Dead at Daybreak

∨ Dead at Daybreak ∧

35

He stood in the doorway, the bathroom light falling across the bed through the steam of the shower, and stared at Kara-An’s sleeping shape: the dark hair spread over the pillow, the pale skin of her shoulder and upper arm, the curve of her breast, the beautiful mouth half-open and without lipstick, the narrow white edge of her teeth visible, small, rhythmic sounds of a deep sleep in her throat. So much beauty, even now, so much beauty, the body of an angel, the face of a goddess, but the damaged gray matter lay in the skull. God, it had been wild last night. She was like an animal, a leopard trapped in her head, scratching and hissing and biting and crazy, swearing and panting – how much did she hate herself?

He stood naked in the doorway, feeling more pain than the scratch marks and bruises on his body warranted. He had to get dressed, go to work, but the contrast between the quiet figure on the bed and the demon of last night held him captive.

He had learned about himself last night.

He had reached the edge and halted.

“Hurt me,” she had said, begging, reproaching, hitting out at his face. Again and again through grinding teeth, “Hurt me,” and he could not. In the frenetic moments he had searched for the ability to do so and it wasn’t there.

He didn’t want to hurt her; he wanted to comfort her. Despite all the aggression in him, despite all the hate and reproaches and pain.

He had tried to draw it from his own rage, but there was…something else. He wanted to comfort her, give her sympathy. He felt sorry for her, so infinitely sorry. What he felt was not lust but heartbreak.

Eventually he had thrust into her and brought the act to a climax, holding and sweating while she swore at him about his impotence, his cowardice, his betrayal, until he lay on top of her, empty and tired, and the silence between them became as cold and dark as the night outside. And then he had rolled off and lain next to her, staring at the ceiling until he felt her hands soft on his chest and she had shifted her warm body close to his and fallen asleep. He thought about nothing, closing the doors of his mind.

♦

Hope Beneke walked to the airport building in the icy, dry cold of an early Bloemfontein morning and was amazed by the bleached grass and the bright light of the pale sun. When her eyes searched the people in the arrivals hall, she knew the tall, slender, gray-haired woman with the deeply lined face was Rupert de Jager’s mother. She walked up to her, extended her hand, and was embraced by the bony arms that hugged her against Carolina de Jager’s body.

“I’m so pleased that you’ve come.”

“We’re pleased that we could trace you.”

The woman dropped her arms. “I won’t cry. You don’t have to worry.”

“You can cry as much as you like, Mrs. de Jager.”

“Call me Carolina. I’ve finished crying.”

“Is there somewhere here that we can wait? Perhaps have a cup of coffee?”

“Let’s go to town. We have lots of time. I’ll show you the waterfront.”

“Bloemfontein has a waterfront?”

“What do you mean? A beautiful place.”

They walked out of the airport building, back into the cold. Carolina de Jager looked at her again. “You’re so small. For an attorney. I thought you would be a big woman.”

♦

He played back the answering machine’s tape, listened to the messages of the lonely, the disturbed, with the old, familiar astonishment at the damage that people carry with them. Where did Kara-An’s damage originate? Perhaps she could point a finger at others, but his was due to the dagger of his own actions, a blade that cut widely, made others bleed.

Focus. He arranged his notes, read the newspaper reports, clever reheating of the investigative leftovers, quotes from Superintendent Bart de Wit: “Murder and Robbery have always been part of the investigation and we gladly shared our information with the private team. Murder and Robbery will remain part of it and are following up new leads.”

Ha!

The telephone seldom rang now, nothing usable. He had to wait for Hope and Carolina de Jager and the parcel she was bringing, the next big step.

Marie at the door. “There’s a policeman to see you, sir.”

“Send him in.”

Captain Mat Joubert. “Morning, Van Heerden.”

“Mat.”

“You still believe the devil is in the detail.” Joubert looked at the notes, sat down, his voice soft for such a big man. “How are you, Van Heerden?”

“That’s not why you’re here.”

“No.”

“Bart de Wit changed his point of view?”

“No. The super doesn’t know I’m here. I’ve come to warn you. The commissioner phoned this morning. Military Intelligence is taking over the investigation. It comes from on high. Ministerial level. Nougat is preparing the dossier for the handover.”

“And he’s mad as a snake.”

Joubert rolled his big shoulder. “You’re their next port of call, Van Heerden. They’re coming with a court order. Law on Internal Security.”

He had no reaction.

