The Prey

by Tony Park

  ‘I can understand all that, in an ideal world, but first you’ll have to ensure that the Global Resources deal is dead and buried and, even before that, buy Stoffel’s place while it’s still virtually valueless on paper. I don’t know how one woman can do that.’

  ‘One woman can’t, but with the help of a little fisherman, she can.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Patience, my boy, patience.’

  They passed the dam where Kylie has seen her first lions, and it saddened Chris, again, to think of the tough Australian dead. He’d found her sexy, in the same way he was aroused by Tertia’s confidence and directness. But now she was dead. As much as he hated the idea of the Lion Plains mine, and even though he had done all he could behind the scenes to stop it from going ahead, it seemed somehow unfair now that Kylie and Cameron were gone. Selfishly, though, he was glad Cameron would never find out where Chris’s allegiances had really lain. In his dreams, Chris would be Tertia’s husband and the ranger in charge of her game reserve. This was what he wanted in life, not to spend his days overseeing the health and safety of miners so that they would be fit and strong enough to rape the earth.

  Tertia took a turning that Chris knew ended in a cul-de-sac. She stopped at the end of the track and they got out of the Land Rover. Tertia reached behind the seats and pulled out the gun case. From it she took her .458 hunting rifle. She loaded five rounds from the pocket of her shorts into the breech. The sight of the firearm made Chris nervous and reminded him of the terrible din of the underground gun battle, and bodies bleeding in the dark. He swallowed his nausea and followed her down the pathway.

  ‘Bring the camera case.’

  A raised wooden walkway led to a bird hide, but Tertia went past that and carried on into the thick bush along the river that fed the dam, following what appeared to be a well-worn game trail.

  ‘Watch out for buffalo.’ She patted the worn and pitted wooden stock of her hunting rifle. ‘That’s why I’ve got this. I’ve come across dagga boys here a few times.’

  He nodded. Dagga boys, lone male buffaloes who took their name from the slang for the mud that plastered their hides, were probably the most dangerous animals to encounter on foot. Tertia stopped, sniffed the air, and cocked her head. ‘Elephant.’

  He could hear the snap of branches and the crunch of vegetation being chewed. Chris sniffed the air, and finally picked up their earthy scent.

  ‘They’ve moved away from the river. They won’t bother us.’

  The path led them to the water’s edge and Chris took a step back in fright when he heard something rustling in the reeds beside him, followed by a splash. Tertia grinned at his face. ‘Crocodile.’

  She knew the reserve intimately, but still Chris felt nervous. He wondered if she had changed since he had first met her, or if he was simply getting to know her better. She was certainly very animated when she was in the bush, but when she grinned at him like that he saw something else in her eyes. She was like another predator out here, and he thought that if it ever did come to bulldozers arriving on site, she might try to go out fighting. He loved her passion, but sometimes, as now, it frightened him.

  A bird made a loud booming call, which also caused Chris to start, and he was surprised when Tertia pointed to the tiny black crake wading at the water’s edge. It made a hell of a racket for something so small.

  A chorus of frogs tuned up for their evening concert and Chris slapped at a mosquito that buzzed in his ear. The sun was almost gone. ‘Tertia, shouldn’t we get back to the vehicle before it gets totally dark?’

  ‘The guy we’re looking for only comes out at night. Relax, I’ve got a light.’ She unclipped a small LED torch from the belt on her skirt and turned it on. Like the crake’s call, the powerful beam belied the size of its source. Chris still didn’t know what use it would be against a charging buffalo or, even worse, a hippo out on its nightly foraging expedition. One of the behemoths grunted and laughed ahead, confirming his fears were justified.

  ‘What guy?’

  ‘Shush.’

  She led on and Chris closed the gap between them. He’d never walked in the bush at night. It wasn’t as terrifying as being underground, but he was out of his depth and he would rather be back in bed with her. Tertia said she had something important to show him, but as he stumbled on he wished she had forgone the dramatics and just told him what it was.

