Shoot the Bastards

by Michael Stanley

  “He shot this elephant?” he interrupted. “He had no authority to do that.”

  “The animal was suffering…”

  “This was not your decision. You should have left it for the authorities.”

  “We needed to get to the plane. We thought the people inside might have been injured, and it wasn’t possible with all the elephants around.” She decided not to mention wanting to see if there was a connection to Michael. “We assumed we could shoot it if human lives were in danger,” she said.

  He didn’t look convinced, but he waved his hand. “Go on.”

  “After that I climbed into the plane. There was only the pilot there. He was slumped over the controls, and I thought he was dead. I tried to find a pulse, but I couldn’t feel one. So, I lifted his head—”

  “Why did you move the body?”

  “I wanted to double check he was dead.”

  “And when you did, you saw that he had been shot?”

  “Yes, right in the head.”

  He considered this for a moment. “Do you have any firearms other than the hunting rifle, Mrs. Nguyen?”

  “No, not here.”

  “Where then?”

  “I have some guns at home in Minnesota in the U.S. For target shooting.”

  “Handguns?”

  “No!” she was sweating now. What was he implying? “Are you suggesting I shot the pilot?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything. Continue with your story…”

  He let her summarize the story up till when she and Bongani went back to the plane.

  “Why did you do that? Why didn’t you just wait for the police?”

  “We thought someone else—another man—might be injured. There was blood outside the plane. And there are lions and hyenas…and the elephants…” Crys realized it didn’t sound so convincing now, sitting there at the camp.

  “Well, you found what you were looking for.” Mabula gestured with his head behind her. She knew he meant the Land Rover, and Ho’s dead body.

  “Actually, he found us.”

  Crys described how they’d followed Ho’s trail, and how he’d shot at them from the rocks. “But we had a rifle, and he only had a handgun. So eventually, well, he gave up.”

  He nodded and made a couple of notes on his pad. He seemed fine with her story. But his next question shook her. She realized she’d badly underestimated Colonel Mabula.

  “What did he have with him?”

  “With him?” Crys fiddled with her hair, winding it around her finger. When she realized what she was doing, she held her hands in her lap to prevent them from fidgeting. “Nothing. Just the gun, which he threw down. Actually, he had another gun—which I stupidly missed when I searched him—”

  “What did you find when you searched him?” he interrupted.

  “His…his passport and…some papers and money. In his wallet. It’s still there.” Crys was beginning to feel frazzled.

  “He had nothing with him of value? There was nothing in the plane?”

  She almost blurted out the truth, but she felt something was wrong. Why did he think there was something else to the story? Was he in on it somehow? Was Bongani right—the police had been waiting for the briefcase of money, to take their cut?

  She shook her head.

  “Mrs. Nguyen—”

  “I’m Ms., not Mrs,” she interrupted. It was a mistake. She knew he was trying to rattle her, and he was succeeding.

  He nodded, one eyebrow raised, and told her to continue. He let her finish the story of the drive back and Ho’s attempt to hijack them.

  When Crys was done, he looked down at his notes, took a sip of water and glared at her. “I’m looking for a motive here, Ms. Nguyen. Two men are dead. We think the first man was shot with the gun you say the second—Mr. Ho—pulled on you. Mr. Ho was beaten to death.”

  “He wasn’t beaten to death. He was hurt in the plane crash and then hit his head on the windshield. I told you what happened.”

  “My colleagues have examined him.” Mabula wasn’t looking at her. He seemed to aim his words toward the trees. She knew it was to unnerve her. Then he turned his gaze back at her. “His neck was broken.”

  She felt like she’d been punched. She hated this. She’d killed the man. But he would have killed them. She was sure of it. “He…he had a gun pointed at me. It was the only thing I could think of doing.”

  “We may have to open a manslaughter docket. Did you handle the pistol?”

  Her prints would be on it. She couldn’t lie. “Yes, I picked it up. I didn’t want to leave it where the man could reach it! We didn’t know he was dead then.”

  “So, let’s look at your story, Ms. Nguyen: a plane lands on a bush strip in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere and crashes into an elephant. This man Ho shoots the pilot—the only person who might get him out of the mess. Perhaps he is angry because it was a bad landing? Do you think so?” He waited until Crys shook her head. “Ho is also injured, but instead of waiting for rescue, he goes off into the night with the wild animals and the angry elephants and two handguns, which won’t help him much against them. And where do you think he was hoping to go? Maybe he thought he’d bump into someone to give him a lift to Phalaborwa or Giyani?” He stopped again and stared at her.

  Again, Crys thought of Bongani driving back at three in the morning. He’d said he’d been driving past the airstrip. But she couldn’t shake the idea that it was more than that, that he’d been working with Ho.

  She realized Mabula was still waiting for her response and quickly shook her head.

  “But he’s lucky,” Mabula went on. “You come along to rescue him. So, he shoots at you. Then he gives himself up, but then tries to hijack you.”

  “That’s what happened.”

  “All this…and he had nothing with him? Nothing of value?”

