Beyond the Rails 3: Slayer of Darkness

Chapter 3

Mombasa Saturday afternoon

          Captain Monroe and his crew tied Kestrel to the loading dock at Mombasa’s aerodrome late in the afternoon, having pressed her to her highest speed all the way from Nairobi. They surprised the dock foreman by announcing that they had no cargo to unload.
          “Shall we load you for your next destination, then, Nahodha?” the foreman asked.
          “No, Tampezi,” Monroe told him. “We don’t know where we’re going yet. Just let her sit. We’ll let you know.”
          “Yes, bwana. But we go off duty in another hour. You may not be able to load until tomorrow.”
          “Then we’ll load tomorrow. Bakari,” he addressed his engineer, “do you want to come to visit Nick-bwana?”
          “A good man, Nahodha, but I have a small repair to do, and I need cold iron. I should stay aboard.”
          “You’re a good man yourself, Bakari. We’ll give him your best. We’re going to take the evening meal at Faraji’s if you want to meet us there.”
          “I shall try to join you, but the repair must come first.”
          “All right, then, we’ll watch for you.”

Mombasa 8:30 PM

          Monroe didn’t recall whether the hospital or the aerodrome was built first, but they could have been a good deal closer together for his money; injured people being flown in by the airships were facing a long, uncomfortable ambulance ride to a bed or an operating theater. Patience Hobbs’ willingness to land in the street in front had undoubtedly saved the life of Sir Anthony Forbes, world renowned explorer, not so long ago, but not many pilots had Patty’s combination of skill and brass. Now the walk gave the crew time to prepare for the inevitable confrontation with the notoriously pompous senior surgeon.
          “Out of the question,” Major Bradly Quinn pronounced, rising behind his desk to display his imposing height. “The boy just regained consciousness a few hours ago, and I’ll not have him disturbed and unsettled by anyone as undisciplined as a crew of air pirates.”
          “We aren’t pirates,” Monroe snapped, thinking that this fellow must be a friend of Cole’s, “in fact, I’m a former commodore in the Aero Forces.”
          “And I’m a former consort of the Queen,” Quinn mocked, looking down to shuffle some papers around. “Look, Monroe, it doesn’t matter who you are, pirate or saint, how’s it going to look if I let you lot back there, and then he takes a turn for the worse? I simply won’t allow it.”
          He sat back down, matter settled as far as he was concerned.
          “Major,” Monroe asked, taking a new tack, “do you know anything about his circumstance, what put him in this position?”
          “No.”
          “He owns a shop with a Maasai woman in Nairobi. His partner arrived for a day of work to find him beaten into a coma, and their shop completely ransacked. No one knows who did it, or why, and Major Cole pretty much doesn’t care. He’s our friend. We’ve known him since he got off the boat, and we want to help him. Have you no compassion at all?”
          “What sort of shop?”
          “They sell herbs.”
          “Herbs?”
          “Leaves, roots, tree sap, ingredients for potions and poultices, and maybe for seasoning the cooking pot, I don’t know. It isn’t as though they’re weapons dealers or slave traders. But someone treated them just as if they were, and we think it’s important to find out who, and why. Don’t you?”
          “You’re looking to indulge in some vigilante justice, then?”
          “We’d rather not, but it looks like that’s the only kind he’s likely to get. He’s a subject of the Crown, Major, wronged in a strange land, and the Crown has turned its back on him. That isn’t what the service I was in would have done. How about it, Major? Does a subject of the Crown deserve justice or not?”
          Quinn glared hard at Monroe, seeking a logical rebuttal, then gave it up, standing again and looking the trio over.
          “All right, Monroe, but you only, and I’ll be in the room with you. If I order you out, you’re out, and you can complain to whoever you want. Understood?”
          “Yes, Major.”
          “But, Captain—” Hobbs began to protest.
          “Tut!” Monroe said, holding up the index fingers of both hands. “Wait here. I’ll be back with everything he knows.”
          Hobbs and Smith exchanged a look, obviously displeased with this development, but took seats in the office anyway.
