Crowned (10 page)

“You look awful,” he remarks.

“Thanks.”

“Why don’t you go back to bed?” He puts his hand on the top of my head and tilts it back so I’m looking at him. “You look like you could use more rest.”

“I can’t. I’m supposed to see Ntatemogolo this morning.” I stifle a yawn.

“You should tell him to stop by later; we need to discuss the Salinger project. Or maybe just invite him over for dinner.”

I blink. A few months ago those words would never have left his mouth. A few months ago he’d rather have starved than broken bread with Ntatemogolo, and my grandfather would have felt the same.

His smile falters as he realises what he’s just said. “Unless you’re not feeling up to it,” he says hastily. “You’ll be tired, I’ll be tired – he and I can talk on the phone.”

I’m not letting him off the hook. The fact that he suggested dinner, albeit absent-mindedly, means a part of him wants to have a good relationship with my grandfather for his own sake as much as mine.

“No, it’s a great idea,” I tell him. “I’ll cook. It’ll be a proper family dinner, and the two of you can talk business afterwards.”

“Actually…”

“It’s settled!” I beam at him, walk into the bathroom and close the door before he can argue, and I stay in there until I hear the car pull out of the driveway. A Bennett-Raditladi family dinner. I wonder what that’s going to be like.

An hour and a half later I walk up the road to Ntatemogolo’s house with the Puppetmaster’s puzzle box in my bag. I still feel unwell. My bones ache and my stomach keeps lurching. Premonitions don’t affect me this way, so I can only assume I must be coming down with something. I knock on my grandfather’s front door, then open it and enter. Ntatemogolo is in the kitchen, washing his only pot.

“Dad wants you to come over for dinner tonight,” I announce after greeting him.

He turns to give me a suspicious look. “Why?”

“He wants to discuss Salinger business.”

“We both have phones and email accounts.”

“He wants us to spend time together as a family.”

Ntatemogolo places the pot on the drying rack, dries his hands on a napkin and turns to face me. “Has something happened? Did he have another supernatural shock?”

I shake my head. I understand his position. In his shoes I’d be suspicious, too. “He’s trying to mend things between you two. It’s only dinner.”

He sighs. “Seven p.m. A simple meal, no sweets.”

Typical. We invite him, yet he dictates the terms. We head to the consultation room, where I tell him about my premonition.

His expression turns grave. “What can you tell me about the woman?”

“Nothing. All I saw was her legs.”

“Think, Connie.”

I close my eyes and call up the memory. It has faded in intensity, but I still recall the details. “She was wearing brown shoes with a bit of a heel. I couldn’t see them properly, but I got the impression they were expensive. She was walking on a road.”

“Tar or dirt?”

“Tar. It was dark, but not dark like night. It just
felt
dark. She was in a hurry.”

“Was she late? Afraid?”

“Not late.” I take a mental step back so my gift can take charge, picking through the premonition with care. “Afraid.” I feel it now, the accelerated thud of her heartbeat. “There was no obvious threat, but on some level she knew about the shadow.”

“What shadow? Describe it.”

“It was on the edge of my vision – hard to see. Misshapen, like a monster in a movie.”

“Metaphor,” murmurs Ntatemogolo.

“When she saw it she tried to run, but something hit her and she fell. It’s all so vague.”

“The culprit has taken steps to shield himself.”

My eyes open. “Which makes sense if he’s the Puppetmaster.” My premonitions are always related to people I know. I don’t know the victim, so I must know the culprit.

Ntatemogolo strokes his beard and doesn’t answer.

“Do you think we can save the woman?”

He shakes his head, as I knew he would. “We don’t know who or where she is.”

My mind is whirring, wondering what on earth the Puppetmaster wants with a gifted CEO and a woman with fancy shoes. I shake my head and look at my grandfather, who still seems deep in thought.

“Ntatemogolo, is something wrong?”

He takes a moment to answer. “I’ve located another first-generation drifter in Ghana. I leave tomorrow.”

I swallow. I don’t want him to leave now, when so much is going on. I don’t want to be left to deal with the Puppetmaster alone. Look what happened the last time Ntatemogolo left!

“He will come to you.”

