transferred to a Swiss bank account. The new identities came next.
He joined Susan in Miami. They both had news. He told her what he had really been doing. She told him that she was pregnant.
She cried, raged at him. wanted to go home. She wanted their life back.
Then she had stopped crying and agreed to go with him, and the three of them caught a plane to Cape Town.
The kid in the van hadn’t died. He’d sung a long and loud plea bargain, and Jack Burn had joined the U.S. Marshals’ MOST WANTED list.
The dogs found them first. A pack of strays roaming the Flats were drawn by the smell of the bodies. They ripped open the plastic garbage bags with their teeth and claws, then recoiled at the ripe stench of rotting human. They ran off to root in the trash cans of the nearby houses.
Ronnie September and Cassiem Davids came upon them next, sometime after eight in the morning. They were both eleven years old, in their school uniforms, but they had no intention of going to school.
They headed across the open veld, sucking on illicit cigarettes, putting as much distance between themselves and their homes in Paradise Park as they could. They were going to jump a taxi and head for Bellville to play arcade games.
It was Ronnie who saw the white Nikes sticking out of the grass. He stopped and pointed. “Check that, man.”
Cassiem stared. “Those is Nikes.”
“I know that. You think I’m stupid?”
The two boys edged closer to the body of a short, skinny man, only partly covered by black garbage bags. Boys their age who grow up on the Cape Flats are no strangers to dead bodies, but the stench was fierce.
“Look, there’s another one.” Ronnie was pointing to where the body of a tall man spilled from the torn bags. He ran a discerning eye over the lanky corpse’s outfit. “His clothes is shit, man.”
“God, but it stinks.” Cassiem was covering his nose with his hand.
Ronnie sucked on his cigarette and stepped closer to the small corpse. The dead man lay on his back, the jagged slash in his throat gaping at the sky. “Yaaaw. He was cut, hey?”
Cassiem was looking over Ronnie’s shoulder. “Those pants is nice. Diesel.”
“It’s full of blood, man.” Ronnie stooped a little lower. “Maybe he got a phone.”
“I’m not putting my hands in there.”
Ronnie was eyeing the shoes. “That Nikes is brand-new.”
“I saw them first!”
Ronnie gave his friend a shove. “So, you gonna take them off him? Do it then!”
Cassiem said nothing, took a step back.
Ronnie shook his head, disgusted. “My little sister got more balls than you, man.”
“Ja, okay, then let me see you do it. Come.”
Ronnie eyeballed his friend. He’d always kept a safe distance from the bodies he had seen before, watched as cops or paramedics had shoveled tm into bags and carted them away. This was different. Shit, this was fucken disgusting.
But he looked down at his torn and scruffy running shoes, inherited from his brother. There was no way he was ever going to afford a pair of Nikes like these.
Ronnie took a deep breath and knelt down and pulled loose the laces of one of the shoes. He almost puked from the stink. He untied the other shoe. Then he tried to get the shoe off. The corpse had bloated and stiffened, and the shoe was tight on the foot. Ronnie was tugging, and that set the dead man’s head lolling back, the wound opening even wider, and a fat white worm crawled out.
It was too much for Cassiem, and he spewed his breakfast of egg and leftover mince curry onto his shoes.
Ronnie wasn’t giving up. He tugged again and finally managed to get a shoe off, falling onto his butt in the process. Then he attacked the second shoe and separated it from the dead man’s foot.
Ronnie stood, triumphant. He held the shoes up in front of Cassiem, dangling them by the laces. “Gottem.”
“They fucken stink.”
“Yours stink, and you aren’t even dead yet.”
Ronnie walked away from the bodies, Cassiem tagging after him. Ronnie sat down and pulled off his old shoes and threw them as far as he could into the bush. He slipped on the new Nikes.
“They fit perfect.” He stood, lifting his trousers to his ankles, flexing his toes.
Then he grabbed Cassiem by the tie and pulled him close. “You keep your fucken mouth shut about this, okay?”
Cassiem nodded. Ronnie was already walking toward the road. Cassiem shot a look back over his shoulder at the red socks sticking out of the garbage bag; then he followed his friend.
CHAPTER 8
Burn fetched Susan from the clinic shortly before noon. She looked pale but composed as he helped her into the front of the Jeep. He lifted Matt into the back and belted him into the car seat.
Susan didn’t look at him as they drove. “Where are we going?”
“Home. To the house.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want to go back there, Jack.”
“Susan…”
“I mean it. Not after what happened.”
He said nothing, then realized that his knuckles were white on the steering wheel. He forced himself to relax. “Where do you want to go then?”
“I don’t care. A hotel. Anywhere but that house.”
He pulled over and stopped. An almost absurdly beautiful expanse of sun-washed ocean and mountain spread out below them. Neither of them was looking at the view.
“Susan, it’s important that we don’t do anything out of the ordinary. Anything that could attract attention.”
“You mean like kill a couple of locals in our dining room?” She was furious, two red spots touching her cheekbones. Susan shut her eyes briefly and took a breath, her hands resting on her swollen belly. She looked over her shoulder at Matt, who was staring at his parents anxiously.
Susan reached back and caressed Matt’s hair. “It’s okay, Matty. Mommy and Daddy aren’t fighting.”
Burn, watching in the rearview mirror, saw an uncertain smile touch his son’s lips. Susan turned to face forward again, staring down at the ocean below.
“Baby, you need to relax. Please.” Burn tried to take her hand. When she pulled it away, he noticed that she wasn’t wearing her wedding ring. “Where’s your ring?”
She looked at him. “Jack, did you hear a word I said yesterday? About going home?”
“Of course. It’s all I’ve been thinking about.”
“I meant what I said.”
“I know you did. And I understand.” He had to get ahold of himself, force himself to keep it together. “All I’m asking for is some time. To organize myself.”
“How much time?”
“A couple of days. A week at the most. Until then, we need to keep up our usual routine.”
She was looking at him, intuiting something. “What’s going on, Jack? What’s happened at the house?”
“Nothing. Nothing’s happened.”
“Don’t lie to me. Please.”
He nodded. “Okay. Those… those men left a car in the street, outside the building site. It must have been reported. A cop was around asking some questions.”
