by Amber Hart
“When is the kill time?” the man asks.
He asks as if he’s talking about gorillas and not a human life, the life of a girl they could let go free but won’t, because they leave no evidence behind.
And then Simon delivers the answer I want to hear most. How much time does Raven have left?
“One week.”
—
I stay in the trees for what feels like hours while I digest Simon’s words. I have less than one week to warn Raven. I try not to think about what will happen if I don’t make it to her in time. I won’t be able to approach the compound alone. It is too heavily guarded.
Snap.
I’m lost in thought when I hear the crack of a twig. Then another. Someone is fast approaching. By the voices that follow, I know right away that it’s more than one person. But I’m not worried this time, because I see that it’s Loriant and Winnie—habitat workers. Maybe Loriant will want to hunt with me. It’d be the perfect way to distract my thoughts.
“Not this time,” Winnie says, her gray hair swinging in a braid behind her.
“You don’t get to tell me either way,” Loriant replies.
I pause, alarmed by the tone of their voices.
“I saw you,” Winnie says. “You snuck off into the trees. You met with them.”
And I know right away that something isn’t right. I also, as it turns out, think I’ve found the habitat spy.
“I saw you with that poacher,” Winnie continues. “You met with him in the trees. You’re working for them, aren’t you?”
I ready my pistol. I promised Raven I would find the spy. I cannot let him leave here alive. Not when it means that he’ll report back to Father. Not when too much is at risk.
Winnie makes a grab at Loriant, as if to stop him, and a skinning knife slips from a sheath attached to his biceps. Winnie gasps.
“Is that what you use on the apes when you find them after their release?” she asks, voice rising. Loriant grabs for the knife, but Winnie is quicker. She points the blade at him.
“Stay back,” she warns. “You will not tell the poachers any more about our releases. I knew someone inside was giving them information!”
I am shocked by Winnie’s bravery. Loriant is taller than her by a foot, and much younger, but she holds her own. If only she would get out of my direct line of fire, I could eliminate the problem for her.
“You will not betray us anymore,” she says.
“I have not betrayed you,” Loriant says. “You have it all wrong.”
I do not believe him, and neither does Winnie.
“I’m calling for backup.” She grabs for her walkie-talkie to alert the others, but she doesn’t get a chance.
One shot rings out.
Winnie drops to the ground.
Loriant grabs for his knife and spins around wildly; we are both looking for the shooter.
François steps out of the trees.
“You,” Loriant says, stunned.
“Yes,” François says with a grin. “And none of you had any idea. Really, Loriant, you should pay better attention. Now,” he says, edging closer, gun poised, “why don’t you explain what Winnie here was talking about.”
François nudges Winnie’s body with his boot. He flips her over, revealing a blossom of red on her unmoving chest, confirming that she is dead. I think about climbing to another branch, where I’d have a better shot, but I decide against it. That would surely give away my location.
“A poacher approached me recently, asking if I’d be interested in spying on the habitat for him. He gave me one week to decide. He was expecting an answer soon,” Loriant explains. “Winnie must have seen. I wasn’t going to do it, though.”
François tsks. “Too bad. You would make a good spy. You sure you don’t want to join me?”
Loriant tries to hold his hand steady, knife pointed at François, but I see how he trembles with fear.
“Stay back,” he warns.
François only laughs.
As silently as I can, I leap from the tree, but there is nothing to disguise the sound of my feet hitting the forest floor.
François whirls around, raises his gun to shoot, but I cannot let that happen. I do the only thing I know in the face of danger: I pull the trigger. My aim is impeccable. François falls to the ground, mouth parted as if to scream, a steady drip of blood leaving his right temple.
I approach Loriant. “Are you okay?”
“I think so, yes,” he says, a tremble in his voice.
I nod and glance once more at François. “We need to go now,” I say, not knowing if any other poachers are in the area.
Numbly, I reach down to pick up Winnie’s body to take back to the habitat.
