Pale Horses (20 page)

He should be more careful next time when gardening at night, the doctor had warned. Most accidents happen in the home.

‘Yes?’ he said, snapping the phone open.

It was Lance, his ‘boss’ and the one who’d personally hired him. They went back a long way. They had both worked as bouncers ten years ago. Rough stuff, like this job. Bring it on. He was used to it. In fact, he quite enjoyed it.

‘We’ve got the guy.’

‘I’m following the girl, but she’s running.’

‘He was on the phone when we got him. Might have been speaking to her. She could have heard something. I’ll find out.’

Graeme listened to the meaty thud of a well-aimed punch. ‘Who were you on the phone to? Well, who? Tell us!’

He heard ragged breathing and then a response, high-pitched and terrified. He was reminded yet again of the teens he’d dragged out of nightclubs. The fear in their eyes. The way they’d puked their guts out on the sidewalks, as pain finally sounded the alarm in their alcohol-dulled systems.

‘Ja. I think it was probably her on the phone,’ Lance said, speaking rapidly, his voice stressed. ‘Look, don’t let her get away. If you can sort
her out now, do that. If you can force her to crash the car, great. If you can’t do either of those, then at least keep her in sight until we can come and take over. Right?’

‘Right.’

Lance rang off without another word. Getting down to business on his side, Graeme knew. Now he had to get down to business here. He flattened his foot on the accelerator. Causing her to crash would be tricky in this traffic, and she was driving fast.

Did she know he was behind her or not? Graeme really wasn’t sure. His confusion deepened when she crossed over Rivonia Road and signalled to turn right at the next set of lights.

She was going into the Nelson Mandela Square underground car park.

What the hell? Was she really going to the winter sale? Either way, it should be easy enough to grab her in the garage, before she went into the mall itself. Graeme wrenched the wheel sideways and pulled up at the entrance boom as she accelerated away.

He mashed his thumb into the button for the parking ticket and waited for what felt like a year for the machine to feed the card into his hand. Of all the ridiculous things. Being held up by having to wait for a damned ticket.

And it wasn’t going to be easy grabbing her either. What the hell were these car wash ladies doing? Clad in overalls and smocks, buckets and cloths and squeegees in their hands, they were all over parking level one like a rash, smiling at him and waving him into one of the available bays.

Each one a potential witness.

Resisting the urge to lean on his horn and send them scattering, he followed the girl’s receding taillights. She wasn’t parking on this level. She was heading further down. He followed, tyres squealing on the concrete as he took the car through some tight corners.

Level two was much emptier. Far fewer vehicles and not a car washer in sight. So, she was going to stop here. That was much better, even though he’d still have to be very fast.

And then his jaw actually dropped open in astonishment as she continued down the next ramp. Down again, to the third level. P3, with its yellow signage, which appeared strangely bright and light in these gloomy depths where there was hardly another car to be seen.

She was panicking for sure, unaware that by doing so she was making his job so much easier.

And there she was – stopping right next to the exit door that led through to the Sandton Towers lifts.

She yanked the car door open and ran.

He parked at a crazy angle, straddling two bays, flung himself out of the car, tore his keys from the ignition and bolted for the exit door. There in the lobby were the two lifts, the ‘Up’ button still brightly lit.

She hadn’t waited for the lifts. Must have taken the stairs, then, he decided.

In three strides he’d reached the door to the stairway and pulled it open. The unglamorous back corridors of Nelson Mandela Square lay behind it. Stairs in raw concrete, dull and basic, smells and noises filtering down from the kitchens of the restaurants above.

He powered up the stairs. One flight, two flights, and then he was at ground level, sprinting along the long, narrow passage that led to the square proper.

Where the hell was she?

Definitely not in the corridor. He skidded to a stop as he passed the ladies’ toilets. That would be a clever trick, hiding in there. He didn’t know where else she’d have had time to go.

He pushed the door open and shouldered his way inside, ignoring the startled glance from the black woman washing her hands, who then grabbed her handbag and left in a hurry. He pushed all the cubicle doors. All were empty except for one. The scream that came from behind it when he hammered on it with his fists sounded like a young woman – a teenager. Even so, he went into the adjacent cubicle, stood on the rim of the toilet, and peered over the partition.

