The Obsidian Chamber

9

The Windhoek-Detmonk Automobile Agency — as it was advertised by two signs, one in Afrikaans and the other in English, along with the proprietor’s name, Lazrus Keronda — was a two-acre lot located amid a sad-looking, business-zoned neighborhood on the main east — west highway just south of the airport. Despite the seediness of its signage, the rental agency was ringed by expensive sodium vapor lights that lit up the night, and a dozen vehicles could be seen through the security fence.

It was the only business still open, and as Proctor marched quickly across the four-lane highway — quiet at this late hour — the external lights began to snap off, one by one.

The temperature hovered at just around one hundred degrees, and the Oosweer—the hot wind that often blew in from the coast this time of year — showered him in fine sand as he walked. The low hills of Progress could barely be seen in the distance: ghost reflections of the lights from the city. He glanced at his watch: just past ten o’clock.

A short, pudgy man in rumpled shorts and a khaki shirt with buttoned pockets was pulling a chain-link gate across the main entrance to the dealership. Proctor gave him a brisk tap on the shoulder and the man turned, blinking against the blowing sand.

“Hoe gaan dit met jou?” he said, looking him up and down in the way of salesmen the world over.

“Baie goed, dankie,” Proctor replied. “But let’s talk in English.”

Proctor prided himself in being an expert at reading people. Even now — dead tired, in deep shock, stricken to the core with grief and self-reproach — he could tell there was something wrong about this man. The nervous way he kept running one hand through his hair as the wind disarranged it; his habit of not meeting Proctor’s eyes; the very tenor of his voice — all told Proctor that the man was dirty and intended to lie to him.

Now the salesman frowned. “Ek vertaan nie,” he said.

“Oh, you understand me just fine, Mr. Keronda.” Proctor opened his bug-out bag, flashed a wad of cash.

“We are closed,” the man said, switching abruptly to unaccented English.

“Let’s talk in there.” And Proctor pointed toward a small, dimly lighted shed in the middle of the lot that, it appeared, served as an office.

“We are—” the man began again, but Proctor gave him a shove that pulled his hand from the gate and sent him stumbling back in the direction of the office.

Inside the building, Proctor gently but firmly guided the man to a chair behind a battered desk, pushed him down into it, then took a seat in front. “I’ll tell you just once,” he said. “No games. I’ve run out of time and patience. You have information I need. Give it to me and you’ll be rewarded.”

The man patted at his hair again, wiped sand from his forehead. “I do not know anything.”

“You had a customer here,” Proctor said. “About ninety minutes ago.”

The man shook his head. “There has been nobody,” he said.

Proctor took a deep breath. “I’m asking politely. Next time I’ll be rude.”

“We have been closed for hours,” the man said. “The only reason I am here so late is because I’ve been doing paperwork—”

The storm of emotions that had been slowly gathering within Proctor — frustration at the absurd dance Diogenes had led him on; self-loathing for his failure in ensuring Constance’s well-being; staggering grief at the news of her death — came together in a white-hot implosion of rage. Yet externally he remained completely calm — save for the sudden, snake-like quickness with which he moved. Snatching a large letter opener off the desk, he brought it down into the man’s left hand, shattering the trapezoid bone and burying the point half an inch into the scarred wood.

The man’s eyes rolled white and he opened his mouth to scream. Proctor grabbed an oil-soaked rag off the floor and jammed it into his mouth. He clamped his powerful hand over the man’s jaws, preventing him from crying out.

The man writhed, moaning through the rag. Blood began seeping around the edges of the letter opener and trickling through the fingers and onto the desk. Proctor kept the man in position for well over a minute before speaking again.

“When I take the rag out of your mouth,” he said, “you’re going to answer my questions. If you lie, I’ll respond appropriately.”

The man nodded. Proctor removed the sodden rag.

“As God is my judge,” the man began again, “I have not seen anybody all—”

Proctor pulled a rusty, four-inch awl from among an adjacent workbench of tools, seized the man’s free elbow, yanked the arm forward, slammed the right hand on the table, and stabbed the awl through it, pinning it to the table as well.

The man screamed in agony. “Laat my met rus! Polisie!”

