Jackal's Dance (20 page)

Felicity did a quick mental evaluation of her unexpected passenger. Mid-forties by the look of
him, similar age to herself. Dark hair worn long enough to curl under his ears. Brown eyes, good strong jaw, nice nose. Obviously fit, there was a lean and healthy look about him. She liked what she saw. ‘Rats!' she said suddenly.

‘What?' Philip was startled.

‘Philip. Nothing rhymes with Philip.'

He smiled slightly. ‘Should it?'

‘It's how I remember names.'

‘How about yours?'

‘Oh, that's easy. Complicity, duplicity, elasticity. Take your pick.' She grinned, stepped on the accelerator, winced and eased the selector back a notch. ‘Goes better in gear, I guess.'

‘Where are you from?' Philip asked, liking her easy manner.

‘Johannesburg. You?'

‘Australia. Born in South Africa, though.'

‘What's it like out there?'

‘Great. Wouldn't live anywhere else. But I still come back every now and then.'

‘And get attacked by elephants?' Felicity glanced at him. ‘Some homecoming!'

He smiled. ‘First time for everything.'

Before she could stop herself, Felicity improvised.

‘Aussie tourist caught by ellie

Could end up a dinkum jelly'

Philip laughed. ‘Bit of a poet, are you?'

‘A bit.'

They fell silent after that, only making comment when one of them spotted something of interest.

The scenery was awesome. They were on a well-maintained dirt road which ran along the western edge of the Etosha pan. To their right, one hundred kilometres of glistening white salt stretched to infinity, its surface broken only by the footprints of wandering wild animals. On their left, duneveld gave way to wide open grassland that rose to meet mopane forests standing sentinel along the ridge. It was completely different country from the rock-strewn grassland and acacia scrub just a few kilometres further south.

In the distance, far to the west, angry thunderclouds boiled and churned. Lightning skittered nonstop through them as they made menacing progress towards the pan, filling the horizon with a blue-black promise that might, or might not, deliver rain.

Logans Island was nothing more than a piece of elevated ground which, in the days before the great lake dried up, would have appeared as a grass-covered knoll floating about three kilometres from the shore. An artificial embankment now connected it to the mainland.

The lodge itself was C-shaped with reed walls, a high thatched roof and exposed beams. One end housed a craft and curio shop, the other a glass-fronted bar lounge. In between, high ceiling fans cooled the dining room. Bungalows were spaced far enough apart to provide visitors with complete privacy. Reception, administration office and a fuel station flanked the island's only access road. Workshop and maintenance facilities were well out of
sight, as was all staff accommodation. A swimming pool glistened in its own setting of lush lawn, with gardens and a thatched, open-air bar and barbecue area framing it. Beyond that was a viewing terrace which looked over the permanent man-made waterhole. But without doubt the most impressive feature of Logans Island was the uninterrupted, panoramic vista of the pan itself which reached away to the horizon, a flat and white expanse of emptiness.

Driving off the access road, Felicity's first impression was of a fairly typical African luxury game lodge, set in anything but stereotyped Africa. Etosha Pan was unique and Logans Island Lodge unashamedly exploited this in giving guests the full benefit of their location, mindful all the while of preserving its natural environment. Vegetation, be it lawn, shrub or tree, was indigenous to the area. Buildings blended in and used only those materials available in the park. Much had been made of volcanic rocks. Artistic arrangements gave parts of the garden an oriental look, incongruous but for their timeless harmonising with the white saltpan and clever plantings in their midst.

Philip had known what to expect. Felicity was blown away. For both of them, the lodge, the island and the views touched tired and emotionally damaged nerve ends in need of remission from the demons that hounded their day-to-day lives. Deliverance, by the hand of nature, beat anything the shrinks had to offer.

With fee-paying tourists out of the way, the two park vehicles ventured another kilometre along the road before stopping again. Sean alighted from his and walked a short distance, his head cocked, trying to judge how far they were from the elephant.

The veterinary officer – Buster Louw, who was usually based at Okaukuejo – climbed from Sean's vehicle and joined him on the road. ‘She'll probably charge if she sees us. Best to try and sneak up on foot from here.'

