Blood Safari (17 page)

‘Please.’

He fetched a bunch of keys from Wolhuter’s office and together we walked to the little building half hidden in the mopane trees at the edge of the rehabilitation centre. Branca pointed at a broken window. ‘That’s where they tried to break in last week.’

‘Who did?’ asked Emma.

‘Who knows. We think it was Phatudi’s people. At night you can’t see the burglar bars. Frank heard the glass break and he turned on the lights.’

He unlocked the door, first the doorknob lock, then the Yale. I wondered whether they all were as security conscious. The cottage was dark inside, the curtains drawn. Branca switched on a light.

Spartan was the word. A single bed against the wall, pine bedside cupboard, two worn armchairs and a tall built-in cupboard of faded white melamine. The walls were bare; on the floor was an old woven carpet with an African block motif. Two doors, one to the kitchen, where a square dark wooden table and three
wooden chairs, an ancient electric stove and a bookshelf were visible. The other led to the bathroom. Everything was relatively tidy and clean for bachelor’s quarters. A pair of jeans hung over the back of the armchair. Emma rubbed the material between her fingers while she looked about. Branca crossed to the single bed, where something lay, a book perhaps.

He picked it up and opened it.

‘Photographs,’ he said.

Emma went over. It looked like a small photo album, just big enough to hold photos of the regular size.

‘That’s Melanie Posthumus,’ Emma said. ‘These are Cobie’s photos.’

‘Who’s Melanie? The girlfriend?’

‘Yes.’

‘Two, three, four photos. He must have liked her a lot.’

‘And that is Stef Moller,’ Emma said.

Branca turned the page and pointed ‘And here’s Frank. And me. And this was a Swedish volunteer. She liked Cobie a lot. We thought …’

‘What?’

‘Maybe, you know …’

‘What?’

‘Well, we saw her come out of Cobie’s house early one morning. But she left. Like they all do.’

Branca had paged right through it. ‘That’s it.’

‘Wait,’ said Emma, and took the album from him. She opened it. ‘Look here.’ She pointed it at me. ‘There are two pictures missing. Right at the front.’

I looked. On both sides of a page there was only transparent plastic with a white background and the faint outline where two postcard-sized photographs had been.

‘This room … Is it exactly as Frank left it?’ asked Emma.

‘Must be. No one else has been in here,’ said Branca.

‘What about cleaners?’ She went into the kitchen.

‘Frank and I have a maid, but we’re slobs. Cobie did everything himself’

The kitchen wasn’t big enough for everyone. Branca and I stood in the doorway. Emma inspected the bookshelf.

‘So it could have been Frank who left the album on the bed?’

‘Could be.’

She turned. ‘Maybe he took the photos out to show me.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Did you look in the safe? For anything?’

Of course he had looked in the safe, just after he had removed the four rifles.

‘No. When I saw the blood, I didn’t want to tamper with possible evidence.’

He was lying. And he was good at it.

‘Can we have a look? We can be careful.’

‘OK,’ he said.

They walked towards the door. I quickly scanned the bookshelf in the kitchen. There were magazines on the lower shelf, the yellow spines of
National Geographic
, a series of
Africa Geographies.
The rest were books on animals, game- and veld management. Crammed. Not an inch where the album might have fitted.

The photographs weren’t in the safe. There were title deeds and records of donations and financial statements and cash.

‘What’s the money for?’ Emma asked.

‘That’s the cash float. For incidentals and emergencies.’

‘Is there any other place where he might have put the photos?’

‘I’ll have a look. In his room, maybe. But it’ll take time. There’s so much to do now. I don’t know what’s going to happen. If I find something, I’ll let you know.’

‘Thanks.’

We said goodbye and left. Emma wanted to track down the black child who had brought her the message.

She took out the note again, read it and refolded it. She kept it in her hand. When we turned on to the tar road, there were no policemen waiting to protect us. I did a thorough survey of any possible tails and I wondered why I felt so uneasy. I concentrated on the road, trying to ignore a voice that kept whispering that I
ought to tell Emma that Branca was hiding something. That didn’t work. I tried to rationalise it away: it was none of my business, it would make no difference. In all probability it had nothing to do with her search for Jacobus le Roux.

