That Night in Lagos (8 page)

“Listen here, boy,”
the Inspector growled into the silence. “If you aren’t willing to cooperate, we’ll use whatever means required to encourage you.”

He raised his bludgeon as if to strike the seated man. Jumuka didn’t so much as flinch, but maintained a blank mask over his dark, sweat-streaked face.

“We know who your master is,”
Inspector Jones said. “A bloke who goes by the name of Koki the Mantis.”

At that, Jumuka noticeably gulped but remained stoically silent, as if his life depended on it, which I suspected he believed it did.

“Who is this Koki, eh, John?”
the Inspector persisted. “Just give us a location or a description, and you can go back to your hut or hovel or wherever you come from.”

There was no inducement the Inspector could provide, no threat he could utter, no pain he could inflict, that would extract from Jumuka or the other prisoners any information beyond their names. As the minutes sweated into hours, Inspector Jones’
confidence dissolved into frustration. Stalking toward the holding cell, he pointed at a young man —
more a boy than a man —
crouching in the corner.

“Bring that one,”
he shouted, spittle spraying.

The boy lacked the hard heart of his fellow smugglers, for he cowered before us, his eyes round, the whites showing brightly against his dark face. His every limb twitched and shuddered, but not due to any fear he had of the sufferings we could inflict upon him. His pitiful state was induced by the name that had slipped from his mouth when the Inspector asked a question.

Koki.

“Yes, Koki. We know the name of your leader, but where is he?”
Inspector Jones demanded with such a threat of violence in his voice that in any other circumstance, the prisoner would surely have revealed his secrets.

But not this time.

“She will kill us all,”
the boy blubbered, his tearful eyes rolling about as if searching the cell for his elusive and lethal leader.

“She?”
Inspector Jones asked, clearly disgusted that a woman could inspire such a state in any man.

“Don’t be too surprised, Inspector Jones,”
I said dryly, fingering the knobs along my walking stick. “The Bible states that hell itself has no fury greater than a woman’s.”

He snorted, not impressed or convinced that anyone had reason to fear a woman, which thoroughly convinced me that the man had never been married. “Come, boy, tell us where she is. We’ll protect you. She can’t touch you here, this,”
and he sneered derisively, “Koki.”

The prisoner shuddered and whimpered, and I suspected he would be subjected to a lethal fit if we continued to pressure him too greatly.

“Inspector Jones, perhaps if you would allow me to spend time alone with this one,”
I suggested softly. “He’s not much more than a child.”

“Madam, I tolerate your presence in this room out of obedience to the request sent by my head office,”
he said through tight lips and, I suspected, gritted teeth. “But that is all I shall do. I believe…”

I never did learn what profound beliefs the man held with regard to my presence, for just then he was interrupted by a manly scream.

We both looked to the prisoner whose mouth hung open, but the sound hadn’t ushered forth from that source. The Inspector strode out of the small room, his countenance a storm about to break. I followed him into the narrow hallway. Ahead of us, the prisoners in the holding cell stood in a tight huddle, their gazes fixed on the stairs leading up to the ground floor.

“What in tarnation…”
the Inspector began but a gunshot cut him off, echoing down to us from above, followed by the stamping of boots, shouting, several more gunshots and a shriek that was cut off abruptly, only to be replaced by others. I inhaled deeply, detecting what the Inspector couldn’t: the acidity of sweaty terror mingling with the coppery odor of fresh blood.

When a scream is combined with the scent of blood, it generally indicates a spot of trouble is around the proverbial corner. In such circumstances, I believe it prudent to restrain one’s urge to rush into the scene. Inspector Jones however had no such inclination.

“Inspector, don’t,”
I warned, raising a hand to prevent his hasty departure. He of course paid me no heed as the frequency of gunshots and yelling increased.

Instead, the good Inspector raced up the stairs, which just goes to show that one really shouldn’t hunt for monsters while under the influence of drugs. Not only is one’s judgement critically impaired but one is inclined to rush blindly into a room full of blood and screaming people. This is an excellent way to lose one’s head or another similarly critical limb. With a sigh, I followed him with slightly less haste, my walking stick held before me.

He began yelling orders to his men, but when we reached the foyer, we could see his commands were a waste of breath. Everywhere was chaos and carnage, the floor littered with decapitated bodies, the heads scattered to all corners. The place stank of excrement, blood and something else…
An indefinable scent that included slightly rancid meat, freshly cut grass and a rich, flowery perfume. It was a revolting mix of pleasant and putrid.

The Inspector spun around in a daze, his disbelieving gaze settling on one corpse after another. He finally looked to me, opened his mouth, shut it and then through tight lips said, “Miss Bee, this is no place for a woman. I believe it prudent you leave, although at this juncture I shall not be able to provide you an escort.”

“Inspector Jones, I hardly think this is a suitable juncture to discuss prudence,”
I retorted, although with far less vehemence than I would normally have. While I’m not accustomed to fainting —
an inconvenient habit if ever there was one —
I admit to experiencing a disturbing vertigo at the spectacle laid out before me, and it was all I could do to grip my stick tightly as if that could anchor me to consciousness. I could only imagine the shock and despair the Inspector was experiencing, for these were his men.

“As you wish,”
he said without much conviction and continued his spinning until he was again facing the foyer.

At that moment, we witnessed a peculiarity that boggled the mind and befuddled the intellect: two green, slender tree trunks floated into the lobby from an adjoining room.

“What in carnations…”
Inspector Jones muttered. He strode forward even as I stepped back, for I was certain that trees shouldn’t be able to float about and if they were doing so, that only indicated that something else was afoot.