Chester, driving the second Land Rover, glanced at his passenger. ‘You can stay here if you like.'

‘No way. I'm coming with you guys.' Troy Trevaskis was composed and serious, a fact not lost on the African. The noises they could hear would be enough to put the wind up most people. Troy opened his door. ‘I may have to do this myself some day. Might as well see how it's done.'

They walked towards Sean and the vet. Sean stooped, pinched some sandy dust between his thumb and forefinger, lofting it into the air. They all watched carefully. The fine particles blew lazily off to the right. ‘East to west at the moment.' Chester and the vet knew what Sean meant. Etosha breezes could shift in an instant and staying downwind was never guaranteed. There wasn't much they could do except keep a close eye on it.

All four of them moved off to the right. Buster carried a dart gun in case of a last-minute decision to sedate the elephant. Professor Kruger had mentioned an injury but only that it was on one of the
front legs. Billy hadn't seen anything, just talked about the animal's aggression. Sedation would only be possible if it could be done without danger to the men. On foot, that was unlikely. Sean had a .458 Winchester 70, five hundred grains of full metal jacket bullet up the spout with a soft then another solid in the magazine. Chester carried a .416 Rigby. Troy was unarmed. They moved carefully through the bush, guided by the sound of Philip Meyer's vehicle being systematically destroyed. ‘She's going to damage herself even further,' Sean whispered to Chester.

The terrain they were in was hardly ideal, its sparse vegetation offering little cover. Their first sight of the elephant was from approximately two hundred metres and they needed to get much, much closer than that. Sean knew that as soon as the cow saw them she would charge. If she picked up enough momentum, even a perfectly placed brain shot might not stop her and someone could get hurt. They needed to be no further away than twenty metres before pulling the trigger.

Relying on the elephant's preoccupation and praying that what wind there was remained constant, the four of them bunched together in an attempt to present a single shape. If spotted, the elephant might think they were another animal. Testing the wind direction as best they could, freezing whenever the elephant turned her head their way, they slowly approached to within sixty metres of the frenzied animal.

At such close range her sheer size was awesome.
She stood a good two and a half metres at the shoulder, dwarfing the now pulverised Land Cruiser. Each man felt a tightening in his guts as realisation of their own insignificance hit them. With such a large animal in such a volatile frame of mind, the danger to all of them was considerable.

Sean saw the vet shaking his head. He understood. Even from this distance, the elephant's damaged knee was obvious. Bright bone and blood clearly visible in a wound the size of a dinner plate. It could have been caused by any number of things – Buster would find out what once the elephant was dead – but right now it would be crawling with maggots and causing intense agony. Surgery and treatment were simply not possible – an animal that size needed all four of her legs in good working order to just move around.

Then the ever-fickle wind shifted. The elephant caught their scent and raised her trunk. With a final scream of fury, her murderous attack on the car abruptly stopped.

‘Here she comes,' Chester shouted, no longer concerned about concealment.

Troy and Buster stepped smartly back to allow the other two maximum manoeuvrability. Sean and Chester leaned into their rifles. The elephant charged, flat out, head held high, leaving no option but a frontal brain shot. All four men were aware of the difficulty involved but anything else would not stop her. Many things could still go wrong. The bullet might be deflected by bone. The lumbering, almost bobbing charge may cause a shot to be
misjudged. Even a perfectly placed projectile need not stop the charge immediately. Many a hunter had been killed or wounded by an elephant that was literally dead on its feet. The animal's football-sized brain lay between its earholes, protected by a honeycomb of bone. Sean and Chester knew that to go for that shot they had to get the angle just right. Too high and the bullet might, just might, stun the animal. Then again, it might not. Too low and they'd end up with an even more pissed off elephant with a brand new hole in its trunk. They needed to shoot between, but below, the animal's eyes. Third wrinkle down. Both men held their fire.

Troy couldn't believe how fast she moved. Fifty metres, forty, thirty. Still the rangers held their fire. Twenty-five, twenty metres. ‘Now,' Sean called. They fired simultaneously and reloaded. The big grey head reared back as the elephant's hindquarters collapsed. Two perfect shots. Before the dust settled, before the massive bulk of flesh stopped quivering from its impact with the hard ground, Sean had run round the animal, rifle at the ready and, sighting carefully, placed another bullet into her brain. The elephant was well past caring.