  Tertia stopped and leaned her rifle against a green fever tree. She unslung the bulky binoculars from her shoulder and pressed a button on top of them.

  ‘Night vision,’ she said as she lifted them and scanned the river-bank opposite. She handed the binoculars to him.

  Through the eerie lime green wash of the night vision he tracked a pair of Egyptian geese, late home to bed, that squawked and honked as they flew low up the river, the beat of their wings rippling the steely surface. Around him the night birds were starting a new shift. He heard the shrill chirp of a scops owl, and a moment later the reply of its mate further away from the river.

  ‘Sit.’ Tertia said. ‘We may have a little while to wait. He’s shy.’

  Chris handed the binoculars back to Tertia. He looked behind him and kicked leaves and imaginary scorpions away from a patch of trodden earth and eased himself down. If a buffalo, hippo or elephant came now they would be well and truly finished. Far off a lion roared, its throaty wheeze rolling across the bushveld. Chris shivered.

  ‘Get the camera out of the case,’ she commanded.

  He did as she asked and checked out her Nikon and the unfamiliar lens.

  ‘It’s also night vision,’ she said, lowering the binoculars and noticing him fiddling.

  He sat the camera down in the foam of the open case. ‘Do you think it was an accident, what happened to Kylie and Cameron?’

  She resumed raking the far bank with the glasses, too preoccupied to lower them. ‘What? Oh, that. It’s Africa. Shush.’

  Admonished, again, he plucked stems of grass. They were her enemies, but still he couldn’t understand her callousness. Cameron had been civil with her and even though she had rejected the compromise, of her setting up a wildlife research place near the mine, Chris thought she might have had some lingering respect for the way Cameron had handled himself. Cameron had risked his life, as had Kylie, to save him from Wellington. Chris felt his rising tide of nausea intensify, the more he thought about the loss of his colleagues.

  ‘There!’ Tertia snapped her fingers and pointed. ‘The camera. Now!’

  He passed the Nikon to her, in exchange for the binoculars.

  ‘See that tree, the big jackalberry on the other side of the water?’

  He blinked at the green glare in the viewfinders, then quickly became used to the bright but one-dimensional picture. He lowered the binoculars to sight the tree in the dark first, then found it through the gadget’s lenses. ‘Yes.’

  ‘The low branch, the one that hangs out over the river. Follow it from the trunk halfway. See him?’

  Chris followed her directions, slowly moving the binoculars. At first he thought it was just a stubby offshoot from the main branch, but then it moved, ever so slightly. ‘An owl.’

  Tertia’s Nikon clicked away on auto wind. ‘This is brilliant, Chris. I’m getting him. Yes, it’s an owl, but tell me what kind.’

  He was no fundi, no expert on birds, but he knew most of the bigger raptors and the brightest coloured, most attractive birds of the lowveld. ‘Giant eagle owl, I suppose.’

  ‘Look again,’ she said over the whirring of her camera.

  He studied it. ‘It’s odd. It doesn’t have ear tufts, but it’s helluva big.’

  ‘You’re getting close. Look, look …’

  The bird swooped from its perch, but instead of flying off, or heading to the bank to take a mouse or a snake, it plunged into the water of the river, splashed about for a split second, then took off again. It returned to its perch with a shimmering, struggling fish in its talons.

&
nbsp; ‘My goodness, it isn’t …’

  She lowered the camera and in the dark he could see her teeth glowing brightly as she grinned and nodded. ‘It is.’

  He drew a sharp breath. ‘A pel’s fishing owl?’

  *

  Jessica stumbled and fell to her knees. Wellington grabbed her ponytail and yanked her hair to drag her back to her feet. She screamed into the gaffer tape that gagged her. It was dark and the bush had closed in on either side of the winding path that led up into the mountains.

  He slapped her again. ‘You silly little bitch. Do you think I am stupid? Do you think that I don’t know you are trying to slow me down. It makes no difference. No one is coming to look for you.’