  “No! I keep telling you.” She was thinking more and more that Bongani was right: the police cared more about money than dead bodies.

  “Ms. Nguyen, you are lying to me. You are in a lot of trouble here. Two men are dead. Murdered. I’ve checked up on you. You are a newspaper reporter. Maybe you want a big story? A scoop?” His voice grew louder, harder. “Don’t play games with me. We can throw you in jail like this.” He snapped his fingers close to her face. “Now, do you have anything more to add to your story?”

  “No. No,” she insisted. “I’ve told you the truth.”

  But not the whole truth, she thought.

  “Very well, I will speak to Mr. Chikosi now.” And Crys was dismissed like a schoolgirl from the principal’s office.

  She sat down under the jackalberry tree and breathed deeply, trying to calm her nerves. She was sure that Mabula had seen right through her. That he knew she was lying about not finding anything. She wondered if he would charge her with the murder of Ho. And if he did, would she tell him about the money then?

  She wondered if it would be better to tell him now? Maybe he’d let them go if he had what he wanted…

  She closed her eyes and started softly chanting her mantra.

  * * *

  While Mabula questioned Bongani, the other police officers pulled Ho’s body from the Land Rover and placed it in a body bag. Then they collected his guns and quietly searched the camp from top to bottom. Crys wondered if you needed a warrant in South Africa to search a bush camp. She didn’t know, and she wasn’t going to challenge them. She just let them get on with it, watching from her position under the tree, her head still filled with confusing thoughts, and her anxiety on a roller coaster as she worked through various ways this situation could play out.

  The police found nothing, though—there was nothing to find without moving the Land Rover. She wondered if they were searching for clues or for money—or even rhino horn….

  When Mabula had fin
ished with him, Bongani joined Crys, and they both kept an eye on the police.

  At last Mabula walked over to them. He didn’t look happy, but it seemed he’d had enough. He probably wanted to spend the night in his own bed.

  “I want to see you again in my office in Giyani tomorrow. I’m leaving a man here with you in case you need help.” Crys didn’t believe for a minute that was the man’s real job. “Now, please give me your identification documents.”

  Crys only had her Minnesota driver’s license. She didn’t want to part with it but had no choice.

  “Where’s your passport?” Mabula asked.

  “I left it with the Malans at Tshukudu, for safekeeping.”

  Bongani handed over his identity card, which Mabula scrutinized. Then he pocketed both cards and headed for his vehicle.

  “Thank God he’s gone,” Crys said. “I’m sure he knows we’re lying about the money.”

  “He’s bluffing,” Bongani replied, appearing remarkably calm. “He just wants us to think that.”

  She was confused and scared, pulled in different directions. She’d hoped that the plane would yield some information that could be linked to what had happened to Michael, but she’d learned nothing. Instead, she was potentially in serious trouble with the police.

  Chapter 16

  Bongani and Crys sat under the jackalberry tree, waiting for the other Land Rover to return from Tshukudu with a member of staff who would help them strike camp. Bongani seemed comfortable to sit in silence, but Crys wanted to talk. She wanted to understand him better. There were things they needed to discuss, but she didn’t know how to start. Or how much she could trust him.

  “You have children, Bongani?” she began.

  He smiled. “Yes. Two healthy boys. The one is Tumisang—the first born. He’s in grade four now—very clever boy. I hope he’ll go to university one day. The other is Tlali. And we also have a girl. Her name is Puleng. It means ‘in the rain’ because she was born during a big thunderstorm. She brought luck because after the good rains there were good crops.” His eyes seemed to look to somewhere distant.

  “Does your family live close to Tshukudu? Do you see them often?”

  The smile disappeared. “No, only when I have leave. Maybe once a month. They’re at my house in Mapata. It’s the village where I went that night for the funeral. It takes too long to get there from Tshukudu just for a weekend. It isn’t that far, but the roads are bad.”

  She knew that many people lived that way, but it was sad that he saw his kids so seldom. But then she didn’t see her parents either. And her brother only occasionally. She looked at the ground, feeling the pain.

  “And you, Crys? Do you have children?”

  Crys looked up and laughed. “No. First, you need a husband…”

  He looked puzzled. “There must be many men who want to marry you. The men in America must be quite stupid.”

  She laughed again, more warmly this time. “There are a few. But, maybe I don’t want them?”

  He nodded. “You’re young, so you can wait for one you like, who has some money. But a woman needs a husband and children.”

  She looked down again. She’d thought that Michael, maybe… but that looked as though it was history now.

  At that point, the remaining policeman, a Constable Ngweni, joined them.

  Crys tried to strike up a conversation, perhaps because she wanted to give the impression of innocence, perhaps to distract herself from the dark thoughts in her head. But he wasn’t talkative and after a few minutes, she gave up.

  “Would you like a beer?” she suggested eventually.

  “Yes, please.”

  Crys fetched beers for the two men and a glass of fruit juice for herself, and then they sat in silence, lost in their thoughts.

  Eventually, she turned to Bongani. “Surely the others should have arrived by now. Where do you think they are?”

