The Turn Series Box Set

by Andrew Clawson

“More a flash in the pan, really. People aren’t always what they seem.”

  Bonnie didn’t respond, though she made no move to interrupt.

  “We worked on the genetic alteration project for months, long days and nights, the usual story,” Sarah went on. It all seemed so foreign now, like the memories weren’t hers. “Went out once or twice. Nothing serious, but the more I got to know Ian, the less I knew him. If that makes any sense.” The wine glass was cool in her hand as Sarah drained it.

  Bonnie winked. “More than you realize.”

  The wine fortified her nerves. “He seemed so nice. At first.” Before she realized it, Sarah had talked her way headlong into the story of Ian Napier and their productive professional relationship, interspersed with a very brief personal one, not so productive. The intelligent man she’d grown close with during their research had first drawn her in before eventually alienating every person on their team prior to his departure. Finally, Sarah told her of the wild goals Ian had held regarding altering the human genome.

  “Such ideas are intriguing in theory,” Bonnie said. “Ideas which can be dangerous in practice.”

  “I always thought his father’s death drove him,” Sarah said. “Creating a cure for muscular dystrophy kept him going, though he’d never say it. After a while he retreated into himself, not interacting with the rest of the team. It wasn’t a surprise when one day I came in to find an email saying Ian had resigned.”

  “Have you spoken with him since he left?”

  Sarah shook her head. “I have no idea where he went, and I’m not interested. He was a little off underneath it all. I hope he can turn things around and refocus on his work. He’s a great scientist.” She shook her head and laughed. “I’ve been prattling on for too long.”

  “Not at all, Sarah. I enjoy hearing your stories, because all of mine are in the distant past.”

  “That’s impossible,” Sarah said. “You lead such an interesting life. I can only imagine the trouble you cause in Edinburgh.” She smiled.

  “Once upon a time, perhaps. With my husband gone, I have my work. It keeps me busy, though any trouble I cause is limited to the laboratory.”

  “Do you have any children?”

  The ever-present laughter in Bonnie’s eyes faded. “We were not blessed with children.” Sarah felt her cheeks redden, but to her relief, Bonnie smiled again. “Enjoy every day, Sarah. There is no plan for any of us, at least not one we are privy to, so drink deeply of this life.”

  “Well said.” Sarah clinked her glass with Bonnie’s. “I’m sorry for bringing up the subject.”

  “Do not be sorry. I have no regrets. Everything I have done has led me to this moment, and I am grateful to be sharing it with you. Our work is important, and with all these men and women here to help, we will make a difference.”

  Several courses later the wait staff brought out the main course, though how anyone could keep track was beyond Sarah. Once the staff had again retreated back into the kitchen, Sarah glanced through a window at the night sky. The moon was nearly full tonight. Impulsively, she reached for her phone and tapped on the camera app. Turning to Bonnie, she grabbed her purse and said, “Would you excuse me just for a moment? I really want to get a picture of this beautiful skyline.”

  On the other side of her, Geoff’s chair sat empty. She hadn’t seen him leave the table; he was probably in the men’s room, she thought, or out enjoying the view himself. She headed for the side door, the group’s conversation fading into the background as the door clicked shut behind her. Chilled air rolling in from the distant mountains tickled her skin, but it was the view that gave her goosebumps. Zurich’s jagged mountains rose above the buildings around her to frame the downtown, a midnight blue blanket backdropping the entire scene, with brilliant stars hanging over the landscape.

  If she walked just a few steps away, she could…there. A beautiful photo. She took one photograph after another, and then stopped to thumb through them. Gorgeous. Suddenly she became aware of the sound of voices drifting on the air, coming from a narrow alley alongside the restaurant. Was that Geoff? She turned one ear toward the noise. Yes, that was him, and a woman’s voice as well. A voice she recognized. Sarah stepped into the shadow cast by the building beside her, and two people emerged from the alley. Moonlight lit them, long shadows running in front of each as they walked.

  It was the African government official. Two more shapes came out of the alley – the two soldiers who had been escorting the woman back at the lab. Why had they come so late to the dinner? Wind slipped along Sarah’s back, and she wrapped her sweater tightly around her shoulders.

