The Fall of Saints (21 page)

Jane and I followed closely behind Wainaina till we settled on a spot that gave us a good view of the stage, under a huge tent. The band played gospel music. Next to the band but at a distance sat the ragged VIPs and dignitaries, among them members of Parliament and the business community. Reverend Susan’s robes were silken. Maxwell Kaguta, the powerful minister of faith and religion, in golden African robes pinned with patches of rags, sat next to Susan. It was obvious that their rags had been designed for this occasion, a dramatic contrast to the ordinary folk who came in their daily clothes.

After the prayers, the master of ceremonies, dressed in a silk suit with patches stuck on, apologized because some of the notables had not arrived. But there was a special guest, the star of the day, and she would sing first. “Meet the woman with the voice of an angel,” he said.

Melinda shot from someplace behind the tent. She was dressed in a flowing maxidress with little star shapes stuck to it. She was the Melinda of Shamrock, only now, with the sunshine and the massing crowd hushed, she looked even more dominant and powerful. Looking at her, so beautiful, I almost began to doubt she was the Melinda of the other night. She came charging, glory, glory, and soon everybody was raising their voices.
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord,
she said, and then sang the chorus:

Glory, glory, hallelujah!

Glory, glory, hallelujah!

Glory, glory, hallelujah!

His truth is marching on.

She started with very low notes working to very high. Even I who had heard her so many times could only stare in wonder. Here was the preacher side of Melinda. From the chorus she would seamlessly recite:
I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps
. And then the chorus of glory:
I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel. Oh yes, glory, glory, hallelujah. In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea.
Glory, glory. She whipped the crowd into joining the chorus; it became a call-and-response.
He is coming like the glory of the morning on the wave,
she intoned. She was not done. “Glory,” she called out, and the crowd returned, “Glory.”

The crowd was hysterical. Then she introduced the Miracle anthem. She talked movingly of how black people were forced into slavery; she described the harsh conditions of plantation slavery; the whip lashes, the wounds. And that was how the spiritual was born. They looked to their future deliverance and sang:

Swing low, sweet chariot

Coming for to carry me home

Swing low, sweet chariot

Coming for to carry me home

I looked over Jordan, and what did I see

Coming for to carry me home

A band of angels coming after me,

Coming for to carry me home.

A wireless mike in hand, Melinda moved among the crowd as if singing to each and every individual in that gathering. By the time she came back to the stage, everybody was clapping and singing with her. A thunderous roar greeted her when she asked in song:

If you get there before I do,

Coming for to carry me home

Tell all my friends I’m coming too

Coming for to carry me hoooooooooooome.

She was not faking it. She sang her heart out. Wainaina stood there, his camera frozen in his hands, glued to the flawless soulful performance. Jane was singing along. For a moment even I forgot the events of the night at the Miracle Church, thinking with regret, even pain, How could so many Melindas inhabit the same body? I missed this Melinda, the woman with the voice of an angel, the one whose voice blessed my first night out with Zack, the voice that sang for me at my wedding. Her preaching—the side I had not seen—told me why she and Susan had clicked; from all accounts, Susan, though she could not hold a note, had the power of the word.

And then the master of ceremonies called for silence. The expected guests had come. I had not seen their arrival because of the hysteria all around. Like Melinda before them, they emerged from behind the tent one at a time. I recognized the first guest immediately: Daktari of the Supa Duka, introduced as Dr. Peter Kunyiha. I had hardly recovered from the shock when the master of ceremonies announced another special guest from America: Miles Jackson Sanders. He was more than a name to me. He was the Rhino Man from the Manhattan curio shop. He was part of the Susan and Melinda entourage.

I motioned Jane and directed her to Wainaina to make sure he captured pictures of Daktari and Miles, any grouping that showed them together and singly. Jane moved and was soon lost in the crowd of rags.

Strange, I was thinking, that every time I thought I was about to connect the dots, others appeared to complicate the process. There was some progress: The Daktari and the Rhino Man had names, and I had been able to connect them to Susan. What about Father Brian? Could he be here, dressed in rags of the Catholic order?

