The Secret Rival

by Rachel Woods

  “Like Bactine?”

  Nodding, Vivian said, “Other times, the vampires will use an electrical charge.”

  “An electrical charge?” Leo shook his head. “What do you mean?”

  “Rural doctors sometimes carry portable medical devices, like for example, an infusion pump,” said Vivian. “The pump requires charging, but sometimes, these devices malfunction, sending a surge of electricity through a patient. The surge of electricity, while unintentional, may cause the villager to feel weak and disoriented.”

  “And the villager attributes that weakness to the doctor trying to incapacitate him so the doctor can steal his blood,” said Leo. “Okay, that’s the technological aspect. How does the magic come into play?”

  “The chemical mist or electric charge is not just used to incapacitate the villager,” said Vivian. “The villagers believe it allows the doctor to vanish, or shapeshift into an animal form.”

  “Like a bat,” said Leo, smirking slightly.

  Vivian sighed, and then said, “Unfortunately, these superstitious beliefs have lead villagers to attack doctors and nurses.”

  After a sip of coffee, Leo asked, “Why do the villagers think the doctors want their blood?”

  “They believe the doctors will sell their blood,” said Vivian. “Sometimes for profit to medical research companies. Other times, the blood might be sold to people involved in ritualistic worship or ceremonies.”

  “Interesting,” said Leo.

  Vivian said, “But, Francine wasn’t a doctor or a nurse. Why would the men think she was a vampire?”

  “Speaking of Francine, I was thinking about her, as well.”

  Vivian raised an eyebrow at him. “While you were banging my brains out?”

  Leo laughed and ducked to avoid the second strawberry she threw in his direction.

  “I was thinking about her while I was in the shower a few minutes ago.”

  “Somehow that’s even worse,” said Vivian, picking up another berry.

  “Truce,” said Leo, waving his napkin. “I was thinking I’m not sure Gus Stewart told the truth about what happened to Francine.”

  “You didn’t believe his story?” asked Vivian, curious to hear Leo’s theories.

  Leo took a sip of coffee. “Don’t you think it was a bit …”

  “Shocking? Macabre? Gruesome?” Vivian supplied.

  “Ghoulish,” said Leo, rubbing his jaw. “What he described was overkill. I’ve never heard of villagers cutting out a woman’s heart and setting it on fire.”

  “Why would he tell such a horrid story if it wasn’t true?” asked Vivian, taking a bite of her toast.

  “As Gus was telling us his story,” said Leo, “I was thinking, how did he live to tell it? Why didn’t the villagers kill him? Think about it. They killed the driver. And Francine. Matilda ran off, so that’s how she was spared, but where was Gus when Francine was being killed? Was he somewhere hiding and watching it happen?”

  “That’s a good point,” said Vivian, wishing Leo had thought to question the foundation director.

  “Matilda saw the villagers kill the driver,” said Leo. “But, she doesn’t know what happened after that. Gus says the men killed Francine, but maybe he killed her.”

  “And cut her heart out and burned it?”

  “The local police haven’t admitted that Francine was mutilated,” said Leo. “We need to confirm that.”

  “Good idea,” said Vivian. “And we also need to talk to the brother of the teacher’s aid. The cop who told Francine about the vampire rumors.”

  Nodding, Leo said, “And by the way, vampires are all about sex.”

  “More like rape,” Vivian countered.

  Leo frowned. “Rape?”

  “Penetration following forced submission through hypnosis,” said Vivian. “Sounds like a sexual encounter without consent to me.”

  “Well, you’ll never have to force me into submission through hypnosis,” said Leo, standing and walking to her. “And you’ll always have my consent …”

  Seconds later, she felt his mouth on her neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin before he bit her.

  Sighing her pleasure, Vivian rose and stepped into his strong embrace.

  Leo kissed her, and said, “I told you vampires were all about sex.”

  5

  Sunbird Hotel Bar

  Lilongwe, Malawi

  “Francine Xarras was killed because the mob thought she was a vampire,” confirmed Officer Kenyatta Shenango after Leo and Vivian met him in the hotel bar around three in the afternoon.

