Safari

by Tony Park

  She lay back against the bedhead on the piled pillows and ran her fingers through his thick, dark hair as his tongue teased her tender nipples to life again. For a moment the horror of what Fletcher had done, of what they must begin to do in the morning, didn’t exist. Shane paused, though, as his tongue flicked past her belly button on its journey south.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Your tattoo. I didn’t see it in the dark before.’

  ‘Poor Tinker Bell. Fletcher never liked her. What about you?’

  ‘I want her.’

  There was a pinch as he drew the little picture in between his teeth. She felt his fingers part her, again, as he continued to kiss her skin. When he moved his lips down and to the side, opening her with his fingers at the same time, Michelle looked down at the tattoo. ‘She’s all red, like she’s blushing.’

  Shane’s now moistened finger moved lower between her legs, exploring every part of her as his tongue found her clitoris. He paused and looked up at her smiling face. ‘Just like you.’

  When they awoke, the sun streaming through the window, their limbs were entwined. Hers were tanned from wearing shorts, while he sported a soldier’s tan, brown hands and face with a V below his neck, from wearing a long-sleeve uniform and trousers in the bush. That would all change soon, she thought, when he became a lodge owner. She’d make sure that he spent an inordinate amount of his time keeping the swimming pool clean, while she watched on, cocktail in hand. She smiled to herself as she watched him sleep. She knew she was being foolish. They hadn’t gotten around to discussing a future together, and she had no right to dream that Shane would stay with her once they had done what they had to do.

  She’d denied her attraction – her love – for Shane for too long, mainly for the sake of a man who she now knew was a cold-blooded killer. Michelle felt foolish for falling for Fletcher. Looking back, she saw the expensive dinners, the gifts, the helicopter ride, as more manipulative than romantic.

  Her world had been shaken, but she felt right about being in bed with the handsome, dark-haired warrior, who looked peaceful at the moment. There was none of the doubt or self-analysis she’d subjected herself to over Fletcher.

  ‘Hmmm, morning,’ he drawled, eyes still closed, somehow sensing her watching him. He lifted an arm free and checked his watch. ‘We should get going. Dougal’ll be here soon.’

  She grizzled a little, and moved her hand between their bodies, grabbing him. He smiled. ‘Bad girl.’

  ‘I can be.’

  She looked up at him and, with her other hand, traced a line from his forehead, down his cheek, to his lips. He kissed her finger as she felt him harden under her touch. ‘I knew, as soon as I met you, that I’d made the wrong choice, being with Fletcher.’

  ‘I knew you’d see sense eventually.’

  She pinched his cheek, hard. ‘Goose.’

  She placed her finger back on his lip, stilling his reply, and inched along his body, propelling herself with her toes, until she was poised over him. She had awoken aroused. It were as if her body couldn’t get enough of Shane. She slid down on top of him; felt the glorious sensation of fulfilment, of being part of him. She kept herself close to him, her breasts flattened against his chest, the two of them barely moving. She felt his pulse through his body as she buried her face in his neck, her muscles delaying him, holding him for a few more precious seconds.

  ‘God, do we have to go?’ she asked, when it was over and they lay still.

  ‘No, we don’t,’ he said, still inside her, hugging her. ‘We can go to South Africa, Botswana, Namibia – anywhere.’

  ‘You don’t really mean that, do you?’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  Shane radioed Lovemore at Robins Camp in the national park, and the ranger and his sidekick, Noah, were at Isilwane Lodge two hours later.

  ‘This is highly irregular,’ Lovemore said. ‘It is only because you saved our lives that day with the elephant poachers.’

  Noah dragged Lloyd, still bound, though his gag had been removed, roughly to his feet and propelled him towards the green national parks Land Rover pick-up.

  ‘Like I said, I can’t hand him over to the police – I think they’re on the take,’ Shane reiterated. He had told Lovemore of their suspicions about Fletcher Reynolds, which had been largely confirmed by Lloyd’s attack the previous night, and the bare bones of how they planned to entrap the hunter. Lovemore had frowned in disapproval, but eventually he had agreed to Shane’s request.

