The Summoner: (34 page)

They sped through the slumbering city. The wall concealing Nigel’s compound sat squat and shadowy, the moon a crystal ball hovering above, and Grey prayed the heavenly augur would spill a secret down upon them.

The gate opened and they pulled up to the guardhouse. A grizzled man stepped out, slid one hand under his shirt and held it still.

“Nigel,” Grey said. “We need to see him. It’s an emergency.”

The guard’s face screwed into a quizzical frown, and he backed into the guardhouse and picked up a phone. After a few gesticulated words he motioned for Grey to approach. Grey walked inside. The guard took a few steps back, keeping his hand under his shirt.

Grey took the receiver. “Nigel?”

“Who’s this?”

The voice wasn’t Nigel’s, but Grey recognized it as Nigel’s bodyguard.

“Dominic Grey. I have to see Nigel immediately.”

“That might prove difficult.”

“You don’t understand. I’ll do anything-”

“I’m afraid you’re the one who doesn’t understand. Nigel’s dead.”

Silence.

“When?” Grey said. “How?”

“That’s our business.”

“Was it the
N’anga
?”

“
Voetsake
,” the man muttered.

“Look. I can help. We’re looking for this man. Just tell me where he is and we’ll deal with-”

“Nigel’s dead, mate. I’m running the business now, but I don’t do information. That was Nigel’s affair. I can get what you need from the black market.”

“We need
information.
You have to find out where he is. We’ll pay—we’ll do anything.”

“I’d love to do business with you, mate, but I don’t have Nigel’s contacts. Maybe if you give me a few weeks-”

Grey replaced the phone, cutting him off mid-sentence. A few weeks. He stood in stunned silence for a moment, then eyed a pen and paper next to the phone. He scribbled down his number, and handed it to the guard. “Tell your boss if he finds what we need before tomorrow night to call me.”

He stepped out of the guardhouse, left the compound and started walking down the road. Viktor pulled alongside him. “Get in, Grey,” he said.

Grey walked a few more feet and then got in the car. He was shaking. “She’s lost.”

“We have one more day.”

“To do what? Can you even imagine what she’s going through? We’re her only hope. I—” he cut himself off.

The sky was already lightening. They returned to Viktor’s hotel in silence, veiled in the black cloth of failure. Grey sat by himself on the concrete balcony, feet crossed, back against the French door.

He had to be missing something, there had to be some way to find her. Failing her was not an option.

But he had never felt so helpless.

He gritted his teeth. As soon as the sun came up he was going to the Ministry. He needed to make someone look him in the eye and tell him there was nothing they could do. Then he would ask every single person in every single dive in Harare, one by one, if they knew the
N’anga.
If they didn’t answer, he’d ask them another way.

The damning truth of the matter was that he had nothing—and his penance for failure was to spend the last few hours of Nya’s life wandering the streets of her city, fully aware of what she was enduring before her death.

Despite his internal protests, his eyelids fluttered.

He fell into the void.

• • •

A brawny morning sun muscled Grey awake a few hours later, and he rose, wounds throbbing, muscles stiff and joints protesting. He rubbed his eyes. His dreams had not been pleasant, but the living nightmare of his reality was far worse.

Viktor was awake in his chair, face grim and sagging. Grey accepted a cup of coffee in silence, studying the porcelain bottom after the liquid disappeared.

He checked the clock; seven. His cell rang at the same time he shoved his cup away and rose. The number showed as unlisted; probably someone from the Embassy telling him to vacate his apartment.

“Yes?”

“Dominic Grey?” A Shona voice. Curt, but soft around the edges.

“Speaking.”

“This is Farai Chitamba at the Ministry. I understand you’re with the American Embassy, and are assisting Nya Mashumba in the investigation of Mr. William Addison.”

“Go on.”

“You called many times yesterday and reported Ms. Mashumba missing?”

“And in grievous danger. Immediate danger.”

The voice hesitated. “My colleague mentioned that. Unfortunately we do not begin missing persons investigations until three days have passed.”

“For your own people? For Christ’s sake!”

