City of Saints & Thieves

by Natalie C. Anderson

  “I thought those boys would come looking for you,” Cathi says, “and you could walk back to town with them.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I say. “I don’t need an escort.”

  “I will go up the hill and call Father Fidele on my mobile. He can meet you halfway, at least. No one will bother you if you are with him.”

  “Oh, don’t do that,” I say. “I’m sure he’s busy.”

  But Cathi ignores me and takes her phone out to the field and walks up the hill. I hear her talking and feel a surge of fondness for Father Fidele, even though I’ve barely met him. He must know what Cathi does to survive, and yet she’s still able to call on him for help.

  “He’s coming,” Cathi says when she returns. “If you stay on the main path you’ll meet him.”

  I stand up, ready to go. “Bye, Ruth.”

  “Good-bye, Christina.”

  I take the photo of Cathi and my mother out of my pocket and hold it out to her. “Keep it,” I say.

  Catherine takes it from me like it’s as fragile as a butterfly wing. She tucks it in between the pages of her Bible.

  “Thank you, Cathi,” I say, swallowing hard to keep from crying.

  She places her hand on Ruth’s shoulder. They watch me with the same bright eyes. “We will pray for Anju. And you.”

  “Will you come back someday?” Ruth asks softly.

  “I hope so.”

  “You are welcome,” Cathi says. “You are family.”

  • • •

  I want to go fast, so Father Fidele won’t have to walk too far to meet me, but the path is full of stones and my feet are still bruised. I should have taken the sandals Cathi offered, but I could tell they were her only pair. Instead I pick my way through the rocks as best I can. There is no one on the path, and the only noise is the stream rushing past and birds calling above. The late-afternoon sun sends gold spears through the branches. As I walk, the tangled, painful web of what Cathi has revealed about my mother begins to unwind, and the strands reweave themselves, joining with what I already knew. They form the start of a picture.

  I organize everything into a sort of timeline of what I know and what I still don’t:

  Mama and Cathi were captured by militia and taken to work in a mine.

  Mama was singled out by Number Two. This psycho is probably my father. He was sent here by a white guy, who must be Mr. Greyhill.

  Mama and Cathi escaped from the militia. I was born. Time passed.

  Donatien came around asking questions, and Mama agreed to show him where the deals happened.

  Before she could, militia came again to our home and captured her and Cathi again. She pushed me out the window and I escaped. The same day, someone tried to kill Donatien.

  Mama somehow escaped again from the militia, found me, and we left Congo. Mama took us to Sangui City.

  Mama went to work for the Greyhills, even though Donatien told her that Mr. Greyhill was bad guy Number One, Number Two’s employer. Why? Why did she go there, and why did he agree to employ her?

  Mama had Kiki; Mr. G is her father.

  Mama threatened to expose Mr. G; he threatened to kill her.

  Mama was murdered in Mr. G’s house, but not by Mr. G. David Mwika, head of security, takes the video of the murder and then later tries to blackmail someone with it. Who?

  David Mwika could be the murderer, but what’s his motive? And if not him, who? And why? The killer didn’t take anything; he wasn’t a robber. He was deliberate about killing Mama. Was it someone who wanted to stop her from doing something? Or get revenge for something she had already done? Or was it some other reason entirely?

  I slow to a stop and stand looking at the creek. Because I realize that while I have a million questions, what I really need to know first is fairly simple. It’s the same question I keep coming back around to: Why did Mama search out Mr. Greyhill? Why ask for a job? And why did he agree to let her work there, let me stay there—essentially sheltering us? What did he gain? If I knew that, I think I’d know a lot more about who might want to kill her.

  That’s what I need to find out.

  And it won’t be easy, but I know who I have to ask. I need to get back to Boyboy and Michael and a phone. I swivel from the creek back to the path, determined.

  And there, standing right in my way, is Father Fidele.

  He startles me, and I take a step back. His approaching footsteps had been muffled by the rushing water. I feel the creek bank crumbling underfoot and he grabs my hand to keep me from falling back. “Careful!”

