White Bone

by Ridley Pearson

  He opened and scrolled through several of the spreadsheets. A number of ATM card cash withdrawals were highlighted in green. A small red triangle filled the upper-right corner of several of the cells. Knox hovered the cursor over a triangle in the cell of one of the green withdrawal amounts. A comment box popped up: See phone records 3/20; Subject 17 3/22.

  It took Knox ten minutes to cross-reference the documents. There had been several meetings with “Subject 17,” and Samuelson had made interview notes of each, including March 22. Photocopies of call records for March 20 had been highlighted by hand in yellow. Grace had connected Samuelson calling someone and, two days later, likely making a cash payment. There was a note in the margin written in her hand: laborer?

  He opened a set of photocopied receipts and travel vouchers and the accompanying expense accounting. One highlighted expense was to Safarilink. Under notes was typed: Nanyuki.

  “That’s what got her up here,” Knox said. All she lacked now, something he didn’t intend to share with Koigi, were the health clinic financials.

  “We can upload all of these to . . . your friend,” Knox said, meaning Winston.

  “The satellite connection is slow. We will get started.”

  “The intercept,” Knox said, reminding him. “I was told you would share the contents of the intercepted call.”

  “When the files are received,” Koigi said.

  “Now,” Knox said. “You have to trust me. These are all the files. Five minutes? Thirty? I don’t have the time. Grace doesn’t have the time.”

  Knox executed a quick series of cursor moves. The small arrow hung suspended over DELETE ALL. His index finger hovered over the mouse.

  “You tell me. What’s it going to be?” he asked. His voice utterly steady.

  Koigi’s sidekick drew a revolver and pressed it to Knox’s temple.

  “He can shoot me,” Knox said, thinking the man might be doing him a favor. “But what if my finger twitches when he does?”

  46

  Grace spotted her own boot tracks, moving from right to left in the dust of the river bottom. She positioned herself for ambush, tucked uncomfortably behind a fallen rock. The placement of her spear was difficult. If held at her side, it was too long and stuck out into the river bottom. If placed behind her and into the rocks, it would take longer to move and was likely to make noise that she could ill afford. She settled on placing it mirror-down at her side, wiggling it into the dirt to help disguise it.

  Then she waited. As she did, she spotted more boot tracks—the ones she’d just left in making her approach. The impressions came up the riverbed to behind the rock where she hid. She’d left a neon arrow pointing directly to her hiding place.

  Time played tricks on you. An army sergeant had once reminded Grace that within the passing of a single second there were one-thousand thousandths of a second. It had seemed so Confucius at the time that she’d hardly paid attention. But now it made all the sense in the world. If the driver was moving in seconds, she would move in tenths of a second. Defeating an opponent had little to do with strength and everything to do with leverage and training. A woman her size could drop a beast of a man before he knew what hit him. She had such training, and felt certain he had not. Advantage: Grace.

  She heard the crunch of sand underfoot, amazed by her heightened sensitivity. It seemed as if she could hear the rubber of his flip-flops bending and stretching; as if she could hear his labored breathing; could smell his pores expelling sweat. Fifteen meters . . . ten . . . five . . .

  She didn’t dare try to steal a look, refused to give Leebo any kind of advantage. Instead, she burst out from behind the rock, crouching low, the spear held in both hands. She hadn’t realized it had only taken her two days to learn how to walk or run so quietly.

  He didn’t turn at first. When he did, she saw him in full profile—a more difficult target to strike. He must have caught her movement in his peripheral vision, for he slowly pivoted, the machete lifting overhead.

  It became immediately apparent to Grace that it wasn’t simple surprise that froze him; it was shock, followed by incredulity. A crouching, shit-slathered, bare-chested Chinese woman, with chapped lips and bloodshot eyes, was charging him with a spear. By the time it registered as more than a hallucination, she’d sliced his forearm deeply, causing the machete to fall. It fell onto his right foot and, judging by his reaction, cut or severed a toe or two. As he bent, Grace spun a full circle. The edge of her spear caught the side of his neck. Blood poured from the wound. As he came up, she plunged the spear into his belly and yanked it out with such force that the shard of mirror stayed in him.

