And would never be able to have him.
I reach toward him and whisper: “Johnny.”
The rifle blast is so shocking I lurch backward, as if I’ve been struck. Johnny stands as frozen as a marksman’s statue, his gun still aimed at the target. With a deep sigh he lowers the weapon. He bows his head as if praying for forgiveness, here in the church of the bush, where life and death are two halves of the same creature.
“Oh my God,” I murmur and stare down at the leopard, which fell dead only two paces away from me, seemingly in mid-leap, her front claws a split second away from sinking into flesh. I cannot see the bullet hole; all I see is her blood, trickling into the grass, soaking into the hot soil. Her fur shines with the glossy elegance so coveted by the flashy tarts of Knightsbridge tycoons and I long to stroke it but it seems wrong, as if death has reduced her to nothing more than a harmless kitten. A moment ago she would have killed me, and she deserves my respect.
“We’ll leave her here,” Johnny says quietly.
“The hyenas will get her.”
“They always do.” He takes a deep breath and looks at the sycamore fig, but his gaze seems distant, as if he sees beyond the tree, even beyond this day. “I can get him down now.”
“You told me you’d never kill a leopard. Not even to save your own life.”
“I won’t.”
“But you killed this one.”
“That wasn’t for my life.” He looks at me. “That was for yours.”
That night I sleep in Mrs. Matsunaga’s tent so she will not be alone. All day she has been nearly catatonic, hugging herself and whimpering in Japanese. The blondes have been trying to coax food into her, but Keiko has consumed nothing except a few cups of tea. She’s retreated into some unreachable cave deep in her mind, and for the moment we’re all relieved that she’s quiet and controllable. We did not let her see Isao’s body, which Johnny brought down from the sycamore fig and quickly buried.
But I saw it. I know how he died.
“A big cat kills by crushing your throat,” Johnny told me as he dug the grave. He shoveled steadily, his spade cutting into the sunbaked earth. Though insects harassed us, he didn’t wave them off, so intent was he on carving out Isao’s resting place. “A cat goes straight for the neck. Clamps its jaws around your windpipe, ripping through arteries and veins. It’s death by asphyxiation. You choke on your own blood.”
Which is what I saw when I looked at Isao. Though the leopard had already begun to feast, tearing into abdomen and chest, it was the crushed neck that told me of Isao’s final seconds, fighting for air as blood gurgled into his lungs.
Keiko knows none of these details. She knows only that her husband is dead and that we have buried him.
I hear her sigh in her sleep, one little whimper of despair, and she goes quiet again. She hardly moves but lies on her back, like a mummy wrapped in white sheets. The Matsunagas’ tent smells different from mine. It has a pleasantly exotic scent, as if their clothes are impregnated with Asian herbs, and it is tidy and well organized. Isao’s shirts, which he will never again wear, are neatly packed in his suitcase along with his gold wristwatch, which we retrieved from his body. Everything is in its place, everything is harmonious. So unlike my tent with Richard, which is the opposite of harmonious.
It’s a relief to be away from him, which is why I so quickly volunteered to keep Keiko company. The last place I want to sleep tonight is in the tent with Richard, where the hostility hangs as thick as sulfurous fog. He’s hardly spoken two sentences to me all day. Instead he spends his time huddled with Elliot and the blondes. The four of them seem to be a team now, as if this is a game of Survivor Botswana, and it’s their tribe against my tribe.
Except I don’t actually have anyone in my tribe, unless you count poor fractured Keiko—and Johnny. But Johnny belongs to no team, not really; he is his own man, and killing that leopard today has left him troubled and brooding. He’s hardly spoken to me since.
So here I am, the woman no one talks to, lying in a tent beside a woman who talks to no one. Though it’s silent in here, outside the tent the night symphony has begun, with its insect piccolos and hippo bassoons. I’ve grown to love those sounds, and I’ll surely dream about them when I go home.
