by Layton Green
Neither spoke for a moment, and Grey peered down the darkened hallway. “We have to take a chance,” Grey said. “Fangwa has to do his dirty work somewhere.”
He started forward. Nya moved to follow, her hand clutching his shirt. He stopped her. “Wait here. If I find a control, and it makes too much noise, run to the car. I’ll be right behind you.”
Grey left her and slunk to the first door. He turned the handle, held his breath… and found another bathroom.
He exhaled and closed the door. He twisted the handle of the second door ever so slowly, cracked the door open, and stepped inside. Another bedroom, identical to the boy’s room: matching white dresser and bed, and nothing else. The bed was empty.
Grey’s second exhalation caught in his throat. Where was Fangwa? Maybe he was still out and about in the city. Or perhaps he was at a ceremony—that made the most sense. They’d found the N’anga’s lair, and they’d found it while he was away performing his unholy work.
Which meant he could return at any time.
Grey searched the bed and dresser; nothing of interest. Hidden behind the headboard he found a small metal switch. He’d already seen a light switch by the door. This had to be it.
He flipped it and tensed. Nothing happened.
He left and closed the door. He moved down the hallway, then felt a prickle of satisfaction. At the end of the hallway where Nya waited, the wall had slid halfway open, revealing a five-foot wide open space with a tile floor. There was another wall a few feet behind it, the true end of the hallway.
As Grey drew closer he noticed, on the right side of the revealed space, a doorknob gleaming in the darkness.
The third door.
40
They stepped into the hidden space and stood by the door. “The second door is Fangwa’s bedroom,” Grey whispered, “only Fangwa’s not in there. There’s no light coming from underneath this door, so I’m guessing he’s out putting people inside magic circles.”
Grey tried the door. Locked. He bent again and tangled with the lock, wasting more precious seconds. After another snip-snap he straightened and opened the door.
He ushered Nya inside and closed the door behind them, then flipped a light switch by the door. The room they’d been searching for lay before them, its gruesome contents illuminated by the garish glow of a naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling. A strong, sickly-sweet odor pervaded the room, a mixture between the cloying smell of a funeral parlor and the decaying, preservative-laced stench of a biology lab.
A metal table dominated the center of the room, half of it laden with jars of what looked like formaldehyde, the other half strewn with various cutting instruments. Two wooden tables were on either side of it, covered with nick-marks and dark stains. Boxes and crates stood in neat stacks along the wall opposite the door. Shelves lined the two walls on either side of them, stocked with glass jars and other containers of varying size and material.
Human body parts swimming in preservatives filled the glass jars: eyes, hearts, tongues, and other organs and things Grey didn’t care to dwell on. Nya covered her mouth with her hand and turned away.
“Viktor warned us,” Grey said. “These must be Fangwa’s products.” He circled the room. “These labels, Nya—they’re some of the same words I overheard in Lucky’s club. The same ones we saw in his wallet. Lucky supplies the parts, and Fangwa… does whatever it is a babalawo does with them.” Grey went to one of the larger crates and pried it open. “Look at this.”
It was a dead monkey, sealed in an airtight bag. Grey swept his arms across the room. “Is this enough evidence for you?”
Nya didn’t answer. She was shaking and leaning against the door for support. Grey went to her. He knew what she must be thinking.
She composed herself, twisting her mouth into a line of determination. She took a tiny digital camera out of her pocket and took pictures of the room. She ended with a small video of the entire scene.
She patted the camera, grim. “This is evidence. Tomorrow we’ll-”
Nya froze mid-sentence as a sequence of unmistakable sounds reverberated through the tomblike silence of the house: the engine of a car shutting down, followed by a car door opening and closing.
Grey shut off the light as they raced out of the room. He darted into the bedroom and flipped the switch to the false wall. When he reentered the hallway he heard footsteps approaching from outside.
Thank God for the lack of windows in here. Grey saw the false wall sliding into place, and they climbed the stairs on the balls of their feet, every muscle tensed, to the second floor. They retreated to the far end of the landing.
The lock on the front door snicked.
They couldn’t be seen unless someone went upstairs. Grey would feel better hidden in one of the rooms, but they couldn’t risk any more noise.
The front door opened and closed. Whoever had opened the door paused, and Grey and Nya suffered through a prolonged silence.
Click-clack.
A trickle of sweat dripped from Grey’s forehead onto his nose. Fangwa was down there, standing in the dark. What was he doing? Had they made a mistake, left something out of place?
He heard Fangwa shuffle forward a few steps, then stop at the bottom of the stairwell. Nya squeezed his hand. Fangwa couldn’t see them, but Grey pressed into the wall, willing them invisible.
Grey wanted nothing more than to rush down the stairs and arrest Fangwa, and damn the consequences. But now wasn’t the time. They’d have to explain why they’d broken into the house of a foreign dignitary, and then they’d have to deal with diplomatic immunity and whatever laws governed illegal evidence-gathering. They didn’t want to lose Fangwa to technicalities.
No, they’d have to trap Fangwa. Lure him into the open, maybe use Lucky to catch him in one of his transactions.
