by Roger Smith
Constable Gershwynne Galant, the reluctant minder of the satellite police station, sat in the back of the patrol car. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and smelled as if he had been brought in from a tavern somewhere. He looked sullen and nervous.
“Get the mother, Sergeant.” The superintendent nodded to where Berenice September sat in the passenger seat of Peterson’s car.
Berenice came across, walking slowly. She stumbled, and the sergeant had to steady her. Her face caught enough of the spill from the kliegs to show the hell she was living through.
Peterson pointed at Galant. “Mrs. September, is this the constable you took your son to?”
Berenice looked at Galant. He returned her stare, then looked away. “Yes. That’s him.”
Peterson told the sergeant to take the woman back to his car; then he slid in beside Galant. Zondi leaned in through the passenger window, listening.
“What happened after that woman left her son with you, Constable?”
“He ran away. Like I tole her.”
Peterson shook his head. “Now we both know that isn’t what happened.” He paused. “The woman says you phoned somebody. On your cell phone. Now either you tell us who you phoned or we get your phone logs. Believe me, if you cooperate, I’ll be more inclined to go easy on you. Do you understand?”
Galant nodded.
“Okay. So I’m asking you again. Who did you phone?”
Galant wiped the back of his hand against his nose, sniffing. “It was Inspector Barnard.”
Zondi looked across at Peterson. Was that fear he saw on the man’s face?
“And what happened next?” Peterson seemed almost reluctant to ask the question.
“The inspector came and took the boy away. In his car.”
Peterson slid out of the car and turned to the sergeant. “Lock him away. Single cell, okay?”
The cop nodded and got behind the wheel of the car, started the engine, and drove away. Zondi and Peterson stood in the howling wind, trying to shield their eyes from grit.
“I’m going to issue a warrant for Barnard,” Peterson said, blinking.
“I think that’s a good idea. I want to be along every step of the way, Superintendent.”
“Of course. Absolutely.”
Berenice September walked back toward them. She had caught the tail end of the conversation. “Is it Gatsby what did this?”
Zondi looked at Peterson quizzically.
Peterson shrugged. “Gatsby. A street name for Barnard.” He turned to Berenice. “It’s too soon to say.”
Zondi took the woman’s arm and walked her to the car. Peterson looked as if he was about to follow; then he hung back.
“Do you know this man, Barnard?” Zondi helped her into the car.
“Ja. We all do. He makes his own law.”
“I think those days may be over.”
Berenice said nothing, busy with the nightmare in her head.
Zondi walked off toward his BMW, the wind snatching at his suit, his eyes tearing up from the dust. In the distance Table Mountain blazed, tongues of flame leaping against the night sky.
Rudi Barnard hated the wind. In all the years he had spent in Cape Town, he had never got used to it. It made him feel lonely. Barnard took pride in his self-sufficiency; he trusted only himself and his God. He had little usehuman interaction, but tonight he needed to speak to somebody. He needed reassurance.
Barnard drove through the back streets of Goodwood until he hit the railway line. He sat in the car, looking up at a crumbling building, two apartments over an African traditional healer. The healer’s rooms were closed, but streetlight fell across the crudely painted windows offering cures for everything from impotence to AIDS. COME INSIDE NOW BEFORE IT IS TOO LATE, urged a sign.
The last time Barnard was here, the place had been a pet shop. Things change.
A light burned in one of the apartments. Barnard hesitated; it had been months since he had visited, and he almost lost his nerve. But he left the car, cursing as he took a gust of grit full in the face.
Fucken wind.
He hurried to the doorway of the building, stepping over a man and a woman asleep under cardboard boxes and plastic, anesthetized by cheap booze. Barnard trudged up one floor, panting as if he had run a marathon, and banged on an apartment door. There was rustling and thudding inside, then shuffling steps as somebody stood on the other side of the door, listening.
“It’s me, Pastor. Rudi Barnard.”
Many keys were turned, bolts drawn back, and the door cracked a sliver. A yellow eye regarded Barnard suspiciously. Then the door opened to reveal a tall, skeletal man with greasy gray hair framing a wrinkled face the color of urine. His mouth twitched a smile, and ill-fitting dentures clicked wetly.