  She held a blood-tipped branch in two hands. Her reaction had been primordial. Only seeing the man stagger and bleed did it hit her what she’d done.

  Leebo wavered unsteadily on his feet.

  Grace picked up the machete, held it aloft, her teeth gritted and showing. She brandished the machete, ready to hack him to pieces—wanting to hack him to pieces. He dropped to his knees and started crawling on all fours, wailing, bleeding, dying.

  “I didn’t want to,” he moaned. “I’m sorry. Help me. Please . . . How . . . is . . . it . . . possible?”

  Grace screamed as the first lion sprang, knocking the man over. She backed up into the shadows, shaking in terror, yet still able to see what she’d done. Able to feel the machete raised overhead, too. This was her doing.

  The male lion came from her right, jumped onto the man’s back and bit down into Leebo’s neck, killing him instantly. He dropped, his legs and arms twitching as if he’d taken hold of a live wire. His arm came off in the jaw of the lioness. Grace turned away—then looked back, unable to take her eyes off the savagery.

  She was the lioness, she thought; she was the victor.

  A pair of jackals stood observing with her. Soon, hyenas and vultures would follow, each taking their turn. Olé had told her the bush could strip a rhino to bone in four to six hours. She wondered how that worked with something as small as a human.

  The keys! She backed up more quickly, pausing behind rocks, not wanting her movement to attract attention. The two lions glanced in her direction several times; she stopped, slowly raised her arms high overhead, and the animals turned back to their feast.

  Once out of sight, she cut through the labyrinth of islands to the far bank and scrambled up toward the SUV, startling the two jackals, who darted off.

  The key was not in the ignition because there was no ignition. A button read PUSH TO START. She searched but did not see the fob. He’d carried it with him, this man currently being shredded by the jaws of two young lions. More depressing, the existence of the electronic ignition meant the car model was highly computerized and difficult, if not impossible, to hot-wire.

  Grace grabbed the wheel—also locked. If she couldn’t turn the wheel, the SUV would make it only thirty meters or so before plunging into the dry wash.

  “No, no, no.” She heard her own voice inside the vehicle, dry, raspy. She hadn’t spoken in days. A few yells were all. She kicked the open door in anger. And there it was: a clear plastic bottle, two-thirds full with some kind of loose-leaf tea. Alongside the bottle, a leather pouch filled with green leaves.

  She fought every instinct she had, battling back her desperation to chug the tea. Instead, she uncapped it and wetted her parched throat. She coughed. Gagged. The first several sips went down like vintage wine. Before she could overreact, she recapped it.

  The leaves, she knew. She’d asked Olé about the pickup-truckloads of vegetation on the roads. He’d told her of khat, chewed as a stimulant. It gave great stamina. She tucked it into the waist of her skirt. The water bottle begged to be reopened. She fought against this with all the willpower she could summon, and still nearly succumbed to it.

  She had to have the keys. There was no choice. She marched toward the rim of the dry wash, lying down t
o get a view of the lions. Immediately, she looked away again, unable to stomach what she saw. A horror to humans, yet it was as natural here as the passing of the sun in the sky.

  If the keys were down there, it would be hours before she could look for them. She lay prone to screen herself from the jackals, and she waited.

  47

  Save the wounded gazelle. Return her to camp.’ This was sent less than eight hours ago.” Koigi said the words with no feeling, just resignation.

  “I don’t understand,” Knox said, taking his hand off the mouse. The lieutenant retired his sidearm.

  “We don’t save wounded gazelles, Mr. Knox. But what choice was there? An elephant or rhino mentioned in such a communiqué would trigger intense scrutiny. I am told the origin of this message was one of two camps controlled by Guuleed.”

