Red Earth

by Tony Park

  The police officer who had been working the exit lane was ambling across to the entry point. Mike gave the man a friendly wave and the officer made no move to stop them.

  Mike entered the park and accelerated to fifty kilometres per hour, the maximum speed on tar roads. Eight kilometres in he turned left onto the H1-4 and headed northeast.

  ‘What’s the camp where we’re staying?’ Nia asked.

  ‘Shimuwini. Nice place. It’s a bushveld camp in the north of the park, one of the smaller camps in Kruger. It’s a line of bungalows overlooking a river, no camping ground, no shop, no restaurant.’

  ‘Will we be safe there?’

  All he could do was shrug.

  The countryside on the drive to the Shimuwini camp was characterised by a seemingly endless wall of mopane trees. Now, at the end of dry season, their butterfly-shaped leaves were red-gold, but in the summer they would be bright green. Elephant loved the tree and even when the landscape was ravaged by fires, started by the lightning storms that were the curtain-raiser to the wet summer, the big pachyderms still devoured the burnt trunks, savouring the caramelised red sap that oozed from the bark and cooked in the flames.

  Fifty-five minutes later they turned onto a gravel access road reserved for guests staying at Shimuwini camp. Once at their destination they presented their paperwork at the office and were given directions to their bungalow, the last on their right as they looked out over the Letaba River.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Nia said, pausing to admire the view before they unpacked the car.

  Themba stood next to Lerato, who cradled Hassan, as they now knew him, in the crook of her left arm. She used her right hand to wipe away a tear. Nia went to the girl and put her arm around her.

  Mike stood slightly behind the group and looked at them, one by one. It was odd, he thought. They were almost like a family. The thought made him sad. He had lost his own because of his work and his inability to confront the traumas of his early life. He had shut himself off from Tracy and Debbie for too long. Now he found himself, once again, responsible for others, and the thought scared him.

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  He saw that Nia had left Themba and Lerato, who were standing so close to each other their arms were touching, and had dropped back to be next to him.

  ‘I’m thinking we need to get these kids as far away from harm as possible, as fast as possible.’

  Nia nodded.

  She was shorter than him, and her head was tilted back, looking up at him. Lerato and Themba had their backs to them. He crooked a finger under her chin and she looked into his eyes. He kissed her, on the lips.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For looking after us.’

  ‘I don’t know where we’re going, what we’re going to do,’ he said.

  She hugged him. ‘We’ll work it out together.’

  Chapter 28

  Suzanne pushed the buzzer on the intercom by the gate at the entrance to the housing complex in Pinetown. ‘Mrs Dunn, it’s Sergeant Brooks.’

  ‘OK, come in.’

  The electronic lock on the gate clicked and it rolled open. Suzanne drove the stolen white Corolla inside and past manicured lawns and bright flower beds until she came to number three. The woman opened the front door and came out to meet her.

  She was attractive, well groomed, with long dark hair which she brushed away from her eyes. Suzanne had readied herself for the meeting with Dunn’s ex-wife. She needed to keep up this disguise as a police officer a little longer so she had bought some new cheap clothes from a Pep store, found a laundromat and washed and dried Sergeant Khumalo’s filthy, blood-stained uniform. She had showered at a gym whose chain she still had membership for, changed into the clean uniform and fixed her hair as best she could.

  ‘Sergeant, I’m Tracy Zietsch. Dunn was my first husband’s name. I remarried. Is everything all right? Is Mike hurt?’

  Suzanne heard the genuine concern in her voice, perhaps a residue of love in the query. ‘To tell you the truth, we’re not sure, Mrs Zietsch.’

  ‘Oh my goodness, come in. Please call me Tracy.’

  Tracy led Suzanne down a hall and into the lounge room, where she gestured for Suzanne to take a seat.

  ‘Lovely house you have here. Is Mr Zietsch home?’ Suzanne asked.

