The Fall of Saints (7 page)

Kasla was at the center of my problems. Where was this ghostly agency that received telephone calls, faxed papers, and then retreated to the silence of the dead? And yet it did exist once, as Ben had confirmed: It had given us Kobi, and it had sought and received representation from Edward and Palmer. I had to crack the mystery. I did not tell Zack, but the resolution to handle the threats all by myself and at the same time steady my nerves was easier said than done.

Even Rosie noticed that I was out of sorts. I thought of telling her the whole story, but then I felt uncomfortable dragging her into my increasingly troubled domestic life. It was as if she read my thoughts and beat me to it. I was in the garden when she came over and said after a few nothings: “My sister, I don’t know what is worrying you. Please forgive me for saying it, but I don’t like these white people around you. Me, I keep all white folk at arm’s length. Is there anything I can do to lift your burden? Do you want to talk to your African sister?” I thanked her and told her all was well. Then I became suspicious; she had taken the same line as Ben on white people. I thought of asking her if she knew him or talked to him, then changed my mind.

I went back inside the house. A shot of vodka helped me relax a little and follow some threads of thought. Ben had told me they could reopen the Kasla file only if there were evidence of a crime. An unrecorded telephone threat was not a provable crime. The ghostly existence of an adoption agency was not a crime. But what if I could somehow procure the letters, briefs, emails, any correspondence between Edward and Palmer and the Kasla agency? I wished I could engage some clever hackers to break into the law files and retrieve the information I needed. Melinda had the reputation of being a master at computers, and she fancied herself an expert in cyber warfare, but I didn’t think it wise to ask her. I could break into Zack’s home office, but what if there was nothing there? What I needed was some basic facts with which to confront my husband and extract more information.

Mark kept on coming to mind. He must know Kasla. He had talked about business links to Africa, Kenya, oh yes, that night at the wedding. Without Melinda, there was no way of getting to him.

And then an idea dawned on me. My mother used to tell me the longest road was usually the shortest. I needed to locate the Kenya adoption agency with which Kasla had partnered. The partner agency in Kenya would lead me back to America.

6

J
ane Kagendo came to mind. She had not come to our wedding because she’d been involved in a case involving alternative clinics. She was not at her desk when I phoned, but after ten minutes, she returned the call. I explained my situation. She had not heard of Kasla in Kenya or, for that matter, in New York, or any such partnership. Could she get me a list of all the registered adoption clinics in the country? I asked.

“I thought I was done with clinics, adoptive or otherwise, after my legal battles over Alternative Clinics,” she said.

“Please, Jane, I just want adoption agencies,” I said, a little embarrassed that I knew so little about her battles. The text she had sent us did not contain details about the case.

A day later, she emailed me a list of six registered agencies. Most were church-based, a few government- or quasi-government-managed. I called them all. Two agencies did not answer, but the other four said they had never heard of Kasla. The matter needed further investigation by someone on the ground. I felt uneasy at the thought of taking Jane from her serious work to pursue a whim. Then Wainaina came to mind.

I was in my last year at CCNY when I met him at an NYU lecture on technology, philosophy, and the new media by a famous Harvard professor; it was part of a summer workshop on globalization and the social media. In his arguments for a universal ethical imperative, the professor quoted Immanuel Kant, first in German and then in English: “Act only according to that maxim whereby you can, at the same time, will that it should become a universal law.” I did not understand the jargon, and I suspect I was not alone, but we all were completely mesmerized by his sonorous delivery.

Amid the respectful silence, a young man raised his hand. There was total silence when I whispered to the woman next to me: “He has a body to die for.” The man with the cordless mike happened to be passing it and must have had it on, because my comment was caught by a live mike. Laughter broke out. I felt like disappearing in a hole. I tried to laugh along with everybody else to hide my embarrassment. The young man was not flustered.

“The only problem, sir, is that you seem to assume the universal ethical imperative resides in the West, a white platonic model to be copied or mimicked by Africa and Asia,” he said, and sat down amid murmuring.

