by Mark Graham
He walked casually back to his own house, removed the Impala from the garage, and drove it back to the Clavers’. The Impala, fit neatly in their garage next to the police car. Mansell let the garage door down and reset the alarm.
Adrenaline ceased to be a factor. The mechanics of driving the Audi seemed to come from a distant source, like a drunkard who survives the trip home but can’t recall how. Cool air from the air-conditioner washed over him, but it wasn’t cool enough. The Browning lay coiled in its leather sheath on the seat next to him. Mansell observed that the weapon served not as a source of comfort, but as a reminder of a recently acquired state of paranoia. The empty briefcase and the hastily packed duffel bag served as blunt exclamation marks.
The Audi was spotless, a glossy patina the color of bronze. They would know him by his automobile as much as by his face. A South African policeman in a German luxury car, he thought, was like a black wig and thick glasses on Queen Elizabeth—a ridiculous but effective disguise.
At the first stop sign, the car staggered and nearly died. Idling, Mansell revived himself by massaging weighted eyelids and grooming slack hair. An unidentified crank caller, he thought, sends the vaunted homicide inspector into a state of trepidation by pushing exactly the right buttons. So be it.
The car seemingly steered itself from Millard Grange to the coloured township of Gelvandale. He remembered Trevenna Avenue and recognized the house more by the yellowwood trees than by the address or the stuccoed exterior.
Delaney’s red Fiat was parked out front. Mansell had to move two bicycles and an unfinished picnic table from the center of the garage to make room for the Audi.
The back gate squeaked when he pushed it aside. Across the back fence two dogs began to howl. Mansell crouched behind a lawn chair, eyeing the strawberry planter. A porch light came on in the neighbor’s yard. Someone yelled, “Get in here.”
It was dark again and quiet. He waited two minutes, easily outlasting the most conscientious neighbor at 2:30 in the morning. He found the key and unlocked the door to the back porch. The layout came back to him. The butcher-block table in the center of the kitchen; African violets above the sink. The china cabinet in the dining room. In the sitting room, Mansell was drawn to the photographs of Amanda lining the piano. Off the hallway was a study, a bathroom, and a bedroom. Her bedroom, he thought. It smelled of potpourri and perfume. A satin spread and silk pillows adorned a queen-sized bed. He couldn’t stay in here.
Mansell fled to the living room. The wicker chair, the couch, the oak table with the empty porcelain vase—all brought back memories of his first visit. He took off his shoes and coat. The harness for the Browning fit neatly over the arm of the couch. Folded across the back of the couch was an afghan, and Mansell wrapped it around his shoulders. He stretched out on soft cushions, closed his eyes, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
****
While the red flecks of the second tractor trailer’s taillights dimmed, Delaney reloaded her camera. When the flecks were nothing more than illusionary pinpoints on a sheet of glossy blackness, she set out in pursuit.
At the edge of town she crossed a trestle bridge spanning a dry creek bed. The highway widened, rising steadily into the heart of the Witwatersrand. Darkness closed in about her. Solitary lights from lonely farmhouses were lifelines to the world of the living.
Delaney ordered herself not to hurry. Still shaken by the incident at the train crossing, she realized now how close she had come to death. She realized in the same moment the foolishness that had ruled her life since that night three years ago. And she was aware, all at once, of a new will to live, a new reason: a policeman, of all things. Following the guns made less sense all of sudden; but for the same reason, turning back was out of the question.
She stared out at the hypnotic pools of light leading her deeper into the night. Yellow highway lines were tongues of fire licking at the car as it swept hurriedly past. Road markers were armless dwarves staring back at her with marionette eyes. And for an instant, Delaney was transported back to that night three years ago and the memories. The shocking rumble of rock sweeping across the highway. The hollowness in her own screams. The lifeless body of her only daughter tucked beneath a gray blanket stained a reddish brown by blood and grime. She saw the headlights of an onrushing semi and cringed at the bellow of its horn. The car rocked in the truck’s wake, shaking the image from her head, and the village lights of Delmas, set at the crest of the rise, rescued her.
