White Bone

by Ridley Pearson

  “Nanyuki market,” the man said.

  “So much.”

  “It is always like this. Everyone from Nanyuki and many villages for many miles buys the clothes here.”

  Wandering among the tables, Knox observed that every shoe, shirt, bra and pair of jeans was used. All American brands. He mentioned this to his interpreter.

  “Yes, of course. These are clothes sent to Africa by American charity.”

  “But they are for sale. Clothes sent from the U.S. are meant to be given away.”

  “Not here in Kenya. The clothing arrives by ship to Mombasa. It is sold in large . . . how would you say ‘tied together’?”

  “Bales.”

  “Very large bales. These bales are resold once onto the dock. This buyer then makes smaller bales and sells to these people here. Same, all over. You see such clothing markets everywhere.”

  Chicago Bulls, World Series, Nike—Just Do It., Lee, Wrangler, New Balance . . . The closer Knox looked, the more he saw the American suburbs face-to-face with this underground Kenyan economy.

  “You wish to buy something?” the man asked. “I may help you?”

  “No, thank you.” Knox wished to be seen, to stand out in the crowd. “I’m just looking.”

  He was idly searching for an XXL T-shirt when a voice sounded behind him. The speaker was a tall, elegant blond woman of indeterminate age who projected a high-minded forbearance.

  “I’m called Ava. We spoke.”

  “John.” They shook hands. She could wrestle alligators, he was guessing. “South African?”

  “Bravo. Thirteen years in Kenya in September. My fourth at the lodge.”

  “Solio.”

  “I apologize for the dramatics. It’s just that hoteliers can talk. Better for you not to be overheard hiring a car for the lodge.”

  They rode in the second bench of a stretched safari truck—an open-air Toyota Land Cruiser—passing huts marked by hand-painted signs advertising eggs and fruit, churches, small farms and the occasional collection of dilapidated shacks. When the colorfully dressed Maasai driver turned off the main road, it was onto a gravel and dirt track that rolled across an open plain of dry grass on both sides. Shortly thereafter, a high, reinforced fence topped with barbed wire appeared on both sides of the track.

  “Jurassic Park,” Knox said.

  Ava winced in amusement.

  The brown safari truck crested a hill. Looking down on a green line of cottonwood, Knox saw live rhinoceroses for the first time. He marveled like a little boy. The pair looked like cows from a distance, but evolved into massive gray beasts, their signature upturned curving horns held quizzically toward the sky. “Unreal,” he muttered. A dozen Cape buffalo came next, followed by Thompson’s gazelles, eland, and more rhinos.

  “Do you . . . I mean is this an everyday occurrence?” Knox wanted to shout to stop the car. “Can I get out?”

  “There will be time for that.” Ava grinned. “It never gets old, believe me.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it.” Knox couldn’t help sounding awed, wondered why it embarrassed him. “The size! They’re right there!”

  “The cattle operation is on this side,” Ava said, indicating the fenced land to the right. “Reserve, here on the left.”

  Knox couldn’t contain his inner tourist. “How big is it?”

  “The reserve is seven thousand hectares. The entire ranch, twenty thousand. The cattle operation helps fund the reserve. It’s a wonderful symbiosis.”

  Soon they entered the more forested area and slowed at a KGA checkpoint, Knox slouching and pulling his hat down on Ava’s command. The gate was opened before the vehicle fully stopped.

  Ahead, a dirt track meandered through dense, lush forest. Soon the lodge emerged, Solio, elegantly designed with a flowing thatched roof and whitewashed stucco walls. It belonged both to its surroundings and on the cover of travel magazines. A line of three staff awaited, all African. Backs straight, heads high. The display was slightly off-putting to Knox, who didn’t like being kowtowed to.

  Once inside, his freshly wet warm hand towel returned to the tray, Knox looked through the open-air wall onto a panorama of marsh, forest and grassland. A giraffe stood no farther than thirty yards away, by a deck constructed as a dining island.

