Bad Seeds

by Jassy Mackenzie

  “I adhere to the same philosophy. Of living for today, I mean,” Jade said. “There’s no guarantee of tomorrow, so why have regrets?”

  “My feelings exactly.” Gillespie grinned at Jade, the expression warming his face and bringing a sparkle to his deep blue eyes. Jade smiled back. The conversation had taken her mind off the gloomy chill of the corridor. Perhaps that was why Gillespie had started it, to put her at ease.

  They turned a corner, and sheets of thick glass on the right-hand side showcased a brightly lit office that looked to be an admin hub. The far wall made Jade think of the flight console for a spacecraft, formed from contoured metal with computer screens set into it at intervals. Two white-coated technicians were at work, monitoring the machines intently. They didn’t turn around.

  “This is where they broke in early Friday morning,” Gillespie told her. “The door has already been repaired and reinforced.”

  “What’s inside?”

  “It’s our ancillary operations area, which contains backup systems for the main operations center. That room is far bigger; it has screens, counters and calibrators that monitor every part of the nuclear processor, from the heat of its rods to the radiation levels it’s producing.”

  Jade nodded. It made sense: put the backup machines out of action, then head for the main room.

  They stopped at a large locked door ahead with a caution sign and the now-familiar trefoil below it. The door had a keypad on its right-hand side. His body blocking Jade’s view of the numbers, Gillespie typed in a code, and the door unlocked.

  It opened into a wider corridor, where two men in red overalls and protective gear were pushing a cart loaded with large containers. Jade wondered if this was low-level waste, heading to the transport trucks.

  Another elevator took them up a level, and Gillespie headed to a narrow, curving ramp with a rubberized floor. “The reactor is housed in an extremely thick concrete shell. It’s a safety precaution so that any radioactivity can be contained, should there be an incident.”

  The idea gave Jade chills, or maybe that was just the cold air trapped between these dense concrete walls. She was relieved when the narrow tunnel ended. Stepping out, she caught her breath. She was standing on a suspended walkway that ran all the way around this circular space. Thick metal balustrades protected her from the two-story drop below. She looked down in fascination.

  “This is as close as a member of the public can get to a nuclear reactor anywhere in the world,” Gillespie said. “You’re just eleven meters away.”

  The reactor itself was under the surface of a pool of water, and it glowed a brilliant neon blue. She hadn’t expected the color to be so unusual or beautiful. She could hardly tear her gaze away from its eerie luminosity, but when she did, it was to stare at the structures nearby. On the back wall, a large screen displayed the continuously blinking words reactor in operation.

  The screen was flanked on each side by ranks of computers and other huge steel machines whose functions she couldn’t guess at. Ladders and scaffolding lined the walls. She looked down onto a multitude of pipes and rods in shiny polished chrome that crisscrossed the area above. She’d imagined the reactor doing its work in solitary splendor, but every inch of floor space was occupied, leaving barely enough room for walkways that looked only a little wider than the one she was standing on. Though when she saw two white-coated workers striding purposefully along the closest walkway, she realized they were wider, and she’d simply underestimated the sheer scale of the place.

  Both the workers carried small yellow devices in their hands, which they glanced at every so often.

  “Geiger counters to measure radioactivity levels,” Gillespie told her. “Every technician who works in the reactor room has to carry one with them at all times. They are compulsory equipment.”

  The area was strangely quiet. Nuclear energy seemed to be produced in silence. All she could hear was background noise, the soft humming of pumps at work, not much louder than white noise. She could even hear the tread of footsteps on the floor below.

  “Why is the reactor such a bright blue color?” she asked.

  “It’s an effect of the radiation. Cherenkov radiation, they call it,” Gillespie explained.

  “It looks incredible,” Jade said. “Otherworldly.”

  Gillespie smiled again, the expression softening his eyes. “It does.”

  They stood there a few moments more before he asked, “Are you ready to go?”

  “Yes,” Jade said.

  With the security guard following, they retraced their steps back to the transport vehicle that had carried them there.

  They didn’t speak again until they arrived back at the visitors’ center. The security guard had already climbed out of the car when Gillespie took a brown envelope out of his briefcase. Handing it to Jade, he said in a low voice, “I’ve put together all the employee information I could find on Carlos Botha. You can start immediately.”

  “Will do.” Jade tried to take the envelope from him, but Gillespie held on.

  “I was in two minds over whether to hire you for this. I don’t want to put you in danger. I don’t want to gamble with anyone’s life. It’s a question of the balance of odds, I suppose. Many more innocent lives might be at risk if the worst happens.”

  “I understand the risks,” Jade said. She was taken aback by the intensity in his eyes.

  “I don’t know if you do,” Gillespie said. “I don’t think anybody does, until tragedy strikes. I’ve had it happen to me. I wouldn’t wish it on anybody else. Please, Jade, be careful.”

  With that, he climbed out of the car and strode away.

  Chapter Seven

  Jade had expected that even with the information Gillespie had given her, it would take her a few days to get results. In fact, she got lucky the very next day while checking up on Botha’s home address.

