The Monster's Daughter (60 page)

“Ignorant, stupid! Just like their fathers and grandfathers.”

“They are just people, and they're scared.” Jeff pulled Tessa to him, but she pushed away.

“They still think they're owed something.” Tessa's words were almost incoherent, her hysteria growing. “They cling to this myth, this lie of their so-called noble ancestors.”

“Nobody wants to be told that they're bad, Tru. My mum always used to say that everybody loves to remind you of their suffering, because suffering makes them right. Let them have their Boer War and their indignation. It's all they know. All they have left.”

“I was there, Jeff. I've seen what people can do to each other. White, black, it doesn't matter. All I feel when I listen to those hearings is shame, regret that I didn't do more. My own daughter thinks I'm a loon, but how can I remain quiet? And if I speak up, nobody will believe me.”

“Let me take you home. Tomorrow when you come back—”

“I can't go back. I can't pretend that the world works the way they believe it does.”

“Running away is not the answer.”

“I'm done with running.” Tessa looked up at him, defeat bowing her body. “Where could I even go?”

“At the end of the day, we all have to get along, Tru.” Jeff reached for her, but she brushed him off.

“I own myself, Jeff. I'd rather spend the next hundred years alone than saying yes to those people.”

Jeff nodded. Tessa watched him walk back to Zebra House, something hollow settling inside her.

The organ sounded the last bars of the hymn. As one, the congregation sat down in the polished pews. The young
dominee
, pink-cheeked and energetic, bounded up the steps to the grandiose pulpit, black robes flowing behind him. “Good morning, brothers and sisters,” he said, his hands outstretched. “I welcome you in the name of Jesus Christ our Lord. Our reading today will come from Nehemiah Nine.” Bible pages fluttered throughout the cavernous church like butterfly wings.

“… they reveled in your great goodness. But they were disobedient and rebelled against you; they turned their backs on your law.”

It was one of
Matrone
's favorites. Benjamin looked up at the
dominee
, whose face gradually changed to a deeper hue as he finished the reading, ready to feverishly dissuade his congregation. God chose Israel, like God chose Benjamin. But Israel worshipped other gods, turning away from the one true God.

“What is your false god, brothers and sisters?” The
dominee
pointed a finger down the middle of the congregation. “What is keeping you from following Him?”

Benjamin dropped his gaze, blood pulsing in his ears. Had he strayed without knowing? He had always done what God demanded. The notebooks would prove it, come the Day of Judgment. Each and every one of the girls was anointed for sacrifice. God had shown him the path, pointed them out to him. But there was still one of them left. Benjamin rebelled against the thought as soon as it surfaced. Tessa was promised to him, he would not kill her. But she is also one of
them, the thought pushed back. So are you. The last two abominations of man to walk the earth. No. God had promised him salvation. The Bible shook in Benjamin's trembling hands.

“Renew your vows with God, then, brothers and sisters. Go on your knees and beg him to show you the way. Let us pray so that you may tell Him how you will dedicate your life to Him. It is only in blind faith in His plan for us that we can be saved. In Jesus's name, amen.”

Around Benjamin, all bowed their heads. The
dominee
gave the congregation a moment to pray silently, to vow to rid their lives of the false gods of their choosing. Sweat beaded on Benjamin's forehead, the air suddenly stifling. Please, he begged silently. Please, not Tessa. You promised. But God spoke to him. Wipe the earth of abominations, Benjamin, and you shall inherit the power of the kingdom of Heaven. Benjamin grasped the edge of the pew. He had trouble breathing. “Please,” he begged. “Save her. I'll give you anything else.” A woman with white-blond hair looked over at him, her lips pursed in disapproval. Benjamin put his hand over his mouth. He got up and almost ran down the aisle. The
dominee
's raised voice drowned out his hollow footsteps on the polished floor. A young girl looked up at him with pale gray eyes as he struggled to open the heavy door. No. No. No. Benjamin's heart pounded.

