Sundowner Ubunta (26 page)

“Kevan, you say,
Rra
? Sure, he’s here but he won’t be giving no massages until tomorrow morning. It’s late now; you should get some sleep.”

I felt that little thing that gurgles in my stomach when I get excited. Although I’d been told Kevan worked here, I’d been sent on wild goose chases before and didn’t even end up with a goose. But this woman had just confirmed that Kevan did indeed work here, and if I had Kevan, I had Matthew.

“Tomorrow morning? He’s here, working at the spa tomorrow morning?”

“Yes,” she said breezily, as she laid out utensils around a table for six.

“So tomorrow all I have to do is go right up to the massage studio on the second floor?”

“Yeah, but it could be very busy,
Rra
. You might not get an appointment first thing. You should have booked earlier.”

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3/15/2011 11:02 PM

“That’s why I was hoping to talk to him tonight.” I thought I’d try for that one more time. But by the look on her face, I saw my strategy wasn’t going to get me anywhere.

“You should get some sleep now,
Rra
,” she suggested again.

She was right. The day had been full and long, and I was suddenly feeling every stressful minute of it. I did need rest, and the thought of returning to the small, stiflingly hot little room in the no-name village in the bush and falling into bed for a good night’s rest was a welcome one. I thanked the woman and headed out of the lodge the same way I had come in. I hesitated at the entrance, studying the landscape for anyone (or anything-that means you, warthog) I might not want to run into, but saw nothing suspicious. I dashed across the paved road into the safety of the bushes and made for home.

The trip back took a little longer than the trip there, probably because my feet were dragging, and I had used up every ounce of adrenaline my body had to offer for the day. Fortunately, my five senses were not on total vacation, for I needed some of each of them (except taste) to help me locate the little settlement that had virtually disappeared into the folds of night. Not a light, not a sound, not even a warthog was stirring. I eventually reached the makeshift village and retraced my steps home as best I could, having to backtrack only once. I should have left a trail of mealie bread crumbs.

Having found the lean-to B&B we’d acquired for the night, I gently pushed open the door, hoping I wouldn’t wake Cassandra. The room smelled of her perfume, remnants of our stew, and the staleness of dissipating heat. Having walked for thirty minutes in near blackout conditions, my eyes were used to the dark, but inside this windowless, cave-like dwelling, there was no moon to provide contrast between the differing shades of black, and I had to guess where the bed-barely a double-was. It was the only bed and we’d agreed to share it, rather than one of us (me), chivalrously taking to the floor. As I peeled off my shirt and socks I just hoped Cassandra wasn’t the kind of gal who slept in the nude, regardless of companion and circumstance (although something told me that was exactly the kind of gal she was).

I lowered my aching, weary bulk onto the low, thin mattress, first sitting on the edge then pulling my feet up to lie down. It was much too hot to need a blanket.

I slowed my breathing and attempted to empty my mind in preparation for sleep that would not come.

Something was very wrong.

I caught another scent in the air: the smell of trouble.

With tentative movements I reached for the other side of the bed.

It was empty.

I sat up with a suddenness that made the aged bed creak with complaint. I fumbled around on the bedside table for the oil lamp we’d used earlier over dinner and a box of matches. I struck a match, lit the lamp, and my breath caught in my throat.

I beheld the wretched result of unexpected treachery.

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Cassandra Wellness had vanished.

It was obvious from the destruction in the room that what had happened here had been against her will.

The little table where we’d eaten our dinner lay overturned on the floor, the dishes and cutlery strewn about the room. Pieces of clothing, area rugs and wall hangings sat in crumpled heaps. It was amazing I hadn’t tripped on any of the debris on my way to the bed in the blinding darkness when I’d first arrived from my jaunt to Chobe.

But why had this happened? Why take Cassandra? Why not wait until I returned and take me? Was this some kind of hostage thing? Was Jaegar-or whoever-going to use Cassandra to get me to do-or not do-whatever they wanted? Or was this something altogether different? Had we been two naïve fools, trusting Masha and the people of this ramshackle village, and now they’d made their foul endgame obvious? But was it obvious? Robbery, I could understand. Even murder for goods would be easier to figure out than this. But to take a human being…why?

