The Living Blood

by Tananarive Due

  And so he continued for a half hour, as if he had been waiting for an audience. Once Lucas had finished his beer and eaten two helpings of soup—more than he had appetite for, but he knew he couldn’t refuse another serving without possibly insulting his hostess—his impatience began to throb in the form of a slight headache. Mbuli gave Lucas a knowing gaze, realizing full well Lucas was sorry he had ever brought up the subject of Shabalala’s land.

  Lucas’s eyes glazed as he envisioned his son wasting away inside his isolation tent. Was anyone with Jared now? He snuck a glance at his wristwatch beneath the table, noticing that it was seven o’clock, which would make it noon in Tallahassee. Maybe Cleo was there reading to him, or Cal was visiting. It had been this exact time only weeks before when Lucas had first talked to Mbuli about the miracle clinic on the telephone. He’d taken Jared to a movie that day, Lucas recalled, and the memory of that outing stabbed his chest with nostalgia.

  “What about your daughter?” Lucas asked gracelessly, when there was a pause in Zenzele Shabalala’s opinions. “What about Sarah?”

  There was silence. Lucas noticed what seemed like a flicker of pain cross Nandi Shabalala’s face, and her husband’s features only grew more stern. He muttered something in Zulu, making a disgusted gesture, and the pain on his wife’s face deepened. Mbuli leaned close to Lucas to translate softly: “He says his daughter is a servant girl.”

  “I’ve heard she helps heal many people,” Lucas said.

  “Yes, they say the American women have magic, yet they have no training like the true sangomas. They do not call on the ancestors,” Zenzele Shabalala said, anger cracking his voice. “I do not trust that kind of magic. And they have bewitched Sarah, to make her leave.”

  Nandi Shabalala met her husband’s eyes, suddenly animated. “If I may speak . . .” she began hesitating. When Zenzele Shabalala nodded, she clasped her hands, gazing at Lucas. “My husband’s words are true! Sarah would never have left here. She trained to be a nurse to stay here, nowhere else. She refused to go to Thekwini—the city the whites call Durban. To stay here was her dream her whole life. She said so many times. Sarah begged her brother not to go away, too. Why would she go with these Americans?”

  “Maybe that clinic’s magic is very, very special, Mrs. Shabalala,” Lucas told her gently. “And even though Sarah’s heart is still here with you, maybe she thought she could do the world greater good if she left.”

  Adamantly, Nandi Shabalala shook her head. Her eyes seemed to shimmer, and Lucas wondered if the nurse’s mother was near tears. But she did not speak further. Instead, she stood up and walked to a curio cabinet near the table, where several framed photographs were displayed. She came back with a color family photograph that had apparently been taken at least fifteen years ago, given the much younger appearance of the parents. Five members of the Shabalala family were present: the two parents, two teenaged children, and a much younger girl.

  “Which one is Sarah?” Lucas asked.

  Nandi Shabalala pointed to the older girl, who had all her mother’s beauty without any of the evidence of strain and wear. Her white teeth shone brilliantly against her dark skin, and her long forehead was adorned with beads. Even though she was sitting in the photo, Lucas knew she must have been tall, even as an adolescent. The young man beside her was the same complexion, but appeared slightly younger, about sixteen. He was a well-built boy who gazed at the camera with slitted eyes, puckering his lips slightly to ham it up for the photo. He was wearing a Pittsburgh Steelers T-shirt, while everyone else in the photo was dressed formally, as if for church. A natural renegade, Lucas thought.

  “The other girl is Thandi, the baby. She’s away at university,” their mother said proudly.

  “What’s your son’s name?” Lucas asked.

  Nandi Shabalala seemed to hesitate. “Stephen,” she said. Zenzele Shabalala exhaled impatiently at the sound of his son’s name.

  “I have a son, too,” Lucas said, reaching for his wallet. His heart began to pound as he realized that the success of his entire trip might rely on the next few minutes. His fingers trembled as he found Jared’s last school photograph, taken when he was eight—and healthy.

  “This is your son?” Zenzele Shabalala said, not hiding his surprise. “Surely he is white!”

