At sunset, the liquor comes out. After the five tents are pitched and the campfire is lit, Clarence the tracker opens the aluminum cocktail case that has bounced in the back of the truck all day, and sets out the bottles of gin and whiskey, vodka and Amarula. The last I’ve grown particularly fond of, a sweet cream liqueur made from the African marula tree. It tastes like a thousand boozy calories of coffee and chocolate, like something a child would sneak a sip of when his mother’s back is turned. Clarence winks at me as he hands me my glass, as if I’m the naughty child of the bunch because everyone else sips grown-up drinks like warm gin and tonic or whiskey, neat. This is the part of the day when I think, Yes, it’s good to be in Africa. When the day’s discomforts and the bugs and the tension between me and Richard all dissolve in a pleasant, tipsy haze and I can settle into a camp chair and watch the sun go down. As Clarence prepares a simple evening meal of meat stew and bread and fruit, Johnny strings up the perimeter wire, hung with little bells to alert us should anything wander into camp. I notice Johnny’s silhouette suddenly go still against the sunset’s glow, and he raises his head as if he’s sniffing the air, taking in a thousand scents that I’m not even aware of. He’s like another bush creature, so at home in this wild place that I almost expect him to open his mouth and roar like a lion.
I turn to Clarence, who’s stirring the pot of bubbling stew. “How long have you worked with Johnny?” I ask.
“With Johnny? First time.”
“You’ve never been his tracker before?”
Clarence briskly shakes pepper into the stew. “My cousin is Johnny’s tracker. But this week Abraham is in his village for a funeral. He asks me to take his place.”
“And what did Abraham say about Johnny?”
Clarence grins, his white teeth gleaming in the twilight. “Oh, my cousin tells many stories about him. Many stories. He thinks Johnny should have been born Shangaan, because he’s just like us. But with a white face.”
“Shangaan? Is that your tribe?”
He nods. “We come from Limpopo Province. In South Africa.”
“Is that the language I hear you two speaking sometimes?”
He gives a guilty laugh. “When we don’t want you to know what we say.”
I imagine that none of it is flattering. I look at the others seated around the campfire. Mr. and Mrs. Matsunaga are diligently reviewing the day’s photos on his camera. Vivian and Sylvia lounge in their low-cut tank tops, oozing pheromones that make poor, awkward Elliot grovel for attention as usual. Are you gals chilly? Can I get your sweaters? How about another gin and tonic?
Richard emerges from our tent with a fresh shirt. There’s an empty chair waiting for him beside me, but he walks right past it. He sits down next to Vivian instead, and proceeds to dial up the charm. How are you enjoying our safari? Do you ever make it to London? I’d be happy to send you and Sylvia autographed copies of Blackjack when it’s published.
Of course they all now know who he is. Within the first hour of meeting everyone, Richard subtly slipped in the fact that he was thriller writer Richard Renwick, creator of MI5 hero Jackman Tripp. Unfortunately none of them had ever heard of Richard or his hero, which led to a prickly first day on safari. But now he’s back in form, doing what he does best: charming his audience. Laying it on too thick, I think. Far too thick. But if I complain about it later, I know exactly what he’ll say. It’s what writers have to do, Millie. We have to be sociable and bring in new readers. Funny how Richard never wastes his time being sociable with grandmotherly types, only with young, preferably pretty girls. I remember how he’d turned that same charm on me four years ago, when he’d signed copies of Kill Option at the bookshop where I work. When Richard’s on his game, he’s impossible to resist, and now I see him looking at Vivian in a way he hasn’t looked at me in years. He slips a Gauloise between his lips and tilts forward to cup the flame from his sterling-silver lighter, the way his hero Jackman Tripp would, with masculine panache.
The empty chair next to me feels like a black hole, sucking all the joy out of my mood. I’m ready to get up and go back to my tent when suddenly Johnny settles into that chair beside me. He doesn’t say anything, just scans the group as if taking our measure. I think he is always taking our measure, and I wonder what he sees when he looks at me. Am I like all the other resigned wives and girlfriends who’ve been dragged into the bush to humor the safari fantasies of their men?
