One woman near me let out a piercing scream. Her family was still down in the Delta. Everyone else was quietly fixated on the screen.
“Governors’ offices in Rivers, Delta, and Bayelsa states have issued warnings,” the reporter went on. “Local citizens are urged to avoid all but the most necessary travel for at least the next twenty-four hours. Full curfew is in effect. Violators will be arrested, or possibly shot.”
The marine cuffed to me, Owens, spoke. “Your plane is boarding. Let’s go, Detective Cross. Hell, I wish I could go with you. I’m from DC myself. I’d like to go home. I miss it. You have no idea.”
I took a number from Owens and promised to call his mother when I got back.
A few minutes later we were all being led out to the airplane. I heard someone call my name and I looked to one side, toward the terminal building.
What I saw there froze my blood and seemed to change everything.
Father Bombata was looking right at me, and he raised his small hand and waved.
Standing beside him, towering over the priest—if he was indeed a priest—was the Tiger. Abi Sowande. The monster ran his thumb across his throat.
What was that supposed to mean—that this wasn’t finished?
Hell, I knew that.
It wasn’t over by a long shot. I had never given up on a case yet.
But maybe the Tiger already knew that.
Part Four
HOME AGAIN, HOME AGAIN
Chapter 123
I KNEW I had failed.
And I knew, and had known for a long time, that I’d already witnessed and investigated enough murders and bloodshed to last me for a couple of lifetimes. Nothing had prepared me for the insane mayhem and horrors of the past few weeks: torture and episodes of genocide; suffering by innocent women and children; finally, the senseless murders of Adanne Tansi and her family.
I wanted nothing more than to escape into sleep for a few hours on the plane to London, where I would eventually connect with a flight to Washington.
But I couldn’t stop the terrible nightmare images from my time in Africa: Again and again I saw Adanne’s murder and rape by the monstrous Tiger.
And what had come of the murders of Adanne and her family? What had been accomplished beyond a failed chase after the killer called Tiger? What of all the other deaths here that would never be avenged, or even properly memorialized? What of the secrets Adanne had shared with me?
I woke with a shiver as the flight descended into London’s Gatwick. I had slept some and now I felt groggy and had an upset stomach and a splitting headache.
Maybe it was just my paranoia, but the Virgin Nigeria flight attendants seemed to have avoided me for most of the trip.
I needed water now and an aspirin. I signaled the attendants, who were collecting cups and soda cans before we landed. “Excuse me?” I called out.
I was certain the women had seen me signal, but I was ignored by them again.
Finally, I did something I don’t remember ever having done on a flight. I hit the “Attendant” button. Several times. That got me a stern look from the closer of the flight attendants. She still didn’t come to see what I needed.
I got up and went to her. “I don’t know what I’ve done to offend you—,” I began.
She cut me off.
“I will tell you. You are a most ugly American. Most Americans are that way, but you are even more so. You have caused suffering to those you came into contact with. And now you want my help? No. Not even a cold drink. The seat belt light is on. Return to your seat.”
I took her arm and held it lightly but firmly. Then I turned and looked around toward the cabin.
I was hoping to see someone watching us, someone who had spoken to the flight attendants about me.