The Man in the Wind

by Vernon W. Baumann

  Jools looked up at him. His face was pale. He swallowed hard. ‘Shaun. We made a huge mistake.’

  ***

  ‘Get your hands in the air right now. Or I’m going to be forced to shoot.’

  Constable Joost van der Merwe crouched low, both hands on the pistol still aimed at Jack Strydom.

  Silence.

  ‘Damn you, Strydom.’ Van der Merwe took a step towards the cornered butcher. Then another. And another. Balancing carefully on his right foot he kicked the back of Strydom’s swivel chair. It swung around.

  Jack Strydom stared at van der Merwe with a shocked look on his face. His mouth hung open grotesquely.

  Van der Merwe exclaimed loudly and stumbled backwards.

  A huge hunting knife protruded from Jack Strydom’s chest.

  ***

  ‘Stop the car.’

  Hertzog shot another look at his friend. ‘What?’

  ‘Stop the car, Shaun.’

  ‘What? Jools are you joking? You know we –’

  ‘Stop the fucking car, Shaun.’

  Hertzog pulled into the emergency lane of the road. He killed the car’s engine. ‘What the hell’s going on, Jools?’

  ‘Shaun, we made a huge mistake.’

  ‘Why? What –’

  ‘This file. It wasn’t sealed to protect the child.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They sealed it to cover their arses. The bastards!’

  ‘What are you talking about, Jools.’

  ‘The child. Susan Billing’s child. It’s not a boy, Shaun.’

  ‘What? How ... how can that be?’

  ‘It’s a girl, Shaun. It was a girl all along.’

  ‘No ... no ... what are you saying?’

  ‘Shaun. Look.’ Jools pulled a faded black and white photo from the file. ‘Look.’

  The blood drained from Hertzog’s face. His mouth opened and closed but no sound escaped. ‘No.’ He turned, flung the door open and vomited violently onto the harsh tarmac.

  ***

  Constable van der Merwe ran from the room. And came to a dead stop.

  ‘Marike.’

  The girl stood motionlessly, staring at the policeman. ‘What are you doing –’

  ‘Listen here ... someone ... Jack ... I ...’ He stammered uselessly, trying to find the words.

  ‘What’s wrong? Panic washed over her face. ‘What’s going on?’

  Van der Merwe pointed in the direction of the study. ‘Don’t ... don’t go in there ...’

  ‘What’s wrong, officer?’ She gripped his arm.

  He stared at her with alarm. ‘Somebody killed Jack, Marike. Somebody killed your husband.’

  Her hands flew to her mouth. ‘Oh dear God, no.’

  He took her by the arm. ‘Come with me.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ She asked, her voice a tiny whimper.

  ‘Somewhere you’ll be safe.’

  ‘But ... but ... what about –’

  ‘No-one can save him anymore. Come let me get you to safety.’

  She nodded, tears filling her eyes. ‘Okay. But can I just get a few things?’

  ‘Yes, yes. But quickly. The murderer could still be on the premises.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said softly, rushing into the kitchen.

  Constable Joost van der Merwe stood in the doorway, surveying the front garden. He holstered his gun. His face betrayed a high-adrenalin cocktail of emotions – both fear and excitement. ‘Marike, come, we must go.’

  ‘Constable.’ She spoke behind him.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, distracted.

  ‘Constable.’ This time her voice was more insistent.

  ‘Yes?’ He turned to face her.

  Constable Joost van der Merwe froze. A sudden chill settled over his body. A pathetic whimper escaped his mouth. He looked at the young girl in front of him. Then at the knife. Rammed into this solar plexus.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Marike said. ‘You don’t deserve to die. Not like the rest of them.’

  Constable van der Merwe tried to speak but she tenderly placed a finger on his lips.

  ‘Shh ... shh ... don’t say anything.’

  Joost van der Merwe fell forward. Into darkness.

  The Bloodbath

  Hertzog stared into the distance, his eyes focused on some dark interior landscape. His breathing was shallow, his mouth slightly open. His face was blank. The black and white photo of Marike lay on the dashboard. She was a young girl, about ten years old. Her hair was shorn close to her scalp. She was dressed like a boy.