He means the Puppetmaster. We both know how the tricky devil operates – the minute Ntatemogolo is out of the way he’ll schedule the next meeting.

Ntatemogolo leans forward. “Don’t go. Come up with an excuse to postpone until I return.”

I stare at him. “He’ll see right through it!”

“Let him. You promised three meetings and you will deliver, but we need time. He wants us to think he is in control, but he is not. You have a choice. He is not going to kill me if you defy him.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No, I don’t. It is only a suspicion. But try. That’s all I ask.”

I nod, but I’m scared. I can throw my bravado in the Puppetmaster’s face. I can be rude and give him attitude, but only up to a point. Lives are a game to him – he can end them without a second’s thought.

Ntatemogolo exhales, his shoulders relaxing. “Good. One more thing: I know the identity of the artist who gave that boy the snake tattoo.”

Oh, finally – good news! “Who is it?”

“A young man, not much older than you, who sells his artwork at the roadside. He is from Serowe – Kgosana knows him.”

I frown at the mention of my uncle, Ntatemogolo’s son from his first marriage. I’m not at all close to that side of the family. They think I’m too white. None of Ntatemogolo’s children are gifted and since they live in Serowe I see as little of them as I can.

“Did Uncle Kgosana say the artist was gifted?” I ask.

“He said there were stories. The boy has always been a brilliant artist, but not very bright. He was bullied at school, then strange things started to happen to the children who bullied him. Sudden illnesses, unexplained injuries.”

I’m holding my breath. There are many things I appreciate about the world of the gifted, but the bad stuff always freaks me out.

“The boy was confronted about the events and his schoolbag was searched. Inside was a sketchbook filled with drawings. Some of them had been cut out. It was soon discovered that he had pasted them underneath the desks where the bullies sat in class, or hidden them in their books. When they came into contact with the drawings, they got hurt. The boy confessed. He was removed from school and sent here, to Gaborone, to live with an aunt. The living arrangement didn’t last. The aunt kicked him out, claiming he was unstable and violent. As far as his family knows, he is now living with friends.”

I shudder. If he’s as dangerous as people say, I think I understand how he got mixed up with Thuli. I rub my arms, suddenly feeling cold. “I’ve never heard of a gift like that. Drawings that hurt people? How does that work?”

“He is a channeller,” my grandfather explains. “A sorcerer who can only direct his gift through a specific channel, or medium. Without his art materials he would be helpless.”

“That must be rare.”

“It is. It is considered a handicap – the part of the brain that allows you to direct your gift is blocked, and can only be unblocked by a specific activity. But channellers also tend to be savants.” He peers at me. “Do you know what that means?”

I nod. “Someone who knows things or can do things ordinary people can’t.”

“In this case, the boy can direct his energy to do almost anything through his drawings, which explains how he could give Thuli a gift he himself does not possess.”

I nod again, piecing the information together. “He sounds like trouble.”

“That is the impression I got as well. I am going to see a client in Block 7 this afternoon, but after that I will try to find out where he lives. His name is–”

“Jafta,” I whisper. The back of my neck tingles with unease.

Ntatemogolo’s eyes narrow. “Your gift is getting even stronger. Do you see why I want you to stay away from the Puppetmaster? If he is behind the energy surge you could be in great danger.”

“I know.” I take the puzzle box out of my bag. “He sent this to me. I think it’s safe, but I thought you’d better check it to be sure.”

Ntatemogolo takes it from my hands. “It is protected by complex concealments.” He examines it for several minutes. “Nothing dangerous, but it is high-level sorcery. Even I would struggle with it.” He returns it to me, but his expression has grown concerned. “It is an exciting challenge for someone like you, but growing gift or not it will take you years to open it. He must know that. He is pushing you too hard.”

I chew my lip and frown at the puzzle box. “If you don’t think I should try it, I won’t.”

He considers for what feels like for ever. Finally he shakes his head. “You can attempt it, but remember that everything comes with strings where the Puppetmaster is concerned.”

I put the puzzle box back into my bag. “I should go; you need to prepare for your trip.” I get to my feet.

“Be careful, Connie. All our gifts are growing, but yours is growing in a different way. I can sense it in you. It is stronger than it should be. It has changed.”

