WELL, THE INVESTIGATION had definitely taken a turn now. But was it for better or for worse?

The plane from Washington to Frankfurt, Germany, was nearly full, and it was incredibly noisy for the first hour anyway. I spent some idle time guessing who might be continuing on to Africa, but it wasn't too long before I fell back into my own dark reveries.

Everything that had led to this trip ran through my head like extended case notes, going all the way back to my Georgetown days with Ellie, and then up to Nana's grudging consent that morning.

Nana's going-away gift, such as it was, sat open on my lap. It was a copy of Wole Soyinka's memoir, You Must Set Forth at Dawn.

She'd bookmarked it with a family photo-Jannie, Damon, and Ali, cheesing with Donald Duck at Disneyland a year or so back-and she had underlined a quotation on the page.

T'agba ha nde, a a ye ogunja.

As one approaches an elder's status, one ceases to indulge in battles.

It was her version of getting the last word, I suppose. Except that it had the opposite effect on me. I was more determined than ever to make this trip count for something.

Whatever the odds against me, I was going to find the killers of Ellie's family. I had to; I was the Dragon Slayer.

Chapter 33

“AH, SOYINKA. AN illuminating writer. Have you read him before?”

I didn't realize that someone had stopped in the aisle alongside my seat. I looked up, though just barely, at the shortest priest I'd ever seen. Not the shortest man, but definitely the shortest priest. His white collar came just to my eye level.

“No, this is my first,” I said. “It was a going-away gift from my grandmother.”

His smile got even brighter, his eyes wider. “Is she a Nigerian?”

“Just a well-read American.”

“Ah, well, nobody's perfect,” he said and then laughed before there could be any suggestion of an insult. “T'agba ba nde, a a ye ogunja. It's a Yoruban proverb, you know.”

“Are you Yoruban?” I asked. His accent sounded Nigerian to me, but I didn't have the ear to tell Yoruban from Igbo from Hausa, or any of the other tongues.

“Yoruban Christian,” he said and then, with a wink, added, “Christian Yoruban, if you ask the bishop. But don't tell on me. Do I have your word on it?”

“I won't tell anyone. Your secret is safe.”

He extended a hand as if to shake, and then sandwiched mine between both of his when I reached out toward him. The priest's hands were tiny, yet they communicated friendship, and maybe something else.

“Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your savior, Detective Cross?”

I pulled my hand back. “How do you know my name?”

“Because if not, considering the trip you're about to take, now might be a good time to do so. Accept Jesus Christ, that is.”