by David Gilman
Sayid watched as the peaks and troughs flatlined. A few keystrokes later, thousands of numbers began to spin from top to bottom of the screen as the system searched for the telephone exchange and then the individual number of the person Peterson had called. Access Denied. Restricted Exchange. An encipher and decipher process was installed at the other end of Peterson’s conversation. So someone pretty powerful was shutting down any possibility of tracing the call, as well as encoding and decoding whatever Peterson said to them. To hell with that. Nothing was restricted so far as Sayid was concerned. It was going to take a long time, but he would track them down.
Farentino might have been isolated in his own world of specialist publishing, but his instincts were sufficiently honed to know when something was not right. He watched the street for any signs of unusual activity. A flashed warning had pinged on his computer screen from Max’s unknown friend:
Be careful. They might be watching you.
Now he gazed out of the window, glancing at office workers and tourists as they sauntered across and around the square. There was no one who struck him immediately as being out of place but, if they were on to him, then Farentino was already one step ahead. The game was too important to lose. He had his exit strategy planned. He unwrapped a Montecristo cigar, taking pleasure in its aroma and texture before heating the tip with a match: it was going to be a case of holding his nerve and playing it out until the final moments, before making his escape. It would take at least half an hour to smoke this fine Havana cigar—more than enough time to alert friends—important friends. He just hoped that Max had found his father’s secret before it became necessary to run, because then there was a risk that could suddenly escalate; and if Max was still alive, then an all-out effort would be made to finish him before he discovered the vital information that Tom Gordon’s enemies craved. Farentino gazed out through the window. He blew a smoke ring. They were not on to him yet. There was still time.
Once Kallie had escaped from the docks, she returned to Mike Kapuo’s office as she had told Thandi she would. The senior policeman smiled when he saw her and gestured for her to wait outside the room. A steady stream of officers was coming and going, so she sat patiently until he beckoned her in from the hard bench she was occupying in the hallway. Sitting amid the hubbub of the busy police headquarters gave her time to think things through. Could Shaka Chang, or people who worked for him, be involved in Anton Leopold’s death? Had Leopold been killed while he was with Max’s father at the docks? Maybe not. Leopold saw something he shouldn’t have, then? Max’s father had sent his assistant to Walvis Bay—that was where the letters to Max were posted. Why? Because Max’s dad was either injured or close to discovering another piece of the jigsaw puzzle, part of which lay at the docks. Yes, that made the best sense, because !Koga’s people had taken the field notes from way up north, and that’s where Tom Gordon was—somewhere. Perhaps Max’s father did not even know that Leopold was dead. If Shaka Chang’s company was doing something illegal in connection with shipping, then he was bringing something into the country that he shouldn’t, and that something might be what this was all about.
“Kallie, come on in,” Kapuo called.
She sat down as he poured coffee for them both and settled himself back into his swivel chair with a sigh of unburdening his feet from the weight they had to carry. “You were out of the house early,” he said casually, watching her over the rim of his cup.
“I can’t sleep in, you know what it’s like once you’ve lived in the bush. Cities don’t agree with me. I had a good walk and looked at the shops when they opened.”
“Uh-huh. You didn’t buy anything, though?”
“No, don’t really need much.”
“First girl I’ve ever heard say that.” He smiled.
“Mike, I’ve been thinking.”
“That’s a bad sign in my household, it usually means I’m going to be dragged into something I don’t want to be dragged into. Go on.”
“Anton Leopold is dead, isn’t he?”
Kapuo was too old a hand to show any surprise that she had found out and he wondered if it was just a guess.
“Why do you think that?”
Kallie couldn’t admit she had seen his report in his office at home because then he would know that she might have seen the note about telling Peterson. “Because you haven’t mentioned him once and I told you that he was here in Walvis Bay. So, I presumed the worst. I guess you didn’t want to upset me.”
Kapuo nodded. “Yes, he’s dead. He drowned. He was found in the harbor. We think he got drunk and fell in.”
“What did the postmortem say?”
“Why are you asking? Don’t you think that’s all a bit gruesome?”
“I’m interested because of Max—not that I can do much about it,” she added quickly.
“He had traces of prescription drugs in him—sleeping pills and antidepressants. That and the booze wasn’t a great idea.”
Kallie nodded and lowered her face to the cup; she had to hide her eyes in case Kapuo noticed her alarm. She knew plenty of men who worked in the wilderness, some of them with a liking for strong liquor; but no one needed their senses dulled by either sleeping pills or antidepressants—that was for people living in the rat-race cities. Anyone hoping to survive in the bush needed their wits about them, and the sheer physical exertion of being out there was enough to make anyone sleep like a baby.
“Was he on a doctor’s prescription?”
Kapuo realized she had thought it through quickly and that she was not someone to be fobbed off with any glib explanations.
“He wasn’t local.”
“But he must have had his pills on him, that way you could trace the doctor who prescribed them.”
“No, he didn’t. They must have got washed away when he drowned. And before you ask, we haven’t traced any family doctor in his background—not yet. He didn’t have a definite base he worked from. He was a freelancer who acted as a geological guide for visiting mineral exploration people and scientists. People from universities, things like that.”
