Читать книгу Rare Breed - Connie Hall - Страница 9

The sun had just set and the soft evening moonlight cast a long sparkling shadow down the center of the Zambezi River as Wynne crept along its bank. The water current and bellows of hippos drowned out her footsteps. An occasional splash warned of a croc looking for a snack. A rich brew of animal musk, vegetation and the dank scent of fresh water clung to the air.

There was enough moonlight to see across the river to Zimbabwe’s shore. The Zambezi River acted as a natural boundary between the two countries. It also gave poachers a quick escape route into Zimbabwe. It was September; the end of the dry season, and the river had shrunk to a fourth its size, making it easier for poachers to cross. Poaching was rampant in Zimbabwe. Endangered species were all but wiped out. The country was too impoverished to control it and animals had fled into Zambia for protection.

It made sense the bush meat poachers would transport the meat along the river into Zimbabwe. And she wasn’t surprised she hadn’t come across these men in her nightly patrols of the river. The rangers never made a move unless they cleared it with base camp and LZCG headquarters. Since they worked so closely together, they both needed to be updated. Whoever was on duty would know she regularly watched the Zambezi at night. It was common knowledge among the rangers. She never failed to catch small-time local poachers, but never these new bush meat poachers.

Wynne paused as she spotted five female elephants with a three-year-old calf and an infant. She scanned the underbrush for a bull following the herd. Usually bull elephants traveled separately from the females and either foraged for food alone or in small herds with other male juveniles. But if a cow was in season, bulls trailed the females. They were also larger than the cows and easily spotted. She didn’t see one with this herd.

In groups like this one, a matriarch usually led the herd. She could be fifty or older and her experience in finding food and water, and in sensing danger maintained the social order of the herd. But this lone group of cows seemed frightened and unsure of approaching the river, raising their tusks and scenting the air, keeping their young at their sides. Obviously this herd had recently lost their matriarch—most likely one of the five elephants poached today.

The mother of the calf turned and Wynne saw that she had one broken tusk. Wynne had named her simply Broken Tusk. She was part of Bright Betsy’s herd, but Bright Betsy must have been one of the elephants slaughtered by the poachers. Wynne called her B.B. for short. B.B. had grown accustomed to Wynne and had let her get within thirty yards of the herd while they fed.

Years of poaching and the slaughter of thousands of elephants had made them fear man and they would rarely take the chances of drinking in the open along rivers and streambeds during the day, nor would Wynne have ever been able to get as close as she had to B.B.’s herd. But since the park had cracked down on poaching, the elephants had been overcoming their fear. At seeing this herd disoriented, afraid and mourning the death of their matriarch, Wynne felt a stab of guilt and anger in the pit of her gut. She’d failed them today, broken their trust.

She waited as they eased forward and drank, then plodded back into the forest, following Broken Tusk and her infant. Wynne vowed to see them unafraid and drinking out in the open again.

She spotted the place where the poacher had said he was supposed to hand over the goods. Sausage Tree Camp was nothing but a bush lodge, named for the huge sausage tree that marked its location. The tree grew along the river’s edge, centuries old, its boughs as thick as the tires on her Rover. She could see the phallic-shaped fruits hanging from its branches. Some of the gray-green fruit was well over two feet long and had to weigh at least twenty pounds. Several blue monkeys lounged on the branches, munching on the fruit, a much-prized treat of monkeys and elephants. Some native healers pulverized the fruit and applied the paste to treat skin problems, venereal disease, rheumatism, and cancer. She had used the paste a time or two herself on heat rashes and bee stings. Sausage tree fruit was also employed in a secret ritual that supposedly predicted the size of an infant’s penis when he reached adulthood.

Wynne cracked a smile at the thought, then shifted her gaze to the lodge. It could sleep nine, but it was hardly more than a massive tent with a cement floor, though its lavish description on a safari tourist pamphlet made it sound much more inviting.

Tonight it looked empty. No trucks, or tethered horses—they were often used on bird-watching safaris. Bolts of mosquito netting stretched across the open tent windows. Zambia was a malaria zone; a fact reserved for the pamphlet’s fine print. She had slathered her own skin with mud, a natural and readily accessible mosquito repellent.

Wynne was attuned to the sounds in the bush: the shrill chatter of monkeys; the trumpeting of an elephant; the cough of a hunting leopard. The sounds were always present, a gauging of normalcy, comforting in a way. She heard none of them now, only her own breathing and a dead eerie silence. Had the poachers gotten here before her?

She scanned the area behind the lodge. The trees. Along the road. She was about to take off her slingshot and follow the herd when someone touched her shoulder.

Wynne screamed in surprise and wheeled around. She kicked her attacker in the side, but the large man grabbed her leg and tossed her to the ground. As he came at her again she countered with a knee cut that knocked him off balance.

