Death of the Mantis

by Michael Stanley

  Mabaku glared at Edison. “What’s the use of that? Get the computer guy to print it out on the same sheet as the tracks we got from the students and the one from Krige.” Edison hurried off to do that.

  “What do you make of this?” Mabaku passed Kubu a photograph of the six calcrete stones from Khumanego’s bookshelf.

  “He had these in his apartment?”

  Mabaku nodded.

  Kubu counted the deaths he knew about. The two students, Monzo, Krige, Haake. That was five. Then there was Tau; but Khumanego hadn’t been back since the desert trip, and he couldn’t have known in advance that Tau would be with them. Kubu had a sinking feeling. Was the sixth stone for him?

  “Six stones, six deaths.”

  Mabaku nodded. He had made that connection too. After a few moments he said, “We counted five murders. Who was the sixth pebble for? You?”

  Kubu shook his head. “I don’t think he really wanted to kill me. He kept trying to warn me off. I think it was for the other Bushman, the one who was stabbed to death and left in the desert. I’ve no idea why.” He paused. “Actually, we still don’t know what the motive was for any of the killings. Just that it has something to do with the koppies.”

  Kubu sighed, and continued, “And Khumanego? Any trace of him? What are we doing about it?”

  “The usual. Border checks, posters, alerts to all police here and in the surrounding countries. But I’m sure he’s still somewhere in the Kalahari. It’s a big place. We tried to follow his footprints from the abandoned Land Rover, but we lost them after a few miles.”

  Kubu sighed. Khumanego had vanished into the desert. Perhaps he had joined a nomadic Bushman band. Who would recognize him? Who took note of one extra Bushman in any case?

  They continued discussing ways to track down Khumanego until Edison returned with the GPS plots. Haake had stopped at a number of places, but comparing the route with the ones of Krige and the students, Kubu was pretty sure he could guess the location of the koppies. Once he had the coordinates, he could check Google Earth pictures to see if he was right.

  Mabaku agreed, but the big question remained.

  “Why?” he asked.

  Kubu shrugged. “I really don’t know, Director. I can only think there is something very precious at the koppies. Maybe it’s the diamond treasure trove Haake sought. Maybe something else. But it seems that Khumanego desperately wants it for himself. Desperately enough to kill six people for it.” He paused and sighed. “But perhaps that’s not it. Perhaps it’s the killing he wants, and the koppies are just an excuse.” How had this darkness overwhelmed the enthusiastic boy he had once loved?

  “We’ll have to go back,” Mabaku said with regret. “We have to find out what’s there. It’s got to be the key. And we have to find this man quickly. I think you may be right; he’s a psychopath. He’ll kill again.”

  “I could . . .” Kubu began, but Mabaku held up his hand.

  “You are going to stay right here with Joy. You are not going back there again. That’s final.”

  Chapter Forty-three

  It took three days for Mabaku to coordinate the personnel who would go to the koppies that seemed central to Khumanego’s killing spree. And, to his huge frustration, Kubu had not found a way to accompany them. Mabaku would lead the force himself, leaving Kubu in charge of communications in Gaborone.

  So on Friday morning, two police helicopters and one from the BDF took off from the small airstrip in Tsabong.

  “We’re in the air, Kubu.” The patchwork of police and air-traffic control communications made Mabaku’s voice sound tinny. “We’ll call you in about forty-five minutes.”

  Three quarters of an hour later, the radio crackled. “We’re in sight of the koppies. Should be on the ground in ten minutes!”

  Kubu picked up his microphone. “Read you loud and clear,” he replied without enthusiasm. He leaned back, popped an antacid tablet into his mouth, and drained half a glass of water. His stomach hurt. Anxiety, the doctor had said. You worry too much.

  Kubu was worried. He had pleaded with Mabaku to arrest Khumanego, not kill him. Mabaku had agreed in principle, but refused to rule out force. “Kubu, you’re letting your personal feelings interfere with your judgment,” Mabaku had said. “I know he was a friend of yours. But he’s a criminal now, a murderer. You have to let go.”