“He was well thought of, by the sound of it,” Kallie said. “I mean, serious people like Tom Gordon, well, they’re not going to hire anyone with problems, are they? Their lives might depend on someone like Anton Leopold.”
Damn. This girl was interrogating him. She was building on his answers and taking a logical line of questioning. She was making a case out of it!
“Kallie, what am I going to do with you?”
“I’m going to fix the plane, then go home.”
“You came to me for help.”
“I think maybe I panicked. Your imagination can get out of control when your engine fails.”
“So now you’re saying no one was trying to kill you?”
“No, I don’t think they were. Sorry, Mike, it sounds a bit hysterical, doesn’t it?”
“What about the fuel injectors and the plastic pipe that melted?”
“The injectors could have worked loose, I suppose, and the plastic pipe might have been put there by an inexperienced mechanic. It’s just that, the more I think about it, the more I convince myself that I overreacted.”
Kapuo had the kind of penetrating look that made it difficult not to wilt when it settled on you. “I have to decide whether to tell your father or not. It’s my duty as a police officer but, more importantly, as his friend.”
“Dad told me to come to you in case I felt in danger. All right, I did, but I think maybe I was wrong. And if you tell him all of this, he’s going to abandon his safari, lose clients, lose money, and have his reputation as a first-class guide questioned. Dad’ll drop everything to come home and be with me. Don’t do it, Mike. Please. I can deal with what’s happened.”
“You’ve got yourself involved in something bigger than you think. A dead man, a missing scientist and a boy running loose in the wilderness. I’ve had requests from people in England who have powerful connections, asking me to keep them
informed about anything unusual happening in relation to Tom Gordon.”
“So you don’t think Anton Leopold’s death was an accident, then?”
“I never said that. Your imagination is running riot again.”
They stared at each other. Kallie could play the unblinking game despite the turmoil boiling inside her, but she lowered her eyes in submission. There was no point antagonizing Kapuo, who would decide whether he would be happier sending her home and so getting her out of the way, or insisting that she stay with his family until her father could return.
“What kind of thing am I involved in, and who are the people in England?” she asked.
“I can’t tell you that. Let’s just say that what happened to you worries me.”
Mike Kapuo fell silent. He had spent hours being tormented about Kallie van Reenen’s story. First of all, he believed her story about the attempt on her life, and her denial these last few minutes convinced him that either she knew more than she was saying, or she had discovered something new. And she was right about one thing. If he told her father, he would throw up everything to get back to her. But if one attempt had been made on her life, would her father be in any position to help? He could put her in protective custody, but sooner or later he would have to justify his actions. If the press heard about a girl being held for safekeeping, then this whole “missing father and son” incident could be blown sky-high. How to keep tabs on Kallie was his dilemma.
Kallie could tell he had made a decision. “I think I can trust you to go home and leave us to try and find the boy and his father.”
“Thanks, Mike. I will.”
“Stupid English kid. As if we didn’t have enough problems trying to find his father. OK, I’ll get someone to take you back to your plane and have one of our air division mechanics sort out your engine.”
Kallie gave him the best smile she could manage without sagging in relief.
Mike Kapuo had reasoned matters through. He knew exactly how he would keep an eye on Kallie. This mechanic would plant a tracking device in her plane, and between that and radar alerts he would know exactly where she was. He convinced himself he was not using her as bait, but rather that, if she knew anything she should not, then Kapuo would have a chance of getting to her—before she got hurt. Though if her father ever found out what he had done, the two old bulls would lock horns. Blood would be spilt.
Death was a vacuum. For a nanosecond it was suffocatingly quiet, as still and silent as a crypt buried deep beneath the oldest, biggest church imaginable, a place so noiseless that, if a million people screamed at once, they would not be heard. Air did not move. Thought did not exist. Sensation was diminished to a moment so fleeting, it was impossible to experience it.
And then a surge of thunder, like a confused and violent wave breaking on a shallow reef, hurled him into a void.
As his heart stopped, Max’s mind reverberated through consciousness, traveling beyond the speed of light and sound, as if seeking a portal in space where it should merge, make contact with whatever it was in the great unknown.
Starbursts of light, like the very best fireworks display in the sky, suddenly inverted and became pockmarked black speckles. Then that too suddenly vanished and became … nothing.
Max’s brain told him he was drowning, that he had fallen, for it was now a sensation of tumbling through this invisible force. No time to think, no moments to recollect what he had read once: that when you die, there are welcoming spirits singing heavenly music reaching out to guide you onwards and upwards. This was a white-water ride in a black sea of fear.
His instinct for survival fought against this overwhelming sensation but, like drowning, the moment came when he could struggle no longer, and finally he surrendered. It was a moment of being instantly fearless, incredibly calm. A beautiful warmth enveloped him as he floated. There was no pain, nor was there fear; instead, he had the simple desire to bathe in the comfort and safety of whatever it was that soothed him. In that moment of surrender, his mother’s face touched his own, her hand stroked his cheek, her lips kissed his eyes; he smelled her hair and a breeze of a whisper told him he was loved. That his pain was over. That he should sleep. That she was always with him. Always had been.