          “I’m surprised your crew is that disciplined, Captain,” Quinn said as he and Monroe walked down a hall toward the back of the building.
          “It’s the discipline of respect, Major. Quite different from the sort that flows from a cat o’ nine tails.”
          The only reply Quinn offered was a sharp look of surprise, then they were walking into a small ward of a dozen beds, six along each wall. Only three were occupied.
          “Remarkably healthy garrison you have, Major,” Monroe observed.
          “I’ve come up with series of tests for men claiming to have unspecified illnesses. Most of them find a day’s work to be preferable to malingering at my sick parade.”
          “Must be hard on the ones who are actually sick.”
          Quinn fixed him with his evil eye again, then walked him to one of the beds.
          “Captain!” the bandaged figure greeted him happily.
          “Calm yourself, son,” Quinn admonished. “This is exactly why I didn’t want him to have visitors.”
          “You have to take it easy,” Monroe agreed, looking over his bandaged head, one covered eye, and several contusions on the part of his face that was exposed. “What the devil happened to you?”
          “I can tell you what,” Ellsworth said in a weak voice, “but I’m damned if I can tell you why.”
          “Tell me what you know, then.”
          “Two men came into the shop just before closing time. Darweshi had gone for the day.”
          “Too bad.”
          “No, I wouldn’t have wanted her to have been caught up in this. It was our normal arrangement. She came in early and opened, and I stayed late and closed. Anyway, two men came in, one African, one lighter-skinned, African mixed with something. They said they were there to pick up the package.”
          “What package?”
          “That's exactly what I asked them. They warned me against trying to go into business for myself, and asked for the package again. I told them I didn’t know what they were talking about, but if they could explain what they wanted, I’d try to help them. That was when the beating started. They nodded to each other, and jumped the counter and beat me until I passed out. I woke up here a few hours ago. They tell me it’s been two days.”
          “Why didn’t you shoot them?”
          “I don’t wear my gun to work in the shop.”
          “I’ll bet you will from now on.”
          “I will at that. And I’ll make a deal with you. You find them again, and I’ll be happy to shoot them!”
          “We’ll do our best. You know your shop wasn’t robbed?”
          “Really?”
          “Yeah. They dumped the cash box out on the floor, and just left it there. The whole place looks like a bomb went off in it. They wanted something badly, and it doesn’t look like they found it.”
          “That makes sense. I told you I have no idea what sort of package they were looking for.”
          “Well, I suppose if we could find that out, it would go a long way toward telling us who might have done this. Did they have any identifying marks, tattoos, anything like that?”
          “The tall one had a gold earring. I didn’t notice much after that. I was sort of busy. Captain, maybe they were looking for something you have, and thought I might be holding it because I used to work for you.”
          “We don't have anything other than cargo, and we’ve delivered everything we’ve carried. We’re going to get to the bottom of it, though. Nobody treats our friend to a beating like this, and walks away scot-free. Somebody’s going to spend a long time breaking rocks, I promise you!”
          “Captain, these people, whatever they want, are ruthless. Don’t put yourself in harm’s way over me.”
          “We can be pretty damned ruthless ourselves, if you recall, and no more so than when something like this happens. We’ll keep you appraised of the situation.”
          “Is Darweshi all right?”
          “She’s fine. She’s cleaning up your mess as we speak.”
          Quinn pointedly cleared his throat.
          “I think that’s my cue to be going,” Monroe said. “You rest up and get back to Darweshi. This isn’t a good look for you.”
          “I’m ready to go now, Captain. It’s boring as all hell in this bed.”
          “No, you’re not. The others wanted to see you, but the major wouldn’t allow it. Now I think he was right.”
          “The others are here?”
          “Patty and David. Bakari sends his best as well.”
          “I’d sure like to see them.”
          “Maybe tomorrow, if you’re stronger. You need to get your rest now. We’ll be in touch.”

