White Bone

by Ridley Pearson

  Her urination stung. The thick stripe of forest behind her frightened her, and for good reason. After hours of looking out over the wide, dry riverbed, she’d decided to collect some of the white driftwood it contained, in case she could figure out how to start a fire.

  Drawing closer, she’d determined it wasn’t driftwood, but sun-bleached white bone. Hundreds of pieces scattered randomly in small piles, each representing a kill. A graveyard. Gorgeous, majestic animals, twenty—no, more like forty, she realized—preyed upon most likely by lions. The cats used the rock outcropping where she now hid to spy arrivals, then sneaked down into the deep ravines of the wash and waited, unseen around the curves. The most bones were clumped at either end of the deepest cuts—areas where the impala or other gazelle had no chance of climbing out.

  Grace sat atop her rock outcropping, shaking, one eye trained down the line of boulders. She anticipated the arrival of a set of ears, or the profile of a large cat’s head. Dawn and dusk would be the most likely times for lion attacks. Dusk of her second day would soon arrive. She’d extended her life expectancy by a full day. Surviving this night—any night—would be the real challenge. Just as in cities, that was when the violence occurred.

  During the past thirty-odd hours, her senses had clarified. She felt able to see longer distances, to discern changes in the smells carried on the breeze, to hear faraway things. The slightest change of temperature brought chills or sweat. Her nakedness—but for her skirt—her skin covered in dried mud, was a new and not unpleasant experience. She thought of herself as a lion, patiently awaiting sight of her prey.

  Just in case, she’d found a space between two huge rocks that offered a degree of shelter and protection; if she slipped down, she could fit herself into a deeper cavelike hollow. She’d practiced her retreat several times; the first gap was so narrow it scraped off some mud each time she squeezed through. There was no way she could do it quickly. If attacked, she would need fifteen seconds or more to reach safety.

  How much safety, she wasn’t sure.

  Nor was she sure how, or if, she would attack should someone return for her. Further complicating matters was the question of whom to trust. Certainly her would-be killer might come, but any number of people and agencies might be out searching as well. By now, she hoped the lodge would have put out an alert. If a ranger showed up, should she trust him, or attack? An attack would require a weapon, and the only foolproof one at her disposal, beyond a rock and hand-to-hand close combat, was from an Olé lesson. He’d shown her the poison arrow tree and the white milk that gushed from its leaves or bark with the smallest cut, a few drops of which killed nearly instantaneously upon entering the human bloodstream. The Maasai tipped their hunting spears with it. The tree grew abundantly and was easily identified.

  If Grace could get up the nerve to enter the forest behind her—the lion’s lair—she felt confident she’d find at least one such tree. A fallen branch with its tip honed and she’d have her weapon. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

  The rumble of an airplane overhead caught her by surprise. The wind must have held off its sound; by the time she heard it, it was nearly upon her. Could she trust it? Could she afford to let it pass?

  Grace grabbed one of the mirrors and, one-handed, scrambled down the lattice of slippery rock, jumping and sliding in an effort to reach the flat ground below, where her waving would be more easily seen. She wiggled the mirror, trying to find an angle between the sun and the single-engine plane.

  In her frenzy, her left hand slapped onto a rock and touched something soft. She jerked back instinctively, but the bush viper was faster. It struck, biting her on the wrist. The snake’s scales were brown and yellow, its eyes a vivid green. As it lunged for a second strike, she clipped it with the mirror and sent it tumbling off the warm rock. Her backward momentum carried her down, too, casting her off balance. Her left ankle rolled and pain shot up her leg.

  In a long, agonizing slide, Grace fell to the sandy floor, crawling and squirming, still trying to flash her mirror into the sky overhead. The plane had passed. Dropping the mirror, she writhed in reaction to two distinctly different pains.

  Her wrist stung chemically, like the worst of a bee sting; her ankle throbbed, instantly hot. A slight sprain, but nothing more. Her wrist, on the other hand . . .