In the morning, I wake up to birdsong. For once there are no screams, no shouts of alarm, just the sweet melodies of dawn. Outside, the four members of Team Richard are huddled together at the campfire, sipping coffee. Johnny sits by himself under a tree. Exhaustion seems to drip off his shoulders, and his head bobs forward as he tries to fight off sleep. I want to go to him, to massage away his weariness, but the others are watching me. I join their circle instead.
“How’s Keiko doing?” Elliot asks me.
“Still asleep. She was quiet all night.” I pour myself coffee. “I’m glad to see we’re all alive this morning.” My quip is in poor taste, and I regret it as soon as the words are out of my mouth.
“I wonder if he’s glad about it,” Richard mutters, glancing at Johnny.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I just find it strange, how everything’s gone so wrong. First Clarence gets killed. Then Isao. And the truck—how the hell does a truck just go dead like that?”
“You blame Johnny?”
Richard looks around at the other three, and I suddenly understand that he’s not the only one who thinks Johnny’s at fault. Is this why they’ve been huddling together? Exchanging theories, feeding their paranoia?
I shake my head. “This is ridiculous.”
“Of course that’s what she’d say,” Vivian mutters. “I told you she would.”
“Meaning what?”
“It’s obvious to everyone that you’re Johnny’s favorite. I knew you’d stand up for him.”
“He doesn’t need anyone to stand up for him. He’s the one keeping us alive.”
“Is he?” Vivian glances warily in Johnny’s direction. He’s too far away to hear us, but she drops her voice anyway. “Are you sure of that?”
This is absurd. I search their faces, wondering who started this whispering campaign. “You’re going to tell me Johnny killed Isao and dragged him up that tree? Or maybe he just delivered him to the leopard and let her take it from there?”
“What do we really know about him, Millie?” Elliot asks.
“Oh God. Not you, too.”
“I gotta tell you, the things they’re saying …” Elliot looks over his shoulder and even though he whispers, I can hear his panic. “It’s freaking me out.”
“Think about it,” says Richard. “How did we all end up on this safari?”
I glare at him. “The only reason I’m here is because of you. You wanted your African adventure, and now you’ve got it. Is it not measuring up? Or has it gotten too adventurous even for you?”
“We found him on the Internet,” says Sylvia, who has been silent up till now. I notice that her hands tremble around her coffee cup. Her grip is so unsteady she has to set the cup down to keep it from spilling. “Vivian and I, we wanted to do a camping trip in the bush, but we couldn’t afford to spend a lot. We found his website, Lost in Botswana.” She gives a half-hysterical laugh. “And so we are.”
“I tagged along with them,” Elliot says. “Sylvia and Viv and I, we’re sitting in a bar together in Cape Town. And they tell me about this fabulous safari they’re going on.”
“I’m so sorry, Elliot,” Sylvia says. “I’m sorry you ever met us in that bar. I’m sorry we talked you into coming.” She takes a shaky breath and her voice breaks. “God, I just want to go home.”
“The Matsunagas found this tour through the website, too,” says Vivian. “Isao told me he was looking for a true African experience. Not some tourist lodge, but a chance to really explore the bush.”
“That’s also how we ended up here,” Richard says. “That same fucking website. Lost in Botswana.”
I remember the night Richard showed it to me on his computer. For days h
e’d been surfing the Web, drooling over images of safari lodges and tented camps and feasts spread across candlelit tables. I don’t remember why Lost in Botswana was the site he finally settled on. Perhaps it was the promise of an authentic experience. True wilderness, the way Hemingway would have lived it, although Hemingway was more likely just a convincing bullshitter. I had no part in planning this holiday; it was Richard’s choice, Richard’s dream. Now a nightmare.
“What are you all saying, that his website’s a fake?” I ask. “That he used it to lure us out here? Do you people even hear yourselves?”
“People come here from all around the world to hunt big game,” says Richard. “What if this time, we’re the game?”
