“I don’t give a shit about others,” the man said.
“Maybe we could find your children?”
The man turned and looked at him. He had thick black bags under his eyes.
“We will find them, Mr. Berksted. But I need your help.”
He wiped the tears off his cheek with the back of his hand. “I don’t know what happened. I was taking a shower and when I came out she was gone. I found her cause some vultures were around.”
“Did you hear anything in the shower?”
“No, nothing.”
“I will help the police with a search party and we will find your boys.”
The man nodded and took a drink out of a bottle. Namdi rose and walked out, stopping by the door and looking back once before leaving.
“We will need to organize a search party,” Namdi said.
“Why?” the policeman said. “Two young boys would not live out here for this long.”
Namdi gave him a cold stare. “If it were your children, would you do it?”
“My children are dead,” he said, climbing back into his car. “You want to find these boys, look yourself.”
Namdi watched as the car pulled away, kicking up puffs of dirt behind it. He turned toward the plains. Some black buck antelopes were grazing in the distance, their frames turning to black dots from this far. Namdi figured the boys could not have gone more than one or two miles.
He got into his jeep and started the engine when the door to the house opened. Berksted stood there, wobbling from drunkenness, and looked at him. Namdi leaned his head out the window.
“I could use your help,” Namdi said.
Berksted went back inside the house. Namdi was about to pull away when he saw Berksted come back out, fully dressed and loading a handgun. He tucked the gun into his waistband and got in the jeep.
CHAPTER
17
The Concord City Police Department had eighty full-time sworn members and just a few years ago celebrated its 150th year as an incorporated police department. It sat in the main government district for the city, adjacent to City Hall on the prestigious Green Street in downtown Concord.
Eric was pulled up its steps in handcuffs, a uniformed officer holding his elbow. He was taken through processing; fingerprints, photographs, questionnaire, and then stuffed into a holding cell. After an hour or so, he was taken to an interrogation room.
The room was gray from floor to ceiling; carpet and table the same color as the walls. It had a window that opened six inches and Eric sat and watched the patter of rain against the glass. There was a one-way mirror on the east wall and he kept his face away from it. They hadn’t given him anything to change in to and his wet clothes were making him shiver.
The door opened and the two detectives from earlier walked in, the older one with a stack of files and a digital voice recorder in his arms. He laid them neatly on the table and sat down.
“I’m Detective Rodriguez,” he said, “this is Detective Pregman.” The detective pulled out a handkerchief and began wiping at some spectacles he took out of his breast pocket. He put them on and began flipping through a file he’d already read half a dozen times. “Math and philosophy major with a 3.6 GPA, huh? Impressive. Let’s see . . . pre-medicine? Is that right?”
Eric glanced from one to the other and then lowered his eyes to the file. Underneath handwritten notes were colored photographs.
The detective sighed and closed his file, leaning back in the chair. “Things happen, Eric. People get mad, they do things they wouldn’t normally do.” He took off his glasses and wiped them again. “How’s your mother?”
Eric stayed silent. He wondered what his mother had told them was the cause of her injuries. “Am I under arrest?”
“Yes,” Pregman said, leaning on the table. “But we want to help you. The guy you killed, your stepfather, he wasn’t a nice guy. Drug deals, domestic violence, rape charges. Fuck him. That’s why if you help us out now and tell us exactly what happened, we’ll help you later with the DA.” He reached over to the stack of files and pulled out some glossy photos of Jeff’s corpse lying on the kitchen floor of his mother’s house. Then some photos of some cartridges with little numbers next to them. And finally photos of illuminated fingerprints over Jeff’s shorts and a towel. “You left us your prints. Shame on you,” he said gleefully.
“I understand,” Detective Rodriguez said, “my old man was a boozer. Used to come home and whoop me for no reason. I can’t tell you how many times I thought about putting a bullet in his head. Is that what happened here, Eric? Cause if that’s what happened, I totally understand and so will the DA. I think she’ll try and help you however she can.”
“I want a lawyer,” Eric said.
The detectives glanced at each other.
“We’re trying to help you,” Detective Pregman said.
“I don’t think you’re allowed to interrogate me after I’ve asked for a lawyer,” Eric said. “Or at least it won’t be admissible in court.”
Rodriguez exhaled loudly and collected the files, leaving the photos of Jeff out as long as possible. Wiping at his spectacles again, he tucked them away and frowned at Eric before leaving.
Pregman leaned down, his hands on the table, his face no more than a few inches from Eric’s. “You wanna play it hard, fine. But let me tell you somethin’; good lookin’ young kid like you—you’re not gonna have a good time inside.” He turned and left, slamming the door behind him.
Eric was taken back to a cell and given a gray jumpsuit to wear. It felt like cardboard against his skin but it was dry. The cell was cramped; no bigger than a large bathroom; the toilet next to the bed. It had the faint smell of old urine and dust and the gray and yellow paint was chipping off the walls.
The cell had no opening to put anything through. The door had to be opened for him to get his clothes. The officer that brought him down said he’d be transferred to the county jail after conferring with his lawyer.
