Sacrificed

by Chanette Paul

  “Yes, Lieve?”

  “I was on my way back from mass, with ‘Agnus Dei’ still sounding in my ears, and I thought of a plan. See, I recognized Lilah from one of my sister’s magazines. Cosmopolitan. She’s a world-famous model, you know? I asked my sister to lend me the magazine, though I don’t actually like that kind of reading matter. I took it to Miss Ammie. She was in bed by then but not asleep. Just staring into the distance. I showed her the magazine with Lilah on the cover.”

  “Yes?” he said when she stopped for dramatic effect.

  “Professor, it was as if the Holy Virgin Mary had touched her. ‘Where’s my granddaughter?’ she asked.”

  “And?”

  “She said she wants to see her. Lilah. Miss Ammie is back from behind the veils, Professor. Our Miss Ammie is back.”

  Caz

  Overberg

  This time it was a soft click that woke her. Caz lay motionless until she was sure there was no one in the room.

  Her hand felt around on the empty side of the bed, but the panic button had vanished in the folds of the comforter. She groped frantically. Grabbed hold of her cellphone. Continued to search with anxious fingers. Found it. She had no idea which button to press. There were four, of which three were active. Panic, which sent out a silent alarm. Sleep, which beeped but sent no alarm—only lit up the blue light at the front door. Activate, which also beeped and was silent until someone moved past a sensor and triggered the alarm.

  Another sound. Dim. A kind of crunch. No breaking glass, no movement in the air around her.

  The creak of a floorboard.

  Around her the dark was breathing. It was dense. Untouched by streetlights or any other light from outside. The curtains were drawn. There was no moon.

  She felt with her thumb, pressed each button in turn. No beep. No blaring siren. Did it mean the panic button wasn’t working either? Did her signal go through? She didn’t know. If it did, wonderful, but she had to assume it didn’t.

  The brass bedstead rattled slightly when she sat up and swung her legs off the bed. The clay tiles were cold under her bare feet. During the renovation she could save the wooden floors in the living room only; the rest were too far gone. She knew where that floorboard had creaked.

  Her only advantage was that she knew her house. She had known right from the start that a weapon would not help her. She had no knowledge of firearms. She wouldn’t be able to bury a knife in someone’s flesh or knock someone over the head, even if she’d had the strength of a younger person. A weapon in her own hands would only end up as a firearm in her attacker’s hands.

  Soundlessly she moved to the doorway between the passage and the living room. A dim light was playing around the room, wandering over the coffee table, pausing on the buffet. The beam of the penlight torch lingered on the nkísi. No, the nkísi nkondi.

  Caz took a deep breath and flicked the light switch.

  He swung round, dressed in black from head to toe. Just like in a movie. But this was no movie. No dream. Through the slits of the balaclava, his eyes glittered.

  “Good evening, Njiwa. Or should I say David Verstraeten?” The sling of a canvas bag crossed his chest from left shoulder to right hip. The bag itself rested diagonally on his stomach. It bulged slightly. Maybe a burglar’s tool kit. Or a firearm.

  He pushed the balaclava back to expose his face and switched off the flashlight.

  “Caz.” He motioned with his head at the buffet where the wooden figurine stood, nails protruding from the belly, breasts and buttocks. “I see you activated the nkísi. Or tried to.”

  She made no reply. Just stood waiting.

  He sniggered. “Did you think a few nails were all that was needed to rouse the ancestral spirits? That you could play nganga?”

  No, but she’d hoped he would think so.

  “Did you think you could rouse my ancestral spirits to protect you? A white woman? One of the white robbers who tried to steal Africa from us?” He shook his head. “How misguided you are.”

  “I’m tired of fighting against Africa, Njiwa. Take the stuff and go.”

  He shook his head.

  Had she made it too easy? Made a tactical error? She wasn’t much of a strategist. She should have stayed in bed. Pretended to be asleep. Maybe he would have taken the nkísi and left.

