White Bone

by Ridley Pearson

  She could crawl back into the dark and get as far away as quickly as possible. But they’d tracked her. She wasn’t going to lose them. It was kill or be killed. It was water.

  There were opportunities here. She knew Kalashnikovs well, had trained on a Chinese-made replica. But the rifle was out of the question. She’d have to fight the man to get a hold of it.

  She sat back, mind whirling. Seeing them there, the camaraderie, the pot waiting to boil—it evoked in her a story Olé had told.

  “We were a long way from the village. The grazing was much better there. There were three of us that day. Our friend gathered the roots to make the soup, while my other friend and I looked after the goats. Each day we fixed a meal for ourselves when the sun was at its height. It was his turn. But my friend and I were delayed. One of our goats encountered a snare trap and was in a bad way. We were no more than thirty minutes past the time we had wanted to return to the meal. When we arrived, our friend was dead, the tin he was eating from still gripped in his hand. All the veins in his arms, neck, head—everywhere—bulged to four or five times their size. His eyes were as big as stones in his head. My friend had seen it before. He drew his knife on the dead one’s arm where the veins stuck up like tree roots. The blood was hard, almost dry. I have never seen anything like it. He explained it is—like what you call a potato. A root that can be mistaken for another you can eat, if you don’t look carefully at the shape of the leaf. We used a goat to drag him back to the village. He was greeted like a leper until an old woman explained what my friend had told me.”

  Later, he’d shown her the poisonous plant. Its leaves were like those of a holly bush, distinctive.

  “The plant is itself abundant. Its effects are lethal. You must learn this one, Miss Grace.”

  The cook was brushing off and cutting the roots and stacking them in a pile at his side. He was going at it slowly, a few slices, some talk, more slices. The discussion was in Swahili and Grace wished she understood it. She assumed they’d tracked her. Perhaps they could read her shortened strides and knew of her exhaustion. She was deeply troubled by the apparent confidence that allowed them to stop for some soup and a midnight smoke.

  Again, she considered her choices. Fight or flight? Again, she came to the same conclusion: to slip away and allow them to follow her by daylight was suicide; they’d be on her in a short time—and on their terms instead of hers. Currently, she had the advantage of surprise.

  But how close could she get to the fire without being detected? How much was she willing to risk for that water?

  She crawled slowly backward, as silent in her retreat as she’d been in her approach. Working at the very edge of the haze of light, she moved stealthily in search of the holly-leafed bush Olé had shown her. Twice she thought she had a candidate, but the feel of the leaf was wrong; she was looking for a firm, waxy leaf, one that might snap if folded. She kept one eye on the camp. The cook took a smoke off his companion and stoked the small fire with a few twigs, conserving what little fuel existed.

  Grace had moved nearly halfway around them when she spotted a taller bush, raised up in silhouette, out farther from the fire. She cursed her luck; the moon was rising. She was going to have to act quickly.

  The taller bush was indeed the one Grace sought; she recognized the feel of its leaves. She dug at the dirt around its base one-handed, glad for the crackling of the renewed fire.

  Like nearly all plants in the bush, its roots were very near the surface, ready to take advantage of the slightest of rains. Grace twisted and broke off a length. It cracked.

  The man with the gun turned his head. Already on hands and knees, Grace crawled slowly away from the bush, root in hand.

  The man slipped the gun off his back with far too much ease and familiarity, stood and moved to the edge of the light.

  She’d already put ten meters behind her. She continued ever so slowly, a wolf on the prowl. He’d given her an idea . . .

  The men had an extremely brief exchange, by which point Grace had moved a full ninety degrees clockwise around the campfire’s perimeter. As the cook stood, grumbling, and moved toward the backpack, he provided her with an opening.

  She belly-crawled as quickly and silently as possible, her sound partially covered by the rustle of the cook digging through the backpack, and the other man’s movement, the sound of fresh twigs snapping. With both their backs turned to her, she knelt and threw a rock high above their heads in the direction of the bush.

  They startled. Grace felt emboldened by her success. This was the turning point in her plan. She slithered to within two meters of the cook’s back, reaching for the pile of tubers.

  The cook called out, pointing. The rifleman turned. Grace froze, hand in the air, fully within his field of view. But the gunman was looking at his partner for direction, for an animal or intruder to shoot, not a shit-smeared, naked Chinese woman, bare bottom to the sky. The cook switched on the flashlight and blinded the rifleman. The cook tossed the flashlight; the rifleman missed the catch and cursed.

  Grace slipped the root into the cook’s pile and crawled backward as fast as she could. Sliding back into the dark, she lay still on her stomach, focused on the root she’d left among the others.

  And, moments later, the cook’s hand as he reached down to continue filling the pot.

  57

  Brantingham swung open his front door with all the authority of a man unhappy to be disturbed.

  “You’re wanted by the police.”

  Somewhat round-faced and kind in the eyes, he wore his graying hair long and unkempt. His flamboyant bathrobe hung open, revealing a white T-shirt and boxer shorts. His skin had seen too much sun. He was clearly not a man to awaken at midnight.

  “You must have me confused with someone else.”