“Come in, Brother Rudi.”
Barnard was the least sensitive of men, but he battled to hide his shock at the pastor’s decline since he had seen him last.
Johan Lombard, once master of the Army of God Church, had fallen on reduced circumstances. Five years in Pollsmoor Prison for sexually abusing street children had left him fearful and even more paranoid than when he went in. Lombard swore he was innocent, that he had only been doing his duty by introducing the children to Jesus. Why he had also introduced them to his penis he could never fully explain. Rudi Barnard believed implicitly in the innocence of Lombard, believed he had been the victim of the lies of godless half-breeds and had paid the price.
Lombard wore a pair of soiled gray flannels, carpet slippers, and a frayed shirt that had once been white.
“I haven’t woken Pastor, have I?” Barnard was at his most deferential, still convinced that Lombard’s bloodless lips were close to the ear of God.
“Who can sleep, Brother Rudi? In times like these?”
Lombard shuffled ahead into a small living room, crammed with a molting sofa, two ball-and-claw chairs, and piles of books on theology.
He pointed to one of the chairs. “Please, sit.”
Lombard’s shirtsleeves rode up to his bony elbows, and Barnard saw the needle tracks from the self-administered morphine shots. Lombard perched on the sofa, his hands on his knees. As Barnard lowered himself into one of the chairs, his stomach growled like a cement mixer. He patted it.
Lombard attempted a smile. “You are looking well, Rudi.”
Barnard nodded. “I’m okay. And you?”
The pastor shrugged. “It won’t be long before I get my eternal reward. Praise the Lord.” Cancer had eaten through most of Lombard’s liver and was nibbling at other organs in the vicinity. “And your work? Are you still fighting the good fight?”
“I’m trying, Pastor.”
“You are a brave man, Rudi. You must stay strong.”
“I do my best, Pastor.”
“Do you still ask God for his guidance?”
Barnard earnestly nodded his massive head. “Every morning and night, Pastor.”
“Good. And he listens. I see his strength in you.”
“Thank you, Pastor.”
Lombard’s clawlike hands gripped the sofa as a tremor of agony racked his body. Sweat sprang from his forehead, and his eyes pulled shut like dusty drapes.
Barnard felt uncomfortable. Expressions of sympathy did not come naturally to him. “I shouldn’t be bothering Pastor.”
Lombard fought his way through the pain, then sighed and sat back. He opened his eyes and held up a shaking hand. “No. Please.” He sucked air. “Is there something worrying you, Rudi? You look preoccupied.”
Barnard shrugged. “I don’t want to burden the Pastor.”
“Speak to me, Rudi. If I can help in some small way…” Some color had crept back into his sunken cheeks.
“I’m facing a battle. Maybe the biggest that I have fought.”
“Can you put a face to your enemy?”
“Yes.”
“Then God will give you strength, Rudi. See this as an opportunity, a chance to walk through the fire. A gift from him.”
“I am trying.”
A manic glint had come into the eye of Lombard. “Your enemies are sinners, Brother Rudi. Just as that mountain is burning tonight, so will their souls be lost in a lake of fire. Those fires of hell will melt their very bones and their lungs. A terrible stench will arise from them. And this fire is a fire that will burn for all eternity.” He gasped for breath but would not surrender the imaginary pulpit. “But you, Rudi, will walk through the fire, and you will receive the Holy Spirit! I know; I have walked that path!”
Lombard stood. “Come, my son, kneel.”
Barnard wrestled his bulk from the chair; then he folded down on bended knee before the quivering man. He closed his eyes.
Lombard lifted his face to where he believed heaven to be, somewhere beyond the stained ceiling, and squeezed his eyes shut. He placed a trembling hand on Rudi Barnard’s forehead, and a torrent of glottal, unintelligible words flowed from his lips, growing ever more powerful and louder.
Barnard kneeled like a small boy as the gift of tongues rained down upon him.
