The Last Leopard

by Lauren St. John

  Ben came up, carrying her survival kit. He stared at the tortoise in bewilderment. “Is this someone’s idea of a sick joke? Where did you find it?”

  “Someone put it in our hut.” Martine was so sickened she wanted to hurl the tortoise into the bushes, but she knew very well it wasn’t the tortoise’s fault. She untied the coffin, crushed it under her boot, and set the tortoise carefully on its way. “It’s a warning. No prizes for guessing who sent it.”

  “The witch doctor?” Ben exclaimed. “But why? Surely he wouldn’t do something as petty and, well, creepy as that.”

  “Oh, I bet you he would. Since I gave the muti to Mercy and Odilo, he probably feels I’ve humiliated him.”

  “He humiliated himself,” Ben reminded her. “It’s not your fault he was drunk.”

  “All the same, we need to be on our guard.”

  She blew out the lamp and fastened her survival kit around her waist. Through the half dark came the clip-clop of horses’ hooves. Sirocco’s leather reins were thrust into her hands.

  “Come,” said Ngwenya. “We must hurry.”

  They reached the Lazy J at six a.m., tethering the horses and walking the last half mile. It was already light and Ben was concerned that they were too late to do any meaningful searching, but Ngwenya had timed it so they arrived while the hunters were out shooting. He estimated that they had about an hour until the men came back, laden with the bloody carcasses of wildlife they’d killed, for a meaty fry-up of crocodile steak and buffalo sausage.

  “We must split up in case we are discovered,” he said. “It is easier for two to rescue one than for one to rescue two.”

  Martine was about to object, but Ben got in before her.

  “Sorry, Ngwenya,” he said. “I made that mistake at the leopard cave and I’m not going to do it again. Martine and I can’t be separated. What we’re about to attempt is very risky. If we can’t do it together, we can’t do it at all.”

  “I agree,” Martine said. “I’m not going anywhere without Ben.”

  “As you wish,” said Ngwenya, who seemed amused by their protectiveness toward each other. “I will go to the lodge where the tourists stay and try to get into the office, where there might be some records.”

  “Great,” Martine said. “We’ll go and check out the animal enclosure.”

  Ngwenya bridled. “You will stay away from the lions and cheetahs? It is bad enough that you have persuaded me to bring you here. Please do not get into any trouble with the animals. Just because Magnus and the horses like you, it does not mean lions and cheetahs will be your friends.”

  Martine smiled angelically. “Don’t worry, Ngwenya. We’ll look but we won’t touch.”

  Getting into the Lazy J was simplicity itself. The guard at the gatehouse was accustomed to people arriving by vehicle, not on foot. He never even lifted his eyes from his newspaper as they sneaked under the barrier and sprinted across the parking area that lay between the razor-wire-topped perimeter fence and the gates of the hunting lodge.

  Ngwenya turned to Martine. “I hope that your grandmother and Gogo are not angry with me for bringing you here.”

  “They won’t be,” she told him. “Especially if we can find evidence showing that Mr. Ratcliffe is trying to drive Sadie out of business and sell Khan’s skin for thousands of dollars.”

  “Be very careful,” Ngwenya said. “The Rat is a wicked man. You’ve seen what he is capable of. If he catches you, I don’t know what he might do.”

  Crouching low, he followed the wall around to the tourist lodge. Ben and Martine wasted no time. They slipped beneath the turnstile into the wildlife enclosure. Their plan was to stay out of sight if possible, but act casually if they were caught and brazen it out.

  As soon as they entered the concrete and steel enclosure, they realized they were in a hunting zoo. The majority of the cages were filled with lions and cheetahs, but there were also three black rhinos in a paddock, and a walled-off pond where half a dozen crocodiles could be seen basking in the sun.

  The male lions charged at the wire mesh of their cages, snarling with rage. The cheetahs paced up and down their runs relentlessly, as though their prison had driven them out of their minds.

  The animals were well kept and their cages clean, but their eyes were frantic with fear. Martine couldn’t stop thinking about the shot lion, his life leaking out onto the hunter’s boot while the big-bellied man posed for photographs. She knew that the other animals knew what was going to happen to them. Day after day, they heard the dying roars of their companions and had to wait, trembling, for the clink of keys that would mean they too were being summoned before the executioner.