But the note in her hand worried me. It made no sense. It didn’t fit into the scheme of my original suspicions.

‘Why did he only send me the letter now?’ Emma wondered aloud. ‘We’ve been here three days already.’

That was a very good question. I didn’t have time to think it through. At Klaserie, just beyond the railway line, something flashed in the veld to the left of us. Something that didn’t fit. I slowed down as we approached the T-junction where the R351 joined the R40. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the sun reflect momentarily on metal. I was going to turn and look, but I spotted the battered blue Nissan pick-up on the left shoulder of the road just before the stop sign. Two figures were inside, the doors opening in unison.

Balaclavas on their heads, firearms in their hands.

‘Hold tight,’ I told Emma as I floored the accelerator and checked to the right for oncoming traffic. I had to take the left turn at speed. Just get away from here.

‘What’s going on?’

Before I could answer, the left front tyre burst with a dull, shuddering thud.

Adrenalin flips the world into slow motion.

The bonnet of the BMW dipped for a second as the tyre disintegrated. I fought the wheel, not getting the response I expected, wanting to look back, to see whether the Nissan was on the road behind us. I stepped on the accelerator again. The rear-wheel drive kicked in and the car held the line of the turn for a moment, but I was going too fast and I didn’t have enough front traction. The rear swung out across the R40 towards the gravelled edge as I fought to bring it back in line.

‘Lemmer!’

The tyres shrieked, the BMW spun 180 degrees, its nose facing back towards the T-junction. The Nissan was bearing down on us and I could see the gunmen – balaclavas on their heads and gloves on their hands – as it appeared.

I tried to turn the car, but something smacked into us.
Donk.

In my peripheral vision I caught a flash in the veld. Sunlight on a gun barrel? I spun the steering wheel, hands slick with sweat, and gunned the engine.

Donk.
Another tyre, the right rear, was gone. The BMW swayed and juddered.

‘Lemmer!’

‘Calm down!’ I turned and accelerated, the nose came around, away from the balaclavas, and pointed north. A car approached us, honking desperately. It swung out just in time, the driver’s face a mask of panic. I put my foot down again and the rear tyre jumped completely off. Metal rim on tar, making a wild, screeching noise, we jerked forward, away from them, thirty, forty, fifty metres.

It screeched and bucked, but the car held its line down the middle of the road and we picked up speed. Far ahead, traffic approached.

They shot out the left rear tyre, rendering the BMW wholly uncontrollable. I would have to slow down. Or we would have to abandon it. Slow was not an option. I could see them coming after us in the rear-view mirror. I aimed for the veld, drove into the long grass.

The car burst through the fence, wires whipping with whirring noises. I braked hard and made a final sideways swerve in the grass. The engine stalled and suddenly all was quiet.

‘Out!’

She opened her door but couldn’t get out. I unlocked my seat belt and turned to her.

‘Your seat belt is still locked.’ I kept my voice even while I pushed the release button.

‘Out. Now.’ I opened my door and jumped out. She was already on her feet. I grabbed her hand and dragged her away from the car.

‘Wait,’ she screamed. She turned back, dived into the car, grabbed her handbag and then reached for my hand.

A train whistled. North-west of us. I pulled her along and we ran towards the sound.

‘Keep your head down,’ I yelled. The grass wasn’t as long here as it was near the road. Mopane trees and thorn bushes gave cover. A shot cracked behind us. It was a pistol. The bullet hummed past to the right.

The sniper with the rifle, the one that had shot out our tyres with real skill, was somewhere to the west of us. And the two balaclavas were behind us.

Another two shots. Both wild. They didn’t know exactly where we were.

I heard the rumble of the train, which was now directly north of us. The railway tracks were somewhere up ahead but I still couldn’t see them. I sped up, dragging Emma over an antbear hole. I jumped. Emma fell and her hand jerked out of mine. I turned and saw that she was lying stretched out. She’d tried to
break the fall with her hands and her head had knocked something, a stone or stump. There was a two-centimetre wound on her cheekbone beside her eye.

‘Come on,’ I said, as I picked her up. Her eyes were dull. I looked back. They were moving through the grass and bushes, running towards us.

‘Lemmer.’