  I start to thank him, but something in his eyes stops me. I don’t have time to scream before he’s pulling me close with the hand that is gripping my wrist. With his other hand he presses a cloth over my face. I start to fight, but stinging vapors hit my lungs, and everything goes bright and swirls and fades to nothing.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Good, now bring the cloth around on both sides so we can tie it in the middle,” Mama said.

  We were outside our cottage, standing at the edge of the grass, Mama, Kiki, and me. It was warm and sunny, and all over the Greyhills’ yard I heard the familiar sounds of the staff at work. Maids chatting, the chop of the gardener’s panga cutting back weeds. A thump and the occasional sneeze as dust was beaten out of a carpet. They were preparing for a party.

  Mama was needed in the house, so I had a job too. I was bent over at the waist, baby Kiki a squirmy warm mass on my back. Mama’s sure hands guided mine as we gathered the ends of the kanga cloth—one over my shoulder, one around my middle—and made Kiki snug against me. Today I would wear Kiki and take her with me wherever I went. Mama told me it was a big responsibility, but I was six and a half years old and ready for it.

  “Can you make the knot?” she asked me.

  I could. I made it too tight at first, but Mama helped me loosen it. Kiki made happy little baby noises to herself.

  “Now stand slowly; make sure she isn’t going to slip.” Mama stepped back to observe.

  I looked up at her, waiting for judgment. Those eyes saw everything. Every loose corner of the fabric, every stray hair come out of my braids, the scabs on both my knees from playing with Michael, my secondhand skirt already getting too short. She would find something wrong; she always managed to.

  So I was surprised when she crouched at my level and kissed my forehead. “You are my good girl,” she said, and her smile was something rare and brilliant that I wanted to capture, to hold tight in my fist and reexamine later when I was alone. “Take care of your sister,” she said.

  “I will,” I said.

  And I did. Not just that day, but every day after.

  • • •

  A hand smacks me across the face. My head bobs back and forth. The sting is enough to draw me out of the darkness, but for a few seconds I still don’t know what’s going on. Someone is yelling at me, I realize.

  “Tiny. Tiny Girl. Wake up.”

  My eyes feel glued together. At first, when I get them open, I think there are several people before me, but then I understand I’m seeing double. I lift my head at the exact same moment freezing water hits my face, as sudden as a slap. I sputter and cough.

  But it does the trick; I’m awake. I blink and look up. The figure steadies. He’s holding a bucket and grinning at me like a hyena.

  Ketchup.

  I try to get to my feet, but I’m held fast. My hands are bound behind me, and I realize, after a second or two of fuzzy thinking, that I’m tied to a chair. Once that’s cleared up, the pain in my wrists and ankles emerges where the bindings are. I’m in some sort of room with cloth walls. A tent. I hear birds singing; I think it’s morning. There’s another chair and a slept-in cot, but otherwise, except for the Goonda and me, the tent is empty. The ground underneath my feet is bare dirt covered in dead leaves.

  Ketchup laughs. �
��You look like a chicken left out in the rain.”

  I test my wrists. The ties are metal, maybe. From the feel of it, they’ve cut my skin already. “Where am I?” I mumble. My face is numb.

  “Uh-uh, Tiny Girl,” Ketchup says, and comes close enough to grab my jaw and lift my face to his. “We’re asking the questions now.”

  I can smell cheap home brew on his breath. His eyes are red and slightly unfocused.

  I try to shake my head out of his grip, but the best I can do is give him a dirty look. Ketchup? Here? So I really hadn’t imagined him in the marketplace. I work up some saliva and spit it on his hand.

  He calls me a name and slaps the spit onto my cheek. He pulls back to hit me harder, but just then the tent flap opens and a man walks in.

  At first I don’t recognize him. But that’s just because he looks so out of place here. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him in the flesh. He seems a little older, his round face starting to sag, the hair above his ears going gray. He’s wearing a short-sleeved polo shirt and chinos, everything neatly pressed and spotless. More than anything, he looks like he just stepped off the golf course.

  Ketchup hesitates, then lowers his hand. “Mr. Omoko. I was just coming for you, sir.”

