Death of the Mantis

by Michael Stanley

  Mabaku hesitated. “We’ll have to be careful. You’re involved personally again. Sometimes I think we’d have half as many cases if I just gave you to the South African police.” He laughed to be sure Kubu realized he was joking. Then he sobered. “And there’ll have to be an inquiry about Tau. You know that.”

  Kubu nodded. It would be a formality. Tau had disobeyed him, a senior officer. But that doesn’t change the reality, he thought.

  “That reporter wants to see you. I told her to wait.”

  Kubu was surprised, but he had no doubt which reporter Mabaku was talking about.

  “Have they caught Khumanego?”

  Mabaku shook his head. “He vanished. Joined up with his Bushman friends after he abandoned the Land Rover, I’d guess. He’s not alone in all this, I’m sure. But don’t worry, we’ll get him. We’ve got Wanted posters everywhere; his face is all over the newspapers. Sooner or later someone will recognize him. We’re watching his apartment building in Lobatse too, just in case, and we’ve applied for a search warrant. It’s only a matter of time.”

  “I’d like to be in on the search. Knowing him and what to look for might help.”

  Mabaku hesitated again. “Kubu, you need to take it easy. Get your strength back. I’ve spoken to the doctor. It’ll be at least a week before you can come back to work.” Kubu spluttered with indignation and started to cough again. Once he’d swallowed some water and had calmed down, Mabaku continued. “I’m not saying you must stay here. You can be at home. And I’ll take charge of the case myself while you’re away. I’ll get your input and keep you up to date with everything.” Kubu had to be satisfied with that.

  Then Mabaku wanted to go through the whole story of the fateful reconnaissance trip into the desert step by step. He asked questions and noted all the details. At last he relaxed. “Well, that’s the story then. Pretty straightforward.” He could see that Kubu was in the clear. At the same time, one of his detectives had died in the line of duty; that was not easy to accept.

  “I’ve got some other news for you, Kubu. The breakdown of the vehicle out there was part of Khumanego’s plan. It wasn’t a mechanical failure at all; he disabled it. He must have known a thing or two about Land Rover Defenders.”

  “What did he do? He didn’t have a chance to get at the engine, and we tested the fuel flow and so on.”

  “It was very clever. There’s a feedback pipe from the fuel injection, as well as a supply pipe to it. Both come from the fuel filter, which is easy to get to from behind the back wheel. He switched the pipes around. Takes a minute. So no fuel went to the fuel injection. It took the mechanic hours to work it out, though!”

  Kubu nodded. “So Khumanego was planning this all along.” That hurt.

  “Probably he hoped you would give up and go back to Tshane. Perhaps he would’ve disabled the other vehicle as well if we’d just sent out a replacement, but he decided he had to kill you once he realized you would never give up.” He thought for a moment, and added more kindly, “I think he was trying to scare you off, Kubu. I don’t think he wanted to kill you.” He paused. “But I’m not taking any chances. I’ve ordered that you are to have a police guard at your house until Khumanego is caught. And one will be with Joy whenever she leaves the house.”

  Mabaku got to his feet. “Well, that’s enough for now. Mustn’t tire you out. Do you want to see that woman?”

  Kubu nodded.

  “I’ll tell her on my way out,” he growled.

  “Oh, Kubu, we were all so worried about you. Are you okay now?” Cindy appraised him. “You look drawn.”

  “I feel fine. They’re just keeping me here to finish the Kalahari’s work and bore me to death, I think.”

  Cindy smiled and settled in the chair next to the bed. “Do you want to talk about it?” Kubu shook his head, and she laughed. “I’m not looking for a story. Actually, I just wanted to see that you were okay. And to say good-bye. I’m leaving for Nigeria soon. It’s big and bustling and exciting, and there’ll be lots to write about. But I’ll miss Botswana. And I’ll miss you.”

  “Why are you leaving so suddenly?”

  “There’s a big issue around oil and the local people. It’s hot news now.” She paused and looked down. “I’m very upset about Khumanego. In a way I feel responsible. Perhaps my pressure put you all on the wrong track. Now four people are dead. And it could so easily have been five.”

