Breeders (8 page)

All four people at the table turned to face Moolman. The inspector sucked on his beer, pulled a coaster closer, and put the glass down. “What? He found a poem addressed to him in the satchel and kept it. Apparently Alida wrote it. Some stupid love poem, that’s all.”

“So why did Jake tell you about it?” Alexa asked.

Moolman sat back in his chair, sipping his drink. “Jake said Alida had scribbled something in some weird language on the back of the paper that the poem was written on.”

“A code?”

Moolman waved a hand. “It’s kids’ stuff, some secret language they use to communicate with each other. I used to do it all the time.”

“I still think you should check it out,” Neil said. He pursed his lips and turned to Eben. “In your opinion, do you think Alida could have committed suicide?”

Eben kept quiet for a while. “Mitsu, her mom, suffers from depression. But I knew my daughter. She wasn’t like that.”

“But you said she was reserved and quiet?”

“That doesn’t mean she was depressed. Anyway, Moolman said her stomach was cut open. She couldn’t have done that to herself.”

They looked up as the door swung open. A short Japanese woman walked in and looked around uncertainly. Eben de Vos stood up and walked to her with outstretched arms then hugged her tightly. She relaxed visibly. He led her by her hand to the table. “This is my wife, Mitsu,” he said, and he introduced each of his companions to her. She looked at everyone nervously, greeting them softly. Alexa thought she was beautiful, small and petite. She wiggled into the booth beside Eben, and he put a protective arm around her shoulder.
 

“Do you want something to drink?” Eben asked her.

She shook her head, biting her lower lip. She pulled an envelope from her sleeve and placed it on the table with trembling hands. “I found this at home. Someone slipped it beneath the door,” she said quietly, her voice wavering. She spoke with a slight Japanese accent.

Eben frowned. He picked up the envelope and opened it. He removed a blank sheet of paper and unfolded it. A Polaroid photo fell out.

It was a photo of Alida and a friend in their school uniforms. Both were looking up at the camera shyly. Eben set it down, held the letter to the light, and read. “I knew Alida de Vos. There is a cult operating in Slander's Peak and the surrounding area. They are known as the Witches. I must tell you that people say they were planning on killing a young girl. Trust me, my sources are good. They wanted to offer her to the earth mother, Gaia. She was sacrificed. You must protect your children.”

Eben shivered visibly before he folded the paper back into the envelope and looked up. “That’s all it says.” He turned to Moolman. “Is that true? Was she sacrificed?”

Moolman looked uncomfortable. “Look, Eben, a crime scene could be interpreted—”

Eben de Vos motioned to his wife to stand up. He heaved himself off the bench. “I want to see for myself,” he said, pulling on his jacket.

“Eben, now let’s not jump to any hasty conclusions,” Moolman said.

“Come, show me, Inspector,” Eben said louder. “Or I go on my own.”

He marched to the door then turned around as Moolman called, “Wait, Eben. We’ll all go together.”

Alexa, Neil, and Bruce cast each other a quick glance, nodded, and stood up, following Eben outside. “Where are we going?” Alexa asked Eben.

“To Mueller’s Dam, where my daughter was murdered.”

They drove far out of town and followed a winding path up the spine of the mountain to get to the dam, as there was no direct access to it from the front. According to Moolman, water was pumped up to the reservoir from a dam below and served as a distribution point for Slander’s Peak and the dozens of small towns in the area.
 

The dam wasn’t so much a dam as it was a huge water reservoir, three stories high and as big as a football field. A large clearing had been blasted into the rock, and the reservoir had been built on top. A dusty patch of open ground to the side of the reservoir served as a parking area, and a dense forest of cluster pines grew around the open space, almost up to the massive concrete walls of the dam.
 

They followed Moolman around the dam along a concrete footpath that lay adjacent to the structure. They veered from the path and passed through a thicket of pines, then they came out onto a lookout point that had magnificent views of the town below and the ocean in the distance. Alexa ambled toward a low wall that stood at the outer edge of the clearing. The wind buffeted her hair when she moved into the opening, no longer protected by the forest. As she removed her dark glasses and peeked over the edge, she was faced with a sheer drop of about five hundred yards. She pulled back.
 

The sky up here was harsh and blue and hurt her eyes; there wasn’t a cloud in sight. The Cape of Storms, volatile and beautiful.
 

She slipped on her glasses and breathed in the musky dampness of the forest floor. She held a deep reverence for forests like these, and she felt the same way about the ocean and mountains and wide, open desert plains of sand or ice. As places of wonder and awe-inspiring beauty, each could just as soon become
la veuve noire
, a black widow to her unsuspecting lover. Just as any mistreated woman could, she guessed. Gaia, the abused Mother Earth.

“Welcome to Slander’s Peak,” Moolman said.
 

Alexa turned on her heel. “Slander?”

Eben de Vos placed a palm on the smooth concrete surface of the dam. “When they built the dam, they used to find brightly colored lizards in the area, so they called it Salamander’s Peak. But it was soon shortened to Slander’s Peak in the native dialect.” He turned to face Moolman. “Where did you find her?”

Moolman led them to the edge of the clearing. Several trees had been cut down and stacked one on top of the other in the kind of atavistic funeral pyre you see in the movies. “They found her lying on top of these.”

Alexa kneeled next to the stacked pile of wood, looked at it closely, and scraped something off of the surface of one of the branches. “Drops of wax. Did you find any candles?”
 

Moolman kicked the ground with the tip of his shoe. “Should I tell you what we found?” he asked tentatively.

“Please do,” Eben said gruffly.

Moolman hesitated for a second and started uncertainly. “She was lying on top, naked, her arms crossed over her breasts.”

Eben nodded.

