Their colleague’s abrupt departure had surprised everyone. One afternoon Ian had left work as usual, and the next morning their team had received an email from the department chair saying Ian was no longer employed at Cornwell Industries.
“A unique guy,” Sarah said. “I hope everything works out for him. Sounds like he has a few demons to face.”
“Agreed,” Adam said. “A smart guy like him will land on his feet somewhere, as long as he gets out of his own way. But enough about Ian.” He tapped her shoulder. “Someone has a big trip to get ready for. Don’t you leave tomorrow?”
Sarah nodded. “I have to make sure my duties at the zoo are covered while I’m gone. And I have to pack.”
“So why are you waiting around here?” Adam laughed, opening his arms. “Time to get moving, Dr. Hall. I can close the lab. You need to go.”
She gave him a quick hug. Adam Mendy was a good guy. “Thanks. I’m only gone for a week. Try not to burn the place down.”
“I’ll do my best.”
After confirming her test results had transferred into Cornwell’s database, Sarah made a single circuit of the lab, gathering what little she needed for the trip, then did the same in her office. Not that she needed to bring much. The facilities in Zurich offered every tool a veterinary researcher could want. Managed by the World Health Organization and funded by several of the world’s largest pharmaceutical companies, the cleverly named Joint Research Laboratory in Zurich was one of the top research labs in the world.
Along with other organizations, Cornwell Industries contributed ongoing funding for the facility, and as such, Sarah had the chance to work with others in the exciting new field of CRISPR research. Suffice it to say, she had a surprise in store for them. No one else had ever altered a targeted portion of genetic material to produce a specific result. Until today, that is. Sarah had changed the mouse’s genetic make-up to create what was likely the world’s fastest mouse. With Adam having agreed to run tests for her during her journey to Zurich, she would have solid data to support her findings when she shared them with the group.
Gooseflesh rose on her forearms as Sarah zipped her laptop bag shut. All those years spent studying, all the lab time. All the failed experiments. Everything had led to this. Not that she wanted to make fast mice. While any sort of human application lay far down the road, she had a chance to help her favorite patients right now, the four-legged, furry beings who also needed help. Sarah had taken a giant leap forward in providing help for the sick animals who held a special place in her heart.
A summer breeze warmed her face as Sarah walked outside, her auburn hair flicking back and forth, sparkling in the sunlight. Horns honked and exhaust clawed at her throat as she dodged through the crowds, aiming for the subway. With a potential game-changing find in her back pocket, any thoughts of feeling lost among all the world-class scientists she’d be teamed with over the next two weeks vanished. Or at least faded somewhat.
She took a deep breath. What if one of them showed up with the same type of discovery? Or a further advancement, beyond what she’d done? Silly to think that, but you never knew. The years in veterinary school flashed across her mind, back to a time before she had delved into the cutthroat world of international research. Back to when she had only had to worry about the animals, caring for them, doing her best. Then she had discovered how much more she could help by conducting research. It had started out as a hobby, but in the next few days she’d be facing down men and women from pharmaceutical giants like Bayer and GlaxoSmithKline. Not that it was a competition, but even so. Losing at anything didn’t sit well with her. Nor did the attitudes of some of the snooty academics who populated these types of events.
Easy. You’ll be fine. You’ve got this. Everyone else seemed to know it. Now she had to convince herself.
Chapter 3
Mwanza, Tanzania
May 20th
The Mwanza police station offered scarcely contained chaos at the best of times and this early morning was no different. Reed’s nose wrinkled as he pushed past two handcuffed and disheveled men in blood-soaked shirts. Both had broken noses, and he remarked to himself that they should be thankful for it. They smelled as though they’d fought each other atop a manure pile.
“They will be sorry when the drink wears off,” Nixon Ereng said as he led Reed toward his office. “Please, have a seat.”
Reed and Paul settled into chairs facing Nixon’s massive, battered desk. The thing looked sturdy enough to stop a bullet, and judging from its condition, it may have done so.
“Another successful night,” Reed said. “Your men are getting good at this.”