  “She’s awake,” the Goonda boss says. He’s talking to Ketchup, but looking at me.

  “Yeah, I just got her up,” Ketchup says. He backs out of the way so Mr. Omoko can approach me.

  “I can see that,” he says, frowning.

  Where is Bug Eye? I wonder. Mr. Omoko wouldn’t bring Ketchup and leave him behind.

  The Goonda boss sits down in the chair across from me. “Wait for us outside, Mr. Ketchup.”

  Ketchup glowers at his back. Mr. Omoko has somehow managed to make his name sound even more ridiculous than it already is. But Ketchup retreats silently.

  Mr. Omoko pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and uses it to wipe my face. I don’t have much choice but to let him. After he puts it away, he says, “You skipped town. We were worried.”

  Nothing about his composure looks worried.

  The cold water has soaked my shirt, and I start to shiver. “I didn’t think Bug Eye would allow me to go. So I didn’t ask.”

  “No. He wouldn’t. That’s because I wouldn’t have.” Mr. Omoko tilts his head quizzically. “What are you doing here, girl? Why leave, when you were so close to getting everything you wanted? I thought we had a plan. Dirt, money, blood.”

  “I was going to be back by the time the data was decrypted and we were ready to go for the bank accounts,” I say, growing more and more tense under Mr. Omoko’s unwavering gaze. I’m starting to see something glittering in his eyes like the edge of a knife.

  “Oh, but that wasn’t the deal, was it? Your instructions were to leave the Greyhills’ home as soon as you knew you had the data.”

  I shift in my seat. Where is Michael? And Boyboy? Surely they’re looking for me by now.

  “I don’t like being left in the dark, Tiny Girl,” Omoko says. And suddenly he’s right up in my face, so close that I have no choice but to turn to the side. For a second I feel the frantic need to get away, as if he’s about to bite me. But he just asks, “Why are you here? Don’t you know this place is dangerous?”

  “I . . .”

  He leans back and I let out a shaky breath. “Thankfully, you were not hard to track down,” he says.

  “Look, Mr. Omoko, the data we took from Mr. Greyhill—”

  Omoko interrupts me. “I have it. Or, I have your friend’s computer, anyway. I can take it from here. He’s not the only person in town who can hack bank accounts.” He studies his fingernails, a fat gold ring on his hand glinting in the low light. “But maybe I won’t even have to go to the trouble.”

  “You have Boyboy’s computer?” I wait, feeling cold sweat prickle under my hair. “I don’t understand. Is Boyboy here? Is Michael?”

  Mr. Omoko smiles indulgently. “You’re not one for playing by the rules, Tina, are you? Most of the time I like that about you. I ask for Greyhill’s treasures, and that’s what you bring me. Just not exactly how I’d expected.”

  “What do you mean? The accounts—”

  “Michael.”

  Blood thrums in my ears. “What about Michael?” I ask slowly.

  “With him, there’s no need to do all that work.”

  I swallow, look around, as if I could see through the canvas. “Michael and Boyboy are both here?”

  “Yes, exactly. The priest was supposed to round you all up together, but apparently he missed you. You do like to run off.”

  “You drugged us,” I say.

  “No, not me. I have people who do that sort of thing for me—that’s the benefit of being the boss. The priest helped me. When he told me you were in Kasisi I almost didn’t believe him. My Tiny Girl? In Congo? He was supposed to make sure you all stayed put until I got here. It took him a few tries, but he managed at last. He was lucky that whore called him up and told him where you were.”

  “You paid Father Fidele?”

  “We have an arrangement. I give his hospital a little breathing room from the militias; he keeps me informed. I’m sure he’s very conflicted about the whole thing, but that’s between him and God.” Omoko rubs his chin. “So. Plans. They’re a little off, but salvageable. I’m thinking you’ll have to forget the whole dirt part. That was never the highlight, anyway. No one cares about those sorts of news stories; they’ve heard it all before. One more white colonial type profiting off Africa. It’ll be back-page fodder at best. Let’s go straight to money, shall we? With a twist.”