  “Actually I’m pretty sure it’s more than four.”

  “Why did he do it, Kubu?”

  Kubu shook his head. “I’ve no idea. But I’m going to find him, and I’m going to find out.”

  They chatted for a few more minutes, and then Cindy got ready to leave. They said good-bye, and she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. At that moment, Joy came in carrying Tumi. Why do these things happen to me? Kubu thought. I’ve been suffering on a diet all year, more dead than alive in the Kalahari, and now Joy has to choose this precise moment to arrive. Why me?

  But Joy was trying to keep Tumi entertained, bouncing her on her hip. So when she looked up from the baby she saw Cindy just standing next to the bed. She stopped, and her face was not happy.

  Kubu tried to rescue the situation. “Hello, darling. Bring Tumi over here. I’m dying to hold her. Oh, this is Cindy Robinson. She’s the newspaper reporter who was following the Bushman case. She was just leaving. Cindy, this is my lovely wife, Joy, and my beautiful daughter, Tumi.” He hoped he wasn’t laying it on too thick.

  Joy passed Tumi to him and shook Cindy’s hand, but without enthusiasm.

  Cindy rose to the occasion. “I’m actually leaving the country shortly, Mma Bengu. I just had to come and thank the assistant superintendent for his help. He’s been very patient with my questions and keeping my reports accurate. It’s just terrible what happened to him in the desert. I’m so relieved he’s okay.”

  “Yes, we all are,” Joy responded coolly. Kubu kept himself occupied with Tumi, holding her above him at arm’s length and making faces.

  “Your daughter’s lovely, Kubu,” Cindy said to him. “Get well soon. Now I must be going.”

  “Good-bye, Cindy. I wish you all the best in Nigeria. It should be an interesting time for you.”

  “Yes, I’m looking forward to it. Good-bye now.” She waved to Joy, and headed for the door.

  Kubu held his breath.

  “That was the reporter you told me about?” Joy asked.

  “Yes.”

  “She’s very pretty. Nice figure too.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. Have you started planning the engagement party for Pleasant? Did you know that my father helped with sorting out the lobola?”

  Joy brightened. “Yes, and did very well! Pleasant told me.” Soon she was explaining the plans for the party and the outline for the wedding. Tumi chortled and smiled. Kubu breathed a silent sigh of relief.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Khumanego had been walking for three nights. He was grateful that the moon would soon be full, making traveling easy. And the nights were cold, so it was good to walk hard and keep warm. In the early morning and late evening he would search for the cactus-like Hoodia plants. Once, he found tsama melons, which he collected and carried with him. After foraging, he would find one of the thicker bushes and hollow a spot under it where he could sleep and conserve water during the heat of the day.

  Most of the water he’d taken from Kubu’s vehicle in a large plastic Coke bottle was gone. He’d hoped to find a seep in an old watercourse, which he knew was about a night’s walk from where he’d abandoned the Land Rover, but it had been hard-dry. He could have dug for water, but at that point he had three-quarters of the bottle left, and the Hoodia plants had been plentiful.

  Apart from the water bottle, nothing of the Westernized man remained. He’d removed his shoes at the vehicle and carried them a short way into the desert, where he’d buried them along with his shirt and shorts. Now he wore only a Bushman leather loincloth and carried his hunting kit over
his shoulder. When he met another Bushman group—as he would—he’d be one of them.

  Sometimes he thought of Kubu and Tau. The other policemen would be fine; they had food, water, and shelter. He felt he had been weak. A quick poison added to their food would’ve killed them all and made a dramatic statement. But all along he’d hoped to persuade Kubu to turn back, to abandon his search, to let the frenzy die down. There would’ve been no more deaths for a while, and after that he would have had to deal with Lerako. He would have enjoyed that. But Kubu wouldn’t back down. And more vehicles were coming, coming to attack The Place and its lone guardian. He’d had no choice.

  But Kubu had been a long-time friend. Khumanego did not want his death as he’d wanted the deaths of others. But now it didn’t matter. He’d done what needed to be done. That was all there was to it.

