Emmanuel leaned forward and splashed his face and neck with the cool river water. Something didn't feel right. Natives and coloureds shied away from white people's business, especially when the law was involved. Yet she was here in the hut with her shaking hands and uneven breath.

"You ever been inside before?"

"No." The word was sharp. "What would I be doing in Captain Pretorius's private place?"

"I don't know," Emmanuel answered drily. "Cleaning?" The neatness of the hut was another thing that didn't sit right. "Your mother ever tidy up for the captain?"

Her hands were behind her now, held out of sight. "I told you. Only Captain Pretorius was allowed."

"Who knows about this place?"

"Those at Bayete Lodge. Mr. King said not to tell people in town. He made everyone promise. The hut was going to be a surprise for the captain's sons at Christmas."

"You ever tell anyone about it?" Emmanuel studied his bruised knuckles, now eerily like the dead captain's.

"Never." The word was emphatic.

"How many people work at Bayete Lodge?" Clarity and focus, both bruised by the wooden club's b.l.o.o.d.y kiss, were slowly making a comeback. The first thing to do was narrow the field, concentrate on those who knew about the hut.

"About twenty," Davida said. "Most of them are back at the location for the weekend. Mr. King gave them two days off because of the funeral."

That narrowed the field of suspects for the attack down to a small footprint. "Who's at the lodge now?"

"My mother, Matthew the driver, Mr. King, Winston King, and Jabulani, the night watchman."

"Six, including you," Emmanuel said. The field narrowed to the head of a pin: large enough for angels to dance on but not thieves or murder suspects. "Any of those people leave the house?"

"Only me."

"You sure?"

Her gaze flickered up. "Everyone was there when I left."

He considered her for a moment, then turned toward the open door. The shy brown mouse was barely able to hold her own head up, let alone swing a club with enough force to knock out a grown man. Still, there was something about her being in the hut that niggled him. He moved on.

"You hear or see anything when you came near the hut?"

"Well..." she said. "There was something..."

"What?"

"A sound. It was a machine."

"A mechanical rattle like an engine." The memory, still hazy and clouded, pressed forward into the light. He'd heard the sound just before pa.s.sing out. "I remember now."

The pin-sized field of suspects collapsed into a black hole. His a.s.sailant had come to the hut with his own transport, a wooden club, and a full bladder. None of the workers at the lodge was likely to own anything more mechanical than a bicycle. That left the Dutchmen who'd ridden into town on tractors, motorbikes, cars, and pickup trucks. Did one of them slip away and follow him to the hut? There was no way to know.

Emmanuel crossed to the safe and pulled open the buckled lid. He'd report to Lieutenant Piet Lapping and tell him the truth: that he had nothing to show from the visit to King's farm. He put his hand into the safe to retrieve his filthy jacket. His fingers touched on the crumpled material and something else.

"Jesus..."

"What is it?"

He threw his jacket to one side and studied the square piece of cardboard-a wall calendar with the months stapled to the front in easy pull-off sections. Red ink circled the dates August 14 to 18; 18 was heavily ringed.

"Two days before he was murdered," Emmanuel said, and quickly flicked through the remaining months. It was the same on every page. Five to seven days marked in red ink, the last day marked out as special. He looked over the dates again. The pattern was clear, but the heavily circled day could mean anything.

"'Carlos Fernandez Photography Studio, Lorenzo Marques,'" Emmanuel read aloud from the calendar. The name was printed below a photograph of happy natives selling trinkets to whites on the beach. There was no street name or address: a low-profile business. Donny Rooke had been caught smuggling p.o.r.nography across the border from Mozambique. Did the captain take over Donny's flesh and photo trade?

"Captain Pretorius go to LM a lot?" he asked.

"Everyone does," she answered. "Even my people."

"How far is it?"

"Less than three hours by car."

The circled days could be pickup or delivery dates for some other form of contraband. Being a policeman meant easy pa.s.sage across the border. Wading across a river was for criminals and natives. A high-ranking officer could smuggle goods in comfort.

"How often did the captain visit? Once a month or so?"