His gaze rattles me, and I’m compelled to fill the silence. “Do those bells on the perimeter wire actually work?” I ask. “Or are they just there to make us feel safer?”
“They serve as a first alert.”
“I didn’t hear them last night, when the leopard came into camp.”
“I did.” He leans forward, tosses more wood on the fire. “We’ll probably hear those bells again tonight.”
“You think there are more leopards lurking about?”
“Hyenas this time.” He points at the darkness looming beyond our firelit circle. “There’s about half a dozen of them watching us right now.”
“What?” I peer into the night. Only then do I spot the reflected gleam of eyes staring back.
“They’re patient. Waiting to see if there’s a meal to be scavenged. Walk out there alone, and they’ll make you their meal.” He shrugs. “Which is why you hired me.”
“To keep us from ending up as dinner.”
“I wouldn’t get paid if I lost too many clients.”
“How many is too many?”
“You’d only be the third.”
“That’s a joke, right?”
He smiles. Though he’s about the same age as Richard, a lifetime in the African sun has etched lines around Johnny’s eyes. He lays a reassuring hand on my arm, which startles me because he’s not a man who offers unnecessary touches. “Yes, it’s a joke. I’ve never lost a client.”
“I find it hard to tell when you’re serious.”
“When I’m serious, you’ll know it.” He turns to Clarence, who’s just said something to him in Shangaan. “Supper’s ready.”
I glance at Richard, to see if he’s noticed Johnny talking to me, Johnny’s hand on my arm. But Richard’s so focused on Vivian that I might as well be invisible.
“It’s what writers have to do,” Richard predictably says as we lie in our tents that night. “I’m only bringing in new readers.” We speak in whispers, because the canvas is thin, the tents close together. “Besides, I feel a little protective. They’re on their own, just two girls out in the bush. Rather adventurous when they’re only twenty-something, don’t you think? You have to admire them for that.”
“Elliot obviously admires them,” I observe.
“Elliot would admire anything with two X chromosomes.”
“So they’re not exactly on their own. He signed on to the trip to keep them company.”
“And God, that must get tiresome for them. Having him hanging around all the time, making cow eyes.”
“The girls invited him. That’s what Elliot says.”
“Invited him out of pity. He chats them up in some nightclub, hears they’re going on safari. They probably said, Hey, you should think about coming into the bush, too! I’m sure they never imagined he’d actually sign on.”
“Why do you always put him down? He seems like a very nice man. And he knows an awful lot about birds.”
Richard snorts. “That’s always so attractive in a man.”
“What is the matter with you? Why are you so cranky?”
“I could say the same about you. All I do is chat up a young woman and you can’t deal with it. At least those girls know how to have a good time. They’re in the spirit of things.”
“I’m trying to enjoy myself, I really am. But I didn’t think it would be so rough out here. I expected—”
“Fluffy towels and chocolates on the pillow.”
“Give me some credit. I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Complaining all the way. This safari
was my dream, Millie. Don’t ruin it for me.”
We’re no longer whispering and I’m sure the others can hear us, if they’re still awake. I know that Johnny is, because he’s on first watch. I imagine him sitting by the campfire, listening to our voices, hearing the rising tension. Surely he’s already aware of it. Johnny Posthumus is the kind of man who misses nothing, which is how he survives in this place, where hearing the tinkle of a bell on a wire means the difference between life and death. What useless, shallow people we must seem to him. How many marriages has he watched fall apart, how many self-important men has he seen humbled by Africa? The bush is not merely a holiday destination; it’s where you learn how insignificant you truly are.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and reach out for Richard’s hand. “I don’t mean to spoil this for you.”
Though my fingers close around his, he doesn’t return the gesture. His hand feels like a dead thing in my grasp.