  By Monday, Khumanego had become very tired. The day had been hot, but he’d tried to drink only a little water. He lay still and watched gratefully as the sun set. He waited until the evening cooled and then forced himself to go on. But when the moon started to sink and the dark closed in, he collapsed on the ground exhausted. He needed guidance from the ancestors, but he was too tired to dance, so he found the horn in his bag, swallowed some white powder from it, and closed his eyes to focus his thoughts. Then he slept—or seemed to sleep.

  When he woke—or seemed to wake—he was standing in the desert. There was no moon, but the sky was full of stars, not fixed, but moving slowly across the sky. There was only starlight, but the desert sand and its plants seemed to Khumanego rich with colors—the reds and greens and blues of much more verdant climes.

  Khumanego looked down and saw himself lying on his back with his arms folded across his eyes as if trying to protect them from a blinding light. He turned away and looked around the spirit world, a world familiar to him from many visits, many revelations, but also strange, always different.

  He saw the body of an old man, lying at rest surrounded by his few carefully arranged possessions—a bow, hunting bag, containers for poisons, arrowheads. Next to the circle, sitting on a white-dry log, was a man past his prime but still strong. Despite the years rolled back, Khumanego recognized him at once. He almost laughed with joy at the opportunity offered here that had been denied him in the gray world that people thought of as real.

  He addressed the man in their common language in the most respectful way. “Gobiwasi, I am honored that you are here to help me, to guide me, with my mission.”

  “You sought guidance before. I was wrong to deny it. So I am here. Waiting.”

  “Are you not with the ancestors?” Khumanego indicated the stars moving above them.

  Gobiwasi shook his head. “I am here. Waiting.”

  Khumanego didn’t ask why the dead man was waiting, nor for what. Here was a man who would understand, a man who had walked the same path in the gray world.

  “I have tried to protect The Place—as you did.”

  “The ancestors are angry with you. That was not your destiny. You protected The Place through the deaths of others. That is not the way of our people, not the way of the Mantis.”

  Khumanego became angry. “You, too, protected The Place that way. You, too, killed a man.”

  Gobiwasi stared at him, neither accepting nor denying this charge.

  Khumanego persisted. “People know you did this. It is spoken of quietly and in secret. It was about this that I wanted to ask you.”

  Still Gobiwasi stared, but now his eyes seemed to be following the moving stars as if he’d lost interest in the discussion. “It was necessary,” he said at last. “The white man was there, going through the caves, taking things, destroying the paintings. He would have returned, perhaps with many others.”

  “I understand,” said Khumanego. “The man wanted to steal The Place from us, desecrate it, anger the ancestors. You had no choice but to kill him. All such men must die. It is necessary.”

  “But now I have to wait.”

  Khumanego was frustrated. This was not the encouragement he had expected, needed. He’d had visions before with the ancestors showing him the way. Leading and supporting him. Encouraging him.

  “These others had to die too. We used the weapons of our people, you and I: knobkierie, arrows, poisons. Soon people will learn that if they go near The Place and trample our sacred ground, they will die. Soon they will stop coming. Fear will form a fence that no one will cross. A fence built of fear is stronger than their fences of steel that can be kicked down. I am building that fence around The Place. The ancestors will be greatly pleased.”

  Gobiwasi looked down at his aged, dead body surrounded by the possessions of the gray world. When he looked up his eyes were sad. “What about the Bushman you killed? Your own brother.”

  Khumanego struck at him, but of course there was no contact. “You are stupid, old man! He was the younger. He had no right! My father sent me away to a school with the black people and showed my brother The Place instead of me. How could he do that? The ancestors were very angry, and soon my father became ill and died. My brother wouldn’t help me, even refused to tell me where to find The Place. But he would have shown it to others. You could buy him for money. He was a worm. I crushed him with my foot! And I found The Place myself, without him. The ancestors guided me, gave me this mission.”

  Gobiwasi said nothing, and Khumanego’s anger grew until everything seemed tinged with red, even the bushes and the desiccated grass.

