by Arno Joubert
Moolman and de Kock stood next to the big man, their hands on his shoulders, patting his back awkwardly. They had never seen Eben in such a state.
Eben de Vos sank down on his knees then rested his head on the ground, slapping his palm on the floor as he cried. They let him be, not knowing what else to do.
De Kock zipped the plastic back over the girl’s face then silently slid the table back into the refrigerated recess in the wall and closed the door with a soft click.
Moolman summoned a doctor, and the man gave Eben a mild sedative. It took Eben fifteen minutes to calm down to a coherent state. After a cup of coffee and a cigarette, Eben seemed better.
Moolman took his arm and led him out of the morgue.
Eben didn’t react to any questions; he simply plodded along like a zombie, his bearded chin resting on his chest as he muttered, “She can’t be dead, my baby isn’t dead. It wasn’t her, it couldn’t be. Dear Jesus, please say it isn’t so.”
Alexa squinted into the wind as the South African National Sea Rescue Institute’s Rodman patrol boat pounded through the choppy surf, trailing two lines of thick white froth in its wake. White gulls circled overhead, squawking, cawing, and hurtling down to dive-bomb their slender frames into the grey water, popping up with small silver fish in their beaks a couple of seconds later.
Inspector Dawid Moolman stood at the back of the boat looking miserable, clinging to the gunwale rail as if his life depended on it. At the bow stood a tall, bearded man with thick locks of windswept black hair sticking out of a beanie on his head. He stood comfortably, gently swaying in tune with the rocking motion of the boat with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. Moolman had introduced the man as Eben de Vos. He was quiet and gruff; he would respond to their greetings with a curt nod and turn back to face the ocean, a faraway look in his eyes.
Apparently he had recently lost a loved one, and Moolman said he wanted to keep a close eye on the man, “In case he does something stupid,” whatever that meant. Alexa didn’t know the background to the case; she would ask Moolman about it later.
They had met Inspector Dawid Moolman at the Priority Crimes office in Cape Town. He had short reddish hair, and his brow was permanently furrowed. Everything about him seemed vanilla, no distinguishing features—like the kid you knew at school but couldn’t remember his name. When they greeted him, he stuck out a hand and smiled, and suddenly his face changed. His angelic smile lit his eyes, smoothed his features, and released his wrinkles for a moment. He seemed kind and gentle and caring: exactly the person you would want on your case. And then he became serious again as he pointed at the map, the worried frown returning.
A cork-boarded wall in his office had been dedicated to a map of Southern Africa, and there was a line of multicolored thumbtacks stuck in at various locations, meandering its way along the western coastline like a bright, poisonous snake. Alexa didn’t know what the different colors represented—Moolman probably had some reference system—but the gist of it was that the pins detailed the places where the sneakers had been found washed ashore. There were more than thirty pins dotted all over the map. She now understood why Laiveaux had prioritized this investigation.
Interpol needed an investigative lead on the case, and Laiveaux had assigned Bruce Bryden. They met him at Slander’s Peak harbor. Alexa and Neil hadn’t seen him for several weeks, and Alexa hadn’t realized how much she had missed her adoptive father. He was her rock, her sounding board for ideas, and the shoulder she cried on when life got tough. He’d taught her how to survive when a gang of double agents were hell-bent on wiping out her family. They had killed her dad, but she was lucky. Neil, Bruce, and General Laiveaux were the only three people in the world whom she could trust implicitly.
She watched Bruce, memories whirling around in her head. He stood talking to the skipper, bending down and nodding his head with his large hand on the man’s shoulder. He had decades of experience working tirelessly for Shin Bet in Israel to root out corrupt government officials and highly trained Mossad operatives. To beat the best, you had to be better. And Bruce was better than anyone she knew. Even better than Neil. He had never married, never had kids of his own. Taking care of Alexa had taken up most of his prime years—the years when a man finds a wife and marries and settles down. He had gotten her through in one piece, managed to track down and eliminate the people who were hunting her family, and kept her safe. She loved him with all her heart.