  Anguished minutes passed. And then he spoke. ‘Tell me. I want to know.’

  Jools stared at his friend for a long time. He nodded and began to flip through the file’s contents. ‘The couple that adopted Marike was Rachel and Bertie Le Roux. Bertie Le Roux was a high-ranking local National Party politician.’ He looked at Hertzog. ‘It explains a lot of what happened.’ Hertzog nodded, mute. ‘They had a boy, named Bertie junior. When he was ten he died in a freak accident.’ Jools flipped through the file. ‘It seems he was struck by lightning ... while inside a movie theatre.’ Jools whistled. ‘Can you fucking believe that?’ He shook his head. ‘In any case, the mother, Rachel, was hospitalised. She suffered a nervous breakdown. She also had various mental “episodes”. Soon afterwards she began displaying symptoms of schizophrenia.’ Jools stared at his partner in shock. ‘Holy shit, Shaun, this woman should never have been allowed to adopt a child at all.’ Hertzog said nothing. ‘They applied for adoption several times but were denied.’ Jools paged through the file, reading. ‘It seems when the Children of God fiasco happened it provided the ideal situation for them. A political connection of Bertie Le Roux helped them to secure an adoption. The fact that Marike’s mother never registered the birth combined with the orphanage’s mismanagement and the eventual fire sealed the deal. They adopted her.’ Jools read quietly, flipping through various documents. ‘Jesus. You’re not going to believe this.’ He stared ahead, shaking his head. ‘They petitioned a judge for a birth certificate, listing themselves as the parents. But get this ... they registered her as a boy, Shaun.’ He stared at his friend, stunned. ‘They changed her fucking gender, Shaun. But if you think that’s bad, look at this.’ He showed Hertzog a copy of a birth certificate. ‘They named her Bertie, Shaun. The sick deviants named her after their dead son.’

  Hertzog spoke. His voice was so low it was almost inaudible. ‘Why didn’t they just adopt a boy?’ His flat tone was reflected in the blank expression on his face.

  Jools flipped through the pages. He stopped and stared, exclaiming softly. ‘Now I understand.’ He showed Hertzog the picture in his hands. It was a black and white of Bertie junior. ‘Look, the resemblance is uncanny. Marike could have been his twin sister.’ Hertzog nodded, his eyes focused on some distant point. ‘To all intents and purposes she became the re-incarnation of their dead son.’ Jools shook his head, paging. ‘She was home-schooled for the next few years, which explains why no-one seemed to notice. However, luckily for her, almost four years after the adoption a neighbour noticed that something wasn’t right. She alerted the authorities. Due to his political clout, the matter was covered up and Marike was assigned to another set of foster parents. It was at this stage that the file was sealed.’ Jools continued reading, tracing his finger along the page. ‘Shortly afterwards she was given a new birth certificate, listing the new couple as her parents. And get this, despite everything they did to her, Marike stayed in touch with the Le Roux’s. Insane.’ Jools closed the folder and stared ahead, exhaling slowly. He turned to his friend. ‘Hey man, are you okay? What do you want to do? Do you want me to drive?’

  ‘No thanks,’ Hertzog replied, emotionless. He turned the ignition. The Defender roared into life. ‘Let’s get going. We have work to do.’

  ***

  ‘It’s hot. It’s happening. It’s the Braai Master championship. And we’re cooking, baby,’ The DJ – and aspiring master of ceremonies – ran from co
ntestant to contestant, all the time shouting words of encouragement into his microphone. ‘Who’s going to be the master of all masters?’ He stopped at a man with a gargantuan paunch. ‘Is it gonna be Jannie from Bloemfontein?’

  ‘My name is Piet.’

  ‘Yes, absolutely,’ the DJ said jogging up to the next contestant. ‘Or is it going to be our own marvellous, masterful braai master from Coffee, Gert van Tonder?’ He pointed at the large crowd gathered before them. ‘Only time will tell, folks.’ He pushed down the microphone and leaned towards Gert van Tonder. ‘Speaking of time, how long before the good people can eat, big guy?’

  ‘Give it another twenty minutes or so,’ Gert said, looking at the massive spread on his barbecue grill.