  His eyes gleam. “Instead of anonymously draining Greyhill’s bank accounts, we should have a little fun. Everything gets trickier, I admit, if we add kidnapping to the plan. But since it’s already done . . .” He shrugs, like, what can you do?

  “And I have to admit, I’m going to enjoy watching Roland Greyhill beg when he learns that I have his son. And it’s going to be even better to see the look on his face as he transfers a rather significant sum to my accounts to get him back.” Mr. Omoko can’t keep from grinning. “It’ll be almost as fun as step three.”

  I swallow. “Mr. Omoko, we don’t have to . . .”

  He leans forward, like he’s going to tell me a juicy secret. “Step three,” he continues. “Blood.”

  I roll my wrists, trying to work the wires without him noticing. “Mr. Omoko, I know I’m in trouble here, but can we talk about all this? I mean, I don’t think step three is really necessary, and—”

  “What’s to talk about?” Omoko says. “Step three is the best part. I know you wanted to do it yourself, but picture this: Once all the cash transfers are secured, he takes off in his helicopter with his son. Then—” Omoko holds his finger up, pausing for effect. He mimes putting a rocket launcher to his shoulder and pulling the trigger. “Bwooosh. We blow them out of the sky.” He gestures grandly. “It’ll be dramatic.”

  I can’t take my eyes off Omoko’s face. Has he always sounded this crazy? Or have I just been so wrapped up in my plot that I never noticed? I have to get out of here. I keep rubbing my wrists together, trying to see if I can squeeze out one of my hands.

  “Mr. Omoko,” I say, trying for my best rational voice, “Mr. Greyhill isn’t quite as bad as I thought. I’ve learned things since I’ve been here. I was wrong—he didn’t kill my mother.”

  “Oh, I know.”

  I stop moving. “You do? How do you know?”

  Something is tickling my brain. My body is buzzing with it, some realization that is just on the edge of my understanding. I stare at Omoko.

  “Because I killed her,” he says matter-of-factly.

  For a moment, nothing moves. The words settle outside of me, sinking in slowly, like he’s speaking in another language.

  I killed her.

  He killed
my mother.

  Blood rushes to my head.

  He murdered her. He is the man in the video.

  “Tina, are you listening?” Mr. Omoko snaps in front of my face. “That fool priest killed all your brain cells,” he grumbles. He smacks me lightly on the side of my face, and I jump and gasp, my whole body suddenly zinging with adrenaline.

  He looks me in the eye. “I’m telling you this because I want you to understand me. As you can now see, you do not get away from me if I don’t want you to. You do not get away if you wrong me. Especially if, like your mother, you’re some village girl, thinking she can make bargains that destroy everything I worked so hard to build.”

  I realize I am not breathing. When I start, it comes in massive gulps, like I’ve had the wind knocked out of me. “Are you Number Two?” I manage.

  He makes a face. “I never liked that name. But yes, once I was Mr. Greyhill’s Number Two.”

  “But that means . . . you’re . . .”

  Omoko fixes his eyes back on me. “Yes,” he says, with an edge of impatience. “Do you get it now? I’m your father.”

  I am slipping; I hear him say it, but it’s like he’s talking to some other girl while I watch. I did know it. Of course I did; that is the logical conclusion to all of this. But it’s as if something inside of me had been holding this information back, not letting me get there yet. It’s too much.

  “Any other person sitting where you are would be dead by now,” he says. “I am angry with you for running off. Of course I am. But I’ve taken care of you this long, and I’m not going to kill you now. I just want you to know that I am capable of it.”

  His words pull me out of my stupor. “Taken care of me?” My voice is barely a whisper. “What are you talking about?”

  “Why do you think Bug Eye brought you into the Goondas, eh? Not because he cared what happened to you. Because I told him to find you. And why do you think you weren’t put out on the streets with the other girls? Why did you get away with being cheeky? With being different?”

  His face is so close that I can see the tiny web of veins in his eyes. “You never noticed that you were treated better than the others? You think it was because Bug Eye and those idiots liked you?” He laughs. “That’s not how it works, Christina.”