by Mario Bolduc
It was a painful line of thinking for Roselyn. Only now learning a fact her husband, daughter, and son-in-law had been all aware of. She was in the dark about Adrian’s kidnapping while everyone else knew. She hated her train of thought, hated blaming her daughter who, surely, had a good reason for acting as she did.
Once she passed Metairie, the highway seemed suspended above Lake Pontchartrain, weaving over the bayous. In Baton Rouge she crossed the Mississippi and continued west on 190 through a rural landscape. Modest homes along the road, a few farm buildings on a verdant plain.
The oil boom of the 1970s ensured the prosperity of Fordoche, at least at first glance. Located on a small street, the Arceneaux family home was clearly from another time. Two storeys of wooden shingles in the New England style. A house that had been extended and repaired over the years with diminishing success. These homes had once been the outward-facing symbols of the wealth of the families who lived inside. Not anymore. Clearly, whoever lived there now hadn’t seen a penny of oil money.
Roselyn parked on the street in front of the house. The place seemed abandoned. No car in the driveway, no signs of life. A rusted mailbox that obviously wasn’t in use anymore.
Peter had warned her to be careful, and so far she hadn’t heeded his advice. But now she wasn’t feeling too confident. Yet she couldn’t stay here, sitting in a parked car.
She got out and walked toward the house. The blinds were drawn, no light peeking out from inside. She rang the doorbell, convinced there was no one inside, or at least no one who’d want to answer the door.
A few moments later a woman cracked the door open just as Roselyn was getting ready to walk back to her car. Apron, grey hair in a bun, slippers on her feet. A woman around Roselyn’s own age, but who looked older. A German shepherd barked behind her. The living room was bathed in grey, faded, dirty light. The woman lived alone, that much was clear. She was afraid of everything, which explained the large unfriendly dog.
“I’m looking for Mitch,” Roselyn said. “I’m not with the government or the police. He doesn’t owe me money. I just want to talk.”
Through the half-open door, the woman looked her over, not with hostility but curiosity. Unannounced visitors were probably a rare sight for her.
“Only a few moments of his time, no more,” Roselyn continued when the woman didn’t react. “My name is Roselyn Kerensky. I live in Houston, Texas. I’ve come all this way to speak with your son.”
Silence.
“If he’s not here, would you be so kind as to tell me where I could find Mitch? I have no quarrel with him, I swear. I’m ready to offer money to get him to speak with me.”
Finally, the woman opened the door, turned around, and walked into the house. Roselyn considered that an invitation to follow. Carefully, scanning the environment, she followed the woman.
The living room hadn’t been used in a century. More of a parlour, really, from another time. Entry forbidden to all, to be used as window dressing, actually, a showroom for visitors. Rare visitors, no doubt. Yet the woman in the apron kept up a semblance of normality. The only guest she was expecting now, Roselyn was sure, was death.
“You’re Mitch’s mother, right?” Roselyn called to the woman’s back. She added a bit louder, “Do you understand what I’m saying? I’d like to speak to your son.”
Hesitant, almost faltering, the woman walked to a chest of drawers and turned on a lamp. A single ray of light pierced the grey. It didn’t light the room so much as highlight the gloom. The woman invited Roselyn to come nearer. On the dresser, in front of a mirror, a collection of small frames, all showing the same young man. A few mortuary pictures among the lot … Mitch had died. He was thirty years old in the pictures. A rangy, devastating smile. Eyes full of laughter.
And hair as blond as autumn wheat.
On the drive back, Roselyn mulled over what she’d discovered. First, Mitch Arceneaux was a friend of Angel Clements — there was no doubt about that. It was also possible, though it remained to be proven beyond a doubt, that the lock of blond hair in Albert’s collection was his.
Talking with Mitch’s mother, Roselyn learned that her son had died in an accident. It happened in Clear Creek in Jackson Parish. He’d gone up there to hunt deer. One day he fell out of a blind he’d built in a tree. A group of hunters found his body the next day.