If he’s angling for a reaction, he certainly gets one. Elliot looks as if he might throw up. Sylvia claps her hand over her mouth, as though to stifle a sob.
But I respond with a snort of derision. “You think Johnny Posthumus is hunting us? God, Richard, don’t turn this into one of your thrillers.”
“Johnny’s the one with the gun,” Richard says. “He holds all the power. If we don’t stick together, every single one of us, then we’re all dead.”
There it is. I hear it in his bitter voice. I see it in the wary looks they all give me. I’m the Judas in their midst, the one who’ll run to Johnny and tattletale. It’s all so ridiculous I should laugh, but I’m too fucking angry. As I rise to my feet, I can scarcely keep my voice steady. “When this is over, when we’re all on that plane back to Maun next week, I’m going to remind you of this. And you’re all going to feel like idiots.”
“I hope you’re right,” Vivian whispers. “I hope to God we are idiots. I hope we are on that plane, and not just a pile of bloody bones in the …” Her voice cuts off as a shadow suddenly looms over her.
Johnny has moved so quietly that they didn’t hear his approach, and now he stands just behind Vivian and looks around at our gathering. “We need water and firewood,” he says. “Richard, Elliot, come down to the river with me.”
As both men stand up, I see fear in Elliot’s eyes. The same fear that gleams in the eyes of the blondes. Johnny calmly cradles the gun across his body, the pose of a rifleman at ease, but just the presence of that gun in his arms tilts the balance of power.
“What about—what about the girls?” Elliot asks, nervously glancing at the blondes. “Shouldn’t I, uh, stay and keep an eye on them?”
“They can wait in the truck. Right now, I need muscle.”
“If you give me the gun,” suggests Richard, “Elliot and I can get the firewood and water.”
“No one leaves camp without me. And I don’t leave the perimeter without this rifle.” Johnny’s face is grim. “If you want to stay alive, you’ll just have to trust me.”
Twelve
Boston
Gabriel’s steak was cooked a perfect medium rare, the way he always ordered it when they dined out at Matteo’s. But tonight, as they sat at their favorite table in the restaurant, Jane could scarcely stomach the sight of blood oozing out when her husband sliced into the filet. It made her think of Debra Gomez’s blood, dripping down the boulder. Of Gott’s body, hanging like a side of beef. Whether it comes from cow or human, we are all fresh meat.
Gabriel noticed she’d scarcely touched her pork chop, and he gave her a searching look. “You’re still thinking about it, aren’t you?”
“I can’t help it. Doesn’t it happen to you? Scenes you can’t get out of your head, no matter how hard you try?”
“Try harder, Jane.” He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “It’s been far too long since our last dinner out together.”
“I am trying, but this case …” She looked at his steak and shuddered. “It just might turn me into a vegetarian.”
“As bad as that?”
“We’ve both seen some awful things. Spent too much time in autopsy rooms. But this one, it freaks me out on some deeper level. Gutted and left hanging. Eaten by your own damn pets.”
“That’s why we shouldn’t get a puppy.”
“Gabriel, this isn’t funny.”
He reached for his glass of wine. “I’m just trying to lighten up date night. We don’t get many of them, and this one is turning into another case review. As usual.”
“It’s the work we both do. What else are we supposed to talk about?”
“Our daughter, maybe? Where we should go on our next vacation?” He set down his wine and looked at her. “There’s more to life than murder.”
“It’s what brought us together.”
“It’s not the only thing.”
No, she thought as her husband again picked up his knife, wielding it with the cool, calm skill of a surgeon. The day they’d met, at a crime scene in Stony Brook Reservation, she’d found his unflappability intimidating. In the chaos of that afternoon, as cops and criminalists coalesced around the decomposing body, Gabriel had been a quietly commanding presence, the aloof observer taking it all in. She hadn’t been surprised to learn he was FBI; she’d known at a glance that he was an outsider, and that he was there to challenge her authority. But what first pitted them against each other was also what later drew them together. Push and pull, the attraction of opposites. Even now, as she watched her maddeningly imperturbable husband, she knew exactly why she’d fallen for him.
