by Layton Green
No. He couldn’t say that yet. A company who knew they had poisoned the canal water might resort to similar tactics to cover up their crime. He had seen it before, in remote locales. Blame the mutations on local legend or the witch doctor. Frighten the investigators away.
The area around Bonniecombe, however, had no major industrial site. The stream that fed the sewage canal in Khayalanga ran clear as glass until it reached the township.
Viktor filed away his thoughts and moved on.
The director of the facility turned out to be an ebullient, highly educated family man with an infectious smile and an alibi: he had just returned from a weeklong vacation to Mauritius. After showing Viktor pictures of the vacation on his cell phone, the director walked him down the hall to meet the janitor.
Once the professor saw the expression that crawled onto the seventy-year-old janitor’s face at the mention of the disappearing corpse, a look of atavistic horror at the thought of a dead body rising on its own or being stolen by someone who dealt in such abominations, a look Viktor knew all too well and trusted more than a lie detector test, he knew the man was innocent.
Alibi by superstition, he thought wryly.
Before he left, Viktor asked the director and the janitor how they thought Akhona’s body had managed to leave the facility. Both had no idea, unless someone had unlocked the front door from the inside or somehow breached the keypad lock.
On the drive back to Bonniecombe, the beauty of the red-gold hills felt muted to Viktor as he stared out the window. Though the police had reported no unusual fingerprints or evidence of a break-in at the facility, access codes could be stolen.
And, of course, the police could be lying.
It frustrated the professor to no end, but at this stage, he had no choice but to trust the department’s findings.
Which meant trusting Sergeant Linde.
Viktor had made inquiries. Naomi was forty-three years old, the only child of an essayist and a marine biologist. Her mother, the writer, had died of a heart attack a decade earlier, a year to the day after Naomi’s father perished in a car accident.
After attending local Bonniecombe schools as a child, Naomi had studied photography at the University of Cape Town, then taught high school art in the city. Soon after her father’s death, she returned to Bonniecombe to join the police force.
A most curious decision, Viktor thought. An artist turned detective? Perhaps her parents had stunted her true desires.
Naomi’s record as a police officer was as clean as polished silver. As far as Viktor could tell, she had toed the line her entire career, made no obvious enemies.
A team player, then.
But who, he wondered as Bonniecombe came into view, was team captain?
Something about the picturesque little town felt off. Viktor was used to gathering stares due to his height, and he knew the rural Western Cape was quite insular, but the attention paid to him in Bonniecombe was different. It was nothing overt, no challenging looks or violent confrontations. Just a sense that he was unwelcome. A hush when he entered a café, mothers gripping children tighter when he passed on the street, stares prickling his back at every turn. Viktor realized he had seen no other tourists or foreigners, no hotels other than the bed and breakfast in which he was staying. The only other guest was a local accountant going through a divorce.
What did this town have to hide?
Once he started researching Jans van Draker the next morning, over cappuccino and eggs benedict and a delectable chocolate croissant, Viktor began to formulate an answer to that question.
A brilliant neurosurgeon, schooled at Cambridge and Johns Hopkins, Doctor Draker worked at hospitals in London and New York before returning to South Africa to serve his country during the final years of Apartheid. More specifically, van Draker worked as a medical advisor for the government, a nebulous position that Viktor couldn’t quite pin down.
Yet it was the timing, not the job, that screamed for attention. Viktor remembered that dark period in the country’s history. He had traveled to South Africa on a number of occasions for research, and he had read and heard things that did not reach the outside media. He remembered the rising cries for freedom, from both blacks and whites, competing with the hard-liner Afrikaners who fought like cornered lions to keep their state-sponsored segregation.
The world remembered Nelson Mandela’s release from prison. Viktor remembered reports of policemen flaying black villagers alive and barbecuing them in the bush.
The hard-liners clamored for even stricter measures against blacks than were already in place, using genocide as their rallying cry. Not genocide of the black population, but the potential genocide of the whites, outnumbered more than ten to one. Lose your grip on power, the Apartheid supporters avowed, and you will be slaughtered by those you once oppressed.
