The Lion Killer (The Dark Continent Chronicles) (18 page)

The old bull needed water to quench the fire in his gut. The scent of water led the buffalo into a box canyon. The blackened sides of the gorge were streaked with white crystallized urine stains from hyraxes. The animals scampered into the fault crevices. Red aloe plants and strangler figs clung to the rocks. Howling baboons raced along the upper rim. “The old nayat
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waits for us by the waterhole,” the tracker whispered to Rigby. “The hunter has made a very bad shot.” He pointed at a scrape mark in the sand indicating that the buffalo was dragging his intestines.

“This is as far as you go, Spooner,” Rigby said. I'll send one of them back for you when it's over.”

The wounded buffalo watched his tormentors from the shade of a fever tree. Vultures waited impatiently on its limbs. Marabou storks circled above the tree. The water had not eased the buffalo's pain. The bull slung his muzzle to shoo away the flies.

Rigby's first shot was accurate and so was his second. Both bullets buried into the buffalo's chest. A rush of adrenaline fueled the animal's rage. The bull crashed into the shallow water and charged straight for Rigby. Rigby broke open his double and slammed two solids home, but when he looked up, he realized there wasn't time to fire. He was sure he would be gored. He feinted left and dove to the right.

The crack of Spooner's rifle rang out. His shot missed the animal's vitals, but the .458 slug smashed into its foreleg. The femur snapped causing the bull to cartwheel. The buffalo came to rest in a heap at Rigby's feet. Jesse ran up and fired another shot into its brain. The animal's death bellow reverberated in the gorge.

After the dust cleared, Rigby touched the buffalo's eye with his gun barrel. “He's finished,” he said, going down on one knee. “God damn you, Spooner. I thought I told you to stay put. I'd already made up my mind about you, and now look what you've done.” After examining the wound that killed the animal, he turned to Jesse. “Thanks for saving my life,” he said, still breathing hard.

“It was my pleasure,” Jesse answered, mimicking a British accent.

The trackers started to sing. One of them cut the animal's stomach open. The buffalo's innards spilled out on the ground saturating the air with the smell of rotting marigolds.

“What's the song about?” Jesse asked.

“It's an old Matabele hunting song. They're singing about you, Jesse. It's really quite an honor. Oh, there's one more thing. They're saving its testicles for your dinner. A bit chewy, but a real delicacy. Spooner, you look green. I hope you're not going to be sick. Can't let them see their hero pitch his cookies.” He handed his canteen to Jesse.

***

The next morning they left Metets
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for the twohundredkilometer drive to Rigby's farm. An air of civility replaced their misgivings about each other. After three hours, Jesse took over the driving. Their conversation was light-hearted. Jesse was careful not to mention Lynn Allison. He didn't want to press his luck. Rigby asked a question. “Say Jesse, just out of curiosity, where were you trying to hit that buffalo?”

“If I told you the back leg, would you believe me?”

“No way.”

“I didn't think so. Tell me about the lion hunt with Max Turner. I saw the lion's head in Max's den.”

“What did he tell you?” Rigby asked.

“Just that he shot it. He said something about a man getting killed.”

“Did he, now? The man was a friend of mine.” When Rigby wouldn't elaborate, Jesse decided not to press the issue.

Thinking of Sam triggered one of Rigby's flashbacks.
“Gentlemen, I'll not bore you with politics. Politics is the business of pimps. We're military men. We fix what politicians bugger. What do you know about the Johnston attack?” the colonel asked.

“Sir, I grew up on a farm next to the Johnston place. I attended Plum Tree with Seth Johnston. When I heard about the raid, I was horrified,” I said.

“The terrorists came over from Mozambique. They made Mr. Johnston watch, while they raped his two daughters. One girl was only eleven. The older one had just turned twelve. When they finished, they killed them. Mercifully, they also killed Johnston. The barbarity is beyond belief.”

“Sir, I had no idea,” I said.

“Any news on Mrs. Johnston?” asked Willie.

“I thought you knew. Mrs. Johnston hanged herself yesterday.”

I was speechless as was Willie. “Take your time, gentlemen. These are bloody hard times,” said the colonel. I remember seeing the lust for revenge in Sam's eyes.

The colonel droned on about the need to stop the attacks on the farmers. He concluded by saying, “Your job is to locate that camp and call in an air strike. I want that camp incinerated. We must send a message, if you harm our women and children, the consequences will be horrific.”

Jesse reached over and touched Rigby's arm to wake him. Rigby yawned and rolled his head to work out the stiffness in his neck. “How far is it to your farm?” Jesse asked.

“Not far. We need to stop at the next farm for petrol. I should warn you about these people. They're our version of what you call rednecks. The farmer's name is John William. He has five daughters. They ripped the pants off of the last stranger I brought here.”

“This sounds like more of your bullshit.”

Undeterred by Jesse's skepticism, Rigby continued. “These people have lived here so long—nobody knows where they came from. Some say John William's the missing link. He has five daughters. One's an albino with Tourette syndrome and a stuttering problem. We named her ‘Velma the Vulgarian.' All of his daughters weigh over fifteen stones. That's twohundred pounds to you. Seems like they're always pregnant.

“They keep a three-legged, one-eared hyena as a pet. They named him Oscar. They raised him from a pup. Couple of years back, Oscar tried to hook up with a pack of wild hyenas. Naturally, they mauled him. That's when he lost the leg and his ear. If Oscar tries to sniff your private parts, I'd let him. He gets testy if he's rejected.” Rigby couldn't control his laughter.

“I'm not getting out of the truck.”

“It might be better.”

“You said his daughters are always pregnant. What happened to their husbands?”