  “Martine,” Ben said. “Someone’s coming.”

  They flew down the corridor between the runs, and up the steps of a storage room beside the crocodile pond, darting inside in the nick of time. A man carrying a bucket pushed his way through the turnstile and made his way along the rows of animals, whistling as he sloshed water into their drinking containers. When his bucket was empty he went out the way he came in.

  As soon as he was gone, they began their search in earnest. Like everything else at the Lazy J, the storage room was clean and tidy. Half of it was a basic office. There was a desk and chair, a filing cabinet, and a couple of boxes overflowing with glossy brochures describing the Lazy J as the “ultimate safari experience.” The other half was piled high with sacks of a well-known brand of dog food.

  “It’s a cheap way of feeding lions and cheetahs,” Martine explained to Ben. “Lots of wildlife parks do it, but it isn’t the best thing for the animals.”

  But it was the electrical panel on the back wall that interested them most. It featured two rows of red lights numbered up to thirty. One row was labeled: “Gate Open.” The other read: “Gate Shut.”

  Ben looked at Martine. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  Martine gave a nervous laugh. “It’s very tempting, but we can’t set the lions free . . . can we?”

  Ben went over to the desk and sat in the chair. “It’s a nice idea. Unfortunately they might end up eating Rex Ratcliffe or one of his hunters, and that wouldn’t be a good thing.”

  “Even though they deserve it,” said Martine.

  “Even though they deserve it.”

  Ben opened the journal on the desk and started flicking through it. “This is sickening. It seems to be a record of daily hunts and kills. On a single day last week, they shot five kudu, one lion, two sable antelope, and two elephants.”

  “Is there any mention of Khan?”

  Ben flicked through once again. “Not that I can see.”

  “Try checking the dates still to come. Maybe it’s scheduled,” said Martine, taking a quick peek out of the door. She saw no one apart from the keeper who was pouring water into the rhinos’ trough.

  Ben finished his search. “No, nothing . . . Hold on a minute. The entry for tomorrow is different from all the rest. It’s written in capital letters and it says: OPERATION WILDCAT—five a.m. Elephant Rock.”

  “Elephant Rock!” cried Martine. “That’s on Black Eagle land. How dare they trespass on Sadie’s property. That proves that Rex Ratcliffe had her and my grandmother arrested to get them out of the way. And Operation Wildcat has to mean they’re going after Khan.”

  Ben tore the page out of the journal and put it in his pocket. “I’m taking this as evidence. It has the Lazy J logo at the top and it might hold up in court.”

  Footsteps rang on the concrete path outside. Ben barely had time to dart around the desk and pretend to be studying a poster of an elephant before a man with a bushy blond mustache strode in.

  He seemed stunned to see them—so stunned that it took him a second or two to react. Then he barked, “Who are you and what do you think you’re doing in here?”

  “Good morning, sir,” Ben said smoothly. “I apologize if we’re not supposed to be in here. Our parents are up at the lodge and we were curious to see how a real hunting ope
ration worked.”

  “Were you now,” the man said sarcastically. “I suppose that’s okay then. And how might I assist you?”

  “We were just wondering if you had a brochure,” Ben said.

  “A brochure? Yes, of course you can have a brochure.” He handed Ben one from the box. “What did you say your parents’ names were?”

  “Jones,” Martine said. “Mr. and Mrs. Jones.”

  “My parents’ names are Moyo,” added Ben. “Mr. and Mrs. Moyo.”

  “Moyo and Jones?” he repeated slowly, as if he was trying to place their faces. “That’s very interesting. The reason it’s so interesting is because I happen to be the duty manager and I can categorically confirm that nobody by either of those names is staying at the lodge.”

  “We’re not staying,” Martine explained. “We’ve just popped in for a meal and a safari.”

  He chuckled. “Good try, but we have a no-children policy here and it’s very strictly enforced. Kids tend to get a bit weepy over all the dead animals.”