  ‘My husband’s away, visiting his mother in Namibia. He’s from there originally. She’s not well.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Sergeant, what is this all about?’

  ‘Mr Dunn was helping us with some enquiries; he happened to be on the scene during a pursuit of a stolen car. He was later involved in the hunt for three missing people, two teenagers and child. You may have read about it or seen it on TV?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Something about a shootout in the game reserves, first iMfolozi, then Mkhuze, after the American ambassador was killed. I was just watching it live on TV. The American president was saying he wants to send the FBI and their military into South Africa to find the people who did it, but our silly government is saying we don’t need help. No offence to the police.’

  Suzanne nodded. ‘No problem. But, yes, that’s the situation. He wasn’t part of the official search team, but …’

  ‘But Mike couldn’t have stayed out of it if he knew there were young people in trouble. He was involved in mentoring young men who’d gone off the rails.’

  Suzanne took the late Sergeant Khumalo’s notebook and a pen out of her breast pocket and took some notes for effect.

  ‘Are you in regular touch with your ex-husband, Tracy?’

  ‘My daughter, Debbie, keeps in regular contact with him on Facebook. I find out from her where he is.’

  Suzanne made a note. ‘Tracy, do you know your ex-husband’s movements over the next week or two?’

  ‘Not specifically, no. It’s hard, he moves around so much with his work, checking on vultures, attending meetings. He travels all over Africa.’

  ‘How does he travel?’

  ‘A mix. He has that horrible beloved old Land Rover of his, takes commercial flights sometimes, and if it’s somewhere remote he might take a charter aircraft, if the charity he works for approves the budget.’

  ‘I see.’ Suzanne tapped her pen against her lips. ‘Does he have a favourite place that he travels to for his research work? Perhaps somewhere remote where he has lots of friends?’

  ‘Outside of South Africa, that could be anywhere south of the Sahara Desert. You should see his Facebook page, he has friends in wild places all over – Namibia, Zambia, Zimbabwe, Mozambique.’

  ‘Can I put that question another way?’

  ‘Of course? Would you like tea?’

  ‘That would be lovely, thanks,’ Suzanne said. She got up and followed Tracy into the adjoining kitchen. When Tracy had put the kettle on and taken down two mugs and a jar of teabags, Suzanne continued. ‘If your ex-husband wanted to get away, to drop out for a while, get away from it all, to take a well-earned break, where do you think he might go?’

  Tracy regarded her. Her Facebook profile said she was an advocate, and while Suzanne had Googled the firm she worked for and had seen that Tracy specialised in property rather than criminal law, she clearly had a brain. ‘What are you trying to say, Sergeant?’

  ‘Please, call me Jane.’

  ‘Are you implying Mike’s on the run?’

  Suzanne shrugged. ‘Honestly, Tracy, we don’t know. The young people he’s following, they’re armed and dangerous.’

  ‘You’re not making sense,’ Tracy said. She held the boiled kettle in her hand, but refrained from pouring. ‘One minute you’re implying Mike’s on the run, hiding, the next that he might have been hurt. What’s going on here?’

  Suzanne put her hands on her hips, her right resting on Khumalo’s Z88 servi
ce pistol.

  Tracy put down the kettle. ‘On second thoughts, I don’t know how I can be of further assistance.’

  ‘Did Mike ever mention a young man by the name of Themba Nyathi?’

  The sudden change of tack seemed to throw Tracy. She ran a hand through her hair. ‘Um, I’m not sure.’

  ‘He was a car thief.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I remember, he did mention him a couple of times. His latest “cause”. Themba was a student on one of the courses Mike runs for disaffected young people. They’re training to be rhino security guards, future rangers, that sort of thing.’

  ‘He’s the one who is on the loose. He’s gone back to his old ways. He stole the car with the little baby in it, and has now kidnapped the child. They’re the ones on the run.’

  Tracy put a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, dear. I’m sorry, Sergeant, Jane, for the way I reacted earlier. Mike’s always been a sucker for a sad story – at least, he has been since early on in our marriage.’

