“He has.” She winked. “And I will.”
Marius laughed. “And I have no doubt you will.” He leaned toward Acton. “A few times I think she was ready to try a little early. Usually when I get into the drink a little too much.”
“You say the stupidest things when you’re drunk. It’s easy to mistake it.”
More laughter from around the table gave Acton a chance to exchange a brief, excited glance with Laura before a wave of concern swept over him.
Did he say they moved the gold?
23
Tladi Tsabalala Residence
Belfast, South Africa
“Where is he?” asked Sipho as he exchanged a quick embrace with his brother’s wife.
“In the shed.”
Sipho let her go, frowning. “What’s he up to now?”
She shook her head, returning to the pot on the stove. “I never ask. As long as he puts food on the table, I don’t care.”
“You’ll care if he gets himself killed.”
She gave him a look that suggested she wouldn’t.
And he didn’t blame her.
Tladi wasn’t a good man. He had been committing petty crimes since he was old enough to run, and he habitually fell in with the wrong crowds, no matter how many times his elder brother helped him.
And he beat his wife.
Unforgivable.
Sipho walked through the house, coming out the back. He rapped on the corrugated metal siding that made up the frame of the shed, and walked inside. His brother spun toward him then grabbed a tarp, tossing it over a pile of something in the back, Sipho’s eyes not yet having had time to adjust.
“What is that?” He asked the question, though the stench had already given him the answer.
His brother looked at him. “What is what?”
Sipho pointed at the tarp. “That!” He leaned in, something poking out the bottom. “That looks like elephant tusks! Ivory!”
His brother stepped between him and the pile. “So what if it is?”
“So what if it is? It’s illegal, that’s what!”
“Pfft. Only if I’m caught.”
Sipho shook his head. “What would father say if he saw you now, a poacher?”
Tladi grinned. “He’d say, ‘where’s my cut?’”
Sipho frowned. “You have a very shameful opinion of our father.”
“Yeah, well, where is he now? Gone!”
“He’s dead, not gone. Hardly his fault.”
“That’s what you say. I think he just left us, and mother is lying.”
Sipho shook his head, sighing. “You’re too young to remember. I do. I was there.”
“So you say.”
Sipho stepped toward his brother, eyes narrowed. “Are you calling me a liar?”
Tladi backed off slightly, Sipho still the eldest. “No, no.” He pointed at the tarp-covered pile. “This will change our lives. All our lives. You won’t need to ferry rich white people around to look at animals, pretending to be happy about it, fulfilling their every wish.”
Sipho crossed his arms. “It’s not like that. I like my job.”
“Bullshit. No one could like a job like that. Yes, sir, no sir, right away, sir. You’re like their slave.”
Sipho felt his chest tighten. “How would you know? You’ve never worked a day in your life.”
“I work, brother, I work.” He pointed again at the pile. “That’s months of work.”
Sipho noted the size of the pile, disturbingly large. “And how many innocent, endangered animals had to die?”
Tladi shrugged. “Who cares? They’re just animals. I’m human, and I’m hungry. If poaching wasn’t illegal, I’d stick around and eat them after I shot them. Hell, if they’d just let us farm the damned things, we’d have an endless supply of ivory and there’d be no need for what I do.”
“That will never happen.”
Tladi jabbed the air between them. “Exactly, which is why I poach.”
“Bullshit, you’d still do it even if they allowed farming. You’ve always had a problem with authority.”
Tladi shrugged. “Maybe if father hadn’t run out on us, I’d be a better man, like you.”
Sipho shook his head. “I’m done with this conversation. I just came to say hello, and instead I find out you’re even more of a criminal than before, and you continue to insult our father.” He stormed from the shed, walking down the side of the house rather than return inside, his brother on his heels.
“You’re right, brother. I’m sorry.”
Sipho paused, turning to face his younger sibling.
“Look, I’m a fool, not like my wiser older brother.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Forget what you saw. Let this be a happy occasion. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. What brings you here?”
Sipho let out a slow breath, forcing a smile. His brother would never change, but he was family. Blood. And that had to count for something. “Some professors I’m guiding are visiting the Erasmus farm.”
“Oh yeah, why?”
Sipho shrugged. “Not sure. Some medallion they bought got them all excited.”
Tladi’s eyes narrowed. “Medallion? Valuable?”
Sipho shook his head. “Don’t get any ideas, little brother. It’s made of tin and they only paid a few rand for it.”
“How would you know?”
“I was there when they bought it. From Florence, you know, who runs the little souvenir stand. Her father makes them.”
Tladi’s head bobbed slowly. “Oh yeah, I know her. Pretty girl.”
Sipho pointed at the house. “You’ve got a pretty wife in there.”
Tladi glanced over his shoulder and shrugged. “Yeah, well, listen, brother. I’m kind of busy. How about you come visit me another time.”
Sipho sensed his brother was trying to get rid of him. His eyes narrowed. “What are you up to, brother?”