  He picked up the telephone. “Security? Yes, we have two intruders in the lion and cheetah compound.”

  Martine glanced at Ben and moved her chin fractionally toward the electrical board.

  “I think that’s a very good idea,” Ben said out loud.

  The man put down the receiver. “You think what is a very good idea? Calling security to—”

  He never got to finish his sentence. Before he could move a muscle, Ben had flown like quicksilver around the desk, hit the row of switches labeled “Gate Open,” and was out of the door with Martine behind him.

  Ben had a split second to say, “Martine, let him come after me, then lock the door so he can’t get in to lock the cages. Climb over the wall—I’ll meet you on the other side.”

  Martine almost collided with the duty manager as he clattered down the steps, but he made only a half-hearted attempt to grab her before racing after Ben, the real object of his wrath. As Ben neared the first of the cages, two security guards appeared at the turnstile. The manager gestured for them to catch Ben. It had belatedly struck him that his own priority should be preventing the lions and cheetahs from escaping. He tore back to the storeroom, but it was too late. Martine had locked the door and was sitting on top of the wall with the key.

  “Give that to me,” shouted the manager, dancing with fury below her. “Have you any idea what you’ve done?”

  “You want it?” Martine said, holding the key out of his reach. “Go and get it.”

  She threw it into the crocodile pen, where, by a complete fluke, it hit a rock and ricocheted into the open mouth of a basking reptile. His jaws snapped shut and he gulped. Martine took advantage of the manager’s shock to jump down the other side of the wall and make a run for the parking lot.

  Her biggest fear was that she wouldn’t be able to find Ben, but he came flying over the turnstile like a hurdler and was just as relieved to see her.

  “Where are the guards?” Martine asked in panic.

  Ben grinned. “I believe they were detained by one or two lions.”

  A moving cloud of dust on the horizon wiped the smile off his face. “The hunters,” he said. “They’re on their way back.”

  He took Martine’s hand and they ran down the driveway and past the guardhouse. This time the guard did see them, but his attention was diverted when two cheetahs streaked by, followed by a lumbering rhino. The cheetahs slipped under the barrier; the rhino crashed straight through it. They were so preoccupied with the sight of the open savannah and a chance at freedom that they ignored Martine and Ben. As Martine and Ben headed after them, they could hear the guard yelling into his radio for backup.

  Ben was a champion long-distance runner and he sprinted easily along the road toward the thick bush that would give them cover. Martine, on the other hand, was one of Caracal School’s slowest athletes. Halfway back to the horses, her legs started to feel like lead and she developed a stitch. A couple of camouflage-painted four-wheel drives zoomed into view. They were coming from the opposite direction.

  Martine paused, trying to catch her breath. “You go on without me,” she said to Ben. “Find Ngwenya and get word to Sadie and Gwyn Thomas about the hunt at Black Eagle tomorrow. I’ll be fine. Even Rex Ratcliffe must draw the line at putting children in jail.”

  “Don’t be crazy,” said Ben. “There’s absolutely no way I’m leaving you. Remember what Grace told you.”

  They started to run again, but there were shouts from behind and one of the safari vehicles left the road and roared after them through the bush. Martine’s stitch became unbearable and she pulled up, gasping.

  “I can’t go on,” she panted as they entered a grove of trees. “Please, Ben, I’m begging you, save yourself. For Khan’s sake.”

  “No,” said Ben, gripping her hand more tightly. “We’ll face them together.”

  The safari vehicle plowed through the long yellow grass and screeched to a halt beneath an old mopani tree. Five men in khaki clothes spilled off the back and surrounded them. None of the men spoke. They just stared at the vehicle expectantly.

  The passenger door opened slowly and out came a pair of alligator-skin cowboy boots, followed by their owner: a gaunt figure with unnaturally white skin, sporting a safari suit and slicked-down red hair. He had the weirdest face Martine had ever seen. Every feature was sharp and thrust forward so that they came together in a point, at the tip of which was a bloodless mouth and two yellow buckteeth. He was like the product of a rodent-human genetic experiment that had gone horribly wrong.