  She’d been parked across the road, ready to climb out and ask the gate guards at the estate some questions, when a Porsche had pulled up at the entrance boom and sped off, heading west. It was white, and although she hadn’t had time to see the whole plate, it had started with a D, like Botha’s.

  Jade had sprinted back to her car, jumped in and followed. She’d never have caught up with him if it hadn’t been for rush-hour congestion combined with load shedding, reducing the westbound traffic to a standstill. Crawling along in the jam, she’d been able to get the white Porsche’s taillights in her sight again, check the plate and confirm that this was in fact Botha’s car. She’d kept up with him even when the sky had darkened and a heavy thunderstorm had descended. In the pouring rain, she’d been a few cars behind him when he’d driven through the Best Western motel’s entrance, checked in and then sped around the corner to a room in the southern wing.

  Jade had no idea why he’d been in such a hurry to get to this out-of-the-way place. As she drove in behind him, the woman in the silver SUV had been leaving, and she’d watched the car collide with the pole.

  *

  Now Jade turned her back on the crime scene in room number twelve and hurried around to the motel’s eastern wing. Her hands felt cold as she approached Carlos Botha’s motel room.

  She was going to use her stolen key to access it and plant a bug there.

  Number nineteen was in darkness. Tiptoeing inside, Jade switched on the light. The layout was simple and basic, a mirror image of her own room. A double bed with a beige coverlet, worn in places. A single bedside table and a wooden desk. A small wall-mounted television.

  Botha’s black canvas gym bag was at the foot of the bed. It was empty, and a few garments were folded neatly in the cupboard. Presumably this room was cockroach free. There was a toiletry bag in the bathroom. No toothbrush. Perhaps he had gone out to buy one.

  When he came back, where might Carlos Botha do his talking?

  In the end, she planted the
small listening device on the underside of the desk. It was easy to apply and would be quick to remove. The tiny battery would last for a maximum of twenty-four hours, so she might need to sneak in again and replace it.

  She switched on the recorder, and the whine of feedback told her everything was working as it should. She snapped the recorder off again. Time to go—and not a moment too soon. Wherever he’d been, Botha was already back. As she was locking the door behind her, she heard the growl of the Porsche’s engine.

  Jade ran to the other side of the parking lot and pulled her jacket’s hood up just as the Porsche rounded the building. Turning her head away from him, she hurried toward the motel’s west wing. A few more steps, and she’d be out of his sight. In the meantime, she was a nobody. A dark-clad figure in a hooded jacket. He wouldn’t look at her twice.

  Behind her, she heard the car stop, the door slam. And then she heard him call out. “Hello?”

  She tensed. There was nobody else in sight. He had to be calling to her.

  Reluctantly, she turned to see Carlos Botha striding purposefully toward her.

  He was shorter than she’d supposed—maybe five-eight, five-nine, but powerfully built. Deep brown eyes, olive skin, dark hair razored so short it was no more than a shadow over his scalp. He wore a khaki T-shirt with a black logo on the front, faded blue jeans, sturdy lace-up shoes. As he approached, she saw he was sizing her up in exactly the same way she’d done with him. His face looked hard, as if it wasn’t used to smiling. She found herself suddenly thinking of Gillespie’s easy grin.

  “I wanted to ask you . . .” Speaking in a low voice, Botha glanced in the direction of number twelve. “I saw you talking to the police earlier. Do you know what happened over there?”

  “I don’t know what happened, but I saw two dead bodies in the room. A man and a woman,” she said.

  He frowned. “Serious? A man and a woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do the police know how they died?”

  “I’ve got no idea,” she told him. It was weird speaking to a person she’d been paid to follow. It felt dangerous and forbidden, a conversation that was breaking all her rules. It made her uncomfortable to think that she’d just planted a listening device in his room.

  “Could it have been random crime? Like a robbery gone wrong?” He sounded almost hopeful, as if he wanted it to be a robbery.

  “It didn’t look like that,” she said.

  He was quiet for a minute, taking in that information before saying, “Well, thanks.”

  At that moment, her cell phone buzzed inside her bag—finally, and too late, giving her an excuse to turn away.

  It was Gillespie on the line. She punched the button to send it through to voice mail. She couldn’t take that call right then. Not when Botha might overhear. And not when her face felt hot and her heart was still pounding from the shock of the mistake she’d made.

  She couldn’t fix this situation now. Botha was clearly rattled by the murder, and she couldn’t blame him. If he decided that the Best Western motel was too dangerous, there was no way she could follow him somewhere else.

  He’d noticed her already, and had spoken to her. He would recognize her again.

  Back in her room, Jade tuned in to her listening device. Botha was moving around in his room. She heard the bathroom door close and open again. The bug picked up a rapid clicking sound, which must be him typing on his keyboard. That gave her a chance to call Gillespie back.

  “Do you have any news?” he asked. The tension was audible in his voice.

  “I’ve found Botha.”

  “You have? Good work. Where is he?”