“You’ve put a damper on everything. Look, I know this trip wasn’t your idea of a holiday, but for God’s sake, enough of the glum face. Look how Sylvia and Vivian are enjoying themselves! Even Mrs. Matsunaga manages to be a good sport.”
“Maybe it’s all because of these malaria pills I’m taking,” I offer weakly. “The doctor said they can make you depressed. He said some people even go insane on them.”
“Well, the mefloquine isn’t bothering me. The girls are taking it, too, and they’re jolly enough.”
The girls again. Always comparing me with the girls, who are nine years younger than I am, nine years slimmer and fresher. After four years of sharing the same flat, the same loo, how could any woman still seem fresh?
“I should stop taking the pills,” I tell him.
“What, and get malaria? Oh right, that makes sense.”
“What do you want me to do? Richard, tell me what you want me to do.”
“I don’t know.” He sighs and turns away from me. His back is like cold concrete, a wall that encases his heart, locking it beyond my reach. After a moment, he says softly: “I don’t know where we’re going, Millie.”
But I know where Richard is going. Away from me. He’s been pulling away from me for months, so subtly, so gradually that until now, I refused to see it. I could chalk it up to: Oh, we’re both so busy lately. He’s been scrambling to finish the revisions on Blackjack. I’ve been struggling through our annual inventory at the bookshop. All will be better between us when our lives slow down. That’s what I kept telling myself.
Outside our tent, the night is alive with sounds of the Delta. We are camped not far from a river, where earlier we saw hippos. I think I can hear them now, along with the croaks and cries and grunts of countless other creatures.
But inside our tent, there is only silence.
So this is where love comes to die. In a tent, in the bush, in Africa. If we were back in London, I’d be out of bed, dressed and off to my girlfriend’s flat for brandy and sympathy. But here I’m trapped inside canvas, surrounded by things that want to eat me. Sheer claustrophobia makes me desperate to claw my way out of the tent, to run screaming into the night. It must be these malaria pills, wreaking havoc with my brain. I want it to be the pills, because that means it’s not my fault I’m feeling hopeless. I really must stop taking them.
Richard has fallen deeply asleep. How can he do that, just drop off so peacefully when I feel I’m about to shatter? I listen to him breathe in and out, so relaxed, so steady. The sound of him not caring.
He is still deeply asleep when I awake the next morning. As the pale light of dawn seeps through the seams of our tent, I think with dread of the day ahead. Another uneasy drive as we sit side by side, trying to be civil with each other. Another day of slapping mosquitoes and peeing in the bushes. Another evening of watching Richard flirt and feeling another piece of my heart crumble away. This holiday cannot possibly get worse, I think.
And then I hear the sound of a woman shrieking.
Two
Boston
It was the mailman who called it in. Eleven fifteen A.M., shaky voice on a cell phone: I’m on Sanborn Avenue, West Roxbury, oh-two-one-three-two. The dog—I saw the dog in the window … And that’s how it came to the attention of Boston PD. A cascade of events that started with an alert mail carrier, one in an army of foot soldiers deployed six days a week in neighborhoods across America. They are the eyes of the nation, sometimes the only eyes that notice which elderly widow has not collected her mail, which old bachelor doesn’t answer his doorbell, and which porch has a yellowing pile of newspapers.
The first clue that something was amiss inside the large house on Sanborn Avenue, zip code 02132, was the overstuffed mailbox, something that US postal carrier Luis Muniz first noticed on day number two. Two days’ worth of uncollected mail wasn’t necessarily a cause for alarm. People go away for the weekend. People forget to request a hold on home delivery.
But on day number three, Muniz started to worry.
On day number four, when Muniz opened the mailbox and found it still jam-packed with catalogs and magazines and bills, he knew he had to take action.
“So he knocks on the front door,” said Patrolman Gary Root. “Nobody answers. He figures he’ll check with the next-door neighbor, see if she knows what’s going on. Then he looks in the window and spots the dog.”
“That dog over there?” asked Detective Jane Rizzoli, pointing to a friendly-looking golden retriever who was now tied to the mailbox.