He staggered back and hit a tree trunk.

Wynne leaped to her feet, ready for the next strike.

He used an aikido side arm thrust this time. She deflected the blow and got in a lucky kick to his ribs.

He flinched a little, but stood his ground, solid as a mountain.

They circled each other, hands up, on the defensive. His face was in shadow and she couldn’t see his eyes. It was important to see an opponent’s eyes; they gave away every intended movement. She felt blind fighting him.

For a broad-shouldered man his movements were decisive and quick and hard to anticipate. He was a head taller than her five foot eleven inch frame. She looked most men in the eye, not this guy.

“We could do this two-step all night,” his voice was deep, honey-coated by a Texas drawl.

“You’re American?” It took her aback for a moment, but she didn’t drop her guard or stop circling him.

“Last I checked.” Amusement laced his voice. He paused and looked too at ease, hardly out of breath.

He’d been sparring with her, not using his full strength. What would have happened had he really felt threatened? “Who the hell are you?” Wynne paused because he’d paused. They stood three feet from each other. She kept her gaze on his hands.

“I was going to introduce myself when I tapped you on the shoulder—that is, before you attacked me like a cat with its tail caught under a rocker.”

“I didn’t hear you behind me. It was a knee-jerk reaction.”

“Guess I should have cleared my throat.” He sounded genuinely contrite. “My mistake. Bygones?” He shoved a hand at her.

Wynne leaped back as if avoiding a mamba attack.

“Whoa, there. Touchy thing, ain’t you?”

“Keep your hands where I can see them.” She narrowed her eyes at his dark form. It seemed massive against the back drop of the moon. She wished she could see his eyes.

“Anything you say.” He slowly raised his hands.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she said, certain he was enjoying toying with her and had this pleasant harmless act honed to perfection. She felt her patience slipping. “Tell me your name.”

“I could ask you the same, darlin’.”

“I’m a ranger, and so not your darlin’. Your turn.”

“Jack MacKay—nice moves you got. You study under a sifu?”

“Fifteen years.” She wasn’t about to tell him his form was as good as hers—a different discipline than the karate kick boxing she had studied, but impressive. His eyes were hidden in the dark, but she could feel him eyeing her up and down. “And you?” she asked.

“Ex-SEAL.”

A good old boy and a SEAL, a lethal combination. That explained why she didn’t hear him sneak up on her. “Okay, Lone Star, what are you doing in this area? The park closes at night.”

“Most people call me Jack. And I was just walking. Any law against that?”

“The park’s dangerous at night. Big cats and crocs hunt at night along this river, and so do hyenas and wild dogs. Stick to walking in daylight when the park is open. And don’t ever sneak up on someone again. Now, I’m going to have to frisk you.”

“Help yourself, darlin’.” He turned and assumed the position with his hands outstretched and feet apart all too willingly. “I’ll warn you, I’m packing,” he said.

She stood behind him to be on the safe side and patted his ribs none too gently and enjoyed it when he winced. “Guns are not allowed in the park.”

“It’s a man’s God-given right to protect himself.”

“This isn’t Texas, or the Alamo.” She felt the shoulder holster, then found the gun. A massive thing, a .44 Magnum. Dirty Harry had nothing on this guy.

“Careful now. It’s loaded. Wouldn’t want a lady hurting herself.”

He had just pushed the wrong buttons. She hurled the gun as far as she could. It plunked into the river with a loud splash.

“Hey, that was the first gun I ever bought. I’m attached to that gun.” The sugar coating left his voice, a steely edge in its place.

Was that the true MacKay surfacing, a hint of dark center behind the Texas buttercream icing? “No guns in the park.” She finished patting him down.

“Y’ all really know how to show a guy a good time around here.”

“Jeez, I’m sorry our social director is off. You got stuck with me.” Wynne finished patting down his legs and decided not to search his crotch. He might like it too much. “You’re clean.”

“Do I get to search you now?”

“You can, if you want to be staked over a termite mound.” Wynne listened to him laugh loudly, an exaggerated roar from deep within his chest. She rested her fists on her hips and said, “Now, I suggest you go back to where you came from.”

“Can’t. My jeep broke down.” He gestured to the dirt road that led into camp.

“You said you were out walking?”

“I was. I knew the camp was here, so I walked here to find out if there was a phone.”

“A phone?” Out in a bush camp. Malarkey. And he’d snuck up on her in a perpendicular direction to the road. What was he up to? Was he the contact the poacher had spoken about?

“What were you doing driving here to begin with?”

“You’re mighty nosey.”

“Technically you’re trespassing on a Zambian national park and a game-managed area. I could bust you for having a gun. So answer my question.”

“All right, no need to get your hackles up. But I kinda think you like gettin’ ’em up.”