  Leaning on a cane, he walked stiffly over to Ben and Martine and glared down at them from a great height. “Are these them?” he inquired, his voice high-pitched with outrage. “Are these the children who have jeopardized my entire hunting operation?”

  “Mr. Rat, I presume,” Martine said.

  15

  “Ratcliffe,” squeaked the rodent man. “The name is Ratcliffe.”

  That was as far as he got because from above their heads came a roar so terrifying that Mr. Rat’s cane fell from his fingers and one of the guides fainted on the spot.

  Then Khan dropped from the sky.

  Martine caught a rapid-fire glimpse of unforgettable images—the most striking of which was the golden body of the leopard completely covering Mr. Rat, as if the hunter had suddenly acquired the leopard-skin coat he was after. Then she and Ben were running for their lives. They swerved through the trees, along a narrow path, and up to the rear gate of Black Eagle, where the horses were waiting.

  “Where is Ngwenya?” Martine fretted.

  “I am here,” the horse wrangler replied, running up behind them with a large plastic canister in his hand. He too was breathing hard.

  He put his hands on their shoulders and started laughing. “I saw everything,” he said. “I was waiting in the trees for you and I watched the jeep chase after you. I heard Mr. Ratcliffe and his guides threatening you. I was waiting for my chance to do something when I noticed the leopard sitting in the mopani tree. I saw him getting ready to strike. Oh, Martine, he is the most beautiful animal I have ever seen. His colors! His coat glows like it is on fire and his spots are like black diamonds.”

  Martine was too upset to be interested in the merits of Khan’s coat. “Did you see what happened to him?” she said. “I’m petrified they might try to shoot him.”

  Ngwenya grinned. “Don’t worry, my friend, there was no shooting. One of the guides went to get his rifle and Khan opened up his chest with a swipe of his paw. That man will be spending many months in the hospital, I think. The others carried him and Mr. Ratcliffe back to the car. Mr. Ratcliffe was bleeding and whimpering like a puppy, but I was close enough to hear him say, ‘Operation Wildcat must go ahead as planned.’ I don’t know what that means.”

  “We do,” Ben said, handing Ngwenya the page from the journal. “The hunt for Khan starts at five tomorrow morning. Somehow we have to stop it.”

  Ngwenya scanned th
e entry. “Elephant Rock? They are meeting at Elephant Rock? Who are they to trespass on Gogo’s land?”

  “That’s what we said,” Martine told him. “The good thing about it is it proves that the Rat had Sadie and my grandmother arrested to get them out of the way. All we need to do now is get the information to the authorities.”

  Ngwenya held up his plastic container. It sloshed with brown liquid. “That’s what this is for. I found two things at the Lazy J. I found an Ndebele waiter who had some very interesting things to say about the poison he was paid to put in a water tank for cattle at Black Eagle. He admits he put a little in the tank but felt too guilty to add the rest. His father and his father before him were cattlemen, and he felt that by hurting cows he was dishonoring his ancestors’ memory.

  “He hid the bottle in a baobab tree on Black Eagle land. He promises to show the police where it is if I can guarantee to find him another job.”

  “You said you found two things,” Ben said. “Is the other one gas?”

  “It is. I am going to ride to the retreat at Black Eagle, fill up one of the vehicles, and go to Bulawayo to give this information to the district attorney. I have heard he is an honest man. With any luck, your grandmother and Gogo will be home by this evening.”

  “We’ll come with you,” Martine said.

  Ngwenya shook his head. “In case there is trouble with the police, it is better for you to stay with Mercy and Odilo. Before I go to Bulawayo, I will accompany you to the village.”

  “We’ll be fine on our own,” Martine said. “I think you should go to Bulawayo right away. The sooner you can persuade the DA to release my grandmother and Sadie, the better.”

  Ngwenya wasn’t convinced. “You will be safe by yourselves?”

  Ben smiled at him. “Safe and sound.”

  After Ngwenya had galloped away on Red Mist, they began the long trek to the village through the rocks and hills of Black Eagle. Martine would have liked to gallop as fast as the terrain allowed, but Ben’s riding was not up to that yet, and Mambo refused to cooperate.