  “You know my face. You know my real name. I can’t, Caz. There’s too much at stake.”

  Just as she had thought.

  “And if you kill me? Strangle me the way you strangled Tieneke? Do you think you won’t be caught? Dlamini knows that you and I have a history. He’ll put two and two together.”

  He nodded slowly. “Yes, I do believe I won’t be caught. This may be South Africa, but it’s still Africa. You see, I’ve got help. At different levels and from various interest groups. We’re taking Africa back. It belongs to us. It’s only a matter of time. These nkísi are going to give us a major boost.”

  “There’s something you’re overlooking, Njiwa. You see, you’re not black either. Your grandfather, Erevu, is the son of Tabia, but also of César Janssen. A white man. One who could possibly be my father. We may therefore have the same ancestor.”

  “I know all that. Your point is?”

  “My point is the nkísi won’t favor you either. Your white great-grandfather was a traitor to Africa. Your grandfather and my mother abandoned Africa for Belgium for long periods of time. Africa is diluted in you. You have lost the true spirit of Africa and only greed and the hunger for power have remained.”

  Njiwa did not reply. Silently he placed the nail-spiked figurine in the canvas bag, followed by the mask that had lain beside it on the buffet. When he was done, he looked up at her again. His gloved hand reached behind his back and emerged holding a handgun. What kind it was she didn’t know. It had a barrel. And it was aimed at her.

  “It’s a pity you woke up. It would have been easier not to know what had happened. Simply not to open your eyes again. Just another white woman killed in her bed on a farm.” He put both hands on the grip, straightened his arms. “Sorry, Caz.”

  Caz pressed down the light switch where her thumb had still been resting and dived sideways, away from where he was aiming.

  The shot rang out even before she hit the floor. A crippling pain shot through her hip. The fall or a bullet? Caz didn’t know.

  It was pitch dark. Outside she heard the sound of a speeding vehicle in the distance. Inside she heard the creak of the floorboard. The door leading to the side veranda was flung open. There was the sound of running feet. Away from the front of the house, where a small eternity later she heard the squeal of brakes and a vehicle grind to a halt on the gravel.

  A key rattled in the front door. The door flew open. The beam of a flashlight blinded her. “Ma’am! Ma’am! Where are you?”

  “The side door! He went through there!” She shielded her eyes with her hand when another beam was shone into her eyes. “Someone switch on the lights!”

  Someone obeyed.

  “Is she okay?”

  “Don’t see any blood.”

  “Follow the bastard! Go look for him!” Caz screamed. Two men raced off, the veranda door slammed, but she knew it was too late. Njiwa was too cunning. Too quick.

  From the emblems on the jackets of the remaining two men she realized it was the second security company who had arrived. The company who got the signal when she switched on the living room light.

  The technician had shaken his head when he came to do the installation, but he had done as she had asked. The manager had agreed to follow the instructions she had provided in writing. Send armed guards without delay if the signal was received. No calls, nothing. Just hurry and enter at once.

  Njiwa had known how to deal with one alarm. He couldn’t have known about Plan B.

  “The ambulance is on its way, ma’am.”<
br />
  “Thank you.” She knew it could take long. But she also knew she didn’t need it to survive. Only to treat the pain in her hip and back.

  Two of the men helped her to her feet and lowered her onto a chair.

  “Anything stolen, ma’am?”

  Caz glanced at the buffet. “Two artefacts. By a well-known African artist. Aron Matari. Worth a lot of money.” She saw the disdainful look they exchanged. In Hawston or Fisherhaven or Blombos or wherever they had grown up art wasn’t high on the priority list. Least of all African art.

  “Good evening, Captain, Ambrose here of Whale Security.” Dazed, Caz looked at the security guard with the phone against his ear. “Armed robbery. The woman is okay. There’s a bullet in the doorframe where she was standing moments before. Attempted murder, if you ask me.” He left the room and his voice grew dim.

  Dlamini. She had to let him know. No, the police would be here any moment and they could do it. At some point one had to start trusting the system. At least this was a serious offence.