There was also a part of Grey that wasn’t eager to confront Fangwa. Not a physical fear, but the kind of aversion one has to touching a dead thing. The skeletal doctor rubbed a nerve deep inside Grey, chipped away at his basic understanding of what was and was not acceptable in human society.
Click-clack.
What was he doing? Move, dammit. Go to your chamber of horrors and click-clack your skinny tongue until it falls off. Just don’t come up these stairs.
He could feel Nya trembling as she clutched his arm; he could only imagine what she was going through, the desire she must have to avenge her father.
Fangwa moved away from the bottom of the stairwell. They heard a door open and then close. Grey risked a glance, and saw a glow of light emanating from underneath the bedroom doorway. A few minutes later the light switched off.
Grey waited a bit longer, then took Nya’s hand as they tiptoed down the stairs. Grey hovered over the lock on the front door to muffle the sound, but it still clicked, causing them to wince.
They slipped through the door, closed it behind them, and sprinted into the darkness.
Grey looked back once, just before they entered a hedge that would lead them to the next street over and back to the car.
The light in Fangwa’s bedroom was on again. The curtains had been drawn, and through the window he saw the ghoulish silhouette of the Doctor. It was too far away to be sure, but from the way Fangwa’s body was angled, Grey would have sworn Dr. Fangwa was watching them flee.
41
They didn’t speak until they’d put Fangwa’s townhouse far behind them, speeding towards Nya’s home in the grasp of deepest night.
“Are you sure we’re not being followed?” Nya said. “Should I drive around a bit?”
“We’re fine.” Grey removed his gloves. Two things Grey knew for certain: Fangwa had decided not to follow them tonight, and they couldn’t do anything about what they’d seen until the morning.
They arrived at Nya’s house, weary in body and mind, and filed inside. Grey followed Nya into the sitting room, and she brought two cups of tea. They sipped greedily, as if to hasten the calming properties of the herbal b
everage. Nya set her camera beside her, staring at it as at a diseased thing.
“How are we going to present this?” Grey said.
“Thanks to the fiasco at Lucky’s, it will be a task, even with these pictures. Not to mention the problem of our illegal entry. I need a few days to pull this together.”
“We might not have a few days. I think Fangwa saw us.”
Her face drained of color.
“I looked back and saw him at his bedroom window. Looking out behind the curtains. I don’t know if he could tell who we were, but it’s a possibility. We don’t want to be faced with another Lucky situation, or worse.”
“We must move as soon as possible, then. Today. I believe I can get a warrant by late afternoon. It’ll be difficult, but there’s someone I can go to. It’s my last card. If this doesn’t work, there will be no more favors.”
“I think it’s the right play.”
“We can’t fail, Grey. What we saw tonight…” her voice started to shake. “I don’t know how or why, but that creature either killed my father or knows who did.”
He held her until she calmed. She disengaged and leaned back on her elbows.
“What about his diplomatic immunity?” Grey asked.
“That’s a problem,” she said, and then her lips formed a thin line. “But there are benefits to having a failing legal system. And it might even help—hopefully Fangwa will think he’s secure behind that cloak.”
He nodded, too fatigued to process much more.
“Come,” she said, stroking his hair. “We need to rest for a few hours.” The sky had begun heralding the dawn with its first soft glow, casting the garden in a sublime light through the window, innocent to the depravities they’d just witnessed. Her eyes gleamed hungrily at Grey. “Tomorrow has already arrived.”
• • •
Hours later, Nya dropped Grey off at his apartment and watched him approach his building. She fought to push thoughts of him out of her mind; she had too much to accomplish today to be acting like a giddy schoolgirl.
She was fiercely attracted to him. But more than superficial characteristics, she admired his respect and concern for those around him, for her struggling countrymen. She’d seen it herself, and it shone in his eyes. And his was not hands-off bourgeoisie beneficence, nor well-intentioned but naïve outrage. No, he had lived, and through suffering he had become that rarest of breed: a truly universal citizen. And that was the kind of man she could love.
But she had work to do, and she had no intention of being distracted from her mission to find her father’s killer. Not even for Grey.
It was eight-thirty in the morning. Just enough time for one last stop before she went to see Chengetai, a high-ranking member of Zanu-PF. Chengetai had grown up in the neighboring village to her father, and used to be her father’s best friend, until a rift two years ago. Her father, in his typical reticent manner, never told her what happened, though she suspected political differences. But she knew they harbored affection for each other. He would help her get her warrant, in honor of her father. And he had the power to do so.
She stood on the corner of Nelson Mandela and Second, once again basking in the comforting presence of her father’s church. She had started going to confession every day; she’d taken to visiting in the evening, as her father had. She didn’t even really know why. Partly, she suspected, it allowed her to feel close to her father one last time.
And partly, she knew, her soul reached out for succor.
Today would be tumultuous. If she found any evidence that linked Fangwa to her father’s murder, or found out from Fangwa who killed him, then she would do what she had to do. What she’d sworn to do. What her father deserved.
She was going to kill the N’anga.
