Death of the Mantis

by Michael Stanley

  “But he died there!” Now Khumanego was almost shouting.

  “No, no, he was okay. He came to Detective Tau’s funeral. He cried.”

  Khumanego lost control. “You lie! You lie!” he screamed.

  “No, it’s true . . .” The man backed farther away, now terrified of the mad Bushman.

  Khumanego was breathing hard, but he realized the man was telling the truth. He pulled himself together. Now he had very little time. He needed to move quickly and disappear. Soon the police would be searching for him in the town and nearby.

  But he wasn’t really worried. Disappearing was something he did well.

  Chapter Forty-five

  Kubu sat in his office, frustrated and angry. Somehow, he felt, if he’d been with the team that had gone to Haake’s koppies the previous week, things might have worked out differently. They had needed to look beyond the obvious, to see as a Bushman saw. Maybe he wouldn’t have been good enough to do that either, but at least he could have tried. What chance did a SWAT team have? They’d never look beyond the obvious threats, noisily attacking empty caves. Khumanego would never let himself be trapped that way. Now he was sure that Khumanego had linked up with a Bushman group and was living perfectly camouflaged among them in the Kalahari. There had been no trace of him since he had driven off in the Land Rover leaving Kubu and Tau to the sun and thirst of the Kalahari. He thumped his desk with his fist, and noted with approval that the telephone jumped. More impressive, it actually started to ring. He grabbed it.

  “Assistant Superintendent Bengu.”

  “Kubu, it’s Mabaku. Get up here right away.”

  No questions were to be answered; Kubu was left with the dialing tone. But Mabaku had sounded excited. Kubu lost no time heading to his office.

  Mabaku got straight to the point. He waved Kubu to a chair and said, “Khumanego’s been spotted in Hukuntsi. Hukuntsi! Amazing, after all these weeks. Not a trace of him, and then he’s in Hukuntsi bold as you please, pretending to be Piscoaghu, and pushing people around.”

  Kubu leaned forward, excited. “Did they catch him?”

  Mabaku shook his head. “He questioned a gas-station attendant—not Willie, we’re still holding him. He wanted to know about you. He seemed upset that you made it.” Mabaku grimaced. He knew this news would hurt Kubu to the quick. “Then he disappeared. The local police are scouring the area. But one of them was smart. He asked about motorbikes. Sure enough, a man on a bike was seen heading out of town to the north. The witness didn’t think it was a Bushman, but he was wearing a heavy jacket and helmet. So it could have been anyone. I’m pretty sure it was Khumanego.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “This afternoon. Lerako phoned through a few minutes ago. They’re still searching, but they won’t find him.”

  Kubu nodded. Now Khumanego had disguised himself as a cross-country biker. A leather jacket and helmet. No one would realize he was a Bushman. But where would he go? Back to his people in the desert? Probably, but they couldn’t take the chance.

  “We should set up roadblocks. Reinforce the border post alert. He might make a run for it now. He must know how close we are.”

  Mabaku nodded. “Get onto it right away. I want him behind bars, the bastard. I won’t forget Tau’s parents breaking down at the funeral. They deserve revenge for this. I want them to have it.”

  Kubu was silent. Revenge was a harsh word and shouldn’t be in a policeman’s vocabulary. But he had spent an anguished time with Tau’s family describing the young man’s last days. He had told them that Tau had set off to get help, knowing that Kubu wouldn’t be able to keep up. That he had taken the best chance. That bad luck had prevented him finding the others, but that he was a hero. Kubu hoped he’d been convincing.

  “I’ll do it at once, Director,” he said, climbing to his feet.

  As expected, they found nothing. A man on an off-road bike had bought fuel in Kang. Had he been a Bushman? The fuel attendant doubted that, because Bushmen didn’t ride nice motorbikes.

  Kubu stared at the topographic map he had used to link the murders with the koppies, thinking of Mabaku’s pictures of the gems, the paintings, and the funeral sites. One day I must go there, he thought. Then perhaps I’ll understand. But I’ll never understand Khumanego. These murders don’t make sense. He sighed. They don’t make sense to me, but they must to him. That’s the tragedy.