Mombasa 9:30 PM

          An hour later, the crew of the Kestrel, Bakari included, sat around one of the round tables at Faraji’s taking their supper. Loath as Monroe was to spend money on frivolities, since Ellsworth had left the crew, no one looked forward to eating aboard; it was too grim to contemplate.
          “But why?” Hobbs asked, gesticulating with her fork. “Why give him a beating like that? Wasn’t it enough that they destroyed his business?”
          “Probably trying to extract information,” Smith replied. “Pain can be a great motivator.”
          “Yes, David,” Hobbs replied, “but Nicholas wasn’t the sort of person to resist a beating that savage. I can’t imagine that he would have refused to tell them what they wanted to know at some point during the process.”
          “What if he didn't know?” Monroe asked. “They’d have beaten him senseless, then torn the shop apart looking for this ‘package,’ whatever it was. Which was exactly what they did.”
          “Who cares why they did it?” Smith asked. “We need to find out who it was, and string them up by their balls.”
          “David!” Hobbs exclaimed.
          “What?” the American asked innocently. “Who are they going after next? The sisters at the mission, the schoolteacher? Us?”
          “This is a matter for the authorities,” Monroe pointed out.
          “Well, didn’t you just talk to Cole? The authorities ain’t gonna do anything, so it falls to us. We’re the wronged party, or specifically, our former crew member and personal friend is. These people, whoever they are, are trying to replace the rule of law with the rule of terror. I saw it happen in Tombstone a couple of years back. A gang of criminals who called themselves the Cowboys ran the place with an iron fist. Same thing happened in Lincoln County, in New Mexico Territory. Difference was that the Earp brothers moved to Tombstone, and when they got enough of it, they cleaned out the whole nest of snakes. Lincoln County didn’t have anybody like the Earps, and the killing and thieving went on for years.”
          “And you feel that we’re the equivalent of the Earps?”
          “Cap’n, you can take my word for it, these people ain’t gonna stop doing this kind of thing until somebody shows them that there are consequences. Serious consequences.”
          “We’re traders, David, not warriors.”
          “Really? Weren’t you an officer of the Crown? Bakari’s killed a lion with a spear after it took his hand off, and this one,” he looked Hobbs up and down, “she saved the Kestrel from a Prussian spy, and we just recently watched her manhandle an angry Irishman at least twice her size. And I’ve been in a scrape or two myself. So, who better? Who’s gonna do it? The peddlers in the market? The rail crews? No, Cap’n, we’re the best chance those people have, and we have the moral right to take action.”
          “What right does anyone have to become vigilantes?”
          “The doc's our friend. He was in our crew. Did we stop knowing him because he opened a shop? I didn’t. I want to find these bastards and invite them to give me a beating!”
          “What about you two?” Monroe asked. “How do you feel about this?”
          “Nicholas was a babe in the woods,” Hobbs said. “He didn’t deserve this, and whoever did it should at least be brought to trial.”
          “Bakari?”
          “Wrong is wrong, Nahodha. I didn’t get to know your friend well, but a young man whose desire is to help others should not be treated like this. The bad men should be found and punished.”
          “See, Cap’n?” David said. “We all agree.”
          “Looks as though I have a mutiny on my hands,” Monroe said with a smile. “All right, we’ll go to Nairobi and ask around, see if we can glean any information, but I’m not quite on board with stringing anyone up by the balls yet, David.”
          “Ain’t a problem, Cap’n. It’ll be my pleasure.”