Chapter 33
Raven
It takes us two days of trekking through the rain forest to make it to a small town on the outskirts of the jungle. The town is spotted with mud huts, peppered with the occasional cement-block home. A place called the market lines the one main road. It is made up of trays and trays of food atop hand-carved wooden tables. Fruits and vegetables, meats and breads, even soups and cooked items. At the end of the line, vendors sell non-food items like hand-woven garments. Clovis and I pass people quickly. Some of them stop to look at me.
“What are they saying?” I ask Clovis, referring to the people whispering about us.
“They’re commenting on you being here,” he replies, keeping pace beside me. “They’ve seen Americans before, mostly habitat workers, but not you. They are speculating about what you want. Some have decided they will not help us, whatever we’ve come for.”
We are absolutely running on ragged fumes, tired and unkempt. Almost two days straight of being awake, only the occasional nap for a few minutes here and there to make it to this point.
“We cannot stay long, Raven,” Clovis says. “If Mr. Tondjii were to send anyone into town to ask about our whereabouts, the people here would give us away. It’s nothing personal, but everyone needs money, and Mr. Tondjii has more than enough to buy our location.”
I pick up my pace, though it’s hard to do. My legs burn. My mouth is dry. Clovis checks his pocket for money, pulling out a few bills. Enough for food and water.
Clovis stops at a table and orders in French. The lady shuffles around, grabbing things behind her, before handing him a bag and two jugs of water. Clovis gives one jug to me. It’s heavy, but I drink. I want to finish it, but Clovis pulls the container away from my lips.
“Conserve,” he says. “I know it’s hard, but we still have quite a distance to walk.”
I put the cap back. Clovis hands me half a loaf of bread studded with nuts. I am grateful for the protein. I continue to eat as we pass tables. Some people refuse to make eye contact with me. I’ve just about finished the bread when Clovis stops to speak to a local. She is older, with graying hair. Her eyes skip to me. She gives a slight nod of her head, and Clovis places money in her hand. She stares a moment longer but says nothing.
“Where are we going?” I ask as Clovis begins to follow the woman off the path and back toward the line of homes.
“To her house,” Clovis says.
We pass several mud structures before she stops at a concrete one. The woman opens the door and lets us in. The inside is plain but nice. My eyes find a wooden table and a fireplace with a large pot hanging over it; a spicy scent issues from inside. Two beds sit against the back wall, and a small couch is near the door.
“She’s heard about the man shutting down the poaching packs,” Clovis tells me. “She has a phone to reach him. But she charges for every call, and we don’t have enough money to make more than one call.”
“Okay,” I say. “And then what?”
“Same thing we discussed on the way here,” Clovis replies. “We call and ask where we can meet him to drop off the evidence. He is our best bet to get the information to the office contact for the embassy.”
This is the quickest way—instead of going to the office our
selves—to end the poaching empire.
“Make the call,” I tell him.
I sit on the couch as Clovis uses the phone on a small end table. From across the room, the old woman watches me but says nothing. She looks at my hair, then my eyes.
Clovis dials and waits a moment before speaking; I take this as a good sign that someone has answered, hopefully the official that we need to meet. But then Clovis’s tone makes my heart race. Something is wrong.
He hangs up the phone.
“What happened?” I ask.
“The official cannot meet us right now, but he has agreed to meet us on the inside edge of the forest in two days.”
“Two days? Where are we supposed to stay for two days?”
I glance at the woman, wondering if she would be kind enough to let us stay with her. Her withering stare and the way she shuffles to the door tell me that staying here isn’t a possibility.
Clovis exchanges a few words with her as we leave. For him, her face softens some, though I still wouldn’t consider it inviting.
“Let’s go,” Clovis says.
We walk back down the main path until there is no more path. Until the dirt road turns back into green and moss and trees.
“I can’t walk much farther,” I protest.
Though my boots are made for the ruggedness of the jungle, my feet ache. I need sleep. I need food.