  While Vivian worked on a story, Leo had contacted Wes’ assistant for help tracking down the policeman. Kenyatta Shenango agreed to speak about the Francine Xarras case under the condition of anonymity.

  With drinks from the bar, the three of them found a small table tucked into a corner, away from prying eyes and perfect for clandestine conversation.

  “I’ve got cousins who work for the local police in Bingu,” said the officer. “They told me about the vampire rumors, and I told Francine. And I told Judy’s other friend, too.”

  “Judy’s other friend?” asked Vivian.

  “Matilda,” said the officer. “The one with the long red hair. I told her about the rumors first, before I told Francine.”

  “You and Francine were friends?” asked Leo, wondering about the relationship between the school principal and the cop.

  After a sip of his drink, which he’d only agreed to because he was off-duty, Shenango nodded. “I met her through my sister. She was kind to Judy and really supported my sister’s dreams of going to university in Europe.”

  Vivian asked, “Was Francine mutilated?”

  “Her heart was cut out and burned,” said the officer, taking another drink. “Horrible way to die. Francine didn’t deserve that. She was a wonderful, caring woman.”

  “A wonderful, caring woman that the village men thought was a vampire,” said Leo.

  “Why was that?” asked Vivian. “I know the superstitions cause vigilantes to attack doctors and other medical personnel. But, Francine was a school principal.”

  “Do you think the villagers saw her using medical equipment?” asked Leo. “Maybe they saw her acting as a nurse, tending to a sick child, and erroneously assumed she was a bloodsucker?”

  “I wish people would let go of these crazy superstitions,” said Shenango, shaking his head. “The rumors tend to start when the rains don’t come. Then people get anxious about starving, and they blame their bad crops on the very people who could help them.”

  Remembering her notes, Vivian said, “The villagers think that the sale of their blood causes others, namely Westerners and politicians, to become wealthy at their expense. So if they get rid of the bloodsuckers, then they’ll have a more bountiful harvest.”

  Shenango said, “The superstitions are a bit more complex than that.”

  “How so?” asked Leo.

  “Villagers believe that vampires, as they think of them, are outsiders—foreigners—who seek to steal from the community,” said Shenango. “Not surprisingly, these superstitions were born during the height of Colonialism and require an understanding of Colonial history.”

  “A professor I spoke with when I covered an outbreak of vampirism in Mozambique mentioned an incident in Zambia,” said Vivian. “In 1930, if I’m remembering correctly.”

  Shenango nodded. “Some of the villagers during that time claimed their blood was taken and used to make cough drops for Europeans.”

  “Incredible,” said Leo, shaking his head.

  “There is no scientific evidence to show that blood can soothe a sore throat,” said Shenango. “But, as I said, this was during the onset of Colonialism when fear was more deadly than a plague.”

  “The professor also told me there were rumors that blood was sold in exchange for weapons,” said Vivian.

  Nodding, the officer said, “Another false rumor.”

  Vivian asked, “Why do you t
hink some villagers are more susceptible to the superstitions than others?”

  “Superstitious beliefs help some villagers make sense of their lives,” said Shenango, finishing his whiskey. “During a famine, some villagers need to understand the reason for the drought. Vampirism makes sense, but it inspires rage. Fear of starvation and food shortages can cause violence and vigilantism. That’s when you see mobs of villagers attacking foreigners, the wealthy, and politicians.”

  “How did these current rumors get started?” asked Leo. “Farmers haven’t had any issues with harvests this year.”

  “I’m not sure,” said the officer. “But, however they started, the local police and politicians have been working overtime to explain the murders as the work of thieves.”

  “Were any of the men involved in Francine’s murder arrested?” Vivian asked.

  “The police caught five of them,” said the Shenango. “All of them from Bingu.”

  Leo asked, “What did they say about the murder?”

  Shenango said, “One of the men claims they were told that Francine was a vampire.”