  It was difficult to breathe through her fear. Grace felt faint. Steadying her breath, having no idea how toxic the snake might be, but somewhat mollified by how stout it had been—the general rule being: the bigger the venomous snake, the less lethal its bite—she pulled herself painfully back up into the rocks, her left foot useless, debating whether to tourniquet the bite.

  Back at her station, a length of engine wire wrapped but not yet tightened around her forearm, she scratched away the mud, spat to clean it off her skin, and watched for any sign of inflammation and redness to begin creeping toward her elbow. In this environment, without water, to tighten the tourniquet, cutting off all blood flow, would likely mean losing her hand.

  It was not a decision she wanted to make.

  31

  Having been told to keep moving, it occurred to Knox that Bishoppe, working the airport as he did, might know a pilot in general aviation with a single-engine plane and a mouth that could keep shut. He now found himself riding in a car arranged by Bishoppe, on his way to a plane arranged by Bishoppe.

  His fourteen-year-old personal concierge talked incessantly from the front seat, saying little, if anything, of interest. Knox tuned him out, instead studying the printout of the tattoo by the sliding rectangles of streetlamp light. The image was the one piece of evidence connecting Knox back to Grace. He wasn’t going to let go.

  Bishoppe turned a shoulder and looked into the backseat.

  “I should come with you, Mr. John.”

  “Right. Of course you should.”

  “We agree?”

  “I was being sarcastic,” Knox said. “You understand?”

  “You are not funny. We are a good team.”

  “You’ve been a big help, Bishoppe. If I return to Nairobi I’ll call you. How’s that?”

  The boy pointed through the seats. “Many men have this same tattoo.”

  Knox worked to contain his astonishment before speaking. “You’ve seen this same tattoo before?”

  “I just said so, didn’t I? Many times.” Bishoppe opened his hand. “Let me see.” Brash. Ballsy. Knox passed him the photo. “‘Forever.’ This is what it means. It is a statement. Arab forever. You understand?”

  “Yes. ‘Constant.’ ‘Always,’” Knox said, quoting Kanika Alkinyi. But the kid’s combination of ‘Arab forever’ hit home. It wasn’t a spiritual statement, but a nationalist slogan.

  “One symbol, many meanings. It’s the same in English. Yes? Hot food. Hot woman.”

  Knox laughed automatically.

  “This other part, the circle, this is not common. Tell me, what does it mean?”

  Knox unbuckled to lean forward. “Always. Constant.”

  “Not the writing! I can read, Mr. John!” Bishoppe leaned to point out the dark medallion the calligraphy covered. “A burn, maybe. Some villages mark a boy when he is a man. No one is going to burn me. I want a tattoo of LeBron James.”

  Knox asked the driver’s permission to turn on the overhead light. The driver nodded; the light was burned out. He used his phone’s flashlight app. “Let me see.”

  Again, the boy pointed out the dark circle of skin. “The tattoo runs across it, you see? Maybe he makes the tattoo to cover it. Maybe he doesn’t like the look of it, so large and ugly. Recent, I think. You see the pink at the edge?”

  Knox reached over and took back the printout. He shined the light close to the paper. “You have good eyes.”

  “You must be blind. You know I speak the truth. You need my help, Mr. John. I know much more than you.”

  Knox
laughed aloud while folding up the printed page. It felt impossibly good.

  32

  That one had buffalo balls,” Guuleed told his lieutenant, Rambu. They stood just outside their relocated camp. Observing Xin Ha’s warning about overhead drones, Guuleed had split his team into two, setting the camps several miles apart. Weapons were kept hidden at all times. The men from both camps were sent out daily on wildlife reconnaissance, binoculars only. From the air they would look like rangers or conservationists.

  Radio contact was kept limited; messengers delivered written notes between the two camps. Guuleed appreciated the old tradecraft. He’d had enough of technology.

  “We dragged that poor bastard out into the bush . . .” Guuleed searched for the name of the man they’d sacrificed; he couldn’t find it. “To make a point . . . and you know why no one has surfaced as the real traitor? Because the fucking traitor is up there.” He pointed into the sky. “We weren’t betrayed in Kibera. We were seen going there. It’s been those damn birds all along. The elephants get drones. Who could imagine such a thing?”