The road veered left, intersecting R555, and there, a half kilometer ahead, were the red flecks of her prey.
On her right, farmhouses and chalets perched among pines and junipers overlooking the road. On her left, gentle slopes and broad plateaus, enclosed by chain link and barbed-wire fences, served as the domicile of gold mines and wheat fields. Slip trails of bright lights and blue flames punctuated the shadowy works of Highland Vaal a stone’s throw away.
Five kilometers further on, Delaney saw the red lights multiply and brighten as the drivers applied their brakes. Billows of smoke rose from the exhaust pipes as they dropped into lower gears. Delaney touched her brakes. She eased off onto the shoulder of the road and stopped.
Ahead, floodlights illuminated an entrance a hundred meters away. The trucks stopped momentarily in the center of the highway, obstructing traffic in both directions, and then eased into the light. Delaney mounted the camera atop the steering wheel. She peeked into the viewfinder, and the automatic winder ripped off a half dozen pictures.
Then she pulled back onto the road and closed the gap between herself and the trucks. Stopping again, she could see a circular guardhouse enclosed by lofty chain link gates. Attached to one of the gates was a rectangular sign, green lettering on white. It read,
EAST FIELDS MINING CORPORATION-PRIVATE PROPERTY. Delaney cranked her window down halfway. She balanced the lens on the glass. Armed guards gathered at the gates, and she managed a single close-up.
Up ahead a man stepped into the road. He wore a fluorescent orange vest and carried two white flags. He motioned in Delaney’s direction, waving her forward. As the Jetta inched ahead, Delaney glanced toward the entrance. She saw the gates opening, swinging outward in a wide arc. She heard shouting. The entrance was too shallow, the arc too wide. The trucks were forced to retreat. The back-up lights on the second trailer illuminated. The traffic controller held up his flags. The truck’s warning bell sounded, and it nudged back across the road.
Delaney readied the camera. She glanced into the viewfinder. The East Fields sign, a profile of the first truck, and four armed guards were fixed within the lens. As she adjusted the focus, another man stepped around the huge cab into the picture. It was the escort—intent, anxious, a black cigarette clamped between tight lips. Narrowed eyes looked straight into the camera, and Delaney snapped three pictures. Discarding the cigarette, the escort started toward her. He held up a hand. He broke into a run, yelling. Delaney stepped on the gas. The traffic controller’s eyes widened as the Jetta lunged forward, and he leapt aside.
Delaney steered the car in a tight circle around the rear of the trailer. She heard the truck’s warning bell again. The Jetta’s right wheels plunged onto the soft shoulder. Clouds of dust filled the air. The rear end fishtailed. Delaney glanced into the rear-view mirror and saw the escort and two guards a step behind. She punched the gas, and the Jetta forged back onto the highway.
An hour and ten minutes later, Delaney pulled into a We Deal used-car lot off of R29 on Johannesburg’s east side. She parked the Jetta in an empty space next to the service garage between a Nova and a Subaru station wagon. She left the key in the ignition and studied the highway for ten minutes. Satisfied, she got out and walked across the road with her carry-on, briefcase, and camera bag to a Motor West motel: FIFTEEN RAND PER NIGHT, CABLE TV, SWIMMING POOL.
She registered under her mother’s maiden name and paid cash. Minutes later, she unlocked the door to room 343, engaged the dead bolt behind her, and collapse
d on a wickedly hard bed.
Sleep was another matter.
While her body protested against the hours spent behind the wheel, her brain churned out tales of hitmen and smugglers. Delaney comforted herself with the rationalization that she was on the side of right. One of the good guys, she told herself, remember? Still, she didn’t feel like one of the good guys; the fantasies continued.
She stripped off dank clothes, took four Bufferin, and turned on the shower until steam billowed like whipping cream throughout the tiny bathroom. The water bit deliciously into her skin. Steam cleared her lungs. Twenty minutes beneath the hot jets of water gradually soothed the jagged edges. Delaney scrubbed and lathered until her entire body tingled with pleasure.
