‘We took this when we built and opened these two barns. It was a big thing for us. February before last. It was a kind of barn-raising, like in that film . . .’ Caldwell reaches up and pulls the sheet off the corkboard. ‘Witness, that was it.’ He hands the sheet to de Vries. ‘Terry is right here.’ He points to a tall figure at the back of the group of about forty people.
De Vries squints at it. Says, ‘I need to take this outside.’
He trots back into the sunshine, stares at the picture. The inkjet printing has begun to fade and, close up, it is pixilated and fuzzy. De Vries holds it away from himself, tries to focus on the partially obscured face. He is experiencing the same sensations he felt when he studied the picture of Toby Henderson in the mortuary. He swallows hard, aware that his hands are shaking and that he cannot keep the picture still enough to stare at it any longer. He is almost certain.
He looks up to see Ernest Caldwell lighting another cigarette. He takes a breath and steadies himself.
‘I ought to speak to this Terry myself. Where will he be?’
Caldwell looks down at his watch.
‘It’s coming up to five now. He’ll either be at his place or out riding. He often takes his horse for a run at dusk. I’ll drive you down and we’ll see. You need to go right away?’
‘Yes.’
Caldwell points a remote-control key fob at the barn and the huge door begins to descend.
‘Follow me down.’
He ducks into his Subaru. De Vries gets into the Toyota, struggles to push the key into the ignition, finally fires up the engine and pulls out after Caldwell. He is thinking about the face in the picture. The face with a beard and sideburns, not complete but, he thinks, complete enough. He wonders whether he has seen correctly and wishes he had taken the picture with him.
When they pull up outside the cottage, de Vries can see how isolated it is. Further down the gentle hill, perhaps a kilometre away, is a group of plainer workers’ cottages in a semicircle of gum trees, some with lights in the windows, but this house is bigger, completely dark.
Caldwell gets out of his car and walks over to Vaughn.
‘Looks like he’s out just now. He has his own stables around the back. We can check and see if Derby is missing.’
‘Derby?’
‘His horse.’
They walk briskly behind the house to a small courtyard bordered by three stables. Caldwell peers into each box. From the second one a white horse’s head appears but, from the others, there is no sign of life.
‘Yes. He’s out riding. He’ll have taken his dog, William, with him too. Do you want to wait?’
De Vries wonders. He affects nonchalance.
‘No. I’ll catch him tomorrow. Will you see him this evening?’
‘Probably not. I can call him later. He never takes his cell out with him – the reception isn’t great around here.’
‘That’s fine. I’ll call by tomorrow morning.’
Caldwell looks at him. ‘Are you sure? You seemed concerned back there up at the barns.’
‘No. It’s been a long day, that’s all, and I could do with a break. Tomorrow is fine.’
Caldwell waits a moment longer, then turns towards his car. He stops and looks back at de Vries.
‘You want to talk to Deirdre or me any more?’
‘No, sir. Thank you. When I come to the main road, which way do I go for Riebeek-Kasteel?’
‘Turn right. When you reach the T-junction, turn left and you’ll see it signposted. There’s still another hour of light. You’ll be there well before nightfall. Just follow me back to the farmhouse and then carry on past me.’
De Vries studies the map on top of Thambo’s pile of reports, realizes that he is closer to the entrance of the Fineberg olive farm than he had imagined. He shuts off the reading light and looks at his cellphone. There are eight missed calls. The charge is nearly exhausted, but he scrolls down the list, sees that they are all from Don February. He presses the call button and hears Don’s phone ringing. The ringing stops and there is the sound of the freeway. ‘Don. Can you talk?’
The light on his screen fades and dies; the line goes dead. He has no battery left. He opens the glove compartment, then remembers that he is not in his own car. There is no charger there. He wants to throw the phone down hard, break it into pieces, but he lays it gently on the passenger seat, his hand shaking. He feels his heart beating in his temples. He stays stationary at the junction, engine running, the light beginning to fade around him. He knows that he must return to Riebeek-Kasteel, get in contact with Don February, put together a team, at the least with Ben Thambo. He hears himself breathing above the engine noise, rubs the sweat off his palms with the tips of his fingers, grips the wheel and turns left – towards the Fineberg olive farm.