  ‘Well, if he thinks this boy Themba is innocent, he’s wrong. You would have read that he tried to shoot down a civilian helicopter, and we suspect him of being involved in the downing of that American military chopper that crashed in the iMfolozi Game Reserve.’

  Tracy shook her head. ‘Mike,’ she said softly, ‘what have you done?’

  Suzanne reached out and put a hand on the other woman’s arm. ‘Don’t be too hard on him. Some people just want to see the good in others; they can’t help it if they miss the signals.’

  Suzanne noticed Tracy’s eyes go to the tattoo on the inside of her right arm.

  ‘Is that a birthday, 30 January 2016?’

  ‘Um, yes,’ Suzanne said. ‘My son.’

  ‘That’s a coincidence, my daughter Debbie’s is the same day, though quite a few years ago.’ Tracy took a phone out of the back pocket of her jeans. ‘Debbie’s far more interested in Mike’s work than I am. She wants to study zoology or veterinary science at varsity when she graduates; follow in his footsteps, as it were. I’ll see if she knows where he might be headed.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Tracy poured two cups of tea and they sat in the kitchen, sipping. Suzanne looked around, noted the pictures of a girl with braces on the refrigerator. Suzanne wondered what life would be like if your main priority was raising your child to adulthood. She looked out the window to hide the look in her eyes from the other woman.

  Tracy’s phone beeped. She picked it up, read the screen, and nodded. ‘Yes, I should have thought of that.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I think I know where Mike may be headed. Debbie’s just reminded me.’

  *

  Nia opened her eyes, saw the ceiling fan above her slowly turning and wondered for a moment where she was.

  She looked from side to side and then saw Mike, lying on his back next to her, snoring softly. It all came back to her. She was fully clothed, but Mike had stripped off his shirt before falling asleep after the long night’s driving and the trip through Kruger.

  There were three rooms in the bungalow. They’d put Lerato and the baby in one room, Themba in his own, and Mike and Nia shared the third.

  Nia remembered their lovemaking in the Oyster Box Hotel. What she wouldn’t give to be back there now, she thought, perhaps with a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket next to the bed. She sat up, yawned and reached for her phone on the bedside table. The screen said it was just after four in the afternoon. By her calculation she had slept for a little over four hours.

  Mike must have sensed her movement. He opened his eyes and looked her way. ‘What time is it?’

  She told him. ‘You were snoring.’

  ‘I don’t snore.’

  ‘Yes, you do,’ Nia said.

  ‘My ex-wife used to lie like you do.’

  She smiled. ‘Do you think we’re safe here?’

  He shrugged. ‘As safe as anywhere else. We can’t move any further today in any case; there’s no accommodation further north so we’ll have to wait until first light tomorrow and then leave the park.’

  Nia swung her bare feet off the bed and stood. ‘I’m going to check on the kids.’

  ‘Yes, dear.’

  She wagged a finger at him and went out into the small lounge and dining area. Themba was in the kitchen, by the stove. ‘Hi, Nia. I’ve just boiled some water. Would you like tea?’

  She nodded. ‘Please.’ He was a contradiction: a polite, seemingly intelligent young man who had once been a car thief. ‘Where’s Lerato?’

  ‘She’s bathing the baby. They’re both fine.’

  Nia added milk to the cup that Themba poured and they both went out of the bungalow onto the stoep. The Letaba River glittered in front of them, beyond a manicured, watered lawn.

  Themba blew on his tea. ‘It is beautiful here.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Can I ask you a question, Nia?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Do you, I mean, are you …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You and Mike, do you like each other?’

  Nia gave a small laugh. ‘We’re friends, I guess, and I like him.’

  ‘OK.’

  She sipped her tea. A hippopotamus honked from somewhere down river, mocking Themba’s serious face. ‘What’s on your mind, Themba?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘There is. Is it about you and Lerato?’

  He glanced from the river to her, then back in the direction of the hippo.