He sat on his bed as the hours passed, thinking. The incoherent rabble of drunks and junkies coming from the few cells in the hallway disturbed him. They were like voices in a movie, not quite alive and not quite dead. Then he heard the noise of wheels on linoleum; cell doors creaking, something being set down on the floor. The sound of eating.
Eric lay down on his bunk and pretended to sleep, listening to the approaching food cart and the guard’s instructions to the inmates: on the bed or with your face turned to the wall, if you turn around you’ll get tased.
The cart was three cells away . . . two . . . one. He heard the metallic ring of a key twisting in a lock; his cell door opened and he held his breath.
“On the bed or with—” The guard stopped when he heard the snores coming from the bed. He grabbed a pink tray with a ham sandwich, chips, and a milk and placed them on the floor.
As soon as Eric heard the sound of the plastic tray placed on the floor he was on his feet and lunged at the guard. He tackled him from the waist and they went down to the ground, the manic shouts of delighted inmates filling the hall.
The guard was about the same age as Eric but with nowhere near the muscle. Eric had him pinned and went for the taser gun when he felt his face turn to fire and heard the slow hiss of mace. He screamed and loosened his grip. The guard hit him in the face and got to his knees.
The guard reached for his taser and Eric, his eyes straining to close from the chemical burn of the mace, saw the blur of his hand and wrapped his arms around the guard.
A headbutt to Eric’s nose loosened his grip. The guard went for the taser again but Eric grabbed it and pulled the whole belt down. It clunked on the floor a few feet away from them and they both lunged for it.
The guard got to the taser first. Eric grabbed his arm and ripped it away and aimed; the barrel pointed at the guard’s chest. Both were still; labored breathing as adrenaline coursed through them.
The guard turned and bolted for the door. Eric was after him and tackled him f
rom behind. He pressed the taser into the guard’s back.
“Get in my cell,” Eric said, out of breath.
“Okay, man! Just relax a’ight.”
Eric picked him up by his collar and led him into his cell, slamming the door shut behind him. The other inmates were in a frenzy, yelling to let them out. His vision cleared but the skin on his face still burned and he could feel a sticky coat of chemicals on it. He walked past the shouting inmates and looked out the small window in the door leading to the offices of the precinct. It didn’t look like anybody else was around.
Eric went back to his cell and looked the guard up and down; they were about the same height.
“Take off your uniform and shoes,” Eric said.
“What?”
“Take off your uniform.”
The guard took off his uniform and threw everything on the ground at Eric’s feet. Eric shut the cell door and locked it before changing. It was a little tight, but passable.
He walked past the other inmates again who were now spitting and throwing things as they realized he wasn’t going to help them.
Eric walked out into the precinct. It had beige carpet and a few gray cubicles set up around the center with offices down narrow hallways. There were voices coming from a room nearby, a female’s laughter. He headed for the double-doors of the front entrance. An office door opened when he was ten feet away and Detective Pregman stepped out, looking over some papers.
Eric turned away quickly and saw he was facing some copy machines. He grabbed some paper and shoved it into a machine and pressed the copy button. The hum of the machine began as the green light flowed from the cracks in the top. Eric could hear Pregman’s voice as he walked across a hallway and into an office.
“Cindy I need copies of these four and then a copy of the tox report for the Millens case please.”
“Sure,” a female voice said.
Eric heard the sound of high-heels approaching from behind. His heart was beating so fast he couldn’t breathe. The secretary stepped to a machine next to him and glanced over. She did a double take and Eric could feel her stare.
“That machine’s broken,” he said.
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah, try the one next to it.”
“Thanks,” she said, uncertain.
“Um hm,” Eric said as he walked away and toward the front entrance. He glanced back once to see Pregman, with his head in some papers and turned away, look up, the detective catching a glimpse of the back of his head as he walked through the doors, and onto the rain soaked streets.
CHAPTER
18
The day was boiling and all the plastic and metal in Namdi’s jeep reached near-scalding temperatures. He gripped the bottom of the steering wheel with the edge of his shirt and tried not to let his arm inadvertently touch the metal gear shift.
Berksted hadn’t said anything since they began driving. He stared out into the grass, watching the occasional animal with a cold detachment. Namdi had seen this before. When a person is murdered, the family can blame the murderer. But how do you blame an animal for following its own nature? The family has no outlet for their anger and hatred and it turns inward into depression. Many often turn to drugs and alcohol and even attempt suicide in the weeks and months that follow.
“It was my idea to come here,” Berksted finally said. “I brought them here cause I thought it’d be fun to go on safari and see the animals but without all the bullshit of Africa. My wife wanted to go to Australia, but I brought them here.”
“It is not your fault, Mr. Berksted.”
“Isn’t it?” he said, turning toward him. “How the fuck would you know?”
Namdi didn’t say anything.
Berksted turned back to the landscape. “Sorry,” he said.
“You do not need to apologize.”
“So you’re a doctor?”
“Yes, surgeon by specialty. But out here there are no specialties.”
“You live here?”
“Sometimes. I have a house in Johannesburg in South Africa as well.”
“What the hell you doin’ here?”