  He checked his watch. It was getting late. Perhaps he would just check if Mabaku had heard anything and then head home. To supper with Joy and Tumi. That thought made him feel better.

  But Mabaku seemed in a mood to chat. He invited Kubu to sit and asked after the family. He commented on his wife’s interminable shopping. Clearly there was something he wanted to say, but he was taking a long time to say it. Kubu felt uncomfortable. He didn’t want to be late for dinner. At last Mabaku came to the point.

  “I share your concerns about the Bushman cultures, Kubu. You know that. And those koppies were absolutely spectacular. Unbelievable. But now there’s a problem. Perhaps Khumanego was living there. Maybe protecting them even in a strange sort of way? But now there’s no one. And that gem I picked up was an amethyst. If someone unscrupulous gets wind of those . . .” He let his voice trail off. “It’s a human treasure, Kubu. Those paintings weren’t made by today’s Bushmen, who, I admit, do some interesting work, but it’s modern art. Nothing like what I saw. We have to save it for everyone. Not just a few Bushmen who know about it and venerate it as a relic of the past.”

  “You spoke to the museum people.”

  “Yes, I told them about it, and I showed them some of the pictures. They were amazed and wanted to know all about it. I told them it was a police crime scene. I didn’t tell them where it was. So no one is going there anytime soon. And I suggested that they tell the Minister of Youth, Sports, and Culture about it. That he should make a plan to protect the place and preserve it. Not turn it into another tourist attraction. They agreed. I said I’d let them know when someone could go there. Let’s see what they come up with.”

  Kubu sighed. Perhaps this was the only way. Preserve the past, do your best for the present, ignore the future. “I think you had no option, Director. I hope one day I can see it for myself.”

  Mabaku looked relieved. “Yes, I hope so too. Once Khumanego is safely behind bars.”

  But first we have to catch him, Kubu thought.

  Mabaku checked his watch. “Well, we best be getting home. It’s getting late.”

  Kubu nodded, and said good night. It was late, and he was hungry.

  Chapter Forty-six

  It was nearly dark when Kubu drove up to his gate. He was tired and discouraged. He knew how easy it would be for Khumanego to hide in a nomadic Bushman band. After all, that was how he’d grown up. Unless they got lucky, the police might never find him.

  As he swung the gate open, he was surprised that Ilia wasn’t there to greet him. But that happened sometimes these days. Whether her sensitive ears couldn’t pick up his arrival over Tumi’s crying, or whether she stayed with Joy to provide moral support, Kubu couldn’t say. Or perhaps she was just having her supper. Kubu hoped the latter was the explanation.

  However, when he wasn’t greeted by the police guard, who was normally at the gate, Kubu stopped. He’s probably having coffee with Joy, he thought. But I’d better make sure. He pulled out his cell phone and called his own landline. After a few seconds, he could hear the phone ringing inside the house. It rang and rang, but no one answered. Then he tried Joy’s cell phone. It went straight through to voicemail.

  A chill spread through Kubu. Something was wrong. Had Khumanego returned to finish his work? He dialed Mabaku’s cell number. It, too, went through to voicemail. Kubu left a message explaining the situation and asked Mabaku to call him back as soon as possible. Then he tried Edison, who answered immediately.

  “Edison, I’m outside my house. The police guard isn’t here. Ilia hasn’t come out to welcome me, and Joy do
esn’t answer my phone calls.”

  “Could they be visiting one of your neighbors?”

  “I’m sure Joy would’ve let me know, and she wouldn’t have taken Ilia. I’ve tried phoning the director, but he’s not answering. I have to check what’s going on, so I’m going into the house. If I haven’t called you in five minutes, get hold of him immediately. No matter where he is, whatever he’s doing. Tell him what’s going on.”

  “Are you armed?”

  “No.”

  “I think you should wait until I find him.”

  “I can’t do that,” Kubu snapped. “Joy and Tumi may be in danger.” With that he hung up and walked toward the house.

  “I’m home, my darling,” he called, trying hard to sound unconcerned. “I’m home. Where are you?” Then he heard Tumi crying. At least she was alive. He took a deep breath and went in.

