Chapter 39

The car slowed down right in front the mosque. Rachael watched the trio of Muslim men sitting on the three long stairs that ran from one side to another of the front of the mosque. They were having a quiet conversation, dressed in the regular Muslim gowns. The one in the middle had on a brown gown. The huge, light-skin one on the right had on a navy blue gown. And the black one who looked like he was a Guinean had on a white gown.

They didn't look older than fifty. She came to a conclusion that none of them was Muhammed. Though they were older than her, they just couldn't be the grandfather of Jeremy.

Rachael observed them for a while before opening the door and getting out. One of the guards attempted to follow her, but she told him to go back inside so the men wouldn't be intimidated or uncomfortable.

She walked up to them when the guard went back into the car.

The men stopped talking and gazed skeptically when she approached them. Rachael stopped at the second step and greeted them. They scanned her from bottom to top before replying hesitantly.

She began feeling uncomfortable in her own clothes. The way they looked at her made it evident that they didn't like her style of dressing. They didn't approve of it at all. Her legs were exposed, a portion of her breast was also exposed and her shape was flashing. And she was standing on the second step of a mosque, a holy place.

"Please, I'd like to speak with the imam, Muhammed." She was using the information that Thomas had taken from Jeremy. She didn't know if she was supposed to put some kind of honor to the name of the imam. She didn't know nothing about the religion.

"Sorry, the imam isn't here at the moment," the huge guy with the navy blue gown said to her. "You can check at his house. He's home by now, if he's not at the police station."

"Police station? Why?" Rachael asked, curious.

The huge guy was a chatty one. Unlike the others two, he looked friendly.

He'd wanted to talk but his friend who had on the brown gown nudged his shoulder. Rachael saw the communication of the eye.

"Can you please help me with the address, or his phone number?" She was pleading with them. She knew that Muhammed had taken the case to the police station. She had to find him quick.

"Why do you need them for?" The one wearing the brown, the most skeptical, asked. He had that Guinean accent. Seemed like he was a Liberian who had lived in Guinea for the most part of his life.

The Guinean kept quiet all through. He probably couldn't speak English. Maybe he had come for a visit, or it was his first time in the country.

"I have something very important to tell him," Rachael replied to him, maintaining tranquility. Calmness was a virtue at the moment.

"You can tell us that very important something. We will tell the imam when he comes, or..." Rachael understood exactly what he was driving at when he emphasised on the 'or'.

She didn't have time for long conversations. She had to find the imam quickly. Rachael opened her handbag and pulled out fifty fresh American money. She gave it to him.

He gave her both the address and the number of the imam when the note landed in his hand.

Rachael walked back to the car. The guard opened the door for her to get in then closed it when she was in. She sat on the seat and dialed the number. Calling him would be faster than going to his house. The phone was answered at the forth ring.

"Hello," the voice came from in the phone. He sounded tired. Worried. Old. So many things were clear in his voice.

"Is this Muhammed?" She asked as the driver started the car. "The grandfather of Jeremy?" She added when there was a long paused on the line.

The driver made a u-turn. He drove right back west where they had come from.

The name Jeremy had made him gain interest in what she was saying. "Yes, yes, yes, I am the grandfather of Jeremy. Who is this?" He asked her eagerly.

"I'm Rachael Blade." Rachael cleared her throat. She didn't know where to start from. What she knew was she had to start from somewhere. "I found your grandson last night. He told me he was running away from his aunt who..." She paused. "His aunt who killed his grandmother. He gave me your name and the mosque you pray in. I moved from all the way Monrovia to come find you here in Grand Cape Mount. I..." He didn't allow her to end her explanation.

"Where are you now?" He asked her. She could hear him moving about in his house. Probably running out the door.

"I'm right here at your mosque," she informed him, looking out the windshield.

"Stay where you are, OK? I'm coming to you, OK? I don't live far away. I'm coming. I'm coming." Rachael could hear him breathing heavily.

"I'm in a black Bentley. Right in front the mosque," she told him so he couldn't start looking for her when he had arrived.

He didn't say anything else. The phone went off. She was sure he heard what she said.

"Turn around. We are going back to the mosque," she said to the driver. She felt like a heavy weight had been removed from her shoulders. Relief.

♦️♦️♦️♦️

Gibson was in the kitchen with Jeremy. Jeremy was talking more than his little self, while Gibson put the pie in the oven. Jeremy had been telling Gibson that he wasn't making the pie the right way.