She toweled herself in front of a full-length mirror wondering if Nigel Mansell was, at that minute, in her house, perhaps in her own bed.
Naked, she crawled between cool sheets; hazy, fading. Another worry eclipsed the advent of sleep. She tossed off the covers and slipped into a robe.
The camera bag was sitting on the nightstand next to the telephone. Delaney took the Minolta from its case, rewound the exposed film, and stored it in a plastic canister. She buried the canister at the bottom of her carry-on along with the other two rolls. That won’t do, she thought, turning on the light. She retrieved all three rolls.
Meticulously, Delaney scanned the room for a suitable hiding place.
The drop ceiling with yellowing tiles and layers of dust seemed too obvious. In the base of the desk lamp seemed amateurish. Taped inside the dresser drawer? The toe of her shoe? In the bottom of the wastebasket? Delaney knelt on the floor and glanced under the bed. Between the mattress and the box springs? No, even a child would look there. Beneath the box springs, she thought. She could pull away an inch or two of the stapled material on the bottom, set the canisters on the wooden frame, and then reset the staples. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she whispered. Inside the air-conditioning vent? Not without a screwdriver. In her dirty clothes?
Delaney opened a bare closet, studied the entryway, and dismissed the bathroom. Wishing she had never started the whole charade, she opened the front door.
Buzzing fluorescent tubes lit the hallway. Indoor-outdoor carpeting and sterile tan walls smelled of cigarettes and ammonia. The maid’s closet was located directly across the hall, and Delaney tried the door. It wasn’t locked. She stepped inside. A forty-watt bulb showered dim light over stacks of bed linen, towels, and hand cloths, mops and buckets, squirt bottles and dusters, three cases of toilet paper, and cartons of complimentary Motor West soap.
Delaney set two cases of toilet paper in the doorway. She pulled at the corners of the third case, and flaps sealed with hot glue separated with a sharp pop. Inside were layers of generic toilet paper wrapped in tissue. Delaney dug down to the second layer. She removed the center roll and unwrapped the tissue until she could see the tube. She dropped all three canisters inside. Then she rewrapped the roll, replaced the contents neatly, and stacked the cases exactly as they had been.
****
A distracted Cecil Leistner stirred cream and a half cube of sugar into hot coffee. He donned half glasses and read the document one last time.
FEDERAL WARRANT ORDER #6141
For: Nigel Morgan Mansell
253 Northview Avenue
Port Elizabeth, Cape Province, South Africa
Notice. IN TERMS OF PARAGRAPH A, OF SUBSECTION
201 OF SECTION D . . . OF THE CONSTITUTION OF THE
REPUBLIC OF SOUTH AFRICA
Whereas, I, Cecil Andrew Leistner, Minister of
Justice, am satisfied as to the preliminary
evidence presented by the legal authorities of said
district . . . do hereby warrant that the aforementioned
individual shall be . . . subjected to immediate
arrest and detention . . . in conjunction with
the violent death of one Steven Edward de Villiers. . .
Given under my hand at Pretoria on this 17th
day of July . . .
/s/ C. A. Leistner
Minister of Justice
Leistner removed his spectacles and massaged the bridge of his nose absently.
He was not pleased about the warrant. It signaled an element of discord—another element of discord. His signature would formalize a nationwide manhunt, he knew that. Some considered his signature at the bottom of a federal arrest warrant tantamount to a declaration of war. The minister of justice would have been content to forget Mansell’s name forever. He was more concerned with the fate of Fredrik Steiner and the formalization of a state of emergency. True, the cabinet was nearly unanimous in its favor now, but the P.M., for some reason, continued to stall.
Leistner knew that Mansell would be picked up first thing this morning, and he knew that the histrionics of a manhunt would be avoided. But now, he thought, there was this damn mess with Delaney. How in the hell had she become so involved? It was impossible. Worse, it was impossible that she could have gotten as far as she had. Koster had known far enough in advance. He had been warned. Why, Leistner thought, hadn’t he taken the necessary action?
The intercom came to life, and Leistner acknowledged it.
His secretary said, “Deputy Minister Koster of Mineral Resources and Energy Affairs is here to see you, sir.”