  ‘Five minutes, folks. In just five minutes you’re going to get a mouthful of mouth-watering masterful meat – braai master style.’

  The crowd cheered loudly.

  ***

  The Defender tore around a sharp turn in the road. Hertzog stared at the road with unwavering focus, handling the Land Rover with easy dexterity. He shifted into a lower gear and floored the pedal. ‘How far are we?’

  ‘About forty clicks,’ Jools said, once again replacing the radio handset. There was still no answer.

  Hertzog began to wind down the window. Then stopped abruptly. ‘Jools, I just realised something. Remember what van der Merwe said about the dead family in the township?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘He said it was death by poison.’

  ‘You think it’s related?’

  ‘We can’t afford to ignore the possibility.’ He nodded at the radio set. ‘Get paramedic units from Luckhoff and Petrusburg to meet us at Coffee.’ He stared ahead with a grim look on his face. ‘Tell them to prepare for mass poisoning.’

  ***

  Nadine Rockcliff strolled through the jam-packed crowd, sipping Diet Coke through a straw. Next to her Sergeant Wilkins kept a vigilant eye on the young girl while struggling to manoeuvre through the throng of people.

  The sun was at its zenith, beating down relentlessly upon the Coffee town square. Despite being in the depth of winter the heat was scorching. The mercury recorded a sweltering thirty degrees.

  A burly man shoved his way through the crowd, momentarily knocking Sergeant Wilkins off his feet. Unaware of her guardian’s predicament Nadine Rockcliff continued strolling along the row of stalls. Wilkins regained his balance and ran after her. ‘Please, Miss Rockcliff. I cannot let you out of my sight for even a moment. Your father’s instructions were clear.’

  ‘Oh, boo hoo hoo,’ she said, sticking out her tongue at the tall policeman. Despite himself, Wilkins smiled. ‘Tell me, Mister Policeman, if I ran into that field over there ... would you chase me? Hmmm?’ She smiled coquettishly.

  ‘I would most certainly, miss. And a good spanking would be in order.’ Wilkins blushed, realising too late what he had said.

  ‘Sounds delightful. They teach you that at the police academy?’

  ‘Please just stay in sight, Miss Rockcliff.’

  ‘You’re so boring,’ she said, dunking the empty Coke can into a dustbin. She stopped in front of a stall. ‘Please buy me some candy floss. Oh pretty please.’

  The policeman sighed with exaggerated chagrin. He dug into his pocket for his wallet and approached the vendor.

  A blonde girl sidled up to Nadine. ‘Guess what I’ve got.’

  Nadine turned to face her. ‘Hey! How are you doing? I haven’t seen you all day.’ She indicated the crowd with her head. ‘The festival’s a hit, hey?’ The blonde girl nodded, smiling. ‘So, what you got?’

  The girl leaned forward and whispered in shared conspiracy. ‘One of the sponsors gave us a whole bunch of King Cones.’

  ‘No, King Cones?’

  ‘Yep, and they’re all yours. I even got a little portable cooler to give you.’

  ‘No, really?’ She held up her hands. ‘I surrender.’

  ‘Come, let’s go before your bodyguard sees us.’

  ‘Oh, Marike, you’re such a bad girl,’ Nadine said, laughing.

  The girls disappeared into the crowd.

  A short distance away, Tony Bredekamp kept a watchful eye, hiding under the peak of his baseball cap.

  ***

  The Land Rover raced past Ja-Nee, the farm of world famous writer, Etienne Leroux. Up ahead in the distance loomed the hills that surrounded Coffee.

  Jools clicked the radio handset into place. He had finally managed to get hold of the Coffee police unit returning from the township. He had also finally contacted Dog and Chaz. They had Jannie Duvenhage with them. As suspected they had been trawling the crowd for Tony Bredekamp. Jools had quickly briefed them on what he and Hertzog had learned. He instructed them to rush to the braai competition and stop it.

  Jools stared ahead nervously ‘Another five clicks or so,’ He said as the famous farm sped past. Hertzog didn’t answer, both hands gripping the steering wheel of the Defender. Jools looked at his friend. ‘What are you going to do when you see Marike?’

  Silence.