It was not, Viktor remembered thinking, an unreasonable assumption.
Thanks to peace accords that left the wealth of the whites intact, a remarkably calm transfer of power occurred. Yet, as with the final hours of a diseased and dying emperor, willing to destroy heaven and earth to cling to a spark of life, the Apartheid hard-liners worked diligently behind the scenes. In the years before the fall, rumors of planned massacres and worse surfaced, grotesque experiments to prove that blacks were a subhuman race that did not deserve equality. Van Draker’s name had appeared in connection with these reports, stemming from one incident in particular.
The year was 1989. A guerrilla fighter named Solomon Nyembezi, clad in a hospital gown and with his head wrapped in a bandage, feet bare and bloody from walking across thorny scrub and urban detritus, showed up emaciated and half-dead on a doorstep in Soweto, one of the most infamous townships in Johannesburg. He claimed to have just escaped from a secret medical facility where the government performed illicit experiments on black prisoners.
A lengthy incision on his scalp seemed to confirm Solomon’s story. Raving about vivisection and electric shock and amputation, cells with no windows and doctors with their faces covered by ghoulish masks, Solomon’s story was suppressed by the government-controlled media but inflamed by the underground press. A journalist investigated the building in which Solomon claimed to have been held, and found an abandoned school with bloodstained floors and evidence of recent occupation.
Public outcry grew. Whether due to shoddy investigation or government crackdown, only one charge was ever filed. Solomon had drawn a single face for the sketch artists, the only person he could identify from his captivity. A doctor who Solomon claimed had once removed his surgical mask in Solomon’s presence, when he thought the patient was unconscious.
Dr. Jans van Draker.
Forced to investigate, the local authorities found enough evidence to prosecute, but dropped the case when the key witness—Solomon Nyembezi—fell asleep at the wheel and ran into an eighteen-wheeler.
Apartheid ended. Jans van Draker never saw a jail cell.
But the public never forgot. The new government forced van Draker out, no hospital would hire him, and the neurosurgeon moved across the country to live out his retirement in obscurity at his family’s ancestral home, a small town in the Western Cape nestled amid vineyards and streams and mountains.
A town called Bonniecombe.
Viktor drummed his fingers on the table, ordered another cappuccino to wash away the bad taste in his mouth, and thought about what he had read. He also thought about the questions he would ask at six p.m. the next day, at a secluded manor on a hill, when he was scheduled to meet the man the South African press had once dubbed the Surgeon of Soweto.
“Thank you for arranging this,” Viktor said the following evening, as he stepped into the passenger seat of Sergeant Linde’s beige Land Cruiser. The wind had picked up, charcoal clouds heralding a rare thunderstorm.
Naomi grunted in reply. Viktor eyed the cracks in the dashboard, the tea and coffee stains worn into the leather. “Is there a reason we’re taking your personal vehicle?”
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br /> She coaxed the engine to life. “Doctor van Draker is a respected citizen. I prefer not to cause him any distress.”
“Respected. I see.” Viktor decided to be blunt. “Why didn’t you tell me about his past?”
He wasn’t sure what he expected, perhaps an angry rebuke, but Naomi focused on the road and said, “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Come now,” Viktor scoffed. “The Surgeon of Soweto? The allegations of experiments? Surely that bears examining, in light of recent events?”
“How so?”
Viktor worked hard to control his temper. “A township boy was found with terrible deformities and a strange marking that looked suspiciously like a research tag. Van Draker’s past in this regard speaks for itself.”
“There are legions of tattoo artists, especially in Cape Town, capable of such work. Van Draker was never convicted of a crime, and there is no evidence whatsoever suggesting he had anything to do with Akhona’s death.”
The professor waited a long moment to speak. “At least I know where you stand,” he said quietly.
“What does that mean?”
“Did you mourn the fall of Apartheid, sergeant?”
