The Rossi shook in his hands, with powerlessness, rage, fear.
“Shoot Brits,” Speckle barked from the warehouse behind them.
He shouted and at the same time the shot rang out. Bester Brits was thrown back, fell. He aimed the Rossi at Brits’s murderer, fired, the big weapon jerking in his hands, and missed. Simon pointed the M16 at Van Heerden.
“I’ve heard about your problem with firearms,” said Venter. “Put that thing down now and shut the door. Otherwise Beneke is next.”
He stood, paralyzed.
“Sarge, I’m counting to three. If he doesn’t do as he’s told, shoot the woman.”
Van Heerden bent slowly, put the Rossi on the floor, turned, and started to close the door.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” said Tiny Mpayipheli.
Venter laughed and then the door was closed, and he stood looking at Bester’s body lying on the floor and Simon and the M16 aimed at him and Hope’s whole body shaking and Vergottini with his eyes closed as if he was praying, and he wondered how he would get his Z88 out from above his tailbone, how he could keep down the overpowering nausea that was rising in his throat, how he was going to control his fear. And then he heard the sounds on the other side of the door, brutish cries, flesh smacking against flesh, someone hitting the wall between the two spaces with a dull thud and the building shaking, then silence. He looked down at Bester Brits’s still form, lying on his back, one arm thrust out, the blood oozing from the wound at the back of his head, the red pool slowly growing. He looked at Simon, the M16 that hadn’t moved, the black eye of Death staring at him, then more sounds from the other side, the battle starting all over again, Hope Beneke crying jerkily, her tears dripping onto the document against her neck.
“She’s a woman,” he begged the man standing in front of her. Neither the man nor his gun moved. “Don’t you have a conscience?”
He put his hand under his jacket, felt the stock of the Z88, curled his fingers around it. He didn’t stand a chance – he wouldn’t even have it out before they shot him down like a dog. Someone bellowed in the other room, someone screamed, hate and pain combined, dull blows, wood breaking, the table. How could Mpayipheli win against that brute mass?
“Please, let her go,” he said. “I’ll kneel, I’ll put my mouth around your fucking gun.” And he moved closer, the Z88 out of his belt, still behind his back, still under the jacket.
“Stand still,” said the one in front of Hope, the one Venter had called Sarge.
He stopped. “Are you in charge?” he asked Sarge.
“Just stand still. Then she’ll be safe. You, too.” The man didn’t even look at him, simply stared at Hope’s face down the barrel of his firearm.
“She’s a woman,” he said.
Heaving, grunting, the sick sound of heavy blows to a body, an unidentifiable voice that went “Hu, hu, hu, hu.” He didn’t know how much longer he could stand like this, the adrenaline crying out for action, reaction, movement, the total aversion to the scene in front of him, Brits, Hope, his hand clamped on the Z88, sweating. Lord, he couldn’t shoot, Lord, he mustn’t miss, the one in front of Hope first, then they must shoot him.
The awareness sank over the whole group – the three soldiers, Hope, Vergottini, Van Heerden – that it was quiet in the warehouse, the scraping of feet on the floor, the blows, the cries, suddenly silenced.
He stared at them. Simon stared at him; Sarge and the other one only had eyes for their targets.
Rain on the roof.
Silence.
Safety catch of the Z88 off, slowly, slowly, slowly, mustn’t make a sound, his fingers wet with sweat. He was going to die here today, die today, but he’d been here before, he wasn’t scared anymore, he’d already been here at the gates of death. He would dive to the right first, pistol extended, shoot, shoot Sarge away from Hope, that was all he would be able to do, and he must not miss. The silence stretched and stretched and stretched.
“What are we going to do if no one comes in?” His words hoarse, his throat dry, no saliva left.
Sarge’s eyes darted toward him, the eyes off the target for the first time, then they flashed back. He saw a drop of sweat on the man’s forehead, and something happened in his head, the panic receded: they were only human after all, they hadn’t bargained on this, they were waiting for Venter, Basson, whatever they called him.
“What do we do?” Louder, more urgently.
“Shut your fucking mouth.” Sarge’s voice echoed in the large space, uncertainly, and when he realized it, he repeated it, quietly, more in control. “Shut your mouth. Basson will come.”
“The police as well,” he lied. “You shot a detective this afternoon.”
“It was an accident. We wanted Vergottini.”
“Tell that to the judge, Sarge.”
He knew he had to keep on talking, he knew he had inserted the thin edge of the wedge, caused uncertainty.
“If we could find you, so can the police, Sarge…”
“Shut up. If you speak again, if you say one fucking word, I’ll blow away the bitch’s face.”
Sweat on everyone’s faces now despite the cold outside, the chill in the room.
What now? he wondered. What did he do now?
Rain on the roof.
Seconds ticking away. Minutes.
“Simon,” said Sarge. “You must have a look.”
Silence.
“Simon!”
“It could be a trap.”
“For fuck’s sake, Simon, after that fight?”
“Basson told us to stay here.”
“Come and take my gun.”
Indecision. Van Heerden’s eyes moved from one to the other, looking for a moment of distraction, just a moment, and then he heard something.
Not in the warehouse. Outside. In the street.
Sarge looked up – he had heard it as well – and then all hell broke loose.
The Mercedes burst through the wall, steel on steel and concrete and bricks, and then he had the Z88 out and he stood with his feet wide apart and he saw that their eyes were on the wall, all the eyes, and he shot Sarge, the one in front of Hope Beneke, saw him fall, turned the weapon, missed Simon, Jesus, not now, fired again, the barrel of the M16 angling toward him, fired again, hit him in the neck, swung the Z88, and then the lead tore through him, hot as hell, lifted him off his feet, threw him against the wall, another bullet. Where was his pistol? Fuck, it hurt, he was so tired, he looked at his chest, such small holes, why were the holes so small? So many shots in the room, so much noise, someone screamed, high and scared, Hope, it was Hope, why was it so terribly dark?
∨ Dead at Daybreak ∧
56
I’ll tell you how one catches a fucking serial killer, Van Heerden, I’ll tell you, not with fucking theories and forecasts and personality profiles and psychological analyses, Van Heerden.” Nagel was driving, a brooding, tense spring at first, a thin man behind the steering wheel, and when we turned up on the N1 beyond the Pick ’n Pay Hypermarket in Brackenfell, he let it all out in that deep voice of his, but there was a new, sharper edge to him, a deep rage, and he talked, spit flecking the windshield, Adam’s apple bobbing wildly. “I’ll tell you, you do it with fucking hard police work, that’s how – elimination, Van Heerden.” He reached his arm out and half turned and the car swerved on the freeway, I didn’t know whether I should duck, and he picked up the dossier from the back seat and threw it in my lap.
“There it is, there’s your fucking textbook – study it. I don’t have a fucking degree, Van Heerden. I grew up too poor even to imagine something like that. I had to work for everything, I didn’t have time to fuck around on a campus and leaf through little books, I had to work, shitface. I couldn’t sit and meditate and philosophize and dream up theories, and that’s how one catches a fucking serial murderer – look in there, Van Heerden, open the fucking file and look at the forensics, look at the lists of carpet fibers and car models, look at the photos of the tire treads, look at the list of retreads, look at the list of motor registrations for fucking Volkswagen Kombi campers, look how I drew a line through them, one by one, Van Heerden, while you…”