The Devil's Horn (30 page)

Chapter 36

The sun beat on the roof like rain, keeping Allyn inside.

He lay on the mattress tick gazing up at the bare rafters. A clever vine wound about one beam to reach for another. In a few months this small house would be claimed and green, in another year melted into the bush. Allyn wondered where he would be then. Today he lay unclaimed, quiet as the heat.

A water jug stood untouched near the mattress. Eight hours remained until midnight. Allyn figured to wait here for most of that time, and the water would allow that, so he marshaled it. The cell phone sat on the tick beside him. He thought to call Zimbabwe to check on the negotiations, the progress of the money, but he chalked that up to nerves.

He’d loosed his belt before lying down. Restless, Allyn slid his hand inside his pants. He marveled at the urge, how, like the bush, it seemed so insistent, even at his age. Would it ever stop, or was this his companion to the end? He began to stiffen and thought of having a woman.

He conjured images of Juma’s whores. They walked past again, enfolding him in linen and black flesh. This time they didn’t drift by, headed for the alley, but stopped in a circle, Allyn in the center. They hiked their dresses and squatted to urinate. He smelled them, urine and sweat, the sour rawness of their loins. The vision surprised Allyn, as he didn’t believe he’d bidden it, but his stroking hand sped. Inside the imagined ring he pivoted to select a whore. This pleased him, as they all wanted him. Allyn spotted the one he’d lain with last night, she was shaved and looked very young inside her thighs. He almost picked her.

But why must he take a whore? They didn’t want him truly, they were addled. They’d been given to him by Juma, they were his property. This felt like charity. Allyn wasn’t desperate, he was rich.

His thoughts banked toward Eva. She appeared in the circle, squatting, pissing with the whores. He didn’t want her there, but his arousal could not stop it, his hand insisted on it. She was his bride, blond and supple, adoring, the path between her spread legs was his path to everything. Then, just as quickly, Eva in his vision became Eva his wife, aging and simple. Allyn regretted summoning her. He decoupled from the image completely. This left him stroking himself emptily. He stopped.

But the want of a woman was not thwarted. Allyn could invoke no one in particular, just the presence of a nameless, faceless female here on his mattress. Not for sex particularly, just someone to lie in the heat with, sweat next to, make himself real to. He didn’t enjoy his own company, and that’s what Eva had left him with, the cause of his grudge against her. The money would fix this. Allyn concocted new fantasies around the great wealth that waited like a jack-in-the-box inside the coming night, how it would spring and change everything.

He almost did not hear the light tread on the floorboards. Thoughts of money and foreign lovers and the renewed motion of his hand had shut his eyes and swelled his senses. His first thought was that this was one of Juma’s girls sneaking in and he might keep her a little while. Allyn craned his neck without sitting up.

The ranger girl stood at the foot of his tick.

Allyn yanked his hand out of his pants. Pushing himself to a sitting position, he surveyed her quickly. No gun, nothing to hurt him. He considered being embarrassed that Juma’s young relative had caught him playing with himself, but the girl had invaded his privacy.

“Promise, is it?”

“Yes.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I have nowhere else to go.”

Allyn glanced behind her.

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“You might have knocked.”

“There’s no door.”

“Don’t be cheeky, girl. You might have announced yourself.”

“Sorry.”

“What do you want?”

The girl was coal skinned and glistening from her walk back to the village. The bare legs between her shorts and socks showed muscle, her arms lithe and veined. She had a tribal face of angles and ovals, short, wiry hair. Like many black Africans, the girl’s teeth seemed unnaturally white and inviting.

She reached behind her back. A weapon? Needles of alarm bit inside Allyn’s lungs. He pushed backward on the tick, raising a hand against whatever she was doing.

Promise produced a small radio. She held it out for him to see, harmless.

The prickles in Allyn’s chest needed moments to ease. He cleared his throat while taking hold of his breathing. He laughed to release his nerves.

“Look at me. I apologize.”

Allyn gathered himself, brushing the raised hand through his hair to fill the pause.

But was this life in the bush? He looked at himself even as he said the words to Promise. He’d spent just one night and day in Macandezulo, and already he had become a creature of suspicion, instinct, lust, boldness. It amazed him. The mines had been like this. He’d been young in the mines, but it hadn’t been his youth that made the days breathtaking; he’d been young in the city, too. After he left the tunnels for fancy offices and big houses, he lost the thrill of living and dying and the fortunes that could come in the mines from a flame, a rock, a shovel, the commonest of things.

Just now, he’d been so frightened he’d recoiled from a young woman reaching behind her back. The relief that she held only a radio made him laugh. The sight, the smell of her, gave him a sudden pang for her.

He knew his want. He asked again for hers.

“What are you doing here? In my room specifically.”

“The American gave me this radio to bring to Juma. So they can communicate about the money. To be certain there are no problems.”

“Are there problems, Promise?”

“Perhaps.”

“What are they?”

“I’ve killed Good Luck. Karskie is gone.”