He broke into the sunlit street and leaned against one of the huge white pillars of the church, crisp spring air filling his lungs, the voice of God silenced by the bustling of the Cape Town morning. Black faces filled the streets outside now, walking with a confidence, even daring, in their step. Sometimes they even ventured inside, to show that they could.

“He's not really my cup of tea either.” The bald man closed the door behind him.

“E-excuse me?” Benjamin tried to regulate his breathing.

“The
dominee
. Too much doom and gloom, too many grand gestures. But my wife likes him, thinks he spices things up.” The bald man walked over to him, his hand outstretched. “Nico Koch. You're the new man, aren't you? Forgive me. I recognized you from that lecture last year on quadruplex structures and the possible retardation of cell damage.”

Benjamin took Koch's hand. “You know my work?”

“Son, everyone in this field knows your work. Which is a rather small sampling, I'm sorry to say. The university is lucky to have you.”

“It's not official yet.”

“Well, I hear the committee was impressed by your research. Or rather, I told them they should be. Those idiots wouldn't know the difference between genes and genomes.”

The pressure in Benjamin's chest eased. “I've been following your work too, Professor Koch. I was hoping that perhaps I could pick your brain about a project I've been working on.” He made a dismissive wave with his left hand. “But there will be plenty of time for that,” he said.

“Well, in any case, it will be nice to have a fellow church man in our midst.” Koch motioned to the imposing building behind them. “Few can reconcile religion with science these days, Dr. Engelman. They do not recognize that God's hand is in everything. Pity to be so close-minded.”

Benjamin smiled. “Please, Nico, call me Mike.”

Alet's cell rang as she exited the gas-station shop. She balanced the coffee and fast-food bags in one arm and answered, watching Mathebe paying the attendant at the petrol pump, his brow knotted with concentration as he signed the slip and double-checked the numbers.

“Alet? Mike Engelman.”

“Mike. Thanks for calling me back. Are you still in Humansdorp?”

“
Ja
, but I'll probably head to Cape Town soon. You must have heard.”

“I'm sorry about the professor.” Alet didn't know how to ask Mike without sounding crude, but she had run out of options. “Listen, I know this is a bad time, but I was hoping I could take you up on your offer for help. We found something the professor was researching and I'd like you to take a look at it, see if it has any bearing on the case. You understand what these things mean.”

“Can you fax it to the university?”

“I'd rather not. There are some … anomalies the professor found in the DNA evidence, and I'd rather explain it all to you in person.”

There was a brief silence. “I can drop by this morning on my way back.”

“Um … thing is, I have to be in Joubertina for a pointing-out.”

“Pardon?”

“I have to walk the local police through the crime scene of that hijacking. You know, my face …”

“Oh. Right. I suppose I can postpone going back for a day.”

“Thanks, Mike.”

Alet got into the passenger side of the van. She and Mathebe ate their breakfast in silence, watching the world around them slowly wake up as the sun peeked out over the mountains, the flow of traffic growing denser on the highway with each passing minute. Alet's pickle fell out of her bun, sauce staining her black T-shirt and jeans. As she tried to clean it up with a napkin, Mathebe reached over and handed her a wet-wipe from the glove compartment.

“I wanted to let you know that you did good work last night, Constable.”

Alet looked up in surprise. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

It had taken almost twenty minutes for Wexler to calm down enough to tell them about his history with Trudie. An “associate” of his in London had a nice business going, dealing with unwanted children from Eastern Europe, and he had wanted to expand. When he'd found out that Wexler had contacts in South Africa, he suggested a partnership.

“Why Unie?” Alet had pressed.

“Because it's isolated. Because … she was there,” Wexler answered simply. “We tried again for a little while, but … it wasn't the same. People change, I suppose.”

It seemed that it wasn't just the killer who had carried a torch for Trudie. Once Alet got Wexler talking, he offered information with little resistance. How he'd met Trudie when he was still in his teens and fallen in love. How he'd followed her to Johannesburg when she went searching for her nephew.

“What was his name?” Mathebe's pen was poised over his notepad.

“Jacob.”

“Jacob Morgan,” Alet said. Wexler nodded. “Also known as Jakob Mens?”