  She didn’t believe him. Mandy and her mother would have gone to the mine after they’d picked up Mandy’s brother and they would know by now that Mr Coetzee hadn’t sent anyone. They would be looking for her everywhere, all over town and in the mountains.

  ‘You think your friends will raise the alarm. They will not.’ He glared at her with his yellow, bloodshot eyes, and their tiny pupils. She wondered if he was on some sort of drugs. ‘Coetzee did order someone from the mine to come and fetch you and the dominee, but he was my man. I paid him well for the information he gave me. He has gone into hiding. The hyenas who live in the nature reserve will take care of the holy man.’ Wellington laughed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out Jessica’s BlackBerry. ‘If you don’t believe me, have a look at this.’

  He switched it on and held the glowing screen in front of her. ‘See, this is from you to your friend Mandy, the pretty girl with the pretty mother. Sorry Mandy, I can’t take this. I’m catching a bus to Joburg to go stay with friends there. Luv u.’

  Jessica shook her head with anger. The creep had even copied the way she signed off her messages to Mandy. He must have checked her message log.

  He looked back at the screen, scrolling down. ‘And this reply from your friend: Come back soon babe.’ Wellington laughed again. ‘Nothing from your mother, though.’ He shut the phone down. ‘That is because she is dead, like your father.’

  Wellington prodded her in the back with his gun and she stumbled on. He moved alongside her, grabbing her by the arm, and they came to what looked like a dead end, a bush in the middle of the track. Wellington pushed her to her knees and put his gun in his jeans. He used both hands to grab the tree and shifted it to one side. It wasn’t living, but rather the camouflage for a black hole that opened in the side of the mountain.

  Jessica screamed again and felt more tears springing from her eyes and rolling down her cheeks. This couldn’t be happening. Her whole family was gone. What did he want from her? Her dad couldn’t be dead. Suddenly she missed her mother as well. What had they done to anger this man so much that he would destroy all of them? Sooner or later Mr Coetzee would track down the man who had actually been sent to fetch her; someone would notice the dominee missing tonight. Someone would come. The nightmare would end.

  29

  Luis’s cellphone rang. ‘Ola?’

  ‘Ola, cousin, how are you?’

  It was Alfredo, the police captain. They exchanged pleasantries and then Alfredo said, ‘I have news for you, Luis. I have an address, in Maputo, for the cellphone number you gave me. Do you want me to get the local guys to send some officers around?’

  Luis thought about that. It would be best to let the law deal with Wellington. That would be the sensible thing to do. ‘No.’

  ‘You’re sure? If this is the man who murdered Miriam I will see that he is arrested and never released.’

  Luis reconsidered, but only for a minute. Despite his cousin’s machismo, Luis knew that the police in Mozambique could be bribed, and that the case against Wellington, even in a recognised court of law free from corruption, would be hard to prove. It would be impossible, too, for Luis to return to South Africa and get the police to open a docket on a man with a nom de guerre living in Mozambique. More likely, he thought, they would want to question him over the body of the gunman that had been left at the scene and the other thug, if his corpse had been discovered. Luis knew that Wellington had the local police commander, Sindisiwe Radebe, in his pocket. Indeed, he had bragged that he had the colonel is his bed. No, there was only one way to handle this matter. ‘I’m sure. But you can help me with something else. Two things, in fact.’

  When Luis explained what he wanted his cousin took a deep breath down the line and told him to come to Xai Xai.

  Luis bade farewell to his mother and his son. Jose seemed withdrawn, the shock of his mother’s death still not fully registering. The father he barely knew was leaving him again. He had ruined their lives and could only hope that he might make it up to them, in time. ‘I will be back.’

  Luis took a small daypack and walked from his village to the main road and boarded a chapa bound for Xai Xai. He whiled away the cramped, hot hours in the back of the minibus by reading the fading typed pages of his thesis. It seemed like a century ago that he had been a student, thirsting for knowledge and full of hope for his battered, shattered country.