  “You know his location?”

  “We have been watching, yes. Both his camps have gone quiet since this message was intercepted. They may have fled when we weren’t covering. If so, it’s a terrible loss. You understand?”

  “The gazelle is Grace?” Knox felt physically faint. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. “You wouldn’t happen to have some food around here, would you?”

  Koigi sent his man out. Knox drew a breath sharply.

  “They have her held hostage. They want her moved or returned? She’s alive . . .”

  “We will presume so.”

  “The call? Oloitokitok, you said?”

  “Voice recognition is being undertaken. We should know within twenty-four hours.” Koigi shifted on his feet.

  “Grace doesn’t have twenty-four hours. If they’re bringing her in, it’s for ransom—or to sell her for any number of uses.”

  This was his wheelhouse, Knox thought, kidnapping, extortion. He felt oddly comfortable for the first time in days, yet still sick to his stomach. She’s alive, his mind cried for the umpteenth time.

  “We’ll have the one shot at her, that’s all. I’ll need you and your men. I can gather the intel with some luck. If her keeper is working it solo, I’m good. If not . . . if it’s multipersonnel . . . I can’t do an extraction like that alone.”

  “I can send you some men overland.”

  “I don’t have the time for that.”

  “I would advise you to request help from Larger Than Life. They have many rangers.”

  Knox shook his head. “I’m not sure I can trust them.”

  “What do you propose, then?”

  “I should fly down to where she was staying. Pick up her trail from there.”

  “I cannot arrange this for you. Mr. Winston cannot arrange this for you. Nanyuki airfield will be guarded. Nairobi, the same.”

  “There must be a stretch of road that could be used to land a small plane,” Knox said. “A field? A ranch?”

  “Yes, of course. But the pilot? This will not be easy, Mr. Knox.”

  “I know a guy,” Knox said.

  48

  Witnessing the dismemberment of a human finally proved too much. Grace backed away from the edge of the dry wash, moved into the SUV, out of the sun and away from the predators. She had no intention of attempting to interrupt their symbiotic system. Lions, spotted hyenas, black-backed jackals, hooded vultures, each appeared in order, seemingly from out of nowhere, each taking their turn at the trough. It was a thing of beauty, a thing of horror.

  How long did it take to strip a man to bone? she’d wondered. The body at the bottom of the wash required only ninety minutes.

  When at last she dared, Grace slipped over the edge and slid down to the dry river bottom, waving her arms and scaring away the vultures, though the big birds didn’t go far. They flapped and settled only meters away from the mangled bones and blood, spread around in an unimaginable scene of horror. There was nothing left, not even the piece of mirror Grace had lost. To the naked eye, even Leebo’s clothing was gone. A few scraps of cloth remained, a belt, one sandal.

  She used the stick end of her spear to move pieces of bone and fabric, to search for the ignition fob. She envisioned grids, searched each painstakingly. Halfway through, she no longer saw the gore, only colors and shapes. Thirty minutes. An hour. No fob.

  In all likelihood, she thought, it had gone down a throat with a bite of clothing. It would appear in scat sometime tomorrow. The crushing defeat drove her to start again.

  Grid by grid. Another hour. Two. Eventually she turned away; the SUV, so full of promise, had ended up being nothing but a tease.

  Other thoughts came to her. One stayed: She had never killed a fellow human being before. She felt bad that it felt so good. Hated that she’d enjoyed it.

  None of that mattered now. She’d done it. The driver was no more. She could feel the mirror slicing his arm, the plunge of the blade into his gut. She moved back toward the SUV, the guttural sound of vultures picking at bones rising from the wash behind her. A few of the birds flew away, lifting out of the pit to reach the trees cluttered with their kind. All waiting their turn.

  Grace sipped the dead man’s tea, and thanked him silently for it.

  But it was hard to stay calm. She pounded on the steering wheel, cursed in Chinese and screamed into the cab so loudly she hurt her own ears.