Nairobi 11:00 PM

          Nairobi by night was a near ghost town of planks and adobe, trees and dirt being the only materials ready to hand. It had grown by half since Mutala had been here two months ago, but it still had a smell of transience about it, like it knew it had no business being perched on this remote plateau, and could hardly wait to return to the land.
          It was approaching midnight as he made his way toward Quinlan’s boarding house. No one was stirring in the back streets but the watch, who he could easily avoid, the criminals, who represented no danger to him, and the feral dogs who scavenged for garbage and kept the big African predators at bay. The workers would have exhausted themselves in revelry, knowing they could sleep late Sunday, and wouldn’t disturb him at all.
          He knew Quinlan’s well. A poorly constructed clapboard building run by an ill-tempered Scotsman, or Welshman, or whatever the hell he was. Mutala didn’t care. The man was a parasite, taking the workers’ wages for bug-ridden mattresses and meals of beans, potatoes, and whatever else was cheap on any given day. What mattered was that at this late hour, the pig would be in his room drunk, probably passed out, certainly unwilling to come out and deal with a customer without a great deal of rousing first. This Mutala counted on.
          He stepped softly up to the door and let himself in, reaching up to grasp the bell mounted on its leaf spring at the top. It gave one soft ding before his gloved hand smothered it, and he held it aside to silently close the door behind him. He waited a moment to see whether his entry had been noticed, then, satisfied, he stepped to the reception desk and pulled the register across. It laid open to today’s page, and he ran his finger down the entries, stopping at the names Reinhard had supplied; Kanu and Rashid, Room 16. Paid, the entry noted. 2 S.
          Looking around again to make certain no one had noticed his arrival, he walked slowly down the narrow hall, checking each room number by the feeble light of the dim lantern that Quinlan deigned to burn. Number 16 was next to the end in the back. He put his ear to it and waited. He heard only snoring. One person.
          He raised his fist and gave three soft taps.
          On the other side of the door, he heard the scrape of a chair leg across the floor, and then the snoring stopped. Then silence, as the occupants waited to see whether the taps had been at their door or another.
          Mutala knocked again.
          “Who is it?” someone loudly whispered from the other side.
          “I am Mutala. I work for Mr. Reinhard. I seek Kanu and Rashid. Are you them?”
          Muttered conversation came from the other side as the two men discussed the ramifications. Mutala was having none of it.
          “I won’t ask again.”
          A bit more frantic whispering came to him, followed by the clearly enunciated word, “Shit!” The latch slid back and the door opened a crack. Mutala shouldered it open, driving the surprised occupant back into the room, and closed it behind him.
          A wiry African caught his balance against the rickety table, and turned to face him. He was small by Maasai standards, but still a couple of inches taller than Mutala. A much larger man had risen to one elbow on the bottom bunk on the opposite wall.
          “You’re Mutala?” the smaller man asked, more surprised than hostile. “I had expected a giant. What do you want of us?”
          “Like you, I work for Mr. Reinhard,” Mutala said.
          “So you said.”
          His eyes flicked to the other man, trying without success to adjust his position unnoticed on the creaking bed.
          “He has sent me to inquire after his package. Since you have not seen fit to deliver it, he has sent me to collect it.”
          “Oh,” the man said, clearly relieved. “We... We don't have it.”
          “No?” Mutala asked, raising his eyebrows and reaching down to finger the butt of his pistol.
          “No, no, it’s nothing like that! It hasn’t arrived yet, that’s all. The contact didn’t have it.”
          “Who is the contact?”
          “Well, uh, I’m not supposed to tell anyone.”
          “You will tell me.”
          Something in his eyes, coupled with this slender man’s reputation, brooked no denial.
          “He is a local tooth doctor named Farnsworth. He said the courier had been delayed, and we should come back tomorrow evening when he expects to have it.”
          “And you believe him?”
          “Reinhard trusts him. It is not for us to question.”
          “Good. You can understand some things, then. How are your English reading skills?”
          “They are fine. I read English very well. So does Kanu.”
          “Then, what of this other doctor you visited, the one you beat until he may have died before you tore apart his shop?”
          Rashid threw a nervous glance toward Kanu.
          “It was an honest mistake. We thought he was holding out on us, looking to go into business for himself, maybe.”
          “Your fine reading skills cannot make out the difference between Farnsworth and Ellsworth, then?”
          “An honest mistake,” Rashid repeated, one hand feeling behind him for the knife on the table.
          “Your honest mistake has attracted far too much attention to suit Mr. Reinhard. I will be keeping the appointment with Doctor Farnsworth tomorrow. Mr. Reinhard would like you to leave Nairobi. Permanently.”
          Rashid read something into those words that may not have been intended, but whatever the meaning, his hand closed on his knife, and he started for Mutala.
          Mutala’s left hand was a blur as he snatched his own curved kukri from its sheath on the right side of his belt, and in one smooth motion ripped its blade through Rashid’s throat. He let his momentum carry him in a three-quarter turn, and drove it backhanded into the giant Kanu’s heart even as he was rising to battle. The man gave an anguished cry and fell back to the bed, his weight slamming it against the wall.
          “Be quiet over there!” a voice snarled from the next room.
          “Sorry, tripped,” Mutala replied as he held the man's pillow over his face while he bled out into his chest.
          Death came quickly behind such horrendous wounds. Mutala looted the bodies, reclaiming some of Reinhard’s payment even as he made the crime look like a simple robbery, then locked the door from the inside and closed the curtain as he slipped out the window, confident he had not been seen by a living soul.