Suddenly I felt something jab my ribs. It was a gun. The man wore a leopard mask and motioned me with jabs to walk to the side. Wakitabu, I thought, and froze with fear. A scream would have been lost in the noise, besides blowing my cover wide open. I walked slowly, as directed, trying to figure a way out. Sam’s dad had said I should arm myself. I wished I had a gun of my own, but it was a wish born of despair. At the edges of the crowd, the man took off his mask, deliberately revealing his face and then masking it again. It was not Wakitabu.

It was the suited gunman.

“Tell me where he is hiding, and you’re free.”

“Who?” I asked, perplexed.

“Don’t play games with me. Give us Zack.”

“Zack is in Estonia,” I said.

“He was there, all right. He vanished in Tallinn, the devil. I followed him in Latvia and lost him, but he can’t escape me forever. Lead me to where he is hiding or—”

“He’s in Estonia,” I said firmly. “Not here. Not in Kenya. He does not even know that I am here. If you want to kill me, do so, but I have no information on Zack.”

I heard the click of the gun. I closed my eyes and waited for the pain.

“What are you doing here? Eyes closed? You scared me,” I heard Jane’s voice beside me.

I opened my eyes. The gunman had gone. I held on to Jane, trembling, tears flowing. She asked, “What’s the matter?” I did not have the voice or the strength to answer her but hoarsely said: “Didn’t you see him? In a leopard mask?” Jane asked, “Who? Where?”

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” I said finally.

Melinda was singing again, and the crowd was going crazy, as we wound our way back to the car. Jane phoned Wainaina to join us. He was bubbling with excitement because he had managed to get Melinda’s business card and an invitation to set up an interview. One look at me was enough to cool him down.

•  •  •

We drove in silence, and it was only when we were safe in Jane’s house that I was able to tell them about the suited gunman. The noose around me was tightening. Just to check up on things, I called Zack. No answer. Dammit. Ben, no answer.

I swallowed my pride, my anger, my hurt, and decided to try the number Ben had texted me. I went to my room and dialed the Criminal Investigations Department.“May I speak to Detective Johnston?”

“Speaking,” a deep voice boomed. “What can I do for you?”

“Hi, my name is Mugure. I got your number from Detective Ben—”

“I have been expecting your call,” he interrupted. “I understand you have some information for me?”

“Yes, sir, but now it’s urgent. My life is in danger. Where can we meet?”

“How about you come to my office?” he replied.

“I am not so sure that is a good idea. I believe I am being followed. Being seen coming to the CID headquarters may send a signal.”

“Not a bad signal to send to a person with criminal intent, but shall we say the Serena Hotel?”

“Sir, come to the anti-corruption offices within the hour. Someone will meet you there and bring you to me.”

He chuckled. So patronizing, I thought, but I was not about to take chances. Every time Ben contacted me, something bad followed. I had to keep in mind that Johnston was Ben’s friend.

“Okay,” he said, “I will play along. But the information better be useful.”

I told Jane and Wainaina my fears, and we came up with a plan. Jane sent her secretary to meet Johnston at the anti-corruption offices and bring him to Room 54, booked under Jane’s name.

My first thought when I saw the tall detective enter the room was that he was too lean and too bald to be in law enforcement. He wore a tennis shirt with a pair of blue jeans and white sneakers. “Oh, it’s Wainaina. I am a fan,” Johnston said as soon as he spotted him.

“Thanks,” Wainaina replied.

“You,” Jane exclaimed.

“What a small world, ha?” he said, stretching out his hand to her. “The last time we met, you wanted to strangle me.”

I looked at them, wondering if they had been seeing each other. “Why?” I asked.

“Remember the case I was telling you about?” Jane said. “He was the detective fighting me. The guy who relied on a corrupt Catholic clergy to fight a virtuous Catholic clergy.”