There is no one at the entrance from the main road, and he drives fast and focused onto the track around the olive groves. Already, he needs his full-beam headlights to show him the way. The sun has fallen and the grey dusk of the countryside is blacker than night in the city. He takes the 90-degree turn at the far corner and begins to slow down. He stops the Toyota a hundred metres short of the turn-off down into the wooded dell. He searches the glove compartment and cubby-holes for a torch, finds nothing. He pats his chest for the feel of his gun and realizes that this, too, has been jettisoned back at headquarters.
He gets out of the car, trots towards the turn-off and then jogs down the hill towards the bunker, trying to mask his panting. The moon has barely risen and the canopy of trees block out what there is of dull white light. He ducks under the striped police tape and runs to where he remembers the trapdoor is positioned. It is closed, but not padlocked. He heaves the iron gate up and lowers it as slowly as he can to the ground. He is about to climb down inside when he freezes. In the distance, he hears a horse whinnying. He wonders whether the man calling himself Terry is on the horse or in the bunker, wonders whether to follow the sound of the horse, or let his body lead him where it will. He swallows, descends the ladder and jumps the last few steps, hitting the ground heavily, almost losing his balance. His limbs feel weak and shaky, but he is so charged with adrenalin now that he drives himself on, step after step.
He reaches the green doors at the entrance to the bunker and finds them shut also. He tries to squeeze his fingers between them, but cannot shift them. He picks up the strongest branch he can find on the ground and inserts it into the narrow gap between them. The right-hand door moves a few centimetres, but he cannot gain sufficient purchase to lever it open. He searches the perimeter in the gloom, bent low over the leaves and twigs. His hand hits metal and he brings the object up to his face: a thick rusted blade from what might have been a chisel. He returns to the doors and tries again. Using all his limited strength, he pushes the chisel blade between the gap and uses the left-hand door as purchase. Finally, he swaps it for his fingers, dropping the chisel blade and, grimacing, heaves open the right-hand door. He squeezes inside, leaning his back against the door to keep it open. He uses his left foot to drag the chisel to the base of the left-hand door, lets the right-hand door close, almost completely.
He turns, stares down the corridor that descends to his right, sees only blackness, knows that there will be no light until he passes through the next set of doors and, even then, he doesn’t know whether the power has been cut, whether the generator which powered the dull green bulb, the cursed chest freezer, is still running.
He lets his eyes adjust to the blackness and then begins to move down the corridor, his arms held out ahead of him. He senses the walls either side of him, but he cannot see them. The smell infects his nostrils again, damp and mildew-ridden. It brings back the fear and desperation which overcame him, last time he was here. He stops, suddenly paralysed, appalled at the prospect of diving once more into the heavy black air ahead of him. He then pulls himself straight, continues gingerly, step by step.
His fingers hit the double doors at the bottom of the corridor and he swears
under his breath. He sees nothing, but he shoulders open the door, which swings forward heavily but silently and then, once he is through, shuts behind him with an almost imperceptible hiss. At the far end, he can just see the low glow of green light that had lit their way only a week previously. Bracing himself, he walks slowly towards the prison block, concentrating on masking his footsteps by walking almost on tiptoe.
Suddenly, he stops. He holds his breath, feels a shiver pass down his back. He hears a voice. It is deep, echoing down the corridor, grasping at his heart like a clenched hand. He cannot hear words, but he knows now that he is not alone. He swallows, becomes aware that his mouth is completely dry. He stifles a cough, retreats until his back hits the wall, rests his stinging fingers against the cold and damp. He stares at the doors to the prison block, but he cannot discern any movement, hear any words. In the stultifying silence, he wonders whether he has imagined the voice; thinks perhaps that he dreamt it, that his senses are shutting down on him just as they did before.
