“It’s okay,” Gregory says, patting his back. “We’re all taking this pretty hard. But we’re going to get those bastards.”
The via-wall in the foyer broadcast all the grisly details: a township completely demolished, no signs of life. No signs of anything besides tin siding strewn across the ground like the world’s biggest house of cards had come crashing down. Early estimates put the death toll at thirty-seven thousand, and the entire country is on alert for more acts of violence. Police swarm the streets to stave off looting. Soon, people will start tossing around the word genocide and all at once, South Africans will be divided into white and black and brown and yellow all over again.
They stand in silence, Gregory watching the news, Stoker watching Gregory, who’s most definitely alive and well, no worse for wear except for the bulge at the back of his head, a mound of raised flesh peeking through his shorn hair.
Blackmail? Threats? Stoker wonders what tactics his mother had used to quiet Gregory . . . not unlike those threats Gregory had thrown in his face. Tit for tat, right? And then suddenly, without warning, Stoker’s fear morphs into rage. After thirteen years of working so closely together, Gregory decides to pull a stunt like this?
“You don’t have to say anything,” whispers Stoker. “But what you did was inexcusable, and just because you got a little hush money to put all this nonsense behind us doesn’t mean I’m going to forget.”
“What, sir?” Gregory asks. “Are you talking to me?”
“I expect your resignation letter on my desk this afternoon.” Stoker walks off, fully aware that Gregory’s not the type of guy that takes kindly to being backed into a corner, but Stoker doesn’t want a person like him on his team. If Stoker’s secrets come out, he’ll deal with them then and there.
“Sir! Is this because I stopped you from being arrested?” Gregory scrambles to Stoker’s side. “I know you were close to the people who lived in that township, but what happened there couldn’t have been predicted by anyone. It’s an unlikely target, no infrastructure, minimal economic impact. Whoever has done this, they’re aiming for the perfect act of terrorism. One that says that no place is safe. One that will turn South Africa’s people against one another. We need you here, sir, battling toward normalcy. We need you to be the face for the Eastern Cape, to let people know that it’s safe to travel, to go to work, to visit friends and family, to live a life not dominated by fear. They need to know that we’re going to catch who’s done this, sir.”
“Perfect. So now we’re going to pretend that our little dik-dik situation didn’t happen.”
“Councilman Stoker, lives were lost. Thousands of lives. Whatever’s wrong, I need you to snap out of it.”
Gregory’s right. Whatever petty differences they have, they can wait. People need reassurances, and these few moments after this tragedy shouldn’t be wasted. “Call the other heads together for an emergency meeting,” Stoker says. “And find us someone who’s abreast of this whole situation. We’ve got a nation to save.”
“I’m on it, sir!” Gregory says.
Stoker has to admit, Gregory is good in an emergency situation. So maybe he’s a little overambitious, but like Stoker, he really does want what’s best for the people of the Eastern Cape. Which makes Stoker wonder if the person he’s really angry with is himself. He’d lost control in that bathroom, had acted on impulse without thinking through the consequences, then to make matters worse, he’d brought his mother in to clean up his mess.
He made a mistake, Stoker admits to himself. Several bad ones, in fact, but it’s not too late to seek forgiveness for his sins. And if Gregory can forgive him, maybe Stoker can start to forgive himself.
“Mr. Mbende!” Stoker calls out.
Gregory stops and turns back. “Sir?”
“I know we both messed up. Two wrongs don’t make a right, but I hope that we can work past this. And whatever my mother did, said, I don’t want you to worry about it. I’ll talk to her tonight, tell her everything’s okay between us. Everything’s okay, right?”
Gregory steps up, examines Stoker closely, then says, “Sir, I really don’t want to ask this, but are you inebriated?” Gregory clears his throat. “Your eyes are all glazed over and you’re not making any sense whatsoever.”
Stoker almost denies it, but then remembers the Valium coursing through his veins. He shakes it off. “I’ll be fine. Just get the heads together, okay?” Stoker lets his head loll forward. “And I’m sorry about the bump.”
“Bump?”
“On the back of your head.”
Gregory rubs the spot, tenderly. “Oh, yeah. That. Darndest thing, woke up Saturday morning with a knot the size of a fist. I can’t even remember how it got there. Friday was such a blur. One minute, I’m leaving the office, the next I’m tucked in bed with a killer headache.”
Stoker looks deeply into Gregory’s eyes. “You aren’t faking, are you? You really don’t remember?”
Gregory shakes his head. “Okay, one of us is losing his mind, and given the current circumstances, we really don’t have the luxury to figure out which one of us it is. So let’s get done what needs to get done, all right?” Mbende pats Stoker on the shoulder, then runs off.
Stoker stands there, feeling the muscles in his face cycling through shock, disbelief, sorrow, and in that order. His mother had a hand in this, no doubt. Nausea creeps back up into his gut. Murder, he could deal with. Simple, savage. Permanent. But Stoker gets the distinct feeling that his mother is capable of something much more sinister, and it scares him. It scares him a lot.
Chapter 18
Sydney
Sydney cusses her piece-of-crap moped. It finally died, right when she needs it the most. Now she’s stranded out in the middle of nowhere, an hour outside of Port Elizabeth in the brush. She eyes the narrow stretch of road in both directions, not a soul to be seen, just browning veld to either side, littered with a flock of white plastic sacks tossed to the winds by careless townspeople.
She’s never felt so useless, not even enough power within her to fly a few dozen kilometers to the Addisen township. She’d seen the destruction on the television at the salon, felt the tremors. Terrorists, the newscasters had said, but Sydney knows better. She’d destroyed a town or two in her prime, but never anything near this scale. The girl is strong, stronger than Sydney anticipated. But strength alone does not a demigoddess make. There’s also experience and guile, and Sydney’s never lacking in that department.
She walks nearly thirty minutes before an old bakkie passes her, its windows caked with dirt and its paint faded to the dullest of reds. She waves and it grinds to a halt, veering halfway onto the dusty shoulder. Sydney makes a run for it before the driver changes his mind. She pulls the door open and climbs halfway up into the cab.