“I have enough for us to eat and drink until we meet the official,” Clovis reassures me. “We’ll find somewhere to sleep in the forest.”
—
With all the incriminating documents in hand, Clovis and I ready ourselves to meet the Cameroonian official, Mr. Lemba. For two days we’ve lain low. We’ve listened for approaching sounds, of which there have been none aside from those of animals. The local people have not ventured near. Neither has Mr. Tondjii, though I am sure he now understands that we betrayed him. We have had just enough time to escape, to move farther into the jungle away from him, to meet the official. If our calculations are correct, if Mr. Tondjii left first thing in the morning the day after we raided his warehouse, then he should be fast approaching the small town now. They will confirm our visit there, Clovis has assured me, but by now we are miles away, ahead of him. That is, if he’s tracking us. We only need to turn in the evidence. Mr. Lemba can take it from there. That leaves Clovis and me in a dangerous situation, with a poaching empire on our trail. We will need to stay hidden long enough for the officials to shut down the pack. After that is where things get messy. Do I go home? Will I see Jospin again? Where will Clovis live? Clovis says not to worry about that now. I cannot help but wonder, though.
Clovis’s ear tips to the wind, and I know he’s heard something. I hear it too—a crunch of twigs. From practice, I know this sound to be human footfall. I smile, mostly because I have found a way to understand the rain forest. I wonder if Dad would be proud.
“Mr. Lemba,” Clovis says in English for my benefit. “Thank you for coming.”
Mr. Lemba steps out of the trees. I notice that he wears cargo shorts and an ordinary shirt. He blends with the jungle, as if he too is one of the natural tribesmen. And he is not alone. The man next to him is in similar attire; both are in their thirties, I would guess.
“Thank you for contacting me,” Mr. Lemba replies in English, though his accent is thick. “This is a business associate of mine. Because of the dangers of the jungle, I did not come alone.”
That is smart of him.
“I do miss these trees. They’re nice, yes?” he continues, looking at me. “Is that why you want to stop the poaching? Do you love this forest too?”
“I do,” I reply. “Do you know these trees well?”
“Yes,” he says, smiling. “Though I live in the city now, I was born here. That is why I think poachers do not belong. They do not have the right to destroy the forest.”
I instantly like Mr. Lemba. He is someone I think Dad would like too. Someone who appreciates the animals and land.
“Is that it?” he asks, motioning to the folder in Clovis’s hands.
“Yes,” Clovis replies.
“May I take a look?” Mr. Lemba asks.
Clovis hands over the folder. Mr. Lemba immediately leafs through the contents.
“Yes,” he whispers, still not taking his eyes off the evidence. “This is strong, very strong. Enough here to take back to the city. I could easily gather a force for this. And what is this? Wow, even names and contacts of buyers. You’ve done well.”
I smile. His words echo in my head. I could easily gather a force for this. And suddenly I feel a sense of completion, standing in front of a Cameroonian official who is leading an effort to cleanse the jungle of all its poachers. Already he’s taken down a whole group of them in a different part of the jungle. Finally someone cares enough to do something, to help.
“I’m eager to know just how you got this information on Mr. Tondjii. He has been in our sights from the beginning, but he is clearly someone who knows how to protect himself and his secrets,” Mr. Lemba says. “And look at this.” He pauses on the last page, surprised. “You even have proof of his profits from the illegal sale of gorilla meat.”
Clovis appears neutral, but I know he must be as excited as I am. “How we got the information does not matter. What matters is how long it will take you to shut him down,” Clovis says.
“Only a matter of days,” Mr. Lemba replies.
“Finally,” I whisper.
Finally Mr. Tondjii will not be able to steal any more lives. Finally Dad’s death will be avenged and I can know for a fact that his mission was not in vain. Finally all Dad lived and died for is safe.
“Which is exactly why this paperwork must be destroyed,” Mr. Lemba finishes, as he pulls out a gun.