“Inspector, perhaps we should…”
I started to say and then the trees were joined by a triangular head with a set of green pincers the length of my arms; they snapped about Jones’
neck with a sharp click. His body continued forward a few more paces before collapsing. His head had vanished by that time, and I was left alone to face the largest and most intimidating beast I’d ever seen in my nineteen years of life: a Praying Mantis as large as an elephant and nastier than a street dog, covered in the blood of her victims.

There was only one course of action I could consider, rattled as I was by what had just transpired: I threw my sachet of ground cinnamon at the creature’s head. My muddled rationale was that if cinnamon was so effective against tiny ants, then surely it could defeat a giant Mantis. That erroneous form of logic may have been induced by the shock of witnessing my fellow investigator being decapitated so tidily.

Be that as it may, the spice exploded about her head in a puffy cloud of sweetness and of course did nothing to stop the beast but merely distracted her long enough for me to run in the only possible direction open to me: upstairs. The constabulary had fallen under an eerie silence as I navigated the wide staircase littered with heads and limbs. I choked on the stench of blood and realized with dismay that I was experiencing a rare sensation: absolute terror. Nothing in my training or experience thus far had prepared me for such a massacre or the emotions it inspired.

The landing on the second floor was deserted of bodies living and deceased. I didn’t dwell on the implication: that all the officers in the building had succumbed in the attack. Instead I steered myself into the first room I found with an open door and locked the door behind me.

“Why would they put grills on a second floor office window?”
I wailed softly as I stared in dismay at the windows across from me. I could only imagine the metal bars were to prevent a bored officer from escaping his administrative duties. I should be so lucky as to experience boredom.

I glanced about the lavishly furnished room and stumbled toward a tall wardrobe dominating one corner. Pushing aside a number of police uniforms hanging therein, I stepped inside and prayed to any being who would listen that the beast would simply scurry away.

Lady Luck and I were never on the best of terms, for the only thing scurrying away was my hope of surviving the night; the contents of my stomach were also moving about in a most unsatisfactory fashion. The situation deteriorated further, for the wooden stairs creaked mightily as something heavy eased its way upstairs. The pace was unhurried, as if the creature was enjoying the architecture, each creak and groan of each and every stair mocking me.

On the landing, the insect snuffled about like a hunting dog seeking the trail of its prey, a trail that led to the room in which I hid. I shuddered as the wooden door splintered and cracked under a great weight.

My mind froze, for I was at a loss as to the course of action I should now take. My hands, while shaking with unaccustomed agitation, were fortunately not as inhibited and they instinctually pushed down on two of the metal fingernails of the fist atop my walking stick. The pressure released an internal spring and a blade exited the other end of the stick with a soft click. The delicate sound scraped against my nerves, but surely the Mantis couldn’t have heard it?

I prepared myself as best I could, with my walking stick my only weapon, one that struck me as woefully inadequate for the adversary I now faced. I closed my eyes, breathed as deeply as my constricted chest would allow me and distracted myself from my approaching doom by mouthing the words, “Please, if there’s anyone listening, forgive me for all my indiscretions and follies. Most of them were unintentional and the remainder were probably necessary at the time.”

I paused, breathed again and noted my lungs had relaxed under the deluge of my mental babbling, so I continued silently, “It’s quite likely I’ll die in this wardrobe, which is humiliating enough. And sadly, dismemberment will render my mortal remains unfit for viewing.”

I frowned at that, for I did detest a messy corpse. It was thoroughly undignified and I could only hope my ghost would see fit to move on rapidly rather than linger to take in the sights. “And forgive the men who were placed in harm’s way because of an investigation they had no knowledge of. Even Inspector Jones who, despite having a deplorable lack of imagination, wasn’t such a terrible bloke after all.”

That done, I opened my eyes. While I now was as prepared to die as I could be, I resolved that it would not be without a fight, as brief as that effort may be. My one regret that I bitterly mulled over as I listened to the hunter stalk into the room was that all the sacrifice would be in vain: the beast would defeat us and continue on her way without a second thought for the corpses strewn out behind her.

When I peered through the keyhole, I beheld a beautiful vision of a woman, her every limb full of strength and grace, her skin so dark that it glowed with a blue undertone. Her large, black eyes were those of a skilled predator, confident in the outcome of the hunt.

“Koki,”
I inadvertently whispered on my exhale. I squinted and witnessed the energy field of a shapeshifting demon. The energy contained levels of power I’d never seen before. I was utterly out of my league and my weapon seemed even more pathetic in comparison.

As she glided into the center of the room, she spoke in a voice that could seduce any unwary heart, even as she mocked me.

“Are you really the best that Prof Runal has?” She clucked her tongue in a disapproving manner even as her lips lifted in a cruel yet alluring smile. “My, my, the old dog is slipping, isn’t he? Or perhaps he fears facing me himself? And rightly so. But to send a girl child in his place is truly deplorable, even for him. Come girl, come to me and I may spare you.”

While I wasn’t a fan of long-winded, self-aggrandizing speeches, her voice was so attractive that I couldn’t remember what I’d planned on doing. Why was I in a wardrobe amongst mothballs and uniforms?

She spun about, a warm and motherly smile on her full, temptress lips. “Come child. Come to me, and I will take care of you. Of all the mortals in this building, you have the least to fear. Together we will remind men why they should fear the night and respect a woman.”

I smiled at that, as her words wove themselves into my thoughts. It was true: men had no respect at all for a woman with an intellect that rivaled and usually surpassed their own. Faced with such an oddity, they resorted to patronizing tones and snide comments to maintain their misplaced sense of superiority. How often had I suffered such politely veiled ridicule when I presented myself as an investigator? The smug grins and conspiratorial winks they gave each other as they looked me over? The sentiments sometimes blatantly expressed that this was no vocation for a woman?