  “The Barr-Latners, the owners of Eastland, built this. Rusty designed it.”

  “Impressive.”

  “Yes, we get that a lot. Shall we take some tea? I’ve arranged a meeting with Benson, our head of security, as you requested. But we have forty minutes or so if you like?”

  “Wonderful. Thank you.”

  She led him to the outside deck. Iced tea and pastries arrived. Ava caught Knox admiring the giraffe, still only a matter of yards away.

  “Amazing,” he said. “So close. I can see her eyelashes.”

  “His. He’s called Girafa, after Rafael Nadal, my tennis hero. He took a liking to us. He doesn’t spook easily.”

  “It’s . . . otherworldly,” said Knox. “He must be twenty feet tall.”

  “Quite nearly six meters. Yes.”

  “Grace must have loved this.” It was the first time he’d mentioned her. “His movement is so elegant. So fluid.”

  “I would have offered for you to stay with us as well, but because of the uncertainty you expressed . . .”

  “Yes. I think this best. That is, until I saw what I’m missing.”

  “We have the largest herd of black rhino in all of Africa. Larger still, our white rhino population.” She smiled at him; he nodded for her to go on. “Rusty and Lana Barr-Latner are both fourth-generation Kenyans. His family was the first to transport wild animals. It’s quite a small community, the expat travel industry. But a most trustworthy one. Graham—Mr. Winston—is a regular guest at Solio.”

  Something lighted upon her lips, not quite a smile, but a rosy warmth of satisfaction. Her eyes softened as they had when she was talking about Girafa.

  A herd of Cape buffalo passed slowly far beyond the marsh. A procession as old as the dirt at his feet, Knox thought.

  “You like the view?” she asked.

  “It’s a time machine.”

  “True.”

  “How much did Grace tell you?” he asked.

  “That Graham had sent her down on a fact-finding mission. No details. She asked if I knew where Samuelson had stayed prior to . . . the tragedy. I told her she’d have to ask the police. That it wasn’t here.”

  “Do you believe he was poaching?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course not. Mr. Samuelson wrote about corruption. No great surprise he met his end. But still, an enormous loss.”

  “Grace was interested only in Samuelson’s lodging?”

  “And she wanted to meet with Benson. Same as you.”

  “After that?”

  “She checked out two days ago. First flight out. You won’t raise her by phone. I’ve been trying.”

  “Because?” Knox suppressed the shudder he felt ripple through him.

  “She left an item behind in her room.” Ava paused to make eye contact with Knox. “Happens more often than you might think. Although this was a little unusual. It was sealed and on her bed. Out where we couldn’t have missed it.”

  Knox considered the look she gave him. “An envelope,” he said. “Something small inside. My name on it.”

  “No. It’s marked ‘Private—Do Not Open.’ But yes, there is something that moves around inside.”

  “I’d like to see it, please.”

  “Drink your tea,” she said. “I’ll fetch it.”

  34

  The envelope Ava’s housekeeper had retrieved from Grace’s room had contained a second thumb drive. Now, once again, the screen presented Knox with a question.

  Pulled from the fire (nickname):


  He entered: Sarge. He didn’t like being asked to remember that day.

  The screen refreshed.

  The bottle opener:

  Knox had gotten stuck on this second question. He’d sat there for ten minutes, wondering what Grace was asking, if he was the right one to try to answer the question. Fearing the program would only allow a finite number of tries—three?—he’d withheld from wild guesses.

  The small drive was currently zipped into his Scottevest. Until he could solve the second clue, there were better uses of his time.

  Olé wore ceremonial Maasai dress, a colorful waist skirt and a sleeveless scarlet tunic decorated with beads, bone, carved wood and gems. He wore neck bangles, too, which set off his fierce but handsome face, all chiseled, aristocratic bone structure and blank dark eyes. He carried a small, menacing machete in his waist belt.

  Another guide, so far nameless, rode standing in the far back of the truck, also dressed in a tribal costume. He carried a bludgeoning weapon, a lump of metal attached to a strong handle. The two spoke intermittently in Swahili.

