Part 4 (1/2)

”He wouldn't” is Johnny's quietly chilling answer. He is circling again, scanning the gra.s.s. Finding sc.r.a.ps of cloth, a shoe, but little else. He moves farther away, toward the river. Suddenly he drops to his knees, and over the gra.s.s I can just see the top of his blond head. His stillness makes us all uneasy. No one is eager to find out what he's now staring at; we have already seen more than enough. But his silence calls to me with a gravitational force that pulls me toward him.

He looks up at me. ”Hyenas.”

”How do you know they did it?”

He points to grayish clumps on the ground. ”That's spotted hyena scat. You see the animal hair, the bits of bone mixed in?”

”Oh G.o.d. It's not his, is it?”

”No, this scat is a few days old. But we know hyenas are here.” He points to a tattered piece of b.l.o.o.d.y fabric. ”And they found him.”

”But I thought hyenas were only scavengers.”

”I can't prove they took him down. But I think it's clear they fed on him.”

”There's so little of him left,” I murmur, looking at the fragments of cloth. ”It's as if he just ... disappeared.”

”Scavengers waste nothing, leave nothing behind. They probably dragged the rest of him to their den. I don't understand why Clarence died without making a sound. Why I didn't hear the kill.” Johnny stays crouched over those gray lumps of scat, but his eyes are scanning the area, seeing things that I'm not even aware of. His stillness unnerves me; he is like no other man I've met, so in tune with his environment that he seems a part of it, as rooted to this land as the trees and the gently waving gra.s.ses. He is not at all like Richard, whose eternal dissatisfaction with life keeps him searching the Internet for a better flat, a better holiday spot, maybe even a better girlfriend. Richard doesn't know what he wants or where he belongs, the way Johnny does. Johnny, whose prolonged silence makes me want to rush into the gap with some inane comment, as if it is my duty to keep up the conversation. But the discomfort is solely my own, not Johnny's.

He says, quietly: ”We need to gather up everything we can find.”

”You mean ... Clarence?”

”For his family. They'll want it for the funeral. Something tangible, something for them to mourn over.”

I look down in horror at the b.l.o.o.d.y sc.r.a.p of clothing. I don't want to touch it; I certainly don't want to pick up those scattered bits of bone and hair. But I nod and say, ”I'll help you. We can use one of the burlap sacks in the truck.”

He rises and looks at me. ”You're not like the others.”

”What do you mean?”

”You don't even want to be here, do you? In the bush.”

I hug myself. ”No. This was Richard's idea of a holiday.”

”And your idea of a holiday?”

”Hot showers. Flush toilets, maybe a ma.s.sage. But here I am, always the good sport.”

”You are a good sport, Millie. You know that, don't you?” He looks into the distance and says, so softly that I almost miss it: ”Better than he deserves.”

I wonder if he intended for me to hear that. Or maybe he's been in the bush so long that he regularly talks aloud to himself out here, because no one is usually around to hear him.

I try to read his face, but he bends down to pick up something. When he rises again, he has it in his hand.

A bone.

”YOU ALL UNDERSTAND, THIS expedition is at an end,” says Johnny. ”I need everyone to pitch in so we can break camp by noon and be on our way.”

”On our way where?” says Richard. ”The plane isn't due back at the airstrip for another week.”

Johnny has gathered us around the cold campfire, to tell us what happens next. I look at the other members of our safari, tourists who signed up for a wildlife adventure and got more than they bargained for. A real kill, a dead man. Not exactly the jolly thrills you see on television nature programs. Instead there is a sad burlap sack containing pitifully few bones and shreds of clothing and torn pieces of scalp, all the mortal remains we could find of our tracker Clarence. The rest of him, Johnny says, is lost forever. This is how it is in the bush, where every creature that's born will ultimately be eaten, digested, and recycled into scat, into soil, into gra.s.s. Grazed upon and reborn as yet another animal. It seems beautiful in principle, but when you come face-to-face with the hard reality, that bag of Clarence's bones, you understand that the circle of life is also a circle of death. We are here to eat and be eaten, and we are nothing but meat. Eight of us left now, meat on the bone, surrounded by carnivores.

”If we drive back to the landing strip now,” says Richard, ”we'll just have to sit there and wait days for the plane. How is that better than continuing the trip as planned?”

”I'm not taking you any deeper into the bush,” says Johnny.

”What about using the radio?” Vivian asks. ”You could call the pilot to pick us up early.”

Johnny shakes his head. ”We're beyond radio range here. There's no way to contact him until we get back to the airstrip, and that's a three-day drive to the west. Which is why we'll head east instead. Two days' hard drive, no stops for sightseeing, and we'll reach one of the game lodges. They have a telephone, and there's a road out. I'll arrange to have you driven back to Maun.”

”Why?” asks Richard. ”I hate to sound callous, but there's not a thing we can do for Clarence now. I don't see the point of rus.h.i.+ng back.”

”You'll get a refund, Mr. Renwick.”

”It's not the money. It's just that Millie and I came all this way from London. Elliot had to come from Boston. Not to mention how far the Matsunagas had to fly.”

”Jesus, Richard,” Elliot cuts in. ”The man's dead.”

”I know, but we're already here. We might as well carry on.”

”I can't do that,” says Johnny.

”Why not?”

”I can't guarantee your safety, much less your comfort. I can't stay alert twenty-four hours a day. It takes two of us to stand watch overnight and to keep the fire burning. To break camp and set it up again. Clarence didn't just cook your meals; he was another set of eyes and ears. I need a second man when I'm hauling around people who don't know a rifle from a walking stick.”

”So teach me. I'll help you stand watch.” Richard looks around at the rest of us, as if to confirm that he's the only one who's man enough for the task.

Mr. Matsunaga says, ”I know how to shoot. I can take watch, too.”

We all look at the j.a.panese banker, whose only shooting skills we've witnessed so far have been with his mile-long telephoto lens.

Richard can't suppress a disbelieving laugh. ”You do mean real guns, Isao?”

”I belong to the Tokyo shooting club,” says Mr. Matsunaga, unruffled by Richard's snide tone. He points to his wife and adds, to our astonishment, ”Keiko, she belongs, too.”

”I'm glad that lets me off the hook,” says Elliot. ” 'Cause I don't even want to touch the d.a.m.n thing.”

”So you see, we have enough hands on deck,” Richard says to Johnny. ”We can take turns on watch and keep the fire going all night. This is what a real safari's all about, isn't it? Rising to the occasion. Proving our mettle.”

Oh yes, Richard the expert, who spends his year sitting so heroically at his computer, spinning testosterone-fueled fantasies. Now those fantasies have come true, and he can play the hero of his own thriller. Best of all, he has an audience that includes two gorgeous blondes, who are the ones he's really playing to, because I'm past the point of being impressed by him, and he knows it.

”A pretty speech, but it changes nothing. Pack up your things, we're headed east.” Johnny walks away to take down his tent.

”Thank G.o.d he's ending this,” says Elliot.

”He has to.” Richard snorts. ”Now that he's b.l.o.o.d.y well botched it.”

”You can't blame him for what happened to Clarence.”