Rumors of Savages

by Carrie Regan

  Thompson couldn’t bring himself to watch more than five minutes of the resulting show, which painted the host as some sort of Indiana Jones for “braving” such a trek. Viewers would never know that off camera, dozens of poorly paid local porters carted vast quantities of freeze-dried food, energy bars, and costly, custom-made camping equipment to keep said host in relative comfort. Thompson found the entire production simply ludicrous, the manufactured drama obscene.

  And yet TV kept calling. Bill had overheard details of what promised to be Thompson’s greatest adventure ever at a dinner party months earlier. According to Thompson’s usually discreet editor, the anthropologist was planning to journey into a remote African jungle to search for the Bambada, a mythical “lost tribe” that, according to incredible tales of early European explorers, possessed a vast fortune and the power to read minds and see the future. Many dismissed the stories as simply ludicrous, but Thompson believed something rather remarkable had to be out there to have inspired so many stories. It would be a dramatic journey, rife with the right measure of danger, history, and intrigue. If Thompson cracked the mystery of the Bambada, it would make headlines worldwide. To Bill, it was an adventure made for television—Adventure’s kind of television—and a guaranteed ratings winner.

  It was exactly the kind of story Adventure needed to turn its fortunes around. Thompson’s expedition was more than hard-core adventure; it had an honest-to-goodness academic objective that would give the network the legitimacy it lacked. And the publicity it would generate would virtually guarantee top-notch ratings.

  But as much as Bill pandered and pleaded, even pledging a generous grant for the expedition and a portion of the home video profits, Thompson refused to even consider taking a television crew along. This was one journey he would make alone.

  And now Thompson was missing. Bill couldn’t help but wonder: what if a crew from Adventure, including Max Carrington, had gone with him? What a media event it would be! “Lawrence Julian Thompson and Max Carrington, star of the Adventure Channel’s flagship series, disappear in the jungles of central Africa!” You couldn’t buy that kind of publicity. Bill would personally produce Adventure’s video news release announcing the disappearance. He’d edit together a package of clips of Max’s greatest moments, each clip slowly, poignantly dissolving into the next, ending with a shot of Max and his signature smile. Bill would convince Margarite, Max’s attractive young wife, to appear in news conferences—-or perhaps on Oprah!—-where she would weep in a controlled fashion and explain that her greatest fears had been realized. She would be media trained, of course, and encouraged to work in enough plugs for the network. Then they’d pull all primetime programming and schedule The Best of Max Carrington in its place, as a tribute to their missing star. With all the free publicity, it would be a ratings bonanza.

  But alas, Max wasn’t missing, just Thompson.

  Perhaps it wasn’t too late to profit from the situation. Bill’s pulse quickened as a radical idea surfaced. What if he dispatched a television crew, led by Max Carrington, to the jungles of central Africa to bring Thompson back—alive, or, God forbid, dead? Thompson’s original expedition would have made great television, but the rescue mission Bill envisioned would be even better. He would contact the media immediately to let the world know that Max Carrington was on the case. No—better to bide his time, and make sure the crew came back with a story, if not Thompson, or he’d only look like a fool.

  Of course, Lee would be furious, but he knew how to placate the Texan. It’d take just one simple favor.

  The snap of Peggy’s gum brought Bill back to reality. “What do you want me to tell Lee?” she asked.

  “Tell him I’m busy working on Adventure’s next blockbuster.”

  CHAPTER 3

  “Nice and steady, that’s right,” the busty young zoologist said, oversized syringe in her hand.

  Max Carrington attempted to focus on the task before him—keeping the forearms and head of a burly lion still in preparation for the needle—but found himself increasingly distracted as the scantily-clad zoologist crawled closer.

  “Cut!” a voice called out. Cameraman AJ Paterson popped up from behind the camera, a slightly bemused smile on his face. “Can I see you for a minute, Max?”

  “What’s the problem? Not getting it?”

  “I was going to ask you the same thing.” Leaning in, AJ lowered his voice. “Listen, stare at her chest all you want, but not when the camera’s rolling, okay? You look like a dirty old man.”

