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“And to you, Sergeant.”
“What was that? Who was that?”
“Sergeant Alika Owusu, of the Republic of Zimbabwe Police and Security Department.”
“No freaking shit! You were talking to Africa?”
“A small part of it.”
“What time is it there? Did you hear any lions or elephants or anything?”
“She was on the night shift, which was lucky considering I don’t know what the hell time it is there because I’m here. I didn’t hear any roaring, or anyone screaming as they were being mauled by the local wildlife.”
“I’d like to see an elephant,” Peabody said thoughtfully. “Not in a wildlife refuge, but in its natural habitat. And I’d like to hear a hyena, even thought they’re supposed to be mean and crazy. I’d like—”
She finally caught Eve’s stony stare.
“Anyway enough about that. You’re on the idea of Montclair Jones.”
“I want more clear intel on it, that’s all. I managed to track the sergeant down. She was a girl when the whole lion-eating-man deal happened. She remembers Jones a little—remembers better what was left of him after the lion, which her grandfather killed.”
“Aw.” The romantic safari building in Peabody’s head shattered. “I know, man-eater, but still. It’s just the nature of the beast, right?”
“Rogue man-eating lion, small village with tiny, tiny children, slow old ladies, and hapless pets. Lion loses.”
“I guess. But she confirmed Jones was lion chow?”
“She confirmed there was an incident, and a missionary named Montclair Jones who worked in the area was attacked and killed.”
“Which jibes with his siblings’ story, and the official data.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She drummed her fingers on the desk. “It bugs me, that’s all. Biggest sister Selma, goes off on missions, finds her place in Australia, marries a sheepherder. Why do people herd sheep?”
“You’re wearing a wool jacket.”
“I am?”
“Soft,” Peabody said reverently as she snuck a stroke down the sleeve.
“Hands off. Anyway, she’s herding sheep, making babies, and younger brother and younger sister are getting college degrees, doing missions, and eventually pooling their resources to buy the building on Ninth and found The Sanctuary.
“Some of those resources, FYI, come from a small inheritance, and a share of the sale of the family home after the mother’s suicide, and after the father sells the home to go on a mission.”
“I saw the self-termination in the file,” Peabody commented. “It looked, from what I scanned, she’d had bouts of depression since her final pregnancy.”
“Popping one out when you’ve got three—one’s a teenager—and you’re rounding the bag to fifty sounds depressing to me.”
“I don’t . . . On second thought,” Peabody considered, “it kind of does.”
“So both mother and youngest son have some treatment for depression, anxiety. And baby brother sticks close to home until Mom opens the veins in her wrists. After, he lives with Jones and Jones. He didn’t go for any higher ed or certification—did one youth group mission to Haiti at eighteen. And never went to any out of the country again.”
“That all sounds depressing, too.”
“Probably, but the mother had a history of emotional and mental challenges, ending with her offing herself with the classic slit wrists in the bathtub.”
“It’s less messy, and the hot water helps numb. But bathtub.” A little glint shone in Peabody’s eyes. “I didn’t go back that far.”
“It’s a standard self-termination style, especially for females, but the bathtub’s a little bell. From what I can tell he did mostly scut work at The Sanctuary. Some cooking, cleaning, repairs, assisting in classes or groups. No real authority.”
