AS A MARINE, GABRIEL HAD ACQUIRED MORE THAN A FEW SURVIVAL skills, and one of the skills that Jane envied was her husband’s ability to quickly snatch a few precious hours of sleep whenever the opportunity presented itself. Minutes after the flight attendants dimmed the cabin lights, he reclined his seat, closed his eyes, and dropped off straight into dreamland. Jane sat wide awake, counting the hours until landing, and thinking about Millie Jacobson.
The sole survivor of the doomed safari was not back in London, as Jane had assumed, but was now living in a small town in South Africa’s Hex River Valley. After two nightmarish weeks fighting to survive in the bush, caked in mud and eating nothing but reeds and grass, the London-bred bookseller hadn’t returned to the city, but had chosen to settle on the same continent that had nearly killed her.
The photos of Millie Jacobson after she’d emerged from the bush made it clear just how hewn to the bone she’d become by the end of her ordeal. Her UK passport photo had shown a dark-haired young woman with blue eyes and a heart-shaped face, pleasantly ordinary, neither pretty nor plain. The photo taken in the hospital during her recovery was of a woman so transformed that Jane could scarcely believe it was the same person. Somewhere in the wild, what had once been Millie Jacobson was cast off like snakeskin, to reveal a bony, sun-blackened creature with haunted eyes.
While everyone else on the plane seemed to be sleeping, Jane once again reviewed the police file of the Botswana safari murders. At the time there’d been substantial publicity in the UK about the case, where Richard Renwick was a popular thriller novelist. In the United States he was not well known and Jane had never read his books, which were described in the London Times as “action-packed” and “testosterone-driven.” The Times article focused almost entirely on Renwick, devoting only two paragraphs to his live-in girlfriend Millie Jacobson. But it was Millie who now captured Jane’s full attention, and she stared transfixed at the Interpol file photo of the young woman. It had been taken soon after the ordeal, and in Millie’s face Jane saw a reflection of herself not that many years ago. Both of them had been touched by the cold hand of a killer, and survived. That touch was something you never forgot.
She and Gabriel had left Boston on a day of wind-driven sleet and rain, and the weather during their brief stopover in London had been no less gray and wintry. So it was a shock to walk off the plane hours later, into the summery warmth of Cape Town. Here the seasons seemed upside down, and in an airport where everyone else was garbed in shorts and sleeveless dresses, Jane was still wearing the turtleneck and wool sweater that she’d donned in Boston. By the time they claimed their luggage and walked out of immigration, she was sweltering and desperate to strip down to her tank top.
She had just peeled the turtleneck over her face when she heard a man’s voice boom out: “Dean the Machine! You’ve finally made it to Africa!”
“Henk, thanks for meeting us,” said Gabriel.
Jane yanked off the turtleneck to find her husband and a blond, buffalo-sized man exchanging back slaps, that peculiarly male greeting that’s both attack and embrace.
“Long flight, hey?” Henk said. “But now you’ll get to enjoy some warm weather.” He turned to Jane with a gaze that made her feel exposed in her thin tank top. His eyes seemed unnaturally pale in the floridly sunburned face, the same silvery shade of blue that she’d once seen in a wolf’s eyes. “And you’re Jane,” he said, holding out a damp and meaty hand. “Henk Andriessen. I’m glad to finally meet the woman who landed the Machine. I didn’t think anyone could.”
Gabriel laughed. “Jane’s not just any woman.”
As they shook hands, she could feel Henk taking her measure and she wondered if he’d expected Dean the Machine to have landed someone prettier, someone who didn’t walk off the plane looking like a wrung-out rag. “I’ve heard about you, too,” she said. “Something about a boozy night in the Hague twelve years ago.”
Henk glanced at Gabriel. “I hope you told her the redacted version.”
“You mean there’s more to the story than two men walk into a bar?”
Henk laughed. “That’s all you need to know.” He reached for her suitcase. “Let me show you to my car.”
As they left the terminal, Jane lagged a few paces behind the men, letting them catch up on the latest news in each other’s lives. Gabriel had slept almost all the way from London, and he walked with the energetic spring of someone eager to tackle the day. She knew that Henk was a good ten years older than Gabriel, that he was thrice divorced, originally from Brussels, and had worked with South Africa’s Interpol branch for the past decade. She also knew of his reputation as a heavy drinker and a ladies’ man, and she wondered what sort of trouble he’d dragged Gabriel into on that notorious night in the Hague. Surely Henk was the one who’d done the dragging, because she couldn’t imagine her straitlaced husband as a hell-raiser. Just looking at them from behind, she knew which man had discipline in his favor. Gabriel had the lean build of a runner, and he walked with direction and purpose, while Henk’s bloated waistline was the mark of uncontrollable appetites. Yet they clearly got on well together, a friendship forged in the heat of murder investigations in Kosovo.