  Brantingham shouted to the driver. “Do I invite him in, Thomas?”

  “I believe he was about to force me to drive him to the clinic, sir. You would be doing me a favor.”

  “Come in and get yourself a tea, Thomas. This won’t take long.”

  The driver entered and headed to the back of the house, a contemporary, low-profile adobe structure built into the hill. Like Solio, the entire wall was windowless and open to the savanna.

  Brantingham said, “You are advised that our rangers, all two hundred and fifty of them, have seen a photograph of your face. We are a private agency, which means all police, all KGA rangers are ahead of us in the pecking order. Understand? If we know your face, they know everything about you.”

  “It was an unfortunate accident,” Knox said. “Some kids.”

  “That’s original. Let me see your passport, please.”

  Knox hesitated, but he didn’t see a lot of options. He withdrew and opened the document, retaining control. Brantingham gestured to hand it over. Knox did so reluctantly. Brantingham studied it and handed it back.

  “Sir?” Knox said.

  “Who the hell do you work for?” He moved to a side table that held mail, an iPad and his mobile phone, which was charging. He picked up the mobile. “If that’s counterfeit, you paid a king’s ransom for it; if it’s authentic, as it appears, then I need to know what agency I’m speaking with. What American agency, I presume.”

  “A woman, a Chinese woman—”

  “Grace Chu. Answer the question, Knox. Which agency?”

  “I’m in global import/export. Crafts, mostly. The occasional piece of art.”

  “Sure you are. Thomas!”

  “No, no, no!” Knox said hastily.

  Thomas appeared behind them, approaching down a short hallway that, like the living room, had walls covered with enormous art photos of African wildlife.

  “I’ll explain,” Knox said.

  “Enjoy your tea, Thomas. Sorry to bother you.”

  “No bother, sir,” Thomas said, and retreated.

 
Knox resigned himself to the truth for Grace’s sake. “I contract—only occasionally—for a company out of Hong Kong called Rutherford Risk. Missing persons. Negotiation and recovery.”

  “Kidnappings. Extortion,” Brantingham said. “We are all too familiar with such things here in Kenya. Didn’t used to be this way.”

  Knox nodded. “Grace and I have partnered on a few projects. I’m here on my own. I’m not under contract. It’s personal.” Hearing it put that way surprised Knox. Was that the first time he’d admitted it to someone else?

  “You’re here because—?”

  “You last saw Grace two days ago. Before that, maybe three weeks earlier.”

  Brantingham raised his eyebrows, impressed. He motioned Knox onto an animal-skin couch. Knox had no idea what animal. “Don’t expect me to tell you anything about it. She asked for confidentiality, and she will have it.”

  “She hasn’t been heard from since.”

  “Thom-as!” Brantingham shouted.

  Again, the driver appeared. Brantingham spoke boldly, like an employer. “The guest, Grace Chu. Chinese woman.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “She was with us two nights ago. She headed back to the lodge, correct?”

  “No, sir. She took a side trip into Tanzania.”

  Brantingham grinned at Knox. “Well, there you have it. No wonder. Happens all the time.”

  “Thank you, Thomas,” Knox said. “Nice to get that cleared up.”

  Again, Thomas retreated. Knox wondered how much it might anger Brantingham that his guest had dismissed the driver. It was nuance that steered an interview.

  “She’s not in Tanzania,” Knox said. “Nor is it likely she was ever in Tanzania. She was abducted and held and is now being returned—possibly as proof of life, possibly because of illness or some other factor unknown to us.” Knox tried to sound definite as he explained the recent intercept of satellite phone traffic to Oloitokitok and the reference to a “wounded gazelle.”

  “Return a wounded gazelle?”

  “You see the problem? We believe she’s being moved tonight. Dawn at the latest.”

  “And you waited to tell me in person? What the hell, Knox? I have the third-largest army in Kenya at my disposal, second only to the military and the KGA. You didn’t think you could trust me? Did you ask anyone about me?”

  “Until a few hours ago, I had no idea where to look. No idea who to call.”

  “You need food.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Thomas!” The man reappeared, smiling this time. “Would you mind terribly preparing some food for our friend here? Anything will do.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Brantingham’s brow furrowed. He stared off into space for a long moment. “You believe she’s being returned to Oloitokitok.”

  “It seems so. Yes.”

  “By her kidnappers.”

  “Again, a strong possibility.”

  “You said the gazelle message was recent. So what changed?”

  “As I said, I’m not sure. The hostage’s health? Outside pressure? Internal discord among the kidnappers? We had one case where they’d planned so poorly, they ran out of food.”

  “You intercepted this communiqué? Why do I find it difficult to believe that a wanted man such as yourself has those kinds of contacts? If you did, someone would have arranged to get you out and install another man or woman in your place.”

  “I have to keep my source confidential.”

  “If you want my help, if I’m supposed to trust you, you will tell me what I need to know.”

  “It was a ranger named Koigi.”

  “You spoke to Koigi? Face-to-face?”

  “I did.”

  He barked out a laugh. “Do you drink, Knox?”

  “Not tonight, sir.”