“Nothing. At least nothing you want to know about.”
Sipho sighed. “Please, for mother’s sake if you won’t do it for father, stop the poaching. You’re going to get yourself killed. Then who will take care of your family?”
A broad smile spread across Tladi’s face. “You will, and you won’t have to worry about your little brother anymore.”
24
Swart Farm
Outside Belfast, South African Republic
May 4th, 1900
“Make sure the hole is deep. They can’t ever be found.”
Swart’s young daughters looked up at him, both echoing their reply. “Yes, Papa.”
He glanced over at the two carts, loaded with the gold that had been buried earlier in the day. From the moment the gunfire had stopped, they had been working, loading the bodies of the dead soldiers into a cart and hauling it to the back of the property where the commandos had hidden the gold. They had dug it up, loading it into their carts, the precious metal deceptively heavy.
It had taken the entire day and most of the night, backbreaking work that had his body weakened by the effort. He sat down, gasping for air as his wife held a ladle of water to his mouth. He drank it thirstily, smiling his thanks.
“Are you okay? You don’t seem well.”
“Just a tiring day. I’ll be fine once this is finished.”
“We should have just taken them to the battle site and left them there.”
He shook his head. “Like I said before, they had already taken their dead. If they found six fresh bodies, they’d know somebody in the area had killed them. They’d burn us all out.”
His wife frowned, unconvinced. “They’re still going to know they’re missing.”
He took another drink. “Yes, but Mitzi’s taking care of their horses. If we’re lucky, they’ll think they were deserters, or were ambushed nowhere near here.”
His wife frowned, staring in the direction Mitzi had left in hours before. “I hope she’s okay.”
He patted his wife’s hand. “She will be. She’s a smart g
irl, that one.”
“Done, Papa!”
He pushed himself to his feet, surveying the expanded hole and nodded his approval. “Excellent work, girls. Now let’s hurry up and finish this. It will be light before you know it.”
25
Florence Mokoena Residence
Belfast, South Africa
Present Day
Florence hummed, as happy as she had been in a long time. She was home now, having had Sipho drop her off at the market, rewarding herself by using some of the extra money the generous tourists had given her, to buy additional food.
They would eat well tonight.
No hungry tummies before bedtime.
She wondered what it must be like to be white and rich. It had to be good. It was something she would never know, and like her late husband had said, something to not even bother thinking about.
Why wish for something that can never be?
She grunted as her knife expertly worked the soet patate, one of her favorite root vegetables. She could never be white, therefore she could never be rich.
Her late husband’s voice echoed in her head.
You don’t need to be white to be rich.
But he was a dreamer. She paused, picturing the four tourists who had changed her family’s day. Two whites, two blacks.
Maybe he’s right. But it definitely helps.
She frowned as she remembered the four young people and how mean they were to her.
If that’s what being rich means, then I don’t want to be rich.
She sighed, staring at the only photo she had of her beloved, hung on the wall of their small two-room house. He had died in a farming accident, kicked in the head by a skittish horse. It was a freak occurrence that never should have happened.
Yet it had.
And it had changed their lives forever, all their plans destroyed, visions of a future together swept away in an instant, two weeks wages her compensation, the envelope a finger in the bursting dam of hardships that would follow.
If she had thought their humble life before was hard, nothing had prepared her for this.
Her father had stepped up as she knew he would, he a good man. Her mother was long dead, but he had taken over as the breadwinner for her and her children without hesitation.
And it was breaking him.
He took every bit of extra work offered at the farm or in town, Mr. Erasmus, privy to the situation, was generous but only to a point, he not a charitable man—extra money meant extra work, though sometimes the work wasn’t necessarily urgent, only offered to help.
She understood. If Mr. Erasmus just gave money, everyone would have their hand out. When her father’s friend, who ran the paap ’n vleis stand outside the park, had seen the scarf she was wearing, he had asked her where she had bought it. When he heard she made it, he had been immediately interested, offering her money to make more.
And the souvenir stand had been born.
She made her scarves and various other crafts, her father hammering out medallions when he could find the time, and it had allowed her to contribute to their situation, though barely. Today was the exception, rather than the norm, selling out her entire supply. It would feed them for a week at least, perhaps giving her poor father a rest.
She closed her eyes, saying a silent prayer of thanks.
A hard rap at the door startled her.
She put down her knife and opened the door, gasping. “Tladi, what are you doing here?”
He stepped inside without an invite, his puffed out chest causing her to step back from the door. He closed it behind him and her heart leaped into her throat.
“You and I need to talk.”
Her eyes were wide, the blood pounding in her ears. “Wh-what about?”
“About that medallion you sold my brother’s keepers.
26
South of Belfast, South African Republic
May 4th, 1900
Mitzi’s heart had been hammering hard for hours now, running on pure adrenaline. If she slowed down, she’d probably run out of steam and fall asleep in her saddle. But she had no choice, her poor horse, Alexander, pushed too hard for too long, now needing a rest.
