by Predators
He ran his finger across the map following the course of the Chobe River. There were four main lodges on the river and several smaller ones. If push came to shove, he might have to settle for one of the lesser ones, but he hoped not. The Chobe Game Lodge was probably out of the running, too, as it sat deep in the park and had limited access. What he wanted was an easy in and out with a view. The Safari Lodge was near Sedudu Island. That would work best. He’d discounted the Okavango Delta for the project. It had more in the way of tourist attractions and better animals, but was hard to get in and out of and more or less seasonal. Maybe later.
He checked his watch again. Still too early to call. The Bears had made the playoffs. He wondered how they’d fared. Football interested him only slightly. Just enough to hold a VIP box at Soldier Field, which he used to lubricate politicians and potential business associates who could do him favors, provide him with contracts, or introduce him to the people who could. But his real interest was baseball. He followed the Cubs and suffered though the years of disappointments that only true Cubs fans knew. The same sort of VIP arrangement did not work at Wrigley. You had to be a fan. Most pols were into instant gratification.
Watching the Cubs required patience.
CHAPTER 17
Dawn. Sekoa, his ravaged lungs gasping for air, approached a small clearing at the edge of the forest. The multiple scents of humans overpowered all others. He paused. This was not an area he would have ever willingly entered in the past. In front of him, a small pile of dirt barely covered buried trash. Farther on, the remains of a fire pit made a black smear on the ground. The ground seemed trampled, and what little grass there was grew in scattered clumps around the edge. He no longer sensed the presence of the menace that had trotted along his trail most of the previous day. Either his nemesis, the pack of hyenas, had not found the break in the fence or, wisely, they had refused to venture this close to humans. Except for elephants, Sekoa feared nothing, and on occasion not even one of them, but humans were a puzzle. He wouldn’t have ventured this close, either, except in desperation. He turned toward the river a few meters away. He would drink and then find a resting place and perhaps sleep. His need for the latter made him stumble at the water’s edge and that, in turn, attracted the attention of a large crocodile. Much as it might be tempted, it would not attack. At this early hour it needed time to bask in the sun to bring its metabolic rate up to a level sufficient to tangle with prey as large as this.
He found a bower back from the water and collapsed. In the past he would have dozed and awakened periodically to take in any shift in his immediate environment. But so complete was his exhaustion, he would sleep through the comings and goings of area wildlife, including the few humans using the facilities in a building no more than fifty meters to the east. His tawny coat nearly matched the bush seared by the seasonal drought. To any but the most experienced eye, he was all but invisible. He slept.
***
Leo Painter rose every morning at four-thirty. He would gulp down the array of pills the cardiologist at Rush Medical Center prescribed and be at his desk an hour later. Leo had little use for the doctor whom he referred to as “the fat quack,” but he knew from painful experience that if he skipped them he could expect a bad day and possibly a trip to the ER. He usually substituted some pastry and two cups of strong coffee at his desk for breakfast. He expected his employees to keep the same hours—at least those who shared offices on the same floor with him.
Henry Farrah considered himself a night person. When he retired, he planned never to get up before nine in the morning and to dress no earlier than ten. So he presented himself to Leo at six the next morning bleary-eyed and annoyed. Leo gestured toward the pot of coffee and tray of pastries on the side table. The odor of stale cigar smoke nearly made him retch. Henry filled a cup, wolfed down a croissant, and sipped at his coffee. He found a chair as far from the ashtray as possible. He wished Botswana was as diligent in reducing the health consequences of smoking as it was in its attempt to rid the country of AIDS and alcoholism.
“Henry, I need some paperwork done and right away.” Farrah started to protest but Leo waved him to silence. “There should be a business center somewhere in this hotel, and if there isn’t, there’ll be one in town somewhere.”
Henry sighed. It was typical of Leo to impose on and inconvenience his underlings. Henry had a planned visit Debswana, the diamond sorting center, this morning and had even arranged for a taxi and a tour. That would have to be canceled.
“What sort of paperwork, Leo?”
“I need a bill of sale sort of thing, a transfer of title, maybe, that shows the ownership of Griswold’s shares in the company have been assigned to me. It has to be iron-clad, Henry. You understand? I can’t have any outside lawyer coming in and finding a way to fiddle with the effect. When you’re done, sign it as a witness.”
“I can’t sign as a witness to something I didn’t see.”
“Sign it anyway. When I get Griswold up here later you can come back and watch, but I want the thing in place pronto.”
“How many shares are we talking about?” Henry knew but asked anyway. Something was up, and he wanted Leo to keep talking. He had a big stake in the events of the next few weeks, and it wouldn’t do to be caught on the short end of the information stick.
Leo frowned and pursed his lips. “Write it so it covers any and all. You know what his share total is supposed to be, but he may have acquired more or dumped some since then. So, make it inclusive, Henry.”
Farrah nodded and rose. It should be a simple enough matter to frame up a document. Back in the office he’d ask one of junior members to pull some boilerplate off the hard drive and fix it up. Hell, a paralegal could do it. If he got on it right away, he might still make his tour.
