by T. M. Clark
‘He’s seen so many changes in his life. So many places where he used to migrate that are no longer accessible because of fencing and years of war; he has heard the thundering landmines and pop of gunfire. If he could talk, he’d probably tell us stories that might make the beer sour around the campfire.’
‘Put like that, I can almost feel sorry for him. Almost.’
‘But?’
‘I’ll still be able to appreciate him when I sit in my den and look at his head hanging there with all the other trophies I’ve collected—from the very first squirrel I killed. My rhino will be dwarfed by his head,’ Payden said. ‘My black rhino is impressive. Truly. I got him up in South West Africa. The hunting outfit there said that it would be in the top-ten all-time record books. Most of my trophies have reached our club’s Gold Medal standards or higher. I won the biggest rhino trophy from our club that year.’
Payden was someone who sat at the far-left of the trophy hunters. The group that was excessively obsessive about their trophies, and only the trophies. In his years as a professional hunter, Douglas had only ever met two or three people like this. Most trophy hunters had a huge respect for the environment and the animals they took from it.
Payden was simply a killer, always after something bigger and better than what he had. Never going to be happy that he’d hunted every species in the world. He would probably be one of those to move on from his wish list of shooting every species, to trying to eat them all …
A chill ran down Douglas’s neck at the thought.
Having been asked to assess if Payden was ready to be approached about joining the 6th, Douglas would be sending his recommendation that they stay far away from this man. He didn’t trust him, and he doubted that he would stop at just one kill of a 6th trophy per year. Worse. He wouldn’t keep the existence of the 6th Society a secret because he liked to brag. He was too full of self-importance and pride not to crow to the world that he could kill humans, and feel as little remorse as if they were animals themselves.
‘Don’t worry, this elephant will be one of your best trophies,’ Douglas reassured him.
‘Too true,’ Payden said as he broke a large thorn from the acacia tree to use as a toothpick.
They walked downwind from the elephant. So, while they could see him and certainly smell him when he defecated in a large pile, he didn’t know they were there.
Douglas’s tracker, Virgil, motioned them forward. ‘Come, this way,’ Douglas said, ‘we’ll bypass the waterhole and set up on the other side. Once you’ve shot him, I’ll radio my boys to bring the bakkie, and we can save that trophy for you.’
They trudged along the sandy path that led past the waterhole, Douglas ever alert to other game that might catch them unawares as they moved through the bush. Finally, they crossed a large trail intersecting theirs. ‘He’ll come along this route.’
Virgil turned and walked north on the path until it went through a thicket of wag-n-bietjies. ‘Here, Baas.’
Douglas nodded. And they set up just the other side, close—within eighty metres, but not so close that if Payden didn’t drop him in one shot, Douglas wouldn’t have a chance to react and set off a second bullet.
He had known hunters who had been trampled at this stage of the hunt. Hunters who had thrown themselves in front of a charging elephant to save their client from being crushed. He never wanted to be in that situation because he didn’t believe he would make the right choice. An ordinary hunter could leave an area and reinvent himself, get a new identity if he wanted to.
But not a 6th hunter. You died protecting your client or you died at the hands of the 6th for not protecting them well enough. He didn’t need to test the theory, he had seen it in play already.
He closed his eyes and thought of the only other time he’d been forced to make a choice, and while he had known then it was the right choice—it had brought him to Africa after all—he still hated that a woman had been the driving force behind the decision.
Judge Barbara Joyce.
She’d sat in her courtroom and supposedly given him a choice. Did he want to spend more time in the community home? Or did he want to enlist and serve in Her Majesty’s Service?
There was no choice. In the army he would get to be deployed overseas, see the world. It was a no-brainer, really.
He found he was grinning as he remembered those first few years in the military. His training, shooting a gun for the first time, and then finally being sent with the UN peacekeepers to the Zimbabwe-Rhodesia election. To ensure it was fair and free.
At the time, he hadn’t understood the implications of the election. To him, it had just been his deployment. Coming on the cusp of when he needed to decide if he was going to stay in the army as part of the infantry, or as he liked to call it, ‘cannon fodder’. It was his ticket to freedom.
Or so he’d thought as he quit the army and began his new life in a beautiful new country, filled with possibilities, exotic animals and opportunities for a man to make something of himself.
Payden’s nasal accent brought him back to the present. ‘Here he comes.’
Douglas could see the elephant as he walked along the path, and hear Payden as he drew in a ragged breath.
Virgil was nodding. The elephant was almost in range.
‘Easy, take your time. He’ll walk right in front of us, then you can take him. A side brain shot,’ Douglas said.
The seconds ticked slowly by as Payden lifted his rifle—so did Douglas. His heart rate elevated. He controlled his breathing. In. Out.
Douglas whispered, ‘Remember to look for the crease of the ear. Visualise the target inside that. The trophy is yours. Take the shot.’
Payden settled his rifle into his shoulder and squeezed his trigger. The weapon discharged and recoiled, slamming into Payden. The American stood his ground, absorbing the impact.
The old bull took half a step and his legs crumpled beneath him. A direct shot through the brain. The rugger shot was clean. Perfect. Skilled.
