Muti Nation (26 page)

I don’t respond as we walk back to the clubhouse.

“Keep close to Mosepi, okay?” says Gramps. “I don’t think it’s safe for you to be alone.”

“I’m as safe as I always am, Pops.”

“If only,” he mutters, stopping before we could make it to the parking lot. “Look, pack an overnight bag and come sleep in your old room for a while. I’ll make you breakfast in bed every morning; those strawberry crumpets you like so much?” Gramps’ dazzling smile catches me off guard. “I’ll even serve them with ice cream.”

“I love you, but—”

“Fine,” he cuts my placating excuse short. “But could you at least come to dinner tonight? Snyders International needs to brainstorm the hell out of this case. We should have done it sooner, actually. Oh well.” Gramps directs his attention past me. “You better leave before Mosepi has a stroke.”

“Drive safely.”

I run to catch up with Detective Mosepi and slip into the passenger seat of his car as he gets into the driver’s seat.

He lights a new cigarette, the smoke clouding up the inside of his car.

“You need to quit your smoking, Detective,” I say.

“And you need to
not
sleep with my partner, Miss Snyders,” he retorts.

My eyes widen, but I don’t turn to face him.

“Judging from your expression in the side-mirror, my assumptions are accurate. Shame on you, Esmé!”

“Don’t start with that bullshit, Mosepi,” I snap back, not bothering to hide my face anymore.

He backs his vehicle out of the parking spot and makes a U-turn on the dirt road.

“It’s not like I sleep with every guy I meet, you know.”

“You should be focused on the case, not on men,” he grumbles.

“Well, if Rynhardt and I weren’t focused on each other last night, neither of us would have figured out what
Him
was planning on next.” I blow a stray red curl out of my face and cross my arms over my chest. “So you can be pissy about this or you can be grateful we’ve made headway.”

“Of course I’m grateful for that. I’m pissy because you can’t stop bitching about my smoking,” he says, ending with a throaty growl. “If you knew how much shit’s been blown down my neck since
Him
killed the kid, you’d be smoking too.”

“You’re only hurting yourself with your excuses,” I say, closing my eyes. “Besides, you’re not the only one who’s had to deal with backlash.”

“What are you doing?”

“I need to close my eyes for a while.” Yawning, I shift to be more comfortable in the passenger seat. “Wake me when we get there, please? I’m running on fumes.”

Whatever Detective Mosepi says afterwards goes right over my head. Not only because he’s bitching in his native tongue, but because my exhaustion sweeps me away into a well-deserved, dreamless nap.

A short while later, Detective Mosepi gently prods me awake.

We’re in his car, parked in the underground lot of the Pretoria Central police station. My energy levels are much improved from the nap.

With a quick glance in the mirror, I fix my hair as much as possible, shake away the sleep that remains and follow him out of the car and into the police station. Once inside, and once our credentials have been verified, we’re led to the place where Rochester Ramphele awaits our arrival.

The interrogation room is nothing as fancy as what you see on television. Here you’re in a square little room, sitting on an old metal chair in front of an older metal table. There isn’t a one-way mirror for anyone to watch through—just stained walls and scratched metal furniture, with the culprit handcuffed to the table. At our request a video camera has been set up in the corner, but this isn’t the norm in most interrogations.

Rochester Ramphele has seen better days, but his bruises have started to fade and his skin is knitting over cuts.

When he sees me he goes into a frenzy. He tugs at his tight handcuffs, trying to free himself, spitting curses that would make demons blush.

I don’t have to quiet him down, though. Detective Mosepi quickly puts him in his place and Ramphele shuts up.

I make sure the video camera is in focus, aiming it at Rochester Ramphele. His eyes are vague and distant on-screen. I press the recording button and pull my chair over to sit beside him instead of across from him.

“Rochester,” I start.

Too fast for me to react, Ramphele’s hands shoot out and take mine.

I flinch. With relief I see the emotion in his eyes change from anger to fear.

“You have to help me. He’s coming,” Rochester says, urgency in that American accent of his, the look in his eyes changing to acute desperation.

“I know, but we need to talk some things over before I can help you. I need to know what you know about—”

“No,” he says. “You have to help me
now
. Before he hears, before he knows where I am. He’ll find a way to… to put an end to me.”

I throw a look towards Detective Mosepi. There is unease in the detective’s face, an infectious feeling, I regret to admit.

I nod slowly. “I understand,” I say. “We have already implemented extra security measures to keep you safe, but you have to work with us in return. Do you understand?”

Rochester nods, squeezing my hand until it becomes uncomfortable, looking straight in my eyes. “Okay, all right. Ask what you came to ask.” He releases my hand, and I’m able to pull
Him
’s journal and the distorted photographs I’d received from The Rabbi from my purse.

I place the photographs on the table, keeping the journal in my lap. “That’s
Him
,” Rochester says, pointing to the distorted face on the nearest picture.

“I figured as much,” I say. “We need a better description of
Him
, though. Will you be able to work with a sketch artist for us?”

He shakes his head. “It won’t matter if you got Picasso to do an identikit of
Him
. He is utterly mediocre where his appearance is concerned. Figuratively speaking,
Him
is able to slip into a crowd and become invisible.”

I bite the inside of my bottom lip. The Rabbi said something similar about
Him
’s appearance.

“What business did you and
Him
have?” Detective Mosepi asks.