  “The Best Western motel in Randfontein. He’s checked into room number nineteen. But there are complications.”

  “What’s happened?” Gillespie asked, sounding concerned. “Why do you say that?”

  “There’s been a murder at the motel. Botha just asked me about it. He knows who I am now. I can’t tail him discreetly anymore, and I can’t follow him if he moves. There’s too much risk of him recognizing me.”

  Jade pushed aside the image of that room, the sickly fragrance of oil overlaying the copper stink of blood, the bodies lying there, pale limbs in a crimson-stained sea.

  Another silence.

  “I think we can work something out,” Gillespie said after a pause.

  “How do you mean?”

  “We can do this another way, which might get even better results. With your agreement, of course.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Engage with Botha. You’ve already spoken to him once; do so again. Try to get friendly, and find out some background. He doesn’t know why you’re at this motel. Make up a reason. Maybe he’ll share some information with you.”

  Befriend a man who was clearly on the run? After a murder in the motel? For sure, Botha would be suspicious of everyone now, herself included.

  “I’ll try,” she said reluctantly.

  “I should warn you, though, that the police came around to Inkomfe today, looking for Botha.”

  “Why?”

  “He has had a charge laid against him of malicious damage to property.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He smashed up a bar early Friday morning. A place called Lorenzo’s in Sandton. The owner told the police that he wanted to lay a charge of assault as well, but the lady involved wouldn’t press charges.”

  “Thanks for telling me.” Great. So she was now supposed to become friendly with a man who showed a propensity for violent behavior. “Gillespie, are you sure you want me to do this?”

  “As long as you are willing. I’ll put another payment into your account if you feel that the risk merits it.”

  “I haven’t had the first one yet,” she told him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I looked at my bank account this morning. There’s nothing from you there.”

  There was a pause.

  “I must apologize,” Gillespie said. “I’ll check what happened on my side. This isn’t the first time I’ve had a payment mysteriously disappear. It’s happened twice in the last week, and I must admit it’s making me slightly paranoid.”

  “I would be, too,” Jade agreed.

  “I need to take an urgent look at my online security.” He sighed. “But I haven’t had the time to do it. Anyway, I’ll arrange to give you cash in full as soon as possible.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  They disconnected, leaving her wondering what she should do next. How was she supposed to engage with Botha? Knock on his door and ask to borrow some sugar while hoping he didn’t go berserk and try to assault her?

  But even as she pocketed her phone, her recording device crackled into life again.

  She heard footsteps, then the sound of the door opening and closing. The key turned in the lock.

  Botha was heading out.

  She’d have to follow. Maybe she could find a reason for bumping into him again. She shoved her bag into the cupboard and threw the bug’s recorder onto the pillow. Then, car keys in hand, she opened the door and waited to hear the Porsche start up.

  But instead, all she saw was a dark-clad figure walking out of the motel and across the road.

  Craning her neck, Jade saw that there was a run-down restaurant on the other side of the road. It was open, although it didn’t look busy. Like the motel, it seemed quiet and forgotten. But it was where Botha was heading. There was nowhere else to eat nearby, in which case it would seem innocent if she ended up there, too.

  When she left her room, she saw that the police were still working in number twelve, with portable lights set up outside. The coroner’s van was parked nearby, ready to transport the bodies. The crowd had dispersed, although a few people were still watching from a respectful distance.


  Jade let out a frustrated breath as she turned away. It was stupid to blame herself for the murder, but she couldn’t help feeling guilty that she hadn’t done enough.

  How could she have changed things? Would the outcome have been any different if Jade had ignored the blonde woman’s desperate plea for her to go away? What if she had insisted on walking back with her to the motel room?

  Would the woman be alive now?

  Or might there be three bodies on that flooded floor?

  She headed across the road to the restaurant and walked inside. The tables were weathered and mostly empty. She saw Botha immediately. He was sitting at a corner table with his back to the wall, drinking what looked like whiskey. Although his laptop was open, she saw his head jerk up, instantly clocking her arrival.

  The only other customers were a middle-aged couple conversing quietly at one of the window tables, and an elderly man sitting near the bar, reading the newspaper over a glass of beer.

  The waiter was dividing his time between WhatsApping on his phone and watching the soccer game on the television above the bar. He took a break from these activities to bring Jade a glass of wine and hand her the food menu. Despite the tense knot in her stomach, she knew she needed to eat. She’d been watching for Botha since early morning, and all she’d had was a muesli bar. She scanned the menu quickly and ordered a toasted cheese sandwich and a salad.

  Ignoring Botha’s stare, she took a seat at the bar and feigned fascination with soccer. Perhaps he would make the next move. Her job would be so much easier if he believed he had approached her.

  In the meantime, she’d have to be an unwilling football spectator. She’d never been able to muster much enthusiasm for the game. Perhaps she lacked appreciation for its finesse and could only stare, puzzled, at the spectacle of grown men writhing on well-tended grass while trying to convince the referee they were about to die.

  She’d seen two Oscar-worthy performances and one consolation-prize winner by the time her food arrived.