I was mad. And confused. In the bitter-smelling, sputtering light of the oil lamp I surveyed the damage more carefully. Things-our things and things belonging to the room-had been tossed about pretty well. But nothing was destroyed, drawers weren’t rifled through or searched, it was apparent they hadn’t come looking for anything other than what they got-Cassandra. The mess I was seeing had been caused by a ruckus; Cassandra hadn’t made it easy for her captors. That’s my girl. I only hoped her actions hadn’t caused her any physical damage or repercussions from her attackers.

After throwing on a shirt and shoes, and a brief rummage through the wreckage to collect and repack our things, I rushed to get out of that miserable shelter, our bags in tow. It was no longer safe there.

Outside, the village was still as black as a new chalkboard, and silent as a crypt. Was everyone truly asleep? Or were they just waiting to make their next move? Or waiting for mine? Judging by the mess, it was doubtful this had happened without some noise, particularly from Cassandra. Had no one heard anything? I suppose if they were complicit in this it wouldn’t much matter. Was Masha a part of this?

Everyone else? I had a hard time believing it.

I thought about the people who were following me-there was Jaegar, and whoever was in the dark vehicle with the tinted windows and wicked grille, and of course the limping man, whoever he (or she?) was; and then there was the camp manager at Mashatu, Richard Cassoum, and the Jeep driver who’d escaped his vehicle before it exploded. Was everyone in Africa conspiring against me? On that grim, sombre night in the Botswana bush, it sure seemed so.

As I trudged down the grimy streets of the murky village, my eyes darted back and forth with growing suspicion, and I realized I couldn’t trust anyone here. Even if someone did have a phone (which I doubted), it wouldn’t be safe to ask to use it. My only chance for help was at Chobe Game Lodge.

My exhausted brain cells located a few last drops of battery juice, and I began the long voyage back.

Although I was now weighed down by both my own and Cassandra’s packs, I jogged most of the way, and used the time to think. I thought about what the hell I was doing out there, scurrying like a bandit through the pitch-black of a sweltering African night, slogging through a case in search of a man who perhaps was never meant to be found, barely knowing where I was, unsure whether I was about to be attacked by some unknown bad guys…or a warthog. But mostly I thought about what to do to help Cassandra Wellness. I had gotten her into this, there was no way I wasn’t going to get her out of it. Or die trying.

When I reached the lodge, muscles screaming from the strenuous trip, I dropped into my by-now familiar hiding spot in the bushes just outside the front entrance. I took a moment to catch my breath and massage the most painful spots of my strained body: calves, shoulders and lower back. That done, I poked my head above a convenient frond, and checked out the situation. The place appeared as deserted as when I had left it well over an hour earlier. Coast clear. I hoisted the straps of our gear over my shoulders and traipsed across the road and into the lodge.

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I knew I didn’t have the time (or patience) to explain to some lodge manager who I was, what had happened to Cassandra, or why, so I quickly dismissed any ideas of finding someone in authority to ask for help. Instead, I used my lock picks to let myself into the first place I hoped would give me access to a phone (and privacy): the activities director’s office I’d seen earlier, just off the front foyer.

I closed and locked the door behind me, found a desk lamp to give me some light, and gratefully unloaded the luggage onto the floor. I zipped open my duffle and pulled out a sweater and used it to line the bottom of the door to keep anyone who might pass by from seeing the light. Then I sat behind the desk and lifted the receiver. And there I stopped.

Who to call?

The cops? Where does one find cops in the northern extremity of a national game park? Did 9-1-1 work here? I tried it. Nope.

I felt appallingly exposed, and for a horrible moment I allowed the enormity of the situation to engulf me as if I were drowning in a steaming hot bowl of helpless soup.

Who could I go to for assistance? I did not know how this country worked. My normal resources were too far away to be any good to me. I was so desperate I would have swooned to hear the growling, inhospitable voice of Darren Kirsch at the other end of the phone line.

I gave my head a wild shake, told myself to buck up, to stop feeling sorry for myself and regroup. This sometimes works, sometimes doesn’t, but my choices were deplorably few.

I began with my new hero, Roy Hearn in Cape Town.

I dialled the number I had memorized by now and waited as it rang, counting rings off like petals being pulled from a he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not daisy.