Berenice September was in her living room, the TV mumbling in the background, some politician lying about crime statistics in South Africa. Juanita sat next to her on the sofa, crying softly. Berenice put her arms around her daughter, trying to find enough strength in herself to comfort her.
The front door opened and Donovan came in from working late shift at the Goodwood McDonald’s. He still had a McD’s shirt on and carried a bag of Big Macs and fries.
He stood looking at his mother and sister. “Mommy?”
Berenice looked up at him. “I found him.”
Donovan put the bag down on top of the TV. “Tell me.”
Berenice stood and kissed Juanita on the forehead. “Stay here. I need to talk to your brother.”
Juanita reached for her, clawing at her blouse, grabbing the fabric in her fingers. Berenice gently broke the girl’s grip. “You wait here, my baby. We won’t be long.”
Donovan followed her into the kitchen, and she told him as much as she could bear to repeat. He was eighteen, a man. He deserved to know the truth. Donovan stood, his face gray. All at once he was puking; half-digested Big Macs spewed into the kitchen sink. She came up behind him and wet a dish towel, wiped his mouth off while he got his breath back.
When he could speak, he looked her in the eye. “You’re sure it’s Ronnie?”
She nodded. “I’m sure.”
“And it was Gatsby? What did it?”
“That’s what they are saying, ja.”
Donovan nodded. Saying nothing. He was the quiet one, her oldest son. So quiet, sometimes, that it worried her.
“Donovan.”
He stared at nothing, trying to process what she had told him.
“Donovan, look at me.” His eyes found hers. “I want you to promise me that you aren’t going to do something stupid now. The police will sort this out.”
He spat into the sink. “The police. Fuck the police.” He never spoke like that. He rinsed his mouth, then turned to her. “I’m sorry, Mommy.”
“It’s okay. You’re a good boy. I just don’t want you getting into trouble.”
He nodded. She came up to him and put her arms around him. “Promise me, Donovan.”
He stared over her shoulder. “I promise, Ma.”
Benny Mongrel huddled against a wall with Bessie, trying to escape the southeaster. The builders had left a mound of sand uncovered, and the gale flung it up against the unfinished house. The dog wheezed and moaned, disturbed by the wind. Benny Mongreers. roked her coat. He could feel the grit sticking in the matted fur. Sniper Security treated their watchmen like animals and their dogs like shit. He didn’t know when last Bessie’s coat had seen water.
That’s the first thing he was going to do when he got her to his shack, put that tin tub out in the yard and fill it with water. Then he was going to take Sunlight soap and wash her. And if the knots refused to wash out, he would cut them out with his knife.
The wind drove Benny Mongrel crazy too. He had a cloth wrapped around his ears and mouth, but still the sand got in somehow.
He squatted, watching the flames dance on the mountain above him, acrid smoke and ashes raining down on him and Bessie. The helicopters were still at work, chattering overhead and dumping water into the mouth of the inferno.
It reminded him of being in Pollsmoor, when the mountain burned, and the inmates started pacing, restless, when even the old-timers who could endure anything started trying to bend the bars open with their hands.
A year ago, during the winds, an idiot, another Mongrel who was due for parole, had lost his mind and stolen food from Benny Mongrel’s bed. He had caught the man, and the other prisoners in the cell had waited for Benny Mongrel to say goodnight.
But Benny Mongrel ordered that the man be held down, and a towel was forced into his mouth to keep him quiet. Benny Mongrel then amputated the fingers of both of the man’s hands with his prison shank, a job that required time and strength. Benny Mongrel left him his thumbs. Blood spurted, and the man passed out from the pain.
One of the prisoners had a hot plate in the cell. Benny Mongrel had taken the bleeding stumps and cauterized them on the hot plate, and the smell of burning flesh mingled with the smell of smoke from the mountain fire.
In the morning the warders took the man to the prison hospital. He refused to say a word about who amputated his fingers. Within a week he was back in the cell, with bandages on his hands and a new nickname.
Fingers.
The men had asked Benny Mongrel why he left the man’s thumbs. So he can hitchhike home, he told them. They had laughed. He had not.
This fucken wind made men go mad.