  “Who told them that?” asked Vivian.

  “He claims a maid who cleans rooms out at the organization’s compound found proof that Francine was a vampire,” said Shenango.

  “What kind of proof?” asked Leo.

  “He didn’t say,” said the officer. “Maybe he didn’t really know.”

  Vivian asked, “Who was the maid?”

  Shaking his head, Shenango said, “I don’t know. But, if you ask me, she’s the reason why Francine Xarras was murdered.”

  After Kenyatta Shenango left, Vivian said, “We need to talk to that maid.”

  “We need to find her first,” said Leo

  “Wes should have a personnel file of everyone who works at the compound,” said Vivian. “We should talk to whoever did housekeeping for Francine Xarras. Why don’t you call Wes and I’ll secure dinner reservations for tonight.”

  When Vivian returned, Leo said, “Wes’ assistant said the maid’s name is Lily Ndu and if we want to talk to her, she’ll set up a meeting in an hour, or so, in Wes’ office.”

  Vivian finished her drink and stood. “Let’s go.”

  Two hours later, in Wes’ spacious office, Vivian stared at Lily Ndu, a diminutive West African woman dressed in a khaki maid’s uniform. Slight and small, her suspicious eyes roamed the room, from Leo and Wes to the door, where she seemed ready to bolt toward.

  “Am I in some trouble?” Lily Ndu glanced at Wes. “Did I do something wrong? Did someone accuse me of—“

  “We just want to ask you a few questions,” said Vivian, sitting next to Lily on the couch. “About the school principal, Francine Xarras. You were assigned to clean her room, right?”

  Arms crossed, Leo asked, “You know what happened to her, don’t you?”

  Shrinking into herself, the maid lowered her head.

  Wes said, “Lily, it’s okay to answer their questions. As I explained, they are good friends of mine, and they are trying to help me find out what happened to Francine.”

  The maid clasped her hands together, as though she was praying, and rocked slightly.

  “Lily …” Vivian placed a hand on the maid’s shoulder. “We don’t mean to upset you. We want to know if you found anything … strange in Principal Xarras’ room when you were cleaning it?”

  Glancing at Vivian, her eyes full of fear, the maid said, “I found the truth about her.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Vivian.

  “What truth did you find out about Francine?” Leo asked.

  “I found out what she really was,” said Lily Ndu.

  “What did you find?” Vivian asked.

  Shaking her head, the maid said, “When I was cleaning her room. I found the thing …”

  Leo asked, “What thing?”

  “The horrible thing,” said Lily. “A little red box with the blinking red eye.”

  Vivian glanced at Leo and Wes. Both of them looked as confused as she was.

  “What is the little red box with the blinking red eye?” Vivian asked.

  “It is a bad thing,” said Lily, hands trembling as she balled them into small fists.

  “Where did you find the little red box with the blinking red eye?” Leo asked.

  “It was in the bathroom,” said Lily. “It was a bad thing. I did not touch it! I did not steal that horrible thing!”

  Wes said, “It’s okay, Lily. I know you would never take—”

  “Francine tried to pretend that she was kind,” said Lily, her eyes glazed with fervor. “She tried to make me think that she cared, but I found the truth about her. She was an evil woman. She was anamapopa!”

  6

  Rural Malawi

  After Lily Ndu’s pronouncement of Francine Xarras as a vampire, the maid had been dismissed from the office. Discussing the situation, Wes agreed that Vivian and Leo should head out to the compound to look around and hopefully find the evidence that had convinced the maid of Francine’s foray into vampirism.

  Wes had been disheartened and frustrated by the maid’s unabashed superstition. Beyond expressing his firm disbelief that Francine Xarras was a vampire, he’d lamented the belief in witchcraft that plagued the minds of some of the villagers, keeping them from receiving adequate help and care.

  The founder’s lament was common; one Vivian had heard bemoaned before by altruistic Westerners eager to help. They became dismayed and disillusioned when their efforts were disparaged, maligned, or outright rejected.

