The Night Ranger (3 page)

“So Scott wants us to take a run to Lamu,” Owen said.

Moss had told Gwen about Lamu. She made the place sound like paradise. It was an island a few miles off the Kenyan coast, on the Indian Ocean. Turquoise-blue water and an old port. But the Somali border was only about fifty miles away, and not long before, bandits had attacked a resort close by. They’d killed an English tourist and dragged his wife back to Somalia, where she’d died in captivity. Since then, most Westerners had stayed away. “Isn’t it too dangerous?”

“You said that yesterday when I told you I was going to Witu.”

“Just because you didn’t get killed doesn’t mean it was smart.”

“Suggs says we’ll be fine. We drive to Garissa and then southeast so we don’t get too close to the border. Get to Mokowe in two or three hours, that’s on the coast, and from there it’s about a twenty-minute speedboat ride.”

Gwen wished she didn’t have such a nasty headache. “What do you think, Owen?”

“It’s probably okay as long as we have Suggs. Maybe we go one morning, stay a couple nights, drive back in the afternoon. I was talking to an MSF guy last week and he said it really is great. Plus all the millionaires are staying away, so if we go now we’ll have the place to ourselves.”

Owen’s confidence was reassuring. Aside from his doomed love for her, he was a levelheaded guy.

“When?”

“Next week,” Scott said. “Before the rainy season starts.”

“What about the reporter? Aren’t we supposed to be here to talk to her?”

“She’ll be around a few days.”

“I’ll talk to Hailey about it.” Gwen just trying to buy time now.

Scott smiled. “She’s in. Said it sounded great.”

Then Gwen knew that she was going, whether she felt like it or not.

—

The Land Cruiser had the usual supplies that African roads demanded. A full-size spare tire and a spare for the spare. A plastic jerrican of gasoline, two of water. Twenty yards of tow rope and two-by-fours to provide traction if the truck got caught in mud. A jack and a repair kit with every tool a mechanic might want.

“Looks like we’re going across the continent, not on a two-night holiday,” Owen said. The four stood by the Toyota, waiting for Suggs. It was just past dawn. The air for once felt crisp, the stink of diesel gone. Gwen saw why Hailey liked this hour.

“When did you start saying ‘holiday’?” Scott said. “It’s a vacation. Or maybe research.”

“Research for what?” Hailey said.

“The book I’m writing. Still trying to pick a title. Which do you like, ‘I Heart Refugees’ or ‘Kenya on Three Handouts a Day’?”

“Shouldn’t you read a book before you try writing one?”

“I don’t see why.”

“You know what I love about you, Scott?”

“Nothing?”

Hailey laughed. “You think you know how ridiculous you are, but you have no idea.”

Suggs walked across the compound’s central courtyard toward them. He had a big man’s rolling gait, short wide steps. He held a thermos and wore a bright orange polo shirt and lime-green pants. A pistol on his right hip completed the outfit.

“He planning to play eighteen at the Dadaab country club?” Scott said.

“I can never tell whether he’s riffing ironically off the African-fixer look or embracing it,” Owen said.

“That is a very good question.”

“Ready?” Suggs said.

“As we’ll ever be,” Scott said.

“We’ll be in Mokowe in four, maybe five hours.”

“Then the boats?”

“They will be happy to see you, I promise. Real Americans with real American money. Every Kenyan’s favorite.”

“I feel so loved,” Owen said.

No one argued when Scott took the front passenger seat. The other three sat in back, Owen in the middle, splaying his legs for maximum thigh-to-thigh contact with Gwen. Suggs shoved his gun under the driver’s seat and out the front gate they went. Gwen had a knot in her stomach, a mix of excitement and nervousness. She remembered feeling this way at her junior prom, knowing she’d be losing her virginity before the night was through. More than six years had passed since then. Amazing.

“What are you thinking about?” Hailey said.

“How glad I am to be on this trip with all of you. Even Scott.”

“The Wisdom of the Barbie,” Scott said.

Suggs stopped at the guardhouse to register their departure. But he seemed to hear something he didn’t like from Harry. They had a short, heated conversation in Swahili. Then they rolled out to the dirt track that led around the camp to the main Dadaab road. At this hour the camp was mostly quiet. A little boy, maybe four years old, stood naked by the side of the road, peeing, his face creased in concentration on his task. Suggs stopped and yelled something. The boy looked up and grinned and waggled his penis, sending a stream of urine side to side. Suggs honked and rolled on.

“We are the worst aid workers ever,” Owen said.