Bruce looked up at her as if reading her mind and winked, the side of his mouth turned up in a half-smile. He had the same strong jawline that Neil did, and amazingly he had never broken his nose in all his years in the military. Even Alexa had broken hers a couple of times. She smiled back, sticking a wisp of windblown hair behind her ear.
She looked sideways as Moolman shouted at the skipper, “How far?” for the fifth time during their fifteen-minute journey.
Skipper Ryan Barnes glanced at his GPS, which was mounted beside the steering wheel, and held up a hand. Five miles. Moolman grimaced and crouched, holding on to the railing for balance, his head tucked into his chest.
Neil shuffled to her side, sat down next to her, and leaned in. “Does the inspector look slightly green to you?” he asked with a mischievous grin, talking close to her ear to be heard above the wind and the roaring whine of the outboard motors.
Alexa glanced to her side then smiled. “We should have given him some Epilim.” A fellow recruit in the Legion had suffered from epilepsy, but he never got seasick. She soon realized that his medication had cured the seasickness.
Neil nodded thoughtfully then peered off into the distance, the wind buffeting his jacket. “Any idea what this is all about?”
Alexa shook her head. “Bruce reckons they belong to kids.”
Neil looked at her for a while, a worried furrow on his brow, then shifted his gaze toward the ocean, his lips pulled into a thin line.
The whine of the motor subsided to a low growl, and the boat started slowing down. “We’re close,” Barnes called.
Alexa stood up unsteadily and peered over the side of the boat. “Over there,” she called and pointed at something floating in the water. The skipper nodded and wheeled the boat deftly to the starboard side.
Neil leaned over and scooped up the sneaker. “Look,” he said, pointing at the water.
Moolman and Bruce joined them at the side of the boat, looking closely at what Neil had pointed out. Tiny bubbles were rising to the surface, almost invisible if you didn’t know what to look for.
“Decomposition gases,” Alexa said softly.
Neil put his hand on hers. “Want to go in?”
She nodded, slipping off her life jacket. “Yep, let’s go.” She wanted to get this over with.
They dressed in the companionway to the cockpit, and Neil helped her pull her air tank onto her back. He checked all her couplings and she did the same for Neil. She double-checked hers again. She had borrowed the equipment from the NSRI. First rule of diving: you’re responsible for your own safety. She tested her regulator, and a cold blast of air escaped with a loud hiss as she pushed the purge button. She smelled the air; it was nice and clean. She removed the regulator from her mouth and waddled to the skipper. “How deep is it?”
He glanced at his depth finder. “Eighty feet.”
She whistled softly. “Merde, that’s pushing it,” she said, glancing at Neil.
He shrugged. He didn’t look too concerned. “We’ll take it nice and easy.” He waved Bruce over. “Any chance of getting us some nitrox cylinders? I think we’ll be doing a couple of dives.”
Bruce shook his head. “Do this one, then stay out for the rest of the day. I’ll get them to adjust the mix when we’re back at the harbor.”
Neil nodded. “And we’ll need dry suits next time; the water’s going to be cold.”
Bruce grinned. “Pee in your suit.”
Alexa made a disgusted face and pulled Neil’s arm. “Let’s go.” She needed to find out w
hat was down there.
They shimmied to the back of the boat, stood ready on the dive platform, glanced at each other, and gave the OK signal. Then they held on to their masks and entered the water with a giant stride.
Alexa sucked in her breath as the cold water seeped into her suit. It couldn’t have been warmer than twelve degrees Celsius, and she shivered involuntarily. She opened the cuffs of her wetsuit to allow the water in; her body heat would warm it to act as a thermal barrier between her skin and the cold water outside. She released all the air from her BCD, following Neil down toward the bottom of the ocean, equalizing her ears to the mounting pressure by moving her jaw.
The visibility wasn’t good, probably ten feet. Neil pointed toward the fine trail of bubbles, and they followed it down to its source, descending slowly to preserve their energy.
