Red dust mixed with soggy air as it drifted through the open window of a
battered white Toyota pickup on that late August night in Kenya. Twin
white beams from the vehicle's headlights sliced into the inky darkness.
The sole occupant of the truck tugged at the brace which cushioned his
neck from the bumps and crevices of the roadway that had evolved from
eons of travel. Like many in Kenya, it was but a wagon trail which had
rutted over and filled with rocks through the years. The man peered
intently into the darkness, praying to spot the object of his search,
desperately hoping that what had brought him onto this desolate road
between Nairobi and Naivasha would appear. He clutched the steering
wheel with the anxiety of a man losing his grip and fearing what might
lie ahead. He reached over to the passenger seat and sought comfort in
the rosary beads resting next to a mass kit. Then he looked to the
floor, where another form of comfort lay. Illuminated by the dim
greenish glow from the dashboard was a 12-gauge shotgun. Like its owner
it was used, old and broken in places. The splintered stock was held
together by a strip of black rubber. Father John Anthony Kaiser reached
down and patted the chipped stock gently. "You've been a good friend and
served me well," he murmured. "I fear we both may be reaching the end of
our road."
