The front door to the house opened, and Lucas watched the new strangers file into the clinic, gazing inside with eagerness, clasping their children’s hands tightly. We made it. That was what their loving squeezes to each other meant, Lucas knew. Everything will be all right now.
“Bullshit,” Lucas muttered aloud. “What she’s doing in there is a bunch of bullshit, folks.” His voice sounded phlegmy, like an old man’s. “Bullshit!” he said again, bucking in his seat, nearly shouting this time.
But why was Alexis withholding the blood? That was the thing he still didn’t understand. He’d replayed his first conversation with her in his mind until he could hear snatches of it even when he was dozing to sleep, just to make sure he hadn’t only fooled himself into thinking the blood was real. He had to admit to himself she’d never admitted a damn thing, not in words. But her eyes. Her eyes had said it all.
“I’ve got to give you your proper due, Alexis Jacobs,” Lucas said, hardly realizing he was talking to himself, which he did often now. “You are one tough bitch. Yes, you are.”
Alexis had lost her patience. That morning, she’d come out and told him curtly, “You’re attracting attention to us by sitting out here like this, Lucas,” which Lucas had thought was like complaining to a man who’d caught fire that his screaming was making a scene. Oh, she was tough!
But he could be tough, too. This was the thing Lucas had begun to discover, when his mind wandered to its nether regions and he realized he had more choices than he’d believed. Sometimes he recoiled from his thoughts in guilt and horror, and sometimes he didn’t. Mostly, he enjoyed the new liberation of his thoughts, because he’d begun hoping again. He could get the blood, couldn’t he? If he really wanted to, he could get it tonight.
Lucas’s heart began to flurry, as it always did when his mind roved. The sudden excitement in his system made him feel slightly dizzy, and he took a couple of quick gulps from the jug of bottled water he’d bought on his last trip to Serowe.
Desperate times, desperate measures, he told himself.
“But you won’t hurt anyone,” Lucas said, talking to his unshaved reflection in the rearview mirror. The stubble that covered his face was growing in white, just like his father’s beard, and it seemed to Lucas that it had never looked quite this white before. “You’ll break into the house after dark. You’ll surprise them. It would be easier if the Shabalala man was gone, but you can’t fret about that now. You’ll have to deal with him, too. When you go to town to call Jared today, you’ll get a knife, something big and intimidating. It’s a psychological ploy, that’s all. They have to believe you would hurt them, but you know you won’t. You’ll force them to give you some blood. They’ll see they won’t have a choice, and then you can go home to Jared.”
Lucas was breathing faster. His head whirled. The words sounded so foreign in his voice, from his own lips. What the hell was he talking about? But then again, another part of him wondered, why had it taken him so long to think of it?
His voice went on in a detached, logical tone, “You’ve given them every opportunity. You’ve begged, you’ve pleaded, you’ve waited. You’ve run out of time, that’s all. You could do this another way, maybe, but there’s no more time. There’s just no time.”
Yes, and things fall apart, he thought. Plans fall apart. People fall apart.
It was just the way of things, Lucas thought. The way it had to be.
• • •
The scientist out in the car was a sorry mess. Stephen Shabalala hated the sight of him.
Stephen didn’t understand why he was walking toward Lucas Shepard’s car that afternoon instead of climbing into the bakkie he’d hired in Gaborone, which he’d parked out back at Alex’s insistence because she said it was unsightly. He could be making his way back to Gaborone to catch the next flight to SA. He’d already wasted so much time! The sun was low in the sky, so he could tell without even glancing at his watch that it must be after three o’clock, or nearly four. He had a long drive, and he should leave right this instant.
He finally had what he wanted. He had the blood.
After so much waiting, Sarah had filled the five vials he’d brought in his metallic briefcase with blood. There had been some truly terrifying moments when he’d wondered if Sarah would stand firm this time and send him away with nothing. She’d seemed distrustful, hardly willing to consider that there might be some truth to his story about their mother’s illness. She’d accused him of lying, and he’d pretended to be hurt, although it hadn’t been difficult to produce indignant tears.