“If I recall, you are the ones who painted criminals to look like they were women’s rights advocates. Man, you guys would do anything to win a court case,” Detective Johnston said.

“But we did not rely on rumors and a secret document,” Jane responded.

“The Vatican agreed with us. Father Brian was commended and your ‘holy’ sisters reprimanded.”

“Whoa, cease fire,” I said, sensing this might not end up well.

“I agree with that,” Johnston said. “Look, Jane, the case is closed, so there’s little point in talking about it.”

“Okay, Detective Johnston, let’s shake hands. A truce,” she said.

Then she excused herself. She would be at home or in her office if we needed anything. She left with her secretary.

Wainaina and I sat on the bed and Detective Johnston on the chair next to the bed. A small world indeed, I thought. Ben’s Johnston the “brave” was Jane’s Detective “Mbaya.”

I gave him a narrative of everything I’d learned since my return to Kenya. When I got to the part about in vitro fertilization, Detective Johnston could not hide his disbelief. “Some woman who has been fired from her job tells you she suspects that Reverend Susan is manufacturing babies, and you buy the story? Are you sure?”

“If you just let me finish,” I said. I then told him about the women in Kambera and about my visit to the Supa Duka clinic in Mashingo.

“What?” he said in shock, then repeated, “Are you sure?”

Now I had his attention. “Look, I am not insane. Naive, maybe, but of sound mind and, I believe, some bit of intelligence.”

“This is interesting. If it is true, you—we—have to be careful,” he said, as if to himself. “Especially if Maxwell Kaguta is involved. He is well connected. He can make one disappear into thin air like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Yes, we have to be careful.”

His inclusive “we” was encouraging. I felt at ease. I poured my heart out. But the moment I mentioned Wakitabu and the suited gunman, he became skeptical. I held my ground. “Wakitabu is a police officer,” I continued. “He terrorizes the women. And he is after me.”

“Are you accusing the police force of being stalkers, murderers, and kidnappers?”

“Please, Detective Johnston, talk to him, at least. And while we are at it, can I please look at the document?”

“What document?”

“The one you and Jane were talking about. I believe it contains the solution to the mystery—a master plan for evil, as Sister Paulina described it.”

“You talked to her? Then why did she not tell you its content?”

“Because she did not write it. And she’s so full of integrity that she refused to impute any improper motives to you or Brian.”

“Please, Mugure,” he said, clearly trying to be as polite as possible but hardly able to disguise the fact that he had been touched by Paulina’s refusal to assign blame. “Leave everything in our hands.”

The gunman from the festival took his attention. He asked details of face and dress and mask and gait. He asked me to repeat the words spoken. He wore a serious countenance. “Tell you what: Should the gunman accost you again, please call me.”

As a token of his serious intent, he gave me a code to his direct line. He stood up to leave, looked at me as if he had something else to tell me, changed his mind, and left.

“We are on our own, it seems, “ I told Wainaina. “Do you know how I can get a gun?”

Wainaina was taken aback, but if he thought I was crazy, he did not show it. “I am afraid I know more about the pen than the gun,” he said.

“Okay. Tell me, when and where is the interview with Melinda?”

23

T
he interview was going to take place at the International Hotel on Grand Street in the city center. Jane lent us her car. Armed with a camera and a flash, I posed as Wainaina’s assistant. There was no answer from Melinda’s room when we arrived, so we went to wait at the bar. We ordered mineral water. On our second attempt, she answered and invited Wainaina up to her penthouse suite.

Melinda was all smiles when Wainaina entered, and she apologized for being late. She had been to a meeting of the organizing committee for a possible international Festival of Rags, to be held in New York City. At first she did not recognize me, but when she did, she froze. Then she turned around and pulled the door to the sleeping chamber shut, presumably to give herself the time to get composed.

“Mugure, when did you . . . ? What a nice surprise.” She smiled as she walked toward me, then stopped in her tracks. My face must have said it all. What I really wanted was to jump on her and pull the demons out myself. I remained calm, or rather, I tried.