Ivory Ghosts Page 2

  Gidean nodded. “I can assure you that this event is not common. And not something that happens here at the ranger station, inside the park. It is quite safe here, normally.”

  I looked out the window and watched a fish eagle fly by, calling in a high-pitched cry. “Did you know these people?”

  Gidean shook his head. “Small dealers from Zimbabwe, we think. They fit the profile of a group operating out of Vic Falls, in the Kasane.”

  “Small dealers get murdered?”

  “Not usually. But there’s been a lot of fighting over the price of ivory. There are many more players because of the Chinese. A territorial battle has expanded over the border and ended here in the park.”

  “Who’s involved?”

  “The Nigerians operating in Zimbabwe and a syndicate from Zambia.”

  “Dealing in ivory?”

  “They used to deal in less bulky stuff with higher value—drugs and diamonds—until the price of ivory went up.”

  “Why was the brain taken out?”

  “We suspect the Zambian witch doctor.”

  Gidean turned to me and smiled, trying to lighten the conversation. “Where were you coming from?”

  “Drove up from Kruger on Saturday.”

  Gidean’s eyes brightened. “Long trip!”

  “Would have been better with a faster vehicle and air-conditioning.”

  He laughed. “But you are not from South Africa. British?”

  “I’m from the States.”

  “What state?”

  “California most recently.”

  Gidean clucked his tongue. “Heard that is a very nice place.”

  “It is. Not sure I’ll go back, though. Wyoming’s better, actually—more wildlife. That’s where I grew up.”

  “I understand Alaska is the only place to see wildlife in America.”

  I smiled. “You have good sources. But that’s not completely accurate.”

  After getting my bedroll, and stuffing my backpack with a change of clothes, some toiletries, my mess kit, tea, peanut butter, and honey from the car, we returned to the road, passing the crime scene again. From the height of the vehicle, I could see the buffalo tracks more clearly. “Did they hit a buffalo?”

  Gidean nodded.

  “You think that’s how the other vehicle caught up with them?”

  “Big herds near the river here. If you go fast this time of day, you take your chances.”

  “Could you tell how badly it was wounded?”

  “Hard to tell.” Gidean shook his head. “We’ll track it in the morning.”

  We continued down the steep hill into a thick acacia forest, and up another rise and then back down onto a flat for about a mile before seeing another sign for Susuwe Ranger Station, this one held up by sun-bleached elephant femurs. Turning right, we drove along the base of a vast floodplain for some distance, passing several barracks before turning right into a short driveway.

  We pulled up in front of a dilapidated camouflage-painted barracks and parked under a large ebony tree. The place looked worse than I’d expected. I kept telling myself that I’d wanted it rough, but maybe not this rough.

  Craig had included a brief history of the region in the paperwork for my job description, detailing how Susuwe Ranger Station had apparently suffered the consequences of failed negotiations between Namibia and South Africa after Namibian independence. He was hoping this piece of information would change my mind about being stationed here. But the location inside the national park was much preferable to living in the nearest town, Katima Mulilo, or in one of the small rural villages. I preferred to be with the elephants rather than the feral dogs.

  Gidean got out. “Come. I show you inside.”

  “Oh, that’s okay, really. I’m sure you have to get back.”

  Gidean ignored me and led me up the stairs of the porch and into the abandoned building. I looked around the dank, empty rooms: musty smelling and wasp infested, with warped linoleum floors and sagging rotted counters. There were no appliances or furniture except a tiny stove in the kitchen and a sagging metal army cot in a bedroom. In the bathroom the tap dripped under a smashed mirror and the wall above the bathtub had been peppered with shotgun rounds.

  Gidean pointed to the hole in the wall above the tub. “One of the Bushmen laborers had a fight with his wife.”

  I grimaced. “Did she survive?”

  “That time she did.” Gidean paused and then added, “Eventually he got her with an okapi knife for refusing to make his lunch.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “At-at-at-at-at, the Bushman should stay away from the drink.”

  I followed him out, sensing that I shouldn’t probe deeper.

  He stopped at the front door and showed me a small switch dangling from a wire. “There is one lightbulb in the kitchen. It runs off a solar panel on the roof,” he explained.

  “Great.”

  Outside I asked Gidean if I would be able to use the station’s radio. “I really need to get a call into my boss in South Africa. Would it be possible to use the radio in the morning?”

  Gidean shook his head. “Took it into Katima yesterday. Broken. And the antenna’s down.”

  “Really?”

  “Should be fixed by next week.”

  “And the radio in the truck?”

  He shook his head. “Not a strong enough signal to reach South Africa.”

  “Oh, okay,” I said, distracted with more questions. “Would someone be able to help get my tire off the rim tomorrow? One of my spares just has a small puncture. It should be fine with a patch. If I could borrow a set of tire irons, I could do it myself.”

