She followed Joseph along the edge of the cliff, taking care not to slip. The only protection against a deadly fall was a thin wooden railing. They crossed the Knife Edge Bridge in single file, Joseph in front and Zoe behind. The bridge spanned a deep cleft in the gorge. The drop was at least three hundred feet. On the far side, they scaled a long stretch of rock steps to the top of a knoll and then descended the hill to the windy perch that was Knife Edge Point.
Not seeing Godfrey, Zoe walked to the railing and looked down the gorge toward the cloud of mist that obscured the main falls. She remembered the first time her mother had brought her here—Catherine’s exuberance in the rainforest across the river, the way she had skipped beneath the dripping trees and squeezed Zoe’s hand when they saw a rainbow arching over the falls. Zoe had been cool toward her mother at first, resentful of her frequent absences and constant traveling. But Catherine’s joy had softened her heart and left an impression that Zoe could still feel after twenty years. It was on that trip—in this place—that she had fallen in love with Africa.
She turned around and watched the path for Godfrey. Joseph stood beside her, leaning against the railing. Tourists milled around them, chattering in different languages. Suddenly, Zoe narrowed her eyes. A man was looking toward them from the crest separating Knife Edge Point from the bridge.
It was the man in sunglasses.
“Do you see that guy at the top of the hill?” she asked Joseph. “He was on our flight yesterday. I saw him watching us at the Lusaka airport.”
“I’ve seen him before,” Joseph said. “He’s been following me around ever since I arrested Darious.”
“What?” she exclaimed. “Who is he?”
“I don’t know. I sent a picture of him to Interpol. I haven’t heard back yet.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” she demanded.
“He hasn’t done anything. I didn’t think it was important.”
She shook her head. “I don’t like it when people hide things from me.”
He gave her an inscrutable look. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He pointed. “There’s Godfrey.”
Zoe turned and watched as Charity’s cousin slipped by the man in sunglasses and walked down the path. When he reached the railing, he regarded them carefully. “Who are you?”
Shelving her apprehension, Zoe made introductions.
“How do you know Charity?” he asked.
“I know her daughter. We’re trying to help her.”
His eyes went wide. “She told us she didn’t have a child.”
Zoe’s heart sank. Even Kuyeya she kept hidden from her family.
“How is she?” Godfrey went on. “It’s been years since we talked.”
Zoe spoke frankly. “She died in 2009. I’m very sorry.”
He stood motionless for a moment. “Was it TB?”
“How did you know?”
“She coughed a lot on her last call. Why didn’t anyone contact us?”
Zoe returned his gaze. “We didn’t know her then.”
Now it was Godfrey’s turn to be puzzled. “What do you mean?”
Zoe gave him an overview of the investigation, including their visit to Mukuni Village. When she finished, he gripped the railing and looked toward the falls.
“My family has endured so much,” he said with sudden bitterness. “They say we are bewitched, did you know that? All because my grandmother accused an nganga to the chief.”
Instead of responding, Zoe offered him a tether to the present. “You can help us. You know more about Charity than anyone else.”
“My sister, Cynthia, knows more,” he said. “But I can tell you she didn’t have a daughter when she left for Lusaka. That was in 1996. Kuyeya has to be younger than fifteen.”
Zoe studied him. “How do you know?”
“She couldn’t have hidden a child from my grandmother. A pregnancy, maybe, but not a baby.”
“Do you think she was pregnant?” Zoe asked.
He shrugged. “My grandmother did. She was certain the man who took her to Lusaka was the father. She could think of no other reason why Charity left nursing school.”
Zoe was incredulous. “I thought she went to Lusaka because she needed a job.”
“That was her excuse, but my grandmother didn’t believe it. Charity’s mother had a good job in Livingstone before she died. She left behind a savings account that paid for Charity’s schooling. It’s true my grandmother had a stroke. But we could have survived.”
“Do you know the name of the man who took her to Lusaka?”
He shook his head. “I was only seven. All I remember is that he was a big man and wore a suit. Cynthia might know his name. She’s the one who told me all of this.”
“Do you know anyone named Jan? Margaret thought he might have been a white doctor who worked at the village clinic.”
Godfrey gave her an inquisitive look. “I remember a white doctor. But he worked at the hospital, not the clinic. He treated me for cerebral malaria. It was severe, and I almost died. He had light hair and blue eyes, like you do. I thought he was an angel.”
“What year was that?”
“It was before Charity left. She was the one who brought him to the village.” He glanced at her watch. “What time is it?”
“Almost ten thirty,” she replied, wishing she could ask him a dozen more questions.
He spoke in a rush. “I have to get back. Talk to Cynthia. Charity sent her letters.”
“Letters?” Zoe inquired.