  ‘I just need you to keep him locked up somewhere, on ice, for four days. That should be long enough. Even if I gave him to some honest cops, he’d still be able to make a phone call and tip Fletcher off.’

  ‘I understand,’ Lovemore said. ‘We’ll keep him under lock and key at the camp, but after four days I’m letting him go.’

  ‘You cannot do this to me. I have rights,’ Lloyd whined from the back of the truck.

  Shane leaned into the rear of the vehicle until his face was no more than a hand’s span from Lloyd’s. ‘You gave up your rights the second you put that knife to Michelle’s throat. You’re lucky I didn’t kill you last night.’

  Lloyd glared at him for a couple of seconds, but couldn’t hold Shane’s menacing gaze.

  As the Land Rover departed, Shane heard the drone of Dougal’s approaching Cessna. Michelle stood beside him and, with the rangers out of sight, clutched his hand. ‘Let’s get this safari on the road,’ she said.

  28

  Larry Monroe started the engine of the Jeep Grand Cherokee, then got out again. As he scraped ice off the windshield, his breath formed white clouds of condensation. Fall was finally here, despite the warm weather of the previous weeks.

  Now able to see, he wound his SUV through the subdivision, past neatly trimmed lawns gleaming white with frost. He smiled at the sight of smashed pumpkins from the weekend’s Halloween festivities.

  He stopped for his regular morning coffee at the Ibis, then pulled onto Main Street and headed south, out of the valley. This was his favourite part of the morning. For the next twenty minutes he would wind through Sardine Canyon before hitting Interstate 15 and the inevitable traffic leading into Salt Lake City. As had many professionals, he had left the city and opted for a quiet life in the country, willing to suffer the commute for the peace of the mountains. The difference was that the city he had left – Chicago – was in another state and he had other reasons than quality of life for relocating to Utah.

  He thought of Africa, as he did often, despite his best efforts. As the sun rose higher the light shone pink across the Wellsville Mountains, which had finally shed the last colours of fall from the cottonwood trees. He noticed the deer in the pastures and in the new subdivisions, where open fields had once been, and wondered not for the first time how much deeper into the hills the housing would sprawl. ‘Might need to move further out,’ he muttered to himself.

  Another look at the deer reminded him that the hunting season was well underway. Once he would have taken part in the killing and called it sport. Not any more.

  Larry switched on the jeep’s radio and tuned to National Public Radio for some news. It was the same old story – more violence in Iraq, rising oil and gas prices – until the reader switched to international news. The first item was about the deteriorating political climate in Zimbabwe. He felt the colour drain from his face. Was it God who sent these reminders? He switched it off in mid-sentence.

  When he hit the freeway he was thankful for the smooth flow of the traffic. He smiled as he saw the Wasatch Front and the peaks of Antelope Island with a fresh dusting of snow – the first of the year. The endless queue ran slowly as he passed a car wreck, then picked up again on the south end of town. He focused his thoughts on the day’s business ahead as he pulled into the underground parking lot beneath the multistorey office block that housed the Utah headquarters of one of the nation’s largest health insurers. It had been easy for him to walk into the vacant state general manag
er’s slot – a godsend, if he dared use the term, that allowed him to escape Chicago. And Chuck. He’d not transferred to the national guard in his new state. It was a clean break.

  He’d only just sat down in his corner office on the top floor, with its expansive views of an increasingly chilly Salt Lake City, when the phone on his desk rang. It was his secretary, Marjorie.

  ‘Mister Monroe, there’s a woman on hold who says she’s from SNN television – it’s an international call and she sounds English!’

  He was as surprised as his excited assistant, and he asked the obvious question that he hoped had already been put to the reporter, ‘Okay. What does she want?’

  ‘She says she’s doing a story on health insurance companies in the US, comparing fees with those that operate in Great Britain.’

  Larry was a cautious man. It was why he had done so well in business. Sure, some folks said you needed to take risks, push the envelope, to get ahead, but Larry had always found the opposite to be true. He still rued the one time he’d taken a chance and gone with his heart instead of his head, and his God would never let him forget that mistake. ‘I’m sure she’d be better off talking to head office, but put her through anyway, Marjorie. I’ll give her corporate affairs’ number.’

