. Grey loved them all: the froth of a cappuccino in a nameless bus station, the anonymity of a darkened corner, the curious self-affirming loneliness of solitary travel, the homesickness that would quietly revert to restlessness once home was found. Grey, like most real travelers, strode towards a lost horizon.

A blond woman with close-cropped hair and hoop earrings sat at the table next to him, tanned arms and legs glistening with moisture. She glanced at him, extending her look for that scintilla of time which said it all, then returned to toweling off the rain with napkins.

She ordered a cappuccino from a waiter she called by name, then chatted on her cell with three different people. Grey sipped his coffee and watched her with hooded eyes, a wave of envy passing over him. Envy at the ease of spirit that derives from a lifetime of taking one’s place in the world for granted.

Through a childhood of army bases, through all those years of wandering after he’d run away from home at sixteen, through those brief, dilettantish stops for curiosity or financial necessity or simple weariness, through the peregrinations intrinsic to his career, Grey had always hoped for one simple thing: he hoped that one day he would step off the plane, the train, or the boat and know that finally, at last, he had arrived. He lived to travel, but he also longed for a place he could claim as his own.

Grey didn’t pity himself, or feel misunderstood. He was simply more aware than most of the terrifying reality of the individuality of the soul.

The woman flicked her eyes at the watery darts still splattering the window. “It’s like a guest that won’t leave, ya?”

She startled him; he hadn’t expected her to initiate conversation. He chuckled lamely.

She said, “American?”

“Yeah.”

“You can’t be a tourist.”