  ‘Are you in love with her?’

  He looked to her again and nodded. ‘I think so. But I don’t know if she likes me.’

  Nia gave a sympathetic smile. ‘Well, after what you’ve put her through the last few days …’

  ‘Please, Nia, you know I meant none of this, and I didn’t mean to threaten you when you were hovering over me in your helicopter. I was scared.’

  Nia reached out and put her hand on his arm. ‘I know, I didn’t mean to tease. You’re young, Themba, and so is Lerato.’

  ‘But that doesn’t mean I can’t love her.’

  ‘No, you’re right. You’re both nearly adults. Tell her you’re sorry for what she’s had to go through, and that you think she’s done a great job with the baby. Ask her if you can still be friends.’

  He mulled over her words. ‘You think that will be enough?’

  ‘It will show her you care.’ Nia looked away, out at the river. She couldn’t get over how serenely beautiful it was.

  Themba nodded, and seemed to take the advice on board. ‘I’ll go and check on her now.’

  ‘You do that.’

  Mike came outside, buttoning his shirt. Instead of a cup of tea he’d taken a beer from the fridge, one of the sixpack they’d rationed to themselves. In his other hand he carried a folded brown blanket he had liberated from the bungalow. He raised the bottle in salute to her.

  ‘A little early to be celebrating?’

  He took a drink from the green Windhoek Lager bottle. ‘Not much else we can do.’

  ‘What’s the blanket for?’

  ‘Picnic.’

  He walked past her, towards the fence that separated the camp’s grounds from the river, and laid the blanket out in the shade of a tree. Nia followed and, balancing her teacup, sat down cross-legged beside him. She looked over her shoulder and saw that Themba and Lerato were sitting on chairs outside the bungalow, and the girl was feeding the baby. She wondered if Themba had plucked up the courage to follow her advice. ‘It’s beautiful here, so peaceful.’

  ‘I love the north of Kruger.’ He took another sip. ‘It’s the quietest part of the park, a good place to get away from it all.’

  ‘We can’t, though, can we?’ she asked.

  Mike looked out at the river, rolled the dewy bottle in his fingers, picked at th
e label. ‘I don’t know if we’re doing the right thing, Nia, but I’m worried for those kids.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about the microchip. It was just numbers that you found when you scanned it, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Could it be a bank account?’

  Mike took a drink. ‘Yes, but I’ve got no idea how we would find where it might be. It looks too long for a normal South African bank account number.’

  ‘I’ve got an idea how we might find out.’

  He set down the bottle, now empty, on the blanket and looked at her. He raised his eyebrows.

  ‘You remember I told you about the old rich guy I was seeing, the banker who was married?’

  ‘Yes. You think he might be able to help?’

  ‘It’s worth a try. Can you give me the number?’

  He unbuttoned the left breast pocket of his khaki bush shirt, took out his phone and scrolled through his contacts. ‘Here it is, in two contacts. I listed the first half as Carla’s phone number and the second as the end of Helen’s, but ignore the “+27”s at the beginning. The first number on the chip actually starts with the letters CH – one of the reasons I picked Carla and Helen – and the second number on the chip is the last six digits of Helen’s number.’

  ‘Carla and Helen?’

  ‘Old girlfriends.’ He winked.

  ‘TMI,’ Nia said.

  ‘What if the police are tracking your phone?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve thought of that.’

  Nia took Mike’s phone, got up off the blanket and walked to the left along the grassy lawn, towards the timber bird hide. Just before the hide was a big tree. Under it was a park bench.

  One of the camp attendants, a man in national parks green, was sitting on the bench, holding his phone up and at arm’s length from his mouth. He was talking on speaker. Nia had seen someone else doing this when they had first arrived and, after enquiring at the office where they checked in, learned that the big tree was about the only spot in the camp where there was a phone signal. Even there it was weak, and the woman at the check-in desk had advised her to hold her phone up in the air, as the man was doing now.