“We found dead animals in jars hanging in the trees. We also found markers on the ground that led us directly here.”

“Markers?”

“Arrows made from wood, pointing in this direction, every couple of yards or so.”

“So whoever murdered her wanted her body to be found?”

“Maybe they pointed the way to the place where the ritual was going to be performed so that the others could find it easily.”

“But that means that there must have been a crowd. How could someone not have come forward if there were so many eyewitnesses?”

Moolman bent down and picked up a round stone. He rolled it in his hand. “It’s all speculation at this point. We don’t know anything for sure.”

Bruce had busied himself by inspecting the ground around the stacked logs. “Over here,” he called. “Some ashes, still fresh.” He pointed to the ground, drawing a circle with his finger in the dust. “It’s been swept clean, but here’s a track as well.”

They bundled around Bruce and stopped when he gestured for them to stay where they were. He followed the tracks down the side of the mountain and disappeared in the dense undergrowth. A minute later he came jogging up the incline. “They disappear where the ground becomes rocky, but someone was here recently. I suggest we get some people together to search the area.”

Moolman dug out a cell phone from his pocket. “OK, leave that to me.”

Alexa touched Moolman’s arm. “I would like to talk to Alida’s friend, Jake Petzer.”

Moolman looked at her uncertainly then looked back at Eben. “OK, but only if Eben stays here with me. Jake’s dad doesn’t want Eben at his house.”

Alexa glanced back at the big man. “Is that OK?”

He shrugged. “That’s fine. I want to find out who these tracks belong to.”

Moolman pulled out a notebook and scribbled something inside then tore out the page. “Here’s their address. Phone first to make sure someone’s home.”

“Thanks,” she said and strode to the car, Neil following close behind. “Let me know if you find anything,” she said before slamming the door.

Jake’s mom greeted them at the door with a suspicious look in her eyes. She stuck out a hand, and her golden bangles jangled around her arm. She was a tall woman with short-cropped blonde hair and long bangs. “Marie Petzer, and you are?”

Neil showed his Interpol ID badge and introduced Alexa before he shook her hand. She had a strong grip. “I’m sorry for being so pedantic, but I am concerned about Jake’s well-being, you must understand,” she said over her shoulder as they followed her inside. She was lean and suntanned; she wore high heels, a short floral skirt, and a furry top that looked like someone had fed a large, hairy animal a hand grenade and then stitched together what was left after the explosion. Haute couture, Neil guessed.

Alexa nodded. “We understand, Mrs. Petzer. We want to get to the bottom of this.”

Marie placed a hand on Alexa’s arm. “I know. We all have a job to do, my dear. Who does your makeup? It’s beautiful, so natural,” she said before she rapped on Jake’s door. “Jake, someone’s here to see you,” she called. Deep, rhythmic booms resonated from inside the room. Neil swore he could see the door rattling on its hinges.

No answer.

She opened his door. It was dark inside. The curtains were drawn. She flicked a switch, and a bright LED light illuminated a pigsty, clothes and crumpled-up towels scattered across the floor. In the corner stood a large hi-fi with even larger speakers, blaring what sounded like a band trying to tune their instruments. CDs and CD covers lay strewn in front of the hi-fi. On the walls were posters of bands called Slipknot and Morbid Angel. They all seemed to have an infatuation with skulls and headings that were written in blood. The noise reverberated through Neil’s spine. He could feel it in his balls.

“JAKE, SOMEONE’S HERE TO SEE YOU.”

Jake was stretched out on the bed, fully dressed. He turned his head and stood up slowly, wiping his eyes. He stretched and yawned as he sauntered over to the stereo, almost fell as he slipped on a CD, and turned a dial down on the noise machine. The endless screeching mercifully abated.
 

“Good afternoon, sleepyhead,” his mother said with a smile. “Did the sedatives that dad prescribed knock you out?”

Jake nodded then focused on Alexa. Neil had to force himself not to avert his eyes. The kid had been pierced by someone who hadn’t known when to stop. Each of his eyebrows had several studs, and Neil counted five earrings in each ear as well as several in his lips and nose. To complete the maimed look, the boy had stuck two black thumbtacks through the top of each ear. This kid must have an extremely high pain threshold.
 

“This is Captain Guerra and Sergeant Neil Allen from Interpol. They’re here to ask you a couple of questions,” she introduced them sweetly.
 

Jake stepped up and stuck out his hand. “Jake Petzer,” he introduced himself with a smile. Neil took it apprehensively, expecting to be impaled by something sharp and shiny. He had the same firm handshake as his mother.

He was a tall boy; Neil’s eyes settled on his chin. Marie ushered them to the living room and then bustled to the kitchen to prepare some tea and cupcakes. Jake flopped down onto a sofa.

“Tell me about the letter,” Alexa said.

Jake shrugged, stood up, and disappeared into his room. He returned with two sheets of paper, which he handed to Alexa. “These are photocopies. Inspector Moolman has the originals. He said he wanted to check them for fingerprints.”

Alexa nodded then read the poem. It had been written in Afrikaans, and she recognized it immediately. It was by the famous South African poet, Ingrid Jonker:

The child is not dead

the child raises his fists against his mother

who screams Africa screams the smell

of freedom and heather

in the locked locations of the heart under siege
 

The child raises his fists against his father

in the march of the generations

who scream Africa scream the smell

of justice and blood

in the streets of his armed pride

Fists like concrete and legs of rock

The child is not dead

neither at Langa nor at Nyanga

nor at Orlando nor at Sharpeville

nor at the police station in Philippi

where he lies with a bullet in his head

Where he lies necklaced and burnt

The child is the dark shadow of the soldiers

on guard with guns saracens and batons

the child is present at all meetings and legislations

the child peeps through the windows of houses and into the hearts of mothers