"I don't know," she replied. "What the Dutchmen do is their business. You must ask Mrs. Pretorius or her sons."

Emmanuel rubbed his bruised knuckles. The red-marked days glowed with hypnotic brightness. Was he willing to hand over this vital information to Lieutenant Piet Lapping, who had made it clear that the "personal angle" was not something he was interested in? The calendar might just end up at the bottom of a drawer because it didn't fit the political angle the Security Branch was working.

"Can you keep a secret, Davida?"

"Uhh..." Her voice quivered with fearful antic.i.p.ation. The skin of her throat and face flushed and made her dark skin glow. Pa.s.sing for white was never going to be an option for the shy brown mouse.

"Not that kind of secret," he said. "You mustn't tell anyone about today. Not about me, the hiding place, or the calendar. Understand?"

She nodded.

"You have to look at me and promise not to tell anyone."

She lifted her head. "I promise."

"Not even your mother, hey, Davida?"

"Not even my mother." She repeated the phrase like a dutiful child instructed in the dark secrets of the house.

"Good," he said, and wondered how many white men had exacted the same promise once the sweat was dry and the shadow of the police loomed overhead. Even the use of her name, Davida, made him feel he'd crossed a line.

Emmanuel closed the safe and returned the cowhide rug to its original position before remaking the bed. He wondered about the sheets again. He folded the calendar and put it in the pocket of his jacket. Davida was the perfect accomplice. If he decided to keep the calendar to himself, the Security Branch would never approach her as a person of interest. He ducked through the low opening and followed Davida out of the compound.

A black horse with Thoroughbred leanings was tethered to the fence next to his Packard sedan. The stallion, all rippling muscle and glossy coat, was not destined for the glue factory anytime soon.

"Yours?" Emmanuel asked.

"No." She blushed. "I ride him for Mr. King."

"Ahh." That explained the unlikely teaming. In King's world the tedious upkeep of animals and property was a job for the servants. The habits of rich men duplicated themselves the world over.

Emmanuel pulled the car keys out of his jacket pocket. "You'll remember what we talked about?"

"Yes, of course." She made direct eye contact, let him feel the power he had over her. "I won't tell anyone, Detective Sergeant. I promise."

The urge to stroke her damp hair and say "good girl" was so strong he turned and rushed to the car without another word. If he wasn't careful he'd turn into a grown version of Constable Hansie Hepple: a puffed-up bully drunk on the extraordinary power handed to white policemen by the National Party.

Emmanuel sat back and closed his eyes. He needed a moment to get things clear in his head before driving back to Jacob's Rest and reporting in to the lieutenant.

"It felt good, didn't it?" It was the sergeant major again. Out of nowhere. It was the sergeant major again. Out of nowhere. "A man could get used to it. Learn to love it, even." "A man could get used to it. Learn to love it, even."

Emmanuel opened his eyes. Through the mud-flecked windscreen the dirt road unfurled in a soft red ribbon toward the horizon. Dark clouds gathered overhead, poised to feed the rivers and wildflowers with spring rain. He concentrated on the landscape, felt the dip and curve of it inside him.

"It won't work, boyo. n.o.body ignores me, you know that."

"Go away," Emmanuel said, and switched on the engine to drown the voice out. He drove to the dirt road cutting across King's farm and swung left toward the tarred road. G.o.d knows what was in the powder he'd swallowed back in the hut.

"I don't need a p.i.s.sy medicine to get to you, soldier. You'll have to cut off your head to get rid of me, because that's where I live. Up in there."

"What do you want?" He couldn't believe he'd answered. The sergeant major, all six feet two of him, was probably trussed up in a dingy Scottish retirement home for ex-military tyrants.

"To talk," the sergeant major said. the sergeant major said. "You know what I like about being out here? The open s.p.a.ce. Enough s.p.a.ce for a man to find out who he really is. You know what I'm saying, don't you?" "You know what I like about being out here? The open s.p.a.ce. Enough s.p.a.ce for a man to find out who he really is. You know what I'm saying, don't you?"

He didn't answer. The army psych test pa.s.sed him clean. "Healed and ready to return to active duty," that's what the hospital discharge papers said.