  “I didn’t know it was that obvious. Been on the road a little too long.”

  They glanced back at the zoologist, who nuzzled the great cat, stroking its flank.

  “What I wouldn’t do to be that lion right about now,” AJ sighed.

  “You’re telling me. Just make sure you get plenty of close ups,” Max said with a wink.

  “I’ll second that,” called the soundman, Buddy Billings, from his post next to the zoologist. With a boom pole balanced on his shoulders and sound mixer resting on his sizeable belly, he’d eavesdropped on the conversation from yards away with his powerful microphone. His cherubic face beamed under the bill of a weathered orange baseball cap.

  “Second what? Do we have a problem?” snapped a tall, lanky man with a pronounced British accent. It was Ian Wright, the producer, pacing outside the enclosure and clearly perturbed by the break in action.

  “No problems,” AJ said, certain that uptight Ian wouldn’t appreciate the joke.

  “Great, then let’s get back to it, shall we? Get this done and it’s a wrap.”

  AJ returned to his camera and tripod, while Max assumed his position next to the zoologist, slicking his bangs back into place and returning his hands to the proper positions on the lion. Upon AJ’s signal, he turned on his irrepressible television grin.

  “So, what will your research tell us about this lion population?”

  “Sorry!” AJ interrupted once again. “Lost our light!”

  Max and the zoologist let the limp limbs of the cat drop and turned their attention to a young woman struggling with an oversized silver cloth reflector a yard away. A slight breeze caused the unwieldy disk to buckle in and out uncontrollably, complicating the job for Liz Lawson, the team’s associate producer. If the wind picked up, it threatened to carry both the disk and slender young woman away.

  “Liz, you need to hold that reflector steady!” Ian snapped.

  “I am holding it steady! The sun’s moving.” Flustered by the attention, Liz tilted the reflector back and forth, attempting to bounce its reflected light on Max.

  AJ shook his head and approached Liz from behind. Wrapping his arms around her petite frame, his chest pressed against her back, he guided her hands until they found an angle that illuminated the star.

  “Think you can hold it there?” he asked, his mouth just inches from her ear.

  “If not, you’ll be the first to know,” she said as he carefully extracted himself and resumed his position behind the camera.

  “Rolling.”

  “What was I saying?” Max asked.

  “What will the research tell us…” Ian reminded him.

  “Right. So, what will the research tell us about this lion population?”

  The researcher droned on as Max smiled and nodded, doing a passable job of feigning interest. Tomorrow, thank God we leave tomorrow, he thought. His back was bothering him, something he’d eaten had given him a non-stop case of the trots, he was still exhausted by jetlag, and he longed to get home to his wife, his sweet young wife whose “attributes” surpassed even those of the young zoologist. His mind wandered to the two-week Caribbean vacation they’d be taking upon his return: no cameras, no savage animals, only sun, sand, and relaxation. It was just the incentive he needed to get through these two weeks in Kenya.

  “So our results could prove that this is a whole new subspecies of lion,” the researcher said as she drove the needle home. “That’ll counteract the effects
of the sedative. He’ll be fully awake in no time.”

  “Then we better get out of here!” Max chuckled. The cat’s limbs jerked involuntarily as they backed off and AJ moved in for a close up.

  “Cut! Good job, Max. Liz, drinks!” Ian ordered as the crew filed out of the enclosure.

  Liz folded up the reflector and stormed over to a cooler behind Ian. It had been two long weeks for her as well – fourteen days and nights of taking orders from Ian, responding to the crew’s every need, and putting up with their locker room banter. She gathered up five bottles of water and distributed them to Max, the zoologist, AJ, and Buddy before opening a bottle for herself. Just as she was about to take a much needed sip, Ian cleared his throat.

  “I believe you forgot someone?” he said, hand outstretched.

  He wouldn’t, she thought. “The cooler’s right behind you, Ian,” she cooed. Sensing a fight in the making, AJ and Buddy stopped packing their equipment and turned to watch.