“Yes.”

Alet felt a warm glow at the small victory. She had suspected it, but there had been no concrete evidence. “And Tilly?”

“Took her from the neighbors' yard in Triomf. Should have seen the state of her.” Wexler shook his head. “All Trudie had wanted was a child. When she couldn't save Jacob …”

“Did she know what you were doing? That you got Tilly involved in your … business?”

“Mathilda figured things out pretty quickly once she started working at Zebra House. She wanted in. Said she needed money. All she ever talked about was getting the hell out of town one day. Never had the guts to actually do it. Shame, really. If she'd known the truth she might have.”

Mathebe stepped closer to the table. “Did Mrs. Pienaar ever tell you why she decided to come to Unie?”

“Well, there was the farm. She went on about roots, and belonging. I never saw any of that, though. Poisoned roots, if you ask me. Trudie didn't have it in her to take what those people were dishing. But she was tired of running.”

“Running from what, Mr. Wexler?”

Wexler's brow knotted. “His name was Ben.”

Alet caught Mathebe's eye. His expression betrayed nothing. She turned back to Wexler. “Do you have a last name for Ben?”

“The only thing she told me was that I'd be dead if he ever got to us. I thought she was off her rocker till the day he found me.”

“Wait. What?”

“In Cape Town, few years back. I was on a bender with some of my old mates. Showing them a good time and all. Buggers took off with some slags. Then this bloke corners me out of nowhere.”

Alet grabbed a chair and sat down, scared that she didn't hear right. “Are you telling me that you had contact with this Ben?”

“Scared the piss out of me. Got me by the neck. Couldn't swallow right a month after.”

“What did he want?”

“Her, Trudie. Wanted to know where she was.”

“And?”

Wexler sat a little more erect. “I said I didn't know. He sodded off.”

“Just like that?”

Wexler gave her a sardonic smile. “I wasn't his type, I suppose.”

“What did he look like?”

Wexler's gaze traveled to the ceiling as he remembered. “Tall. Thin. Wanker was right strong. Held me down, sure. Didn't look like he was trying.”

“What about his face, his eyes, his hair? Give me something to go on.”

Wexler crossed his arms, looking at Alet and Mathebe in turn. “Well, honestly, he looked a good lot like Tru.”

“We have to get a sketch artist in with Wexler. If we release an identikit …” Alet reached for one of the coffee cups perched on the dashboard. She peeled the lid back and sipped carefully, trying not to burn herself. “A man named Ben, no last name, approximately a hundred years old, looks like the murder victim, but taller. The press is going to have a field day.”

Mathebe returned his take-out container to the bag. “Mrs. Pienaar changed her appearance.”

Alet nodded. “She looked different in just about every picture. Glasses, wigs, hair dye, makeup, self-tanner, you name it.”

“The suspect might have changed his appearance too.” Mathebe turned to Alet. “It was your father's case. He would know what was in the missing Angel Killer case files, the list of suspects. He could—”

“No.” Alet crossed her arms. “We have Koch's notes on the Angel case now. Maybe Mike will find something in there.”

“We could be wrong about your father, Constable.” Mathebe spoke softly, as if calming an upset child. “This case might have nothing to do with his death-squad involvement.”

“Doesn't change what he did. What he is.”

“Mrs. Pienaar deserves justice.”

“And she'll get it.” Alet reached for the door handle. “I'll see you in Joubertina.”

Mathebe stopped her before she could get out of the car. “Perhaps, Constable, you should ask yourself why it is that you do not want to ask for your father's help.”

“I don't know what you mean.” Alet closed the door. She walked over to her Toyota a few parking spaces away. She felt irritated as she got onto the highway behind Mathebe, loath to be alone with her thoughts. Was Mathebe right? Was she really so angry with her father that she needed him to be in cahoots with a killer just to prove that she was justified? Maybe he simply couldn't solve this one case, the most prolific serial killer of his career. He couldn't have known about the earlier victims. It had taken a modern database and multiple computer searches to connect the dots.