“Nobody can hear you,” said Proctor. With a short, sharp movement, he kicked the man’s chair straight back from his desk. Affixed as he was to the table, the man fell forward off the chair, his knees hitting the floor, arms straight out in front of him, hands pinned to the table by the letter opener and the awl. He uttered another inchoate scream.

From his bag, Proctor pulled a blacked-out KA-Bar knife with a serrated edge. With two quick flicks of the blade, he cut through the man’s belt and sliced away his zipper. And then he picked a heavy set of hose clamp pliers off the workbench. “Last chance,” he said, hefting the pliers. “Your balls are next.”

“No!” the man said as the pliers swung toward him. “Yes!” He was almost crying.

“Who came here tonight?”

He blubbered, gasping in panic, hardly able to get the words out. “A man. And… a woman.”

“Describe them to me.”

“The man was tall. He had a beard. And his eyes… different colors.”

“And the woman?”

“Young. Yellow hair.” The man gasped. “Please — it hurts!”

“Blond? Not dark-haired?”

“No, no. Ahhh!” Blood was pooling over the top of the table now.

“There was nobody else?”

“No. Just the two. And — and their cargo.”

“What cargo?”

“It was…” The man gasped. “A coffin.”

“Coffin?”

The man nodded desperately. “A big coffin. Refrigerated.”

A refrigerated coffin. “What did they want?”

“They rented a Rover. A, a Land Rover.”

“What else?”

“They asked for tie-downs. To lash the coffin into the bed of the Rover.”

“Anything more?”

Sweat was pouring from the man’s forehead, dripping from his nose, mingling with the blood on the table. “No. But they loaded their own supplies in with the coffin.”

“What supplies?”

“Water. Petrol. Camping gear.”

“How much petrol?”

He swallowed. “Dozen jerrycans, maybe more.”

“Where did they get the supplies?”

The man shook his head. “They were in the van they arrived in.”

The van. Shona, too, had mentioned a waiting van. It must have contained not only the petrol and water — but the refrigerated coffin, as well. Diogenes had planned even that — on the plane, if not before. At the thought, Proctor felt a shudder go through his frame.

But a van would not be well equipped for desert travel. A Land Rover, on the other hand, would.

“Did you see where they went?”

The salesman jerked his head. “East. They headed east, on the B6.”

East. In the direction of Botswana — and the Kalahari Desert.

Proctor took firm hold of the letter opener. Then he yanked it away from the table, out of the man’s hand. He did the same with the awl. Then, ripping the oily rag in two with his teeth, he quickly fashioned tourniquets and applied them to the hands.

“I need an all-terrain vehicle,” he said. He glanced out toward the lot, where a variety of cars gleamed in the remaining sodium light; there was one Land Cruiser, tricked out for desert travel. “That Land Cruiser. How much?”

“Take it,” the man said, weeping and cradling his mangled, bleeding hands. “Take it!”

“No, I’ll rent it.” Proctor did not want to be found with a stolen vehicle. “How much?”

“Nine thousand Namibian a week.” The man forced himself back up into the chair, where he rocked back and forth, forearms crossed before him, making a low keening sound.

Proctor counted out fifteen hundred American dollars and tossed them on the bloody table. “That should cover it for two. Get me the paperwork and receipt. Make sure everything’s in order.” He tossed a hundred more dollars at the man. “That’s to get some medical attention. Clean the place up. And keep your mouth shut — I don’t want anybody thinking I’ve paid you a visit. If I’m bothered — by police, military — I’ll come looking for you, and…” Instead of finishing the sentence, Proctor shifted his gaze to the pliers.

“No,” the man whimpered.

Proctor looked at the office’s watercooler. “I’ll take that jug. Do you have more?”

“…Closet.”

“Maps?”

“On the shelf.”

“Extra jerrycans of petrol?”

The man fumbled a key from around his neck. “In the shed. Back of the lot.”

Ten minutes later, Proctor was on the B6, driving east at high speed, heading for the border, with fifteen gallons of water, fifty extra gallons of petrol, and a full set of maps of southern Africa, from Namibia to Botswana.