  ‘I’m going to do my job.’

  Jools stared down at the floor, nodding. ‘I hope Dog and the boys stop the damn competition in time.’

  ‘Right now I’m more concerned that the paramedic units arrive on time.’

  Jools sighed.

  Up ahead fate lay waiting.

  ***

  ‘Get your braaivleis everybody. Get your braaivleis.’ The DJ stepped in front of a table behind which the judges were congregating, tallying the final scores. He gestured at the large crowd gathered around the marquee tent. ‘Boerie rolls, chops, wors, steak and ribs. It’s all here, folks.’ Several cashiers stood behind a makeshift counter. A mound of paper plates stood next to each. Behind them a board listed the prices of the various items. ‘Come. Come and enjoy yourself while we wait for the judges to make their final decisions.’ He ran forward. ‘The time has come, good people.’ He shoved his fist into the air. ‘Let’s eat.’ Several people cheered as the crowd surged forward. The Castle Lager beer garden had been doing good business all day. And the people were hungry.

  Behind the DJ a judge leaned forward and clutched his stomach. He looked with concern at another judge.

  ***

  The Land Rover charged down De Beers Street, its sirens wailing. It tore around a corner, tyres screeching and headed straight for the festival area.

  What happened next had a dream-like quality to it. In the days that followed the media dubbed the fiasco the Barbecue Bloodbath.

  Although hundreds of witnesses were interviewed following the event almost none of them could agree exactly what happened that day. The one thing that everybody agreed upon was that in the blink of an eye the whole festival turned into a maelstrom of chaos. Although the investigators struggled to pin down a reliable chain of events the following sequence was established (more or less):

  Halfway through the points tally several of the judges began feeling queasy while others had turned a pale white. One of the judges abruptly jumped up, exclaimed loudly then teetered forward, smashing the judges’ table into smithereens. Another female judge began vomiting uncontrollably. Someone screamed. The rented DJ cursed loudly, broadcasting his curse word to five thousand people in high-fidelity stereo. Several others began to push and shove. In the crowd gathered near the braai stand someone vomited violently. Then someone else began to throw up. Then another. And another. And another. Numerous women began screaming. Someone else started crying. The pushing and shoving became more violent. A woman fell and disappeared under dozens of feet. She screamed in blood-curdling terror. Her partner tried to help her. But he too was knocked to the ground and was trampled by a horde of panic-stricken people. The DJ stared with bewilderment at the growing chaos. He turned and tried to run. But a judge, lying curled up on the lawn, clutched at his trousers. With a vomit-caked face the judge grabbed at the panicked DJ. ‘Help me, help me,’ he said as a fresh spurt of puke burst from his mout
h. The DJ screamed. Using his microphone as a weapon he beat the feeble judge about the head. The dull thuds of the microphone crashing into the judge’s face reverberated across the seething crowd.

  Boom. Boom. Boom.

  Those nearest the speakers thought they were gunshots and either crouched down or fell flat on their stomachs. They were immediately trampled by the stampeding crowd. The DJ smashed the microphone into the judge’s face with all his might. The judge sagged and sank into a puddle of puke. The DJ threw down the microphone and ran blindly. Straight into one of the support pillars of the marquee tent. He fell backwards, knocked out cold.

  Andries Croukamp stood a short distance behind the DJ stand, safe from the seething mob. He tore at his wispy hair, a look of pure terror on his face. ‘No.’ He fell to his knees, sobbing loudly. ‘Nooooooo.’

  From a southerly direction Dog, Chaz and Jannie were fighting their way through the crowd. Panicked and confused some of the men in the crowd swung at the detectives. A brawny man knocked Chaz on the chin. ‘Bliksem!’ He staggered backwards, reeling, almost losing his footing. In a deft movement he ducked forward and came up swinging, connecting the man with a sold upper cut. The man crumbled and fell to the ground. Immediately others behind him surged forward and began trampling him. ‘Dammit.’ Chaz barrelled into the crowd, pushing them backwards. He lifted the man, hooking his hands underneath the man’s arms. ‘Dog, go ahead,’ he said, shouting to make himself heard above the screaming and shouting. ‘I’m taking him to safety.’