  He waited for the call, feeling slightly ill at ease. He’d talked to plenty of journalists over the years, but they were mostly from the insurance industry trade publications. He’d never been interviewed by a television reporter, let alone one all the way from England.

  ‘Larry Monroe,’ he said.

  Her voice was a little husky, and her accent was nice – sexy, even, but there was an echo on the line, which made it awkward for him to cut in on what she was saying – something about needing his help for a story she was putting together. ‘I’m not sure if I can help you, Ms Thatcher. Say, are you calling from England? The line is terrible.’

  He waited for his words to carry to her, and for her reply. ‘Actually, Mister Monroe, I’m in Africa. In Zimbabwe, and I’m not really interested in health insurance.’

  The fear gripped him, like a hand squeezing his heart. His immediate urge was to hang up, to throw the telephone at the wall, and to get in his SUV and drive as far and as fast as he could.

  ‘Mister Monroe? You are the same Larry Monroe who travelled to Zimbabwe in September of this year and took part in the slaying of two unarmed men in the Matetsi Safari Area? What can you tell me about that, Mister Monroe?’

  He coughed, and saw tiny pinpricks of light at the periphery of his vision. The blotter on his desk seemed to grow and shrink and the room started to spin. ‘I . . . you don’t know . . . what . . . ?’

  ‘Take your time, Mister Monroe. I don’t want to fly to America to get the information I need from you, but I will if I have to. I’ll bring a cameraman, and producer, and we’ll camp outside your home or push our way into your office, so that all of your colleagues, your family and friends will know what you are, Mister Monroe. A murderer.’

  What could he say? Barely a day went by without him thinking about that trip, and the death of those men, and the worry that some day he would get a telephone call exactly like this one. He had, when he had thought rationally about it, prepared a defence, and he struggled to remember the words he had so carefully crafted in his mind.

  ‘Cat got your tongue, Larry?’ she prodded. ‘Okay, I’ll be in Salt Lake City in a couple of days.’

  ‘No, wait . . .’ he stammered. ‘Look, Ms . . .’

  ‘Thatcher.’

  ‘Thatcher, right. Look, I was on safari and something truly terrible did happen to us – my friends and me. We were fired on by armed poachers, and the professional hunter escorting us, Mister Fletcher Reynolds, had to protect us by . . .’

  ‘Oh, protect, was it? By allowing you to murder two unarmed men, one of whom was already wounded?’

  ‘No, no. You’ve got it all wrong, Ms Thatcher.’

  ‘Why weren’t the killings of these two poachers – whom you say were armed – reported to the local police or national parks authorities?’

  ‘You’d have to ask Mister Reynolds that. All I know is that our lives were in danger and —’

  ‘How much did you pay Fletcher Reynolds for the privilege of hunting – of killing – another human being?’

  He knew now he had already spoken to her for too long, and that he, and his two friends, and that monster Chuck Hamley who set it all up, were damned. His best chance was that the woman was bluffing. They had made a pact, sworn an oath never to tell another soul of what had gone on. Larry had been against it, had wavered before Fletcher had led them in pursuit of the wounded man and his comrade. When he’d seen the spots of blood on the grass he had felt physically ill and had tried to pull out. The other two had forced him on, and he had at that moment, for the first time in his life, feared his buddies. He couldn’t imagine who would have divulged their secret.

  His wife had guessed there was something wrong after his return from Zimbabwe. God, he hated the sound of that name now. He had suffered nightmares, been withdrawn and moody, had hardly said more than hello and goodbye to the kids as they came and went to school. She had asked him to open up, but he had refused. He’d considered seeing a therapist but, even though he was sure they would be bound by doctor-patient confidentiality, knew he was too ashamed to tell anyone why he felt the way he did.

  ‘I don’t know where you got such a preposterous story, Ms Thatcher.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Larry. It wasn’t one of your army buddies. Did they force you to take part in the killing?’