  Saturday, November1

  Caz

  Overberg

  Caz felt like new when she woke up and saw it was after eleven. Once the police had left, she had just about passed out, reassured by the presence of a security guard in case Njiwa returned.

  The guard had left, she noticed when she entered the kitchen. His shift was over at eight. She was supposed to let the company know if she wanted them to send a replacement.

  Of course her problems were far from over, but she believed she had some breathing space. Until Njiwa discovered that the diamonds in the mask and the figurine had been replaced with empty clay spheres.

  Njiwa had clearly not realized that she couldn’t have hammered the nails into the figurine if it still had its original contents. Not all the way, anyway. But how would he know? No one had seen the figurine before. No one had any idea of the size of the diamonds. At most they could know that the figurine contained a number of large diamonds.

  She had hammered in the nails while the rust-colored polymer clay balls with which she had replaced the diamonds were still soft. She was terrified that the figurine would catch fire when it went into the oven but to her great relief it didn’t. Perhaps because she had turned the heat right down and baked it for longer instead. The wood just darkened slightly. When it had cooled down completely she had tried to pull out the nails. They didn’t budge. They seemed embedded in the clay, as she had hoped.

  Njiwa would only discover what she had done if he could overcome his fear of the ancestral spirits. The figurine would have to be damaged severley to get to what was inside. But if luck was on her side, he would hesitate to offend the spirits and that would buy her more time. That was how she had argued, at any rate.

  Now that Njiwa had made it clear that a rebel group or several groups were involved, she knew that ancestral spirits and magical powers would not stall them. They were looking for the diamonds because they needed money—big money. To chase the white land-grabbers into the sea, it seemed.

  Caz heaved a sigh of relief when she saw Lilah’s name in her inbox. It was her lucky day.

  Sorry I’m only writing now, MamaCaz.

  Aubrey and I had a tiff and I didn’t want to write to you while I was upset and tearful. With all the shoots and things that had to be finished before winter, it’s been crazy anyway. I’m exhausted.

  I arrive December 9 and I’m looking forward to spending time with you and to a proper rest.

  Luv u

  L

  Caz tried to curb her concern. Lovers had tiffs. She couldn’t do anything about it and she wasn’t going to interfere. Lilah would tell her what it was about if she wanted to and Caz could only offer advice if Lilah asked.

  There was a bigger crisis. How was she going to make sure that the problems with the nkísi had been solved by the time Lilah arrived in less than six weeks?

  She called Dlamini.

  “We’re working closely with the police in the Western Cape to catch him, Ms. Colijn,” he tried to ease her mind. “We are watching all the border posts. In the meantime we have learned that he has a second passport. From the DRC. One consolation, if he’s left the country, he won’t be able to set foot here again.”

  “Captain, did you contact Commissioner De Brabander in Ghent?”

  No reply.

  “Won’t you just do it, please? We’re talking of attempted murder here. If you two put your heads together, you might catch Verstraeten sooner.”

  “What’s it all about anyway? Why was Verstraeten after you in the first place?” She could hear the frustration in Dlamini’s voice.

  Trying to put him in the picture would be an impossible task. “As far as I understand, Verstraeten assigns some kind of spiritual value to the mask and the figurine I inherited. He says his family’s ancestral spirits are contained in the objects. Something like that.”

  Dlamini was quiet for a while. “The people in Stanford say they are works of art,” he said at last.

  “They are. Apparently worth a few thousand euros.”

  “I can see this Verstraeten’s point about the ancestral spirits, but he should have offered to buy the items back from you. Do you have photos?”

  “I do.” A good thing she had thought of it.

  “Send them to me.” He gave her an email address.

  “How do you spell the man in Belgium’s name? The detective?”

  She spelled it out. “He’s from the police station in Ghent.” She spelled Ghent as well.

  Three hours later her cellphone rang. A Belgian number, she noticed at once.

  “Caz, hello?”