He edges down the corridor, aware of the gradient taking him further underground. When he reaches the doors, he realizes that he has been holding his breath again, and he pauses to stabilize his breathing. He opens one door a crack and peers through. The three dim bulbs are lit in the anteroom, but he cannot see more than a sliver of the space through the gap in the doors. His ears strain, alert for any sound. Suddenly the voice speaks and de Vries jumps. It is close by, but not in the anteroom. Someone is in the cell area. Then he hears whimpering, a child crying. He knows that this is the missing boy, Joe Pienaar; knows that he has found him, that the man he is seeking has returned to where he is in complete control.
He pushes open the door more fully, hears the hinges creak in the silence . . . but does not think that this is audible inside the cell-block. He slips inside and, keeping low, takes two long steps to the left so that he is not visible from the door to the cells, which is half open. He searches the worktops for something to use as a weapon. He sees a table knife, picks it up, slides it into his jacket pocket. There is nothing else he can see which could be useful.
He hears the voice again; this time it is clear. It strikes such fear into him, he cannot believe how it reverberates through his entire body. He knows that he must move now, or he will become frozen, impotent to act. He steps to the door of the cell-block, sees the back of the man and, inside the middle cell, the boy he recognizes as Joe Pienaar, his torso naked, his face bloodied. He goes to speak but catches himself, swallows, urging moisture to lubricate his throat.
Then he says: ‘Trevor.’
The man jumps, flashes around, stares at the doorway. The boy screams, high-pitched and hysterical. Then, just as quickly, he stops, and de Vries hears the thudding silence again. He wills himself to speak.
‘Trevor Henderson.’
De Vries takes a step inside the doorway, faces the tall man. He seeks confirmation, not from the man, but from his own eyes. He scans his features and he knows that it is true.
‘Get back.’ The voice, before so deep and calm, is strangled.
‘I have no weapon. I am on my own. You are in control.’ De Vries is surprised to hear his own voice penetrate the silence, controlled, saying words he had not prepared but which instinctively he knows he must say.
‘I know you,’ the man states.
‘It’s Vaughn. It’s Vaughn de Vries. And you are Trevor Henderson.’
‘I am Terry Hardiman . . . Terry Hardiman.’
De Vries takes another step inside. Henderson darts to his right, grabs a short pistol from the table against the wall, points it at de Vries.
‘Stay where you are.’
De Vries stops, shivers with cold fear. He has been so focused on the boy, he has failed to make even a cursory search of his surroundings. His brain is processing the man’s voice. He knows that this is – was – Inspector Trevor Henderson, a man with whom he worked for two years; knows that this man has taken three boys and now a fourth; knows that he has taken his own son, locked him away for seven years and abused him beyond understanding. He looks up at Henderson, stares at the barrel of the gun.
‘Let the boy go,Trevor. You have me now. Do what you want, but let the boy go. He has his own family waiting for him.’
‘No.’
‘Let the boy go and we can talk about this. We can move forward the way you want.’
‘Joe is mine.’
Three words, uttered so calmly, with such total assurance. If de Vries could only be certain that he was not dreaming, he would be so afraid. He struggles to compute what he must say.
‘Steven, Toby, Bobby. They were your boys. They were your boys. But Joe – he isn’t. Let him go.’
The man’s right eye twitches. Vaughn watches every tiny move, tries not to stare at his face directly; knows that all his body language must be subservient. He must keep talking, engage this man, persuade him slowly but consistently, yet make him feel that he is in command. He feels so tired, has so little strength, but the wide-eyed, pleading gaze of the child, now on his knees, drives him on.
‘Let me see Joe,’ de Vries hears himself saying.
The man turns his back to de Vries for a moment, stares at the child. Then he swivels round, points the gun at de Vries’ head and walks towards him.
‘I told him,’ he snarls. ‘I told him that if it was anybody, it would be you.’
‘Who?’
The man steps forward, jams the muzzle of the gun into de Vries’ ear, grabs his arm, pulls him towards the bars of the cell. His teeth are clenched. He spits, his voice both threatening and pleading.