“You've just touched on one of the great unsolved mysteries in this country. My wife says it's like ‘Where did the Mafia bury Jimmy Hoffa?' The way I see it, there are two possibilities. Either John William's the father or it's Oscar. The kids are so ugly, it could be either one.”

They left the tarmac and turned onto a corrugated road running uphill. The William's place was a makeshift series of wooden shacks. There was a tireless tractor and the remains of four trucks jackedup in the front yard. The threelegged, oneeared hyena played with two children in the dirt. Oscar licked one child's head. The other kid tried to stick a bone in Oscar's unprotected ear hole.

John William rocked back and forth in his rocking chair. There was a rusty shotgun in his lap. He wore nothing but a dirty blanket draped over his hairy shoulders. On the forward rocks, Jesse could see his genitalia. Jesse smiled and waved nervously. The man's eyes gave no indication of mental acuity. John William's beard was soiled with the evidence of his last feeding. His lips formed a circle as he ejaculated a snotty mixture into the dirt.

“Why Jesse, I do believe John William likes you,” said Rigby getting out of the truck.

“How do you know he likes me?” Jesse asked.

“Because he hasn't shot you,” Croxford whispered. “Sir John, how's the family?” Croxford inquired, getting no response.

“I'm locking the doors,” Jesse yelled.

Five heavy-set women encircled their truck. One woman pressed her milk laden breasts against a side window. Two others started to lick the windshield. Some children climbed up on the hood. The more adventurous ones used the truck's roof as a trampoline. Oscar balanced on his rear leg and peered into the back window.

A woman knocked on Jesse's door, but he ignored her. He guessed she was the albino, but she was so dirty he wasn't sure. The same woman continued to knock until Jesse cracked the window open. Her words were so muffled he rolled the window completely down. “I beg your pardon,” Jesse said.

“I said, you can kiss my ass, you cock…cock…sucker.” She tried to reswallow her profanity, but couldn't. She seemed pleased when her sisters found her comment hilarious.

Jesse knew she was Velma, the stuttering albino. “Get me out of here,” he screamed.

After Rigby filled his truck with petrol, the men drove away from the farm leaving rolling dust filled with children running in their wake. “Spooner, if you're interested in any of his daughters, just say the word and I'll turn around. I think old John kind of fancied you for himself.”

“Please tell me you've run out of surprises.”

“You've taken my best shots and you've passed with flying colors. Here, take a drink of water. You look shaky,” he said, handing Jesse his canteen. “My farm's just over the next ridge.”

The winding road to the Croxford farm was lined with blooming bougainvillea and blue flowered jacaranda trees. The fields on the right looked weedy and unattended. To the left there was a herd of zebra. The stallion watched them, but his females continued to graze. Jesse saw a giraffe gliding between some woodland acacias. The shadows from cotton ball clouds moved lazily over the rolling hills.

“It's beautiful. I didn't know you had wild animals on your farm,” said Jesse.

“It was my wife's idea. I fought it, but she won the argument.”

“What crops do you grow?”

“We did grow wheat and tobacco. We stopped planting four years ago. If we plant, we're afraid the government will confiscate our farm. This land has been in my family for over a hundred years. Someday, I expect to die defending it.”

They slowed down as they approached some thatchroofed huts. The men standing around the huts glared back at them. Rigby didn't acknowledge them. “Squatters or warvets as they call themselves, sent here by Mugabe to run me off my land.”

“I can't blame you for trying to hold on. It's not like I thought.”

“Spooner, forget everything you think you know about Africa. For starters, the unemployment rate in Zimbabwe is eighty percent and our inflation rate is a zillion percent. Mugabe's a rabid baboon. Ten years ago, we had fifty black families living on this farm. My wife insisted that we send the brighter kids to college. It damn near bankrupted us.”

“What happened to the college-educated kids?”

“They're afraid to come back to Zimbabwe. They're seen as a threat by the men in power. It's the same story all over Africa.”

“You were right. Africa really is a mess.”

***

Helen and Lynn walked out of the house to meet them. Black servants unloaded their luggage. They knocked the dust off and followed Helen and Lynn up on the veranda. The introductions were slightly awkward. There was the usual small talk, but the atmosphere was contrived.

“Is Africa anything like you expected?” Helen asked Jesse. “Dr. Croxford, your husband has shown me things I could never imagine.” “I hope you didn't subject him to those dreadful people,” she said, turning to her husband.

“That family is one of the great tourist attractions in Zimbabwe.”

“My husband has a weird sense of humor. Rigby dear, let's go inside. There's something we need to discuss.” Jesse didn't stand up. He thought the couple wanted privacy. “Jesse, this includes you,” said Helen.

Rigby's mind raced through the possible scenarios. The two couples sat around a table. Helen spoke first. “Maxwell Turner's here,” his wife blurted out.

“I'm not following you,” said Rigby.

“Turner's here in Zimbabwe. He wants to hire you to help him get his son out of the Congo. Before you go ballistic, hear us out. Lynn, give him the background on your stepson.”

“I don't want to hear another word about Max Turner or his son. Spooner, what've you got to say? Let's start with the truth. By the way, I know you still work for your government. Carrying that pistol was proof positive.” Rigby turned to Lynn. “Why do I get the feeling you planned this?” He waited for a response. When he didn't get one, he threw up his hands in frustration. “Please, somebody say something.”

Jesse got up, put his hands in his pockets and walked over to the railing. He turned to face Rigby. “Everything you said is true. Coming over here was my idea, not Lynn's. Our motives are not the same. Lynn wants to save her stepson. I'm part of an investigation involving Max Turner and Nelson Chang selling classified information to the Chinese Government. On a personal level, I believe Turner was responsible for the death of a good friend.” Jesse turned to face Lynn. She looked tearful. “I wouldn't be averse to killing Max,” Jesse said.