  “Liz, we’re all here to help each other out. A show doesn’t get made unless everyone checks his or her ego and pitches in. You’re never going to rise to the ranks of producer until you realize that,” he lectured as he bent down to get his own water. “Now go fetch Max a towel.”

  I went to Vassar for this? she thought, grabbing a towel. Never make producer! He knew where to hit her. She’d slaved away in the trenches for years to reach the coveted position of associate producer, unaware that while it would get her out of the office and into the field, the menial labor would continue, if only in more exotic locations. In addition to handling logistics and serving as an extra hand on the set, a good associate producer scouted locations, interviewed potential characters, and came up with ideas for stories and segments. In her eyes, she basically prepared the terrain for the producer, who swooped in and claimed all the credit. For three years, she’d fetched water, hauled equipment, and mothered many a crew. She’d put in her time. She deserved more than this, she thought, dabbing the sweat from Max’s brow.

  The clatter of a battered old khaki jeep pulling up momentarily distracted her from her thoughts. “Phone call for Ian Wright,” announced a wiry, sun-baked Australian behind the wheel.

  “That’s odd,” Ian said. “Liz, can I count on you to load this gear into the truck?”

  “I think I can manage,” she replied with a saccharine smile. The smile quickly faded when she turned and saw a dozen heavy equipment cases awaiting her attention. She looked back to protest, but the jeep had departed, leaving only a cloud of dust.

  “Here, I’ll help you,” Buddy said, lifting a case and sliding it onto the bed of their pickup truck.

  “Thanks, Buddy. You’re the best.” Of all the men, she could count on Buddy to look out for her, like the brother she never had.

  As she tied back her long brown hair, she stole a glance at the lion’s enclosure, where AJ was flirting with the winsome zoologist. Under his tattered gray tee, the weight of the hefty camera in his hands brought out the definition of his lean, muscular torso. Weeks in the field definitely agreed with him: his normally short, sandy hair was slightly unkempt, but combined with his scruffy stubble and hazel eyes, it made him appear even more attractive, in a rugged, adventurous sort of way. Meanwhile, “The Queen of the Beasts,” as Liz had dubbed her, tossed her hair and beamed at AJ, ample breasts jiggling as they shared a laugh.

  “Round of drinks says our boy’s not tenting alone tonight,” Max said, heading for the air-conditioned truck. “Ah, to be young again.”

  “Pigs,” Liz muttered, jerking a large case from the ground and hoisting it into the back of the pickup. She couldn’t help but notice that beneath her sleeveless tee, the vigorous movement had little effect on her own comparatively flat chest.

  Half an hour later, with gear safely stashed in their rooms, the crew, minus Ian, gathered in the lodge’s bar. If Epcot had a bar celebrating Kenya, this would be it. The mounted heads of snarling beasts gaudily festooned its wood plank walls, while stuffed lions and leopards crouched on platforms among the tables, poised for attack.

  “Half a dozen beers here!” AJ ordered, ready to celebrate the end of the two-week shoot. Max lowered himself into a chair, clutching his back with a grimace while Buddy fanned himself in the oppressive heat.

  “Where’s your girlfriend du jour?” Max asked, noting that AJ had arrived solo.

  “Yeah, shouldn’t you be getting her all liquored up by now?” Liz asked.

  “Can you believe it? She’s with that leathery old Australian.”

  “Ouch. Looks like drinks are on me,” Max winced.

  “Great. Two reasons to celebrate,” Buddy said. He looked around the room. “Ian’s still not back?”

  “Three reasons to celebrate,” Liz grumbled.

  “Not so fast,” Ian said, entering the bar under a large boar’s head. AJ offered him a beer, but he waved it of. “That was Bill Warner on the phone. You won’t believe this, but you’re not going home just yet.”

  “What do you mean?” Max asked, halting a beer midway to his mouth.

  The festive atmosphere quickly faded as Ian filled them in on the disappearance of Lawrence Julian Thompson. “Bill wants you all to fly to central Africa as soon as possible to cover the story.”

  “Story? What story? The prick’s probably dead,” Max said. “Damn academics. Have no place in the bush.”