  “You are a fool, Gobiwasi! You killed too for The Place. Long ago. Yet now you challenge me! What right do you have? Now you say you wait. What are you waiting for, old man?”

  But now everything was blurred by the red mist of his anger, and Khumanego closed his eyes to clear them. When he opened them and moved his arms from his face, he saw that the red tinge remained. It came from the huge crimson sun climbing ponderously above the horizon in the east, temporarily coloring the gray world.

  The next night as he walked, he smelled a whiff of a cooking fire long before he heard or saw any sign of the Bushman group. He smiled. Once more the ancestors had guided him. His plan would be to join the group, live with it, camouflage himself completely. No one would find him. He could move to another group if the police got too close. And he would keep watching The Place. Keep guarding against intruders. There would be other killings when the time was right.

  When he came to the edge of the campfire’s light, he saw that the ancestors had indeed been good to him. For the little group he found there was the very group that Gobiwasi had once led. They knew him and would be grateful for what he had done to rescue them from Lerako. He could have asked for no better meeting. Perhaps it was for this that Gobiwasi had been waiting?

  So he strode into the light of the fire and greeted the oldest man warmly in the IGwi language. “Dcaro! I know you. This is a most happy meeting.”

  The man regarded him with natural surprise, but there was a trace of something else in his expression.

  “Khumanego. I know you.” It was a cold response.

  “Indeed! I am here alone and wish to join you. I will help you hunt, gather Hoodia and melons, do whatever needs to be done.”

  “We do not need help. Neither do we need extra mouths.”

  Khumanego glared at Dcaro. “I am strong and have much power in the spirit world. Recently I saw Gobiwasi there. It was him who led me here.”

  There was much excitement at this news, but Dcaro held up his hand and the others waited.

  “You tell us that. But how do we know it is so?”

  “Because I say it!”

  Dcaro just shook his head and waited.

  “It will be good for us to work together. I have many powerful friends in this world too. Did I not save you and these two men from being hanged?” He pointed at the other two men whom Lerako had held. Although they regarded him with respect, there was also hostility. Still, it was an important reminder. The group started to talk again. Some space was made by the fire; clearly
they expected Khumanego to join them. But it was Dcaro who led now.

  “Those other people say we Bushmen are liars, that we steal, that we kill what is not ours to kill. That is why they chase us, even though we are honest, take only what is ours, and kill only what we need. But you have lied, and stolen, and you have killed a man. We know you killed the white man with a Bushman arrow and caused much trouble. We saw the posters. We had to leave. You have done great harm. The ancestors are very angry.” At the end of this speech Dcaro was shaking, but gave no ground.

  Khumanego glared at him. “Since you reject my friendship and help, I will go. But you will regret this night. All of you will regret this night!” His arm encompassed the whole of the small group, and he could see their fear and was glad. Turning back to Dcaro he softened his voice. “I need water for my journey. You cannot refuse a traveler in the desert when he comes asking for water.”

  “We have no water to spare. There is no water here. There is water in Hukuntsi. Go there.”

  “Then I curse you all! May you too be refused water in your time of thirst.” Then he stood up and stalked into the desert night.

  He felt their eyes on his back, watching him, but they meant nothing. He would change his plan. He knew now where he must go. He would go where he needed no one, where there was water, and where he had power.

  Chapter Forty

  When he arrived at the CID on Monday morning, Director Mabaku appeared calm. He had visited Kubu on the way and thought he was on the mend. More to the point, the doctor was satisfied. But underneath, Mabaku was bottling up an explosion of anger. How had this nasty little Bushman dared to mess with his CID detectives? Once he was caught, he was going to be very sorry. Yet Kubu’s burning question kept coming back to him. Why? What was Khumanego’s motive for these vicious and apparently pointless murders?

  Mabaku’s secretary, Miriam, stopped him at his office door to give him a document—the warrant to search Khumanego’s apartment. They had managed to get authorization over the weekend. Mabaku brightened at once. Now they could take action, do something positive. Perhaps get to the bottom of this mess.