Adrenalin rush, the shakes, call it what you will, kicked in then. Nobody spoke. Each man reacting to the experience in his own way. Hands visibly trembling, Chester lit a cigarette. It took several attempts. Sean walked in circles, hands on hips, taking deep breaths. Buster made a pretence of examining the leg wound. Troy, who had held his
ground with the others, suddenly found his legs didn't want to hold him. He sat down rather suddenly, white-faced and shaking, unaware that tears ran down his face. It would take all four of them some time before the adrenalin subsided.

Eventually it did. Chester drew deeply on his cigarette and told Troy it was perfectly normal to cry over his first elephant. Buster started swearing – a venomous stream of obscenities. He'd found a flattened 7.62 bullet in the elephant's stinking, pus-filled knee. Troy stood, wiped his eyes and asked Chester for a cigarette. And Sean cracked a joke about how elephants get out of trees. ‘They hang on the leaves and wait until autumn.'

It wasn't even funny but they all laughed.

Finally, Sean said, ‘I'll go see if that bloke's vehicle is drivable.'

M
att had that sinking feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. Although only eleven-fifteen in the morning, Gayle was drunk and making no attempt to hide the fact. They'd missed breakfast because she'd been feeling amorous and now, five double gins and tonic later, the alcohol on an empty stomach was doing its worst. She'd insisted Matt join her. He was drinking orange juice and pretending it had vodka in it.

They'd had the bar to themselves all morning. In fact, the barman who usually started work at midday had to be located when Gayle loudly demanded service. The delay brought on a bout of cutting sarcasm aimed at both Matt and the unfortunate African who served them.

‘The lemon should be twisted, like so,' she demonstrated. ‘Don't they teach you anything? And I take two slices.'

‘Yes, madam.' The barman knew trouble when he saw it. This one was trouble and then some. ‘Sorry, madam.'

‘Where's the swizzle stick?'

‘Sorry, madam.' Clearly, the man had never heard of one.

‘To mix the drink,' Matt intervened, his finger making a circular motion over the glass.

‘Ah. Sorry, sorry.' The barman bowed, hands together as if in prayer as he retreated to search for something suitable. He returned five minutes later with a teaspoon.

Gayle's long red nails tapped impatiently against the glass and arched eyebrows rose in unison when the spoon appeared on a saucer. ‘What's this?' she snapped.

The African smiled helpfully. ‘To mix,' he explained.

‘That's a spoon.'

‘Yes, madam.'

‘Bring me a stick.'

‘Jesus!' Matt muttered under his breath. ‘Just use it, Gayle. They don't seem to have swizzle sticks. For God's sake, Gayle, use the bloody spoon.' Matt waved the barman away, nodding his thanks. The grateful man needed no second bidding.

‘Since when do you tell me what to do?' Gayle's voice was frosty. ‘The price
I'm
paying for this place, you'd think they'd have heard of a swizzle stick.' She stirred her drink with a finger, then drank half without stopping before banging the glass onto the polished wooden table. She stared at Matt. ‘You're no bloody help. You take everybody else's side but mine.'

‘That's not fair and you know it.'

‘Do I? How about now? Who did you stick up
for then? Because let me tell you this for free, lover, it certainly wasn't me.'

Matt lost patience. She could go on like this for hours. ‘He didn't know what you were talking about. When you told him to bring a stick you'd more than likely end up with something broken off a tree. You're in Africa, Gayle, in the middle of the bush. Claridges is a long way from here. So stop making a scene. There's nobody to impress.'

Gayle's eyes narrowed. ‘You're on thin ice, lover. I call the shots on this safari because I'm paying for it. You'd do well to remember that.'

‘Don't worry. At the rate you keep reminding me I'm not likely to forget.'

Her face closed down, a neat trick she'd perfected when hiding hurt. Matt knew he'd overstepped the crazy unpredictable line of Gayle's fragile ego.