“You opened up something that makes them very nervous.”

“They can’t stop it now.”

“They can. You know that.”

“Mat, this thing goes back to ’seventy-six. Bush war. It’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission material. The ANC would welcome it.”

“How many spooks did you see appearing in front of the TRC? I’m not talking about the butchers and semispooks like the Vlakplaas men and Basson. I’m talking about the main men. The obscure units inside National Intelligence and MI of which we’ve only heard rumors. There was nothing on them or about them. There was nothing from Namibia. Do you think it was a coincidence?”

He had never thought about it in that way. “I didn’t follow the TRC with great attention. I was…distracted.”

“In the final TRC report they mention masses of records that were destroyed in ’ninety-three. And there are rumors all over the place. Do you know how much paper was burned in Iscor’s furnaces? Forty-four tons. And Military Intelligence destroyed hundreds of files in Simon’s Town in ’ninety-four. With the knowledge of the ANC. Nothing could stop them then. Nothing is going to stop them now. And with reason.”

“What reason?”

Joubert took a deep breath. “I don’t know. But if I were you I’d make copies of everything. Because they’re coming to confiscate everything. And they’ll be here shortly.” He got up. “They mustn’t find me here.”

“Why, Mat? Why did you come to warn me?”

“Because we owe you, Van Heerden. All of us.”

It was only after he had said good-bye to Mat Joubert in reception and was sitting at the desk again that he realized he had to get hold of Hope. Carolina de Jager and her parcel must not be delivered here. He dialed her cell phone. “The number you have dialed is unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone.”

Jesus.

“Hope, don’t bring Mrs. de Jager to your office. Go…I’ll phone my mother. Take her there. I’ll explain later.”

He looked at his watch. Were they on the return flight already? Probably. Would she listen to messages before she came to the office?

He put out his hand for the telephone again. Had to warn his mother. He dialed her number.

“Hallo,” he heard his mother say.

The door opened.

“Morning, motherfucker,” said White. He held a document in his hand. “We have a love letter for you.”

♦

Marian Olivier, the other partner of Beneke, Olivier, and Partners, was an unattractive young woman with a highly arched nose, a small, narrow mouth, and a rich, melodious voice like a radio personality’s. “The document is in order,” she said.

“Nice to work with professional people,” said Black.

“Who understand all the big words,” said White.

“Please translate it for sonny-boy here, in easy-to-grasp concepts. He’s not allowed to play with all the dangerous toys any longer.”

“He must go home.”

“Find other toys.”

“Or we’ll lock him up.”

“That’s correct,” said Marian Olivier.

“Correct,” said White. “Such a nice, official word.”

“It’s also correct that we may search the offices,” said Black.

“Which we would like to do now.”

“We brought some help.”

“Fourteen men.”

“With itchy hands.”

“Who are waiting outside.”

“Out of decency.”

“Politeness.”

“And then we want to visit sonny-boy at home.”

“To make sure that he’s not hiding toys that are dangerous for a child of his age.”

“And unfortunately we’ll also have to search Miss Beneke’s little place.”

“We apologize in advance for the discomfort.”

“Sometimes our work is hell.”

“That is correct.”

“Everything is in order,” said Marian Olivier.

“In order,” said Black. “That’s another nice one.”

“Correct,” said White, and they giggled like teenagers. “I’ll stay here. Major Mzimkhulu will accompany sonny-boy a little later.”

“Unpack his toy cupboard. As soon as he’s shared everything here with us.”

“Like a good boy.”

♦

They ran in the rain to Hope’s BMW in the parking area at the Cape Town International Airport. And when they had put the luggage in the trunk and closed the doors, Carolina de Jager said, “Oh, how lovely to see rain again.”

Hope started the car, pulled away. “We wouldn’t mind a bit of sunshine. It’s been raining for more than a week.”

“The farmers should be grateful.”

“Too true,” said Hope, and pulled her handbag toward her to find money for the parking gate. Saw her cell phone. Better switch it on.

♦

At 16:52 on Tuesday, July 11, Major Steve Mzimkhulu of Military Intelligence’s Special Ops Unit died on the N7, one kilometer north of the Bosmansdam exit.

They drove from the city in silence as if Mzimkhulu’s comedy rhythm was disturbed when White wasn’t present, but the officer’s last words were in a more serious vein. “I must admit, sonny-boy, you haven’t done badly,” he said when they took the N7 exit.