  With master keys to the compound buildings and a crudely drawn map of the cottages, she and Leo had climbed into her SUV and left the capital. Following the tarmac roads, they drove through trees and plantations bordered by looming mountains and terraced farmland.

  Turning off the main road, they drove down several dusty, dirt roads, following Wes’ instructions. A few hours before sunset, they reached Bingu.

  As they drove through the village, past young boys playing soccer in an open field with a ball made from plastic bags and women weaving baskets and a mother doing laundry with a sleeping child secured to her back, Vivian couldn’t help but think of how Africa always stole her heart and broke it at the same time.

  After passing a courtyard between mud houses with grass thatched roofs, Leo made a left onto another narrow road that led toward the foundation’s compound, which was anchored by a large multi-purpose building the size of a gymnasium that housed administration offices, three schools, a small pantry, a medical clinic and a storehouse for volunteer donations.

  Vivian consulted Wes’ map. “The housing quarters are behind the main administrative building.”

  Leo parked the SUV in the courtyard near a cluster of cottages where the staff and volunteers resided.

  “Which cottage was Francine’s?” asked Leo after they exited the truck.

  “There are twenty cottages,” said Vivian, glancing at Wes’ notes. “Francine was in number seventeen. It’s toward the back, near the pineapple field.”

  Ten minutes later, Leo used the master key to open Francine’s cottage. Inside, the air was stuffy and hot. Vivian glanced around. A modest structure with an open-concept studio plan. One side of the room was a living room, with a small loveseat, television, and writing desk. On the opposite side, there was a twin-sized bed, a night table, a five-drawer bureau and a door that lead into a bathroom.

  Leo asked, “Okay, so where did Lily Ndu find the little red box with the blinking red light?”

  “In the bathroom,” said Vivian, walking toward the door leading into the toilet. “Probably in some cabinet, or something.”

  In the small area, there was a pedestal sink, a tiny shower, a toilet, and a plastic clothes hamper.

  Pointing to the hamper, Leo said, “Want to bet that’s where we’ll find the little red box?”

  Vivian nodded. “There’s no place else to hide anything.”

  Moments later, Leo lifted the lid of the hamper.
Nestled on top of a mound of soiled clothes was, indeed, a small red box.

  “Bingo,” said Leo, reaching into the hamper to grab the box.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t pick that up,” said Vivian.

  “Too late,” said Leo, shrugging as he stared at the device.

  “There’s something else in here,” said Vivian, turning to grab a wad of toilet paper to protect her hands. Reaching into the hamper, she pushed aside a T-shirt and a bra, uncovering what appeared to be three small glass bottles filled with dark liquid.

  “This is some kind of equipment used for blood analysis,” said Leo. “It’s a HemaCube.”

  “And this looks like blood in a bottle,” said Vivian, carefully lifting one of the glass vials.

  “No wonder Lily Ndu was spooked,” said Leo.

  “I wonder why Francine would have hidden these things in her hamper?” asked Vivian. “And why would she have a blood analysis device?”

  “Maybe Dr. T. Farmer at the Good Hope Clinic can tell us,” said Leo.

  “Who is Dr. T. Farmer?”

  “I think he’s the guy who owns this device,” said Leo. “His name and where he works is written on the back of it.”

  7

  Good Hope Village Clinic

  Bingu Village, Rural Malawi

  A rickety metal sign with a rusted white frame announced the entrance to the Good Hope Village Clinic. Like most rural clinics, it showed severe signs of dilapidation, decay, and despair. It was woefully understaffed and understocked, with the depressing stench of impending death and an attitude of depression.

  Leo parked next to the clinic’s ambulance, a JEEP outfitted as a mobile clinic and entered the concrete building. A nurse answered their questions about Dr. Farmer, confirming that he was at the clinic, and directed them to his office. The doctor was finishing up a phone conversation when they knocked on the door, but he beckoned for them to enter the tiny room, which was about the size of a closet, and appeared to also function as a supply room. The right wall consisted of shelves stocked with medical supplies.