Nixon Ereng inclined his head. “It is a team effort.” He pulled off his sweat-stained police ball cap. “We are fortunate to have young men such as you, Paul. The poachers do not seem to age as I do.”
“I am nearly twenty,” Paul said.
Nixon’s baritone laugh boomed off the cement walls. “I am joking, young man. Do not wish the years away. Soon you will have a beard and a head full of snow, like mine.” Nixon ran a hand through his hair. “Father Time comes for us all.”
“A little gray never hurt,” Reed said, cracking a grin. “Gives a man character.”
“Now the elephants will grow old,” Nixon said. “Gray is not a problem for them.” The chair beneath his elongated form creaked as he swiveled around to fiddle with the air conditioner behind him. Knobs twisted, curses flowed, and after a solid whack the big machine grew even louder. “That is better.”
“Are you sending those two men away for trial?” Reed asked.
“Yes, same as the others we have arrested. These two will go to Dar-es-Salaam for prosecution.”
“I have a question.” Paul twisted the hem of his shirt in both hands. “Why do you not send them to the judge here in Mwanza?” he asked. He didn’t look at Nixon when he spoke.
“A good question.” Nixon waited until Paul looked up to answer. “Mwanza is a small town, which is good in many ways. In others, it is not. You grew up in Mwanza?” Paul nodded. “When you go out, do you know many of the people you see?” Paul nodded again. “This is the problem.”
Paul’s head tilted to one side. “I do not understand.”
“Think like a criminal,” Reed said. “If you’re from here, chances are you know most everyone. Doesn’t matter if you’re a cop or a criminal: you grew up with the same people, but some turned out different than others. Say you’re a poacher. One of your old friends could be a judge now. Or a cop.” Nixon frowned at that but said nothing. “When you come up for trial, your old buddy might help you out, get you off on a lesser charge.”
“That is illegal,” Paul said.
“So is poaching,” Reed said. “Doesn’t stop people from doing it. Once we catch them, Chief Ereng doesn’t want them to get off without being punished, which could happen in a small town like this. So instead of handling it here he sends them to a bigger city. Larger cities have more judges who don’t know the criminals. They’re harder to bribe or intimidate, which means more bad guys go to jail.”
“It is not a perfect world,” Nixon said. “We do what we can to make things right.”
“Paul hasn’t had the best experience with Mwanza’s court system,” Reed said. Nixon raised an eyebrow at that, though Paul failed to offer any explanation and Reed wasn’t about to. If Paul wanted to talk about it, he could. Now he kept quiet. “Not a single poacher we’ve caught in the past six months has gotten off,” Reed said to Paul. “They’re all in jail.”
“It is hard to believe six months have passed since we started,” Nixon said. “I did not imagine we would have such success this quickly.”
“The NTSCIU is exactly what Tanzania needs to stop poachers,” Reed said. “Government agencies taking the fight to these criminals. It’s everyone’s problem, because we all suffer when animals are poached.”
Nixon leaned on his desk. “It was a surprise when one of Tanzania’s most successful hunt
ers became part of my anti-poaching team.”
A pair of officers walked by the open door, chatting quietly. The air conditioner whirred and rumbled, and all the while, Nixon’s unasked question remained unanswered.
“Kimble Safaris no longer offers hunts. And it’s good of you to let us tag along,” Reed finally said. “What’s important is stopping these poachers before they kill more animals.”
“A fight you are uniquely suited to undertake.” A moment passed, and then Nixon’s face softened. “It is good to have your experience, Mr. Kimble. More elephants are alive tonight because of your help.”
“How many times do I have to tell you, it’s Reed.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “When is the next operation?”
Chief Ereng’s desk phone rang before he could answer. “I must take this,” he said, lifting the receiver. “Chief Ereng.”
As a quiet conversation ensued in Swahili, Nixon scribbled on a notepad and tapped his keyboard. “Thank you for the call. I will be in touch if I learn anything.”
Lines creased Nixon’s forehead when he set the phone down.