She heard the smile in his voice and said, “Just answer the question.”

“I heard of the bush camp and wanted to check it out and see if I might want to spend a week or two along the river.”

“Why?”

“Let’s just say I’m the outdoorsy type. Isn’t that what lures most people to Africa?”

She suspected there was a lot more to his motives than he was admitting. “Where are you staying?”

“Why, you wanna join me for a drink?”

She wanted to toss him in the river, too, and said, “Just answer the question.”

“At Hellstrom’s Tours. Signed up for a safari.”

Wynne’s gut clenched. Hellstrom. There was his name again. Was Cowboy Jack just a tourist? Or sent here to throw her off, or perhaps alert the poachers? The way to the truth stood before her, one hundred and ninety pounds of Texas machismo packed nice and tight in a pair of jeans and a denim shirt. For some reason the sausage tree fruit ritual popped into her head.

She quickly squelched that line of insane thinking. He was the enemy. She said curtly, “I’ll take you back to Hellstrom’s.”

“I’m fishing Jefferson Davis out the river first.”

“Jefferson Davis?”

“My gun.”

“Help yourself. I’ll keep watch for the baboons.”

“Baboons?”

“They like to tease the crocs, so it’s like a natural alarm. But there’s no warning for hippos.”

“I don’t care how many crocs or hippos I got to fight to get my gun. I’m gettin’it.” His voice held an Alamo, Davy Crockett, do-or-die tone.

Something told her this was just the beginning of her night.

MacKay had refused to leave until he’d found the gun. The man was determined, she’d give him that. It also had helped that the gun had landed close to the shore and sunk in the mud. They had walked back the two miles to where she had hidden the Rover, and now they bumped along the road. The faint clicking of The Simpsons dolls and the road noise filled the interior of the truck. Hellstrom’s compound bordered the Great East Road, a forty minute drive from Sausage Tree Camp. With MacKay in the truck, the miles seemed to drag, the trip taking forever. He seemed unusually quiet, distracted.

She chanced a few quick glances at him while driving. She hadn’t really looked at him before. Damp jeans stuck to long muscular thighs. His soaked forest-green shirt was glued to washboard abs. His gun holster crossed over his broad chest and hung beneath his right shoulder. Dash lights glowed along his chiseled features and short cropped blond hair. He had a Brad Pitt face on a Schwarzenegger body. Not a bad combination, she had to admit. But it was obvious he was an expert at using his facile charm and good looks to his advantage.

As if he felt her gaze on him, he said, “Thanks for letting me find ol’ J.D. here.” He used that affable tone of his and patted the gun in the holster.

She didn’t deserve his gratitude. The whole time he was searching for the gun she had visions of a croc running him out of the water. No such luck. She could have confiscated the gun, but if he were going to use it he would have long ago. And he seemed genuinely attached to it, like it was some kind of Texas security blanket, and she had to be at least civil to him. He was the key to getting inside Hell-strom’s compound. Since he was feeling indebted to her at the moment, Wynne figured now might be a good time to find out if he was connected to the bush meat operation, so she said, “No problem. So how did you hear about Hellstrom’s safari tours?”

“Internet—you never did tell me your name.” He pulled off a soggy river reed stuck to his shirtsleeve, then flicked it out the window.

She didn’t want to be on a first-name basis with him, and said, “Sperling.”

“Your first name?”

She hesitated and said, “Wynne.”

“Wynne Sperling?” He tried the name out. It sounded like Spuhlin’ when he said it. “Sperling. I knew some Sperlings. You got family in Amarillo?”

“No.”

“Where’s your family from?”

“Washington, D.C.”

“Visited the District once. Climbed the Washington Monument in the summer. It was one scorcher of a day—”

She interrupted his tourist anecdote and said, “Washington can be murder in the summer, but probably not any hotter than Texas. What part of Texas are you from?”

“All over, but mostly Austin. My life is pretty boring. Now yours is different. How’d you get all the way from D.C. to Africa?”

She didn’t like the adroit way he kept turning the conversation back to her. “I majored in wildlife ecology with a minor in criminal justice. I thought I could do the most good here on the front lines. So what do you do for a living?” she asked, getting back to his life.

“I’m a businessman.”

“What kind of business are you in?”

“Just about everything. Whatever strikes my fancy and turns a profit.”

Was bush meat poaching one of his fancies? “How do you go from ex-SEAL to businessman?”

“I kinda teach aikido to kids, too. Keeps me in shape.”

“I see.”

He reached over and touched Bart’s head, watching it bob. “What’s with The Simpsons fetish?”

“Birthday gifts. From my little sister, Cody. It was one of our rituals to watch The Simpsons every week. She likes to tease me because I don’t own a television here.”