  She blinked, and one soldier moved quickly, coming behind Geoff in an instant. The man’s arm went up and down in a blur, and Geoff crumpled to the ground. Sarah gasped, reaching out to the wall for support. The soldier had hit Geoff hard enough that she heard the blow.

  The other soldier opened the restaurant’s front door, and a slice of lamplight briefly slashed the dark. The soldiers disappeared inside with Geoff between them, his head lolling to one side as they moved. The light faded as the door shut behind them, then cut the night once more a moment later as the two men hurried back outside without Geoff. They jumped into a car and its engine roared as it sped around the corner, tires squealing.

  Sarah blinked again, and the restaurant exploded.

  Chapter 12

  Mwanza, Tanzania

  May 22nd

  Glass shattered outside the alleyway where Reed crouched in shadow. A bottle burst with a pop, and glass glinted in the moonlight. Two men stumbled past arm in arm, singing off-tune as each supported the other on their unsteady journey from one weak pool of yellow light to the next. Between the two of them they possessed three sandals to walk over the dirty, broken roadway.

  “I hope your friend is right about this,” Reed said. He shifted deeper into the gloom, bumping up against an overflowing trash can. The scent of putrid refuse filled his nose. “Sending us on a wild goose chase wouldn’t be funny.”

  “I trust him,” Paul said. “He would not lie to me about this. Enough money makes a man honest in this town.”

  “Remind me never to cut your wages.” That got a grin out of Paul, who went still as a creaking bicycle rolled past. The gray-bearded man pedaling never looked into the grimy alley as he rode. Why would he? No one but vagrants or criminals hid in alleys. Reed could confirm the vagrant part, having rousted a booze-soaked resident of the dirt path between two buildings when they’d arrived an hour earlier. The man had protested at first, but a folded bill pressed into one hand had changed his tune and sent him on his way. Now they had the place to themselves, if you didn’t count rats the size of small cats darting in and out of the alley.

  “When’s the last time you talked to this friend of yours?” Reed’s eyes never left the bar across the street. Two sad neon signs fizzed erratically in one window, while the lone other one had been boarded up. “Hard to picture you socializing with murderers.”

  “I have known him for many years,” Paul said. “Children who survive to be adults take different paths in life, but we all started in the same place. In school, on the football field, is where we made friends. He is a different man now.”

  “Plenty of pitfalls here to trip people up.”

  By Tanzanian standards the city of Mwanza was fairly well off, with jobs, relative safety, and a steady population. At least it looked that way on the surface. Those opportunities often went to people with connections, or were snapped up by young, hungry men and women from the surrounding towns who came in search of a better life. Plenty of youth fell through the wide cracks, missing what little safety net existed on their way to a hard life with no guarantees other than continued struggle. A fight to pay bills, to eat, to stay alive. No wonder Reed’s money had made this old friend talk so quickly.

  The bar door flew open and a man sprawled out headfirst. His forehead hit the road before his feet.

  “You be sorry if you come bac
k.” A burly bouncer dusted his hands off and went back inside.

  “You never knew the guy in there?”

  “No,” Paul said. “All I have is a name and a picture he sent.”

  “Make sure your gun is loaded. No telling what this guy will do.”

  As of thirty minutes ago their target was inside the bar, drinking by himself near the door. Despite Paul’s understandable disdain for bars and alcohol in general, Reed had let him go in to keep an eye on the man. Easier for Paul to blend in than Reed. Keeping the memories at bay, however, was a different story. Understandable when booze had killed his father through no fault of his own. No, another person’s carelessness had done that, leaving a young man to grow up without his father. However, Reed needn’t have worried.

  Paul went in and nursed a single beer, his cast-iron rule, and had noted a circle of empty bottles in front of the man when he’d walked through earlier. Considering what alcohol did to even experienced drinkers, Reed wasn’t taking any chances. Even drunk gunmen only needed one lucky shot. Not to mention the mere sight of a white man might produce unexpected results. Reed was certainly not the only Caucasian in Mwanza, but still, late at night, in one of the city’s seedier areas, his presence warranted a second glance.

