Death of the Mantis

by Michael Stanley

  He glanced at Joy. By the expression on her face, she almost believed he meant it. Oh God, if only Khumanego thinks so too.

  “Come, my friend, let’s sit down and talk about it. They’ll give us some time, but not too much.” When Khumanego collapsed back into his chair, Kubu carefully put the phone down without disconnecting the line and sat down next to him.

  More than half an hour passed as they negotiated. Kubu was glad that the phone line was still open; Mabaku would hear the discussions and realize there was no need for immediate action. There was to be a press conference. Various reporters were to be there, including Cindy. Obviously Khumanego didn’t know she was no longer in Botswana. Eventually Kubu promised everything Khumanego wanted, but negotiated hard to appear convincing. But, in reality, none of the details mattered. Kubu had to engineer things so that all of them remained alive. And that would only happen if he could persuade Khumanego that his cause would be best served by giving himself up.

  At last Kubu picked up the phone and spoke to Mabaku.

  “We’ve made a deal,” he told the director. Then he detailed everything, careful to cover every point, while Khumanego listened to his side of the conversation.

  “We’re not going to do any of that,” said Mabaku, when Kubu had finished.

  “Yes, I also think it’s fair,” said Kubu solemnly. “It’s important for the Bushman culture, for all of us.” He gave Khumanego an encouraging nod.

  “Will he give himself up? Is he armed?”

  “He’ll come out with me. He has a knife, but no gun or anything like that. He’ll stick to his side of the bargain.”

  “He comes out with his hands up. Not with you. Alone. No weapons. No sudden movements. He walks slowly toward us in the street. Then we grab him and handcuff him, and it’s over. Make it clear to him.”

  Kubu explained it to Khumanego, who looked dubious. “I don’t trust them.”

  “You have my word. We follow exactly what they say, and you’ll be all right. Then we can work on all the other things you need.”

  Kubu picked up the phone again. “I’ve given him my word he won’t be harmed. He’ll follow what you’ve said.” Mabaku grunted in reply.

  Khumanego was silent for several moments. “I want to talk to him myself,” he said at last. With considerable misgivings, Kubu handed him the phone. For the next few minutes, Kubu listened to Khumanego question Mabaku about the details of his surrender. At last Khumanego was satisfied. “All right,” he said, and hung up the phone. Then he turned to Kubu.

  “You must come with me. I won’t go alone.”

  Kubu hesitated. It was all wrong and contradicted Mabaku’s instructions. But if he agreed, at least Joy and Tumi would be safe. He nodded and heard Joy gasp.

  “Very well. Now let’s go. Leave the knife on the table.”

  Khumanego shook his head. “It comes with me. I’ll keep it in my pocket. I won’t touch it.” The knife was still in his hand.

  Again Kubu was tempted to let him have his way, but the knife was deadly. If there was a scuffle, someone might be cut and die. He shook his head. “The knife stays here. Someone might see it and panic. It’s not negotiable.”

  It was the wrong wording. Khumanego bristled, and Kubu could see that he was overcome with indecision. Kubu prayed he wouldn’t change his mind. But after a few seconds, which felt like forever, Khumanego lifted the knife and stabbed it into the table. It stuck there, upright, vibrating.

  Kubu breathed a sigh of relief. “Come, my friend. We’ll go together.”

  Suddenly Khumanego seemed to lose interest. He started talking in a Bushman language Kubu couldn’t follow, as though there was someone else in the room with them. He paused from time to time as if listening to a reply or a question. At last he stopped and turned to Kubu, relief in his voice. “They say that I will join them now. They say it will be all right. Come, let’s go.”

  Kubu gave Joy an encouraging smile and walked out of the front door with the man who had once been his childhood friend.

  At first all was well. But as they stepped off the veranda, the floodlights hit Khumanego full in the face. For a moment he staggered, but then he recovered, and his face was transformed by joy. He gave an ecstatic shout of greeting, threw his arms out wildly and, eluding Kubu’s grasp, began to dance.

