Tess Gerritsen - Die Again

And would never be able to have him.

I reach toward him and whisper: “Johnny.”

The rifle blast is so shocking I lurch backward, as if I’ve been struck. Johnny stands as frozen as a marksman’s statue, his gun still aimed at the target. With a deep sigh he lowers the weapon. He bows his head as if praying for forgiveness, here in the church of the bush, where life and death are two halves of the same creature.

“Oh my God,” I murmur and stare down at the leopard, which fell dead only two paces away from me, seemingly in mid-leap, her front claws a split second away from sinking into flesh. I cannot see the bullet hole; all I see is her blood, trickling into the grass, soaking into the hot soil. Her fur shines with the glossy elegance so coveted by the flashy tarts of Knightsbridge tycoons and I long to stroke it but it seems wrong, as if death has reduced her to nothing more than a harmless kitten. A moment ago she would have killed me, and she deserves my respect.

“We’ll leave her here,” Johnny says quietly.

“The hyenas will get her.”

“They always do.” He takes a deep breath and looks at the sycamore fig, but his gaze seems distant, as if he sees beyond the tree, even beyond this day. “I can get him down now.”

“You told me you’d never kill a leopard. Not even to save your own life.”

“I won’t.”

“But you killed this one.”

“That wasn’t for my life.” He looks at me. “That was for yours.”

• • •

THAT NIGHT I SLEEP in Mrs. Matsunaga’s tent so she will not be alone. All day she has been nearly catatonic, hugging herself and whimpering in Japanese. The blondes have been trying to coax food into her, but Keiko has consumed nothing except a few cups of tea. She’s retreated into some unreachable cave deep in her mind, and for the moment we’re all relieved that she’s quiet and controllable. We did not let her see Isao’s body, which Johnny brought down from the sycamore fig and quickly buried.

But I saw it. I know how he died.

“A big cat kills by crushing your throat,” Johnny told me as he dug the grave. He shoveled steadily, his spade cutting into the sun-baked earth. Though insects harassed us, he didn’t wave them off, so intent was he on carving out Isao’s resting place. “A cat goes straight for the neck. Clamps its jaws around your windpipe, ripping through arteries and veins. It’s death by asphyxiation. You choke on your own blood.”

Which is what I saw when I looked at Isao. Though the leopard had already begun to feast, tearing into abdomen and chest, it was the crushed neck that told me of Isao’s final seconds, fighting for air as blood gurgled into his lungs.

Keiko knows none of these details. She knows only that her husband is dead and that we have buried him.

I hear her sigh in her sleep, one little whimper of despair, and she goes quiet again. She hardly moves but lies on her back, like a mummy wrapped in white sheets. The Matsunagas’ tent smells different from mine. It has a pleasantly exotic scent, as if their clothes are impregnated with Asian herbs, and it is tidy and well organized. Isao’s shirts, which he will never again wear, are neatly packed in his suitcase along with his gold wristwatch, which we retrieved from his body. Everything is in its place, everything is harmonious. So unlike my tent with Richard, which is the opposite of harmonious.

It’s a relief to be away from him, which is why I so quickly volunteered to keep Keiko company. The last place I want to sleep tonight is in the tent with Richard, where the hostility hangs as thick as sulfurous fog. He’s hardly spoken two sentences to me all day. Instead he spends his time huddled with Elliot and the blondes. The four of them seem to be a team now, as if this is a game of Survivor Botswana , and it’s their tribe against my tribe.

Except I don’t actually have anyone in my tribe, unless you count poor fractured Keiko—and Johnny. But Johnny belongs to no team, not really; he is his own man, and killing that leopard today has left him troubled and brooding. He’s hardly spoken to me since.

So here I am, the woman no one talks to, lying in a tent beside a woman who talks to no one. Though it’s silent in here, outside the tent the night symphony has begun, with its insect piccolos and hippo bassoons. I’ve grown to love those sounds, and I’ll surely dream about them when I go home.

In the morning, I wake up to birdsong. For once there are no screams, no shouts of alarm, just the sweet melodies of dawn. Outside, the four members of Team Richard are huddled together at the campfire, sipping coffee. Johnny sits by himself under a tree. Exhaustion seems to drip off his shoulders, and his head bobs forward as he tries to fight off sleep. I want to go to him, to massage away his weariness, but the others are watching me. I join their circle instead.

“How’s Keiko doing?” Elliot asks me.

“Still asleep. She was quiet all night.” I pour myself coffee. “I’m glad to see we’re all alive this morning.” My quip is in poor taste, and I regret it as soon as the words are out of my mouth.

“I wonder if he’s glad about it,” Richard mutters, glancing at Johnny.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I just find it strange, how everything’s gone so wrong. First Clarence gets killed. Then Isao. And the truck—how the hell does a truck just go dead like that?”

“You blame Johnny?”

Richard looks around at the other three, and I suddenly understand that he’s not the only one who thinks Johnny’s at fault. Is this why they’ve been huddling together? Exchanging theories, feeding their paranoia?

I shake my head. “This is ridiculous.”

“Of course that’s what she’d say,” Vivian mutters. “I told you she would.”

“Meaning what?”

“It’s obvious to everyone that you’re Johnny’s favorite. I knew you’d stand up for him.”

“He doesn’t need anyone to stand up for him. He’s the one keeping us alive.”

“Is he?” Vivian glances warily in Johnny’s direction. He’s too far away to hear us, but she drops her voice anyway. “Are you sure of that?”

This is absurd. I search their faces, wondering who started this whispering campaign. “You’re going to tell me Johnny killed Isao and dragged him up that tree? Or maybe he just delivered him to the leopard and let her take it from there?”

“What do we really know about him, Millie?” Elliot asks.

“Oh God. Not you, too.”

“I gotta tell you, the things they’re saying …” Elliot looks over his shoulder and even though he whispers, I can hear his panic. “It’s freaking me out.”

“Think about it,” says Richard. “How did we all end up on this safari?”

I glare at him. “The only reason I’m here is because of you. You wanted your African adventure, and now you’ve got it. Is it not measuring up? Or has it gotten too adventurous even for you ?”

“We found him on the Internet,” says Sylvia, who has been silent up till now. I notice that her hands tremble around her coffee cup. Her grip is so unsteady she has to set the cup down to keep it from spilling. “Vivian and I, we wanted to do a camping trip in the bush, but we couldn’t afford to spend a lot. We found his website, Lost in Botswana.” She gives a half-hysterical laugh. “And so we are.”

“I tagged along with them ,” Elliot says. “Sylvia and Viv and I, we’re sitting in a bar together in Cape Town. And they tell me about this fabulous safari they’re going on.”

“I’m so sorry, Elliot,” Sylvia says. “I’m sorry you ever met us in that bar. I’m sorry we talked you into coming.” She takes a shaky breath and her voice breaks. “God, I just want to go home .”