  Kubu saw the logic, but he was torn. He still hadn’t come to grips with the reality that his friend had tried to kill him. What had happened to Khumanego? he wondered. I have to find out.

  The helicopters circled the koppies, looking for any sign of people in the vicinity. But after a couple of circuits they had seen nobody. The only signs of human presence were the motorbike tracks crisscrossing the area, just as Haake had reported. They would follow those later.

  Mabaku ordered the helicopters to land several hundred yards from the front of the middle koppie, far enough away from small arms fire but still in view of the cliff face, which was spotted with crevices and caves. If someone’s here, Mabaku reasoned, it’s likely that he’ll use the caves to hide.

  After they landed, Mabaku pulled out a copy of Haake’s map and held it up. The drawing was a good representation of the koppies. Final proof, he thought.

  The men assembled behind the helicopters and checked their equipment once again—rifles, bulletproof vests, tear-gas canisters and masks, powerful flashlights, and radios. When all were ready, Mabaku spoke to them.

  “Let me repeat what I told you earlier. The man we’re looking for, the Bushman Khumanego, is very dangerous. We think he’s killed six people already. But we don’t know why. We also don’t know if he has any accomplices. We only know that all the murders seem to have something to do with this area. We think it’s probably rich in diamonds or something else, and he’s protecting it for himself. I want him alive, so we can find out what’s going on.”

  The commander of the police SWAT team gave the final instructions. “We’re going to see if we can get him to give himself up. If he does, our job’s over, and we go home. If he doesn’t, we’ll flush him with tear gas. Going into the caves is too dangerous. He knows them; we don’t. And we’ll be sitting ducks as we go in. When you throw in the tear gas, back away and be prepared for him to come out firing. But don’t shoot unless he looks as though he’s going to shoot you. Kill him only as a last resort. As the director said, we want him alive.” He looked around at the serious faces that were already dripping with sweat. “One more thing. Don’t let him get close to you. He may have something dosed with a Bushman poison. There’s no antidote.” He paused to let that sink in. “Any questions?”

  The men shook their heads. They’d been over all of this before they left Tsabong. At a signal from the commander, they spread out, covering the width of the koppies, still staying well away from them. Two sharpshooters went to the middle of the area, lay down, set up their rifle tripods, and calibrated their rifle scopes. When everyone was in position, the commander gave Mabaku the thumbs-up.

  Mabaku nodded and spoke into his mike. “Kubu, the men are in place. I’m going to try and make contact now.”

  He took hold of a bullhorn. “Khumanego, or anyone else here, this is Director Mabaku of the Botswana police. I’m giving you five minutes to show yourselves. Come out from wherever you are hiding with your hands above your head. I guarantee your safety. If I don’t see you in five minutes, I will order the SWAT team to flush you out with tear gas. If you show any signs of aggression, my men have orders to shoot.” He paused. “We don’t want that, but will do it if we have to.” He looked at his watch. “Your five minutes starts now.”

  After each minute, Mabaku called out the time remaining. There was no movement from the cliff face. With one minute to go, he made his final call. “This is your last chance. In sixty seconds, my men will go from cave to cave with tear gas. Come out now, and you’ll be safe. After that it may be too late.”

  The final minute passed with nobody appearing. The commander gave
the signal, and the men split into two groups, each going to opposite ends of the koppies. The leader of the group on the left pointed to the cave at the far end. One sharpshooter repositioned himself to cover the cave’s entrance. Another man, keeping close to the face, edged to the entrance, tossed in a tear-gas grenade, and immediately moved back, rifle at the ready. Nobody emerged. After waiting for about five minutes, the group repeated the process for the second cave, which was nearly five yards above the first. It took some time to maneuver up the difficult slope into a position from which a canister could be safely tossed. The result was the same.

  Mabaku watched with increasing frustration as each cave yielded nothing. When all the caves had been gassed, Mabaku contacted Kubu. “He’s not here. We’ve flushed all the caves, and we’ve got nothing. It’s been a total waste.”