  That was when the sharpshooters shot him. He never heard the shots—the bullets came too fast—but Kubu heard them and threw himself to the ground. And Joy heard them too, and screamed as she ran out of the house to where Kubu was lying. He grabbed her and pulled her down to the ground with him.

  Seconds later, Mabaku ran up. “Kubu! Are you all right? Joy, you should’ve stayed in the house!”

  Joy began to sob. Kubu looked up at his boss, but said nothing.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Kubu and Joy hardly slept at all, spending most of the night on the sofa. It took Kubu several hours to calm Joy to the point where she could talk coherently. When she was eventually able to recount what had happened, tears flowed down her face.

  “He threatened to kill Tumi if I shouted for help,” she sobbed. “He put that terrible knife under her chin. I was terrified.” Kubu put his arms around her.

  “It must have been awful,” he said softly. “You were so brave.”

  “There was nothing I could do to warn you. I hoped you’d think something was wrong when Ilia didn’t meet you at the gate. When I heard the car, I held her so she couldn’t run to you.”

  “Of course I noticed she wasn’t there, but thought she was eating her food. I was quite late.” He squeezed her tightly. “But when the guard wasn’t there either, I thought there was a problem, and when you didn’t answer when I called here, I was sure. That’s when I called Mabaku. I couldn’t reach him, but I told Edison to find him unless I called again. Then I came in. I couldn’t leave you and Tumi in Khumanego’s hands.”

  Joy smiled weakly and squeezed Kubu’s hand. Words were hard to find.

  They sat holding each other for some minutes, gently rocking back and forth.

  “Kubu?”

  “Yes, my darling?”

  “When I heard those shots and saw you on the ground . . .” Joy’s voice choked. She took a deep breath. “I thought they’d shot you. That you were dead.” She buried her face in his chest, tears pouring from her eyes. A few minutes later, she whispered, “I can’t imagine living without you.”

  Now Kubu’s eyes grew moist.

  He slowly detached himself from Joy and went to refill their wineglasses. When he returned, he handed one to Joy, snuggled next to her, and raised his. “To us, my darling. You and Tumi are the most important things in my life.” Their glasses clinked, and they both took large swigs.

  Joy turned away so Kubu wouldn’t see that she’d begun to cry again. She said softly, “I was afraid you didn’t want me anymore.”

  Kubu was astonished. “Dearest, whatever gave you that idea?”

  “Oh, Kubu, I thought you no longer desired me. My body’s changed so much with the pregnancy. Everything has drooped!”

  Kubu held her and laughed. “My darling,” he said, “I’m hardly in a position to begrudge you an extra pound or two.”

  “But my stretch marks!”

  “Every single one reminds me of the miraculous gift you’ve given me—our adorable Tumi, the child we feared we’d never have.”

  Joy was silent for a moment, taking his words into her heart. “I thought you were seeing another woman,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “That Cindy person. The reporter. You liked each other. I could tell.”

  Kubu knew that if he lied to her now, their marriage would forever have a tiny crack in it. “Yes, but as friends only. Had I been single, perhaps I’d have been interested, but Joy, you must know how much I love you. I’d never look at another woman. You’re my soul mate, my heart’s companion. I’ve never been unfaithful to you and, on my honor, I never will.”

  With that, the fl
oodgates opened, and Joy wept for a long time. Kubu had the good sense not to try to stop her, the tears cleansing the part of her that had doubted him.

  Finally Joy blew her nose and turned so she could look at Kubu’s face. “Could you be happy, not being a detective?”

  Kubu had a sinking feeling. He knew how much his job was affecting her. And since Tumi’s birth, she’d become less tolerant of it. He realized he’d been expecting this conversation even before the horrible events of the evening.

  “Do you want me to leave the police?” he whispered, fearing the worst.

  “I’m not sure I can take any more of this.” She put her head on his shoulder.

  Maybe I should resign, Kubu thought. Not only for Joy’s sake, but also because Mabaku betrayed me today. He promised they wouldn’t harm Khumanego. I’m not sure I can work for someone I don’t trust.