“I want a second copy, but leave out the names. When you get that done, check back here. I should have Griswold up and more or less awake by then, if that doxy of his hasn’t reduced him to jelly.”
Henry opened the door. His mind had already begun to frame the wording for Leo’s document.
“One more thing. I’ll be calling the States in a few minutes and may have another thing for you to do.”
Another thing? Since Henry had thrown in with the consortium of wheeler-dealers in Chicago, he’d become paranoid, perhaps clinically so. Leo, he knew, could never be trusted to tell him the truth except when it served his purpose better than a lie, and Henry doubted very much he’d get much information if he asked. Nevertheless, he tried.
“Another thing? Will this have something to do with the IPO?”
“No.”
Henry realized there would be no more information forthcoming and left the room. His next act would to be to call Chicago to find out if they knew if there’d been any new developments. His ulcer started talking to him again.
***
“Weasel,” Leo muttered to the door as it closed on Farrah. “You’d sell your grandmother to find out what I’m up to. Not going to happen, Bub.”
He reached for his Blackberry and speed-dialed Sheridan Baker, his personal snoop and errand boy. What kind of a man has two last names, or two first names, either? Henry James, Nick Charles, Forrest Tucker, Michael Steven Gregory. Weird.
“Yes, Mr. Painter.” The wonder of technology, caller ID, “I have the information you requested. But I’m afraid you’re not going to like it.’
“Let me be the judge of that, Baker. What have you got?”
“Very well, I found your son. He wasn’t at the address you gave me, though, and he doesn’t work at the ad agency anymore, either.”
“What? Why?”
“They had to let him go. He missed too many days. Called in sick.”
“He’s sick?”
“Yeah. Listen Mr. Painter, I’m not sure you want the rest of this. Why don’t you just let this go? Send the kid some money and drop it.”
“Send money? He won’t take it from me. He won’t let me help him in any way. That’
s why I sent you out to find him.”
“I think he might now. I talked to his significant other, private-like. You can send it to him and he’ll see that it gets to Junior.”
“He’s living with someone. What’s she like?”
“You didn’t hear me right, Mr. Painter. It’s a he, not a she.”
“What? Not a woman. I thought you used that idiotic expression to describe the person he’s in a relationship with.”
“Yes, sir, I did. And you heard the rest correctly, too. You didn’t know, you couldn’t have known. Your son is gay, Mr. Painter.”
Leo dropped into the chair next to the table. The phone seemed to weigh twenty pounds.
“The sickness that cost him his job…?” Leo waited for Baker to answer for what seemed an eternity.
“AIDS, Mr. Painter. I’m sorry. Yeah, he’s got it pretty bad. He’s getting treatments at a local hospital, and they aren’t cheap. The…guy he’s living with, his name is Edwin Cavanaugh, Eddie, he’s called, and he said they’re about out of resources to keep up the treatments.”
“You want me to give money to some stranger who…hell, he probably gave the disease to my boy. I’ll kill him.”
“As near as I can tell…Medical records are hard to get hold of, even harder to read, but it looks like Cavanaugh is AIDS-free, sir. And there’s the other thing.”
“There’s more? What else can there be?”
“Your son is married.”
“Married? I thought you said he was gay. How can he be married if he’s gay?”
“He’s in California, Mr. Painter. He’s married to Cavanaugh. Cavanaugh has spousal rights and will inherit if Leo Junior dies. He has Junior’s power of attorney as well. You can give him the money. He’ll be sure to see your son is taken care of.”
Leo held the phone away from his ear and stared at his reflection in the mirror over the dresser. He didn’t recognize the haggard gray visage. He took a breath and returned the phone to its functioning position.
“I’ll have to call you back. Jesus.”
Leo reached into his jacket pocket, withdrew a silver engraved pill box and popped a nitro under his tongue.
CHAPTER 18
Brenda woke slowly and stretched her body full-length, arms extended over her head, toes to finger tips. On any other morning she would luxuriate in that stretch, muscles tight, body humming. But then she remembered last night. She sat bolt upright and looked to her left. No Bobby, empty bed on his side. Where? The room was in shambles, her clothes were scattered across the floor where she’d dropped them when she’d tried to sneak in last night—no, in the morning. Her nightie dangled over the bed post, its straps in tatters. And she was sore. She never got sore down there, hadn’t since she was a kid. That bastard Bobby. The assault, that’s how she thought of it, and she knew all about assaults—oh yeah. The assault had been rough and lasted for an hour or more. She’d endured it because she had to, because she’d been raised to, because she didn’t have any other choices, not yet. But that would change, and soon. She pounded her fists on the mattress and cursed men in general and Robert Scott Griswold in particular. That’s how men worked out their frustrations, beat up on women.
She took a breath and collected her wits. The residue of stale drinks and sex assailed her. She needed a plan. As soon as she worked the deal with Travis and they’d cashed in, she’d file for divorce and clean Bobby out. She’d see to it he got nothing. She’d take her share and his, too. And alimony…oh yeah, he would pay big time for what he did to her. She shook her head. Her blond hair whipped her face. She needed a shower. She slipped out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom and stood under the hot water until she finally felt clean. She stepped out and toweled off and slipped on her robe.