He looked at her and gave a resigned sigh. “Okay, whether I like it or not, it seems we’re going to talk about murder. So.” He set down his knife and fork. “You really think Bigmouth O’Brien is the key to this?”
“Those nasty calls to his radio show were so eerily similar to the comments left on that article about Leon Gott. They talked about hanging and gutting.”
“There’s nothing particularly unique about that imagery. It’s simply what hunters do. I’ve done it myself after bringing down a deer.”
“The caller Suzy identifies herself as a member of the Vegan Action Army. According to their website, they claim to have fifty members in Massachusetts.”
Gabriel shook his head. “That organization’s not ringing any bells for me. I don’t recall it popping up on any federal watchlists.”
“Or Boston PD lists, either. But maybe they’re smart enough to stay quiet. Not take credit for what they do.”
“Hanging and gutting hunters? Does that sound like vegans?”
“Think of the Earth Liberation Front. They plant firebombs.”
“But ELF tries its best to avoid killing anyone.”
“Still, look at the symbolism. Leon Gott was a big-game hunter and taxidermist. Hub Magazine runs an article about him called: ‘The Trophy Master.’ Months later, he’s found hanging by his ankles, slashed from stem to stern and gutted. Suspended at just the right height to be eaten by his pets. What more fitting way to dispose of a hunter’s body than to have it ripped apart by Fluffy and Fido?” She paused, suddenly aware that the restaurant had gone quiet. Glancing sideways, she saw the couple at the next table staring at her.
“Not the time or place, Jane,” Gabriel said.
She stared down at her pork chop. “Nice weather we’re having.”
Only when the buzz of conversation around them had resumed did she say, more quietly: “I think the symbolism is obvious.”
“Or it may have nothing to do with the fact he was a hunter. There’s also theft as a motive.”
“If it was theft, it was pretty specific. His wallet and cash were still in the bedroom, untouched. As far as we know, the only thing missing from his house is the snow leopard pelt.”
“And you told me it was worth a lot.”
“But a pelt that rare would be hard as hell to unload. It’d have to be for someone’s private collection. And if robbery was the only motive, why go through the bloody ritual of gutting the victim?”
“It seems to me you have two specific symbolic features here. First, the taking of a rare animal pelt. Second, the way the victim’s body was displayed.” Gabriel frowned at the table candle as he mulled it
over. He’d finally been dragged into the puzzle and now he was fully engaged. Tonight might be date night, the one evening a month when they vowed not to talk about work, but it always came back to murder. How could it not, when this was what they both lived and breathed? She watched the candlelight flicker on his face as he quietly sifted through the facts. How lucky she was to be able to share these facts with him. She thought of what it would be like to sit here with a spouse who was not in law enforcement, to be bursting to talk about what was gnawing away at her and unable to say a thing about it. Not only did they share a home and a child, they also shared the same grim knowledge of how instantaneously a life can change. Or end.
“I’ll see what info we have on the Vegan Action Army,” he said. “But I’d be inclined to focus on that leopard pelt, since it’s the one item of value you know was taken.” He paused. “What did you think of Jerry O’Brien?”
“Aside from his being a chauvinist jerk?”
“I mean, as a suspect. Any possible motive to kill Gott?”
She shook her head. “They were hunting buddies. He could just as easily shoot him in the woods and call it an accident. But yeah, I thought about O’Brien. And his personal assistant. Gott was such a loner, there aren’t a lot of suspects to choose from. At least, none that we know of.” But dig deep into someone’s life and surprises always turned up. She thought of other victims, other investigations that had turned up secret lovers or hidden bank accounts or countless illicit cravings that only come to light when one’s life is laid bare by a violent end.
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