  Heeding Ava’s advice and insistence, Knox was on his way to vacate his Nanyuki hotel room—false passport or not—and take a guest room at Solio, where he would be an unregistered guest. The interview with Benson, arranged for later, following the man’s afternoon rounds, necessitated the quick trip into town.

  “Everything okay, John?” Olé asked.

  “Not exactly okay, no,” Knox answered honestly. “I’m on a bit of a schedule. Behind schedule.”

  “This is just the place to forget such things.”

  “I appreciate that.” Knox looked over again at the man, wondering how transparent he could be with him. No; why was he hesitating? Grace didn’t have time for subtlety. “A Chinese woman visited, last week. Do you remember her? Grace Chu?”

  “Miss Grace. Of course, sir.”

  “You drove her then?”

  “I did, yes. My pleasure.”

  “She’s a close friend of mine. You two talked.”

  “Of course, sir. A most interesting woman. Very curious.”

  “She is, isn’t she?” Knox’s stomach knotted. He didn’t trust the tense he was using. He appreciated being reminded of her endearing qualities and how easily likable she was. Painful at the same time. Knox took in the surrounding landscape, all grass and mountains, sky and clouds. No structures. A few fences. A hawk, its wings set, gliding low over the swale.

  “What’d you two talk about, if I’m not being rude?”

  “Not at all! She asked questions”—Olé gave him a wide smile—“but not like the other guests. Miss Grace is a special woman.”

  In spite of himself, Knox wanted to snap at the man, tell him to shut up. “In what way did her questions differ?”

  “Guests usually ask only about the animals. Similar questions, all the time. We are happy to answer these. This is the joy of Solio Ranch, so many animals, so beautiful.”

  “But not Grace.”

  “She was more interested in . . . me, sir. As a man. A Maasai.” No great surprise there, Knox thought. Grace always turned the conversation away from herself, always made Knox feel interesting, even as he was also the target of her condescending humor.

  “Your costume.”

  “My dress. Absolutely! Right you are! That is where we started. She was much less interested in the Big Five,” he said. “She was curious about my life. How it was I found my way to this position at Solio Ranch.”

  Knox felt her sitting in the same seat as him. Heard her voice. Saw her wearing a hat to hold her whipping hair at bay, one hand constantly on her head.

  “She inquired about living off the land, as my people do. What it was like, how we go about it. How it has changed. Most curious.”

  “She grew up in a small farming village in China. Did she tell you that?”

  “She did not, John. She asked about the Maasai. We have survived well for quite some time. This intrigued her. She wondered what we ate, how we treated disease and birthed our children. She expressed a genuine interest in our way of life.”

  “Comparing her upbringing to yours,” Knox said.

  “I suppose. We didn’t talk of her. She asked all the questions.”

  Knox found himself smiling at the thought.

  “She asked about Charcoal as well,” Olé said, gesturing into the back, toward his silent passenger. “You work together long enough, you grow a fondness. It is true.”

  “Charcoal? You call him that?” Knox asked, horrified.

  “Yes. His skin is gray. You see? His tribal name—it is far too difficult for the guests to pronounce.”

  The man smiled at Knox from the back.

  “He is working on his English,” Olé said. “He understands some of what we are saying. But he can speak very little. I am training him. Another five years, he’ll be a guide himself.”

  “She wanted to see plants,” Knox said, drawing the conversation back to Grace.

  “Just so! Instead of the lion, we stopped to look at trees and plants we Maasai use. I would tell her stories from my boyhood. Miss Grace is most enjoyable.”

  “Poachers use these same plants and trees?” Knox asked.

  “If they are to spend any time in the bush, then of course.”

  “Or hiding in a reserve.”

  “Hiding. Waiting. Setting traps. We live off the land. We all know its uses.”

  “She wanted to know about poachers, what might be found in a poacher’s stomach.” Knox was thinking autopsy, wondering what other documents Radcliffe might have supplied her.

