The sun beat down on the roof of the Studebaker as Margaret Drummond drove her seven-year-old daughter Lilly along the mountain road from the school in Springbok. The Cape Town newspaper she'd picked up in town was a week old, and the news in it was even older. The American president, Kennedy, had been shot in a motorcade in Dallas. That all seemed very remote to her, here in South Africa. They said it was dangerous here, but she'd never felt particularly threatened, and couldn't imagine such a barbarous act as an assassination happening in the regimented society of South Africa's diamond mining communities. Of course things could be pretty rough if you were Coloured. But she and Charles had built a fairly nice life for themselves and Lilly, isolated from all that nastiness. It was a privileged existence they led, she knew. 

She looked over at her daughter. It was two weeks before Christmas, and Lilly was full of excitement about the holidays. The child straightened the beret on her head, then scrambled onto her knees and reached over into the back seat for her school bag.

"Sit back down Lilly, this is a dangerous road," cautioned Margaret. The child turned back and began rummaging through her papers.

Glancing into the rear-view mirror, Margaret noticed the large, black automobile behind them drawing closer. She slowed a little, and waved her hand out the window, indicating to the driver to pass. It was the only straight stretch on the treacherous road. 

They had been behind her for several minutes, and she had begun to get worried. Charles had been concerned of late about Winston's erratic behavior. He'd warned her to stay away from his unscrupulous partner. Not that she'd needed much urging. She'd never gotten along with the man. She'd never trusted him.

The driver of the other vehicle sped up, but instead of passing her, he suddenly rammed into the back of her car. Lilly screamed as she was hurled forward onto the dashboard of the car.

"Lilly, my God, are you alright?" said the frantic woman, attempting to gain control of the vehicle.

Before the child could answer the black automobile hit them again.

Margaret swerved out of control. The edge of the road came rushing up toward them. Beyond that edge was open air, and then a 500-foot drop, to the base of the mountain.

She was still spinning the wheel in a futile effort to regain control, as the vehicle plunged over the edge.

***

The orange South African sun was setting behind the scrub-covered hills of North Cape as Charles Drummond stood at the roadside, looking into the abyss. In his hand he clutched two pink roses, his daughter's favorite color.

The car had been removed, and his wife and daughter laid to rest in the village cemetery. Still, he was drawn to the spot where it had happened. 

Gouges in the dirt border of the road marked the place where the car had started its plunge. Bark was torn off the huge tree as the car had crashed past, leaving deep scratches in the trunk.

The police said that it wasn't an accident. The car had been hit from behind, more than once.

They said that there were no leads. Perhaps that's what they'd been told to say, he didn't know. But he did know who had done it.

Winston.

Only Winston could be so heartless.

Perhaps he should go kill the man, right now.

But if he did, he couldn't be sure that the secret wouldn't come out.

Not the secret about the diamonds. That was his to take to the grave.

The other secret.

The boy.

Was revenge worth endangering the last remaining person that he loved?

Perhaps there was another way.

He watched the last sliver of sun die, and shivered even though the air wasn't cold.

Time was on his side. He could destroy Winston, perhaps with time alone. And if not time, a trap. He would set a trap that would destroy his hated rival. Even if it took more than a lifetime, he would make the man pay.

He opened his hand and watched the two pink roses settle silently into the abyss.

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