Without checking Albert’s schedule, Roselyn was sure he hadn’t been home that day, that he’d been on the road for Clear Creek. He’d figured out the mechanic’s schedule and put an end to him in the forest. Just as he had with Clements: murder in cold blood. Planned and executed. Punishment for those who’d harmed his grandson.
But there were questions unanswered. What had happened during those long hours when Adrian had been kidnapped? How had the perpetrators committed their crime? Where had Adrian been held? And what had they done to him? Roselyn could only imagine the worst but, seemingly, the worst hadn’t happened. Adrian had come out safe and sound from his adventure without a single injury. Yet Albert had taken extraordinary measures to kill the two men.
Roselyn didn’t have the answer. And nothing she could think of could explain her husband’s behaviour. But she felt deep in her bones that the murders and his disappearance were connected.
How had Albert found the kidnappers? His search had been fruitful, extraordinarily so. One might have expected him to bog down in an endless quest for the two men, eventually becoming discouraged. But Albert had found them quickly and acted without hesitation. A true professional.
What am I thinking? Roselyn asked herself. He’s a professional.
A killer with two hundred and thirty-four executions under his belt. And that was before Clements and Arceneaux.
Roselyn felt closer to the truth than ever; it was right around the corner but still just out of reach. Yet she could feel the shape of it.
As she approached the Texas state line, her phone vibrated: Peter calling from Huntsville. “They’ve got a lead on Albert. He’s in Chicago.”
Roselyn stopped the car on the shoulder as a concert of honking came from behind her.
“Roselyn, are you there?”
“Yes.”
A cleaning lady at a Holiday Inn had called the police. One of the hotel’s customers fitted the description for Albert Kerensky. He’d rented a room under a false name a few days before. By the time the police got there, Albert was gone. They confirmed his identity after going through his belongings.
“Where is he now?” Roselyn asked.
“No one knows.”
“Why was he in Chicago?”
“I haven’t a clue. And there were no answers in anything he left behind.”
The Chicago PD had found his phone number and called the residence. Mrs. Callaghan had passed the message along to Peter a few minutes earlier.
“He hasn’t returned to the room?” Roselyn asked.
“No.”
Cars were flying by on the highway. A buzzing, a vibration that only accentuated her distress.
Albert, in Chicago … Albert, gone again.
“Roselyn?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you now?”
She told him she was near Beaumont. Peter offered to come to her place in Houston that very night. The next day they could get on the first flight to Chicago. Her reply: she needed to be alone and take stock.
“I understand.”
Peter gave her the phone number of the policeman in charge of the case. He had explained the situation to the officer and told him who Albert Kerensky was.
“Roselyn, if you need anything at all, I’m here for you.”
She hung up, inhaled, and burst into tears. The dam broke all of a sudden. Roselyn cried for a long time, all self-control gone, hundreds of cars passing her, completely oblivious to her suffering. She could have stayed there for hours, but a police car soon pulled up behind her. An officer got out and stepped up to her window. Seeing her face ravaged by pain, he asked
if she needed help.
She told the man that her husband had disappeared and that she’d almost found him, but he was gone again.
The man nodded, as if understanding, though he gave a quick look in the rear seat before turning back to Roselyn. “You can’t stay here. It’s dangerous.”
The officer waited for Roselyn to drive off onto the highway before starting up his own car and merging into the stream of traffic.
24
Two hours earlier Roosevelt Okambo’s plane landed on a strip at Kisarawe’s private airport, forty kilometres from Dar es Salaam. In flight the pilot reached his cousin, Godfrey, “the best cab driver this side of the Sahara,” who was waiting for Max as he deplaned.
In Godfrey’s Mercedes, with a brand-new phone in hand, Max reserved a room at the Kilimanjaro, the local Hyatt Regency. Having left Zanzibar after learning of Valéria and her daughter’s murders, Max had planned to retreat to Dar es Salaam in case things went south, which was definitely the case now. He had left a fresh passport at the hotel, with a matching credit card, an American driver’s licence, and ten thousand dollars.
