Dust Devils (26 page)

Zondi walked to his BMW, hearing it chirp as he used the remote to open it. Stood leaning his arms on the roof, watching the big man and the girl heading toward the truck, the girl hanging back, looking down at her old shoes as they scuffed through the sand.

Zondi saw the two white men walking toward a Toyota double cab with a dented hood. The younger man got behind the wheel. The old man stood and lit a cigarette, his eyes flicked across Zondi and then over to where a hawk circled the red hills. Something about the old man was familiar and Zondi started running his database. Stopped when he saw the big gunman shambling away toward the bathrooms, leaving the girl sitting alone in the truck. If he was going to do it, it would have to be now.

Zondi pushed away from the car, took a step toward the girl, not sure whether he was walking back into his past or forward into some fucked up future. Stopped as the yellow tour bus bumped past, wiping her from view.

Goodbread drew smoke into his lungs, held it for as long as he could, felt the soothing warmth as the nicotine rush hit. He hadn't been able to smoke during the beer ceremony, all that thatch and wood ready to blaze like kindling. He exhaled, heard the dry squeak of his breath, like the blades of a rusty windmill coming to rest. His eyes on the circling buzzard, black against the burning sky, but watching the big, loose-fleshed man with a pistol under his dirty T-shirt. Saw him hand the girl into the battered pickup.

Watched the other dark man, too, by the BMW. Well dressed. City written all over his tailored shirt and expensive shoes. Something setting off alarm bells. A cop maybe? Didn't look as if he was armed, though. Goodbread could always tell. A man held himself differently when he was packing a weapon.

He saw the bodyguard walking away from the truck, toward the bathrooms. Saw the black man watching the girl across the gleaming roof of the Beemer. Goodbread knew there couldn't be no dress rehearsal.

The small tour bus smoked to life, sweating tourists sucking A/C like they were in an oxygen tent. As the bus rattled by, Goodbread felt the dust kick into his lungs. Fought a cough. Then he was moving. Telling his boy to start the truck.

Showtime.

Dell yawned as he turned the key of the Toyota and heard the engine fire, released the brake, waiting for his father to get in beside him. But the old man headed over to the other truck, the brown one, dented and pimpled with rust. Moving fast. The pistol was in his hand, held flat against his khaki work pants.

Dell was awake now. Saw Goodbread open the door of the old truck, the girl looking up at him, shaking her head, his father's hand white on her dark skin as he pulled her from the vehicle. The girl cried out. Goodbread had the gun at the girl's head and Dell saw her eyes widen and her mouth open and close again.

Then Goodbread was walking her to their truck, left arm around her, holding her close, pistol to her ribs. They were nearly at the Toyota when the Zulu guide, still in his skins, spear in hand, came running across the parking lot.

"Leave her, you white bastard!"

Goodbread turned, gripping the girl with his left arm. Lifted the pistol. The Zulu kept on coming, bearing down on Goodbread, stomach wobbling over his leopard-skin loincloth, the spear raised above his head, ready to throw. Goodbread shot him in the head and the spear left the Zulu's hand and jammed into the dirt just short of Goodbread's feet. The tour guide fell flat on his face, leopard skins flapping up to show his red underpants.

Dell reached across and pushed open the passenger door of the truck. Goodbread shoved the girl onto the seat, coming in after her. Coughing, fighting for breath. Dell reversed, forced the gearstick into first, hit the gas. Goodbread's door slapped shut.

The bodyguard ran out of the bathroom, still buckling his jeans, reaching for the pistol at his hip. Letting go a shot that starred the windshield. Getting closer, pistol staring straight at Dell. A bullet slammed into the metal of the doorframe beside Dell's head with a sound like hammer on an anvil.

Before he had time to think Dell lifted the gun from his waistband, stuck his arm out the window. Fired. At first he thought he'd missed – saw the big man still aiming – then red bloomed on the gunman's white T-shirt. He opened his mouth in surprise and blood flowed down his chin as he toppled slowly as an imploded building, legs going first.

Dell heard Goodbread shouting, "Go, boy! Go goddamit!"

He floored the gas, bumped over the dead man, nearly mowed down the tall black guy in the expensive clothes who sprinted toward them. Swerved around the tour bus that sat becalmed in the sea of dust and slalomed out toward the main road.

Sunday had never been so close to white people before. She'd always kept her distance from the foreigners, now she was squashed in the front of the truck with these two white men, the younger one hitting her knee with his hand as he smashed through the gears. He was panting, sweating. Stinking of fear. The old one fought for breath like he was drowning, one hand holding onto the dashboard, the other gripping the gun that slipped away from her ribs as he coughed.

The driver threw the car into a curve, flinging Sunday up against the old man. She smelt something like sickness on him. Saw the sun shining through his hairy ears, veins like red worms near the surface of the skin.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked in Zulu. The younger one ignored her and the old one was too busy coughing blood, big drops that shot from his mouth onto his pants, to answer.

Then her mother answered. Drew her eyes to the piece of paper that lay on the floor of the truck, under Sunday's frayed tennis shoes. The wedding invite. But different somehow. Printed on thin paper and the colors were blurred and smeared. So this is how it must have come out of the machine. In Pretoria. And now Sunday knew: her mother hadn't deserted her, she'd sent these white men to save her.

Dell looked in the rearview. Caught glimpses of the road through the red cloud that pursued them. The truck ramped a hump, airborne for a moment, and he could see back over the dust, saw the BMW gaining on them. As the Toyota hit the gravel the girl was hurled up against Dell. A whiff of woodsmoke and Sunlight soap. He elbowed her aside, nearly lost the truck on a bend, battled to control it. Beemer closing in. He wasn't going to beat it for speed.

The girl looked over her shoulder, speaking rapid Zulu. Clicks like gum being popped. Dell didn't understand a fucking word. Goodbread fought the coughing spasm back down into himself, grabbed at Dell's arm with fingers as bony as a skeleton, pointing out toward the plain.

"She says, turn here. Onto the track." Words strangled on phlegm and blood.

Dell saw two rough scratches in the hard, rocky surface, leading off into a Martian landscape of ruts and furrows. "Jesus, and then?"

"Just do it."

So he did, wrestling the wheel to the right, almost losing the truck, back yawing. Floored the gas and felt the tires grip and they were flying onto the track, loose rocks striking the underside of the Toyota like small-bore fire. Looked in his rearview. The Beemer was honest-to-god coming after them.

The truck flew over a mound, landed hard, and Dell was staring up at a rocky gradient. The slope of a torn and eroded hill. He stopped, forced the Toyota into four-wheel drive, muttered something that may have been a prayer. Hit the gas.

The tires spun, churning dust, until the rubber found traction, gripped, and the truck hauled itself up the rise, hood framed against the bleached sky. Then they were over, skidding and slewing down toward a dry river bed. Dell checked the rearview which served him up a blurred and vibrating landscape in reflection. No BMW.

Zondi stood on the brakes as he saw the incline, felt the car go into a drift, ended up at ninety degrees to the slope in a spray of gravel. Left stranded like a sand shark washed up on a beach. Ate dust. Watched the fat ass of the truck disappear over the ridge.

He turned the BMW, avoiding rocks and aloes and drove slowly back the way he had come. Picked up speed once he was back on the sand road. Started running his database again. Thought he had a hit on the old man. He needed the Internet. But first he needed a gun.