"Trust me, that pie isn't going to come out good," Jeremy said to Gibson, following Gibson around in the large kitchen.

"You've never made a pie before, Kid, stop whining." He cleared away the mess he had made on the cooking table.

"You can't say I haven't baked a pie before when you don't know if I have baked a pie or haven't." Jeremy climbed up on the table and sat down on the side that wasn't messy.

Gibson stopped what he was doing. "Have you baked a pie before?" He asked Jeremy.

"You should have asked me that a long time ago." Jeremy's response made Gibson furrow his brows. "But to answer your question: no, I haven't baked a pie. But I've help Jida bake it many times. That means I can," he told Gibson.

"Helping someone bake a pie is not baking a pie. It's contributing to the making." Gibson continued what he was doing. The kid was trying to slow him down.

"My contributions played an important role. That's technically baking a pie. Let me ask you a question, Gibson...."

"Can you please stop talking? You're not helping." Gibson carried the utensils to the sink and dropped them in.

"You refused to let me help. What do you expect me to do if not tutor you on how to bake a pie like Jida, the best cook in the world."

Gibson began washing the plates and let Jeremy do the talking. Jeremy continued talking until the door bell rang before he stopped. He was about to run to the door when Gibson hurriedly stepped in front of him, soap foam dripping off his hands.

"Kids don't answer the door in this house. I know Jida allows you to get the door, but I don't do things like Jida, understand?" Gibson maintained a stern gesture.

Jeremy watched him rinse his hands, wipe them with a dry towel, take his apron off and go out of the kitchen.

"What a rude old man," Jeremy murmured to himself then followed Jeremy out of the kitchen. He hurried to catch up with Gibson, hoping it was Thomas or Rachael at the door. 

The door bell rang again before Gibson could open the door. Two men of the same height, 6'2", stood at the door. They were wearing a black suit. Dark shades. Smiling at Gibson.

"Hello. How may I help you?" Gibson asked the two men. His eyes took notice of the tattoo on the slimmer guy's neck.

"Ma'am Rachael Blade sent us to get the boy, Jeremy. She has found his grandparents and wants us to bring him to them," the guy with the tattoo said.

Gibson couldn't see the color of their eyes. They had on sun glasses. And 4:40 sun flashing on them created a kind of a silhouette.

"Really? She has found them?" Jeremy asked the men excitedly, trying to past Gibson who occupied the entire doorway. The men nodded.

Gibson made sure to hold Jeremy back. "Who are you?" He asked them.

"We're two of the senator's bodyguards. She sent us because she couldn't afford to come back here. She is in Grand Cape Mount as we speak," the tattoo guy said, smiling that stupid shark smile.

One: the senator bodyguards don't have tattoo. The senator was skeptical about his bodyguards. He didn't employ just anyone. Two: the senator's bodyguards weren't men who went about smiling as if they were on the Metgala red carpet.

"OK. But, if you may excuse me, I would like to call Rachael first to confirm what you're saying, for safety purpose," he told them, putting on his fake mask, attempting to close the door.

First thing he would do when the door is closed is called the police. Second thing would be to get out of the house from the back. Those were the instructions Rachael give him if some stranger arrive at their doorstep.

It was just few inches for the door to be closed when the other guy put his shoe in the way. He pushed the door open again.

"Sir, we don't have time for that. We should be on our way by now. So give us the boy and call your boss after. Don't waste our time," he said to Gibson.

Only a fool would do such things. Patience. All the bodyguards were thought patience. They lived with patience. That was the third flaw Gibson found in them.

"I promise it won't take long." Gibson tried his best not to look stressed. "Just give me two minutes."

"OK," the man said, still keeping his foot at the door.

Gibson didn't want to bother him about moving his foot. That would only make his actions readable. He smiled one last time at them then held Jeremy's by the arm and went straight to the phone. Jeremy watched him dial the number in the house phone.

Gibson fell down next to Jeremy when he was about to put the phone over his ear. Jeremy slowly turned around and saw the tattoo guy holding a bat in his hand. He had hit Gibson on the back of the neck with the metallic bat. The impact had thrown Gibson over, make him unconscious instantly.

The other guy stopped the call from going throw. He put the phone back down.

Run! Run! Run!

That was the only thing his little mind was telling him to do. But before his little legs could perform the action the brain had messaged to his muscles, the other guy put a handkerchief over his nose. It had a strong odor.

Jeremy's vision got blurry bit by bit. The last thing he saw before entering into complete darkness— oblivion— was Gibson sprawled on the floor, unconscious.