Allyn jumped to his bare feet, standing on the tick should he need to run or fight. He was uncertain how effectively he could do either against this woman. He sensed no threat. Promise made no move toward him except to show the radio. But she had come to him after killing a man. He had no idea what might be next.

“Did the American send you to do that?”

“No. Good Luck murdered my partner.”

The bush again, asserting itself. Like the vine in the rafters, the heat on the roof.

“Tell me what you want. Or please leave.”

“I need your help.”

“For what?”

“You can sit.”

“I’ll do as I see fit.”

Where had that come from? Apparently, Promise approved of his snippiness, for she showed her white teeth and sat on the edge of the tick. Allyn folded himself in the center of the mattress, warily, for she was a killer.

“What sort of help?”

“I want you to tell Juma to let me stay. I can’t go back to the rangers.”

“Juma’s already made up his mind. He sent you away.”

“He’ll listen to you.”

“How do you know that?”

“I could see it. He always has. Juma is big. But you are the bull.”

“After tonight, Juma and I will leave Macandezulo.”

“Ask him to take me with him.”

“He won’t.”

“Then take me with you.”

She sat only a meter away. Allyn searched her hands, her clothes, for blood. He found no evidence of a killing.

“Why should I do anything for you? Why trust you?”

“Because I can help you.”

“With what?”

The girl leaned to him. She made a cup of her free palm and reached between his crossed legs.

“With this.”

Allyn watched her black eyes. She did not pull them from his even while she rubbed him. Her stare was hungry, and something of the mines was there, too, a sparkle, like a fuse. Her gaze held him as much as her hand as she stood from the bed.

“Come with me, Lush Life.”

She guided Allyn off the tick, past the water jug, and out the door. Allyn followed, as if the girl carried all of him in her palm. She trailed her fingertips away from his crotch only after they’d stepped down the splintered porch into the dirt road.

He hurried behind Promise, admiring and wanting. Allyn thought of nothing past having her, no time but the time until that happened, no light but that which died on her ebon skin, only the blood pooling in his loins.

Halfway to the blockhouse, in the murmur of the generator, Promise turned around fully, as though to see that he was still there. She walked backward in the street, drawing him with her feral smile.

Still backpedaling, Promise brought up the radio she’d not let loose since she entered his hovel. When she brought her face up, her eyes were rimmed with tears. One broke down her cheek and shone like a river.

Allyn wanted to reach for it because it was intimate, he would lick this woman’s salt tear off his thumb.

“What are you crying for?”

“My grandmother.”

“Is something wrong?”

Through more falling tears the girl tried to laugh. She failed and seemed to fight for breath. Still backing down the street, Promise bit her lower lip. She stopped in the shadow of Juma’s blockhouse. There, she regained her voice.

“Everything is well.” Promise held the radio high, then punched in several numbers. She paused before the last digit, then, staring deeply at Allyn, hit it.

Her next backward step tripped her. The girl almost toppled, had to wave her arms to keep her balance. Ungainly, surprised to still be on her feet, she spun to stare at the blockhouse.

From behind, Allyn put a hand to her shoulder. She startled, as if his touch were electric.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes.”

“What were you doing with the radio?”

Promise gazed up at the hard, gray building where Juma slept, the women lived, the guns were stored. The structure stood between her and the sun.

“The American. He gave me a code. To tell him everything is good.”

“So he knows you’re here now. And safe.”

“Yes.”

“Fine.”

The girl seemed transfixed. She held her ground, reluctant to move closer to the blockhouse. But just as she’d said, the toothless shooter in the leopard skin was missing from the place at the front door where Juma had stationed him. So was the hostage, Karskie, and one of the lawn chairs.

This was where she’d killed Good Luck minutes ago. That was why she hesitated. Juma would be furious.

“Where’s the body?”

Promise recovered herself, her steadfastness, with her answer.

“Behind the building. Go see, if you want.”

She’d actually done it, naked violence. First a rhino, then a man. What else might she do?

“I believe you. Are you frightened?”

Again the girl made a halting, struggling laugh.

“Very.”

Allyn imagined her hands on him. Promise was powerful and dangerous. But as much as he wanted her, she needed him. So not all the power was hers. Allyn grew impatient.

“I’ll speak to Juma.”

They took a step in tandem. Then she ran away from him.

The little poacher boy, Hard Life, had come down the stairs and emerged from the blockhouse. He looked groggy, knuckling his eyes as if the sunlight dazzled him. Or he, too, had been crying. Promise dashed the short distance to him.

She grabbed Hard Life by the collar and hissed something into his small face, urgent and beyond Allyn’s hearing. She pushed Hard Life into the street as if he were a cart she wanted to roll away. The boy didn’t seem to understand and backed off several steps, but ran out of momentum and stopped. Promise aimed a hand up the road, beseeching. The boy, probably stupid, took a few more shuffling strides away.

Allyn passed the boy and brushed a hand across the top of his head as if he were a tyke. But he wasn’t. Hard Life was a teenager, stunted by Africa. He pushed Allyn’s hand away.