  With her cry, some of the vultures startled out of the trees. They rose nearly in unison, flew to the next tree and settled in for the long wait.

  49

  You remember me?” Knox asked into his mobile, returned to him by one of Koigi’s men. Somewhere along the way, Olé had handed off his jacket and duffel bag recovered from the crappy hotel, the act of which implied a connection between all these men that Knox found unsettling.

  “You ask this every time, Mr. John. Please!”

  “I want to hire a private plane. Single prop. A bush pilot. You understand?”

  “Why do you call if you think me stupid?”

  “Tonight.”

  “It will be expensive.”

  Knox didn’t have the kind of cash required. He would have to hope for the Koigi/Winston alliance to supply it. “Call me back with the pilot’s number.”

  “I will negotiate this for you.”

  “I’m sure you would. The pilot. This number, within the hour.”

  Ending the call, he spoke to a concerned Koigi. “I will need cash. A good deal of it.”

  Koigi nodded. “I will confirm with Mr. Winston.”

  “And we’ll need a reasonable landing strip,” Knox said. “Something a pilot can check on a map and see will work. But not the strip we’re going to ask him to use. We radio that location once we determine if I’ve been betrayed.”

  “You’ve done this before.” Koigi smiled for the first time, suddenly impressed with Knox.

  50

  It took her several tries to get it right, but once she did, Grace filled her mouth with the infamous “Nectar of the Gods.” Warm milk seeped from her lips and ran down her chin; her tongue flashed sensually through the warm liquid, lapping it up, coaxing it into the back of her throat and coddling it between her tonsils before a gentle swallow and the long, slow trickle toward her empty belly.

  The cow stood complacently, chewing on a bit of nothingness, some dry grass forcing itself up between rocks. Grace was bent and twisted partially beneath the beast. She squeezed the teat again. A spray of milk shot out and blasted the back of her throat.

  Grace had heard all the jokes about praying to God and God never answering. The punch line was that the one doing the praying never opened his or her eyes to see that God had been responding all along—they’d been too resistant to the idea to see the opportunities before them.

  For herself, she had no trouble understanding and acknowledging the source of her good fortune; she’d found the cow just standing there, all puckered body and protruding ribs, but a full udder. Might as well have had a neon sign pointing in its
direction.

  Grace drank until she threw up, then drank some more to wash down the foul taste in her mouth. When she was finished, the cow ambled away. As it did, a curtain to the landscape behind seemed to open itself.

  Two Maasai herdsmen in their late teens or early twenties stood not ten meters away, an African version of American Gothic. The taller one held a ten-foot aluminum spear at his side, its sharpened tip stuck into the cracked earth. The other was significantly shorter. Their faces were as drawn as the cow’s belly, their black eyes oversized and haunting. The tall one wore a tattered and stained white T-shirt bearing the Nike swoosh and JUST DO IT in bright red letters, below which a yellow shuka wrapped his waist and hung to his knees. The smaller, sturdier boy wore a red shuka shoulder to calf. They were barefoot and carried no sacks or bags. Both carried machetes from ropes lashed around their waists and empty plastic water bottles hung over their shoulders on chains of rubber bands.

  The tall man’s eyes were cold and distrusting. Fear and curiosity marked the smaller one, who did nothing to conceal his prominent erection, pressing up against the shuka. Grace remained squatting, bare-chested, absolutely still, her makeshift skirt riding high and showing more than she would have liked, her mud-and-dung-crusted skin giving her the appearance of a female shaman, or a wild spirit from the afterworld. But at her core she was an outnumbered, naked woman with a broken spear, a pair of antenna whips and a lumpy bag over her shoulder.

  Taking a chance, she bared her teeth, hopped side to side and hissed like a snake. The smaller boy stepped back. It was the Nike man she was going to have to contend with; he held his ground, the spear immobile, and smiled, entertained by her antics. The look in his quiet eyes was unmistakable. So was his white-knuckle grip on the spear.