Alexa’s dive computer started beeping urgently at sixty-six feet, warning her that she was pushing the limits of a recreational dive, and she set it to silent. She showed Neil the OK sign, and they continued deeper into the murky depths, the color of the icy waters changing from a hazy green to a muddy brown and finally to black. Alexa fumbled with her flashlight; it was the old-fashioned type, made from a durable hard plastic with an on/off switch on the side. She flicked it on and swung her faint beam around, trying to find her bearings. Neil switched his flashlight on as well, and his beam caught the edge of what looked like a large metal container lying on its side, wedged into a crevice on the ocean floor.
Alexa saw Neil’s beam flick to the left, then she noticed a large shadow drifting toward them. The great white swam lazily toward them, probably noticing the beams of light, then turned away and disappeared into the murky haze. Another large shape entered the light, and Alexa held her breath as another shark glided past.
Great whites were primarily scavengers, and they would hang around places where there was plenty to eat, which was probably whatever was inside the container.
They dove down, examining the container. It was a large trash dumpster, the type that they load onto dumpster trucks with chains. Alexa swam around it, examining it closely. There were no identifying markings, and it was painted a neutral white. It had started to rust, and a few clams and barnacles had already sucked onto the lower edges. She guessed it must have been in the water for a couple of weeks. She swung her flashlight in a wide arc, trying to spot the sharks, not wanting to bump into one by mistake. She worried for a moment about exiting the water; divers were most vulnerable at the surface.
She swam to the top of the container. It had been closed up by thick, makeshift metal bars, which someone had welded to the top opening. Larger bubbles of air seeped out of the container, splitting up then fizzing away, gradually making their way up to the surface.
She noticed another large shape appear in the murky distance then glide by to disappear as soon as it had arrived. She guessed the sharks didn’t appreciate the sneakers, so they let them be. She wondered if the sharks would spit out stuff that they didn’t eat. She shivered and shone her flashlight inside the dumpster, holding on to a metal bar to steady herself.
At first she struggled to comprehend what she saw. Bumps and ridges were covered by a thin white gauze of some kind. She pressed the torch against the bar, shining the light onto an object against the opening, then pushed it away with her hand. It was soft; it turned slowly and floated back to the opening. A large bubble of air escaped from below. She pointed her flashlight.
It illuminated a skull, eyeballs in deep sockets. Long dark hair, still attached to the skull, swayed gently in the current. The flesh on the cheeks and lips had started to decay, and the skin was detaching from the bone. Alexa noticed small fish darting in and out of the dumpster, grabbing pieces of tissue as they swam.
Neil had drifted off to her side, keeping an eye out for the sharks. Alexa waved him over and pointed at the skull. He swam over, peered inside, and cast Alexa a wide-eyed glance. He raised his shoulders as if to say, “What the fuck?”
Alexa swallowed; her mouth felt parched from sucking on the dry air.
She swam a couple of feet away then pointed her flashlight over the top of the container, trying to separate the forest from the trees. And then her suspicions were confirmed.
The container was filled to the brim with decomposing corpses.
Bruce peered toward the gloomy skies as he heard the distinctive whopping of helicopter blades. A shape appeared; it resembled a tiny wasp on the distant horizon, heading toward them. “You see that?” he asked, glancing back over his shoulder.
Ryan Barnes lifted his binoculars to his eyes. “It’s a Robinson R44, not one of ours.”
“Shit, I hope it’s not a TV crew,” Moolman said with the familiar, worried frown on his brow.
They stood watching as the craft flew toward them. It’s small for a chopper; looks a lot like a dragonfly, Bruce thought. The noise of the blades increased, and it flew over the boat, spraying them with a fine mist before circling back.
“Look familiar?” Bruce asked.
Moolman and Barnes shook their heads, cupping their hands over their eyes. The wind from the hovering chopper buffeted the boat, causing it to rock on the water. “It doesn’t have any registration numbers either,” Moolman shouted, puzzled.
Bruce waved at the aircraft. It was painted white and had no identifying numbers at all. The helicopter floated twenty yards above them; then, a hatch opened and something fell out. It plonked into the water ten yards from their boat. A second later, a large explosion rocked the vessel, water spraying onto the deck.