Benny Mongrel heard the car engine. He knew it was the Jeep from next door and didn’t bother to get up. During a lull in the wind he caught the rattle of the American’s garage door rolling up; then he heard the car ease forward. Then the sound of metal scraping brick.
Bessie growled. Benny Mongrel stood and went to the edge of the balcony.
The American had driven into the wall and caught his right fender. He reversed and got out to have a look at the damage. He was drunk, and Benny Mongrel could hear him curse. He got back into the car and drove it into the garage, and the door came down.
Benny Mongrel huddled back against the wall, waiting for the wind to blow itself out.
Barnard drove, still excited by the intensity of his visit to Lombard. He had felt a force, a heat channeled through Lombard’s hand into his bodyfelt renewed, filled with the fervor he needed to handle what lay before him.
His cell phone chirped, and he pulled over, so he could work it free from his pocket. When he saw caller ID, he answered eagerly and heard Dexter Torrance’s slow drawl.
“Rudi, hi. I have news.”
“I’m listening.”
The deputy U.S. marshal told Barnard that he had run the woman’s fingerprint and come up with a minor drug case years ago. Then he had cross-referenced a number of other databases and found out that the woman was married now. And the name of her husband. And what he was running from.
Barnard thanked Torrance profusely.
Then he killed the call and thanked his God for sending him Jack Burn.
CHAPTER 14
Barnard drove home, knowing that he had received the clearest possible message. About this American who called himself Hill but was in fact a fugitive who had escaped from the States with millions of dollars.
Barnard intended to make Burn pay.
Dexter Torrance, the deputy U.S. marshal, had no interest in making his findings known to the American authorities. “Burn killed a cop, Rudi, whether he pulled the trigger or not. But he had the dumb good luck to do it in a state that doesn’t have the death penalty. I have no interest in seeing him spend time in prison on the taxpayer’s dollar. He deserves to pay the ultimate penalty.”
Rudi Barnard assured Torrance that he would take care of that. The American would ge
t what he deserved.
But first Barnard needed money. Simple blackmail wasn’t going to work. This American was clearly tougher and more resourceful than Barnard had suspected. At the first hint of exposure he would disappear.
No, Barnard had to do something that left Burn no room to maneuver.
Barnard, his mind working through the permutations, approached his apartment block. When he saw an unmarked cop car parked outside, he thought nothing of it. Many cops lived in the area. Then his eyes traveled up to his fourth-floor apartment. The curtains were drawn, but through a gap he saw a light was burning. Had he left it on? Not that he remembered. He pulled over, engine idling. Was he being paranoid? He didn’t think so. As Lombard had so graphically put it, this was a battle between the forces of good and the forces of evil. They would stop at nothing.
Barnard drove away.
Disaster Zondi stood in Barnard’s apartment, watching the detectives search the place. It was small and, given the man’s repulsive physical appearance, surprisingly neat. Just one room with a bed, a sturdy chair in front of a desk, and an open-plan kitchen. No TV. No sound system. No photographs. No memorabilia. Zondi caught the unmistakable stink of Barnard, as if his essence had soaked into the curtains, the worn beige carpet, and the outsize clothes hanging in the closet.
Zondi took in the atmosphere of the room. He found it oppressive, depressing. The futional furnishings, the lack of any noticeable aesthetic. Most of the corrupt cops he investigated were greedy materialists, funding their appetites with their illegal activities. In Soweto last week Zondi had seen a plasma screen so big, it overshot the wall and hung halfway across a passageway, forcing his team to duck around it until he’d ordered them to remove the bloody thing. He was used to searching houses littered with electronic gear and leather sofas, closets bursting with designer wear and bling, garages with doors that couldn’t close on fat-assed SUVs.
It was almost reassuring to come across the physical manifestation of man’s basest urges. There was no ambiguity. You knew exactly who you were dealing with.
But this was the refuge of a fanatic. A man driven by an inner certainty that not only was he right in doing what he did, but he had to do what he did. In the old days of apartheid Zondi had come up against a few men like that. Different from the boozers and the cowboys, the profiteers; they were the believers. The ones with a mission.