Connie Hall - Rare Breed

“Nobody knows that better than me, but it doesn’t hurt to jump on a ride sometime.” He winked at her, his long-lashed eyes gleaming purplish blue in the green dash lights.

She could have fun. Couldn’t she? She loved her job, but she couldn’t remember the last time she’d really had fun. There had been the picnic she’d arranged for the kids at the Big Five Habitat, yet she hadn’t been able to go. A lion had been caught in a poacher’s snare and had gotten his head loose, but the snare had remained embedded in his neck. Wynne had been forced to dart him, while Dr. Leonard, the on-staff veterinarian, worked on him. Had she been in the bush so long she’d forgotten what fun was? She didn’t need the answer to that and certainly not from some stranger involved in poaching.

At her silence MacKay spoke. “In case you haven’t noticed, darlin’,” he motioned toward the fields they drove past, “Hellstrom doesn’t look like he’s having any trouble surviving.”

The Texan was more right than he realized. Hellstrom was too good to be true. Wealthy. A philanthropist. Conservationist. A living breathing paragon. He had to have a dark side. Didn’t he?

MacKay pointed ahead of them. “Just drive right on up to the front door—looks like Hellstrom’s got himself some company. Maybe another fund-raiser dinner. I hear he has lots of them. He’ll probably hit me up for a donation before I leave.”

“When will that be?”

“You sound like you’re in a hurry to get rid of me,” MacKay said, pretending to sound hurt. Or maybe he really was.

“Do I?” Wynne said it in such an innocent Scarlet O’Hara way that MacKay chuckled.

She glanced toward Hellstrom’s house, an expansive two-story Spanish Colonial Revival with iron-railed balconies, arched windows, cornices and parapets. A row of bungalows flanked the right side of the house, the servant and guest quarters. In the back were two large garages, a barn and a landing strip. It was bigger than some villages in Zambia.

She remembered taking a tour of Hellstrom’s house when he had finished building it several months ago. He had given a housewarming party and invited all the wardens and the LZCG members and supporters. Wynne hadn’t wanted to go, but the commander had made it mandatory.

Hellstrom had been his normal charismatic self, delighting everyone with anecdotes and playing the perfect host. At one point he had singled Wynne out, and she had sensed his attraction to her. Thankfully Kaweki, the commander, had interrupted them and introduced Hellstrom to his wife. Wynne had slipped away, relieved, feeling as if she had just escaped before Hellstrom had asked her out. After the incident at the party, she felt self-conscious around him and tried not to be alone with him ever again. No matter how handsome and appealing Hellstrom might be, she didn’t approve of how he made his living.

Safari owners, like Hellstrom, reaped most of their income from wealthy hunters—mostly English and American. Hunters paid safari operators large fees for supplying guides to take them into game-managed areas to hunt. The problem arose when corrupt hunters paid safari owners under the table and killed more animals than their government-issued licenses allowed. Coupled with native poaching, bush meat poaching and loss of habitat, animal populations just couldn’t recover. But Hellstrom did have an altruistic side that made him more likeable. And other than his dismissal of her DNA lab idea and the interest he appeared to have in her, he really wasn’t a bad leader for the LZCG. They had a good working relationship so far, and she meant to keep it all business—unless he proved to be the duplicitous head of this bush meat ring.

She pulled in behind a line of Toyota Land Cruisers, Rovers and Hummers. Some of the trucks had zebra-striped tops with logos from local tour businesses. She parked at the end of the line. Then she spotted the Zambian Wildlife Authority jeep. Rangers weren’t allowed to take the only ZWA jeep out for personal use, which meant the commander must be in attendance. It didn’t surprise her. Commander Kaweki worked closely with Hellstrom, and he was invited to all of Hellstrom’s social functions to represent the ZWA.

“Thanks muchly for the ride, darlin’. It’s been real interesting.” MacKay saluted her and opened the door.

“Wait, aren’t you going to ask me in?”

MacKay’s sandy blond brows rose a fraction and a lazy victorious grin spread across his mouth. “You change your mind about that drink?”

To make her plan work, she had to play along and seem interested. He probably knew she wasn’t. But the pretense would give her a reason to get inside Hellstrom’s office and do a little reconnaissance, and it would keep MacKay guessing. “Let’s just start with the drink, shall we.” Wynne jumped out of the Rover and breezed past him.

“The night is young yet, darlin’.” He sugarcoated the epithet, then fell in step beside her.

Wynne rolled her eyes. She could stand one libido-horned Texan for a few minutes. She stepped into the path of the lights that shot out through the front windows and glanced inside. It was a large solarium type room. A yellowish haze of cigarette smoke bathed a sea of white and black faces. She recognized the LZCG treasurer, Mr. Masamba, and the vice president, Mr. Njobo. They were talking, their wives at their sides, nodding. Thankfully, the commander was nowhere to be seen. She really didn’t want to explain why she had lied earlier and radioed that her 10-20 was the Rufunsa game-managed area and not Sausage Tree Camp. She couldn’t risk tipping off the poachers. She didn’t know who at the LZCG might be monitoring the transmissions.

Abruptly the door opened, and Hellstrom himself stood in the doorway as if he were expecting her.

“Wynne, so nice to see you. Jack.” Hellstrom’s sophisticated English voice held a warm welcome. His yellowish gold eyes brightened. “Come in, come in. A pleasure.”

“I got a bone to pick with you, Noah,” MacKay said, stepping past Wynne.

For once Wynne didn’t mind the Texan. He had gained Hellstrom’s full attention. She followed MacKay up the steps, adrenaline flowing, her body wired. Stay cool. Breathe. Search his house for evidence, then leave. How hard could that be? Yeah, right—about as easy as falling off a cliff with no parachute.

Once inside the foyer, Wynne paused next to MacKay, still feeling that roller coaster ride sensation that left her stomach in her throat. A set of closed double doors stood to the right and left of her. Muffled voices and Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata drifted from behind them.

MacKay was rambling on about the jeep breaking down. The guy knew how to beat a topic to death. “You need a new mechanic. That radiator had a leak. You couldn’t miss it.”

Hellstrom was listening, nodding, with a gracious smile, but his deep-set gold eyes were on her. His straight black hair tapered to a razor-sharp widow’s peak on his tanned brow. Several strands fell on either side of his temples and made him look younger than his thirty-something years. His features were sharply chiseled, beautiful in a Michelangelo’s “David” sort of way. He was a walking Ralph Lauren ad. Charisma oozed from him and she found herself unable to look away.

Was he wondering why she was here? She felt the roller coaster take another dive. Just breathe. Smile. Be friendly.

MacKay seemed to realize he’d lost his audience and he said, “Better have your vehicles checked out by someone competent.” Then he remembered Wynne and said, “Look what I dug up.” He gestured toward her.

“Wynne, how have you ended up with my guest?” Hellstrom’s voice held a hint of an apology.

“I found him lost down by the river. Next time a guest ventures out alone at night, I’d make them take a guide along—for their own safety. And make them aware of the park’s hours.”