“You must understand our resources are limited, and until we have evidence-”

If Grey heard that word one more time he was going to go apoplectic. “Is there a purpose to this call, or did you just call to remind me that Nya’s missing?”

“It’s true she didn’t report in yesterday, and that is rare. But that doesn’t mean she has gone missing.”

“You have to listen to me! She’s in danger. We have to find her
today
. I-” Grey stopped himself from throwing the phone against the wall and put his head in one hand.

“I called to tell you I received a fax this morning from local police. The owner of a parking service called to inform us that a vehicle had been left for two days. He didn’t want to call the tow because of the government tags. It’s Nya’s. I thought you might wish to know.”

Grey said in disbelief, “That’s not evidence enough for you?”

“I’m sorry.”

Grey read between the lines. This man had no power, and Nya was simply not first priority at the Ministry. They weren’t going to do a damn thing about her today, but if Grey wanted to, then that was his business.

“Where is it?”

“A small car park adjacent to the corner of Second and Nelson Mandela.”

Grey wrote the information down. “Is there anything else?”

“Just that,” the voice hesitated and then lowered, “I wish you luck.”

Grey rushed downstairs; he doubted if it really mattered where she’d left her car, but it was something he could do. The location was only a few blocks away.

When he arrived he saw a tiny lot with no more than twenty vehicles wedged between two buildings. Nya’s forest green Land Rover stood out, and a painful shard of memory sliced through him. He approached a rickety wooden guard booth.

An older boy greeted him, and Grey said, “You reported the Land Rover?”

“You will take it?”

Grey handed the boy a twenty dollar bill, and his eyes popped. “The owner will be back in two days to get it,” Grey said. “Can you watch it until then?”

“Oh yes.”

“Do you remember her?” Grey said. “The owner?”

He grinned. “Who wouldn’t?”

“You know where she went?”

He pointed, and Grey followed the finger. He saw the stone façade of a building across the street. A single tower, topped by a cross, rose above the entrance.

“She never returned for the car. She is lucky to still have it. It must be the government plates, hey?”

Grey checked the car. Locked, and nothing of visible interest. He crossed the street and entered the church.

Grey squinted in the dim light. A priest approached and announced himself as Father Tandekai. “May I help you?”

“I’m looking for a woman. Nya Mashumba.”

The priest didn’t answer, as if searching his memory.

“Young, attractive, businesslike.”

“Ah—maybe you mean the woman that comes to see Father Cowden? She has been a regular visitor the last few weeks.”

“Is Father Cowden around? I need to speak with him.”

“And you are?”

“Dominic Grey. I’m… with the U.S. Embassy.”

“We have many embassy visitors,” he said. “Our location is advantageous for government workers. Is there a problem?”

“Ms. Mashumba is an associate of mine, and she’s missing. I noticed her car across the street. The attendant said she usually stops in here.”

The priest’s eyes clouded and he covered his mouth with his fist. “My goodness.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“I’ve been in the villages for the last few days. Perhaps three days ago?”

“That doesn’t help,” Grey said. “Can you get Father Cowden?”

“Father Cowden just took a leave of absence,” he said. “A period of spiritual renewal.”

“When did he leave?”

“Yesterday. Father Tavengwa has replaced him.”

“When was Father Cowden assigned here?”

“Let me see… not long ago. This April, I believe.”

Grey’s stomach knotted, and he took out the photo of the
N’anga
and showed it to Father Tandekai. “Do you know this man?”

He held it closer and squinted. “He looks different, much younger…” He looked at Grey, confused. “I believe this is a photo of Father Cowden.”

54

“Y
ou!”

Father Cowden stood before her, yet he did not. His gentle mannerisms, his kind brow, his grandfatherly hands—Nya saw none of this. She saw cruel hands, forceful posture, a face warped with arrogance and pride. It was as if this man, whoever he truly was, had undergone a complete physiognomical transformation. Was he no longer Father Cowden at all?

She peered at her tormentor, unsure now, searching for the comforting presence of her confessor.

