Mists of the Serengeti(70)

“He has a house in Wanza?”

“That’s what he said—that he was moving so his daughter could attend school here. He doesn’t want her to board at the orphanage. He knows what it’s like here. He’s brought in twenty-four children in all. Over the years, of course. Not all at once, like you.” She laughed. “Good man, that Gabriel. Heart of gold. He’s on the road a lot, but I’m surprised he hasn’t been in touch with his family. I’ll have to give him a good tongue-lashing next time I see him.”

I sat back, relieved. Gabriel was a good guy. He’d delivered the kids to the orphanage, just like he’d promised their parents. He hadn’t conned my sister. In fact, he’d brought her here, too. But where the hell was he?

“Would it be all right if I used your phone?” I asked Josephine.

“Yes, of course. I’ll take the children to the dining hall. Come find us when you’re done.”

“Thank you,” I said, as she shut the door behind her.

I picked up the receiver and put it down again. My hands were shaking. I felt like a tall pile of blocks, stacked haphazardly on top of each other. One nudge and I’d come tumbling down. I had held it together all this time, but sitting in an empty room, alone with my thoughts, I was starting to fall apart.

The last couple of days had been a roller coaster of emotions: the incredible high of making love to Jack, the unexpected encounter with Olonana, watching thirteen kids materialize out of the mist, the overwhelming responsibility of getting them to safety, the thrill of outrunning our pursuers, the awful, bitter taste of having to leave Jack behind, Bahati looking at me from the other side of the carriage . . .

And there I was, in Josephine Montati’s office, staring at the scratches on her desk, about to call Goma and tell her I didn’t know where her grandson was. Her only living family member.

“Hello,” she rasped, when I finally dialed the number.

“Goma? It’s me. Rodel.”

“Rodel.” She chuckled. “I guess Jack is too pissed off to talk to me.”

“No, he’s . . .” Missing. But I couldn’t bring myself to say it. “Why would Jack be pissed off with you?”

“For not sending Scholastica with Bahati. Is everything all right? You sound . . . off. Don’t tell me you’re still waiting for Bahati. Did that boy chicken out on—”

“No, Bahati . . . he came to pick us up. It’s just . . . it’s just—”

“Spit it out, girl. My Zumba DVD is rolling.”

“Goma, I don’t know where they are.”

“Where who are?”

“Jack and Bahati.” I explained what had happened—from the time Jack and I left Magesa and crossed paths with Olonana, to how Jack, Bahati, and I got separated. When I finished, I waited for Goma’s response. The line remained silent.

“Goma?” Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t have called.

“I’m here. I’m just thinking happy thoughts. My dear Sam always did that when we ran into trouble. ‘Happy thoughts,’ he used to say. ‘Happy thoughts.’ So right now, I’m thinking how much I’d like to string that bastard, K.K. to the back of my Jeep and drive him through the thorn bushes. No one lays a hand on my grandson and gets away with it. Not while my lungs still breathe fire. I will burn his ass to a crisp. He’d better pray no harm has come to Jack or Bahati. Are you and the kids all right?”

“We’re fine. I was wondering if you could contact Inspector Hamisi. Maybe he knows someone at the police station here who can send out a search party.”

“Oh, don’t you worry. I’m going to mobilize them all. As soon as I get off the phone. And then I’m going to get in my car and head straight for Wanza. You just hold tight. We’re going to get our boys, you hear me? If I have to turn over every pebble and stone myself.”

I thought she’d crumble, but she’d risen like a dragon, talons bared, ready to lacerate her enemies into ribbons of flesh and bone. Her reaction lifted me. It lit an inferno of hope within me.

“Yes, Goma,” I replied. “Let’s go get our boys.” For a second, I wondered if she was really that strong, or if she’d sit with her head bowed afterward, staring at the gnarled veins on the back of her hands, wondering how they would find the strength to leave flowers on yet another grave, if it came down to that.

I hung up and walked out of the office. Outside, kids were still playing in the courtyard. The ones that had accompanied me were out of the dining room and waiting to be fitted for their new uniforms. A few of them dragged me to a cardboard box that had been set up as a table, with square bits of newspaper for place mats. I sat on a stool as they pretend-poured tea for me in a chipped miniature cup.

“Asante.” I took a sip and feigned burning my tongue, fanning my mouth.

“Moto sana! Too hot!” They laughed, plying me with invisible food.

A shadow fell over us as I offered a cup to the straw doll sitting across from me.

“I turn around for two seconds and you’re in the middle of a tea party.”

My breath caught mid-fake-pour. His voice was like balm over my aching heart.

“Jack! Jack!” The kids flocked around him.

“You’re late,” I said, trying to stem the swell of tears in my eyes. His arm was bandaged in a dirty fabric, beard thick with congealed blood, lips cracked and swollen. He stood stiff as a board, covered in dust and tatters, looking as if all his muscles had seized up.