She checked her watch. Of the seventy-two hours, twelve had passed. Sixty remaining. Six, seven, eight hours to reach Kimberley. A lot could happen in that time.
She looked around at the waiting faces throughout the room. Anxious. Tired. Chagrined. They needed rest, to regain their courage. A hot shower and a hot breakfast. Perspective.
She smiled at the Ops Room. ?We know where he is, people. And he has only one place to go. We?ll get him.?
At the T junction he nearly fell again. As he braked sharply the motorbike slid and he had to wrench his body to stay upright.
Pain focused in his shoulder. The signpost opposite him said Lox-ton to the left, Victoria West to the right. He hesitated for long seconds, wavering. Instinct made him turn left because it was the only unpredictable option he could make. He kept moving, the events that lay behind him resting heavily on him; he would have to check the map again.
He would have to sleep.
But it was raining, he couldn'?t just park in the veld and lay his head down, he needed a tent.
The dirt road was bad, the surface erratic, where it dipped it was easy to expect the soft mud; he kept to the middle. His hands were freezing; his head dull now that the adrenaline had worked itself out of his system. He wanted to defer thinking about the two soldiers and his own deep disappointment when he picked up the motorbike and got going again, fleetingly surprised at the lack of damage, at the engine that sprang to life at the first turn, taking off with back wheel waggling in the sodden ground. He was disappointed in himself, over the incredible hatred that had come over the radio, but he didn?'t want to think of that now.
He made a list of his problems. They knew where he was. They would count his options on a map. They were using the army, unlimited manpower, helicopters. Vehicles? He was weary, a deep fatigue, his shoulder muscles were damaged or badly bruised, his knee less so. He had been driven from the highway, the fast route was denied. It was raining.
Add that to the list: he had no stomach for it; he wanted to go home to Miriam and Pakamile.
He saw the homestead out of the corner of his eye. To the left of the road, a ruin between stony ridges and thorn trees that suddenly made sense. It altered the predictable, offered a solution and rest. He pulled the brakes carefully, turned about slowly, and rode back to the two-track turnoff The gate lay open, ramshackle and neglected. He went slowly up the rocky track, the handlebars jerking in his hands. He saw the cement reservoir and the windmill, the old house, windows filled with cardboard, walls faded by the Karoo sun, tin roof without gutters, the water running off in streams. He rode around to the back and stopped.
Did anyone live here? No sign of life, but he remained on the bike, hand on the accelerator. No washing on a line, no tracks, no vehicle.
He turned the key, switched off the engine, clipped open the helmet.
?Hullooooo ??
Just the sound of rain on the roof.
He climbed stiffly off, put the bike on the stand, careful to prevent it from tipping over in the soft ground. Pulled off the sodden gloves and the helmet.
There was a back door, paint long since peeled away. He knocked, the sound was hollow??Hullo?? he turned an antique doorknob? was it locked?? put his good shoulder to the door, pushed, no luck.
He walked around, checking the road. No sound or sign of traffic.
No door on that side. He walked back, tried to peer through a window, through a crack between cardboard and frame, but it was too dark inside. He went back to the door, turning the knob, bumped hard with his shoulder, a bang, and it swung wide open. A field mouse scurried across the floor, disappearing into a corner; the smell was of abandonment, musty.
The small coal stove against the wall was once black, now dull gray, the handle of the coal scuttle was broken off. A dilapidated cupboard, iron bedstead with a coir mattress. An ancient wooden table, two plastic milk crates, an enamel basin, dust and spider-webs.
For a moment he stood there, considering. The motorbike could not be seen from the road. Nobody had been there in weeks.
He made up his mind. He fetched his bag from the bike, closed the door properly, and sat down on the mattress.
Just for an hour or two. Just to ease the fatigue.
He pulled off the leathers and boots, found warm clothes in his bag, shook the worst dust from the mattress, and lay down with the bag as his pillow.
Just an hour or two.
Then he would study the map and define his options.
The news that the fugitive had outmaneuvered the helicopters and the roadblock, that one Special Forces soldier was being flown to Bloemfontein by helicopter, spread through the law enforcement community like a brushfire. By the time Allison Healy contacted her source in Laingsburg, it had garnered the baroque embellishments of a legend in the making.
?And he is ex-MK. He?s a forty-year-old has-been fucking up the spies left, right, and center,? Erasmus told her with relish so that she could have no doubt that the police were enjoying every minute of the drama.
?I know he?s a war veteran,? she said, ?but why are they after him??
?How did you know that?? Erasmus was hungry for more gossip.
?I had a visitor. An old friend. Why are they chasing him??
?They won?t say. That?s the one thing the fuckers won?t say.?