He spoke in a rich baritone, his deep Nigerian accent infused with power. “There’s no need to look. Father Cowden is no more.”

“But how?” She whispered. “Why?”

“Your father had something that belonged to my family.”

“You killed him.”

“No. Your father disrupted my ritual. He swallowed his poison and took his own life, denying me my birthright and forcing me into the ridiculous guise of Father Cowden.”

Despite the grotesque wounds covering her torso and two days of unthinkable torture, this last statement caused Nya to lock her eyes onto his. “My father would never take his own life. You slit his throat.”

“To salvage what I could of the ritual. He knew I would come one day, and he took his own life to avoid his fate. And what does he gain?” He looked around as if talking to someone else in the room. “His own daughter takes his place as my
iko-awo
,” he crowed. “Do you hear that, Jeremiah? Your own daughter suffers in your stead!”

“Stop!” She shrieked from the effort, new blood seeping from her wounds.

“He could have given me what I looked for, and you wouldn’t have suffered. But his past wouldn’t let him. In his heart he remained Yoruba.
Babalawo
. He would watch you suffer and die before giving me the
Awon
Iwe
.”

She sobbed her words. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course not. He would never have entrusted you with his secret.”

“Whatever lies he told when you murdered him, he told to keep you from me.”

“His lies were half-hearted attempts to save you—attempts he knew would only prolong the inevitable. He told me of his involvement with the American. Did you even know of that, my Nya? Did you know him at all?”

Nya said nothing. He’s a liar, she told herself. A murderer and a torturer and a filthy liar.

“He described a storeroom filled with Shona cultural treasures and political documents. He convinced me only he and a handful of other MDC members knew of this location. I spent months looking for this mythical hiding place. But my time was not wasted—I built my flock, and they will continue my work in Zimbabwe.”

Speaking caused pain to gush through her entire body, but Nya was desperate to keep him talking. “You chose that church because of its location. So you could talk to MDC members.”

“It was a pleasure to convince the bishop to place me in his parish. I allowed him a hint of what might befall his family should he choose otherwise.” He preened. “And the confessions dripped from their lips. The American was more concerned with pederasty than with saving his soul, and he spilled names like a waterfall. But when I took one of the MDC and his tortured mind revealed nothing, I knew your father had lied. Then Esu smiled on me and placed you in my lap.”

“You don’t know my father—”

“It is you who lacks knowledge. Your father’s youth was a river of blood.”

“No one had more faith in God.
Our
God.”

He laughed, cruelly. She knew the truth in her heart, she knew it was too much coincidence that the shards of the locket tested positive for the same toxin that had killed her father. She had convinced herself otherwise because her soul couldn’t bear the thought that her beloved father had anything to do with this monster.

Her mind started to spiral, and she stopped herself.
No
. She knew better. If her father’s life had been a lie, then Nya’s life was a lie. And that was just what the
N’anga
wanted her to believe. Nigeria, even Juju, may have been her father’s distant past, but that wasn’t who her father was. “Even if he were born into your wretched religion, he changed.”

“Is that why he sacrificed his own daughter to preserve the
Awon
Iwe?
“

“He knew you’d kill him anyway.”

He wiped his knife on his robes. “One does not step away from Juju.” He approached Nya, blade raised, and she moaned. “How did I get here?”

“You seek to postpone your destiny. I understand. I oblige as the purpose suits me—if the information increases your pain, your shame, your sense of failure before you enter the spirit world on my behalf.” He waited until she looked at him. “You came as a lamb. You left the church with me, and we walked together to the ceremony.”

“I did no such thing.”

“Ah, but you did. And then, after we gave thanks to Esu, you reached back and discovered the night your father dug in the garden. Even as a child, you knew it was better not to ask. You had almost driven the image from your mind.”

Pleasure crept into his visage. “
It was still in the garden
. Thus let your pain be complete: your memories allowed me to accomplish my task, you have caused your father’s suicide to be in vain.” His voice lowered. “When I return to my country, fear will follow in my footsteps, pain will flow in my wake. The spirit world will hear as it has never heard before.”