Henk led them to a silver BMW, the favored automotive mascot of every man on the prowl, and he waved at the front seat. “Jane, would you like to ride shotgun?”
“No, I’ll let Gabriel have the honors. You two have a lot of mischief to catch up on.”
“Not as good a view back there,” said Henk as they all buckled their seat belts. “But I guarantee you’ll love the view where we’re going.”
“Where are we going?”
“Table Mountain. You’re here for such a short time, and it’s the one place you really don’t want to miss. Your hotel room probably isn’t ready yet anyway, so why don’t we head straight for the mountain?”
Gabriel turned to her. “You feel up for it, Jane?”
What she really longed for was a shower and a bed. Her head ached from the blinding sunlight and the inside of her mouth felt like a tar pit, but if Gabriel could launch straight into a day of sightseeing, she’d damn well do her best to keep up with the boys. “Let’s do it,” she said.
An hour and a half later, they pulled into the parking lot of Table Mountain’s lower cableway station. Stepping out of the car, Jane stared up at aerial lines that soared up the side of the mountain. She was not particularly afraid of heights, but the idea of swooping up to that dizzying mountaintop made her stomach drop. Suddenly she was no longer exhausted; all she could think about was cables snapping apart and a two-thousand-foot plunge to death.
“And up there is the view I promised you,” said Henk.
“Jesus. There are people hanging off the side of that cliff!” said Jane.
“Table Mountain’s a favorite place for rock climbers.”
“Are they out of their frigging minds?”
“Oh, we lose a few climbers every year. After you fall from that height, it’s not a rescue. It’s a body recovery.”
“And that’s where we’re going? Up there?”
“Are you afraid of heights?” Those pale wolf eyes turned to her in amusement.
“Trust me, Henk,” Gabriel said with a laugh. “Even if she were, she’d never admit it.”
And one of these days, pride is going to be the death of me, she thought as they crowded into the cable car with dozens of other tourists. She wondered when the system had last been inspected. Stared hard at the Cableway workers, searching for anyone who was drunk or high or psycho. She counted heads, to be sure they weren’t over the posted passenger limit, and hoped they’d made generous weight allowances for men as big as Henk.
Then the cable car swooped into the sky, and all she could focus on was the view.
“Your first look at Africa,” said Henk, leaning in to murmur in her ear. “Does it surprise you?”
She swallowed. “It’s not what I imagined.”
“What did you imagine? Lions and zebras running around everywhere?”
“Well, yeah.”
“That’s the way most Americans picture Africa. They watch too many nature shows on TV, and when they walk off the plane wearing bush jackets and khaki, they’re surprised to find a modern city like Cape Town. Not a zebra in sight, except at the zoo.”
“I was kind of hoping to see a zebra.”
“Then you should take a few extra days and fly out to the bush.”
“I wish we could,” she said with a sigh. “But our agencies are keeping us on a tight leash. No time for fun.”
The cable car glided to a stop and the doors opened.
“Then let’s get some work done, shall we?” said Henk. “There’s no reason we can’t enjoy the view at the same time.”
From the edge of the Table Mountain plateau, Jane stared in wonder as Henk pointed out the landmarks of Cape Town: the rocky outcroppings known as Devil’s Peak and Signal Hill, Table Bay, and Robben Island to the north, where Nelson Mandela was imprisoned for nearly two decades.
“So much history here. So many stories I could tell you about this country.” Henk turned to her. “But now we get down to business. The Botswana murders.”
“Gabriel told me you had a part in the case.”
“Not the initial investigation, which took place in Botswana. Interpol became involved only after Botswana police learned that the killer had crossed the border, into this country. He used the credit cards of two of his victims in border towns, at businesses that didn’t require PIN numbers. The safari truck was found abandoned outside Johannesburg. Although the crimes were committed in Botswana, Johnny Posthumus is a citizen of South Africa. The case spans multiple countries, which is why Interpol was brought in. We issued a Red Notice for the arrest of Posthumus, but we still have no clue of his whereabouts.”
“Has there been any progress at all on the case?”
“Nothing significant. But you have to understand the challenges we face here. There are about fifty murders a day in this country—that’s six times the homicide rate in the US. Many cases remain unsolved, the police are overwhelmed, and evidence labs are underfunded. Also, these murders took place in Botswana, a different country. Coordinating between different jurisdictions adds to the difficulties.”
“But you’re certain that Johnny Posthumus is your man,” said Gabriel.
Andriessen paused, and those few seconds of silence spoke louder than any words that might follow. “I have … reservations.”
“Why?”
“I’ve delved thoroughly into his past. Johnny Posthumus was born in South Africa, the son of farmers. At age eighteen, he went off to work at a game lodge, in Sabi Sands. He moved on to Mozambique and Botswana, and eventually went solo as an independent guide. There were never any complaints. Through the years, he built a reputation as a reliable man. Except for one drunken brawl, he had no criminal record and no history of violence.”