  “He’s black,” Lucas said, opting not to discuss the race of Jared’s mother, just in case that might work against him. “In America, black people are all colors.”

  Zenzele Shabalala laughed for the first time. “I like that! Here, black men want to be white! In America, it is just the opposite.”

  Lucas knew that an effort to try to explain the social and political history of American racial consciousness would be a long, useless road. He just smiled politely and gave the picture back to Nandi Shabalala, since he figured she was his best sympathy vote.

  “Mrs. Shabalala, my son is very sick. He’s dying. He could be dead in only days,” Lucas said, gazing earnestly into her brown eyes, which widened with alarm. “And I have to confess, that’s why Dr. Mbuli said I should talk to you and your husband about Sarah. I need your help.”

  Their mood couldn’t have changed more abruptly. Nandi Shabalala quickly pushed Jared’s photograph back toward Lucas on the table, as if it were dangerous, and her husband began arguing with Mbuli in Zulu.

  Shit, Lucas thought. What have I done now?

  He could only listen with helpless confusion as Mbuli and Zenzele Shabalala exchanged flurries of Zulu; Mbuli was nodding contritely, biting his lip, while the older man berated him. Nandi Shabalala took their empty bowls and left the table without a word.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Mbuli finally turned to Lucas. “I should have thought of this before now. He’s upset because some white men came here asking questions about Sarah after she left, from the Department of Health. They wanted to find her, too.”

  “Oh, no,” Lucas said, speaking directly to Zenzele Shabalala. He had never despised his fair complexion more in his life, although it had caused him nearly daily grief on his segregated school playground as a child. “I have nothing to do with that. Sir, I swear, I don’t mean any harm to your daughter. I have nothing to do with the government. I only want to heal my son.”

  Again, Mbuli spoke up in Zulu. Lucas heard Jared’s name and the word leukemia. But if Zenzele Shabalala was swayed by any of these arguments, he didn’t show it in his face. He looked more resolute than ever as he shook his head. “Lies,” he said. “Just lies.”

  At that, Mbuli sounded offended. “Am I lying, too? As long as you’ve known me?”

  “They are too clever for you, Floyd. You have already forgotten all the lies? Whenever the white man is looking for you, there is always trouble.”

  Feeling desperation rising in his gut, Lucas was ready to fling his wallet open again and toss out his credit cards, traveler’s checks, currency, and anything else he thought might change this man’s mind about cooperating. But that would be a mistake, he knew. No man would sell information about his daughter to someone he didn’t trust.

  Unexpectedly, tears of frustration came to Lucas’s eyes. “Sir, tell me what I need to do to convince you and I’ll do it. I’m a parent, just like you. I love my son, just as you love Sarah. Our skin color looks different to you, but there’s no difference in what we feel.”

  Zenzele Shabalala glanced quickly away from Lucas’s tears. He was silent, but stony.

  With a sigh, Nandi Shabalala took her place at the table again. She rested her head on her arm, looking like she’d suffered a wave of fatigue.

  Mbuli touched her arm. “Nandi? What’s wrong?”

  “My sugar.” She said it softly, resigned.

  “Are you taking your pills?” Mbuli said.

  She shrugged. “I take the pills most days.” Her voice was bland.

  “Do you still have those pains in your leg? You need to be careful, or you could lose it. Sarah will be very cross with me if she finds out I’m not looking after her
mother. Come see me in the morning so I can check your sugar level. Don’t eat before you come.”

  Nandi Shabalala nodded, but she didn’t look cheered. The argument at the table had probably contributed to the way she felt, and Lucas was sorry about that. But what could he do?

  “If Nandi isn’t well, we’d better be off,” Mbuli said brightly, gazing at Lucas.

  Lucas’s heart dropped. They couldn’t leave now! “But . . .”

  Under the table, Mbuli patted Lucas’s knee urgently, apparently as a signal. “I’ll see you at eight o’clock, Nandi?” Mbuli said to the woman.