  “This street is not busy,” Paul said. “If we follow him to a quiet area, it will be easier to talk with him.”

  “This talk could get loud,” Reed said.

  Paul shrugged. “It does not matter. If he is a killer, he will receive what is deserved.”

  A part of Reed he didn’t like looking at woke up. Paul had a point. “The task force exists to catch criminals so they face prosecution. It’s not a vigilante group.” He quashed the quiet voice in his head arguing with that logic. “We defend ourselves if necessary. That’s it.”

  “The animals and Maasai cannot defend themselves against rifles.”

  Reed didn’t respond, and thankfully Paul dropped the subject. They had another problem to worry about: the wolf attacks on the savanna and on Zurich’s streets.

  Despite how infrequently wolves ventured into cities, a straightforward explanation for them existed. Species evolved, though normally over several millennia, but it was possible there could be unexpected mutations in a breed neither he nor Sarah had seen before. Simply because he’d never heard of it didn’t mean it never happened. Then again, a new species shouldn’t just crop up.

  A sputtering diesel vehicle roared past, blasting Reed with noxious fumes and bringing out a coughing fit as his mind raced on a separate issue. Why had Sarah Hall called him? A woman like her would know plenty of people more qualified to talk about wolves. Why a big-game hunter, recently reformed, whom she’d only met once?

  In Monaco Sarah had been polite, professional, and distant. No warmth behind her smiles, no humor in her eyes when she laughed. Easy to see he wasn’t her favorite person. That hadn’t changed, which told Reed one thing: Sarah had called him for more than just his experience with animals. Now he needed to figure out why.

  “It is him.” Paul’s voice floated out of the dark as the bar’s front door opened to reveal a man who looked like every other woeful boozehound.

  “Are you sure?” Reed whispered.

  “Yes. Look at his hand.”

  Reed’s eyes narrowed. The man walked under one of the weak streetlights, and his hand came up. There. The scar Paul’s friend had told them about, running along the back of it.

  “Right. Give him a second.”

  Their target moved off at a languid pace, hunched over as he walked, hands tucked in his pockets. His eyes stayed on the ground.

  “You get ahead and find a quiet place to approach him,” Reed said. “I’ll stay behind in case he tries to run.” He confirmed the safety was engaged on his pistol.

  “What if he stops at another bar?” Paul asked.

  “Don’t give him time. First chance you get, turn around and get in his face.”

  Paul winked before he stepped off at double-time, darting into the street. Reed followed a couple of breaths later. Low-volt electricity tingled in his legs and arms; finally, he was taking the fight to these bastards.

  Paul passed the man within a block, brushing past him without looking back. In the next block, a new neon sign glowed, another of the rundown bars men like this frequented. Another potential landing spot. Shadows fell on Paul when he passed beneath a burned-out streetlight. Reed picked up his pace when Paul slowed and bent over, fumbling with a shoelace.

  Half a block behind Paul, their target swerved slightly to one side, toward a building whose windows reflected the black sky like two deep pits. Darkness filled the recessed doorway beside Paul, and it was for this the man was headed. Reed walked faster.

  The man was now just a few steps behind Paul. As his scuffed, ragged sneakers flapped on the sidewalk, Paul stood and turned to block the man’s path.

  “Nelson Sisulu?”

  The man froze. “Who are you?”

  “We have a friend in common. I need to speak with you.” Reed came up on the man from behind as Paul blocked his way forward. “You are Nelson.”

  “Who is the friend?”

  That’s all Reed needed. Closing fast, he reached out for the man’s arm. Suddenly, glass from a discarded beer bottle exploded beneath Reed’s foot and he stumbled, arms pinwheeling as he fell and bounced off a steel sign pole. Nelson Sisulu backed toward the street, reaching into his pocket, light flashing off the blade he pulled out.

  “He has a knife,” Reed shouted, struggling to right himself.

  Paul grabbed for the man, who whirled and slashed, the knife landing home to send Paul to his knees. Nelson turned and raced down the street.