Yup. A screaming blonde teen. Not the woman he was looking for.

Jogging out of the toilet and putting some distance between himself and the cries of the terrified teenager, he went out into the square itself. The sun-drenched space, surprisingly warm for a winter’s morning, was already bustling with people. People lining up for ice cream at Baglios, breakfasting at Trumps, admiring the fountains in the centre and taking photo after photo of the massive six-metre-high bronze statue of Nelson Mandela.

People of every race, colour and creed. Blacks, Orientals, Europeans.
Girls of every shape and size. But not the one he was looking for. The babbling of ten different languages assailed his ears.

Where, in all this chaos, could she have gone?

Graeme’s heart sank as he realised she could have gone anywhere.

He searched the square for a few minutes, going through the motions just so he could say he had tried. And then he trailed back down the corridor and took the lift to P3. He’d been an idiot. He hadn’t even locked Lance’s car, he’d been in such a hurry, although he knew the chances of it being stolen here were very small.

When he entered level P3, his car was there … but hers was not.

She’d outwitted him. Used the Sandton City trip as a ruse, and now she’d gone. She could be anywhere in Jo’burg and he had failed in the simplest of tasks, to dispose of a single, helpless woman.

Graeme realised he was sweating under his leather jacket. He didn’t dare take it off though, because he was carrying one of Lance’s firearms and the rule was when you were carrying, you wore a jacket at all times. He might have exaggerated about his marksmanship talents – certainly, compared to Lance’s skill, he was an amateur who’d only done shooting for a hobby. He might also have lied about having shot and killed someone, when Lance had asked. He hadn’t. He had aimed a gun in anger but he’d never fired it, although he knew Lance had done so. And more than once. It was, after all, his livelihood.

And now he wouldn’t have the chance. His opportunity to become a full-time member of their team was gone.

Graeme ran a hand through his short, thinning hair and got back into the car, settling himself down with a heavy, defeated sigh before starting it up and driving out of Sandton City and straight into the slow-moving traffic that went all the way down to the corner of West and 5th, where the lights were not working.

Inching along in the queue, Graeme realised he was going to have to phone Lance and let him know that he had failed. What reason he was going to give, he had no idea. There was no excuse for his incompetence.

He took his cellphone out of his pocket and was about to dial the number when a woman’s voice, coming from behind his driver’s seat, said sharply to him, ‘If you want to live, put the phone down and keep your hands on the wheel.’

Graeme let out a frightened yelp. He couldn’t help it. What the hell? She was there, in his car, hiding behind the driver’s seat, and she was threatening him.

Not for long. In this traffic … if he put the handbrake on and undid his seatbelt … he could have his gun aimed at her before she even had a chance to open the car door and run again.

‘I know what you’re thinking of doing,’ she pre-empted him in the same icy voice. ‘Let me demonstrate to you why it’s a bad idea.’

The next moment a deafening explosion shattered his world and the vehicle was filled with the distinctive cordite-like stench that accompanied every gunshot.

He shouted again and this time the sound was of pure terror. Holy God, she had a weapon. That changed everything. How come she was armed? Lance had stated categorically that he hadn’t seen her carrying a firearm.

He glanced down and almost pissed himself when he saw where the bullet had gone. Just right of his ribcage, stuffing erupted from a hole where it had punched through the back of the seat and then re-entered so close to his knee that … if he’d moved an inch before she fired … well, it would have shattered his kneecap instead of embedding itself harmlessly in the car’s undercarriage.

He broke into a sweat as he held onto the steering wheel, grasping it as tightly as a frightened tourist who had strayed into the bad side of town might have held onto his wallet.

‘Don’t shoot me,’ he pleaded, his voice thin and squeaky.

‘I ran downstairs instead of up when I left the car park,’ she told him. ‘I went to P4 and waited there while you went into the square. Then I moved my car. I didn’t drive it far. It’s parked on level one now. The ladies are busy washing it.’