‘Don’t ask questions. That’s the rule here. No questions.’ He twists the gun in de Vries’ ear, penetrating it, jabbing it into him. De Vries grimaces from the pain, feels his legs quiver.
‘I told him that you were the type never to give up. Where are the others?’
De Vries concentrates on breathing. The gun fucks his ear again.
‘The others. Where are they?’
Now he feels that the reality is less frightening than the prospect. It is happening; any choice has evaporated. He is calm.
‘I told you: I’m alone. They are coming, but we have time to sort this out.’
He senses Henderson gulp. He sees the man’s eyes go out of focus for a moment, panic begin to set in. He knows that as the adrenalin hits him, he could do anything.
The man reaches in his pocket with his left hand, struggles to find something. Then he stretches across himself to his right-hand pocket. De Vries hears keys. He slowly lowers his own right hand; out of sight of Henderson, he feels the blunt, cold blade of the table knife in his own jacket pocket.
‘Step back,’ Henderson commands.
De Vries feels the gun muzzle leave his ear; he staggers back a pace. Henderson glances down at the lock to the cell, then up again to de Vries.
‘Joe. Stand at the back by your bed.’
From the corner of his eye, de Vries sees the boy’s eyes open wide again.
‘Joe! Do as I say!’ The man’s voice rises with frustration.
De Vries sees Joe Pienaar get up onto shaking legs, then fall again and crawl towards the back of the cell. He sees Henderson feel for the right key, insert it into the lock, turn it. Henderson points the gun at de Vries and gestures him towards the door.
‘Get in.’
Vaughn looks Henderson in the eye, looks down at the gun muzzle. He takes a tiny step forward. Then he stops.
‘Move.’
Vaughn holds up his hands slowly.
‘Trevor . . .Terry. Let Joe go. Let him live. You can do what you like with me, but let him go.’ He turns towards the boy, meets his stare, wills the expression in his eyes to resonate with the child.
‘I am his father.’
De Vries stands still, watching Henderson. The man glances quickly at Joe Pienaar, and then back to de Vries.
‘Get in the cell, de Vries. Move – now.’
Vaughn lowers his arms, turns him
self at a slight angle from Henderson and reaches the knife in his pocket. He knows he has only one chance. He stops just in front of Henderson.
‘Are you hurt, Joe?’ he asks.
He stares again at the child, wills a response from him. Suddenly, Joe Pienaar lets out an ear-piercing scream. Henderson turns to him – and at that moment, de Vries drives both arms down onto Henderson’s right arm and then lifts his own right hand and stabs the table knife into the right-angle between the man’s neck and shoulder. Henderson screams, drops the pistol and lunges at de Vries, head down with all his weight, driving him away and smashing him against the iron bars of the adjoining cell. De Vries jabs him in the eyes with his fingers, struggles free of the howling man and then jumps on top of him, pinning down his hands with his own, his exhausted body a dead weight on top of him. He looks up and sees Joe Pienaar at the open cell door.
‘Run! Just run,’ he pants. ‘Go up the corridor ahead of you and get out.’
The boy looks startled and deathly pale. He stares at the two men, stumbles across the cell-block, out of the door, then through the anteroom. Over the sound of Henderson’s whimpering, de Vries can hear the child’s footsteps slow but not stop, and he imagines him trying to run, walking blind up towards the double doors and eventually to the green iron doors and out into the dark, cool night air.
He looks down at Henderson, who has stopped struggling. He feels an unnatural heat against his hands and sees blood oozing out from the man’s neck. He does not let up the pressure. He gasps for air, tries to steady himself. When there has been no movement for a minute or so, he releases his weight from one hand and levers himself up. He lets out a deep breath and wonders whether Henderson is unconscious or whether he is dying. He tries to stand up, but feels no strength in his legs; his arms ache as he tries to get upright. Suddenly, he is aware that the body is moving and, before he knows it, he sees Henderson’s arm grasp his legs and pull him back down in a vicious rugby tackle. He loses his balance, feels the concrete floor race towards him, the brutal pain as his head hits the rough surface.
The First Rule of Survival Page 31