Payden began to walk forward.
‘Wait,’ cautioned Douglas as he watched for any movement, any sign that the elephant bull was only injured and would get up and charge them.
It stayed still.
Virgil, his rifle still held to his shoulder, walked slowly forward.
Douglas could see that the elephant bull was dead. Still, they needed to check. Many hunters had assumed no movement meant dead. Virgil’s job was to make sure.
Virgil reached the elephant and put his rifle in between its eyes, where he knew that it would penetrate through the pachyderm’s thick skull and into its brain. Then he kicked the elephant.
Nothing.
He gave a thumbs-up sign to Douglas. There had been no need of a ‘make sure’ shot, as Payden had been the perfect hunter. One bullet, one animal. Just the outcome that a professional hunt should have. An elephant deserved a quick death; that was the least that Douglas could give him.
‘He’s down,’ Douglas confirmed.
Payden approached slowly.
‘Jelly legs got you?’ Douglas asked.
‘No, caution and common sense. Had an onyx in South West Africa a few years back that gored the tracker who checked on him. Figured if a local can make that mistake, an ex-Brit and his tracker can too.’
Douglas shook his head, as if he hadn’t already had to caution against the man rushing in, and now he was making out like waiting was his idea. Instead of belittling Payden, he carefully chose his more professional answer. ‘Not likely, but it’s good to be cautious. Your elephant is dead. Make no mistake, your shot was true. Congratulations! This is quite a trophy you have bagged.’
Douglas took his radio out of his pack and relayed his location to his skinners. They’d bring in the bakkie and collect the elephant. There was much to do to ensure the trophy wasn’t damaged.
‘Do you want pictures?’ Douglas asked.
‘Hell yeah,’ Payden said as he dug in his pack for his camera. ‘I get ph
otos with all my kills.’
Douglas looked through the lens and pressed the shutter to record another moment for Payden to frame and put on his wall. Another reason why Payden would never be invited to the most elite club in the world.
CHAPTER
12
North American Top 6 Trophies
1.Moose
2.Bison
3.Grey wolf
4.Grizzly bear
5.Polar bear
6.Man
South American Top 6 Trophies
1.Wild boar
2.Water buffalo
3.The red stag
4.Père David’s deer
5.Jaguar
6.Man
CHAPTER
13
Nick heard his phone ring as he came into the house after fetching the second-hand axle for the truck. Having spent most of Friday in the city, he was now ready for a long hot shower and a drink, despite it being only three-thirty.
‘Nick here.’
‘Hi, it’s Chloe—Chloe Mitchell. Mike Mitchell’s daughter.’
Nick froze. Then his brain seemed to kick into gear, a million thoughts racing through it: she’d used his number! Was she alright? Did she need help? Did she still consider him a friend? Where had the years gone? She sounded so mature?
‘Nick? Are you there?’
He realised he had been quiet for too long. He cleared his throat. ‘Ah, Chloe, nice to hear your voice.’ He took off his hat and tossed it towards the lounge chair. It caught the wind underneath it, sailed a little, and missed entirely, landing on the floor. He had done that shot a million times and never missed. He looked at his shaking fingers.
‘Dammit,’ he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
‘Pardon?’ Chloe said. ‘This is a terrible line.’
‘Ah—that wasn’t for you, just something that happened here.’
There was silence on the other end of the line.
He opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again, not quite sure exactly what to say to someone he hadn’t seen for five years.
‘Is this a bad time?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he said, and even he could hear he’d said it a bit forcefully. ‘It’s fine. I’m fine. How are you?’ Then he realised she hadn’t asked him, and he smacked his own forehead with his hand. He was making a total botch of talking to her, as if he was a nervous teenager, and it made no sense to him at all. This was Chloe, whom he had seen grow up. Chloe whom he’d almost had as his ward …
‘I’m good. I know it’s been a while since we spoke, but I was wondering if you meant what you said, you know … that if I ever needed anything, I just had to ask …’ her voice faded.
Nick held his breath. He’d almost stopped himself from writing that offer in the card last year, but he’d meant it because he couldn’t bring himself to hold it against her that her dad and Enoch had caused so many problems.
He took a deep breath and then exhaled. ‘I did. What’s the problem?’
Her voice sounded sweet—innocent, as if somehow, she’d managed to remain unaffected by the cruelty that had happened to her so early in her life.
‘I need—we—need your help. Enoch told me I have to tell you that he’s travelling with Dad and me, and he understands if you don’t want to help us.’
Nick ran his hand over his face. Chloe wasn’t her father or Enoch, and she had nothing to do with what they had done. When he had seen her last she had been sixteen and innocent, protected and beautiful, and he hoped that even now she was unchanged by life, but he doubted that she had remained unaffected with everything he knew had happened with her moving Mike to South Africa. ‘Tell Enoch to remember that time heals. What’s happened?’
There was a pause as she relayed his message, then she came back on the phone.
‘We need help getting home to Delaware.’
The sucker punch to his stomach was unexpected. Delaware was where he’d thought all the pressures of war could miraculously be lifted, but from where everything he held dear had been ripped apart instead. Where lies, deception and destruction had ruined his most prized friendship.