  As arranged, Luis called Alfredo on his cellphone when the chapa was a few kilometres from Xai Xai. Alfredo gave him the name of a cafe opposite the park a few blocks past the KFC. The minibus slowed to walking pace once they entered the clogged main street of the busy coastal town and Luis told the driver he wanted to get off. It was good to squeeze through the crush of bodies on board and breathe fresh, if somewhat exhaust-tainted, air. He walked through the crowds, envying these simple people with their simple lives. He turned his face from the throng to the clear blue sky, relishing its warmth on his face. He would be happy if he never went underground again. He longed to turn his back on crime and to provide a safe future for Jose. He was so close, but he was under no illusion that the hundred thousand rand that bulged in the pocket of his trousers would be enough to set him up for life.

  He found the cafe and took a seat outside and ordered an espresso. Alfredo, who had changed from his uniform into civilian clothes, waved to him from across the street and came to him. They shook hands. His cousin carried a plastic shopping bag with something wrapped in newspaper inside it. He placed the parcel at his feet as he sat opposite Luis.

  Like every policeman in Mozambique, Alfredo’s wealth was evidenced in the rounded belly that protruded over his jeans, his chubby cheeks and his mirrored Ray Ban aviator sunglasses, which might, depending on how many bribes Alfredo had taken recently, be real or fake. Luis did not doubt that Alfredo was a good policeman. Serious crimes, such as murder and armed robbery, were rare in Mozambique compared to South Africa, and Alfredo had a good network of informants in the villages around Xai Xai and the town itself. If his cousin did not have a hand or a controlling interest in a local racket, then it was soon shut down.

  They sipped the short, bitter coffee the waiter brought them. Alfredo used his foot to shift the shopping bag across the pavement so that it touched Luis’s ankle. Luis leaned back, so he could see under the table, and peered into the bag. He could tell by the shape it was the pistol he had asked for. ‘Ammunition?’

  ‘Two magazines,’ Alfredo said softly. ‘It’s a Russian Tokarev. You’ll remember it from the old days.’

  ‘Sadly, yes. Thank you, cousin.’

  Alfredo slid a piece of paper across the table to Luis.

  Luis checked it and saw an address in Maputo. It would be the registered address of the owner of the cellphone that Wellington had used to call the young men who assassinated his wife. Even if Wellington was not there now it would be a lead. Perhaps he would come back there, in time, to find Luis waiting for him. Luis savoured the small fantasy. But he had other things to do first. Revenge, the English said, was a dish best served cold. He could wait for Wellington, but his hundred thousand rand would not last long – Alfredo would require some of it now – so he needed a new source of income.

  ‘You know I am only charging you for my out-of-pocket expenses, cousin,’ Alfre
do said.

  ‘Of course. How much?’

  ‘Five thousand rand, cousin, for the gun and for the woman at the telephone registration office. She did not come cheap.’

  Luis counted the cash out beneath the table, out of the view of passers-by who might be tempted, or those who might recognise their rotund police captain in mufti. He passed the money to his cousin, who swiftly pocketed it.

  Alfredo nodded his thanks. ‘The other information you asked for, about drilling rigs in the local area, comes free of charge. There is an NGO drilling for water at a village southwest of here, on the road to Massangir and the Limpopo Transfrontier Park. It is out of my distrito, but the Swedish man doing the drilling came here to report an accident. He hit a boy of fifteen with his pickup truck and the boy broke his leg. I am afraid that some of the youngsters around here may be deliberately throwing themselves in the path of cars driven by foreigners as they know that the drivers will pay them compensation in order to avoid prosecution. The boy’s family asked him for money, but the Swede insisted on coming to me. Naturally I am only here to see that justice is done. In the end the aid worker saw it was more sensible to pay the family some compensation rather than to risk prosecution for negligent driving.’

  ‘Do you have the Swede’s cellphone number?’ Luis asked.

  ‘Back in my office. He left it when he made his report. I can get it for you if you want it. Should I ask why you wanted this information about a drilling rig?’