  Reed recovered his balance and ran to Paul. “How bad?”

  Blood oozed between Paul’s fingers, now clasped over his shoulder. “Not too bad,” he said between gritted teeth. “I will live. Why are you waiting?”

  Reed looked up as Nelson darted in front of the neon signs ahead and turned a corner. “Call an ambulance,” Reed said. Boots smacking the sidewalk, Reed raced past the bar and slowed only as he approached the cross street where Nelson had vanished. He rounded the corner and spotted him running down the street at full speed. Nelson had a two-block lead, but Reed closed fast, legs pumping as he gained on the drunk man ahead of him. Nelson had to be guilty. Why else would he lash out at a total stranger with a knife, then run?

  Gaining speed, Reed’s hand brushed the gun at his waist. If it came down to that, Nelson had made the mistake of bringing a knife to a gun fight.

  Reed was closing in on Nelson when the man turned and looked back, his eyes white and wide in the darkness, the knife still clenched in one hand. He turned down the next cross street then began to run across it to the opposite side. A shrill whining cut through the thudding heartbeat in Reed’s ears as a motorcycle materialized from the darkness, buzzing toward Nelson. No headlight, no horn, nothing but an engine whining with the rider hunched low over the handlebars, on a collision course with a man who never saw it coming.

  The bike clipped Nelson, knocking him airborne. His body spun like a flung toy until he crashed down onto the road again, bouncing over the cracked asphalt before sliding to a halt. He had rolled three or four times, and when Reed caught up and got a hand on him he grunted but didn’t resist.

  The night sky illuminated the knife handle protruding from Nelson’s chest.

  Nelson reached weakly for the blade.

  “Don’t,” Reed said and grabbed his hand. “You’ll bleed to death.” Blood, glittering black in the moonlight, covered his chest. “I’ll get you to a hospital,” he said. If you survive that long. “After you talk. Keep pressure on it.” Reed grabbed Nelson’s hand and pressed it around the knife handle. “Did you kill the lion pride?”

  Nelson narrowed his eyes. “You chase me over lions? Who cares about them?”

  “I do. Why did you kill them?” When Nelson didn’t respond, Reed pulled his hand away and stood. “You’l
l die here.”

  “Wait.” The wounded man grabbed Reed’s leg. “I kill them for the money.”

  “You didn’t take the pelts. Why leave them?”

  “They wanted only to have them dead.”

  A light clicked on in Reed’s head. “You didn’t poach the lions for their parts. Lions are sacred to Maasai. You killed the lions to make the Maasai leave.” Lions helped sustain the Maasai circle of life and killing them would anger the natives. Not only anger but frighten them as well. Lions dying implied the land was not fertile, even if it wasn’t true. Once that happened, the Maasai would go elsewhere in search of new land.

  “I do not know why.” Nelson coughed, and a dribble of bloody fluid rolled down his cheek. “I am paid to kill them.”

  “Why attack the Maasai as well?”

  Nelson paused. “Because I am paid to.”

  “Who paid you?”

  Nelson coughed, and more blood dribbled out. “Hospital.”

  Reed looped one of Nelson’s arms across his shoulders and heaved the wounded man to his feet. “Keep pressure on that knife. Don’t pull it out or you’ll bleed to death.” Not that he wasn’t already. “Who paid you?”

  “A man I do not know.”

  Reed halted, and Nelson grunted. “Do better than that.”

  Panic rose in Nelson’s eyes. “I do not know. A military man,” he spat out. “The Tanzanian army.”

  Reed leaned back, peering sidelong at the man. “You’re lying.”

  “I am not.” Nelson’s voice rose weakly in protest and he coughed up more blood. Even so, Reed caught the fear in his words.

  “Why would the military pay you to kill lions and Maasai?”

  “He did not say he was military, but I saw the tattoo on his arm. One only army men get.”

  “A tattoo?”

  “There is more,” Nelson whispered, and Reed started walking again. “Dog tags. The other men who paid had them too.”

  If the army had some sort of vendetta against the Maasai, why wouldn’t they use legal means to remove them? And the lion slaughter didn’t fit with that at all.