She was returning to Mike’s farm. The farm where Nick had been a witness to a great secret he still didn’t know how to deal with.
No, the secret he could process. It was the reasoning behind it that he still didn’t understand.
He cleared his throat as he sat down on the floor, knowing now that this call would take time. ‘Are you crazy?’ he managed. ‘Why?’ Then he had a thought. If she’s with Enoch and they’re in trouble, and travelling with her dad despite his condition, perhaps she shouldn’t be telling him anything where someone could listen in. ‘Where are you?’
‘Near —’
There was a muffled noise and then she came back on the line. ‘Enoch said to tell you we’re with the father of Destiny’s Folly.’
That was a horse’s name he hadn’t heard in many years. Nigel Smoothy had a place outside KaNyamazane. She was closer than he thought. ‘Stay there. I’m coming.’
What had he just got himself into? The last time he’d crossed paths with Enoch there was something illegal going on. And it seemed that way again now. But if Chloe was heading home, and he could get her to trust him enough to let him accompany her—them—then the chances of him getting to the bottom of what had happened back in 1981 might give him closure. God knew he needed closure.
It was his duty—no it had almost been his duty—to protect her once, and he was damned if he didn’t still feel responsible for that promise now, even though Mike and Enoch were both still alive.
* * *
It was dark by the time he got to Nigel’s farm. There was no gate on the citrus farm, and as his Land Rover rattled over the cattle grid, he couldn’t help but wonder if the shake-up of his body was the universe telling him to wake up, to walk away while he still could.
The dogs that greeted him at Nigel’s house were Great Danes. Over-friendly and not vicious at all, they shoved their heads through the window and licked his arm. The brindle dog was taller than its tan companion with a pink collar, and while the female kept her head through the window, mournful eyes watching his every move, the brindle one put his head in and out and looked expectantly at the house. He needed to push them aside to get out, and while they didn’t jump up on him, they were very much in his space, sniffing him.
When Nigel opened the front door and whistled, both dogs quickly loped back to him, their agile bodies covering the short distance to sit on either side of their master.
‘You look like a statue from Ancient Egypt with those next to you, just not enough gold dripping from your clothes,’ Nick said.
Nigel grinned and put his hand out to shake Nick’s. ‘It’s been too long. Come in.’ He clapped Nick on the back and led the way into the house.
In the lounge, he saw Colette, Nigel’s wife, and he kissed her on both cheeks in greeting. Colette was of French descent, and while she put up with Nigel’s colonial ways, including living on the farm, she still kept an elegant aura around her that shrieked sophistication and mystique. Her voice still carried that breathless accent as she spoke. ‘Good to see you, Nick, you don’t visit enough.’
He smiled. ‘You know how it goes in the bush, always some tourist losing themselves, some hippo needing to be chased back into the park …’
She laughed, the sound light.
He looked past her to where Enoch, Xo, Mike and Chloe—with her long black hair looking unruly and unkempt—stood. But it was the bruising on her face that his eyes focused on. Her nose had obviously been broken and reset recently, the deep purple around her eyes testament to the pain. Her left cheek was also blackened, as if she’d been in a fight with a truck, and the telltale scab on her lip showed where her teeth had obviously been forced through the flesh and a surgeon had sewn her back together.
What the hell was going on?
Her dark eyes, skittish as a newborn impala’s, stared back at him. And
then she smiled, broad and spontaneous. It dominated her face and brightened up everything in the room, and he knew that he’d made the right decision to help her tonight, no matter what Enoch had got her into.
Enoch stepped forward, hand outstretched.
Looking away from Chloe, Nick gripped it in a tight shake, then shook Xo’s hand. Chloe surprised him by throwing her arms around him as she said, ‘Thank you for coming to help. I told Enoch you would.’
He held on to her for a brief moment, trying to comfort her, to be worthy of her gratitude—when all he had done was drive a few kilometres down the road. He could feel the blush start in his chest and flush up his neck and into his face. He couldn’t remember any other girl throwing herself at him in quite the way she just had—without any reservation.
She’d always been like that with him. Natural. No falseness. Perhaps that was because he’d last seen her as a child, but now the body that pressed against his was that of a grown woman.
He nodded and stepped away quickly, feeling the echo of where her hands had drawn across his body as they parted.
‘Your face—what happened?’ he asked, unable to contain his concern any longer.
‘Long story, another time,’ she said quickly.
He nodded, and put his hand on Mike’s shoulder. ‘Good to see you, Mike.’
Mike slowly lifted his right hand and moved his fingers in a small almost wave, but he didn’t respond verbally, yet Nick could have sworn that he saw a flicker of recognition cross his face.
His heart broke when he thought of the corporal he’d known and the shell of the man who now stood in front of him.
A guilt bit deep in his stomach, that he hadn’t done enough to stop Enoch and Mike that fateful day, or that he hadn’t gone with them. Perhaps if he’d been there, the outcome might have been different. Perhaps if he hadn’t been so proud —
‘Come through to the dining room, we’re about to eat. I’ve set a place for you,’ Colette said as she seated everyone around the table. ‘Nick, what can I get you to drink?’