  “Pardon me.” He poured himself a dark whiskey. “A great man, our Koigi. A kind of national treasure.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “There’s no chance you spoke to him. So you lied to me, and I don’t take that lightly. A brazen lie, I’ll give you that.”

  Knox explained his abduction, the sack over his head, the drive—but not the location. Nor did he reveal the number of tents and vehicles. “Koigi’s a very stocky six feet. Looks more like six-foot-two.”

  “Anyone could tell you that.”

  “Has hands like a cat’s tongue.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  Thomas delivered a poorly stacked sandwich and a cold beer. Knox asked for an iced tea instead.

  “What the hell were you doing with Koigi in the first place?” Brantingham asked.

  Knox passed him the crumpled photo of the tattooed arm. “The tattoo is drawn over a vaccination scar.”

  “Yes, I see that.”

  “A couple of Koigi’s men had similar scars,” Knox said “Bad vaccine, just like the one Grace was chasing. Koigi said a number of his men had been vaccinated while in Oloitokitok.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it. Free health care. The clinic drew hundreds a day at its peak. But I don’t follow.”

  “He told that to Grace. The clinic keeps records. She would have been after a man named Faaruq.” Knox pointed again to the photo. “I don’t know what Grace may have told you, sir. But she came down here to access the clinic’s records. She was looking for the man’s records.”

  “Which were taken or destroyed, or both, when they shut down shop.”

  “She wouldn’t have come back if there hadn’t been some way for her to confirm that this Faaruq had been vaccinated there.”

  “This is the same Faaruq shot at Mount Kenya. The alleged poacher?”

  “It is.”

  Brantingham hung his head. “Shit. She tricked me.”

  “How’s that?” Knox said, leaning forward.

  “She’s a clever one, your Ms. Chu.”

  Knox was tired of so many people calling Grace “his.” It isn’t like that, he wanted to say. But the more he heard it, the more he wondered if he was projecting something he was unaware of, wasn’t intending.

  “God!” Brantingham shook his head as if clearing it and poured himself more whiskey. “The first time, I mean, who would have guessed? But the second? I should have caught it. She’s into computers, isn’t she, John? IT work? Computer security?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s right.”

  “I’m called Travis. She played sleight-of-hand with me. Not once, but twice.”

  “That sounds like her.”

  “She engaged me in a discussion of our antipoaching, our relationship with the clinic—nonexistent beyond our taking over some space as they moved out. Thirty minutes in, she asked for Internet access. Wouldn’t take the wireless I offered. Had to have Ethernet. Thing is, and this is the part that frosts me, she’d managed to get me to explain that we’d assumed many of the clinic’s utilities after the hurried closing. We paid some of the back bills in order to avoid an interruption of service.”

  “Including the Internet provider,” Knox said, guessing.

  “Yes.” Brantingham exhaled dramatically. “Would that have helped her somehow? Their computers were gone. First things they took away.”

  “I don’t know enough about it.”

  “Well, I know a little, just enough to get me into trouble. I know for a fact she couldn’t hack their computers. They were gone. Removed. But we’re using their router, their account. We took over their account.”

  “The cloud,” Knox said. “She probably compromised their cloud storage or even e-mails.” He tried to keep the awe out of his voice, but it wasn’t possible. “She’s very good at it.”

  “And then she came back and did it again. A second time.” Brantingham sounded astonished. “That’s humiliating.”

  “To get at their patient
records,” Knox said. He swallowed hard. The sandwich tasted far better than it looked. He was still awaiting the iced tea. He wiped his lips. “Tanzania or not, she’s being moved tonight,” he said flatly.

  “If it came from Koigi’s sources, it can be trusted. He and my people share a great deal.”

  “Maybe not enough this time.”

  Brantingham didn’t appreciate the rebuke.

  “Thomas claims I have to wait for daylight to drive to Oloitokitok.”

  “He’s right about that,” Brantingham said. “You can ride with me. I’ll pick you up outside the lobby at four thirty.”

  58

  Watching the two men die was no kind of sport.

  At first, Grace had cheered on the cook’s hand, reaching down blindly into his pile and grabbing hold of the root she’d slipped him. She’d celebrated each slice of the knife and the steam that slowly rose from the pot. The soup took time to cook.

  Then came the moment when the two portions were poured out. The other man tossed his cigar into the fire; Grace watched the amber sparks rise from the coals and take flight. The men drank their soup and talked in the casual, comfortable tone of two friends, and Grace wondered at what she’d done.

  When death came—first to the cook, who much to her alarm had taken early sips from the broth to taste its readiness—it arrived as a seizure, a cramp that locked the whole body as if it were a single muscle.

  Despite the agonies she witnessed, Grace felt no remorse. Unable to stop herself, she walked from the dark into the rim of light thrown by the fire, standing close to the Kalashnikov. She was possessed with desire, the need for them to know this was no accident.

  In her mud-slathered nakedness, she stood watching, the cook likely dead already, the other man wild-eyed and terrified by her visage. The veins swelled just as Olé had described, more like a special effect from a comic book movie than anything real. People didn’t die this way, alarmingly fast, their eyes bulging, the veins growing from their arms and neck and face. The bodies looked like road maps.