The Taste of Fear (13 page)

Kit came over from the Hilux. “I will be leaving you,” he announced.

“Thank you for the lift, Kitoi,” Sal said, stuffing some folded bills into the front pocket of the man’s shirt. “Aside from nearly letting a lioness eat us, you did a fine job.”

He joined the queue to get on the plane.

“Ignore him, Kit,” Scarlett told him. “You and Cooper were fabulous hosts.”

“
Akipenda chongo huita kengeza.”

“What does that mean?”

“When in love, a person will always find excuses for their lover.” He glanced momentarily at Sal. “I wish you wisdom and prudence, Miss Cox.”

Scarlett watched him go, considering his words. Then she climbed the three-step ladder and boarded the plane. It was a twelve-seat twin turbo-prop Beechcraft. Sal called these things pond jumpers; she called them coffins with wings. Even when she was seated her hair, which she’d pulled back into a messy red bun atop her head, barely cleared the roof.

After the pilot loaded the luggage into the cargo hold, the little plane shot down the runway and wobbled into the air. There was no cabin crew, which meant no in-flight service. Scarlett still wasn’t hungry, but she would have gladly settled for a coffee or tea, simply for want of something to distract herself. She felt awkward and uncomfortable sitting beside Sal, fully aware he was there, pretending he wasn’t. It was as bad as riding an elevator with a stranger. She kept expecting him to say something, to break their unofficial non-speaking arrangement. She didn’t know what she would do if that happened. Listen to what he had to say? Get into it with him? Ignore him completely?

The ruminations, however, turned out to be pointless. Sal was apparently content to sit there and play by the rules of the game—and he was better at it than she. In fact, he seemed completely indifferent to the negative energy she felt, stretching nonchalantly several times, crossing his legs, even yawning. When he closed his eyes, she couldn’t help but wonder if he was taking a nap. She shoved his arm off the armrest they shared and took it over.

Twenty minutes into the fifty-minute-long flight, Scarlett’s rear started to go numb. She shifted her position in the seat and felt something small and hard in her pocket. She took it out. It was the compass-pendant she’d bought at the Arusha market. That’s when she realized she was wearing the same zebra-print dress she’d worn on the first day of the safari. It had been simple and easy and the first thing she’d pulled out of her suitcase that morning. She turned the pendant over in her hands, then looped it around her neck, next to the tiger claw.

When the plane landed at Arusha Airport, she and Sal collected their luggage and went out front of the blue-trimmed building to hail a taxi.

“Do you need a car, sir?” a black man said, walking quickly toward them.

“We’re going to Kilimanjaro Airport.”

“No problem, sir. Come with me, sir.”

The man led them past well-manicured shrubs and around a corner to a parking lot, where three cars were parked.

Scarlett stopped. “Where’s the taxi?”

The man pointed to an idling beige Mercedes. “See?”

“That’s not a taxi.”

“Don’t worry, ma’am. It is a good car. It will get you where you need to go. No problem.”

“It’s not a taxi.”

“Don’t worry. It’s a good car. No problem.”

“You heard him,” Sal said. “It’s a good car.” He got in the back.

Scarlett hesitated. She didn’t want to get into an unlicensed taxi. But she didn’t see any other option. The other passengers on the plane had already commandeered the two legitimate taxis that had been waiting. She climbed in, wincing as the trunk slammed shut.

The man drove them through the grimy yet colorful streets of Arusha with frightening aggression, honking and swerving and mumbling in Swahili to himself. At one intersection they were almost sideswiped by a truck. Nevertheless, they somehow made it out of the city alive, the buildings giving way to sprawling maize and wheat estates and coffee plantations.

Scarlett broke her day-long silence and said, “I’m not coming to Dubai.”

Sal studied her. “Where will you go?”

“Back to LA.”

Silence.

“Listen,” he said, clearing his throat. “I think we need to talk—”

Suddenly the driver swerved to the shoulder of the road and slammed on the brakes, throwing Scarlett and Sal forward in their seats. He jumped out of the front, yanked open the back door, and yelled at them to get out.

“What are you—?” Sal cut himself off. “Hey. Okay. Take it easy.”

Scarlett leaned forward so she could see past Sal. She gasped. The man was pointing a snub-nosed revolver at them.

Hands raised, Sal got out. Scarlett followed.

“Give me your wallets!” the man said. There was intensity in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Fear or lunacy or bravado or all three. “Fast! Or I shoot you!”

Sal reached into the inside pocket of his blazer and handed over the croc-embossed calfskin wallet Scarlett had bought for him on their honeymoon. She’d chosen it because the designer’s name—Salvator—was so similar to his own. For a moment she was furious. Who was this jackass to take it from her husband? But when the jackass pointed the revolver at her, Scarlett’s fury vanished in a heartbeat.

“You too!” the man said. “Your wallet. Now!”

Scarlett fumbled around inside her handbag.

“No! The whole bag. On the seat.”

She did as he asked.

“Walk away. Go!”

Hands raised again, Scarlett and Sal back-stepped.
Good obedient victims,
she thought dumbly.
No one’s getting shot over a few dollars here. Take what you want. We got plenty more where that came from.