At the intersection of the camp track and the main road that led to Dadaab, Suggs turned right. Gwen didn’t get it. She had always thought Dadaab was left.

“Aren’t we going north?” Owen said. “Back to Dadaab and then west to Garissa and then make a left and head southeast.”

Suggs pulled over. “The guard, he says the Kenyan police have a big roadblock up there. This way goes south past Bakafi and then west and then picks up the same road to Mokowe. No tarmac”—the Kenyans called pavement tarmac—“but I think it’s safe. The bandits stay closer to the camps, between here and Garissa. To the south there’s no place for them to hide. You’ll be in Lamu by noon.”

“We were going to stay on the main roads,” Scott said. “That was the plan.”

Suggs looked them over. “You think I want to be kidnapped? They kidnap you, they ransom you. You’re Americans, right. They kidnap me, they—” He put a finger to his head and pulled the trigger. “Nobody going to spend so much money feeding me”—he laughed a big man’s laugh, ho-ho-ho—“Suggs is telling you, this way is safe. But you decide for yourself.”

“It’s fine by me, if it’s okay with everyone else,” Scott said. “What do you think?”

“You trust this guy?” Hailey said.

“I trusted him with my life last week when we went to Witu. He’s talked convoys out of roadblocks, all kinds of stuff. He’s worked for WorldCares for years. Yeah, I trust him.”

“Well, I believe what he says about not wanting to get kidnapped. Nobody likes a fat hostage,” Hailey said. “I’m in.”

“Owen?”

“Okay.” Though Owen didn’t sound sure to Gwen.

“Gwen?”

She wanted to say no, take me home. But she knew what would happen. They’d come back in three days and tell her what a great time they’d all had and how lame she was for missing out. Scott would be merciless. “Let’s go.”

“All right.” Suggs put the Land Cruiser in gear and they rolled away from Dadaab down the soft red dirt road.

And the real nightmare began.

1

D
ADAAB

J
ames Thompson’s voice rose. Again.

“There are people who say we can’t do anything about this. Americans who say that. That we should let these Africans fend for themselves, starve for themselves. That they did it to themselves by having so many kids. That we can’t afford to help them. You know what I say to that?”

“Tell me,” Paula Hutchens said. They were in Thompson’s office at WorldCares headquarters at Dadaab. Like the rest of the compound, the room was unadorned, the furniture simple and thrifty. A poster behind Thompson showed a black girl running hand in hand with a white boy.

“I say letting kids starve is not in keeping with our principles. And I’m not afraid to tell you it’s racist. If these children had white skin and not black, you think anyone would be saying, Let them die? Let me tell you, we’ve forgotten how lucky we are. Even worse, we’ve forgotten the duties, the obligations, that come with that luck.”

Thompson stopped speaking. He leaned forward in his chair, stared at Hutchens like he could see through her. Hutchens had only met Thompson a few hours before, but already she was getting used to that look. The man had presence.

Thompson was in his late forties, with broad shoulders and thick lips and meaty hands. He wasn’t tall, but his bulk made him formidable. He looked like a bailiff. Or a pit boss. When he got excited, he spread his hands and raised his voice. He sounded like an old-time preacher. In reality, as he’d told Hutchens, he came from a family of railroad workers. He ran WorldCares/ChildrenFirst as a secular organization, no proselytizing allowed. “We’re here to feed the hungry and help the sick. We look after their bodies. Their souls are their own business, as far as I’m concerned.”

Hutchens could already see that James Thompson would star in her feature on the aid groups at Dadaab. Fine by her. She was a reporter for the
Houston Chronicle
. Normally she covered the mayor, but the paper had reached into its not-so-deep pockets to send her on a ten-day reporting trip to Kenya. Roy Hunter, the
Chronicle
’s publisher, had taken an interest in Dadaab after his daughter read a book about Somali refugees. Every few months, Hunter called the paper’s editor and demanded a series on something that had caught his attention. Deep-sea fishing in the Gulf. The potential for hypersonic passenger jets. HOUSTON TO HONG KONG IN TWO HOURS? IT’S POSSIBLE!

The editor knew better than to argue with the man whose name graced his paycheck. He looked for a plausible excuse to send a reporter to Kenya, and found it in WorldCares and other Texas-based aid organizations working in Dadaab. Now Hutchens was working on a series tentatively called “Texans with Heart.” It had been “Texans Who Love the World” until Hutchens pointed out that the title sounded like a bad porn movie.