Despite being home to the busiest port in East Africa, the Heidelberg cement plant, and a sprouting of modern buildings — though modest in size compared to its rival city Nairobi — Dar es Salaam retained something of its past as a simple fishing village. A metropolis now, flanks open to the sea, greenery among its minarets, steeples, and satellite dishes, it still retained some of its old charm.
The Germans founded the place, though they were booted out of it at the end of the First World War. The British took over and helped develop it when the country was called Tanganyika, and the city naturally became the capital of the new state created in 1961 by Julius Nyerere. The government’s seat had been transferred to Dodoma since but that hadn’t convinced members of Parliament or civil servants to move there, except for Joseph Lugembe, who owned a home in Dodoma. When Parliament was out of session, everyone returned to Dar es Salaam. Ministries and embassies were still located there.
“Welcome to the Kilimanjaro, Mr. Coppersmith. Your luggage will be following you at a later time, I imagine?” the employee at the reception asked him, seeing Max arrive empty-handed.
“Took a left turn in Nairobi, or so that’s what they told me.”
“Our shops are open and at your disposal, sir. Our spa, as well, if you need any relaxation.”
“Let me tell you, that was the most exhausting safari I’ve ever been on.”
“Ah! But you’ll always have the memories, won’t you, sir?”
“That’s true. I’ll need a car, as well.”
“We’ll get right on it, Mr. Coppersmith.”
Max sought shelter in his room. Beyond the palm trees, on the water, a parade of sailboats reminded him of the gathering of fishermen in Shela on Kenya’s Lamu Island. Every amateur yachtsman in the city seemed to be present. A hundred, a thousand delicate handkerchiefs placed on the water, stirring with the breeze. But Max wasn’t here to enjoy the view. He called the Bahari Beach Golf Course. No answer, no answering machine. He let the phone ring a long time, out of principle, before giving up.
In a little more than two hours, it would be full dark. It was too late now to go hunting for Thomas Musindo. He ordered room service instead and told himself he’d go to bed early.
The next morning, at the helm of an Audi provided by the hotel, Max took the Bagamoyo Road, heading north. He breezed through the outskirts of Dar es Salaam without a worry.
After Kunduchi, Bahari Beach appeared.
With a little trouble, Max found the golf course right behind a large hotel near a complex with tennis courts, a playground, a banquet hall, and other installations. The golf course was set farther back, as if hidden from motorists. A modest course, probably just nine holes. Max took the path to the clubhouse, flanked by long greens scattered with acacia trees. The place was deserted. A single vehicle in the parking lot, a Toyota pickup. He could have been hundreds of kilometres from Dar es Salaam and half a century earlier, too, in a private club the old British colonists so loved.
The main building was a long, squat rectangle, a sort of rustic bungalow. The front door was locked. A small poster indicated that the place was closed for renovations.
Max looked around.
Rather discreet renovations, it seemed to him.
At the hotel, when he was given directions for the golf course, no one had mentioned this temporary closure.
Carefully, Max circled the clubhouse. The windows at the back of the building were boarded up. Old golf carts parked haphazardly. On the ground, a small box of yellow tees. Max took one in his hand. It was identical to the tee he’d found caught in the Land Cruiser’s tread. The engraved B was clearly visible.
But no trace of Thomas Musindo.
Max was about to return to his vehicle when he heard a distinct sound. Weak and far away, but there was no doubt — an engine. He scanned the golf course. There, in the distance, someone was mowing the greens.
After a moment’s hesitation, Max walked toward the sound, using a path marked for golfers. The first green was in much better shape than the clubhouse. The grass had recently been cut, and with care.
Max saw the tractor near the second green. He hurried in that direction. The vehicle’s engine was running, though Max couldn’t see anyone. He came closer to the tractor when he heard a voice behind him say, “Can I help you?”
A man, fifty years old or so, emerged from a grove of trees, zipping up his fly. Clearly, Max had caught him at the perfect time.
“Are you Thomas Musindo?” he asked, knowing the answer. According to the pictures, Musindo was a stocky, well-built man, and looked a little like a farmer. This man standing in front of him was tall and lanky, more the city type.