Yet it had been necessary.
The soldiers’ horses needed to be moved as far from the family farm as possible. Her father was ill, something he didn’t know she was aware of. He would never have been able to undertake the journey, and if anything were to happen to him, the entire family would be helpless. Her mother was needed to take care of her father and her younger sisters, leaving the task to her, the eldest.
Under normal circumstances, they could have asked any one of the relatives on a nearby farm for help, but with the secret entrusted her family, and the fact they had killed six British soldiers, they couldn’t risk bringing anyone else in on their sins and their sworn duty.
That, again, left her.
It was dark, the only light from the stars and moon above, though it was enough for her to know exactly where she was, which was about as far as she had ever ventured from her home—certainly the farthest she had been on her own. It was as exciting as it was terrifying, and though she desperately wished she weren’t here, she also felt more like a grown woman today than at any time of her life.
She was saving her family, as her mother would have should she not have a daughter old enough to fulfill the duty, and should she die here today, she would be remembered as having died a woman, not a little girl.
And it made her proud.
A horse whinnied ahead and her heart slammed, her feelings of pride and womanhood shoved aside by the little girl that still dwelled inside.
Okay, calm down, you know what to say.
She should. She had rehearsed it over and over for hours. She urged her horse forward at a casual gait, the others following nonchalantly behind her, soon spotting several silhouettes ahead, clearly soldiers on horseback.
Soldiers who had spotted her, the sounds of their weapons being readied reaching her ears.
“Halt, who goes there?”
She recognized the accent.
British.
“A loyal subject of the Empire!”
“Advance and be recognized!”
She clicked, Alexander, who had been with her for years, reading her wishes perfectly, sauntering forward. One of the soldiers held up a lantern, highlighting them more than her.
“Gentlemen, are you British?”
“Aye.”
“Thank God! I was afraid I’d run into those filthy Boers.”
Someone chuckled. “Not bloody likely, not after the pasting we gave them earlier.”
She forced a smile on her face. “I found these horses wandering near my cousin’s property. I thought I should return them to you.” She held out the reins, one of the soldiers dismounting. He examined the horses. “They’re ours.” He looked up at her as he took the reins. “Where did you say you found them?”
“About ten miles back, grazing. I didn’t see their riders. Perhaps they were in your skirmish earlier? I do hope their masters are well.”
“Perhaps.” He stared up at her, one of the others approaching, holding the lantern higher, a glow cast over her now. “Aye, now you’re a bonny lass, aren’t you!” She didn’t like the look of the smile that spread across his face. “What is a young one like you doing out at this time of night?”
Mitzi inhaled deeply, steadying herself. “My duty for Queen and country.”
“Aye, that’s a good lass. Perhaps you would like to join us, entertain the lads for a while.”
She laughed, tossing her hair. “Oh, for shame! What kind of girl do you take me for?” She turned her horse around, blowing them a kiss. “I must get back, otherwise my father will be horribly cross.” She urged her steed forward, at a reasonable pace, enough to take her away quickly, but not enough to imply flight.
“Come back, lass, we’ll have a good time!”
She waved, continuing forward, their calls fading into
the night, and once gone, her body finally betrayed her, shaking like the leaves on the nearby knob thorn trees.
She passed out, asleep within moments, her body draped over Alexander’s neck, confident the trusted animal would find his own way home.
27
Erasmus Farm
Outside Belfast, South Africa
“You’re sure this is where you found it?”
Bongani nodded vigorously at Acton’s question, pointing at the professor’s feet. “Yes, right there.”
“Just the one?”
“Yes, when I was plowing last year, I saw something in the sun. I stopped and found it.”
Acton turned to the farmer, they unable to keep the secret from him once they returned. “We’d like to do some digging here, if you don’t mind.”
The old man shrugged. “Suit yourself. You won’t find anything, but if you do, it’s mine.”
Acton bit his tongue. “Of course, you’ll receive full credit.”
Marius smiled at him, knowing full-well what Acton’s carefully chosen words meant. “I don’t take credit, I take cash!” He roared with laughter, his head tossed back once again, hands on the sides of his stomach. “Get it?” He turned, strolling back toward the farmhouse. “Oh, that’s a good one. I have to tell Rina that one.”
Acton chuckled, happy it had gone so well, there a distinct possibility Marius could have ordered them off the property, only to dig for the gold once they were gone.
He clearly believes there’s nothing here.
He looked at the others, everyone with shovels, picks and various other tools of the trade. “Ready to dig?”
Laura grinned. “Oh yeah, let’s get at it!”
And they dug.
And dug.
Each test hole, four feet apart, four feet deep, coming up empty, Acton fearing they might have to go even further down, perhaps the coin a stray that had somehow managed to work its way to the surface from far deeper.
Wages of Sin (A James Acton Thriller, #17) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 6