  “Director, I suggest you and your men check each cave. Maybe he committed suicide rather than being caught and tried. Watch out for any other cover. He may be hiding from you, but not in the caves themselves.”

  Mabaku spoke to the SWAT commander, who instructed his men to don their masks and check each cave. A few minutes later, one of the teams radioed that they had found a body. Mabaku and the commander climbed the rock face to the entrance, pushed aside the branches of the bush concealing the entrance, and went inside. The cave was so small they could barely stand up. On the floor lay a skeleton surrounded by various Bushman artifacts.

  “Obviously not the man you’re looking for,” the commander said drily.

  Mabaku looked around in awe. The walls of the cave were covered with primitive but beautiful paintings. Of animals, single and in herds, some that were not to be found for hundreds of miles, of men hunting, and even of fish. These need to be in a museum, he thought. I’ve never seen anything like it.

  He pulled out a pocket camera and took dozens of photos.

  The radio crackled again. “We’ve found water!” Mabaku and the commander climbed out of the cave and slipped and slid down to the bottom. Then they walked over to where one of the men was waving. Mabaku pulled out Haake’s map. The arrow with a W pointed at the cave they were about to enter. Whoever drew the map certainly had explored the koppies carefully, Mabaku thought

  Then they went in. Again the walls had paintings in red and black. The man who had checked the cave led them to the back, where there was a pool of water. In the light of the flashlight it was crystal clear. A miracle for Bushmen, Mabaku thought. Water in the middle of the desert. Again Mabaku recorded the scene.

  As they emerged into the blinding sunlight, another man shouted. “Look what I’ve found.” They saw a long crack splitting the face of the koppie. The man told them to take off their bulletproof vests because the entrance was so narrow. They did so, and he beckoned them to follow. They had difficulty squeezing through the crack, but when they succeeded, they were overwhelmed by the rays of colored light that shot from the wall, wherever the flashlight beams played.

  “Diamonds,” thought Mabaku. But when he examined the wall closely, he saw the crystals were violet. He tried to remember what Haake had claimed he’d found. Amethysts? He bent over, picked one off the floor, and put it into his pocket. He then spent a few minutes photographing the walls. When he finished, he took one final marveling look and turned to leave.

  It was early afternoon before all the caves had been checked. Mabaku had gone into several—those with skeletons and artifacts, and those with wall paintings. This must be a Bushman treasure, he thought as he photographed each. Such beauty, such isolation, and with water too. It should be preserved for all to see.

  He walked back toward the helicopters. After the shade of the caves, the scorching heat was almost unbearable.

  “Kubu. Are you still there?”

  The radio hissed. “Yes, Director.”

  “Khumanego’s nowhere to be found. Nor anyone else. I’m going to get the helicopters to follow the tire tracks to see where they go, but I’m not optimistic.”

  “Was there anything in the caves?”

  “Kubu, this is an amazing place. It’s a treasure house of Bushman artifacts and paintings. It may also be a burial ground, because we’ve found more than ten old corpses—mainly skeletons. You’ll be amazed when you see my photos. I’ll have to show them to the people at the National Museum. They’ll be very excited.”

  “I don’t think you should, Director. They’ll turn the place into a tourist attraction. It’ll be yet another injustice to the Bushmen.”

  Mabaku thought this over. Eventually he said, “Perhaps you’re right. We’ll need to think it through. I don’t see anything to indicate diamonds. There’s a wonderful cave with a ceiling of crystals, though. Maybe amethysts.”

  “More reason to keep it quiet,” said Kubu. Then his thoughts went back to Khumanego.

  “Director, I’m really worried. Khumanego is very dangerous. We must find him. I wonder where on earth he is and what he’s doing.”

  Director Mabaku had no reply.

  In fact, Khumanego was watching Mabaku as he spoke to Kubu. When he’d heard the helicopters, he hadn’t taken refuge in the caves, where he knew he would be trapped. Instead he’d faded into the grass and bushes several hundred yards away. The SWAT squad could have walked within a few yards of where he lay dead-still and not seen him. Bushmen were good at hiding.

