Tess Gerritsen: Die Again

“She came through here just before dawn,” Johnny says, and points to a thicket on the periphery of our camp. “Stepped out of those bushes, strolled toward the fire, and looked me over. Gorgeous girl, big and healthy.”

I’m astonished by how calm he is. “You actually saw her?”

“I was out here building the fire for breakfast when she showed up.”

“What did you do?”

“I did what I’ve told all of you to do in that situation. I stood tall. Gave her a good view of my face. Prey animals such as zebras and antelope have eyes at the sides of their heads, but a predator’s eyes face forward. Always show the cat your face. Let her see where your eyes are, and she’ll know you’re a predator, too. She’ll think twice before attacking.” Johnny looks around at the seven clients who are paying him to keep them alive in this remote place. “Remember that, hey? We’ll see more big cats as we go deeper into the bush. If you encounter one, stand tall and make yourself look as large as you can. Face them straight-on. And whatever you do, don’t run. You’ll have a better chance of surviving.”

“You were out here, face-to-face with a leopard,” says Elliot. “Why didn’t you use that ?” He points to the rifle that’s always slung over Johnny’s shoulder.

Johnny shakes his head. “I won’t shoot a leopard. I won’t kill any big cat.”

“But isn’t that what the gun’s for? To protect yourself?”

“There aren’t enough of them left in the world. They own this land, and we’re the intruders here. If a leopard charged me, I don’t think I could kill it. Not even to save my own life.”

“But that doesn’t apply to us, right?” Elliot gives a nervous laugh and looks around at our traveling party. “You’d shoot a leopard to protect us , wouldn’t you?”

Johnny answers with an ironic smile. “We’ll see.”

BY NOON WE’RE PACKED up and ready to push deeper into the wild. Johnny drives the truck while Clarence rides in the tracker’s seat, which juts out in front of the bumper. It seems a precarious perch to me, out there with his legs swinging in the open, easy meat for any lion who can snag him. But Johnny assures us that as long as we stay attached to the vehicle, we’re safe, because predators think we’re all part of one huge animal. But step out of the truck and you’re dinner. Got that, everyone?

Yes sir. Message received.

There are no roads at all out here, only a faint flattening of the grass where the passage of earlier tires has compacted the poor soil. The damage caused by a single truck can scar the landscape for months, Johnny says, but I cannot imagine many of them make it this far into the Delta. We’re three days’ drive from the bush landing strip where we were dropped off, and we’ve spotted no other vehicles in this wilderness.

Wilderness was not something I actually believed in four months ago, sitting in our London flat, the rain spitting against the windows. When Richard called me over to his computer and showed me the Botswana safari he wanted to book for our holiday, I saw photos of lions and hippos, rhinos and leopards, the same familiar animals you can find in zoos and game parks. That’s what I imagined, a giant game park with comfortable lodges and roads. At a minimum, roads. According to the website, there’d be “bush camping” involved, but I pictured lovely big tents with showers and flush toilets. I didn’t think I’d be paying for the privilege of squatting in the bushes.

Richard doesn’t mind roughing it in the least. He’s high on Africa, higher than Mount Kilimanjaro, his camera constantly clicking away as we drive. In the seat behind us, Mr. Matsunaga’s camera matches Richard’s, click for click, but with a longer lens. Richard won’t admit it, but he has lens envy, and when we get back to London he’ll probably go straight online to price Mr. Matsunaga’s gear. This is the way modern men do battle, not with spear and sword, but with credit cards. My platinum beats your gold. Poor Elliot with his unisex Minolta is left in the dust, but I don’t think he minds, because once again he’s snuggled in the last row with Vivian and Sylvia. I glance back at the three of them and catch a glimpse of Mrs. Matsunaga’s resolute face. She’s another good sport. I’m sure that shitting in the bushes wasn’t her idea of a great holiday, either.

“Lions! Lions!” shouts Richard. “Over there!”

Cameras click faster as we pull so close I can see black flies clinging to the flank of the male lion. Nearby are three females, lolling in the shade of a leadwood tree. Suddenly there’s an outburst of Japanese behind me, and I turn to see that Mr. Matsunaga has leaped to his feet. His wife hangs on to the back of his safari jacket, desperate to stop him from leaping out of the truck for a better photo.

“Sit. Down!” Johnny booms out in a voice that no one, man or beast, could possibly ignore. “Now!”

Instantly Mr. Matsunaga drops back into his seat. Even the lions seem startled, and they all stare at the mechanical monster with eighteen pairs of arms.

“Remember what I told you, Isao?” scolds Johnny. “If you step out of this truck, you’re dead .”

“I get excited. I forget,” murmurs Mr. Matsunaga, apologetically bowing his head.

“Look, I’m only trying to keep you safe.” Johnny releases a deep breath and says quietly: “I’m sorry for shouting. But last year, a colleague was on a game drive with two clients. Before he could stop them, they both jumped out of the truck to take photos. The lions had them in a flash.”

“You mean—they were killed?” says Elliot.

“That’s what lions are programmed to do, Elliot. So please, enjoy the view, but from inside the truck, hey?” Johnny gives a laugh to defuse the tension, but we’re all still cowed, a group of misbehaving children who’ve just been disciplined. The camera clicks are halfhearted now, photos taken to cover our discomfort. We’re all shocked by how hard Johnny came down on Mr. Matsunaga. I stare at Johnny’s back, which looms right in front of me, and the muscles of his neck stick out like thick vines. He starts the engine again. We leave the lions and drive on, to our next campsite.

AT SUNSET, THE LIQUOR comes out. After the five tents are pitched and the campfire is lit, Clarence the tracker opens the aluminum cocktail case that has bounced in the back of the truck all day, and sets out the bottles of gin and whiskey, vodka and Amarula. The last I’ve grown particularly fond of, a sweet cream liqueur made from the African marula tree. It tastes like a thousand boozy calories of coffee and chocolate, like something a child would sneak a sip of when his mother’s back is turned. Clarence winks at me as he hands me my glass, as if I’m the naughty child of the bunch because everyone else sips grown-up drinks like warm gin and tonic or whiskey, neat. This is the part of the day when I think, Yes, it’s good to be in Africa. When the day’s discomforts and the bugs and the tension between me and Richard all dissolve in a pleasant, tipsy haze and I can settle into a camp chair and watch the sun go down. As Clarence prepares a simple evening meal of meat stew and bread and fruit, Johnny strings up the perimeter wire, hung with little bells to alert us should anything wander into camp. I notice Johnny’s silhouette suddenly go still against the sunset’s glow, and he raises his head as if he’s sniffing the air, taking in a thousand scents that I’m not even aware of. He’s like another bush creature, so at home in this wild place that I almost expect him to open his mouth and roar like a lion.

I turn to Clarence, who’s stirring the pot of bubbling stew. “How long have you worked with Johnny?” I ask.