‘I see,’ he said. The conversation was surreal. And then his body went rigid as he felt her hand scrabbling under his leather jacket. Efficiently, she removed from its holster the firearm Lance had given him.

Now she had two weapons and he had none.

Graeme found himself blinking stinging rivulets of sweat out of his eyes.

‘I’m telling you all this to explain my situation. My vehicle is being attended to, so I need a ride. You’re going to take me where I want to go.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘To your friends. The two guys who have Harris.’

‘But I …’

‘They hired you, right?’

‘What …?’

‘One or both of them was hired by somebody to do a job and they brought you on board too. Am I correct?’

‘Yes.’

Traffic was thinning now. He arrived at the intersection. Looked left and right, as if obeying that basic road safety rule would go any way towards saving his skin when there was a maniac sharpshooter bitch with two loaded firearms just a seat’s width away from him.

‘Who hired them?’

Oh, crap, a question he couldn’t answer. He felt his bowels loosen.

‘I swear to God I don’t know. I’d tell you if I did; I’m not suicidal, OK? All I know is Lance is paying me five grand to help out.’

‘What were you supposed to do to me?’

‘I was supposed to …’ How could he tell the truth; yet how could he lie when she’d already found his firearm? ‘They told me I should shoot you if I had the chance. Otherwise, follow you and tell them where you were. That was what I was planning to do,’ he finished hurriedly.

‘Have you ever killed a woman before?’

‘I’ve never killed anyone. There was this one guy … I used to be a bouncer, OK? He was drunk and disorderly and we threw him out, but things got out of hand and he suffered a brain injury and never came right. We went down for it together, Lance and I, both did five years in Modderbee. But to be honest, he was the one who booted the guy in the head.’

‘You think you could have done it? Pulled the trigger? For five grand?’

‘I don’t know.’ He was breathless now. Shaking all over.

‘My advice is don’t. It changes you inside. Once you’d pulled that trigger, you’d never have been able to go back.’

‘I … I see.’

‘Now, phone your friends. Tell them exactly what I tell you to say, and sound normal. No funny business, no code words. I’ll know from your voice and the next bullet will be in the back. But first, a question. The elderly man you guys shot at in Randburg. You do know he was killed?’

‘I … I know Lance fired his weapon at him. And I know he’s a crack shot. He does target practice every week at the range.’

‘Does he now? And the black man?’

‘He’s good. Experienced, but not at the same level.’

Shit, he was spilling his guts to her. The woman fell silent, as if digesting his words.

‘That changes my impression of your setup. It doesn’t change what I’m going to do to you if I suspect any funny business is going on when you speak to Lance. If this gun has the same ammo as his, it means there’s some fancy hollow-points loaded. When I shoot you, the bullet will shatter your spine, leaving you paralysed from that point down. Then it will tumble through your gut like a miniature chainsaw so you’ll be able to see your intestines spread out all over the steering wheel.’

‘I won’t … oh, Jesus. We don’t have any code words.’

‘Didn’t think you’d need any?’

‘No.’

‘Tell them you’ve got me in the car. Tell them you caught me in the garage and knocked me out and you’re bringing me through because you can’t do it. Tell them you want one of them to pull the trigger.’

‘Right.’

‘Phone now. And I want the call on speakerphone so I can hear both sides.’

With slippery hands, Graeme scrolled through the phone log to make the call he’d so nearly started a couple of minutes ago, before his whole world had changed.

‘You get her?’ Lance’s voice. Excited, expectant.

‘Caught her running in the parking garage.’

‘And? Where’s the bitch’s body?’

Lance, no! Lady, don’t shoot me, please don’t shoot me …

‘She was knocked out when I tackled her. Her head hit the floor really hard.’ Graeme swallowed, praying he sounded normal. In the
circumstances, though, he guessed it wouldn’t matter if he sounded a little excited. Lance would surely expect it. ‘After that I kicked her in the guts a couple of times and loaded her up in the car. I can’t … I’m too nervous to shoot. I’d rather bring her to you.’

‘This is not what I paid you for.’

‘You haven’t paid me yet.’

‘Well, bring her here and let’s sort it out.’ Lance sounded disgusted.