Tess Gerritsen - Die Again

Henk led them to a silver BMW, the favored automotive mascot of every man on the prowl, and he waved at the front seat. “Jane, would you like to ride shotgun?”

“No, I’ll let Gabriel have the honors. You two have a lot of mischief to catch up on.”

“Not as good a view back there,” said Henk as they all buckled their seat belts. “But I guarantee you’ll love the view where we’re going.”

“Where are we going?”

“Table Mountain. You’re here for such a short time, and it’s the one place you really don’t want to miss. Your hotel room probably isn’t ready yet anyway, so why don’t we head straight for the mountain?”

Gabriel turned to her. “You feel up for it, Jane?”

What she really longed for was a shower and a bed. Her head ached from the blinding sunlight and the inside of her mouth felt like a tar pit, but if Gabriel could launch straight into a day of sightseeing, she’d damn well do her best to keep up with the boys. “Let’s do it,” she said.

An hour and a half later, they pulled into the parking lot of Table Mountain’s lower cableway station. Stepping out of the car, Jane stared up at aerial lines that soared up the side of the mountain. She was not particularly afraid of heights, but the idea of swooping up to that dizzying mountaintop made her stomach drop. Suddenly she was no longer exhausted; all she could think about was cables snapping apart and a two-thousand-foot plunge to death.

“And up there is the view I promised you,” said Henk.

“Jesus. There are people hanging off the side of that cliff!” said Jane.

“Table Mountain’s a favorite place for rock climbers.”

“Are they out of their frigging minds?”

“Oh, we lose a few climbers every year. After you fall from that height, it’s not a rescue. It’s a body recovery.”

“And that’s where we’re going? Up there ?”

“Are you afraid of heights?” Those pale wolf eyes turned to her in amusement.

“Trust me, Henk,” Gabriel said with a laugh. “Even if she were, she’d never admit it.”

And one of these days, pride is going to be the death of me, she thought as they crowded into the cable car with dozens of other tourists. She wondered when the system had last been inspected. Stared hard at the Cableway workers, searching for anyone who was drunk or high or psycho. She counted heads, to be sure they weren’t over the posted passenger limit, and hoped they’d made generous weight allowances for men as big as Henk.

Then the cable car swooped into the sky, and all she could focus on was the view.

“Your first look at Africa,” said Henk, leaning in to murmur in her ear. “Does it surprise you?”

She swallowed. “It’s not what I imagined.”

“What did you imagine? Lions and zebras running around everywhere?”

“Well, yeah.”

“That’s the way most Americans picture Africa. They watch too many nature shows on TV, and when they walk off the plane wearing bush jackets and khaki, they’re surprised to find a modern city like Cape Town. Not a zebra in sight, except at the zoo.”

“I was kind of hoping to see a zebra.”

“Then you should take a few extra days and fly out to the bush.”

“I wish we could,” she said with a sigh. “But our agencies are keeping us on a tight leash. No time for fun.”

The cable car glided to a stop and the doors opened.

“Then let’s get some work done, shall we?” said Henk. “There’s no reason we can’t enjoy the view at the same time.”

From the edge of the Table Mountain plateau, Jane stared in wonder as Henk pointed out the landmarks of Cape Town: the rocky outcroppings known as Devil’s Peak and Signal Hill, Table Bay, and Robben Island to the north, where Nelson Mandela was imprisoned for nearly two decades.

“So much history here. So many stories I could tell you about this country.” Henk turned to her. “But now we get down to business. The Botswana murders.”

“Gabriel told me you had a part in the case.”

“Not the initial investigation, which took place in Botswana. Interpol became involved only after Botswana police learned that the killer had crossed the border, into this country. He used the credit cards of two of his victims in border towns, at businesses that didn’t require PIN numbers. The safari truck was found abandoned outside Johannesburg. Although the crimes were committed in Botswana, Johnny Posthumus is a citizen of South Africa. The case spans multiple countries, which is why Interpol was brought in. We issued a Red Notice for the arrest of Posthumus, but we still have no clue of his whereabouts.”

“Has there been any progress at all on the case?”

“Nothing significant. But you have to understand the challenges we face here. There are about fifty murders a day in this country—that’s six times the homicide rate in the US. Many cases remain unsolved, the police are overwhelmed, and evidence labs are underfunded. Also, these murders took place in Botswana, a different country. Coordinating between different jurisdictions adds to the difficulties.”

“But you’re certain that Johnny Posthumus is your man,” said Gabriel.

Andriessen paused, and those few seconds of silence spoke louder than any words that might follow. “I have … reservations.”

“Why?”

“I’ve delved thoroughly into his past. Johnny Posthumus was born in South Africa, the son of farmers. At age eighteen, he went off to work at a game lodge, in Sabi Sands. He moved on to Mozambique and Botswana, and eventually went solo as an independent guide. There were never any complaints. Through the years, he built a reputation as a reliable man. Except for one drunken brawl, he had no criminal record and no history of violence.”

“That you’re aware of.”

“True, there could be incidents that were never reported. Kill someone in the bush, and the body may never be found. It just troubles me that there were never any warning signs. Nothing in his earlier behavior to indicate that one day, he would bring eight people deep into the Delta and slaughter seven of them.”

“According to the sole survivor, that’s exactly what happened,” said Jane.

“Yes,” Henk conceded. “That’s what she said.”

“Do you have doubts about her?”

“She identified Posthumus based only on a two-year-old passport photo, which was shown to her by the Botswana police. There aren’t many other photos of him in existence. Most were lost when his parents’ farmhouse burned down seven years ago. Remember, Ms. Jacobson walked out of the bush half dead. After such an ordeal, and with only a passport photo to go on, can her identification of him really be trusted?”

“If the man wasn’t Johnny Posthumus, who was he?”

“We know he used his victims’ credit cards. He took their passports, and in the few weeks before they were reported missing, he could have assumed their identities. It would allow him to be anyone, to go almost anywhere in the world. Including America.”

“And the real Johnny Posthumus? Do you think he’s dead?”

“It’s only a theory.”

“But is there any evidence to back it up? A body? Any remains?”

“Oh, we have thousands of unidentified human remains, from crime scenes around the country. What we lack are the resources to ID them all. Because of the DNA backlog in crime labs, identifying a victim can take months, even years. Posthumus might be among them.”

“Or he could be alive and living right now in Boston,” said Jane. “He may not have a criminal record, only because he’s never made a mistake until Botswana.”

“You mean Millie Jacobson.”

“He let her escape.”

Henk was silent for a moment as he looked out over Table Bay. “At the time, I doubt he considered that a problem. Letting her escape.”