Though the professor was expecting a question that sought his wisdom and not a comment that questioned his assumptions, he maintained his calm. The young man’s courage impressed me, and after the lecture, I sought him. Sponsored by his newspaper, he had come from Kenya just for the summer workshop. We exchanged phone numbers, and I called him a few times, but our communication gradually dwindled to zero.

I called the
Daily Star,
the paper that had sent him, and luckily, I got him. “The man with a body to die for,” I started by way of introduction. He laughed and remembered me, expressing regret that we had communicated so little. He was just finishing up an article on an investigation, but he promised to get right back to me.

When he did, I went straight to the point, but like Jane, he had never heard of Kasla. I asked if he could find out about the two agencies who had not answered my calls. I gave him the names. He did not ask many questions.

Two days later, Wainaina called me. “Well, one of the agencies has been closed for a few years now. The other is a children’s homeless shelter that doubles as an adoption agency, Three Ms. Their logo is a pair of eyeglasses.”

He did not have the names of the owners but said he would look them up in the registry and get back to me. Nothing much, I thought, except for the logo. Even with this, I brushed aside Melinda’s cautionary advice, got on the phone with Ben, and asked to meet him. Even I could see that the information from Jane and Wainaina was not breaking news, but I wanted any excuse to urge Ben to have the file on Kasla opened and ask if he could give me more details about the Palmer and Kasla connection before I confronted Zack.

Twenty minutes later, Ben was sitting across from me at a Starbucks close to his precinct in the Bronx. As he munched his croissant with his coffee, I told him what I had garnered so far, and my hopes.

“I see where you are going with this,” Ben said, looking at me quizzically. “The Kasla file, as I told you, has been closed. We can’t chase ghosts, suspicions, and gossip. Mugure, what are you really looking for? You aren’t cut out for this investigative stuff. It could mean trouble.”

“Don’t you think I know that? Why do you think I am coming to you?”

“You don’t have anything concrete. Names of agencies in Kenya with eyeglasses for logos? A little piece of paper with your child’s name written on the back is not exactly evidence of a kidnapping ring. “

“I have not said a thing about rings and kidnapping,” I said, my frustration and irritation matching his skepticism. “What about the threats? The phone call warning me to stop asking questions? At the very least, you can investigate how the Kasla premises became a curio shop.”

“I don’t know.” He paused and looked at me again, and it dawned on me what he was implying.

“Are you saying I lied about that phone call?” I asked in a slightly tremulous voice.

“No, no. It’s not that. But I have to be candid. I told you about Edward and Palmer representing Kasla. What has Zack told you about it? Quite frankly, I thought that was why you wanted to see me.”

I felt his scrutiny: It was as if I were under investigation. I felt foolish and awkward. “I have not yet talked to him about it.”

“Why? It would seem his responses would be a good starting point. Charity begins at home, that kind of thing. What about the telephone threat? Have you talked to him about it?”

“I thought I’d dig up a few facts first. I hoped you would give me a few concrete details. Something written, for instance. I did not want to spread fear to the entire family.”

“Shall I talk to him about it?” he suddenly asked, ignoring my requests.

“Ben, I know you are trying to be helpful,” I said in a conciliatory tone. “I will talk to him myself. I am sure he will tell me everything about the Edward and Palmer connection. And what he does not know, he can dig up in the firm’s archives. I promise to share with you whatever I find out. But leave it to me. For now.”

He stood there looking at me in a way that he had not done before. His unfinished croissant gaped up like a fish’s pouting mouth. He was about to say something and then changed his mind, got up, and walked away slowly, as if debating whether to come back or simply continue. I sat there, confused. Was I going crazy? I got up and ordered another coffee, a venti, and sipped it slowly.

Oh God, I was picking up Kobi from school, I remembered. In a panic, I looked at the time and realized I had fifteen minutes to get there. I ran over to the car, some meters from the café. I was backing out when I saw a car come out of nowhere. I tried to step on the gas and engage first gear to move forward again, out of the way. It was too late. BOOM. Darkness.

I woke up in a strange place. I could barely make out the figures surrounding my bed except their white overcoats.

“She’s coming around,” I heard someone say.