  He found them in the dining room. Joy was sitting at one corner of the table rocking the baby, who surprisingly stopped crying when she saw her father. Ilia was next to them, standing aggressively, on guard. And they were not alone. Khumanego was sitting at the far end of the table, his hands crossed on the surface. In front of him was a hunting knife, the blade partly covered by a yellowish stain. The back of Kubu’s neck tingled.

  “Hello, David,” Khumanego said. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  Kubu put his briefcase on the floor and sat down at the table between Khumanego and his family.

  Khumanego picked up the knife and pointed it at Kubu. “David,” he said. “Put your handgun and cell phone on the table. I don’t want you trying something stupid.”

  “I’m unarmed,” Kubu responded, as he slid his cell phone toward Khumanego.

  “Stand up.”

  Kubu did so, and Khumanego patted him down.

  “Sit.”

  Kubu complied, and Khumanego picked up the phone and turned it off.

  “What do you want, Khumanego?” Kubu asked quietly. “Why have you come here?”

  Khumanego frowned, but it was Joy who replied.

  “He said he’d kill us if we tried to stop him. Kill Tumi . . . with the knife with Bushman poison. I called off Ilia . . .” She was battling to keep her voice under control. She and Ilia had seen off a man with a gun in their time, but the horror of the slow-death poison was more than she could handle. And there was the baby now. Kubu nodded, but he kept his eyes fixed on the Bushman.

  “What do you want?” he repeated.

  “What do I want?” Khumanego mimicked derisively. “I want my people to have their lands back, to have their dignity back, to have their sacred places respected. I want the elderly to lead decent lives—free in their traditional culture—not herded into camps to die of disease and hopelessness. I want respect. I don’t want to be laughed at. I want to be treated with dignity.” He met Kubu’s stare. “That’s what I want.”

  “I’ve always respected you, Khumanego. Why do you come here and threaten my family? Of all places outside the desert, it’s here you get the things you want.”

  Khumanego shook his head. “There’s a line. A line you hold and defend, that no one is allowed to cross. My line is The Place. No one goes there. No one desecrates it. It belongs to me, and I guard it for my people.” He hesitated. “I’m The Guardian. That’s what I am. The Guardian of The Place.”

  Kubu was worried that he was losing the drift of what the Bushman was saying, and it was vital to keep Khumanego engaged.

  “What place is this, Khumanego? Tell me about it.”

  “It’s not a place. It’s The Place. The home of the ancestors and the gods and the Mantis. I am its guardian.”

  Suddenly Kubu understood. “It’s the koppies, isn’t it? That Haake found? That we searched for together in the desert?”

  Khumanego shook his head. “We didn’t search for it together. I was there to stop you. I had to stop you. I’m sorry about that, David. Because you’re not a bad man, and you were once my friend. But you can’t go to The Place. It’s not permitted. I don’t permit it.”

  “And that’s why you left us to die of thirst in the desert? I wasn’t looking for a place, Khumanego. I was looking for a murderer.”

  “You didn’t need to go so far to find him.”

  No, thought Kubu. I didn’t.

  There was a silence for a few moments. I must keep him talking, Kubu thought. “Explain to me, Khumanego. I don’t understand. You know I respect your people, that I’d do nothing to hurt them or insult them. What did I do wrong?”

  “The Place is sacred. No one goes there and lives, unless I permit it. People must learn that The Place is cursed. They will learn to keep away. Otherwise they too will die.”

  “Why didn’t you explain this to me before?”

  “Explain? Then you would go there. Like the team you sent there last week! They desecrated that sacred ground! I watched them: firing bombs, insulting the ancestors, angering the gods! You wanted me to explain that this shouldn’t be done?” His voice was raised in anger.

  Kubu tried to calm him. “I thought you would go back to the desert. Back to your people who still follow the old ways. I thought we would never find you.”

  “They have also been corrupted. All of them! They get water and food from the towns, then pretend they live from the desert. They are not worthy of the Mantis! Not worthy of me!”

  “So why did you come here?”