Van Heerden didn’t say anything. Later, when he thought back, he realized they had been followed. He had been unaware. He had been thinking about Joubert’s words: Because we owe you, Van Heerden. All of us. He thought about Hope and Carolina de Jager and the influence of the latest events on his plan, and then, beyond the Bosmansdam exit, at about 130, 140 kilometers per hour, the truck in the right lane swung into them. He would only remember the color, a dirty white, big, bigger than an SUV, with a bull bar, overtaking him, that was all he could remember. It struck the Corolla on the right wing and suddenly he was fighting the steering wheel and then they rolled, right over, the deafening noise of metal and glass breaking, and then the car lay on its roof and he hung in the seat belt, the rain on his face and Mzimkhulu’s blood against the front window, and then there was a gun against the side of his head. “Are you alive?” He wanted to turn his head but the muzzle prevented him.

“Can you hear me?”

He nodded.

“You have a mother, policeman. Do you hear me? You have a mother. I’ll burn her with a fucking blowtorch, do you hear me?”

“Bushy,” he said, his voice faraway.

“You don’t know me, you pig, cunt, leave me alone or I’ll burn her. We should’ve burned the fucking will a long time ago. Leave me alone or I’ll kill you.” And then the muzzle was no longer against his face, footsteps, he tried to look, saw long hair, long, blond hair, heard the truck leaving, other cars stopping, rain against the Corolla, against his face, tink-tink of metal cooling, the smell of blood and petrol and wet earth, and he shivered, his whole body shook and he knew it was shock and he wanted to unfasten the seat belt but he didn’t know where his hands were.

♦

He was in the Milnerton MediClinic in a six-bed ward and the woman at administration wanted to know who was going to pay because he didn’t have a medical fund, and he wanted to go home and the doctor didn’t want him to leave because he had to stay for “observation” and until the injection against shock had worked, “perhaps tomorrow morning,” and then White was there and said he was Colonel Brits of the South African National Defence Force and insisted that Van Heerden be moved to a private room and that the state would pay if necessary and put two guards in front of the door and the woman from administration said she wanted a letter of some kind, because the state only paid after a fight, but they moved him to a private ward and the doctor said Brits had to leave him alone, he wasn’t ready to talk, he was going to sleep after the injection, and Brits said it was a matter of urgency and then they were alone, he and Bester “White” Brits, and the man stood next to his bed and said Steven was dead from a head injury and he said he knew, the ambulance men had told him at the scene, and Brits wanted to know how it had happened.

His own voice was faraway, his tongue slow and clumsy, his head thick. “I don’t know. There was…a truck, we were hit, I – ”

“A truck? What fucking truck, Van Heerden?” And in the wool of his head it registered that he was no longer “sonny-boy,” that the whole tone had changed. Aggression.

“It happened so fast I couldn’t see.” His words were slowing down even more. “Like a Ford F100, the old pickups, bigger than an SUV. Left-hand drive.” And then he wondered why he had said it because –

“And then?” Huge impatience.

“Overtook us, swung into us, hit the nose of the car. Then we rolled.”

“Fucking Steven. Would never wear a seat belt. And then?”

Don’t say anything, don’t say anything.

“Come on, Van Heerden, what then?”

“Ambulance…”

“There are eyewitnesses who said a man or a woman with long blond hair ran away from your car, got into a big cream-colored truck, and drove away when they stopped.”

Don’t say anything. He wanted out, to protect his mother, he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer, he heard voices, Brits calling his name, others, he heard his mother’s voice, Hope, Nougat O’Grady, forced his attention, his eyes open but could see nothing.

♦

In the middle of the night he woke and he heard her breathing and looked and saw his mother next to his bed in the dark, moonlight through the window.

“Ma.” His voice almost inaudible.

“Yes, my son,” she whispered back.

“Ma, you must stay here.”

She took his hand. “I will.”

For her own protection, he meant. Not for him.

Her other hand was in his hair, stroking his head. “Sleep. I’m here.”

His shoulder and neck ached, not excessively painful, the discomfort of stretched muscles. He wanted to ask where Hope and Carolina de Jager were, but he lay still. He’d been eight or nine when he had the high fever, they thought it was meningitis, never really found out what it was, and his mother had sat next to his bed for five days and held his hand and stroked his head and had spoken to him in between the compresses and the medicine and the fever dreams, and he thought now how nothing had changed, it was still only the two of them, and everything had changed and then he slept again.