  Khumanego watched with growing anguish as Mabaku’s men threw canisters into the caves and tramped in and out of sacred Bushman burial places. As the hours passed, he became more and more incensed. It was his duty to the gods to protect this place, but he could do nothing. If he showed his head, the police would kill him like an animal and then laugh about it.

  As his anger built up, Khumanego’s eyes lost focus and his mind began to swirl. He heard the Mantis groan in pain. And he heard the voices of his ancestors. They were crying out for vengeance.

  Chapter Forty-four

  Hukuntsi was a dangerous place for Khumanego. People knew him there under a different name, but they would recognize his face if they’d seen the Wanted posters. Still he needed to know what was happening in the physical world around him—the world outside the spirit world of his mind, the world of the Mantis.

  It had been a long walk from The Place, so Khumanego rested until evening, and then slipped into the town. He wasn’t worried about being seen making his way along the side streets. Bushmen sometimes visited the town to buy provisions for their settlements to the south.

  He made his way to the small corrugated-iron shack that Willie had built for himself on vacant land. One day someone would drive Willie away, but he knew that and would move his belongings when the time came. The door was padlocked, and the shack in darkness. Khumanego prowled around it, looking for a way in, wondering where Willie was. He should have been home by now. Khumanego was distracted as he came back to the road, otherwise he would have seen the woman before she spotted him.

  She was large and busty and had a basket of provisions balanced on her head. She was watching him with disapproval, and she didn’t look friendly.

  “What are you doing there, hey? You people are always sneaking around here. What do you want?”

  Khumanego sighed with relief. She didn’t recognize him. Perhaps she was the woman who lived nearby, who always gave Willie trouble. Willie was scared of her.

  “I was looking for Willie. You know him? The Bushman? He lives here.”

  “And who are you?”

  “My name’s Piscoaghu.” It would’ve been better to tell her something else, Khumanego realized, but he wouldn’t back down in front of this overbearing woman.

  “Willie’s not here. The police took him away,” she told him with satisfaction.

  “The police? Why? Where did they take him?”

  “He’s in Tsabong. Good riddance. He was involved with killing that policeman in the desert.” She stared at him. “Perhaps you were involved, too. Your face looks familiar.”

  Khumanego knew it was time to move on, but he was
intrigued. He wanted to hear the details of how his work had played out. “What happened to the policemen in the desert?” he asked.

  “It was Detective Tau from right here! From the Tshane police station. He was a good man. I knew him myself. A Bushman left him to die in the desert. Horrible. A Bushman! Like you.” She looked angry now, her anger directed at him.

  “And the other policeman?”

  “The other one? How do you know there was another one?”

  Khumanego stood his ground. “I heard two policemen died in the desert.”

  “You heard wrong. They took the other to hospital. I don’t know what happened to him after that.” She gave a small shrug of her shoulders. “Go away! Get out of here! I’ve got no more time to waste on you.” She turned and stalked off with the basket effortlessly balanced in sync with the movement of her walk.

  Khumanego stared at her back. “He’s not alive,” he shouted after her. “He’s dead! He must be dead. You understand?” But the woman ignored him and kept on walking.

  Khumanego had to know for sure. He walked through the dusk to the edge of town, to the corrugated-iron shack he sometimes used when he was in Hukuntsi. His motorbike was inside, locked to a heavy U-bolt that protruded from the wall. He unlocked the bike and, ignoring the risk, rode to the Kgalagadi Filling Station. He approached the man serving there. A man he knew, and who knew him.

  “Piscoaghu! We haven’t seen you for a long time . . .” The man stepped back, his voice scared.

  “Where’s Willie?”

  “The police took him away. They said he was involved with murdering Detective Tau.”

  “The detective died?”

  The man nodded.

  “And the other one?” Khumanego’s voice rose.

  “The other policeman? They found him and took him to the hospital.”