“Yeah, that’s him. The tag on his collar says his name’s Bruno. I took him outta the house, before he could do any more …” Patrolman Root swallowed. “Damage.”
“And the mail carrier? Where’s he?”
“Took the rest of the day off. Probably getting a stiff drink somewhere. I got his contact info, but he probably can’t tell you much more than what I just told you. He never went inside the house, just called nine one one. I was first on the scene, found the front door unlocked. Walked in and …” He shook his head. “Wish I hadn’t.”
“You talk to anyone else?”
“The nice lady next door. She came out when she saw the cruisers parked out here, wanted to know what was going on. All I told her was that her neighbor was dead.”
Jane turned and faced the house where Bruno the friendly retriever had been trapped. It was an older two-story, single-family home with a porch, a two-car garage, and mature trees in front. The garage door was closed, and a black Ford Explorer, registered to the homeowner, was parked in the driveway. This morning, there would have been nothing to distinguish the residence from the other well-kept houses on Sanborn Avenue, nothing that would catch a cop’s eye and make him think: Wait a minute, there’s something wrong here. But now there were two patrol cars parked at the curb, rack lights flashing, which made it obvious to anyone passing by that yes, something was very wrong here. Something that Jane and her partner, Barry Frost, were about to confront. Across the street, a gathering crowd of neighbors stood gaping at the house. Had any of them noticed the occupant hadn’t been seen in a few days, hadn’t walked his dog or picked up his mail? Now they were probably telling one another: Yeah, I knew something wasn’t right. Everyone’s brilliant in retrospect.
“You want to walk us through the house?” Frost asked Patrolman Root.
“You know what?” said Root. “I’d rather not. I finally got the smell outta my nose, and I don’t care for another whiff of it.”
Frost swallowed. “Uh … that bad?”
“I was in there maybe thirty seconds, tops. My partner didn’t last even that long. It’s not like there’s anything in there I need to point out to you. You can’t miss it.” He looked at the golden retriever, who responded with a playful bark. “Poor pup, trapped in there with nothing to eat. I know he had no choice, but still …”
Jane glanced at Frost, who was staring at the house like a condemned prisoner facing the gallows. “What’d you have for lunch?” she asked him.
“Turkey sandwich. Potato
chips.”
“Hope you enjoyed it.”
“This isn’t helping, Rizzoli.”
They climbed the porch steps and paused to pull on gloves and shoe covers. “You know,” she said, “there’s this pill called Compazine.”
“Yeah?”
“Works pretty good for morning sickness.”
“Great. When I get knocked up, I’ll give it a try.”
They looked at each other and she saw him take a deep breath, just as she was doing. One last gulp of clean air. With a gloved hand she opened the door, and they stepped inside. Frost lifted his arm to cover his nose, blocking the smell that they were far too familiar with. Whether you called it cadaverine, or putrescine, or any other chemical name, it all came down to the stench of death. But it was not the smell that made Jane and Frost pause just inside the door; it was what they saw hanging on the walls.
Everywhere they looked, eyes stared back at them. A whole gallery of the dead, confronting these new intruders.
“Jesus,” murmured Frost. “Was he some kind of big-game hunter?”
“Well, that is definitely big game,” said Jane, staring up at the mounted head of a rhino and wondering what kind of bullet it took to kill such a creature. Or the Cape buffalo beside it. She moved slowly past the row of trophies, her shoe covers swishing across the wood floor, gaping at animal heads so life-like she almost expected the lion to roar. “Are these even legal? Who the hell shoots a leopard these days?”
“Look. The dog wasn’t the only pet running around in here.”
A variety of reddish-brown paw prints tracked across the wood floor. The larger set would match Bruno, the golden retriever, but there were smaller prints as well, dotted throughout the room. Brown smears on the windowsill marked where Bruno had propped up his front paws to look out at the mail carrier. But it wasn’t merely the sight of a dog that caused Luis Muniz to dial 911; it was what protruded from that dog’s mouth.
Die Again: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel Page 2