My stomach tightens. “What does that mean?”

He’s quiet for a long time. “I don’t know,” he says at last.

* * *

On the way home I pick up a newspaper. There’s a story about an “inferno” in a shop, but since every fire is described as an inferno I know better than to panic. There’s an update on the energy surge and assurances that authorities are working on the problem. There’s nothing about disappearances. It appears the woman in my premonition is safe for now.

When I get home I check my email again, but there’s nothing from Rakwena. I’m disappointed, but I don’t want to dwell on it. Instead I head to the kitchen to figure out what to make for tonight’s inaugural family dinner.

A simple meal, Ntatemogolo said. I settle on
samp
and beef stew with steamed vegetables. There’s still some time before I have to cook, and I find my mind going over today’s events. I reach out for the Puppetmaster’s mind, but he’s quiet.

Where are you?

There’s no answer. I can’t even sense him.

You said you’d tell me what you’re up to, so tell me.
I wait for an answer. I stand still, my gift searching, but there is no trace of him on the gifted hotline.

Puppetmaster? John? Why do you play these silly games? What’s causing the energy surge? Why do you need to kidnap people? What are you doing?

Silence.

I sigh.
Fine. Don’t answer. Go on hiding like the coward you are, dragging innocent people into your plots. You won’t get away with it for ever.

I don’t know if he’s deliberately ignoring me or just too busy with his schemes to pay attention. When he feels like talking he just slides into my head, but I can never reach him unless he’s in the mood. If I can just get him to talk to me for a while, maybe I’ll be able to pick something up from his tone. Maybe his words will trigger another premonition. There has to be a way to find out where he’s hiding.

It’s not in that fake house in Block 8, that’s for sure. It would be careless to layer too many illusions on one site. Most likely he has several sites, each one serving a different purpose. He must have a physical base of some sort, a place he can walk in and out of without attracting suspicion, like the house in Kgale Siding. He must also have a base of operations, where he keeps his army – and possibly Henry Marshall.

I’m just about to head back to my room to change when I hear his voice – distant, distracted, but clear.

Who says they’re innocent?

That’s all he has to say before he disappears again. What on earth is that supposed to mean? Has he morphed into a vigilante? I have a difficult time imagining what qualifies as a crime in the mind of the Puppetmaster. Humility? Kindness? A shocking inability to tell lies? There’s no time to mull it over further – I have to prepare for dinner.

Ntatemogolo arrives at six-forty-five, before Dad. I can’t remember the last time we had a dinner guest (apart from Wiki and Lebz) so I’ve set the table for the occasion, place mats, fancy glasses and all. Dad always tells me my mother was the hostess of the family. While I set the table I let myself channel her, trying to imagine how she’d do it. I guess I hit the target; when I let Ntatemogolo in he stops short in front of the dining table.

“Is it too much?” I frown at the table, wondering whether I should put the glasses away. They had gathered so much dust that I had to soak them in warm water.

“No, my girl, it’s fine.” He smiles.

We look at the table in silence for a moment, lost in memories. His memories are far richer than mine. Mine come mostly from stories Dad has told me, and photographs. I was too young when my mother died to remember much. Her face, her hands, her smile. I suppose that’s enough, but sometimes, like now, I wish I had more.

I clear my throat. “We can sit in the living room. Dad should be home soon.”

“Yes; we have a lot to discuss.” He follows me to the living room. “One of my clients disappeared from work yesterday. According to her colleagues she got up and walked out, leaving her handbag and phone on her desk, and never returned.”

“Oh, no. The woman from my premonition!”

“It seems like it. Her boyfriend is convinced his relatives used witchcraft to take her away because they disapprove of the relationship. He doesn’t know she is gifted.”

I gulp. “So I was right. The Puppetmaster’s hunting gifted.”

“So it would seem,” says Ntatemogolo. “The Puppetmaster, if he is the culprit, now has two hostages. He seems unconcerned by the attention his activities have attracted.”

“Maybe the kidnappings are a diversion.”

“Improbable.” He leans forward in the chair and pulls a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “The Puppetmaster must be using their gifts.”