But despite the tears, she had still delayed him, saying he had to visit at least two days or Alex might suspect his true purpose there. She also seemed nervous about sneaking into Alex’s room, as if great harm would come to her if she was caught. For the first time, Stephen wondered if his sister was actually afraid of these American women she worked for. He’d asked her, and her eyes had dropped away. “They do so much good,” she’d said barely audibly. “But they are witches.”
Not that Stephen needed his sister to tell him that much. The young one, the demon, had been enough to prove that to him. How could he forget? He’d come to visit once, when the demon was still half-naked in a diaper, and she’d looked him directly in the eye and said, “It’s bad to lie to Sarah.” He thought he’d piss himself! It was queer enough for a child that young to speak a clear sentence, but worse still that she’d spoken so directly to him, that she’d known his heart. Thank goodness he’d been lucky enough this time to turn up while the demon child and her mother were away! He would never be that lucky again.
This was the last time. After this, he was out of the blood business for good.
But had he jumped into his bakkie to drive on the main road to Gaborone, which was more than three hundred kilometers from here? Was he on his way yet so he could catch an early-morning flight? Had he taken himself that much closer to his destiny as a rich man? No, he groused. Instead, he was walking out to the scientist’s car, where the man was sleeping like a vagrant. Stephen carried with him a large jug of sorghum beer he’d liberated from Alex’s kitchen. The scientist might be on a hunger strike, but that was no reason they couldn’t share a drink.
Stephen felt like celebrating, that was all. There was nowhere to find a jol just now, and he didn’t have time to visit his favorite shebeen in Serowe, but he could have a drink with this unfortunate man. Perhaps some of his good fortune might rub off.
“Wake up!” Stephen said, pulling open the driver’s-side door, which was unlocked. Lucas jumped, wide-eyed, his expression nearly comical. “You’re a terrible sight, man, the way you’re hanging about. Haven’t you ever heard the saying that after three days, fish and houseguests are no longer fresh?”
Uninvited, Stephen sat down inside the car beside Lucas. It smelled stale and dirty in here; Lucas had not bathed, and he seemed to prefer to keep the car nearly airtight. Probably to try to keep out the cold, Stephen guessed. A hell of a thing, sleeping outside.
“You’re one to talk,” Lucas said groggily, shielding his eyes from the late-afternoon daylight. His lips were dry. “You were here when I got here.”
“And now I’m leaving! You should take the hint.”
“Leaving . . . ?” Unless it was Stephen’s imagination, he saw two distinct expressions pass across Dr. Shepard’s face, which suddenly looked extremely alert; it was as if the news of his departure both delighted and frightened the scientist.
“That’s right, I’m off. But first, I came to share a drink with the man my sister and Dr. Jacobs have so much respect for.”
Lucas coughed a dry cough, looking surprised. “Respect?”
“You’re not going to keep repeating my every word, I hope? That won’t make for much of a conversation.” Stephen extended the jug toward Lucas. “It’s bojolwa, a home brew one of the travelers brought. Have some.”
Lucas gazed at the jug, incredulous, then waved it away. “I can’t. Empty stomach.”
/> “All the more reason, then. Come on. I won’t leave till you have your share. A good home brew is wasted at this house.”
With a sigh, Lucas took the plastic jug from him and downed a few good swallows. He made a face, wrenching it away from his lips. “Ugh! Tastes like . . . metal,” he spat.
“That’s how you know they’ve got it right.” Then, in a more somber voice, Stephen said, “Today, we drink to the health of your son. Cheers.”
Lucas nodded, sipping again. “Cheers,” he said, and handed the jug back to Stephen. “But that won’t help my son.”
