City of Saints & Thieves(20)

“I’ve got an idea,” Michael says. “I’ll work on it. They’re not back until tomorrow.”

The idea of staying here, in Mr. G’s house, without killing him seems impossible. But I see Michael’s point. I wouldn’t trust me to leave and keep my word either. For a second I debate suggesting I just stay in the torture chamber.

The thing is, if I didn’t get all the data, I’ll need to get back into Mr. G’s office. What better way to get in than as a welcome guest? I shudder. Okay, welcome is a strong word, if I know Mrs. Greyhill, but still.

“Fine,” I say, “I’ll consider being your guest. But I need access to my business partner.”

“Why?”

“Because I do. He’s the one I have to talk to about holding back the dirt on your dad.”

“Is he a Goonda?”

“You got something against Goondas?”

“Well, I did just catch one of them robbing my house.”

I roll my eyes. “He’s not a Goonda. He’s a walking brain.”

“Okay, phone calls are fine.”

I shake my head. “I have to see him in person. Out there, in town.”

Michael scowls, but finally jerks his chin in agreement. “But I go with you.”

“We’ll see about that. And, Michael?” I pause to make sure he’s paying attention. “You better not be lying about being able to get this video.”

“I’m not. I wouldn’t lie about something like that. You know me.”

I ignore this last comment. “And you realize that it’s probably going to show your father murdering my mother, right? You’re gambling here as much as I am. Are you sure you’re ready for that kind of truth?”

Michael looks queasy but nods.

“Because when I know for sure your dad did it, I won’t hesitate. I’m going to make him pay.”

Michael looks at me like he’s suddenly seeing me for the first time.

Good. This is me.

He sticks his hand out. The pale crescent-moon scar on the inside of his arm shines against his skin. For a brief moment I balk, unable to lift my hand. I see myself at five, standing before him just like I am now, both our wounds fresh and bare. Who have I become? Michael has no idea how far I’ll go to make his father pay.

But there is no going back now. I take his hand and shake it.

? ? ?

When Michael finally leads me into the free world, it’s night again. It feels like I’ve been underground forever, but Michael tells me it’s only Saturday. Well, technically Sunday morning already. My Friday-night visit with Kiki seems like a distant dream. We don’t go back through the office. Instead Michael takes me farther down the tunnel and unlocks a door that leads outside. I have to resist shoving him out of the way when I taste my first breath of fresh air.

The door is hidden by a thick tumble of branches. I look up and see bougainvillea and jasmine vines climbing the wall the door is cut into. “We’re below the terrace balcony,” I say. Suddenly I realize exactly where we are. “We’ve come through the mokele-mbembe door.”

Michael looks uncomfortable. “Yeah. I finally figured out what was behind it. Not a dragon, it turns out. Dad gave me a key a couple of years ago in case there’s a break-in and we have to escape through the tunnel.”

He pushes past the vines and raises his hands so the patrolling guard sees it’s him and doesn’t shoot. The idea is to pretend that I’m some loose lady friend he’s been making out with in the bushes. Michael thinks the guards will all just pretend like they didn’t see anything and let him take me in the house. When he explained it, I thought it sounded like a dumb plan, until it occurred to me that Michael is one of the richest boys in Sangui City, and not bad looking in a boarding-school sort of way. Maybe this has happened before. Maybe it happens often enough to be normal.

I try not to think about getting down and dirty with Michael, and instead comb my memory for what Philippe, the old gardener, had said about the mokele-mbembe. As kids, Michael and I knew every inch of the Greyhills’ yard. There was no way a mysterious locked door half hidden in vines was getting past us. But when we asked Philippe what was inside, he explained that when he came from Congo many years ago he brought a mokele-mbembe with him in his pocket.

“What’s a mokele-mbembe?” we asked.

“Oh, just a great and terrible monster that lives in the swamps and rivers and waits for children in the shallows. I caught a baby and he became my pet.”

But the little lizard had grown into a great dragon, too big to keep in his cottage. Philippe had put him behind the door in a room with a pool to splash around in and strict instructions to eat intruders. When we asked if we could see him, Philippe simply said, “Are you sure? He thinks curious children are the most delicious of all.”

And then, as Michael takes my hand and leads me, grinning sheepishly, into the beam of the guard’s flashlight, the smell of the night garden dredges up more memories. Memories that had been so buried and lost that I can hardly believe how crisp and clear they are now. I suddenly remember other nights in our cottage down at the end of the yard when I would wake from nightmares and find my baby sister awake and fretting, my mother’s bed empty. I tamped down my fear by picking up Kiki, by rocking her back to sleep, by telling her she was being a silly baby to fuss.