She gripped the wheel. “May I remind you,” she said coldly, “that you are a guest in this town.”
“I’m starting to feel like a prisoner.”
“You have no jurisdiction except that which the Bonniecombe police department affords you. You would do well to remember that.”
“Would you risk your regional commissioner’s wrath by disregarding an Interpol request?”
“The request was for an exchange of information, not to watch you harass my citizenry. You’re lucky I’m allowing this interview.”
“We’ll see what an upstanding citizen Jans van Draker turns out to be,” Viktor said.
They topped a rise, and van Draker’s manor came into view. A square of granite topped by a sloping red-tiled Bavarian roof, the three-story chateau looked as if it had materialized from the roiling gray sky, belonging more in a dreary English heath than the sun-soaked Western Cape.
Double rows of angular windows lined both the lower and upper stories, all protected by iron bars. Ivy climbed the walls of a conical tower topped by a weathervane jutting upward from the left side of the manor.
Sergeant Linde pressed a buzzer on the intercom, beneath a pair of video cameras.
The iron gates swung open.
The grounds of the manor were much larger than they appeared from below. A hundred yards of lawn separated the house from an encircling stone wall. Behind the wall, thickets of eucalyptus smothered the hillside.
Viktor saw no one on the grounds or in the windows, but he had the sensation of being watched as they parked in the circular drive and approached the front door. He noticed that Sergeant Linde’s jawline had firmed, the ring finger on her left hand twitching as she rapped the wolf’s head doorknocker on the eight-foot tall door.
The wind had calmed, and the heavy air felt oppressive as Viktor turned to view the smudge of township in the distance. To his left, a stream ran from the mountains to the slum, trickling beneath a decorative stone bridge at the base of the manor hill like a trail of saliva seeping from the mouth of a dragon.
After a brief wait that made Viktor feel uneasy, as if he were a specimen under a microscope being catalogued and examined by unseen eyes, the door to the great house swung open.
-11-
Heads turned as Grey stepped into the parking lot of the vegetarian restaurant. He didn’t recognize any of the men, but all four could have been transplanted from the Peach Shack. Not the creepy suburbanites with reptilian smiles, but the rough, ex-con crowd.
The medium-size man holding Dr. Varela had a craggy face, an SS double lightning bolt tattooed on each cheek, and forearms as hard as tire irons. He ignored Grey and said, in a gravelly voice, “Get in the truck, bitch!”
Another man, hulking and bald with pierced eyebrows, stood beside the driver’s side door of Dr. Varela’s Jetta. Ten feet away, in the shadows of the secluded lot, the two remaining men hovered next to a forest green Chevy Tahoe with tinted windows. One of them must have weighed four hundred pounds, and two braided goatees hung off his chin like horses’ tails. “This ain’t none of your concern, boy,” he said, with a step towards Grey. “Now go on back inside.”
Dr. Varela tried to pull away from her captor. “Let me go!”
The man holding her snarled and gripped her harder, forcing her towards the Tahoe. “Don’t make me ask again. Get in the truck.”
“Don’t do it, Hannah,” Grey said evenly, stepping towards Dr. Varela.
For a moment, the assailants seemed confused by Grey’s calm demeanor. Then the huge man took another step towards him, blocking Grey’s path, and the fourth, a skinhead in his twenties wearing black jeans tucked into combat boots, pulled a hunting knife out of his camo jacket.
Scenarios of how this could play out flashed like paparazzi cameras in Grey’s mind. He noticed a gun sticking out of the back of the craggy-faced man’s jeans. The two larger men had baggy shirts and could be armed as well. Grey knew he could sprint into the darkness before they got off a good shot, but that wasn’t an option. And Dr. Varela’s hostage status narrowed his choices.
How far, Grey wondered, were these men willing to go in a public place? That was always the question in a situation like this.
Because if they got her in the truck, Grey knew how it would end.
The bald man was rummaging through the backseat of Dr. Varela’s car. Hannah tried to scream but her captor covered her mouth. Grey slipped his hand into his pocket and grabbed his phone.