Stephen grunted. He couldn’t deny the guilt he felt. Sarah had given him enough blood to fill five vials—three for customers, one for him, and one extra. He’d intended to give the extra vial to his mother, even though he knew she would never touch it. She didn’t trust the American women; she’d said it many times before, and it would be no different now. Besides, he had enough blood in his own vial to share with his mother, really. He’d never been seriously ill, and he’d been told by past customers that only a single drop of this stuff was potent beyond belief. The fifth vial had no home. Not yet. But he knew it was worth an untold fortune.
Dr. Shepard was rubbing his face with both hands. “So, what was that you said about how they respect me?” he mumbled. “They have a funny way of showing it.”
Stephen laughed after finishing his sip of the bojolwa. Homebrew was an acquired taste, all right, but this was a good batch. “It’s quite true, you know. I’ve heard them talking about Dr. Lucas Shepard and his . . . what prize was it you won? The Nobel Prize?”
“Hardly.”
“Well, it’s a prize they value. And I recognize you myself now, you know. Your face is on my vitamin bottle! You’re quite a celebrity.” Stephen paused, measuring his words. “That’s why she’s afraid of you, you know. Dr. Jacobs, I mean.”
Now, Stephen had the scientist’s full attention. Lucas had flipped up his seat so that he was sitting completely straight. Stephen had forgotten how tall Lucas was, so the man’s sudden height beside him in the cramped car was startling. “You know about the blood, don’t you?” the scientist said.
Stephen gave the jug back to him. “Don’t get excited. Have a drink. These women don’t share their secrets with me,” he said, repeating the lie he had told Dr. Shepard many times before.
Lucas obliged, gulping quickly, but his eyes burned into Stephen. “Your own sister? That’s hard to believe. Come on, cut the bullshit.”
Stephen shrugged. “Women are good at keeping secrets. And that’s best, really. Because, you know, if they really had magic blood here, think of the danger to them. Think how everyone would be looking for it. I tell you, I thought I was being followed myself, when I was on my way here. I don’t think it was just my imagination, either.”
“Why would someone follow you?”
Stephen gazed hard at the scientist. Could he only be pretending to be so stupid? “For the blood! If it does exist, then who wouldn’t want it? They’ll soon be run from here just as they were in Zululand. I predict it. I’ve been thinking this through,” he said, tapping his forehead with his index finger. “What Sarah and this Dr. Jacobs have been doing is very noble. Treating children for no charge out in the bush! It’s noble, but the risk to them is insane. And even if they treat thousands of children, how meaningful is that in the scheme of the world? It’s nothing. This is a big world. Africa is dying all around them. But who else should have it, then? Profiteers? In the hands of profiteers, no one could afford this blood. You see? And, there again, it’s meaningless in the world. It means nothing in the end.”
“Not necessarily,” Lucas said. “If we knew where it comes from, how they—”
“Yes! Dr. Jacobs thinks too small. She might have the greatest discovery in the world, and she’s done nothing with it. In the right hands, someone like you . . . a famous scientist, I mean . . .” Suddenly, Stephen stopped himself, feeling his pulse quickening as he realized his mouth was running ahead of his brain. Quickly he added, “That’s only wishful thinking. As I’ve said, they don’t tell me their secrets. They don’t trust me any more than they trust you—maybe less. In my hands, believe me, the blood would only be on the black market.”
Lucas was gazing at him in a stony, probing silence. Stephen realized he might have said too much, especially to a man in such desperate circumstances.
“Sarah says they’re witches,” Stephen said, changing the subject. “We have a saying in Zulu, you know: ‘Magic will destroy its master in the end.’ I hope Sarah remembers that. She stays with them because she enjoys the healing. She says some good can come of it. I hope so, but I wonder. Sometimes I think there is no good to it at all.” Again, without realizing it, he had begun speaking his heart to this stranger. Why did he long so much to tell this man the truth? To Stephen, it was as if this scientist’s horrible dilemma gave him a tragic nobility, making him a confessor. Yet, Stephen could not confess. Instead, he sighed. “I wish I could help you, Dr. Shepard. I wish you could help your son and everyone else, too. But these are just dreams. I’m only one man.”