  “Apparently it’s getting a lot of press in the States – CNN, front page of the Times. Bill thinks you can find him. Says it’ll be huge.” A waitress delivered Ian a martini and he took a neat sip. “I told him you’d do it, Max, and that the rest of you would as well.” The crew moaned. “I know for a fact that none of you have work lined up for the next month. Of course, if anyone wants to back out, you’re free to do so.”

  The crew exchanged glances, each waiting for someone else to lead the protest. “We were in central Africa last year for that gorilla film. It was raw,” Buddy said, fiddling with the label of his beer bottle.

  “Not to complain, but this is my third month on the road. I was really looking forward to some time off,” AJ added.

  “Makes two of us,” Max agreed. “My wife’ll kill me if I miss this vacation.” He had to admit, though, he was intrigued, and was always game for anything that would help promote both Adventure! and Max Carrington. The channel’s troubles were no secret, and Max was well aware that he could be hunting for a new job any day. He needed all the high-profile assignments he could get.

  “You said that ‘we’ would go. What about you, Ian?” Liz asked.

  “Unfortunately, I can’t. I’m flying to South Africa tomorrow for that big shark special. Seems another tourist has gotten chomped. They need me right away.”

  “Who’s going to produce?” groused Max.

  Liz’s heart leapt. Was this the opportunity she’d been waiting for? Would Bill finally let her take a crack at producing?

  “Bill’s sending a guy from the States. Some new gent he wants to try out.”

  Some “new gent”? It made no sense, Liz thought. She had more experience in the field than almost anyone at the channel, and Bill was going to hand the project to someone new?

  “So you’re on?” Buddy looked at AJ for guidance.

  “I’ll do it, but my day rate is going up $150,” AJ said.

  “Mine too!” Buddy agreed, nodding enthusiastically. His wife would be annoyed if he stayed, but with her staying home to raise the kids, they both knew they needed the money.

  “I’ve told him to increase your day rates by $100. It’s the highest he’ll go. If that’s not enough, he’ll send another crew.”

  “Fine,” AJ relented. He’d been saving for a new camera, and the extra gig would give him just enough cash to buy it. Buddy followed suit and agreed.

  Liz was in, too. As a staff employee, she had no room to negotiate salary, and really no choice. But Bill would owe her after this.

  “Aw, crap. If Bill breaks the news to Margarite, I’ll do it,” Ma
x said, doubtful that his boss would be able to handle his wife’s Latin temper.

  “Great. Bill is getting some research together to send with the producer, a fellow by the name of Troy. He’s scheduled to arrive in Burunga in two days with enough cash for up to three weeks in the field. That gives you tomorrow to change flights, Liz, and a day in Burunga to set up the expedition, get permits, and find yourselves guides and the like. By the way, Liz, I told Bill I thought you could handle it. I hope you won’t prove me wrong.”

  A tight-lipped smile and nod was all the appreciation she could muster.

  “Oh, and while you’re at it, they had me in an aisle seat on the way here. I hate aisle seats. Make sure it doesn’t happen on my flight to South Africa, will you?”

  Liz gave him an exaggerated “thumbs up” and took a long swig of her beer. At least she’d be getting rid of Ian. Whoever this Troy was, he couldn’t possibly be worse.

  CHAPTER 4

  Across town from the Adventure Channel, in the dusty, dim offices of Masters & Son publishing, Richard Masters gnawed on his thumbnail anxiously as he watched the CNN report on Lawrence Julian Thompson’s disappearance. He was more than an editor to Thompson, after all; he was one of the explorer’s oldest and dearest friends. A friendship that had begun during their undergraduate years at Yale had developed into a professional partnership. Richard had edited every book Thompson had written, publishing them through the small but prestigious publishing house started by his grandfather in the late 1800s.

  He’d always supported Julian (as Thompson was known to those closest to him) on his daring adventures, and was accustomed to seeing his dear friend disappear for weeks at a time. But the reports coming from central Africa weren’t promising. Julian’s personal belongings had, in fact, been found, but the news mercifully ignored the most gruesome detail: that the pack, when found, was soaked with blood.