“Something wrong?” Reed asked.
“Not in Mwanza. That was the police chief in Dar-es-Salaam. He is part of the NTSCIU effort in the city.”
“Is there a problem with the poachers?” Paul asked.
“No. He called to warn me. A strange killing happened hours ago.”
Strange killing? “Are you talking about a murder?” Reed asked.
“Possibly,” Nixon said. “A dead tourist. The evidence suggests an animal attacked him.”
“Did it happen near the savanna?”
“He died in the city. In a part where many people live.”
“Wild animals don’t come into heavily populated areas unless they’re sick. They stay away from men. Probably because too many of their relatives cross paths with humans and never come back.”
“Which makes this death unusual,” Nixon said. “The wounds were not inflicted by a man. The police are certain.”
“How so?”
“Tooth marks on the body. Teeth as long as my fingers ripped him to pieces.” Standing well north of six feet tall, Nixon had long fingers. He opened his hand and stared at it thoughtfully. “The chief warned me to watch for any such deaths in Mwanza,” Nixon said. “Such a killing could cause panic.”
“Or make people ready to kill every lion or cheetah for miles.” Reed scratched his chin, rustling the short hairs that had recently started turning gray. “Anybody else investigating? Wildlife agencies?”
“None I know of,” Nixon said. “Though I do not have hope. The larger agencies do not like to trouble themselves with small-town problems. It is like when the courts made it very difficult for me to move criminals to larger cities for trial. I do not know why they do. I suppose for some people a small-town policeman like Nixon Ereng is not wanted in the city.”
“But you won in the end,” Paul said. “The criminals go to the big city. Those judges do not let you down.”
Nixon shrugged. “I suspect it is because they have other problems to handle. Lucky for us, but not so lucky for the poachers.” He winked, then grabbed a folder on his desk. “Either way, be alert at your camp and on the savanna. I cannot afford to lose my volunteers.”
Reed shook his head. “It’s taking too long. We need to be more aggressive, not sit around and wait all the time.” Nixon’s mouth opened, but Reed held up a hand. “I know, we have to be careful. We’ll keep our eyes open.” He nodded to the folder. “Is that our next mission?”
“It is a suggestion,” Nixon said. “We are short of men right now. This is a map of an area where there has not been any poaching recently. I would like you to patrol it.”
“Make sure everyone knows we’re still out there.”
“Yes,” Nixon said. “Report on any animals you see. I will contact you when the next anti-poaching operation is identified.”
“We’re on it,” Reed said, shaking Nixon’s hand. “I have guests to get settled into camp first. We’ll head out after that. You run into any trouble, call me. Paul and I are always up for taking down a poacher or two.”
Nixon didn’t smile when he spoke. “I am sorry for any man who crosses you.”
Chapter 4
Outside Mwanza, Tanzania
May 21st
Reed awoke to a blaring alarm clock and sunlight slipping around his window blinds. He bolted upright in bed. I overslept. He fumbled for his watch and saw the guests weren’t due for a half hour. Just enough time to shower and make sure Paul was ready. The rest of his staff could take care of their new visitors; he and Paul had savanna to patrol.
Several vans pulled to a stop near the guest cabins as Reed stepped outside a short while later, buttoning his shirt as he walked. He held one hand over his eyes against the sunlight as it splashed on the browns and tans coloring the African vista. Tired people piled out of the vans, stretching and bending beside tall fronds of waving grass. It didn’t take long for the endless beauty of Reed’s adopted homeland to grab their attention.
After his well-rehearsed introductory speech, complete with cautionary tales of visitors who didn’t obey the rules, Reed cut them loose.
“Everyone relax today – enjoy dinner and get some rest this evening. Tomorrow morning we visit my favorite pachyderms, a group I call The Rolling Stones.” He paused and smiled as several people exchanged confused looks. “Unfortunately, the only instrument they play is their unique version of a horn, known as their trunk.” Cheesy, he knew, but it usually got a laugh. “Seriously, they are beautiful elephants. Tomorrow will be special.”
