Killed in Kruger

by Denise M. Hartman

  “I think I need to hear the long version of the story,” he said, sitting forward and raising full blond eyebrows.

  Tabitha told him about arriving to discover Phillip missing, then his being found dead and the consequent hassle of getting the paperwork. “The park said they were waiting for a police report to be faxed from Nelspruit. If that’s not all bad enough, I can’t find his film or his digitals and I’m trying to fulfill our contracts. ”

  “Film?”

  “Yes, my uncle was a photographer.” She swallowed hard at the use of past tense. “And we were coming over here to do some stories for a couple of magazines.”

  “There’s your difficulty, then.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Kruger probably isn’t wanting any bad publicity. I’d heard they had a body down this week, but that happens from time to time.”

  Tabitha frowned. This was her uncle.

  Minnaar continued, “But since it’s a foreigner they’re probably messing their trousers out at the park and now a writer shows up, too. So what’s this about the film?” Tabitha laughed inside at the idea of people being intimidated by her. It was a good thought.

  “My uncle always carried two thermal containers with film in them. One for exposed film and the other for new rolls. He’d also purchased a new digital camera body and lots of memory cards to go with it. Those and the film are the only pieces of equipment missing as far as I can tell.”

  “It may be a public relations issue once again. Things do tend to walk off, especially if you have as many employees as they do at the park, but they won’t want you to know that. But are you sure these containers aren’t somehow with the body?”

  Tabitha swallowed. It was hard to think of Phillip just as a body. “I’ve asked about them, and they’ve told me they didn’t find them.”

  “Who’d you talk to out there?”

  “Mr. Mpande.”

  “Yeah, he’s a good one. He flies straight as far as I’ve heard, but I suppose you never know.”

  “I want the film to fulfill our obligations to the magazines, showcase his work again. And maybe it would help me piece together his last week and learn more about why he might have got out of the truck, the bakkie. But I’m particularly concerned with how long it’s taking to get the paperwork to move my uncle’s, uh, remains. Something about government forms. And wonder if I could go ahead and get a police report from here.”

  “We probably have the police report on file. We’ve got some forms here. I can make a few phone calls for you and probably get things onto the track,” Rian said.

  “You could do that?” Tabitha couldn’t believe it would be that simple. She hated feeling like he was doing her a favor.

  “Your film is another story. It’s likely in the bottom of a river in Kruger somewhere and one of the workers is toting his lunch in the pack.”

  “That’s stealing. I need that film. What about the digital camera?” Tabitha crossed her arms over her chest.

  Rian shrugged. “The digital might be worth money to someone. We’ll see if a few pointed questions turn up anything, but don’t expect it.”

  Tabitha bit back a sarcastic comment.

  Another officer called to Rian. “Constable. Telephone.”

  “I’ll make this quick.” He strode across the room, grabbing a handset and pushing buttons with authority. He conversed in Afrikaans, which sounded like a coughing sort of Dutch. Tabitha studied him as his forehead screwed into a course of lines beneath his short blond hair. He plunked the phone back down in its cradle.

  He was very different than Jeffrey. Jeff was about the same height, but had a dark complexion. Both men smiled broadly so their faces lit up from within, but Jeff always had that element of concern and compassion close to the surface. Rian seemed to radiate police officer authority.

  Tabitha looked away from Rian as he came back across to her with a piece of paper in his hand. She shouldn’t compare her man with other guys.

  “Look, if you’d fill out this paper for me, I’ll make some calls and get the paperwork for you. Where can I find you later?”

  “I can wait.”

  He looked over his shoulder and back. “No, I can’t do it now.”

  Another delay, of course. She could sense his tension, though.

  They agreed to meet in a restaurant near her hotel the following day around dinner time. Tabitha found it strange he didn’t want her to come back to the station, but he seemed to be hurrying her out. This land was so full of contradictions. But help was help, after all.