  They remained on the sofa for a long time, holding each other quietly, lost in thought. Each wondering how they would negotiate the future.

  Kubu went to work after lunch the next day, but only because Joy had recovered some of her composure and Pleasant had taken the afternoon off to be with her. Under normal circumstances, he would have stayed at home with her, but now he had a mission.

  He put down his briefcase and went to see Miriam.

  “Is the director available?”

  She nodded and told him to go in.

  Kubu knocked and opened the door to Mabaku’s office.

  “I’d like to talk to you, Director. May I sit down?”

  Mabaku closed the folder he was working on and leaned back.

  Kubu pulled an envelope from his shirt pocket and placed it on the desk. “This is my resignation, Director. I’ll wrap things up by the end of the month and then leave.”

  Mabaku’s impassive face didn’t change. He stared at Kubu without saying a word.

  They sat in silence, each waiting for the other to take the initiative. Mabaku was an expert at silence, and prevailed.

  “Director, this is the hardest decision of my life. You know how much I love what I do. But I can’t continue.”

  Mabaku went on staring, his eyes a little narrower than before. Kubu began to squirm in his seat. He thought he was prepared for this meeting, but Mabaku, as usual, was proving him wrong.

  “Director, there are two reasons for my decision.” Kubu gazed out of the window at Kgale Hill. He summoned up his courage and looked into the director’s eyes. “I have to work for someone I can trust. Last night, I guaranteed that Khumanego wouldn’t be harmed if he gave himself up. And you knew that. But when he was shot . . .” Kubu bit his lip. “When he was shot, you broke the trust between us, and I broke my promise to Khumanego. You may not have any reservations about what happened, Director, and I’m sure you’ve good reasons for what you did, but I have to live with myself. And I’m finding it very difficult to do so at the moment. I can’t and won’t put myself in the same position again.” Kubu sat up straight. “I’m sorry, Director. You’ve been very good to me in the past, and I appreciate that. I’ve always admired and respected you. You’ve always pointed me in the right direction, and I thank you for that too. But last night something very special between us was broken. I can’t work for you without it.”

  Mabaku stood up and walked to the window. He always took comfort from the permanence of Kgale Hill, and from the baboons that frequently came down from it and foraged around the CID offices.

  “So, I’m unworthy of your trust?” He walked back to his desk and sat down. “You know, Kubu, as smart as you are, sometimes you let your emotions get in the way of your brain. What do you really know about what happened last night? What orders did the sharpshooters have? Who gave the order to shoot?” He banged his fist on the desk. “You come in here and blame me for what happened. Do you really know that I’m at fault? Do you know what actually happened? You are letting your emotions come to a verdict without any evidence. I’m disappointed.”

  He stared at Kubu and shook his head. “How many years have we been working together? Ten? Twelve? I’m not sure I even know. And how often have I let you down in all those years?” He jumped out of his chair, grabbed Kubu’s envelope, and waved it in the air. “And yet, without a scrap of evidence you now accuse me of violating our trust. Grow up, Assistant Superintendent.”

  He flung the envelope back on the desk and returned to the window. With his back to Kubu, he said: “You want to know who was responsible for Khumanego’s death? I’ll tell you.” He turned back to face the detective. “You were!”

  Kubu sat in stunned silence while Mabaku returned to his chair and sat down again. “My instructions to you were quite explicit. Khumanego comes out alone. But you came out with him.” Kubu started to interrupt, but Mabaku stopped him. “You may’ve had your reasons. You were the person inside with a madman with a poisoned knife. But when you came out with him, the game changed. He’d already killed the guard, and we didn’t know if the knife was inside the house or with him. He could have cut you with it in a second and you would have been dead. If he made any sudden movement, we had to kill him at once.”

  Kubu wrestled with the accusation. The knife was safely inside, but the police couldn’t possibly have known that. But he had given his word!

  He gave up the issue for the time being. “There’s a second reason.”

  “And what’s that?” Mabaku said tiredly.