An echo of a memory, of what was his own voice, softly called to her. Mum, I missed you so much…. I love you, Mum…. I knew you weren’t dead … I knew…. Can we go home now …?
There was no answer. The gentle night carried everything away and left him as still and unmoving as a deep underground pool of water.
Time does not exist in death. Max stayed in darkness until something flickered. Wisps of fire, then brighter light, a pyramid of flames. Shadows broke the glowing heat. Muted sounds, a chant, ebbed and flowed.
The shaman plunged his fingers into a pouch of powdered herbs. He forced them into Max’s mouth, the sticky mess adhering to the boy’s gums, sitting under his tongue and, through his salivary glands, entering his system. Everyone moved away as the shaman placed his hands on Max’s stomach and heart. When Max’s heart stopped, the shaman pulled a huge eland skin across them both, ushering them into darkness.
Within two minutes, Max’s heart thudded, as labored as an old engine trying to start. BaKoko, shaman, shapeshifter, forced a liquid concoction down Max’s throat; Max choked, then vomited, and finally slept, embraced like a child by the wizened old man.
More than twelve hours later, Max’s eyes opened. The canopy of stars greeted him, and sticklike shadows chanted and shuffled around a big fire. Two men held his shoulders, another two his arms and legs, !Koga was one of them, as the shaman curled his fist and ground it into Max’s lower stomach. He worked his fist up below his sternum, and Max felt a lump that became a ball of energy. It rose through his belly and into his lungs and heart, and blood poured from his nose. The men dragged him to his feet, pulled him towards the flames and carried him around the fire as the chanting increased and the blood kept flowing. He was part of a trance dance which lay at the heart of Bushman culture—the Dance of Blood.
Another journey began.
His shadow-form raced through the night, across rock and sand; his eyes saw everything. The moon was high, its pale imitation of day etched the land. Animal-like, he sped across a plateau, its edge reaching into space. Max paid no attention and leaped from the precipice. Whatever form he had taken on the ground had changed, and now he could fly. He soared, glided across canyon and ravine, dry river beds, trees and hills. The dream was reality. A supernatural energy possessed him, an inhuman instinct coursed through him. Arms were wings, his feet curved talons. He felt the night wind and let some unknown guide possess him.
A mottled canopy nestled across the ground, filtering shapes of trees, disguising their hidden secret. It was the dove. The dove beneath the trees that Max had seen in the cave.
He cried out.
A screech, like an eagle’s cry, echoed through the emptiness.
Max was dancing around the fire alone, his head back and mouth open, though that primal shriek was silent. The others watched him. His eyes focused on their hazy images. Suddenly exhausted, he sank to his knees. Hands lifted him, laying him on a grass mat, then covered him with cloth and skins for warmth. The shivering fever had started. It would be hours before he regained consciousness.
!Koga sat with him, bathed his head and face with precious water, and wondered where his friend’s spirit had traveled.
Through a shadowland of dreams, Max vaulted time, soaring through extraordinary landscapes, and then lay dormant as waves of color lapped across his body. Throughout it all, in various guises, was the jackal—Anubis of the Egyptians—weighing his heart on the scales of heavenly justice to see where his spirit should be sent. Then, as a running dog, it paralleled Max’s every move, and changed again into a watchful creature, sitting by a roaring fire in the night, dancing with the flickering images. Never an enemy, always a guide, the dog-creature watched, unperturbed by Max’s unconscious confusion. But deep wi
thin the cave of his own mind, Max knew instinctively that the jackal would guide him.
For two days !Koga sat with the fever-ridden Max. The Bushman boy had selected a branch from a wild currant tree from which they made their bows, and had patiently shaped the curve he wanted. As he fastened the gut string and tested its pull, Max groaned and eased himself onto one elbow. His mouth was clammy; the dried blood had been washed from his face, but its metallic taste coated his tongue.
Max eased the stiffness from his muscles. His arms were covered in dried mud; his torso and hair were also caked. He stood up uncertainly.
“Your skin. It was burning,” !Koga said. “I put mud on you. It is good; it will protect you.”
Max took the water-filled ostrich egg !Koga offered him. A small mouthful at first, with which he rinsed his teeth and throat and then spat out. It felt as though he had cleared a ton of muck, and then he drank greedily. The encrusted mud had dried into what felt like a second skin; his shorts were tattered, his nails broken; his muscles still ached from the spasms of the fever and the contortions from the Dance of Blood. But he felt strong. Stronger than he ever remembered. The Bushmen watched him and he gazed back, seeking out every face, looking into their eyes. He was saying a silent thank-you to them all, and they seemed to understand, nodding at first and then breaking into smiles and laughter. The shaman, BaKoko, gestured him towards the tree’s shade.
“BaKoko stopped the poison,” !Koga told him as they walked across the compound. “He gave you medicine, only he can do this. It was he who brought the blood from inside you.”
“I think he may have given me some kind of hallucinogenic weed; they can lock you up at home for taking that stuff,” said Max.
!Koga showed no sign of understanding, so Max smiled and put his arm around his friend. No need for that to be explained.