  “If I may?” Rambu ventured. Guuleed nodded his assent. “Could we use this to our advantage?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “These drones. They can see us. They can see our body heat in the night. But they come and go, and they don’t do well in foul weather. The afternoon thunderstorms, for instance. Very bad for them. And the spring migration. A great many safari companies, same trucks as ours. We wait our chance. We move with them, leaving our tents and all else in place.”

  “I love to hunt at night,” Guuleed said. “It’s good thinking. We will do as you propose.”

  At his side, Rambu seemed to grow a few centimeters taller.

  “But I have important information that cannot wait for the pace of the migration. I need volunteers. One truck. It can be made to look like resupply. Four in the morning. Like you said, they can’t watch us at all hours. It’s worth the risk.”

  “I will volunteer, of course. And as many others as you need.”

  “I appreciate that, my friend. We have made a mistake.” Rambu looked troubled by his boss’s use of that particular pronoun.

  “What is it?”

  “You look like you’re going to shit yourself, man! Can’t we make mistakes?”

  Rambu picked at his ass. “You may be right.” He was kidding, and the two laughed.

  Guuleed sobered first. “I’ve just heard the American killed the sergeant. Tossed him over a balcony into the lobby of the Sarova Stanley. Like I said, brass bollocks on that one. Now he’s on the move. Nothing we can do about him for the present.”

  “Is this the mistake you refer to?”

  “No. It’s the Chinese whore. It’s possible she has—or had, if we’ve killed her—information vital to our cause. There is hope yet for my family.”

  “For this I am thankful.”

  He stepped closer to Rambu. “But we must get her back.”

  “What? But we—Leebo left her in the bush. Is this possible?” Rambu had learned the art of turning statements into questions, the better to allow Guuleed to make the conclusions. Guuleed had personally instructed Leebo to get rid of the woman.

  “Find her.”

  “It was two days ago. The bush. She’s a woman. A Chinese tourist—”

  “I don’t give a shit. I want her alive. Failing that, I want everything she’s got. Her clothing, notes, computer, phone. Everything left behind at the Ol Donyo. Tell Leebo to take you to her. Or everything that belonged to her, if she’s dead.”

  Guuleed unlocked and handed Rambu the treasured satellite phone. It was a symbol of power and Rambu accepted it reverentially.

  “Go on,” he said. “Make the call. A coded message. Tell him you’re on your way. That should light him up.”

  “It’s a day’s drive.”

  “Damn it! Am I asking? Call Leebo! Get this thing started. I will not be happy if you fail. You are to make it look like a rescue. But no matter what, I want answers by tomorrow night!”

  Rambu looked shell-shocked by the imposed deadline and his sudden involvement. Guuleed felt the need to motivate him.

  “It’s the Nairobi ivory, Rambu. It is said the woman was getting close to it.” Rambu’s eyes grew enormous in his blue-black face. “But listen up! If you repeat what I just said, repeat it to anyone, I will nail your tongue to a poisonwood tree and watch the ants eat you alive.”

  33

  The macadam road leading from the Nanyuki airfield was bordered by small farms, forest and the occasional village of cinderblock one-story buildings painted turquoise, rose, purple and green. Pickup trucks passed frequently, carrying harvested crops, farm animals and children. Boys with long switches herded goats, sheep or cattle along a well-worn roadside path. Women wearing colorful long skirts and sleeveless tops walked in pairs.

  Knox, in the front seat, used the driver as a tour guide. Healthy sons were herdsmen from age ten, he learned. Girls lucky enough to be married off did so between thirteen and sixteen. A lucky man lived to sixty.

  Despite a road sign that listed its population as over thirty thousand, Nanyuki was a blink-and-miss-it town, little more than a crossroads of two paved double-lane highways. A majority of its residents appeared to be constantly afoot, hordes walking along the roadways, just as in Nairobi.

