Cross Country

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.

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.
    No one seemed to be looking our way. Nor did I recognize anyone.
    “Who told you about me?”
I asked. “Someone on the plane? Who was it? Show me.”
    She shook herself loose. “You figure it out. You are the detective.” Then she walked away and didn’t look back. That angry face of hers and the mystery of her anger toward me followed me all the way home.

Chapter 124
    THE NEXT TWELVE hours of the trip passed very slowly, but finally I arrived in Washington. I wasn’t able to reach Nana to tell her I was home. So I just grabbed a taxi waiting at Reagan International and headed to Fifth Street.
    It was a little past nine and the nighttime traffic was heavy, but I was glad to be in DC again. Sometimes it feels that way when I come home after a long, hard trip, and this time certainly qualified. I couldn’t wait to be in my own house, my own bed.
    Once I was in the cab, I got lost in a kind of jet-lagged reverie.
    No one had any idea about the carnage and suffering until they actually visited parts of Nigeria, Sudan, Sierra Leone — and there were no easy answers or solutions either. I didn’t believe that the violence I had seen came from regular people being evil. But those at the top were, at least some of them.
    And then there were psychopaths on the loose, like the Tiger and the other killers for hire, the wild boys. The fact that terrible conditions might have made them killers hardly seemed to matter.
    The irony that kept jabbing at me was that I’d spent the last dozen years chasing murderers