Читать книгу Chasing The Leopard Finding the Lion - Julie Wakeman-Linn - Страница 16

VIII Bumi Hills, Saturday, morning

At eight o’clock sharp, Isaac, standing by the kitchen door with Mrs. Hilda, watched as Brett and David and Jeremy loaded the luggage and the tourists into the van and Jeremy drove off, carrying Elise and all the others to the landing strip. They waved as they did every time a group of tourists left the lodge after their week of safaris.

“Astrida called me when she got home yesterday,” Mrs. Hilda murmured in Shona.

“I hope she had a good journey,” Isaac responded.

“She did, but others did not.” Mrs. Hilda sat on the bench, her hands gripping the stone. “The cops or somebody calling themselves the Presidential Guard were questioning many travelers. Searching their things. It’s no good harassing our own people.”

“Where did Astrida say they were?” Hearing Presidential Guard spoken in English in the middle of her words was like a tear in fabric. Isaac tried to swallow but his throat felt swollen.

“Down where the Chiluba highway crosses Route 17, but they were heading to the north.” Mrs. Hilda rested her hand on his forearm. “Stay out of sight for a while.”

Isaac sat next to her and she squeezed his arm. The sound of angry voices came from the car park and rebounded off the stucco walls of the kitchen wing. Brett and David were arguing about something. Brett clutched a card and waved it, just out of Colton’s reach. Colton jabbed his finger and sounded like he was growling. Then he turned and left Brett, standing there, shaking his head.

“Heyyah Brett,” Isaac called and Brett trotted over.

“Good morning, Mrs. Hilda and how are you this lovely day?” Brett asked, sounding polite to her, but he clenched his fists. “Isaac, let’s go see the folks and get that Jeep. I know you’d like to. I suddenly have the day free.” His English words seemed clipped and jagged after the Shona. “You need to check the tires on the little Jeep. They wobble, I’m sure they do. I told David we’d check it.” Brett looked more cocky than angry now.

Isaac considered. If the Presidential Guard were moving north, then all the more reason to get to the folks before they did.

“Give my best to your parents,” Mrs. Hilda offered. “Be careful.”

“Isaac, let’s hurry up and go. Good day and thank you, Mrs. Hilda.”

She nodded and went into the kitchen.

As they hurried to the vehicle shed, Brett filled him in on the details. Seeing his Bumi Hills game guide shirt draped over Elise’s chair was enough for David to get furious and suspend him for two days. Then Brett started to say “She’s--” and he grinned and said nothing else. He showed Isaac Elise’s business card and reported she’d invited them to visit. Her office was in the BBC building in Lusaka. Taking David’s short Jeep would be good revenge.

If they hurried, Isaac hoped they could be there by lunchtime.

Brett tapped his thumbs like drumsticks to the jazz on the radio, Isaac’s Harare station. The closer they got to the farm, the quieter Isaac had become. He turned from the district road onto the paved lane. The farm’s driveway was three kilometers ahead. “Didn’t Dad say the watermelons and pawpaws won’t be ripe for another two weeks?”

“As cool as the temperature’s been, they’ll be a bit behind this year.” Isaac’s arms were wrapped around his chest. Probably the road surface jarred his bruises and his collarbone.

“With no field work to be done, we’ll get a wonderful lunch and dessert and coffee. We grab the Jeep and head back. Easy.” Brett chuckled.

Isaac nodded, but his mouth was shut, a straight line. As they turned onto the farm’s long gravel driveway, Brett eyeballed the peach trees to snatch a peach. The peacocks always hollered in the driveway, but not today. “Where are Mom’s birds?”

“Old Angus,” Isaac pointed. The old cock sprawled on the edge of the driveway, its neck bent backwards in a u-shape and its breast torn open, flies buzzing on it.

At the top of the driveway where it forked left to his mom’s house and right to the Ba-Noah’s house, Brett saw five strange cars, blue sedans blocking the driveway. Ba-Noah’s house windows were broken. Across the garden, his mom’s house stood with blinds pulled down but no sign of damage. Brett accelerated.

“Old government vehicles. See the plates?” Isaac’s hand shook as he pointed.

A bearded man in khaki camouflage crawled out of the first sedan and he flagged them down by swinging a semi-automatic rifle. Brett geared down abruptly and the Jeep bucked.

“Follow me on this,” Isaac said, yanking Brett’s game lodge hat low on his forehead. “I’d better be the boss.”

“What? Your color’s more to their liking?” People didn’t treat each other differently based on color, certainly not here in his mom’s domain. She wouldn’t have it--unless she was hurt and couldn’t intervene. Who were these guys? “Don’t let them see your black eye--we can’t let them link you to Harare.”

“What’s your business here?” The man with the gun snarled at them as Isaac rolled down the window. The man’s green army-issue cap shadowed his deep set eyes; acne and stubble fought for position on his chin. His brownish skin and short squat body labeled him an Ndebele. He held his rifle with two hands; he seemed prepared to shoot, or flip it and slam the stock into Isaac’s head.