  Three structures rose above two stories, all hotels. Trash, detritus and red dust as fine as baking flour swirled about, carried on the wind.

  “Jesus.” Knox let the word escape absentmindedly. He’d been expecting a mini-Nairobi.

  “Ah, there are five churches in town,” the driver said happily. “Several more along this road. Take your choice.”

  Knox shook his head and slipped on his sunglasses.

  The town’s main road had been patched so many times it was nearly impassable. Vehicles crawled. Randomly placed speed bumps added a touch of irony. On all sides, the men wore blue jeans and, inconceivably, Nike running shoes and Under Armour shirts. Knox rolled down the window—then quickly rolled it back up. He didn’t want to think about the source of such smells.

  He checked into an older hotel along the main road. The Kirimara Springs had lost its veneer of pretension the day construction was completed, perhaps some thirty years before. Knox’s second-floor room had a dust-encrusted ceiling fan, complaining at one lazy speed, and a hard mattress on a low wooden bedframe beneath a veil of what had once been white mosquito netting. There was a mirror, two ceramic elephant trunks for hooks on the wall, one of them chipped, and a wooden dresser that looked like a high school freshman’s wood shop project. A corner sink played host to a parade of small black ants and two tiny bottles—shampoo and conditioner, the printing of which was so well worn from refilling that only the double o’s distinguished between them. Down the hall, a community toilet had the disinfectant smell of an Ohio travel center off Interstate 80. There was no phone, no magazines, no tourist brochures. No hotel map mounted inside the door displaying the nearest fire exits. Presumably the window won. Or, you’d be so depressed having stayed here that when it lit on fire you’d just remain in your room and suffer your lumps.

  Knox felt like a tick in an armpit. He secured his phone inside one of the interior pockets of his windbreaker, which he carried over his shoulder as he left the hotel for a walking tour. The jacket also contained a Maglite, Rolaids, a ten-dollar roll of quarters for his clenched fist, and a Swiss Army knife bought on the streets of Nairobi. His shirt hid two parcels of cash; a thin leather wallet carrying credit cards and IDs warmed itself alongside that area of the body Bonnie Raitt described so articulately as: “Down where it’s tangled and dark.” Three passports were Velcroed into an added interior pocket of his jeans. He wore a pair of matte black Wayfarer sunglasses and a warning expression: Fuck-with-me-and-you’ll-be-sorry.

  Outside, he joined the pedestrians on
his side of the roadway, matched pace and walked. Knox towered over everyone, winning an endless round of curious looks. They seemed to suggest that, as a white man, he belonged in a vehicle.

  The stores were mostly shacks with a small dark window through which orders could be placed and goods delivered. Shadowy figures moved within, selling gum, cigarettes, phone parts and fruits. Mini-pickup trucks piled absurdly high with hand-tied bales of khat lumbered past. The plant was chewed as a mild stimulant. Knox could have used some.

  He arrived at the center of the village and found his way to the town market, led by farting motorcycles, belching trucks and the drone of a Bruno Mars song. A wide dirt street with dozens of competing fruit and vegetable stands lining both sides opened out before him.

  The open-air market attracted barefoot kids, women of every age and shape, and an abundance of houseflies. Each small stall offered nearly identical produce in vivid colors—carrots, beets, melons, green onions, tomatoes. The occasional stall of nuts and fruits or fly-crusted meats broke the monotony. Knox walked slowly, answering inquisitive eyes with a smile, all the while keeping track of anyone and everyone within twenty yards.

  Keeping his pace slow and easy, he continued down a small hill to an open field filled with tables heaped with color. It took him a moment to grasp that what he was seeing were mountainous piles of clothing, organized by vendors who advertised their prices on hand-scrawled posters.

  “English? English?” Knox called. A young man in his early twenties appeared. He wore a St. Louis Rams jersey, black trousers and scuffed penny loafers without socks. His complexion suggested younger than thirty but older than twelve.

  “I speak the English,” he said.

  “What is all this?” Knox asked, gesturing to the field of clothing. The area was thirty yards wide and over a football field long.