  She nodded again, and Lucas understood. Mbuli would ask her again when they were alone, away from her husband’s influence! Lucas tried to keep any glee from his face. If he could have, he would have tackled the African physician with a tight hug. Instead, he slid Jared’s photograph into his wallet and pushed his chair back. He could stay at a hotel in Ulundi and wait one more night, he decided. Mbuli would find out where Sarah was.

  But Lucas didn’t have to wait that long. Zenzele Shabalala barely grunted a farewell to them before sitting down on the sofa to switch on the television, but his wife followed them to the car, practically shuffling. Why hadn’t he noticed before that this woman wasn’t well? As usual, he’d been absorbed by his own problems, Lucas thought.

  “It’s terrible to be sick,” Nandi Shabalala said to them as they reached the car.

  “Jared’s been sick for two years. Whatever’s at that clinic might make him better,” Lucas said, standing as close to her as he dared. “Please tell me where to find it.”

  Nandi Shabalala’s eyes darted furtively toward the house, and she sighed. “I don’t like those Americans. They’re trouble for Sarah. My heart knows it. I don’t sleep nights worrying for her. I want her to come home.”

  “Mrs. Shabalala, if you tell me where to find her, I’ll give her that message myself.”

  The woman’s face went pliant, wistful, and Lucas began to hope. “A parent always worries,” she said. “Worrying for our children is worse than being sick. I would be happy to let this sugar take me before I would see anything happen to Sarah. And Stephen, too. During apartheid, I died those months after the police took him away and I could not see him. I did not know if he was alive or dead. Zenzele tries to be gruff, but he worries for his son. And I can see how you worry, Dr. Shepard. I see your love for your son.”

  “Yes,” Lucas said, clasping her hand. He was afraid he would collapse to his knees.

  “I do not know where the clinic is, but Sarah phones me once a month. She always phones from Serowe. So the clinic must be near there.”

  Botswana! This time, Lucas didn’t hesitate to hug Nandi Shabalala, clinging to her tightly. She let out a surprised sound and went rigid, but then she relaxed and began to pat Lucas’s back. “Tell Sarah to come home. It will be too late by the time she phones,” she whispered in his ear, her voice quavering. “Tell her I dreamed it, just like before the police came, and she will understand. There is danger coming. But not from you. You are not the one. I feel it.”

  As they drove away, Lucas and Mbuli whooped with joy, congratulating themselves on their sleuth work. Mbuli pounded on his steering wheel. “Aren’t we quite the team? She’s been so stubborn to say anything until now. Praise God! I’m going there with you.”

  Lucas’s smile froze. “With me?”

  “Of course! You’ll get nowhere with the American women. We’ve tried before, remember? They’re too cautious. But maybe Sarah will give you some of this blood potion. She’s a generous-hearted girl. I’ll ask on your behalf—and finally I’ll see what it is for myself!”

  Lucas held up his hand. “Floyd, wait a minute . . .”

  Mbuli’s jowls fell. “What? You don’t want me to come? Lucas, I’ve waited for years—”

  “I know you have, and I couldn’t have gotten this close without you, but I’m going alone. Wait a week, until after I’ve left. Then, you go. It’s better if I’m there strictly as a parent, not a researcher. Besides, you have your appointment with Mrs. Shabalala.”

  “That’s very early, at eight o’clock!”

  “If I can catch a bus back to Durban tonight, by eight I hope I’ll be in Botswana already.”

  Mbuli exhaled, flustered. “Spend the night here and rest, Lucas! I know you’re in a rush, but you can’t wait those few hours? You need me with you. If you go alone, you might leave empty-handed, and that’s no help to your son at all.”

  They argued about it during the drive to the Ulundi bus station, until the car was filled with a sullen silence. Mbuli, who had been so cheerful before, obviously felt hurt, maybe even betrayed, to be excluded from something so important. He was polite as he gave Lucas his flight bag, but there was no light in his eyes. Lucas hugged him good-bye, reminding him he could go to the clinic on his own soon enough. He was certain Mbuli should stay behind—Lucas wasn’t even entirely sure why—but he felt guilty about his decision during the long ride back to Durban.