  “It was you who led the defilers to The Place. You were responsible. And you were meant to die in the desert. To be a sacrifice for The Place. But they found you too soon.”

  “So you have come to finish what you started? Is that how it is?”

  Khumanego said nothing.

  “Let Joy and Tumi go, my friend. They have nothing to do with this.”

  Khumanego hesitated, and for a moment Kubu thought he might agree. But he shook his head sharply. “They stay. But if you cooperate, I promise I won’t harm them when it’s over.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  But again Khumanego didn’t answer, and Kubu felt a surge of hope. He has come to kill me, but he cannot say it. He doesn’t really want to do it. How long since he had called Edison? Fifteen minutes? Twenty minutes? Longer?

  “They found nothing at The Place, Khumanego. And nothing was damaged permanently. It can become a national heritage site—like Tsodilo—preserved forever for your people and your culture. We can do this together. I’d like to help. To make amends.”

  “Like Tsodilo? Become a place of amusement for gawking tourists with their digital cameras? And of research for academics who’ve never even met a real Bushman?” Khumanego shook his head. “You don’t understand, David. This is real. It is not about culture. The gods are real. The ancestors are real. You remember Gobiwasi?” Kubu nodded. “I spoke with him recently. His spirit lives. And I hear the words of the gods. I have been accepted into their world. The world of the Mantis. It is a great honor.”

  “I want to help you. Help you preserve this place.”

  “You can help, David, if that is what you really want. You need to complete the sacrifice. If you do it willingly now, the impact will be greater. The gods more pleased. And your family will live.”

  “I’m no help to anyone dead.”

  “That’s only your perception of life. In your world, I’ve been dead for a long time.”

  There was silence. Kubu had run out of things to say. He thought he might be forced to accept Khumanego’s deal—his life for that of his family. If he held out his arm now for Khumanego’s poisoned knife, it would be over. That’s what he wants, he thought. He wants me to do this willingly or to resist physically. He finds it hard to kill me in cold blood. Because of the past. Two boys learning about life together a long time ago. And that is my only chance. I must do nothing. I must wait for him to gather the courage to make the move. If he can.

  The silence was broken by the telephone. Kubu let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “I think I should answer that,”
he said and was on his feet and had grabbed the phone before Khumanego could object. Joy and Khumanego stared at him, hearing only his side of the conversation.

  “Yes, it’s Kubu.” He listened.

  “Yes, he’s here with us.” He listened again.

  “We’re all right. We’re talking things over.” Kubu listened for a few seconds more, and then said to Khumanego: “It’s the police. They have the house surrounded. There’s no way out. They want to talk to you.”

  Khumanego was already on his feet, the knife in his right hand, moving the edges of the curtains to peek out. At first he saw nothing, but then he realized that there were cars blocking the street at each end. And there were men assembling floodlights. The first one came on as he watched.

  Khumanego turned to Kubu, pointing the knife in his direction. “You called them, didn’t you? When no one answered the phone here. That was you, wasn’t it? I heard you arrive. Now you will all die. That is what you have done.” He started to move toward Joy.

  “Khumanego!” Kubu said loudly, moving in front of her. “I knew you were here. That’s why I came in. I wanted to talk to you. To see what we could work out together. To preserve what you have achieved. To save The Place. To venerate the gods and the ancestors.” He knew he was gabbling rubbish, but Khumanego stopped and turned to him.

  “Tell them we are leaving. All of us. They must bring a car, and you will drive. We’ll . . .”

  But Kubu shook his head. “No, I won’t tell them that. That will never work. They won’t do it, and if they do, it’ll be a trap. This isn’t a movie, Khumanego. They’ll never negotiate on that.” He paused. “But what we can do is arrange for you to turn yourself in. I’ll say that’s why you came here. Then you can tell your story. The press will interview you. They’ll see why you did these things and write about it in newspapers around the world. At the trial, you’ll be able to tell the whole world everything you’ve told me. The world will support you like they did your people when they were thrown out of the Central Kalahari Game Reserve. They will force the government to change its policies. To give you back what is yours. It’ll turn everything around, I promise. Everything!”