"Her trembling brown hands. The feeling in your chest, tight and burning."

Emmanuel slowed the car, afraid of crashing.

"You know what that was, don't you, Emmanuel, perfect soldier, natural-born leader, clever little detective?" The sergeant major continued his a.s.sault. The sergeant major continued his a.s.sault. "You want to think it was shame, but we know the truth, you and I." "You want to think it was shame, but we know the truth, you and I."

"f.u.c.k off."

"It's been so long since you felt anything."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do," the sergeant major said. the sergeant major said. "It gave you pleasure to hurt her and not say sorry. Felt good, didn't it, soldier boy?" "It gave you pleasure to hurt her and not say sorry. Felt good, didn't it, soldier boy?"

Emmanuel stopped the car and took deep, even breaths. It was daylight, hours yet before the war veteran's disease crept up on him in the form of sweaty nightmares.

He tore at the b.u.t.tons of his shirt and threw it onto the backseat with the jacket. The smell of the clothes had dragged buried memories to the surface. That's all it was. There was no truth in the sergeant major's bizarre accusations.

If the Security Branch caught even a whiff of the daylight hallucinations, he'd be off the case and in a sanatorium by week's end. Van Niekerk couldn't help him. He'd be suspended pending psychiatric evaluation and there was every chance he'd fail the test.

"You finished?" Emmanuel asked.

"Don't worry," the sergeant major purred. the sergeant major purred. "I won't make a habit of visiting you. If there's something important to say, I'll drop by and let you know. It's my job to keep you alive, remember?" "I won't make a habit of visiting you. If there's something important to say, I'll drop by and let you know. It's my job to keep you alive, remember?"

8.

LIEUTENANT P PIET L LAPPING and d.i.c.kie Steyns huddled over a decade's worth of files. A row of empty beer bottles sat on top of the filing cabinet. After an afternoon of steady drinking and mind-numbing file checking, the Security Branch boys would be in a foul mood, ready to jump on anything new. Emmanuel pushed the door open and stepped into the room. and d.i.c.kie Steyns huddled over a decade's worth of files. A row of empty beer bottles sat on top of the filing cabinet. After an afternoon of steady drinking and mind-numbing file checking, the Security Branch boys would be in a foul mood, ready to jump on anything new. Emmanuel pushed the door open and stepped into the room.

"Where the f.u.c.k have you been?" Lapping snapped, and lit a cigarette.

"Taking a bath," Emmanuel said. "You were right. Being a field detective is dirty work."

"I thought I smelled lavender," d.i.c.kie said.

Piet ignored his partner. "How did your visit with King go? Find out anything you'd like to share with us, Cooper?"

Emmanuel felt a kick of fear in the pit of his stomach. Did he really have the steel to withhold evidence from the Security Branch? If they found out, they'd make him pay in blood.

"I did a search of Captain Pretorius's hut," he said, "but didn't find anything. It was clean, like someone had tidied the place up."

"Hut?" d.i.c.kie's brain was just firing up. "What hut?"

"The captain built one on King's farm. He used it for R&R." Emmanuel spoke directly to d.i.c.kie. "That's rest and recreation, for those of you who don't speak army bachelor talk."

d.i.c.kie stubbed his cigarette out with a grinding action that made the ashtray creak. "One day you going to get that clever head of yours kicked in, my vriend. You wait and see."

Emmanuel smiled. "Headkicker is one up from s.h.i.tkicker, isn't it? Your ma must be proud."

The veins on d.i.c.kie's neck swelled and he stepped forward. He clenched his fists.

"Sit down, d.i.c.kie," pockmarked Piet ordered calmly. "Cooper here is just playing with you. Aren't you, Cooper?"

Emmanuel shrugged.

"About the hut..." Piet continued where d.i.c.kie had lost the thread. "You'll take us there tomorrow morning and show us everything of importance."

"That's not possible," Emmanuel said. "It's Sunday. I'll be in church for the morning service."

"You religious?" Piet asked with a trace of disbelief. There was no mention of it in the thin intelligence file.

"Aren't you?" Emmanuel asked.