  Olé sounded excited. “You could be right about that, sir! Her concern, to be sure, was medicine and health care, how Maasai, Kikuyu and other tribes find the medical care when needed. I explained we have medicine men and traditional medicines. That over one hundred African plants are used as the basis for important European drugs. Many are simply synthetics of the original plant-derived chemical. This interested her, I think. She wanted any examples I could give, and so I showed her. We talked much about vaccinations and how villagers didn’t trust them.”

  “Vaccines,” Knox said, thinking of the work Winston had assigned her.

  “Yes.”

  “And they aren’t trusted because . . . ?” Knox asked.

  “So many times these injections make our children sick. Some have died. Others, adult and child alike, never improve. For decades, Africa has been used for clinical human trials. Our villages were paid—not well. We have come to associate free medicine with disease. This, while our own medicines cure dozens of illnesses.”

  The talk of Grace had put her in the vehicle with them. Knox could imagine her in the seat where he now sat, having the conversation he was having. Being awed by the landscape just as he was. Alive, Knox thought. Olé had brought her alive.

  35

  Grace had yet to tighten the wire tourniquet. A raised red welt surrounded the two holes in her skin. The size of a large coin, it was not expanding. Warm to the touch and intensely painful, the snakebite reminded her of a twinned wasp sting—horrible, but nothing fatal.

  She struggled to remember Olé’s lessons, the Maasai treatment for pain, but couldn’t. The symptoms of her increasing delirium were familiar to her: light-headedness, sensitivity to light, daydream hallucinations that mixed with memory. Adrenaline had kept her going for the first twenty-four hours—or had it been longer?

  Again, while she still had strength, she scampered down the rocks favoring her rolled ankle. She reached the three holes she’d dug. Two remained lined and covered with plastic; the third had been disassembled. The heat inside the hole increased by day; by night, the cool air in contact with the top piece of plastic caused condensation. The condensed water dripped and fell to the bottom of the hole, collected on the plastic lining. She, or perhaps an animal, had clearly sampled th
e first hole.

  Two days, at least, Grace thought. Time was blurring, slipping away from her. But she believed she had retrieved this water herself. She saw no tracks or signs of animals to convince her otherwise. Carefully, she reset the first hole, sipped the few drops from the second and third, so that the day’s hot sun didn’t evaporate her winnings. From the second, she captured enough to wet her mouth and throat; the third, better sealed, offered her a small sip that actually ran down her throat. She reset all three more carefully, trying to duplicate the third.

  Next, she checked her trap lines. The first, closest to her perch, had not been tripped. But the wire set at the intersection of two small game trails was no longer in place: the ground coverage disturbed; dried blood on the pikes. She followed the irregular track of what she thought might be a small hare, dragging one leg. Drops of blood had spilled with every step, in increasing volume. Fifty meters down the thin trail, Grace cursed: she’d killed a rat. Worse still, it was warm to the touch. Though she knew what had to be done, it was hard to contain her disgust. Shuddering, she cut through the animal’s skin with a shard of broken mirror and eviscerated it. Finding its tiny liver, she cut it loose of the entrails, dropped it into the back of her throat and swallowed. She kneeled for several minutes, expecting to vomit, but nothing came up.

  On her way back to her lookout, she eyed the rocky plateau, covered in the inviting gray-green of bush and trees. She knew she might find nuts, roots and fruits to eat within—or that poison arrow tree—but could not summon up the courage to try. Imagination, or fairy tales, or the piles of white bone in the wash, held her back.

  Sitting again on her perch, she resigned herself to fatigue. Shuddering, she forced her body through the small slit at the bottom of the boulders and crawled inside. It was cooler there, almost entirely in shade. She closed her eyes and within seconds was swallowed into deep, dreamless sleep.

  36

  Knox asked to be dropped off two blocks from the small hotel. Hyperaware of his color and height, he kept his head low and his face tucked beneath a Tigers cap. He found his way to the back of the hotel and entered through an open door to the kitchen. He passed a distrusting dishwasher who averted his eyes when challenged.