The Obsidian Chamber

10

Proctor had raced eastward on route B6 through Witvlei, then Gobabis, covering the two-hundred-plus-mile journey to the border crossing with Botswana in three hours. At the Mamuno border post a bit of money — strategically exchanged — had confirmed that the vehicle with the refrigerated coffin passed through less than two hours before, and for an additional sum Proctor had obtained a Botswanan visa on the spot. The process was swift and efficient, and in less than ten minutes he was once again on his way.

It was at this point that the chase — and Proctor’s progress — slowed significantly.

The B6 ended at a north — south highway called the A3. The exchange was situated at the edge of the Kalahari Desert, vacant and free of any roadside businesses. From this point he could not be certain which way Diogenes had gone. Proctor chose the route north, toward a town called Ghanzi, primarily on the basis that it was the road less traveled. He felt confident Diogenes had not taken the A3 south. The man would not risk trying to bribe a coffin through South African border control: it was a stricter, less corrupt country, known for enforcing regulations. And it seemed logical, somehow, that Diogenes would head into the Kalahari Desert rather than away from it.

But for what purpose, he had no idea.

When Proctor reached Ghanzi, a bustling desert town, he realized something was amiss. It took many inquiries — he did not speak Setswanan — until he finally confirmed that the Land Rover had not passed through. Now he drove back along the A3, slowly and painstakingly, pondering where he’d gone wrong. He remained confident that Diogenes and the girl had turned north, rather than south — which meant that, along the way, his quarry had turned off the highway onto one of the sparse desert tracks that led deep into the Kalahari. But which one?

He tried one track after another as he headed back south. None showed any signs of tire tracks. At last, he pulled off the highway yet again to consult his maps. Although it was many hours from dawn, tremendous stored heat radiated off the asphalt in waves. Eastward lay the vast, untamed expanse of the Kalahari, populated only by sparse numbers of Bushmen and a scattering of isolated game camps for tourists. In the 250,000 square miles of desert, there was nothing else — no paved roads and no towns. He looked up from his map to gaze across the infinite, sand-colored plains, dotted with scrub and the occasional acacia tree, barely distinguishable in the moonlight.

But there was a town — of sorts — marked on the map. A settlement called New Xade, about sixty miles east, connected to the highway by a dirt road. Proctor sensed this was the road Diogenes must have taken; all the others he’d passed were not on the map and looked improvised and unreliable.

He backtracked to the New Xade turnoff: an unmarked, sandy track leading like an arrow into the darkness. Before he turned in, he pulled his Land Cruiser over to the shoulder again and got out. First he used a flashlight to examine his own tires, new Michelin XPSs, noting the distinctive tread. Then he went to the turnoff and, with the aid of the headlights, examined the sand — and there he saw the marks of a similar tread, turning off the road from the south and heading east. The tread was fresh, and no other car had turned off since.

Grimly energized, he drove eastward along the straight dirt road, toward the town of New Xade. Whether that was their final destination, or whether they were continuing on into the untracked desert, was something Proctor could not know for sure. But judging from the amount of water and petrol Diogenes had taken, he believed the man would be continuing on, deep into the Kalahari Desert, on a multiday journey, for reasons unknown — with Constance’s corpse.

With Constance’s corpse. The thought brought back a rush of emotion and incomprehension. Proctor could understand why Diogenes would murder Constance; after all, the woman had tried to murder him, and had — in the opinion of all in the know — succeeded. By killing Constance, Diogenes would exact the ultimate revenge on his hated brother, Pendergast. But what could Diogenes possibly want with her corpse? Why take such complicated and Byzantine steps to spirit it away, preserved by refrigeration, practically to the ends of the earth? Compounding the mystery, many, though probably not all, of these elaborate preparations had been carefully made in advance. Why? Diogenes had a sick fondness for elaborate and cruel mind games, but this was unfathomable.

Proctor sped along, the Land Cruiser trailing a gigantic corkscrew of dust. Darkness would only help him see the fleeing vehicle better from a distance. Besides, Diogenes would not leave the track, he felt sure; not, at least, until reaching New Xade. If Diogenes then continued on into the heart of the Kalahari, Proctor was prepared. He mentally reviewed the contents of his bug-out bag, to make sure he had all he needed:

With these supplies, he could survive a week or more in even this harsh environment. And with the extra petrol, the range of his vehicle was over a thousand miles. Diogenes was not going to escape him. Proctor was going to find him. And he was going to get answers to his questions — every single one.