  The door of the station clanked shut behind her and she stood alone, looking at the parking lot in the fading twilight. Night was falling and so were Tabitha’s spirits. She remembered the car following behind her leaving the park, and rushed toward the bakkie. If someone was waiting for her, they’d have followed her from the park. She’d told no one she was leaving except Daniel and Kindness Radebe. At the end of her emotional resources, Tabitha thought she’d almost relish a physical fight with a flesh and blood enemy. She’d fight all right. It would be better than chasing paperwork and guessing at the ghostly final actions of Phillip.

  Chapter 19

  The crunching of the gears on the bakkie didn’t faze Mhlongo. He drove the green park vehicle down a sand road at speeds that would make the other rangers shake their heads. Let them try to follow me now, he thought.

  Pieter should be thanking him, honoring him for protecting the operation, not scolding him like a child. They did not respect him. They would have nothing if not for him. No hides, no giraffe, no certificates, no ivory. Nothing. That warthog Johanne wasn’t clever enough to arrange the certificates.

  A pounding began behind Mhlongo’s eyes. It wasn’t just the money he wanted from the operation. It was respect. All his life he’d been fighting for someone to give him the measure of respect he deserved. They all deserved to rot in the bush. Maybe he should make a deal with Mpande to turn in the smugglers. No, the park authorities wouldn’t applaud him for turning in smugglers. Probably they’d reprimand him. It was unjust. He was the best ranger they’d ever had.

  How had they got onto him in the first place? He’d been so cautious. It was impossible. Perhaps they hadn’t been following him after all, but he would take no chances. It must be that woman who had been asking questions and poking around the giraffe capture. Without her interference, everything would be normal. First the photographer, then she showed up wanting an interview; then she nosed around at the capture. It was since her arrival that he had been followed. She must pay for the trouble she had caused.

  He squinted through the dust gathering in the cab. Ahead he saw the giraffe group they’d captured the other day. Pieter would learn he needed Mhlongo after all. He was not the big baas he thought he was. Bile churned in the back of Mhlongo’s throat. They would pay. He skidded to a stop and pulled the rifle from the rack behind his head.

  As an expert hunter he knew he could take the animal down with one shot through the heart, or he could make it suffer a lingering death. His aim wavered back and forth. Suffering or quick death. That woman deserved to suffer. She was the root of all his problems, poking around in things, but Pieter had to pay for his disrespect now too. The animal didn’t deserve to suffer. Pieter did.

  He had an idea. A way to punish Pieter in more ways than one. He laughed to himself. It was so simple.

  Chapter 20

  The following morning Tabitha arose to a bright clear blue sky in Nelspruit, and a dread of morticians. She needed to find one and make arrangements for Phillip’s body. She’d never done this sort of thing in the States, much less in a foreign country. She showered and drank black coffee for fortitude, then pulled open the phone book. The first two numbers she tried brought no answers. The next two refused to deal with a body leaving the country. The next answered with such a thick African accent she had trouble understanding. All the syllables blurred to sound like a single word. Tabitha explained her situation to the man
’s voice on the phone, wondering if he understood her. Her ear slowly tuned into his thick accent.

  “Yes, yes. I am thinking you should come here, and we discuss these circumstances. You come here to pick the arrangements. Now is a good time. Yes, now.”

  On the one hand, this man overwhelmed Tabitha on the telephone. On the other hand, she wanted to get this over with and not drag it on for days. She agreed to come to the funeral parlor and got directions from the hotel. Uncle Phillip’s unresolved death pulled at her like a heavy stone. What had happened to him?

  Left, left, left. She pulled out of the parking lot telling herself, stay on the left. The combination of following written directions, changing the gears, and driving on the opposite side of the road might be enough to undo her. She slowed her speed to change gears and waved at a car honking behind her.