But understandably, given the lateness of the hour, he was not answering his phone. He was at home, fast asleep. And probably, I realized with dejection, even if I
did
know anyone else on this entire continent, they probably wouldn’t get out of bed to answer their phone either.

What could I do? Cassandra needed help. I needed help to help her, and, perhaps more importantly, I needed to get someone else on her side, someone who would be aware of her situation and prepared to step in should I…well, should Jaegar or someone else make good on their threats against me.

After much trial and error, I finally reached an international operator and directory assistance for the state of Georgia in the United States. There was no listing for a Cassandra Wellness in Atlanta. There were twenty-one listings that included a C. Wellness and eighty-seven more for Wellness with other initials or names attached to them. Crikey. I’d be discovered long before I got through half of them. How could I narrow it down? I had no idea who she lived with, if she was married, nothing.

But I did know one thing about her. I knew why she was in Africa.

I found my way back to a helpful operator who gave me the number for the head offices of
Well-Spotted
magazine in Atlanta. Surely someone there would be able to contact Cassandra’s family or use the magazine’s contacts in Africa to bring aid to her in these grim circumstances. Surely a magazine that regularly did business in Africa would know people here who could help us. It was a long shot, I knew, but worth a try. Eventually I reached someone (thank goodness for time changes) who connected me to someone who connected me to someone else who mercifully took the time to listen to my story (excluding some of the more sensational bits).

“Oh my,” the woman replied at the end of my tale. “That is horrible, sweetie, just horrible. Who did you say you were calling about?”

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“Cassandra Wellness,” I said with a deep sigh; just the sound of someone from my side of the world gave me relief. “She’s on assignment for your magazine, here in Africa. She was scheduled to be at Victoria Falls.”

“I’m sorry, hon, but that’s not possible. You see, I’ve never heard of her.”

A cold front bit the edges of my heart, but I kept on trying: “She’s freelance,” I told the woman, “not a full-time employee.”

“Doesn’t matter, hon.
Well-Spotted
is a magazine for birders. We have nothing to do with safaris or Africa or anything like that. We’re all about birdwatching, here in the wonderful U-S-of-A. You interested in that, sweetie? Oh, I guess that doesn’t matter to you right now, now does it?” She released a little giggle. “And you see, hon, we don’t ever send freelance writers on assignment. We have a full-time staff, who all write their articles from the safety of their own little cubicle. I’m afraid you must have made a mistake.”

My throat tightened, and my skin grew hot on my cheeks. “Are you certain?” I asked weakly, my mind racing to swallow the information this woman had just fed me. “Is there another magazine called
Well-Spotted
in Atlanta?”

She gave a little laugh. “I should think not,” she answered. “I’m the managing editor here. If there’s another magazine out there with the same name, well, they better call their lawyers, sweetie. But I’m pretty sure there isn’t.” She listened to my silence for a few seconds then added, “I’m sorry, hon, but there is no such person by the name of Cassandra Wellness who works for
Well-Spotted
magazine. I’m afraid someone’s been pulling your leg.”

She was in on it.

My God, she was in on it!

I carefully laid the phone back down on its cradle and stared at the door.

My ears pumped with the effort of listening for the someone I was certain was on the other side of it, waiting for me.

They knew I was in here.

They knew I was onto them. They knew they had to stop me. They knew they had me. I was vulnerable and alone.

My brain was a salad spinner as I considered my circumstances. Was I being irrational? Maybe, but if nothing else, my paranoia was real enough and I had to find a way to address it.

From the very start of this case, I had had the sense that something was not right about it. Some unknown forces were at work behind the scenes. First, there was the black-hooded figure waiting for me outside of PWC, then Ethan Ash being attacked in his home by the limping man, Jaegar getting on the plane at Sal Island and following me to Mashatu and Chobe, Richard Cassoum, the Mashatu Camp Manager, abandoning me at the Limpopo Airfield, the exploding truck, the seemingly innocent meeting of Cassandra Wellness and her eventual abduction. And now I found out that Cassandra had been lying to me all along. She wasn’t who she said she was (of course I wasn’t who I told her I was either, but that didn’t count). Was all of this some type of trap? Could travel planner Roy Hearn be in on this too, somehow? Was that how Jaegar and Cassandra and the others in the cast of meanies always knew where I was?