It takes me a moment to understand what he just said. It doesn’t take Clovis any time at all. He reaches for his gun.
“Stop,” bellows Mr. Lemba, leveling the gun on me.
His assistant brandishes a knife. Clovis pauses. My mind is still reeling, but I know he shouldn’t have paused. He should have shot him. We need that evidence. We cannot allow Mr. Lemba to destroy it. I don’t understand what is happening.
His assistant lights a match.
“No!” I yell, just as the first paper catches.
I reach for the folder, the tip of it burning, still in Mr. Lemba’s hand. His assistant slashes out at me, and I know immediately that I have made a crucial mistake. What did Clovis always teach me? To assess the situation, to find the clearest path to attack, or to flee. And what have I done? I’ve acted on impulse.
I glance down at my good arm. There’s a slash across the biceps.
“Next time it will be your neck,” Mr. Lemba says.
Clovis does nothing. He holds it together and appears calm. Only his voice gives away his anger.
“What are you doing?” he asks, eyes on Mr. Lemba—on the documents in his hands, specifically.
The flames lick higher and Mr. Lemba is forced to drop the folder. It continues to burn on the ground. I am transfixed by the flares. All we’ve worked for, burning to ashes.
I think Clovis knows exactly what’s going on. The official is dirty. How can that be? He’s shut down other poachers. There’s proof that he’s sweeping the jungle and taking down packs.
“Why?” I ask. When I get no response, I think about the options. “Is your family in danger? Has Mr. Tondjii threatened them? We can help you. You didn’t need to do this.”
He laughs. He actually laughs at me. “Child, you think all the work I’ve done to bring down poachers has been due to good conscience? You think all of a sudden, just now, I’m turning against the peace effort?” His smile is condescending. “I’ve always been against the peace effort.”
“Are you working for him?” I ask. For some reason I need to hear Mr. Lemba say it. “Is that it? You’re his assassin. You take down his threats. Am I right?”
“Yes,” he admits. “I work for Mr. Tondjii. All m
y efforts to bring down other poaching packs are real, but only because Mr. Tondjii pays me to, because, actually, my life and the lives of my family members would be in jeopardy if I didn’t do this. You’re not wrong in that assumption. But where you’re wrong is why. I don’t do it to be noble, to save the lives of my family. You can see where noble gets you, can’t you?”
He smiles while he waves his gun toward Clovis. His assistant’s knife stays trained on me.
“The truth is,” he continues, “that it all comes down to money. I eradicate all the poachers except Mr. Tondjii’s tribe, and maybe a few wilds who aren’t worth the effort, and Mr. Tondjii pays me enough to disappear. I can go anywhere, really. I’ll take my family with me. We can live like kings. That’s more than the jungle ever gave me growing up.”
And Mr. Tondjii will benefit by having the jungle—and all its apes—to himself. No more competition. He’ll become wealthier. No more talks of overthrowing him.
He will own it all.
The last of the evidence sizzles in the fire. We should have gone straight to the office for the American embassy. I shouldn’t have believed in the peace effort so easily. I thought Mr. Lemba was the perfect connection. I thought going to him first would speed up the process of shutting the poachers down. But then I remember it was Mr. Tondjii himself who filled us in on the supposed official who was on a mission to stop the poaching packs.
It is then that I realize our mistake. It’s such a huge mistake. Mr. Tondjii is so much smarter than I thought. He has been playing us. He always admitted he didn’t like or trust me. Now I see that he suspected me all along. He has watched me and tried to get information about the habitat from me. All the while—just in case I ever did discover his evidence—he made sure I went straight to the person he knew would destroy it.
“I’ll be sure to tell him who the traitor is,” Mr. Lemba says with a wicked smile.
I cannot let him take us back to Mr. Tondjii. I inch my hand behind my back just as a bullet whizzes past my arm.
“Don’t even think about it,” he warns.
I weigh my options. I may not have a choice. I’m likely to get shot either way, while defending myself or while being brought down.