“Gone. I’m the new owner.”
“Do you know where I might find him?”
“What do you want with Musindo?”
His rudeness didn’t suit him well. He seemed like an uncomfortable teenager trying to flex his muscles.
Ignoring the question, Max approached the man, who was getting back on his tractor. “You just bought the place, right?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I’d like to talk to you. Just five minutes.”
“I’m working. I’m busy.”
“Five minutes.”
The man sighed loudly before turning off his engine.
Jacob Buyogera had been pestering Thomas Musindo for years. The latter remained inflexible. The golf course barely made enough to cover its costs, attracting only lost or misinformed tourists who never came back for a second round. Yet Musindo refused to sell.
“Until recently,” Buyogera told Max.
Buyogera was surprised to get a call from the man. He was now ready to get rid of it, and at a pretty good price as long as the transaction was rapidly closed.
“When did he make you the offer?”
“Earlier this month.”
A few days before Valéria’s death, and not too long after her visit to Musindo. She’d come here to warn him of something, which made him decide to get out of Dodge, and quickly. A hurried and definitive exit, forcing him to sell his beloved golf course on the cheap.
Again, Max couldn’t figure out what the link between Valéria and Clara Lugembe’s killer was. And where did the threat come from? What was its nature?
Max questioned the new owner without much to show for it. His description of Musindo corresponded more or less to the image Max had in his mind after reading up on the man. A fellow not inclined to give up, even when the deck seemed stacked. Except, for some reason, a few weeks earlier when Valéria had come to warn him and advise him to flee. Something she herself hadn’t had the time to do.
Max mentioned Valéria Michieka’s name to Buyogera, asking him if he’d seen her visit Musindo either recently or in the past. The new owner had a vague memory of hearing the name but hadn’t seen Musindo in the company of any woman since
his wife had passed.
“Do you know where I might reach Musindo?”
“At his place.”
As he drove back to Dar es Salaam, Max tried to figure out Valéria’s relationship with the killer’s father. Little by little, he began piecing together an explanation that made sense: he had to return to the lawyer’s childhood when she accompanied her father to a far-off village to find an albino to heal Evans, her big brother. When Valéria told Max about her terrifying journey to the edge of horror, the secret that had upended her life, Max concluded that Valéria’s existence was centred around this crime, fed by an insatiable desire for redemption. Max’s recent encounter with the principal of the school on Ukerewe had confirmed what he felt back then. Valéria had handicapped an albino child, a crime she worked to atone for the rest of her life, first by tracking down the young victim and offering her an education, and later through her involvement in the defence of albinos. Max still didn’t know how, but surely there was a link between the mission she’d dedicated herself to and her interest in the man who’d murdered Lugembe’s daughter.
Thomas Musindo lived in a grand home surrounded by jacarandas near the Kivukoni Fish Market. Max rang the doorbell. No answer. Same result with the number Buyogera had given him, which he’d called a dozen times.
Max stood in the middle of the road, more like a large gravel path, pitted with holes the size of meteorite strikes. You could barely drive on it. He looked around. This whole neighbourhood appeared to be made of similar houses hidden from passersby.
Making sure he wasn’t observed, Max slipped into an opening between the shrubbery and found himself in front of the home with its adjoining garage. He circled the place and reached a garden in the back, left fallow. He noticed that the back door had been forced. The lock broken, handle hanging loose. A recent break-in, or so it seemed: wood chips still littered the ground. Clearly, he wasn’t the first to come looking for Musindo.
Carefully, he pushed the door open.
He was expecting the usual disorder of a rushed departure, but the inside of the home, the kitchen especially, didn’t give the impression that someone had fled. A recent newspaper on the counter, a garbage can topped with fresh apple cores eaten that very morning perhaps. In the living room, a bit more disorder, but nothing that would indicate panic. Evidently, Musindo lived like a bachelor. Clothes left hanging from every chair, a bottle of beer abandoned on a low table. And a lamp left on, the only incongruous sign in this sunbathed room.