The worst part of what had to go down in the next couple of weeks? She’d have to be nice to Bobby, the creep, at least until the deal was done. He wasn’t going to be asked to join Mensa anytime soon, the dumb ox, but he could be sneaky, and last night he showed he could be rough, too. He’d have to be kept calm and flexible. That’s the word, like plastic man or something. Bend but don’t break. Hell, she’d been doing that, like, all her life.
Bobby hinted that something new had been added to the mix, something to do with Leo. If Leo was in the game, look out. She’d need to find out what that was all about. She could do it. She knew how. She’d get him to feeling guilty about last night, remind him he owed her from before when he’d had the accident, and then she’d seduce him and when he was turned to mush…oh yeah, she’d find out.
She made a mental list: 1) Call Travis and tell him to cool it for a while. Maybe they could get some time together up in Kasane. Bobby would probably get drunk up there. He always had at least one fall-down most weeks. 2) Call Frankie at the club and see if he would wire the money to her so she could pay off Travis right away. That would lock it up pretty good. It would cost, but what the hell. And 3) She needed a massage and a spa treatment.
She called the front desk to set up that the spa date first.
***
Sanderson met with the village men at the kgotla as the sun cleared the trees in the east. Pako had authorized the use of the old Land Rover. He didn’t waste her time with admonitions about the care and safety of the vehicle, as he would have done in the past. Apparently, his mind focused on his new assignment, probably. She pulled up at the edge of the low wall that defined the kgotla and walked toward the group of men. They were carrying weapons of some sort. One had an old Enfield rifle, contraband, and she should have to report it, but she wouldn’t, not just yet, anyway. The rest had spears or heavy clubs.
“I do not think that you will need those weapons today,” she said. The men shuffled their feet.
Rra Kaleke, as the eldest and, therefore, presumed wisest and their leader, stepped forward. “You cannot be so sure, Mma. That lion, if that is what we are seeking, may be close by. If he was successful once in that area, he may think he will be again. And if it is the leopard, well, he will be there, too.”
Sanderson realized there was no point in arguing with them. Carrying a weapon made a statement about manhood. She just hoped the rifle stayed out of sight.
She climbed back into the Land Rover, the men climbed into the bed of the Toyota pick-up and, with her in the lead, they bounced out of the village common area and onto the road to Kazungula. It was a fifteen-minute drive. Sanderson had not thought through how she would approach the hunt. There would have to be one. Mr. Pako would not let it rest until there was. The big hotel lodges in Kasane insisted on it. A predatory big cat that had tasted human flesh posed a threat to their guests; even though it was unlikely that a lion, even a maneater, would venture that close to the town, an attack had occurred, a man had been killed, and something must be done. Pako said there were procedures to follow. She had never heard of them, but then there had not been a lion incident in the area in her memory, so that could be the reason.
She slowed when the two vehicles reached the spot in the road where Lovermore Ndlovu had dashed into the bush. She signaled the truck to follow her, and she turned in and followed the tracks she’d made the previous week through the grass to the spot where the body had lain. The truck pulled up behind her and the men piled out.
Rra Kaleke led them to the spot that Sanderson pointed out.
“This is a very old track.” He squatted and studied the ground. “See, this spoor is almost covered with all of the other animals who have come to share in this meal. Not so many as in the park, no, but some. I don’t see any dipheri.” The men peered over his shoulder and agreed. There were no hyena tracks.
“They will not come so close to the people, I think.” He studied the tracks some more. “It is a young lion,” The others nodded again.
The men walked slowly away from the spot searching for more tracks. “Here,” one called. “Here is where he slept his meal away.” The men crowded around the place where the tough grass had been flattened.
Rra Kal
eke turned to Sanderson. “I am thinking this bad lion returned to Zimbabwe, Missus. See these paw prints? They are headed east toward the road and the border is just over there.” He waved in the general direction of the border hut where the flags of Botswana and Zimbabwe fluttered above the crossing site. “Even if we wanted to, we cannot follow him over there. The Zimbabwe people will have to shoot your lion.”
Sanderson was crestfallen. Pako would not accept that, she was sure. He wanted her to fail and he wanted that failure to be public. He would not accept this reasonable explanation.
Kaleke seemed to read her thoughts. “If you want Mma, we can go find another lion and kill him for you. That should make the men at the tourist hotels and your Mr. Pako happy. This lion will not be coming this way again soon, you know. There are dipitse ya naga over there. If this tau keeps clear of the old fellah who chased him away, he will not come back to this place.”
An abundance of zebras, as Kaleke said, was problematic. But he had it right. The lion would not try to cross the busy highway into Kasane again. He would stay across the border. She could not accept their offer to kill a random lion just to please or confound her boss. She would have to figure out a different story to placate Pako until he left for his new post. What his replacement would want was another thing entirely.
“No, we cannot kill another lion, Rra but, if you will do another thing for me, I will be very grateful. Will you hunt this lion for a few days as if the spoor led in the opposite direction?” The men looked at her quizzically. “It is important that the lodge owners feel something is being done and the situation is under control.”
