Connie Hall - Rare Breed

“Do I get to search you now?”

“You can, if you want to be staked over a termite mound.” Wynne listened to him laugh loudly, an exaggerated roar from deep within his chest. She rested her fists on her hips and said, “Now, I suggest you go back to where you came from.”

“Can’t. My jeep broke down.” He gestured to the dirt road that led into camp.

“You said you were out walking?”

“I was. I knew the camp was here, so I walked here to find out if there was a phone.”

“A phone?” Out in a bush camp. Malarkey. And he’d snuck up on her in a perpendicular direction to the road. What was he up to? Was he the contact the poacher had spoken about?

“What were you doing driving here to begin with?”

“You’re mighty nosey.”

“Technically you’re trespassing on a Zambian national park and a game-managed area. I could bust you for having a gun. So answer my question.”

“All right, no need to get your hackles up. But I kinda think you like gettin’ ’em up.”

She heard the smile in his voice and said, “Just answer the question.”

“I heard of the bush camp and wanted to check it out and see if I might want to spend a week or two along the river.”

“Why?”

“Let’s just say I’m the outdoorsy type. Isn’t that what lures most people to Africa?”

She suspected there was a lot more to his motives than he was admitting. “Where are you staying?”

“Why, you wanna join me for a drink?”

She wanted to toss him in the river, too, and said, “Just answer the question.”

“At Hellstrom’s Tours. Signed up for a safari.”

Wynne’s gut clenched. Hellstrom. There was his name again. Was Cowboy Jack just a tourist? Or sent here to throw her off, or perhaps alert the poachers? The way to the truth stood before her, one hundred and ninety pounds of Texas machismo packed nice and tight in a pair of jeans and a denim shirt. For some reason the sausage tree fruit ritual popped into her head.

She quickly squelched that line of insane thinking. He was the enemy. She said curtly, “I’ll take you back to Hellstrom’s.”

“I’m fishing Jefferson Davis out the river first.”

“Jefferson Davis?”

“My gun.”

“Help yourself. I’ll keep watch for the baboons.”

“Baboons?”

“They like to tease the crocs, so it’s like a natural alarm. But there’s no warning for hippos.”

“I don’t care how many crocs or hippos I got to fight to get my gun. I’m gettin’it.” His voice held an Alamo, Davy Crockett, do-or-die tone.

Something told her this was just the beginning of her night.

MacKay had refused to leave until he’d found the gun. The man was determined, she’d give him that. It also had helped that the gun had landed close to the shore and sunk in the mud. They had walked back the two miles to where she had hidden the Rover, and now they bumped along the road. The faint clicking of The Simpsons dolls and the road noise filled the interior of the truck. Hellstrom’s compound bordered the Great East Road, a forty minute drive from Sausage Tree Camp. With MacKay in the truck, the miles seemed to drag, the trip taking forever. He seemed unusually quiet, distracted.

She chanced a few quick glances at him while driving. She hadn’t really looked at him before. Damp jeans stuck to long muscular thighs. His soaked forest-green shirt was glued to washboard abs. His gun holster crossed over his broad chest and hung beneath his right shoulder. Dash lights glowed along his chiseled features and short cropped blond hair. He had a Brad Pitt face on a Schwarzenegger body. Not a bad combination, she had to admit. But it was obvious he was an expert at using his facile charm and good looks to his advantage.

As if he felt her gaze on him, he said, “Thanks for letting me find ol’ J.D. here.” He used that affable tone of his and patted the gun in the holster.

She didn’t deserve his gratitude. The whole time he was searching for the gun she had visions of a croc running him out of the water. No such luck. She could have confiscated the gun, but if he were going to use it he would have long ago. And he seemed genuinely attached to it, like it was some kind of Texas security blanket, and she had to be at least civil to him. He was the key to getting inside Hell-strom’s compound. Since he was feeling indebted to her at the moment, Wynne figured now might be a good time to find out if he was connected to the bush meat operation, so she said, “No problem. So how did you hear about Hellstrom’s safari tours?”

“Internet—you never did tell me your name.” He pulled off a soggy river reed stuck to his shirtsleeve, then flicked it out the window.

She didn’t want to be on a first-name basis with him, and said, “Sperling.”

“Your first name?”

She hesitated and said, “Wynne.”

“Wynne Sperling?” He tried the name out. It sounded like Spuhlin’ when he said it. “Sperling. I knew some Sperlings. You got family in Amarillo?”

“No.”

“Where’s your family from?”

“Washington, D.C.”

“Visited the District once. Climbed the Washington Monument in the summer. It was one scorcher of a day—”

She interrupted his tourist anecdote and said, “Washington can be murder in the summer, but probably not any hotter than Texas. What part of Texas are you from?”

“All over, but mostly Austin. My life is pretty boring. Now yours is different. How’d you get all the way from D.C. to Africa?”

She didn’t like the adroit way he kept turning the conversation back to her. “I majored in wildlife ecology with a minor in criminal justice. I thought I could do the most good here on the front lines. So what do you do for a living?” she asked, getting back to his life.

“I’m a businessman.”

“What kind of business are you in?”

“Just about everything. Whatever strikes my fancy and turns a profit.”

Was bush meat poaching one of his fancies? “How do you go from ex-SEAL to businessman?”

“I kinda teach aikido to kids, too. Keeps me in shape.”

“I see.”

He reached over and touched Bart’s head, watching it bob. “What’s with The Simpsons fetish?”

“Birthday gifts. From my little sister, Cody. It was one of our rituals to watch The Simpsons every week. She likes to tease me because I don’t own a television here.”

She recalled snuggling on the couch with Cody, a bowl of Doritos between them, watching The Simpsons. Wynne missed hearing Cody’s nasally laugh, the peachy-bubblegum teenage scent of her hair, the way she always used to get in Wynne’s makeup and wear her clothes and swear she hadn’t. The dolls connected Wynne to home, to her sister, to a life that was no longer her own. Wynne cherished the six dolls. She couldn’t bear to see him abusing Bart’s head and said, “Please, they’re fragile.”

“Sorry.” He drew back his long arm and let it rest on his thigh. “You miss your family?”

His insightful question surprised Wynne and she said, “Very much.”

“What about your folks? They alive?”

“Yeah, but divorced.” Wynne thought of her father and smiled. “My father is a veterinarian for the National Zoo in Washington, and my mother…” Her smile melted. What was her mother? A bulldozer in stockings, heels and a Chanel suit. “She’s in corporate law,” Wynne finally said, realizing she’d said too much. “What about your parents?”

“My parents?” He gave a little taut laugh. “They consisted of the nuns at St.Anthony’s Orphanage, and Clarence, the grounds man.” A wistful tone entered his voice.

“Clarence?”

“Yep, old Clarence kinda took me under his wing, taught me how to box, work on cars and how to hunt—the sisters didn’t like that though. He took all us boys hunting on weekends, told the sisters it was a camping trip to commune with God. Ha! I think they were wise to him, but they didn’t say a word. Beside the priest, he was the only male influence in our lives—not knocking Father Reilly, he could go a round in the ring with the best of them, but he liked gardening. We boys just weren’t into perennials….” His words trailed off, and he seemed lost in memories.