“I spend half the year working for the government and then half the year in Johannesburg working at a free clinic. I would work for free the entire year if I could, but one must earn money somehow.”
Berksted took a deep breath and closed his eyes, sadness washing over him and weighing him down as surely as any weight. “The cop said it was a tiger attack.”
“Maybe. But I don’t think so.”
“What do you think it was?”
“Hyenas.”
“Why do you think that?”
“There’s some evidence for it.”
“What evidence?”
“Markings on the body. Hyenas are very different from other animals, Mr. Berksted.”
“I didn’t know there were hyenas out here.”
“Oh yes, they are found everywhere except North and South America. There is a lot of legends of them here and in Nepal.”
Berksted was silent a moment and then said, “By the way, that’s my wife, not some body. I’d appreciate you respecting that.”
“I apologize. In my work, it helps if I don’t think of them in that way.” Namdi took a sip of bottled water and continued. “It is not difficult to detect one. But I’ve never seen markings like this. They are far larger than normal hyenas. That is why I said perhaps it could be a tiger, or there are even Asiatic lions. Perhaps a lion with teeth deformity or some trauma to the teeth that caused it to have such specific bite patterns.”
Berksted looked away. There was a large tree just off to their right and a panther sat on one of the branches, cautiously eyeing the passerby. “I used to fuck around on her all the time. Blonds, brunettes, Asians . . . didn’t matter. She didn’t know, at least, I don’t think she knew. She deserved better than what she got.”
“We all do.”
They drove in silence for the rest of the morning. They circled an area of a dozen miles, going off-road through the grass a number of times and stopping midday to refuel. Namdi got out and took a plastic jug of gasoline, inserting a funnel into the gas tank and pouring the fuel in. Berksted sat in the jeep, staring off into space. He was still drunk and every once in awhile would doze off.
“We can rest if you like,” Namdi said.
“No, I want to keep looking.”
They drove for over an hour until they reached the base of a large hill far north of the house. Vultures had gathered in a circle around a kill and were fighting and nipping at each other for position.
“Wait here,” Namdi said.
He stepped out of the jeep and took a rifle from the backseat. Aiming in the air, he shot off a round and the vultures scattered as he approached. One remained, picking at whatever they had found. Namdi fired another shot and it took flight, landing on a tree a dozen yards away and watching his movements.
Namdi walked close. He lowered the rifle and put on his glasses. In front of him was a mass of rancid meat on white bones. Blood had dried into the earth and there were horns. It was the carcass of a juvenile black buck. He breathed a sigh of relief and was about to return to the jeep when he heard a growl coming from a field of grass to his right.
He turned his head and saw the gold and black fur of a tiger ducked low in the tall vegetation. Tigers had very distinctive growls, bassed and heavy. But they hunted by stealth. If she had growled, it meant she wanted him to know she was there. He could not see her head but had no doubt she was watching him carefully.
Sweat rolled down his forehead into his eyes. Slowly, he began walking back to the jeep, keeping a firm grip on the rifle. The jeep was more than a dozen yards away and Berksted looked half asleep.
The tiger moved. It was so subtle Namdi wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been looking directly at her. It was just a slight adjustment in her position; going from a crouch to a tense crouch position. She was getting ready to sprint.
Namd
i darted for the jeep, hearing only a roar as the animal leaped out of the grass and chased him. He kept an eye on his feet to make sure he wouldn’t trip but could hear the heavy breathing of the great cat just behind him.
He turned to look. She wasn’t more than a few feet away. Her legs flexed and she pounced. As she became airborne her front claws dug into Namdi’s back. It was searing pain that caused him to scream as he toppled over. Berksted heard the scream and was out of the jeep and trying to steady his hand as he fired.
Namdi kept his arms over his face as the animal bit down, piercing the flesh of his forearm and scraping bone. She tugged at him, tossing him to the side as if he were a rag. The predator circled her prey, mouth oozing drool as she prepared for the killing bite to the neck, suffocating Namdi to death before beginning to feast.
Shots crackled through the air, kicking up dirt wherever they landed. The tiger yelped as she was struck in the shoulder. She dashed for the safety of the grass as Berksted continued firing until the dry click of the empty gun made him stop.
Namdi had the breath knocked out of him and his back burned from the wounds of the creature’s claws. His chest felt heavy, as if the weight was still on him and his arm was pouring blood. He ripped part of his shirt and wrapped it around the wound.
“Let’s go” Berksted said, helping him up.
“I am certain she broke my ribs. Can you drive?”
A colossal force and a gust of air and Berksted was ripped from Namdi’s arms. The speed at which he’d been pulled away left Namdi off balance and he fell to his side. Namdi thought Berksted had fallen. He saw him near the tall grass on his stomach, his face pale, a thick soup of saliva and black blood flowing from his mouth. Berksted screamed a wet, gurgled scream as he was dragged into the grass.
Namdi jumped to his feet and tried to run after him. He could see something moving through the grass at a quick pace, splitting apart the field like a speedboat through water. He lost sight of Berksted who was clawing at the ground to stop himself.
Berksted screamed, and then there was silence.
The Extinct Page 8