Promise would not go inside the blockhouse until she’d watched Hard Life amble farther up the dirt road. Allyn slipped his hand inside the crook of her elbow, as if she wore a dress, as if to escort her somewhere nice.

“How do you know him?”

“I killed his partner.”

“What did you tell him?”

“To leave Macandezulo. That Juma was leaving.”

She patted Allyn’s hand on her arm. The tears had not dried in Promise’s eyes. Her black pupils seemed to be set in diamonds.

“And you are going, too.”

Clutching the radio, she watched the boy walk off. When he’d gone as far as the pink shanty, Promise took Allyn’s hand. It was not a murderer’s strength in her touch but a woman’s. Allyn lifted the back of her hand to his lips.

Promise beamed and snatched a breath. She sniffed and seemed contented, comforted by his peck on the back of her hand.

“No one has ever kissed me there.”

“Then I’m glad. You were right, Juma will listen to me. Stay out here. I won’t be long.”

Before he could release her, Promise closed her hand around his fingers.

“I want to go to the basement.”

Her request was curious, but what was not curious about this girl? Again and again, she was like the bush to him, a place where things hid.

“What is your name?” she asked.

“Allyn.”

“Take me downstairs, Allyn.”

“It’s better if you wait out here.”

“I don’t want to wait.”

The girl rested his hand on the ledge of her hip, as if to dance. And that was what Allyn desired, to dance in the wild.

The guard who should have been sitting outside the blockhouse lay dead around back. With Promise in tow, Allyn pushed open Juma’s door without knocking.

Chapter 37

Promise unlaced her boots, then peeled off her tall socks. Her ranger’s blouse went next. She unbuttoned it, not facing Allyn but the missile. Allyn asked her to turn around, believing she was disrobing for him. She let the tunic molt from her arms and puddle on the hard floor. Last, Promise stepped out of her shorts and underpants. These she tossed away. They fell on a pile of weapons; where else could they land in this room?

Promise stood before the missile as bare as a beast. Her tears were finished, her hands did not quake when she lifted the radio off the table.

“Promise.”

She pronounced the name she wanted no more of. She discarded it on the heaps of steel around her, tossed it off like her clothing to go onward without it.

Behind her, old, white Allyn edged closer. His small warmth lay against her spine. She’d not noticed, but he had doffed his own shirt.

“Yes. I promise.”

She decided these last minutes were madness.

Promise filled her lungs, naked and ready. Holding her breath made her think of wishes, like a birthday cake. She wished to feel the breeze on the hill where Gogo would live. And for Juma and Allyn to be dead.

She tapped a fingertip on the radio’s keypad.

Five. Four. Three.

Behind her, Allyn withdrew.

Promise pitched forward, slammed in the back as if gored. A great pain struck her shoulder. The room spun. She collapsed forward onto the table, bumping the missile that had not exploded. Her own cry became lost beneath a shocking, sharp roar.

Her tumble stopped on the cool floor. She fought for focus, struggling to peer out through her agony. She had no feeling in her left arm. Looking at her dead, hanging hand, she saw the radio was gone.

Promise gripped a table leg to hold herself upright. In her life, she’d never felt this much pain. It threatened to close around her like jaws. She crawled under the table and curled in her knees, cowering, a primal urge.

The bullet had hit high in her back, below her neck. Promise clung tight to a table leg, scanning the concrete floor. The act of turning her head almost cost her senses. There was too much, the jumble of guns, the drops of her own blood, the feet of Lush Life backing away, her dropped clothes. Panic licked at her. Where was the radio?

Not on the floor. Where had it spilled from her hand?

On the tabletop, with the missile.

From beyond the mounds of guns, where she could not see him, Juma bellowed.

The white man’s feet continued to retreat. She gathered her left arm into her lap.

Juma screamed again.

“Promise!”

That was not her name. She was Nomawethu.
With my ancestors.

The last boundary was not time nor life. She’d chosen death. Only pain held her back, and it was mighty, weighty.

She held tight to the table leg, panting, bleeding, sliding down. She had no way forward, no track to follow. No grave to lie in.

An unbidden warmth flowed over her. Not her blood, not a man, but the breath to blow out a candle.

Like mist, her spirit slipped away from her body. With surprise and relief, shedding all hurt, she stepped free.

Promise rose from beneath the table.

In the doorway stood Juma, a pistol at the end of his thick arm. He strode into the basement. White Allyn backed away until he had moved behind Juma.

For the last time, Promise turned away from them. On the tabletop, under a fin of the missile, lay the radio.

With her one working arm, she slid the radio to her. Without lifting it, she pressed the number one.

Before her fingertip could touch the final key, a tiny, black hand flashed under hers and snatched the radio away.

With her good hand, she caught herself as she buckled. Her body and spirit, cut loose from each other moments ago, rejoined. There was more to do here, and only a little life left to do it.

The pain returned, and with it, the madness.