by Layton Green
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.
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 wi
dened. 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
“Thank 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.”