I pulled her by the hand. ‘We have to run.’

‘I’ve …’ She held a hand to her ribs, breathless. ‘… hurt something.’

‘Later, Emma. We’ve got to keep moving.’ Her mouth was open, breathing hard. Her cheek bled. We were too slow. The train.

The racket filled my ears as it came into view. It was a diesel locomotive, pulling a thundering brown centipede of freight cars. There was barbed wire between us and the railway service road, then another metre up a slope to the tracks.

I dragged her towards it. There was no time to climb the fence. I grabbed her with both hands around her chest.

‘No,’ she cried, gasping at the pain in her ribs, I lifted her over the wire and she fell to the ground on the other side. I ran, jumped and vaulted over three metres farther down. She tried to get up. They were coming. Sixty or seventy metres. There were two of them. They stopped and waved their arms at someone. Then I saw him, directly to the south. The man with the rifle. A big man, white, in camouflage gear and a baseball cap. He dropped to the ground. The balaclava looked at us and started running again.

I reached Emma. She was curled up, her lips forming ‘Lemmer’, but the train drowned out the sound. She looked bad. Blood from the wound on her cheek ran down her neck. The cut was deep. But the more serious problem was her ribs.

There was no time.

I put my left hand behind her back, held her tight and sprinted up the bank. Her handbag stayed behind in the grass. We ran alongside the train, but it was moving too fast. Still, it was our only chance. I put out my right hand, waited for the next freight car and
grabbed when metal hit my hand. Lots of pain, but no luck. I’d wait for the next one. I grabbed again, got hold of a metal rod, and let the momentum jerk us up. I clung to her and swung her. She was too much weight on my arm, but I managed to bring her up with me between the cars. We landed on metal and my head banged against something. Still, I held on to Emma. My feet scrabbled for a foothold as I fought for balance. I dragged her in, pulled her tight against me, her hands gripping my shoulders. She screamed something I couldn’t hear.

We were going to make it.

I looked into the veld. The balaclavas stood still.

Sniper Man lay there on his belly, weapon in front of him, set up on its tripod. The rifle barrel and the telescope above it followed the train’s movement.

There was a puff of smoke from the weapon and then he was gone, out of the field of vision. Emma jerked in my arms and fell, flopping away from me. I grabbed her, got the thin material of her T-shirt in my fingers and held on.

It tore and I saw the exit wound high on her breast. He’d shot her. Rage exploded in me. The material ripped some more and she fell away in slow motion, eyes closed. Then she was gone, just the rag of T-shirt in my hand.

I jumped off the train. Too long in the air, stone and grass flashed past, and then I hit the ground, landing too hard on my shoulder. A hammer blow of agony went through me. I was rolling and something stabbed me. I continued to roll and hit something else. Finally, I came to a stop, but I couldn’t get up. I had to find Emma. My shoulder must be dislocated. My right arm was all wrong. It was to the front and side of me. I couldn’t breathe, but I tried to get up, bellowed, as I fought to breathe. I stumbled, walked and fell. Got back up on my feet.

There she lay. Deathly still.

‘Emma,’ but I couldn’t get the word out.

She lay on her face. There was blood at the back of her head. Blood on her back. That was the bullet wound. I turned her over with my left hand. She was gone, her body limp. Oh Jesus, please. I
pressed my chest to hers, pushed my left hand behind her back, held her to me, and stood up. She hung over my shoulder, lifeless. Was she breathing?

The train had gone.

They were coming.

I had to run. Carrying Emma.

Stumbled. How would I get over the fence? I ran down the other side of the track away from them. I had to get over the wire, but I couldn’t.

Ahead of us there was a gate. Similar to a farm gate, it was an entrance to the service road. We must get over there. I would have to press down on the gate, swing over and jump. I ran, staggering and stumbling. I would have to use my right arm, but would it hold? I pressed my good arm on the gate, swung my legs and Emma over. It was an unreal moment in the air, the arm wasn’t going to hold. It gave and my right hip hit the top of the gate. We toppled over and I landed on my back with Emma on top of me. She was heavy now. I got to my knees and noticed that my left hand was slippery with blood from Emma’s back.

I made it to my feet, my legs wobbling beneath me.