“He wanted organs and limbs for muti, obviously. Not the stuff I normally deal in, but I have connections in Nigeria, Kenya, and a few other African countries. South Africa is sometimes difficult when it comes to human muti, especially since most hospitals have those things incinerated faster than the doctor can call a time of death,” he explains. “Killing is not my game; I simply buy and sell for profit.”

“How’d you two meet?” I ask.

“He came to me. I don’t know where he got my name. There was something about
Him
… I knew from the start I shouldn’t cross him or deny his requests. The fucker cost me money at the end of the day.” Rochester looks at the journal in my hands. “How’d you get your hands on that thing? He never went anywhere without it.”

I clutch the notebook tighter, thinking it might be best not to make Rochester panicky again. “This is my notebook, not his. Does he have one?”

“Looks identical actually.” He reclines in his seat, as far as he can go given his restraints. “I saw it in the glovebox of his van.”

“His van?” Detective Mosepi and I say in unison.

“Yeah. It’s a regular black van. Registration num—” He sucks breath through his teeth, creating a hissing sound. He sits upright and studies a cut on his thumb. A drop of blood swells the length of the superficial wound. He bends forward enough to stick his thumb into his mouth and sucks it.

“You were saying?”

He takes his thumb out of his mouth and starts: “Registration num—”

Before he can say more, he jumps up from his seat as though a jolt of electricity had surged through him. The chair clatters to the floor, metal clangs against linoleum.

Detective Mosepi tries to talk him back into his seat but without luck. Things are going south quickly.

More crimson blooms on the back of Rochester’s hand, but something else seizes his attention, something neither Detective Mosepi nor I can see.

“Help me!” The desperation in his voice is enough to tell me things are terribly awry.

I stand and step away, searching for whatever is setting Rochester into a flat spin.

“
Help me!
” Rochester shouts. Another cut spontaneously bursts through his skin, this time across his cheek. His hand flies to the new wound, but can’t staunch the cut.

“Call for an ambulance,” I urge Detective Mosepi.

The detective moves to the door and disappears into the corridor, leaving me to deal with this by myself.

Rochester flinches forward as though he’d been struck by a whip across his back.

“Talk to me, Rochester! What’s happening?” I search the interrogation room for anything remotely muti-related: a pouch of something, a sprinkle or dash of a suspicious substance,
anything
to explain the attack.

His shouts grow louder and his pleading more intense. The sounds can only be described as profound anguish.

I crawl around on my hands and knees in search of the hex bag. When there’s nothing to be found hidden under the surface of the table, or the chairs, I’m back on my feet.

By now hundreds of lacerations cross Rochesters’ body; the locations vary, the wounds jagged and deep. I watch in horror as blood blossoms through his orange jumpsuit, unable to help the terrified criminal.

“
Help. Me.
” Rochester hisses in pain.

Outside, the detective yells for medical assistance, but I have no hope for Rochester Ramphele to survive this ordeal.

In between the shouts, there’s only the sound of metal jiggling against metal as Rochester tries to free himself. His wrists are mangled, his shoulders angling awkwardly. He flails and contorts to get away from the unseen entity torturing him. It’s useless. Even if he got himself loose by some miracle, the attack would follow him wherever he went. I’m positive of that.

I watch the slashes appear across his face, over his bare arms, on his ankles, maiming him. His flesh peels away wherever the cuts run too deep. It’s nightmarish. And this isn’t even taking into account the sounds coming out of his mouth.

This is the possessed Ford Ranger all over again. I want to close my eyes before the inevitable crash, but my eyelids aren’t getting the message. I want to flee, but my legs won’t work. There’s nothing I can do except watch.

The screaming comes to an abrupt end; the quiet is far worse.

Rochester—now a bloody mess—falls to his knees. I cringe at the sickly pops of his shoulders and deafening cracks of his arms breaking that accommodates the inhuman position he’s falls into.

Blood pools on the linoleum floor, seeping into the cracks, staining the yellowish colour a blackish-red.

“Rochester?” I say, taking a couple of reluctant steps closer.

There’s no indication of him being alive anymore.

“Rochester?” I hesitate touching his shoulder. My fingertips stretch out, slowly nearing his broken form.

“Next time.”
A rasping voice breaks the silence and I snatch back my hand.

Rochester lifts his head, causing more cracks and creaks and pops to resound through the interrogation room, until glazed over eyes are looking back at me.
“Next time,”
he repeats, his head still moving, revealing a slash running from ear to ear across his neck. Blood streams down his front.
“Next time, I’ll hit you where it hurts. Find meeeee…”
The last word is more an exhalation than speech, but I get the gist of the message.

Detective Mosepi returns with paramedics in tow.

“He’s dead?” he asks.

I manage a nod before the paramedics squeeze inside to see if they can salvage some life inside Rochester Ramphele. I bend down to pick up my purse, rummaging around for my cell phone.

“Are you okay?” Detective Mosepi sounds concerned.

“I’m done screwing around,” I say, finding my cell phone and dialling the office number from memory. Heading towards the open door of the interrogation room, I say: “I’ve had enough.”

Chapter 31

Ignorance breeds ignorance.

Citizens of First World nations often think South Africa is a primal, savage country. In many ways it is. But while most of the world thinks us feral people, living amongst lions in our concrete jungles, fending off Ebola with sticks and stones, and trying not to get raped when we walk kilometres to fill our buckets at the stream, we’re surprisingly more civilised than tourist brochures make us out to be.