“Shit, that was a grenade!” Moolman shouted, holding on to the railing for balance. “Get us out of here.”
The skipper slammed the throttle forward and managed to tear away just in time as another explosion hit the water. “What the . . .?”
“We can’t leave them down there,” Bruce yelled, holding on to his cap.
The skipper kept quiet, a grim expression on his face, peering straight ahead as the craft rocketed over the water.
Eben de Vos pulled himself toward Bruce. “Don’t worry, we have the GPS coordinates,” he shouted over the deafening roar of the boat engine.
Bruce looked back. The chopper was hovering above the water. “Do you have any weapons?” he asked.
“I have my service pistol,” Moolman said and unbuckled his holster.
“Give it to me,” Bruce said, motioning with his hand.
Moolman handed the gun over.
Bruce looked at the gun in surprise before he shouted, “Turn around! Stay twenty yards away so they can’t lob any more fucking bombs at us!”
The man nodded then turned the boat in a sweeping circle, doubling back the way he had come.
“Slow down,” Bruce shouted, taking aim.
The engine burbled deeply as they coasted toward the chopper; Bruce fired three shots, and the chopper banked to the side before it lifted up into the sky. The chopper rotated slowly to face them, and the gun barked as Bruce fired two more shots. Two tiny holes appeared in the helicopter’s windshield. It rose higher and swooped over them, making a hasty retreat.
Eben turned to Bruce, gaping as the chopper became a speck on the horizon. “What the hell was that all about?”
Bruce looked around, watching the skies wearily. “I have no idea. But why lob bombs at us if a grenade launcher could have made the job so much easier?”
“Maybe they didn’t come prepared for a gunfight?” Moolman asked.
Bruce chuckled, weighing the tiny Ruger LCP in his hand. “Neither did we. Since when are police officers issued pop guns?”
Moolman shrugged. “I don’t like guns, but they forced me to take one, so I chose the smallest I could find,” he said uncomfortably.
Bruce looked at him in amazement and then at Eben and Barnes. He couldn’t help but chuckle when he saw the astonished looks on the other men’s faces.
Jake Petzer removed the pale blue envelope that he had hidden beneath all the crap in his dr
awer. He felt guilty that he hadn’t told anyone about it yet.
“To Jake” had been written on the front of the envelope in Alida’s distinctive, flowing cursive. He lifted it to his nose and took a deep whiff. It smelled of her: lavender and rosemary and the herby scent of the mountain grasses.
He removed the letter, unfolded it, and ceremoniously palmed it flat on his bed. He had read it a thousand times, and he wished he could make himself stop. He had never felt so unhappy in his life; his heart felt broken to pieces, and the tears were never far away. The damn letter wasn’t making it any better.
On the page, in her neat handwriting, she had copied a poem originally written by Ingrid Jonker, a South African poet who killed herself by taking some pills and walking into the ocean.
Alida had probably planned to give it to him, but she had left it in her satchel. She had seemed somehow preoccupied the last time they had seen each other. The last time he would ever see her. Ever. He missed her breath on his neck, the way her long eyelashes fluttered whenever she teased him. She had been a goddess. His goddess.
He swallowed and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand as he turned the envelope around. Strange characters had been scribbled on the back. The letter had the same strange writing on the back as well.
เราเป็น 1000
He had searched on the Internet for the exact characters and narrowed it down to some crude Asian script. He had to be able to recreate the characters precisely for the translation services to understand, but how could he if he didn’t understand how they were supposed to be written? It was useless. He should have given it to Moolman immediately.
He folded the letter and carefully slid it back into the envelope. He picked up his cell phone and punched in a number. It rang once and went directly to voice mail.
He swallowed and said, “Hello, Inspector, this is Jake Petzer. I don’t know if this has anything to do with Alida’s death, but I have a letter here with some funny inscriptions on it.” His voice sounded unsteady. He cleared his throat. “Maybe you should take a look?”