It took me a while to figure out that I was in a hospital bed, surrounded by a doctor and nurses. My head felt as if it were a bag of heavy metal attached to my body and rattling when I moved. The collision came back to me. I tried to get up but felt a sharp pain on my side. “Kobi! I must get him from school, I must—”

“Take it easy,” a familiar voice said.

It was Zack. Thank God. He bent and hugged me. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Sore. All over.”

“I’m glad you are not seriously injured. No broken ribs, says the doctor, but what happened?” he asked.

“I remember backing out and seeing a car come straight toward me,” I said as the day’s events became clearer.

“You think they did it on purpose?” Zack asked, looking puzzled.

“Zack, it was not an accident,” I said.

“I hope the police catch him.”

I said nothing. The concern in his voice made me feel guilty about the doubts I harbored. The guilt followed me home. I was grateful that I was not badly hurt. Kobi’s joyful smile was enough to lighten the ache and the gloom.

•  •  •

I thought about Ben. Minutes after our first meeting in his office, I’d gotten the phone threat. I had made the sensible decision to quit. Then, out of the blue, he’d volunteered some information that led to our meeting at Starbucks. Moments after our meeting, a car had hit me. In my mind, I went over his glances, gestures, and silences. To Ben, I was a black damsel imprisoned in a white castle. Could he try to accomplish his self-avowed mission by scaring me, making me suspicious of Zack, bringing about an irrevocable division between man and wife? How could I trust the story about Edward and Palmer?

I must tell Zack everything. Yes. Build trust. Then ask him about Palmer and the Kasla agency. The heart-to-heart must take place on a day when he was not going to the office. The weekend of my return was the best time to unburden myself. Rosie had offered to take Kobi for the weekend to give me space.

On Saturday, Zack attended a fund-raiser to which we had been invited. We agreed he would make an appearance, offer excuses for me, and come back quickly. The fact was, I was scared to be left home alone. Sensing my fears, Zack asked me to lock the entire house from the inside.

He called every half hour till I told him he should not have gone to the event if he was going to spend every minute checking up on me. But his solicitous calls quelled my lingering doubts about him and increased my determination to confess everything.

I was watching the nightly news when I heard a car in the driveway. My heart skipped a beat. I quickly switched off the TV and picked up the phone, ready to hit the 911 button. I crawled on all fours toward the kitchen, grabbed a kitchen knife, and went to the window to peep. It was a police car. Relief. Speak of the devil. Ben was standing right outside my door and pressing the bell. I put the knife down where I could reach it quickly if needed. Then I opened the door.

“Ben, you should have called to say you were coming. I was going to stab you with a kitchen knife,” I said. “Can I get you something to drink?” I gestured for him to take a seat.

“Yes, some water would be nice.”

I pulled a bottle from the fridge and gave it to him along with a glass. I watched him carefully as he took the first sip.

“I came to tell you we caught the guy who hit you,” he said.

“You did?”

He looked at my anxious self and smiled. “Well, let’s see,” he started, as if amused by a thought. “He is seventy-five years old, with bad eyesight. He lives in the nursing home up the block from the café. This man stole the car from the nursing home. He is not supposed to drive, and his mental condition is questionable. You’ll think this is bizarre, but he escaped from the scene of your accident only to crash again thirty minutes later on the New Jersey Turnpike, heading to Newark.” He broke into a smile. “Remarkable for a guy that old, on medication, who usually cannot see beyond his nose.” He drank the rest of the water.

Ben left me with more questions than answers. Did he expect me to believe that cock-and-bull story? I called Zack but felt silly, and instead of telling him to come home, which was what I wanted, I said, “Honey, just calling to assure you I’m fine, and to tell you that I love you. Have a good time.”

7

I
should have told him about my fears, I thought as soon as I hung up. The more I revisited Ben’s story, the more tense I became. I checked the doors and windows to make sure they were all secure. I pulled down the blinds and switched on the lights in all the rooms to suggest multiple human presences. I wondered if I should go for Zack’s gun, but I quickly dismissed the thought: Even if I could access it, I had never used a gun. I kept the kitchen knife near the sofa.