Ten safari guests departed for their cabins as Reed headed for the garage.
“Excuse me, Mr. Kimble?” One of the tourists, calling from where he’d left them. “Do you have a moment?”
Reed stopped and turned on his safari guide charm. “Sure.”
Based on the man’s southern drawl, he was an American from somewhere south of the Mason–Dixon line. “Just a question. Good buddies of mine are into hunting, and when I told them I was flying to Africa for a safari, they about fell over when I said you run the place. Didn’t realize you used to be a big-game hunting guide.” The man leaned closer. “Why don’t you hunt now?”
The winning smile on Reed’s face no longer reached his eyes. “Things change. I’m in the safari business now.”
He turned to walk away, but the guy followed. “You used to shoot all kinds of game, right?”
“The only shooting I do now is with a camera.”
“My buddies said it’s a thrill.” The man whistled. “Taking down such magnificent specimens. A once-in-a-lifetime experience.”
Reed stopped walking. “That’s one way to describe it. For both the animal and the hunter.”
The guy caught something in that sentence and decided he didn’t want to go any further. “I guess so,” he said before scurrying away.
Reed didn’t reply. A few times guests had brought up his past life, the time before he had given up hunting six months earlier. Before he had realized what needed to be done.
“I’m going out with Paul,” Reed told one of his employees. “We’ll be back this evening. Take care of the guests.”
The man nodded and hustled off to ensure everyone had what they needed. Reed crossed the camp and reached for his cabin’s front door handle. The sound of paws skittering over wooden floorboards greeted his arrival, and he paused outside. People let you down, business ebbed and flowed, but these guys stayed true. They were like family, only better. Three of his best friends waited when Reed pushed the screen door open, tails wagging in a blur and tongues hanging loose.
“Hey, boys,” he said, bending down to scratch their heads. “Who wants a treat?”
Rico and Cinder barked, snatching the snacks he tossed in mid-air. Rico, the younger of the two, plopped his brindle behind down by Reed’s foot and cast a longing glance Reed’s way.
“That’s enough for no
w, Rico. Don’t want you getting chubby.” Cinder, the elder of the pair, plodded over, nuzzling a wet nose against Reed’s other hand in hopes of finding a second snack.
“Same goes for you, old boy,” he said, rubbing the black dog’s graying snout. “And what about you?” Reed looked down at the third member of his canine crew, the only one sitting and waiting for a command. “You should let loose once in a while, Doc. No need to be so serious.” The dog remained motionless. “Okay,” Reed said with an exaggerated sigh. He snapped his fingers. “Come.”
Doc reacted in a flash, sliding between Rico and Cinder to take the treat from Reed’s hand. “You Belgian Shepherds need to lighten up once in a while,” he said, scratching Doc’s ear. “Don’t worry, I won’t hold it against you.” A contented rumble came from deep in Doc’s throat.
Unlike the other two dogs, Doc played a role in Reed’s anti-poaching efforts, and not just because he listened. Well, that was a big part, but not the only reason. Belgian Shepherds were uniquely suited to the hot, dry African climate, and known for their tenacity and dedication. It was a breed well-equipped to track down and detain poachers. Doc came along nearly every time Reed stalked the plains, but he hadn’t joined last night, not with the heavy police presence. With all those people around it only took one itchy trigger finger for the lightning-quick canine to catch an errant bullet. Today, however, there wasn’t a question.
“Hope you’re rested, boy. We’re hunting poachers today.”
Doc’s ears perked up.
The cabin’s front door creaked, and Paul walked in. “What is the plan for today, boss?” Paul had a rifle slung over one shoulder and a holstered 9mm on his hip. Rico and Cinder padded over to him, sniffing and generally making a nuisance of themselves.
“You and I leave shortly,” Reed said. “Nixon hasn’t called with any updates, so for now this is reconnaissance.”
“We have been out many days recently,” Paul said. “The poachers must know we are here. They will stay at home instead of killing animals close to Mwanza.”
The Turn Series Box Set Page 13