Lucas nodded, hope ebbing from his face. He reached for the jug on his own, drinking for such a long time that Stephen was annoyed, wondering if there would be enough left for him. Finally, Lucas put the jug down, wiping excess foam from his lips. “I have to get it,” he said simply. “No one seems to understand that. But I have to get it today. I don’t have a choice.”
There was something in the scientist’s eyes that Stephen didn’t like. Stephen had seen that look before, in the eyes of men who were ready to become martyrs.
“Maybe you will, Dr. Shepard.” Stephen was bursting to say more, but couldn’t afford to jeopardize his departure. He couldn’t say anything that would compromise his sister. He had to think of himself now. “Maybe you will, then.”
This time, he felt no irritation as he watched Lucas swallow from the jug in greedy gulps. The man was in pain, after all. Stephen had no children, so he couldn’t understand the pain—but he could imagine how it must feel, to be so far from one’s dying son because one’s beliefs are so strong. He had met other men with that sort of courage, but many of them were dead now. They’d been good men with similar pain, hoping to give their children lives of value, and they had not lived to see better days.
Surprising himself, Stephen found that he was blinking tears from his eyes. “Enjoy it, Dr. Shepard. I’m off now. I hope you get your blood.”
“I’ll get it,” the scientist said, sounding both certain and sad.
That man’s voice would haunt him his whole life, Stephen thought.
And it did. It haunted him as he packed up the few clothes he’d bought for himself, fastened his leather pouch around his waist, and gave his sister a hug good-bye. He held Sarah longer than he’d planned, hugging her close, swamped first with remorse, then gratitude.
“Be safe, my silly little brother,” she whispered to him. Familiar words from her.
“Of course I will. And you, too,” he said, meaning it.
Lucas’s voice still haunted Stephen as he opened his metallic briefcase one last time to examine the five vials, all of them bright with milky crimson blood, nestled snugly in place. Then, after a polite good-bye to Alex—their dealings had always been only polite since the night she’d made love to him on her living room floor back in Zululand, when beer and conversation had apparently gone too far for her comfort; she had never shown him that girlish, wanton side of herself since—Stephen loaded everything into the front seat of his bakkie and started the engine. A cloud of dust rose around him as the truck lurched out of the yard, past the front gate. He slowed as he approached the scientist’s parked car.
From his high berth in the truck’s cab, Stephen could see that the man was dead asleep, even sitting upright. His head was lolled back, his mouth wide open. Maybe Dr. Shepard had been right, Stephen thought, chuckling. Maybe it wasn’t good to drink bojolwa on an empty stomach.
> I’ll get it, the voice of the scientist tormented his mind.
Stephen Shabalala never understood why he did what he did next. Maybe it was pure selflessness, a belief that a prize-winning scientist deserved the blood more than anyone else because of what he might do with it. Or, maybe something in his three words, I’ll get it, had put Stephen’s hind-brain on alert, a realization that the desperate man camped out in his car might do something dangerous to save his son.
Whatever the reason, Stephen made a few quick glances to make sure he was not being watched. He found no one in sight, just the few scattered rondavel huts some distance away, and no one watching from Alex’s house. Satisfied, he unlocked his briefcase with its four-number combination and pulled out one of the warm, precious vials of blood. As always, his fingers thrilled to touch it. These scant few milliliters would make miracles.
It was a gift from God himself, he thought. It had to be.
Lucas didn’t stir as Stephen opened the driver’s-side door again and didn’t seem to feel the car bounce when Stephen leaned inside, balancing himself with one knee across the empty driver’s seat. Carefully, Stephen unzipped the sleeping scientist’s red down vest, pulled it aside, and slipped the sealed glass blood vial into his front breast pocket, where he would be sure to feel it when he finally awoke from his home-brew sleep. In his condition, he might sleep clear until morning.