  “Maybe the police were talking to them also.” He paused, giving Ngweni a sidelong glance. “Anyway, even if they get here this afternoon, it will be too late to go back. We should start a fire, so we can cook some meat.”

  He stood up and collected an armful of twigs, which he then arranged in a tent-like structure. When it was burning well, he added some small branches. Finally, he dragged over a big log of ironwood and put it on top. They’d used similar logs the night before, which had burned hot for hours. He sat back down, and they all stared into the flames. Silence reigned once more.

  As dusk fell, Crys went to the kitchen and wrapped some potatoes in aluminum foil. She returned to the fire and dropped them on the coals. Then, she threw together a salad and grabbed two more beers.

  When everything was ready, Bongani cooked the meat, and they all sat round the fire, drinks propped up in the soft sand. It almost felt like a normal evening. But Crys realized she’d done everything mechanically and didn’t really have any appetite.

  As darkness fell, she heard a birdcall nearby—it sounded like a prrr.

  “Bongani, do you hear that bird? What is it?”

  “That one is an African scops-owl,” he said, pointing into the darkness. “It’s very small.” He held his hands about six inches apart.

  “And that one is a nightjar.” He pointed in another direction. “It’s called fiery-necked. I’m not sure why, because I’ve never seen any fire on it, or even red on its neck. They say he’s calling ‘Good Lord deliver us.’”

  Crys listened carefully and nodded. It did sound sort of like that. She knew nightjars from the north woods of Minnesota and wondered whether it was of the same family.

  Crys looked at Ngweni. His face was blank in the firelight, probably wondering why they were discussing birds, given the events of the past few hours.

  When they’d finished eating, the constable said good night and headed to his tent. He’d obviously decided they weren’t going to make a run for it, and Crys guessed his instructions didn’t include eavesdropping on any conversation Bongani and she might have.

  “Mabula give you a hard time?” she asked Bongani.

  He shrugged. “Kept asking the same questions, over and over. That’s all.” He poked at the fire with a stick.

  “You seem worried. Want to talk about it?”

  He shook his head and gazed at the ground.

  She decided to confront him with what had been nagging at her mind for hours. This could be her last opportunity to ask him. Once they were back at Tshukudu, or with the police in Giyani, she might not see him alone again. She looked up at the stars, figuring out how to say it.

  She decided to just come out with it. “It’s because you were there, isn’t it, Bongani? For some reason, you were there when that plane crashed.”

  He turned to her, his face a picture of astonishment.

  “It doesn’t take much to figure it out. You said the mourning finished early, but why didn’t you sleep there instead of driving back at three a.m.?”

  At first, he didn’t reply, but she just waited. Most people need to fill a silence, and she thought he probably wanted to get whatever was bothering him off his chest.

  “Yes,” he said eventually. He turned away from her and looked into the fire again. “Yes, I was there to meet the plane. They told me that all I had to do was drive one of the passengers to a house about an hour away, and he’d give me a thousand U.S. dollars when we got there. It sounded pretty easy. And I really need the money, Crys.” He looked at her sideways, his eyebrows raised, questioning.

  “Who told you to do it?”

  Bongani stared back into the fire. “The people I talk to sometimes.”

  “What people?”

  “Some people in the village. They ask me questions, and sometimes I tell them stuff.”

  “Stuff? Stuff about what you’ve seen on the trips maybe? Stuff like that?”

  He nodde
d.

  For a moment, she was speechless. He was tipping off poachers! The safari was being used as part of their information network. Part of her wanted to hit him, but then she thought of Hennie and his team and what they’d done. She bit down on her anger.

  “Why, Bongani? Surely the Malans would’ve helped you if you needed more money. There must have been another way.”

  “The Malans do lend me money sometimes, but it isn’t enough.”

  “So, you spy for the poachers but then go and shoot and torture them? Whose side are you on, Bongani?”

  “You don’t know how poor we are out here, Crys. You live in America. We have nothing.” He shook his head. “My brother doesn’t have a job, and he has three kids; my sister has AIDS; and I’ve got my own family. I’m the only one bringing in money for all those people.” He kept his eyes on the flames.

  He was supporting all of them on a miserable salary sweetened by tips. No wonder he looked for a little extra by telling his contact where to look for elephants and rhinos. Especially rhinos.

  “So that whole story about the funeral was just a lie to cover your job for the poachers.”

  He shook his head. “No, there really was a funeral for my cousin.” His voice dropped. “But…but they had no body to bury.”

  Suddenly she had a sinking feeling. She knew who Bongani’s cousin was. She remembered how Bongani had walked away when he saw the man being tortured.

  “Oh no, Bongani.”

  He put his face in his hands, then clutched his head as though he wanted to squeeze the pain away. “I set it up for him. He had no work. He begged me. He knew I know the people. I told him no. It was too dangerous. He would be put in jail, shot, killed, even tortured. But he insisted. So…so I set it up for him.” His body shook now and his voice broke. “It was his first time.”

  “You can’t blame yourself.”

  She put a hand out toward him. But he stood up with a jerk, as if jumping away from her touch. He walked away from the firelight, toward the trees.