She couldn’t claim to know much about the issues over here, but she’d done some research on WorldCares before she’d come over. The group had grown a lot in the last few years. After meeting Thompson, she saw why.

He leaned forward now, lasered in on her with those blue eyes. “What do you think, Ms. Hutchens?” He had a slight southern accent that took the edge off his ferocity.

She hated when sources tried this tactic. Reporters didn’t have much going for them anymore. Her job security and prestige had evaporated years before. But she still had the privilege of asking the questions, not answering them. “About what?”

“About this. All of it.”

“I’m a reporter. My job is to tell your story. In any case, I just got here.”

“With all due respect, ma’am, that’s a bunch of junk. People look to you for advice. They want the newspaper to tell them what to think.”

“I’ve never noticed that, Mr. Thompson. Though the idea does have a certain appeal.”

“I’m not joking. I’m serious as a heart attack. I’m publishing a book next spring. Called ‘The Children Will Lead.’ I want the world to know. It’s a crime to let these people suffer. And I’m not saying do everything for them, I’m not saying that at all. I’m saying work with them, build something together.”

“I get it.” Her digital tape recorder beeped. She decided to bring the interview to a close. For now, anyway. She had a feeling that Thompson wasn’t done talking, and might never be. “I’d like to see a little bit of the camp itself today, if that’s possible. You know, since I got here this morning, I’ve hardly seen a refugee.”

“Today may not work. We don’t like to send people out late in the afternoon for security reasons. But tomorrow morning, sure.” Thompson settled back in his chair. “And you’ll still be here when my nephew and our other interns get back, right?”

“When will that be?”

“Two days, three at most.”

“I should be here, yes.”

“I think they’d give you a really good perspective. The four of them just graduated college and they’ve been here three months working seven days a week. Finally I told Scott, that’s my nephew, take a couple days off before you burn out. They went to Lamu.”

“What’s Lamu?”

“Island just off the coast. Amazing place. So I hear. Never been myself.”

“I look forward to talking to them.” She slipped her recorder into her computer case.

“Feel free to talk to anyone you might like on our staff. I’ve told everybody to do their best to answer your questions. Open-door policy.”

“I appreciate that.”

A heavy knock on Thompson’s door, which was in fact closed. Hutchens turned around to see it swing open. The guy who ran security—she couldn’t remember his name, something weird—strode in. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but something important’s come up.” He looked at Hutchens.

“I was just leaving.”

“No, please. Whatever he has to say, I don’t mind you hearing.”

The security officer hesitated. Then: “It’s the interns. Your nephew and the others. No one’s heard from them.”

“What about Suggs?”

“Not him either.”

“That can’t be. They were going to call when they got to Mokowe.”

Open-door policy or no, Thompson realized she’d just heard something she shouldn’t have. “Ms. Hutchens, can you go back to your trailer for a few minutes, let us sort this out?”

—

Hutchens sat forgotten for the two hours, as the sun set and the compound’s lights kicked on. Through her screened window, she heard hushed, urgent voices. Finally, just as she was about to head back to Thompson’s office and demand to know what was happening, a heavy knock rattled her door. Thompson stepped in.

“There’s really no way to keep this from you. My nephew and the others, plus the Kenyan driving them, they’ve disappeared. Their phones are off, they didn’t check into the hotel in Lamu, their Land Cruiser didn’t reach Mokowe.”

“An accident?”

“Unlikely. Someone would have called us. It’s possible”—he hesitated—“it’s possible they’ve been kidnapped.”

“I’m so sorry.” She was, too. But the reporter in her had one thought:
Great story. And all mine
.

“I have to ask you not to write about this. Or tell your editors.”

“I can’t do that, sir.”

“Their safety—”

“If they’ve been kidnapped, then every aid worker in Dadaab is at risk, every tourist in Kenya. They have a right to know.” The right to know. Every reporter’s most sacred cow.

“At least give us time to make sure. Try to get them back quickly and quietly.”

Hutchens considered. “Look, Houston’s nine hours behind, it’s morning there. Tell you what, I won’t do anything today. But tomorrow morning there, afternoon here, I have to call my editors and tell them.” What she didn’t tell him was that she planned to spend the night and morning putting together a biography of the four volunteers and Suggs. This story would be big.

“That’s the best you can do.”

“It’s more than I should do.”

“I’ve never understood until now why people don’t like reporters.”

“Sorry you feel that way.” Over the years she’d had a lot of practice saying those words. They never worked, and they didn’t this time. Thompson pursed his lips in disgust and turned away, slamming the door to her trailer as he went.