The man ducked back behind the wheel, slammed the door, hit the gas. The Mercedes’ tires spun on the loose gravel, then the car shot away, leaving a cloud of blue smoke and gray dust behind it. Scarlett pictured the scam artist grinning greedily when he went through her wallet later. She must have had five hundred dollars in it.

“Perfect,” Sal quipped, waving his hand in front of his face. “Bloody well perfect.”

“It’s not such a big deal,” she said, her voice unsteady.

He arched an eyebrow. “Oh, no?”

“No. We’ll just cancel our cards.”

“I don’t know about you,
cara mia,
but my passport was in my suitcase. And the suitcases are in the trunk of that Mercedes.”

She hadn’t thought of that. “What do we do?”

“We’ll have to get to the nearest U.S. Embassy. I’m guessing that’s in Dar es Salaam.”

“Will they let us on the flight? I mean, without ID or anything?”

“Grab a magazine and point to your goddamn picture.”

Rolling her eyes at him, Scarlett looked around. Mt. Kilimanjaro towered to the north while fields stretched away in every other direction. “Even if they do let us on the flight,” she said, “we still need to get from the airport to the embassy. I don’t have any money—”

“Do you have your phone?”

“Who do you want to call? Danny?” she said, taking a cheap shot. “Think he can get you out of this mess too?”

“Do you have your goddamn phone or not?”

“Do I look like I have my phone, Sal?” She turned in a circle. “Where do you think I keep it? In my bra? My garter belt?” She shook her head. “I knew getting into that car was a bad idea.”

“You’re saying this is my fault?”

“As a matter of fact, I am. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“The airport can’t be more than ten miles away,” he said, shading his eyes and looking in the direction the Mercedes had gone. “I’ll call the office from there. Get something worked out. Can you keep up?”

Not, “Do you think you can make it?” Not even, “Can you make it?” Just,
Can you keep up?

She finally snapped. “I’ve had enough, Sal,” she said. “This is too much. Everything. I thought I could cope. I thought we could fix things. I thought we should at least
try
to fix things. But I was wrong. It’s not going to work.” She took a deep breath, bracing herself for his reaction. “I want a divorce.”

He didn’t react. Didn’t say a word. He simply stared at her for a long moment, then turned away and started walking in the direction of the airport.

Scarlett watched him go, full of mixed emotions. When he was far enough ahead that he began to shimmer in the heat haze, like a mirage that would disappear at any moment, she followed.

“He took everything—wallet, passport, luggage. God, there’s my husband!”

She pointed to Sal, who was walking along the same shoulder she’d been on. For a moment she considered telling the Australian named Thunder to keep driving. Then she considered telling him to slow down so she could flick Sal the bird. In the end she said, “I’m sorry about this, but would you mind giving him a lift as well?”

“Anything for a damsel in distress.” He rolled to a crawl to pace Sal.

She hummed down the window. “Get in, Sal. He’s giving us a lift to the turnoff.”

Sal barely glanced at her. “I think I’ll walk.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’ll see you at the airport.”

She shook her head in frustration. “You heard him,” she told Thunder. “He’s enjoying the exercise.”

As Thunder accelerated away, she watched Sal shrink then vanish altogether in the side mirror.

“Is he going to be all right?” Thunder asked.

She shrugged. “He’s a big boy.”

“He seemed like a bit of a grumpy bugger, if you ask me.”

“We had a fight.”

“About the robbery?”

“Among other things.”

“Ah, right-o. Personal. I won’t say another word.”

Scarlett studied the Australian. The top of his head almost touched the roof of the car, and he seemed to be hunched over the steering wheel, like a kid who’d outgrown his Big Wheels. He was well built, lean rather than bulky. His skin was about as dark as Sal’s, but from the sun rather than natural pigmentation, which was obvious enough given his neatly brushed blonde hair and bright, almost electric blue eyes.

“You know,” she told him, “you look like a stereotypical Australian.”

“Is that so? Well, I’ve been called worse things than a stereotype.”

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way.”

“I’m just having a go, hey.”

The song on the radio ended and was followed by another with a heavy drum beat.

“You like this stuff?” she said.

“Wouldn’t mind some good old Acadaca, to tell the truth.”

“Aca who?”

“You know.
Back in Black. Highway to Hell.”

“You mean AC/DC?”

“Sure. Acadaca. Aussies are a lazy lot. Streamline everything.”

Scarlett smiled. She liked Thunder.

“I have a few Australian friends,” she told him.

“Stereotypes like me?”

“Unfortunately not.”

He grinned at her. “Should I take that as a compliment?”

“Take it any way you like,” she told him, and she felt a sudden flush color her cheeks.

Was she flirting?
A whole five minutes after telling her husband she wanted a divorce? Nonsense. She was merely having a little fun, letting off some steam. She deserved it after the week she’d had. She’d almost died in a car crash. Learned someone had tried to kill Sal. Was nearly eaten by a lioness. And, if that all wasn’t enough, she was now looking at a divorce. So why not have a few laughs with the Australian? It made her feel a little better about everything. Like chocolate did or shopping, neither of which, unfortunately, were an alternative right then.