  The Mngomezulu Funeral Parlour was situated diagonally on a corner lot and perhaps had once been a small corner store. It looked economical, anyway. Phillip wasn’t the extravagant sort. Bars over the glass of the windows and doors pointed to the country’s high crime rate. Tabitha was surprised that even a mortuary would be vulnerable to robbery. What was there to steal? Hot caskets probably didn’t move real quickly in the open street market. She rang a doorbell and heard footsteps approach. The African man smiling at her through the glass had on a disheveled navy blue suit, a tie loose at the collar, and a burgundy dress shirt. His hairline receded slightly from the front but made up for it with an extra couple inches in length that added girth to his entire head.

  “You are Tabitha Cranz, I think.” He pronounced Cranz as “Crons,” with British intonations. Tabitha liked it that way.

  “Yes, that’s me. I called about my uncle.”

  “Yes. Come, come. I am Matthew Mngomezulu. Everyone calls me Mister M.” He led her into the store, which had been made into a long viewing room, reminiscent of a church but with no religious symbols. They walked through to a small office in back.

  Once they were settled on opposite sides of an old metal desk, each with a cup of hot tea, Matthew Mngomezulu asked about her loss.

  “My uncle has been killed at Kruger Park, and I need to have his body taken care of and prepared to send home to the United States.”

  “Oh, dear. This is very bad medicine you have troubled with.”

  “Does that mean you won’t handle it?” Tabitha sat forward. If she had driven over here for nothing…

  “No. No. It just means we need to be cautious.”

  “Cautious?” He was dead already.

  “I am thinking you need a shaman, an isangoma, to expel the bad spirits from your uncle’s body. Where is this body?”

  Tabitha decided to ignore the shaman part for now. “He’s still with the park authorities because the government is dragging their feet on getting the paperwork out. I’ve contacted a police officer here to help me.”

  This information drew a deep frown from Mister M. “The police complicate things often.”

  Tabitha thought, and the government doesn’t? Was he just looking for an excuse to back out? He seemed to hum to himself for a moment, a mortuary appropriate kind of hum, low and somber. “In what condition do you find the body?”

  Tabitha took a gulp of the hot tea. “He was, uhm, eaten. I haven’t seen him—only his photographer’s jacket—what was left of it.” She looked away, swallowing hard.

  He muttered in a language she didn’t understand. It almost sounded like an incantation or a prayer. A knot formed in Tabitha’s stomach and she became aware of her hands clenched on the teacup. She loosened her fingers, so the cup wouldn’t break in her hands.

  “You want to bury him here, I think.”

  Tabitha shook her head. “No, I think for closure we need to take him home to the States.”

  “This is very expensive for you to do. Extra paperwork. More complications. I can help you. Save you money. Get isangoma for bad spirits and funeral service here.” He nodded and gave her a sympathetic smile.

  “I just need to get the details of shipping him sorted out, no funeral service. No shaman.” Tabitha felt like she was negotiating rather than tenderly planning burial arrangements.

  “Oh, but you must. We can’t have a body here killed by animals. It will bring restless spirits. I cannot afford that in my line of work.”

  Tabitha leaned forward to set her tea on the desk. “Mister M, I don’t want to pay money for unnecessary extras, nor do I want to disrespect your culture. I just need to have you do whatever it is morticians do and put him in a casket to take home.” Her speech was firm but still polite. She would hold her ground.

  He smiled and nodded, not the least offended. “I see you are a shrewd businesswoman, but it is the nature of the death that concerns me, and my ability to do my business in future. Not cost. I will pay for the isangoma myself if I must. Luckily in my line of work I am on good terms with one who lives nearby. But taking a body out of the country is going to be difficult.”

  They eventually got down to the details of choosing caskets and actual costs. Tabitha had no idea burial had such a complicated array of choices. As Mister M started adding up the bill, he said, “I have not transferred a body out of the country before. I will do my best, but you may have to go to Pretoria to the government or maybe to Jo’burg to the airport to make special arrangements. I am thinking you may want to call your airline. I am telling you I believe it to be very expensive to fly with a casket.”

  Could life get a little more complicated? Mister M must have read her distress.

