Deon Meyer - Blood Safari

He had stood up and watched us with naked eyes. Saw us running; saw Emma fall, there, saw the other two running toward us. He would have had to get moving too. Radio in one hand, rifle in the other?

He had only the rifle in his hands when I saw him.

Had he picked up the casings? Was there time?

The bullet casings would have shot out to the right. That way. Rocks and grass. He would have had to look quickly. Three tyres. But there had been more than three shots. One had hit the car. At least four. Could there have been more? Four casings that he had to find, but he was in a hurry, he had to keep an eye on us, he had to shoot us, it was his job, his assignment.

I divided the potential five square metres into quadrants and searched through the grass centimetre by centimetre, between the rust-brown stones, starting with the most likely quadrant. Nothing. None in the second and the third.

The last quadrant, to the right and slightly behind the sniper. Nothing.

Then I saw it, just outside the imaginary line I had drawn. The casing lay deep in the cleft between two rocks, half hidden by grass.

I broke a twig off a tree and poked it into the cleft, lifted out the casing, letting the stick slide into the open end.

Bright and new, 7.62, the longer NATO calibre, standard bullet, mass-manufactured locally.

I rotated the stick so the casing dropped into my shirt pocket.

What had been so odd about the rifle?

I had seen it only for a moment, that awful second or two, behind Emma. He had been lying in the veld on his belly, a big man with a baseball cap and the rifle and tripod and telescope.

It wasn’t big. Was that what was strange? A smallish sniper rifle.

Could be. But there was something else. It wouldn’t come to mind. He had been too far away.

A tripod meant it wasn’t a hunting rifle.

Firearms had been recently removed from the safe that Donnie Branca opened. Was there a connection?

I would have to find out.

I walked down the slope to the place where the BMW had stopped in the grass. The fence was still broken. Traffic drove past on both tar roads. The sun was setting on the Mariepskop side. My shadow stretched long across the green sweetveld.

I tried to follow the route Emma and I had run. I found the antbear hole where she had fallen. Then we turned towards the railway tracks. I scanned the grass for my cell phone. The chances of finding it were slim.

This was where I helped her over the wire just before the railway tracks. Stood here, looked up, saw the two balaclavas waving their arms at the sharpshooter. He dropped to the ground.

So he could take aim at us? In this long grass? Couldn’t be.

Why had he dropped flat? Fallen, tripped perhaps? No, it wasn’t like that, it was deliberate. What for?

This time I climbed through the fence. We had run south beside the train. Emma’s handbag must have dropped here. Right here.

It was lying in the grass, not obvious, but easy enough to see. If Phatudi’s men had been here they would have found it. They couldn’t have been here at the railway track, then.

I picked up her bag and opened it.

It smelled of Emma.

All her things seemed to be there. Cell phone too.

I closed the handbag and walked back to the Audi.

‘There doesn’t seem to be haemorrhage,’ said Dr Eleanor Taljaard in her office. ‘And there’s no indication that the skull fracture has damaged the brain tissue directly. I’m optimistic.’

I couldn’t hide my relief.

‘But we’re not home free, Lemmer, you must understand that.’

‘I know.’

She wanted to say more. I saw her hesitate, reconsider. ‘What is it, Eleanor?’

‘You must be realistic, Lemmer. With coma patients, survival is always our first priority, and her prognosis looks good.’

‘But?’ I said because I knew what was coming.

‘Yes. There is always the “but”. She could survive, but remain in a coma, for an indefinite period. Months. Years. Or she could wake up tomorrow and …’

‘And what?’

‘She might not be the same.’

‘Oh.’

‘I don’t want to give you false hope.’

‘I understand.’

‘You can talk to her again, this evening. If you want to.’

‘I will.’

Then I went up to my VIP suite and sat on the bed with Emma’s handbag. I needed her notes, which she had been making sporadically since we arrived.

I unzipped the bag. The scent of Emma le Roux. She might never wake up. Or be the same. The scent when I carried her into the suite, her warm body, her face in my neck. ‘The other room,’ she had whispered. That smile after I had laid her down, the one that said, ‘Look what I made silent, stupid Lemmer do.’

It had been ten months since I held a woman against me.

Let me concentrate on the handbag.

I looked inside it, couldn’t immediately see the notepaper. I would have to unpack the bag.

It wasn’t a big handbag, but the contents were impressive.

1 cell phone. I put it on the bed.

1 photo of Jacobus le Roux.

1 Afrikaans book, Equatoria by Tom Dreyer.

1 letter of unknown origin – the one Emma received from the Mohlolobe gate guard.

A small black zip-up bag. I opened it up. Cosmetics. I zipped it shut.

1 cell phone charger.

1 purse. A few hundred in cash. Credit cards. Emma’s own business cards.

1 sheet of paper, a web page printout with a map of Mohlolobe. On the back were Emma’s notes. I put it on one side.

Was there something else in the dark depths of the handbag that could help me?

One shouldn’t go through a woman’s handbag, but what if…

1 spectacle case with dark glasses.

1 plastic tampon container.

1 small black address book, somewhat dog-eared, listing names and telephone numbers, here and there an address and a birthday; not recent.

1 pack Kleenex Softique white three-ply tissues. Care on the move .

2 bank slips. I didn’t look at them. Not my business.

2 old shopping lists, short and cryptic, groceries.

9 business cards. Jeanette Louw’s was one of them. The others were unfamiliar advertising and marketing managers.

7 cash slips. Three from Woolworths Food, one from Diesel jeans, two from Pick and Pay, one from the Calitzdorp Guest House. On the back was a recipe for ‘Calitzdorp Apple Tart’.

1 note from the manager of the Badplaas resort with Melanie Posthumus’s contact numbers.

1 Bluetooth earpiece for the cell phone.

1 packet of contraceptive pills.

1 packet of Disprins, the chewable sort. Unopened.

1 small round plastic tub. Mac Lip Balm.

1 small flat river pebble.

1 Mont Blanc black pen.

1 Bic ballpoint pen.

1 packet of matches from the Sandton Holiday Inn.

1 half-used pencil.

3 stray paper clips.

That was the sum total. I replaced everything except the notes, the photograph and the cell phone. I pressed the cell phone button. The screen lit up. YOU HAVE FOUR MISSED CALLS.

I manipulated the keys, MISSED CALLS, CAREL (3). UNKNOWN (1)

YOU HAVE I NEW VOICE MESSAGE. PLEASE DIAL 121.

I dialled.

‘Emma, this is Carel. Just wanted to know how it’s going. Call me when you can.’

I saved the message, turned the cell phone off and put it back in the handbag.

Should I phone Carel? Tell him what had happened? I knew what his reaction would be. ‘Weren’t you supposed to protect her?’

No. Let Jeanette do it.

I picked up the sheet of paper with notes on it. There were fewer than I expected. Just single notations in Emma’s small precise handwriting.

August 1997: Jacobus left Heuningklip.

22 August 1997: Jacobus left Melanie.

27 August 1997: Pa and Ma in accident.