“Hands up, boy!” the obese man roared.
Grey eased his phone out and dialed 911, right in front of them. He hoped someone would rush him and give him access to a weapon, but the huge man held his ground while Craggy Face drew his gun and pointed it at Dr. Varela’s head. “Last chance,” he said, with quiet menace. “Get in the truck.”
When the 911 operator answered, Grey barked, “Café Magnolia, back parking lot, kidnapping situation. Send help now.” He hung up and slipped the phone back in his pocket.
“Oh, you’ll pay for that,” the fat man said. He quivered with rage but kept backing towards the Tahoe. A smart move that made Grey’s hopes sink. Whoever had sent these men had given strict orders.
Now it was a race against the clock, and a deadly game of will.
The bald man emerged from Hannah’s car with a briefcase and a stack of manila folders. Cringing from the gun pressed against her temple, Dr. Varela took a hesitant step towards the Tahoe.
“If you get in the truck,” Grey said, speaking directly to Hannah, “you might never see sunlight again. The cops are on the way.”
“Shut up!” Craggy Face shouted. “I’ll waste her right here!”
“If they wanted you dead,” Grey said to Hannah, “you’d be dead.”
She looked ready to faint from fear. Grey needed her awake and fighting. He walked slowly towards them, hands up, hoping they’d let him get close enough to do damage.
The kid in the camo jacket was standing beside the hood. He pulled a gun and aimed it at Grey. As the fat man jumped into the driver’s seat of the Tahoe, Craggy Face man shoved Hannah towards the open rear door. At the last moment, she straight-armed the roof.
“No!” she screamed, bucking wildly.
The bald man ran over to help shove her in. If Grey tried to help, the kid with the gun would probably shoot. He was twenty feet away and might get lucky. Instead, Grey took another step towards Hannah with his hands up. The obese man started shouting, and the kid shot into the gravel at Grey’s feet. The back door of the restaurant opened and then slammed shut.
“They’re out of time,” Grey said to Hannah. Anything to stall, keep her out of that truck. “Help will be here any second. Someone inside just saw their faces. Keep fighting.”
The kid shouted and shook his gun at Grey. Dr. Varela redouble
d her efforts to escape, but Craggy Face tired of the games and cracked her in the head with the gun.
Hannah slumped to the pavement.
Sirens sounded in the distance.
“Get her in!” the obese man roared.
The bald man bent to pick up their captive, and Craggy Face swung his gun towards Grey. Ten feet separated them. Too far away to go for the gun. He also had the kid to worry about.
But Grey had no choice. Before anyone could shoot, he dove at Dr. Varela and managed to grasp one of her ankles, putting himself at their mercy. The bald man cursed and tried to yank Hannah away. Grey held tight. He fought for a better grip as the leader kicked him hard in the side. The kid ran over to take aim at Grey as the bald man finally pulled Hannah away and forced her towards the truck.
Before he could stuff her inside, Dr. Varela came to life and bit him on the arm.
Her attacker roared and dropped her. Grey was as surprised as everyone else. The sirens blared closer, accompanied by a flash of light strobing the night sky. Hannah tried to run but the obese man reached a hand out of the window and grabbed her by the neck.
“Blue lights!” the kid shouted. “C’mon, Johnny!”
Grey was lying flat on his stomach, two guns pointed at his head. Craggy Face stepped on the back of Grey’s hand with the sole of his boot, leaning into it. Grey stiffened in pain as the man leaned down and cocked his gun. “You’re dead, boy.”
“Do it, then,” Grey said.
“We have to go!” the kid screamed. “Right goddamn now!”
Hannah kept trying to twist out of her attacker’s grasp. He finally shoved her away in frustration. Craggy Face pressed his gun against Grey’s cheek so hard he thought his jaw might crack. “Soon. That’s a promise.”
As Grey breathed hard on the ground, the men clambered into the truck and sped off, moments ahead of the first cruiser.