  “It’s okay, Miss Cranz. I will take care of getting the deceased to the airlines, but they will likely need your authorization. It will sort out. Mister M will take care of you.”

  Tabitha was in danger of tears again. She tried to remember that this was a business transaction, but periodically the reality of this death reared up in her mind. She busied herself with the calculator to see how much money they were talking about in US dollars. It seemed reasonable, but then again, what did she know about purchasing funeral arrangements? She hoped it’d be a long time before she had to do it again, too.

  Mister M walked her back to the front of the shop and surveyed the street before he turned the key in the lock. “You should be careful, a lone American woman.” He made a tisk-tisk sound with his mouth. “It is very dangerous to travel alone in my country. We recently had a tragedy. A tourist woman was assaulted and killed. Oh, here is your bill.” He handed her the paper.

  “I’ll have my aunt wire the money, and I’ll call you as soon as I know the body can be released to you from the park. Is there a gas station nearby?”

  “You are talking about petrol, I think. No, no you shouldn’t stop in this area, but go back the way you came. On the main street, you’ll see a BP station there. It will be safer there. Miss Cranz,” he looked down into her eyes, “please be very careful in my country. We do not want anything else bad to happen in your stay.”

  Tabitha thanked him and got into the truck, self-consciously clicking the lock on her door. She put the bakkie in gear and looked around. She noticed Mister M turning the lock on his door. Her American independence balked at his warning. She wanted to say she could take care of herself. That’s what she’d told her mother and Jeffrey before she left. Now, she didn’t feel so sure, and Mister M’s watching presence from inside the shop was not completely unwelcome.

  She took a wrong turn on the way back to the main drag and had to turn around. Two men waved at her to stop. She jumped the curb to complete her turn and pressed the gas pedal down so hard the tires screeched. She had heard the crime stories of people being stopped by people in supposed hardship and then being robbed, or worse. A car followed her several blocks and again unease crept across her. She saw the street she was looking for and made a sudden swerve in traffic to make the turn.

  Her confidence returned once she was on the busy city street, and she soon spotted a petrol station.

  She returned to the hotel with a ful
l tank of gas and some pickle-flavored chips. Tabitha flopped on the bed and tension eased from her shoulders. Being behind a locked door didn’t hurt either. Tabitha dialed the million numbers on her calling card and then Aunt Rose’s number.

  “Oh, sugar, are you doing okay? Is it perfectly horrible over there?”

  Tabitha munched the chip in her mouth. “No, really it’s not bad. I’m just not really equipped for dealing with all the funeral stuff. It’s hard missing Phillip. I went to a funeral parlor just now. The most eccentric African man runs it. A Mister M.” Tabitha gave her the breakdown on the experience at the mortuary.

  “So he wants to have some kind of witch doctor in? Oh, that just creeps me out. Don’t let him do that.”

  “I think he’s going to do it with or without my permission.”

  “Is he reputable, do you think? He’s not going to stuff poor Phil up with cocaine and send him to some drug lord in the States, is he?”

  Tabitha laughed in spite of the disrespect to Phillip’s body. “Aunt Rose! Where do you get these ideas?”

  “I saw it in a movie. Well, I don’t want you ending up in a South African prison doing chain gang duty for the next twenty years. You should check these things out, you know.”

  Tabitha shook her head. “Okay, I’ll ask this nice police officer I met about the place, but beggars can’t be choosers. Not many mortuaries were interested in an eaten-up American guy leaving the country.” Tabitha flinched and focused on her orange socks.

  “I suppose you’re right. Not exactly an everyday occurrence, even with all those wild animals roaming free over there.”

  “They don’t roam free. They’re in game preserves and parks. Look, we need to make arrangements for you to wire transfer some money when we get the go-ahead for the body. Figure out how to do it and I’ll call you when Uncle Phillip is at the funeral parlor.” She swallowed the tears in her voice. C’mon Tabitha, hold it together.