  ‘Look, I really have had enough of this, Ms Thatcher. I don’t know who’s filled your head with this —’

  ‘A witness,’ she said down the line, and it shocked him to silence. ‘A boy, Mister Monroe. A boy who was in the wrong place, at the wrong time, for the wrong reasons, but a boy with more courage than you, Larry. A boy who hid behind an anthill and watched as Fletcher Reynolds fired bullets into the ground and around that man and his wounded friend, until they started to run.’

  Larry closed his eyes, but the spinning wouldn’t stop. He was there again. He smelled the dust that stank of a herd of elephant that had passed through before them; he saw the hazy blue sky and the bright red blood on the brittle yellow grass; he heard the cries from the man who had been shot in the leg, the voice of the other, who prayed to God and to Fletcher Reynolds for mercy. He heard his friends – both successful professionals and businessmen – jeering like Klansmen. ‘Run, nigger,’ Brad had yelled, firing his rifle close enough to the uninjured man to make him cry real tears of fear. Larry had tried to calm them, to reason with Fletcher, but the professional hunter had ignored him, turning to the two other American members of the hunting party to make the decision, to rein in Larry, the dissenter.

  ‘I have this boy on videotape, in case you’re wondering, Larry. I am going to tell the world what you did.’

  ‘Not me!’ he yelled into the phone. He heard the office door open and glanced up to find Marjorie looking at him, concern worrying her face. ‘It’s okay,’ he mouthed, then impolitely shooed her out with his hand. ‘Not me,’ he repeated earnestly into the telephone. ‘I pretended, but I aimed high. I did not shoot either of those men. What do you want from me?’

  ‘I believe you, Larry,’ she said. ‘Someone else who saw you in Africa, after the hunt, guessed that you harboured some remorse for what you did – or, as you put it, what your friends did. This story is big enough to air across the English-speaking world, Larry, but if you help me, I might – and I stress, might – be able to keep your name out of it.’

  ‘How?’ He tried to control his breathing. He had said too much already, and wondered if he should just hang up and call his lawyer. ‘You – or this boy witness you have – would have gone to the police already if you thought you had a strong enough case against me.’

  ‘True,’ she acknowledged.

  Emboldened, he said, forcefully, ‘In fact, you’ve got no
thing. The word of a boy – what was he, one of the poaching gang? You’ve got hearsay. No one would be able to convict me or anyone else in a court in this country. In Zimbabwe, they’d probably give Fletcher a medal for killing poachers.’

  ‘Well done, Larry, you’ve hit the nail on the head. No one expects convictions would be easy, or even possible. That’s why the people who want to stop Fletcher Reynolds and his barbarous trade – pandering to people like you – have come to me. I don’t care about courts of law. If a judge stops me from naming Americans on television in America, I’ll broadcast the story in England, Canada, Australia, South Africa – everywhere else in the world. Of course, the good thing about cable and satellite TV is that I’m sure someone you know, somewhere in the world, will learn the truth about you, Larry, and hopefully tell your wife.’

  He felt on the ropes again, close to passing out. ‘Like I said, I didn’t harm anyone.’

  ‘I believe you, Larry. I really do. Now it’s up to you as to whether it’s your name or Fletcher Reynolds’ that gets beamed around the world.’

  ‘What do I have to do?’

  ‘That’s the spirit!’

  29

  Fletcher stood in the shade of the awning jutting from the front of his tent, fists resting on the fold-out camp table as he studied a topographical map. Colonel Gizenga reclined in a camp chair opposite him, legs crossed, an imported French cigarette in one hand.

  ‘I’m concerned about what those Hutu rebels from Rwanda are up to,’ Fletcher said.

  Gizenga nodded his agreement. ‘Our army, together with the United Nations peacekeepers, has launched a major sweep through the southern section of the park, heading north.’ Gizenga swept a hand, as though that was all that had been required to move the dissident Rwandans. ‘Some of them have returned to their own country, but others have continued towards us. We believe some will try to cross into Uganda, and hide out in the Bwindi Forest.’