  He had no way of knowing then that he had just saved the African doctor’s life.

  16

  Miami, Florida

  With Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love” pulsing from the front and rear speakers of his Bronco, Justin O’Neal savored the last drag on his lunchtime joint and then flicked the smoking roach out of his half-open window as his car sped along the shaded curves of South Bayshore Drive. The perfume of the salt water in the warm breeze gave him a familiar charge, and for a moment he gazed at the clusters of royal palm trees whizzing past his window and let himself forget where he was going. He visualized himself in bathing trunks and a T-shirt instead of his pinstriped Armani suit; in his imagination, he was up to nothing more serious than perfecting his tan and his open-sea breaststroke. Shouldn’t be any other business on a day like today, he thought.

  Least of all the kind of business that might involve actual abduction.

  Kidnapping. Justin shook his head and chuckled with disbelief as that word rattled in his mind. That was a new one, all right. His friends back in Chicago would tell him he’d moved to Miami and turned into fucking Scarface. In four years, presto chango, he’d become a new man. He was wearing tailored suits, living in a half-million-dollar house, and smoking the occasional doobie in the middle of his workday, just enough to keep his mind at a simmer whenever it was on the verge of a boil.

  Not that his buddies in the Bar Association and Young Democrats had ever really known everything about him anyway. They didn’t know he’d run a pretty impressive little dope ring out of his dormitory when he was an undergraduate at Brown, back when he was too young, stupid, and greedy to know any better. Copping extra joints for his friends as a freshman had turned into a mini-empire by the time he was a junior, bringing him thousands of dollars in income, even split with the five guys working for him. Five! Justin winced to think of it now. What an arrogant little prick he’d been. He was lucky he hadn’t ended up in jail over a dumb stunt like that. If he’d ever been caught, how could he have gone on to law school at Cornell and carried on the family tradition with his cozy two-hundred-grand salary as legal counsel for Clarion Health Inc.?

  Nearly half the lawyers he knew got high regularly on illegal drugs—whether it was coke or weed—but they would raise their eyebrows at the notion of actually selling it to other users just like them. Hypocritical bastards.

  What did they think, the stuff they shoved up their noses materialized out of thin air? What was it Capone had said? When I sell liquor, it’s called bootlegging; when my patrons serve it on silver trays on Lake Shore Drive, it’s called hospitality. Nothing but hypocrisy, Justin thought. Meanwhile, ghetto kids caught selling rocks on street corners were being sent away to grow old in prison—and his dealers belonged to homeowners’ associations and sent their kids to private schools. What a world.

  Then, Justin caught himself. His wife had pointed out to him years ago that he always got self-righteous when he was trying to ignore his conscience
and shore himself up to cross an ethical line. Holly was good for him that way. She knew his practice wasn’t always strictly legitimate, that Clarion defrauded a slew of claim-holders each year, thanks in no small part to the maneuvering of its crackerjack legal department. And frankly, she even knew how Clarion’s investment decisions were regularly informed by pharmaceutical-industry tips that smelled suspiciously like insider trading. If Clarion couldn’t find loopholes, the corporation created its own. Holly knew all about it.

  But she didn’t judge. That was their deal. All she asked was that he didn’t keep secrets.

  And he couldn’t lie to himself, either. She made sure of that.

  So, Justin had to admit that he was crossing yet another line today, entering foreign territory. He’d never met Rusty Baylor in person—assuming that Rusty was the guy’s real name, which he seriously doubted—but he’d been briefed on Baylor’s work and reputation. Baylor had come recommended by one of his father’s friends who worked in corporate security, a former government operative who’d served with Baylor in Nicaragua. Baylor got the job done, everyone agreed. That meant Baylor was willing to do just about anything, for the right price.

  This time, Justin didn’t chuckle. Even a few hits on his joint during the ten-minute drive from his office couldn’t take the bite out of that. He’d woken up that morning trying to convince himself he was going to undertake an adventure today, hoping to awaken his sense of bravado.

  Bullshit. He was about to sit down to a casual lunch in Coconut Grove to hand a check over to a mercenary. Plain as that.