  “Ms. Colijn. I received an interesting call a while ago.”

  “Good day, Commissioner.” Her heart was in her mouth. For all she knew De Brabander had finally concluded she was the key player.

  “It seems you suddenly and miraculously remembered what Matari and Njiwa, or rather David Verstraeten, were after.”

  “I only realized what they were after when I took possession of my inheritance here in South Africa. They must have found out about the key I got from Tieneke and known what was in the strongbox. I, on the other hand, didn’t.”

  “Ms. Colijn, do you realize how irresponsible you were? You could have been dead! Besides, our case ...”

  “Commissioner, I repeatedly asked Captain Dlamini to contact you,” she interrupted him. “I wasn’t aware that he hadn’t done so. And my cellphone with your number on it was stolen shortly after my arrival, as Captain Dlamini might have told you.”

  “Ms. Colijn, surely you could have found a way to reach me?”

  She ignored the accusation. No way was she going to get involved in an argument that wouldn’t lead anywhere. “Erevu Matari. What’s the current state of affairs?”

  “Initially he was awaiting trial and then he was scheduled for deportation. But now we’ll have to wait and see what happens with the murder investigation. Everything will depend on whether Njiwa is caught and what happens after that. Matari will remain here for now.”

  “For how long?”

  “It will probably take a while. But first there are a few things I want to clear up with you.”

  Caz answered his questions as briefly as possible. They were chiefly about the incident in Silverton and the events of the previous night. When she ended the call she gave a sigh of relief. If Njiwa were caught it would buy her time. To enjoy a holiday with Lilah in December, to make plans, to get money. Hopefully Lilah would help finance her trip back to Belgium.

  Caz peered at the bits and pieces on the mantelpiece.

  Amongst a collection of candles, a few seashells and some other items, a kitsch turquoise whale with an enormous head glowed in the sunlight that fell through the window. A glaring green pregnant rhinoceros and four other similar polymer clay figures were scatter
ed throughout the house. She would have liked to claim that her artistic attempts could be seen as deliberately stylized, but she knew the figures resembled a child’s artworks. No, actually, a child’s craft items. Yet she was proud of her handiwork. In more than one way.

  It turned out that diamonds are able to withstand a temperature of a hundred and thirty degrees Celsius in a normal oven. Hot enough to bake the polymer clay to a rock-hard consistency.

  She had bought time. She had managed to hide what had to be hidden.

  Now Njiwa just had to be caught so she could get to Antwerp safely.

  It was after nine when her landline rang again.

  “Mrs. Colijn, this is Captain Divan de Jager from Musina. In connection with David Verstraeten.”

  Caz was almost too scared to hear what he had to say. “Yes?”

  “The taxi he was traveling in was pulled off at a road block just before Beit Bridge. Regrettably, he managed to get away. It looks as if he might have crossed the border into Zimbabwe.

  “However, now that the international guys are involved, I can assure you he won’t be any threat to you. Evidently a partial fingerprint found on the murder scene in Belgium corresponds with the prints taken in Pretoria. He has to cross other borders before he reaches the Congo. I have no doubt he’ll be arrested somewhere along the way.”

  She wanted to believe him. For her own sanity’s sake, she had to believe him.

  Caz was in bed when her cellphone rang again. A Belgian number, but not De Brabander’s.

  “Caz Colijn?”

  “It’s Luc DeReu.” A grumpy Luc DeReu, it seemed. “I hear from the commissioner that you’re answering your phone again.”

  Caz closed her eyes. She could call up his face surprisingly easily. The silver glint of his hair. The slender fingers folded around the pen. The lean figure she had watched at the Graslei.

  “Good evening, Professor. This is quite a surprise.” If he could be grumpy, she could return the favor with sarcasm.

  “I can well believe you’re surprised. What I can’t believe is that you don’t have an ounce of concern for Ammie. You come here and cause her such distress that she retreats into a mental coma. Then you simply wash your hands. And you accuse her of being coldhearted?”