She choked up, thinking of the years lost with her father, of her own future she might lose if things did not go well today. She thought of Grey, and then she steeled herself and walked inside.
• • •
She sat on one of the pews and wrapped herself in the solitude of the sanctuary. Father Cowden arrived ten minutes later, just before nine. His eyebrows arched when he saw her. She offered a guilty smile, apologized for the inconvenience, and asked if he would mind taking her confession. At her request, he led her to his office first. For reasons she couldn’t quite explain, she needed to talk to him.
“You’re quite somber today,” he said. “I trust nothing is wrong?”
She took a long time to answer. “This… personal mission… of mine. It’s drawing to a close. I might have to do things today that could,” she looked down at her hands, “imperil my soul. I’d like to confess again. “
Father Cowden rose and began to pace. He stopped behind his chair, underneath the grandfather clock. “Nya,” he said, his voice soft and concerned. “As your spiritual advisor, I feel duty bound to offer my advice.”
“Of course.”
“You should realize confession does not cover future acts.”
She turned her head to the side. “If what I must do today becomes my last act of willful sin, then I’ll accept my judgment. I believe He will judge fairly.”
“Last act? Child, what is this about?”
“Nothing you can say will change my mind.” She wrung her hands. “I want to thank you for being there for me. And I want to thank you for being there for my father.”
“Whatever this is—whatever you feel you must do—you do not. God is forgiveness, Nya. It is for Him to judge, not you. It is for Him to punish.”
She remained silent.
“Remember that God is always with you. I sense faith growing again inside you—and for that, at least, I’m grateful. I implore you to embrace your faith as your father embraced his.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“That is all I can ask. Let us meditate and pray.”
She liked this part of her visit. Before confession started, she would bow her head, and Father Cowden would remain silent. The rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock became her sedative, a focal point that allowed her to drift into a brief and restorative peace that eluded her outside of this room.
Soon Father Cowden began to speak, droning on with lengthy prayers that relaxed her mind as potently as an expert masseuse would her body. She entered a welcome hiatus from reality, brought back only by his gentle imperative to follow him to the confessional. And then she bared her soul. Despite her troubled faith, she inexplicably felt purged, cleansed, lightened.
She drifted to the soothing cadence of Father Cowden’s prayer, let it slowly wash away her anger, her guilt, her regret. Cathartic pleasure relaxed her face. She could never even remember the words; she just knew that, on some hidden spiritual plane, they touched her soul.
There was one thought she had to almost physically push away before she could linger over this last moment of peace. It left grudgingly, this thought. It was an image that had haunted her for months, both her waking hours and her sleep, even though she had once convinced herself it wasn’t possible.
She squeezed her eyes shut and willed it to go away—this terrifying vision of Dr. Fangwa hovering over her beloved father, grinning as he placed a knife to his throat.
42
After Nya dropped him off, Grey showered, ate a light breakfast, and took a jog to sedate his body and clear his mind. The rest of the morning he busied himself with mindless tasks to pass the time—he cleaned and wrapped his injuries, half-heartedly straightened the apartment, stretched after his run. He started to shave and then set the razor down. That required too much attention to detail.
He sat cross-legged on the floor and read the first line of the two faxes again: “Have you found it yet?“
What was Fangwa after in Harare? Did whoever had written the letter know about Fangwa’s gruesome side activities? Was this some kind of high-level conspiracy?
Nya had to come through with the warrant. Fangwa would prove difficult, but once the authorities searched that house of horrors the Doctor�
��s bargaining power would melt away like a summer love on the first day of school.
The second part of the letter troubled Grey even more. “Do not forget what is at stake.“ And the cryptic, almost ominous, reply: “Rest assured I will never forget.“
What did the Juju ceremonies have to do with the two faxes? Everything? Nothing? Had Fangwa enthralled someone in the government? The letter from the official didn’t have the tone of someone under a spell. Perhaps the faxes had nothing at all to do with Fangwa’s nefarious activities. Yet that, also, seemed unlikely. It was all too coincidental not to be connected.
None of it fit together, not under any scenario he could devise in his mind. And the murder of Nya’s father? How could that possibly fit into the puzzle? Was Nya herself unknowingly involved? Fangwa did have an unnatural interest in her. Grey had chalked that up to perversion, but now he wasn’t so sure.
He began to pace; he didn’t like these unanswered questions, and he didn’t like waiting. Nya needed some time to work out that warrant.
Might Nigel have information regarding any of this? The thought excited and then frustrated him. Grey didn’t have that kind of money. Would the Embassy step up? Possibly, if the evidence led to Addison. He’d have to negotiate with Nigel, and that didn’t sound like a winning prospect. Still, it trumped sitting around.
• • •
“Yassus,” Nigel muttered as Grey entered his business lounge, the bodyguard on his heels. “You and your associates are determined to keep me in business. Don’t tell me you wish to attend another ceremony. I would think by now you’d have an invitation.”
Grey shot him a puzzled glance, and Nigel smirked. “Before I tell you what I need,” Grey said, “there might be a problem. I don’t have the kind of funds we discussed last time.”