  “Director, last night was the second time in two years that Joy’s life has been in danger. And this time Tumi’s was too. Had we lost her, I’m not sure how we would’ve coped, and had I lost either of them . . .” He couldn’t finish the sentence and looked down. It took him several seconds to recover his composure.

  “I know all about the stresses policemen’s wives feel, and I know how high the divorce rate is. As much as I love this job, Director, I love my wife more. I can’t risk my marriage.”

  Mabaku stared at him without sympathy.

  “Kubu, my father was a policeman. Just a constable. When I was twelve, we were in Molepolole. One night he was called out to stop a fight at a bar. When he got there, both men were bruised and bleeding, but still fighting with their fists and feet. There was a noisy crowd around them. He dragged the two apart and told them to go home. The crowd got hostile because there were a lot of bets on the fight, and then someone threw a brick. It hit my father on the head and killed him. They never found who did it.”

  He took a deep breath. “My mother was left to raise me and my brothers and sisters. Five in all. On a policeman’s paltry pension. Obviously it wasn’t enough, so she had to go out and find a job. And then another. But what I remember most of all was how proud she was of my father. She felt he’d made each community he worked in a better place. Made the country a better place. She knew how important it was for him to do that. She never complained about his death. Certainly, she missed him. But to her, his death was for a good cause. Something to be proud of. Had she forbidden him to be a policeman, both of them would’ve withered.”

  He stood up and walked to one of the filing cabinets, unlocked it, and pulled open the bottom drawer. He reached in and lifted out a bottle of Scotch and two tumblers. “I’m not Ian MacGregor, but I see his point that a stiff drink sometimes clears the way.”

  Kubu gawked—in all the years he had been at the CID, he’d never known Mabaku kept a stash of whisky.

  Mabaku poured two large drinks and handed one to Kubu. “To an ex-policeman!” He drained the glass in a single gulp. “Come on, Kubu, drink up! Drink to whatever you are going to be in the future. Security guard? Private eye? The Number One Man’s Detective Agency?”

  Kubu was taken aback by Mabaku’s sarcasm and didn’t feel like drinking. Still, he drained the tumbler.

  Mabaku sat down again and stared at Kubu, glass in hand.

  He picked up the envelope and flipped it at Kubu. “On your way out, see Miriam and make an appointment to see me a week from Monday. Take next week off and go home and think about it.
Don’t come back till you’ve made up your mind.”

  Kubu picked up the envelope and walked out. Mabaku had won this encounter. Kubu wondered who would have the last word.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  For the first time since he had returned home to discover his family held hostage, Kubu was happy. They had made the decision the night before. Only time would tell whether it was the right one. In the end Joy’s view had prevailed. He sincerely hoped that she didn’t come to regret it.

  Tonight they were going to relax and, despite the unusual nature of the cooking arrangements for the evening, had invited Pleasant over to celebrate. Bongani couldn’t join them because he was on a field trip.

  Kubu brought Joy and Pleasant each a glass of inexpensive but good South African sauvignon blanc as they sat in the cool shade of the veranda. They looked at him with broad smiles and eager anticipation. This was to be the evening that Kubu had put off for so long—the evening he was finally going to keep his promise to cook a full meal. Tumi had been fed and was in her crib. Hopefully, she would sleep through the event.

  “Remember,” Kubu said, wagging his finger, “you both promised that you wouldn’t come into the kitchen while I’m cooking.”

  They nodded in unison. “We promise,” Pleasant said.

  “It’s six now, dinner will be ready at half past seven. I have some snacks for you in the meantime.”

  He disappeared indoors, followed closely by a curious Ilia, who was used to Kubu sitting on the veranda and Joy disappearing inside.

  Now to work, Kubu thought as he walked back into the kitchen. One step at a time. It can’t be that difficult.

  A friend had told him always to soak the rice for an hour before cooking. So Kubu found a bowl, measured out a cup of rice and added two and a half cups of water. Not two, not three, his friend had said. It must be two and a half. He put the bowl at the end of the counter out of the way.