“That you’re aware of.”
“True, there could be incidents that were never reported. Kill someone in the bush, and the body may never be found. It just troubles me that there were never any warning signs. Nothing in his earlier behavior to indicate that one day, he would bring eight people deep into the Delta and slaughter seven of them.”
“According to the sole survivor, that’s exactly what happened,” said Jane.
“Yes,” Henk conceded. “That’s what she said.”
“Do you have doubts about her?”
“She identified Posthumus based only on a two-year-old passport photo, which was shown to her by the Botswana police. There aren’t many other photos of him in existence. Most were lost when his parents’ farmhouse burned down seven years ago. Remember, Ms. Jacobson walked out of the bush half dead. After such an ordeal, and with only a passport photo to go on, can her identification of him really be trusted?”
“If the man wasn’t Johnny Posthumus, who was he?”
“We know he used his victims’ credit cards. He took their passports, and in the few weeks before they were reported missing, he could have assumed their identities. It would allow him to be anyone, to go almost anywhere in the world. Including America.”
“And the real Johnny Posthumus? Do you think he’s dead?”
“It’s only a theory.”
“But is there any evidence to back it up? A body? Any remains?”
“Oh, we have thousands of unidentified human remains, from crime scenes around the country. What we lack are the resources to ID them all. Because of the DNA backlog in crime labs, identifying a victim can take months, even years. Posthumus might be among them.”
“Or he could be alive and living right now in Boston,” said Jane. “He may not have a criminal record, only because he’s never made a mistake until Botswana.”
“You mean Millie Jacobson.”
“He let her escape.”
Henk was silent for a moment as he looked out over Table Bay. “At the time, I doubt he considered that a problem. Letting her escape.”
“The one woman who could identify him?”
“She was as good as dead. If you stranded any other tourist in the Delta, man or woman, they wouldn’t last two days, much less two weeks. She should have died out there.”
“Why didn’t she?”
“Grit? Luck?” He shrugged. “A miracle.”
“You’ve met the woman,” said Gabriel. “What did you think of her?”
“It’s been a few years since I interviewed her. Her name’s not Jacobson now, but DeBruin. She married a South African. I remember her as … utterly unremarkable. That was my impression, and to be honest I was surprised. I’d read her statement and I knew what she supposedly survived. I was expecting Superwoman.”
Jane frowned. “You don’t think her statement was true?”
“That she walked among wild elephants? That she traveled for two weeks through the bush with no food and no weapon? That she survived on nothing more than grass and papyrus stems?” He shook his head. “No wonder the police in Botswana doubted her story at first. Until they confirmed that seven foreigners hadn’t boarded their scheduled international flights home. They spoke to the pilot who’d flown the tourists into the bush, asked him why he didn’t report them missing. He said he got a call that they were all traveling back to Maun by road instead. It took a few more days before it finally dawned on the Botswana police that Millie Jacobson was telling the truth.”
“Yet you seem doubtful.”
“Because, when I met her, she struck me as a bit, well … troubled.”
“How?”
“Reclusive. Not entirely forthcoming. She lives in a small town out in the countryside, where her husband has a farm. She almost never ventures out of her district. She refused to come to Cape Town for the interview. I had to drive to Touws River to meet her.”
“We’re headed there tomorrow,” said Gabriel. “It’s the only way she’d agree to see us.”
“It’s a beautiful drive. Lovely mountains and farms and vineyards. But it is a drive. Her husband’s a big stern Afrikaner who keeps everyone at bay. Trying to be protective I suppose, but he makes it clear he doesn’t want the police upsetting his wife. Before you can talk to her, you’ll have to pass muster with him.”
“I understand that completely,” said Gabriel. “It’s what any husband would do.”
“Isolate his wife in the middle of nowhere?”
“Keep her safe, in any way he can. Assuming she cooperates.” He glanced at Jane. “Because, God knows, not every wife does.”
Henk laughed. “Obviously you two have wrestled with that issue.”
“Because Jane takes too many damn chances.”
“I’m a cop,” said Jane. “How am I supposed to take down bad guys if you’ve got me locked up for safekeeping? Which is what it sounds like this guy’s done to his wife. Hidden her away in the country.”
“And you’ll have to deal with him first,” said Henk. “Explain how vital it is that his wife assists you. Convince him that this won’t place her in any danger, because that’s all he cares about.”
“It doesn’t bother him that Johnny Posthumus might be killing other people right now?”
“He doesn’t know those victims. He’s protecting his own, and you need to earn his trust.”
“Do you think Millie will work with us?” said Gabriel.
“Only to a point, and who can blame her? Think about what it took for her to walk out of the Delta alive. When you survive an ordeal like that, you don’t come out the same.”
“Some people would come out stronger,” said Jane.
“Some are destroyed.” Henk shook his head. “Millie, I’m afraid, is now little more than a ghost.”