She recalled snuggling on the couch with Cody, a bowl of Doritos between them, watching The Simpsons. Wynne missed hearing Cody’s nasally laugh, the peachy-bubblegum teenage scent of her hair, the way she always used to get in Wynne’s makeup and wear her clothes and swear she hadn’t. The dolls connected Wynne to home, to her sister, to a life that was no longer her own. Wynne cherished the six dolls. She couldn’t bear to see him abusing Bart’s head and said, “Please, they’re fragile.”

“Sorry.” He drew back his long arm and let it rest on his thigh. “You miss your family?”

His insightful question surprised Wynne and she said, “Very much.”

“What about your folks? They alive?”

“Yeah, but divorced.” Wynne thought of her father and smiled. “My father is a veterinarian for the National Zoo in Washington, and my mother…” Her smile melted. What was her mother? A bulldozer in stockings, heels and a Chanel suit. “She’s in corporate law,” Wynne finally said, realizing she’d said too much. “What about your parents?”

“My parents?” He gave a little taut laugh. “They consisted of the nuns at St.Anthony’s Orphanage, and Clarence, the grounds man.” A wistful tone entered his voice.

“Clarence?”

“Yep, old Clarence kinda took me under his wing, taught me how to box, work on cars and how to hunt—the sisters didn’t like that though. He took all us boys hunting on weekends, told the sisters it was a camping trip to commune with God. Ha! I think they were wise to him, but they didn’t say a word. Beside the priest, he was the only male influence in our lives—not knocking Father Reilly, he could go a round in the ring with the best of them, but he liked gardening. We boys just weren’t into perennials….” His words trailed off, and he seemed lost in memories.

The kind of silence that accompanies too much personal disclosure dragged between them. She wished she hadn’t asked about his parents. Was he lying to gain her sympathy? No, there had been an unmistakable honesty in his voice. All she really wanted to know about him was if he was involved in the poaching.

“This is a mighty fine ride you got,” MacKay said, glancing around the interior of her truck. “It’s not standard issue.”

“It’s mine.”

“How does a warden in Zambia afford something like this? Isn’t the government strapped? Your salary couldn’t be but so much. You probably can’t afford to put gas in it.”

“I didn’t exactly take this job for the Wall Street salary.” He didn’t need to know she lived off a trust fund her grandmother had left her. Any momentary sympathy she might have felt for him flew out the window. He was becoming annoying again.

He lifted his beefy hand and began methodically cracking each knuckle. “So are you one of those bleeding-heart, bunny-hugging activists? That it?”

Make that extremely annoying. She jabbed back, “Are you one of those guys who prays to Charlton Heston every time you pay your NRA dues?”

“Touché.” He wrote an imaginary one in the air, then went back to work on his knuckles. “Score one for the liberal. But don’t you use a gun in your job?”

“Hardly ever.” The popping sound of his joints grated on her eardrums like sandpaper.

“Now that is different.” He spoke as if he didn’t believe her. He stopped torturing his knuckles, then said with a smirk, “But you gotta admit being a warden is not a fit job for a woman, even if she were packing.”

She fought the urge to stop the truck and leave him for roadkill, but she wasn’t going to give him the pleasure of letting him know he was getting to her. She smiled at him as if she’d just been impaled by a rhino. “And what kind of jobs are fit for a woman in your opinion?”

“I don’t know….” He shrugged and rubbed his chin. “Air traffic controller, astronaut, lobbyist, lawyer, veterinarian, detective. See, I’m not as chauvinistic as you thought, darlin’.”

“It’s a good thing you can’t read my mind.”

“Maybe I can.”

“You don’t seem psychic to me.”

“No, but I know you’re probably the only female warden in all of Africa. Hell, there’s probably not that many in the States.”

“I don’t defend how I live my life to anyone.”

She’d had to do enough of that with her mother, who would never understand why Wynne stayed in such a dangerous job. It wasn’t just about preserving the last great wilderness on earth, but also about the challenge. She thrived on overcoming the danger and the obstacles, and experiencing the amazing rewards which kept her here, like watching a lioness teaching her cubs to hunt, or the beauty of a herd of impala or zebra grazing. Africa had a wild but beautiful rhythm to it, and that rhythm was in her heart. It was well worth the fight to save it. Something this arrogant Texan would never understand. Or her mother.

“Are you a thrill-seeker, or you just got a death wish?” he asked.

“Do you?” Wynne added enough bite to the words that they came out as a threat.

It actually worked and for once he was speechless. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at her in a probing, contemplative way.

She didn’t realize she’d driven past Hellstrom’s compound and she skidded to a stop. The Simpsons dolls whip-lashed on the dash and MacKay braced himself, uttering something about female drivers. She shifted into reverse and pulled into the drive then slammed on the brakes.

A man stood in the headlights, a rifle pointed at her.