Good, Leistner thought, we’ll find out why right now. He said, “Sara, come in here first, please.”
Sara entered the room, refilling coffee while Leistner signed the last copy of the federal warrant.
“Have these sent off to all nineteen police divisions immediately, will you please?” He passed the secretary all but two copies. “And send in the deputy minister on your way out. He’ll drink tea, I’m quite sure.”
****
Mansell called in his one and only marker.
He, actually, had never considered it a marker, but Merriman Gosani always had.
The funeral on June 10, one year ago, had been for three factory workers employed by Alford Steel in Uitenhage. The three men worked the night shift at the plant’s foundry. A gas leak from canisters stored belowground and reportedly labeled, two months before, “Dangerous—Immediate Action Required,” had killed the three and blinded a fourth.
The dead were black. The outcry that followed the accident led to a wildcat strike, and demonstrations consumed four days and set the stage for further calamity.
It was chilly and gusty the day of the funeral. The service was staged in the township of Kwaford in a stadium built of pine—in a stadium built for high school soccer and track, not funerals; in a stadium meant to hold six thousand, not five times six thousand.
Every cop within fifty kilometers was on duty that day. The local commando unit and an infantry squadron from the South African Defense Force were engaged.
Mansell, Merry, and Piet Richter were patrolling a parking lot east of the stadium. From where they were parked they could see the smoke from the ceremonial bonfire. No one really knew how the other fire started, only that it began in the bleachers behind the east end zone, only that the pine exploded like a tinderbox, only that panic spread like an epidemic. The bleachers collapsed; six people were crushed. Army troops dispersed. A frightened mass stormed onto the parking lot.
Mansell remembered the woman with the infant strapped to her back and the three-year-old tugging at her skirt. He remembered seeing her trip in the face of the mob, and he remembered Merry sprinting across the lot and herding the three of them to a place of safety. But what he remembered more clearly than anything was the vengeance of the crowd when they recognized the black cop and the hatred when they started pelting him with stones.
When Mansell saw Merry go under, he clambered onto the hood of their car with two tear-gas canisters and his .38 raised. After that it was a blur. Piet Richter driving headlong into the throng. The horn blasting. Bodies caroming off the hood. Tear gas filling his lungs. The warning shots ringing in his ears. Mansell remembered scampe
ring off the hood and hoisting the unconscious detective over his shoulder, but the trip to the hospital was a blank.
Still, the look on Merry’s face when he regained consciousness an hour later was the best memory. It didn’t matter that Piet Richter recounted the events in what Mansell felt sure was an overly colorful fashion. Merry was alive.
At 9:15, Mansell telephoned Merry at his private cubicle at the rear of the Pit, a crackerbox squashed between the men’s room and a deserted holding cell. At that moment, Merry was interviewing a potential witness about the bakery fire on Fleming Street.
“Son of a bitch, Nigel. Where are you?” the detective whispered. The tumult from the Pit eclipsed Merry’s voice, but Mansell heard him say, “Don’t move, Mr. Jacob. I’ll be right back. Help yourself to some tea.”
Merry carried the telephone into the holding cell and closed the door. He said, “All hell’s broken loose, pal. What in God’s name is going on?”
The tone of the detective’s voice conveyed only friendship, and Mansell loosened his guard. “Merry, I heard the good news about the federal warrant. No details, though. What do you know?”
“Are you kidding? It’s bad, man. Murder one. Murder one.”
The onslaught was more physical than mental: the constriction of his chest muscles, the swelling in his throat, the loss of breathable air. “Who?” he forced himself to ask.
“Does the name de Villiers mean anything? Steven de Villiers?”
“The temporary union liaison for the miners and dockers?” he replied disconcertedly. “We never met.”
“Murdered. Beaten about the head with a blunt instrument. Gunshot wounds in the chest. The ETD hasn’t been fixed yet, but he was buried near the Fish River east of Sheldon. A little strange, though. Very professional in one sense, yeah, but damn unprofessional in another. I mean, they found the gun ten meters from the grave.”