  “We’ll take care of it for you, not a problem.”

  “I really appreciate that.”

  He smiled. “It’s a pleasure.”

  “And where can I find the shooting range?”

  Gidean did a little double take.

  “I’d like to get comfortable in this new environment.” I blurted this out quickly, based on his reaction, and then added, “To pull my own weight if necessary.”

  “What you saw on the road will not be directed at us. It’s not their style.”

  “It’s just that I haven’t had the chance to use my revolver in some time and I’d like to practice.” I hesitated. “To deter lions, if nothing else.”

  Gidean reluctantly pointed up and to the left. “There is a turnoff on the left, just before the place where we met.” He paused. “Only, we do not use that track since the rains. The thick mud is almost dry, but not yet.”

  “I’ll find it.”

  “Best to take the wet-season road. Can I show you the way tomorrow?”

  I realized that communications were more important than handling my gun at this point. “If we’re able to fix my tire in the morning, maybe I’ll head to Katima early to make some calls. How about day after tomorrow, after hours? Will you be free?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Please, call me Catherine.”

  “Yes, Catherine.” He spoke carefully, struggling with the pronunciation of my name.

  “And please keep me posted if you find anything out there tonight.”

  “Will do. We’ll bring your vehicle around in the morning.”

  “Thanks so much. I’d really appreciate that. Of course, I’d be happy to help.”

  “It’s not a problem. Natembo can rim a tire faster than anyone.” Gidean bowed slightly before getting back into the truck.

  As he drove back up the floodplain road in a cloud of dust, I inhaled raggedly. Holding back the panic, I exhaled deep and long as I looked at the overgrown vegetation surrounding the barracks. This would be my home for the next month.

  Chapter 3

  Buried somewhere in the distant reeds, a copper-tailed coucal gave its signature lazy announcement that the day was about to come to a close. Boooh-boo-boo-boo-boo-boo-boo. The sinking sun cast a pink glow onto two large family groups of elephants that emerged from the dense tree li
ne from the north and the southwest. Each group bobbed in a long hurried train across the radiant yellow expanse to reach the river.

  Young males roared and bellowed as they ran far ahead of their families, meeting at the water’s edge to engage in a sparring match with their brethren. Tusks clacked and leather squeaked as two young bulls tested their strength against each other. The rest of the elephants merged into a single aggregation with jubilant screams and deep rumbles.

  Despite the paradisiacal surroundings, the sight of four dead bodies weighed heavily on my mind. The idea of being in this pristine place had lost a bit of its appeal, even though it was exactly the kind of place that Sean and I had fantasized about living in after we left Kruger. A refrigerator, screen windows without holes, and a real bed would have been nice, as far as accommodations, but this was much more remote and wild than the staff quarters at Kruger, where we had been getting tired of the human noise.

  The clouds came to a boil overhead and the vastness of the environment made me feel even more anxious. I was no longer sure of what I was searching for. All along the drive between Kruger and Caprivi, there had been nothing to question. It was an adventure. I was on the road with a destiny—to stop ivory smugglers—and to grieve.

  I shook off the feeling by going inside and getting my things organized before it got too dark. I threw down my bag in the bedroom, hung my mosquito net, and tossed my mess kit in the kitchen. Then I sat on the porch to enjoy what was left of the twilight.

  I took my holster off and removed the ivory chip from my pocket and put it on the table. Given how thin and ridged it was, it had to have come from the top edge of the tooth, the hollow end that contains the large tooth nerve. I was tempted to remove the dirt between the fine ridges, but I left it in case it could provide additional information about the original location of the ivory, based on mineral composition of the soil. I wasn’t intending to remove anything from the crime scene, but since the chip made it into my pocket by accident, I couldn’t resist keeping a DNA sample.

  I took my pistol out of the holster and spun the cylinder slowly, feeling the weight of each click. Click-click-click-click-click-click. One-two-three-four-five-six. I never got comfortable with the explosive noise of firing a .45 mm, but the heavy smooth steel in my hands felt empowering. It was my dad’s pistol of choice. “Colt forty-five. The gun that won the West,” he’d say. Too much firearm for me, but he insisted I have it. Even if it couldn’t necessarily kill a buffalo, it had stopping power. Of course, I couldn’t import a handgun, so once I got a permit in South Africa, Sean had bought the same model for me in Dad’s honor.

  Click-click-click-click-click-click. I rotated the chamber again and held it out in front of me. I hadn’t actually used the gun since Sean died, despite having taken it out earlier, hoping not to have to pull the trigger. I wanted to clean it and keep it loaded. Craig was still working on my Namibian firearm permit, but, considering my encounter on the road, I’d keep it close by, just in case.

  I closed one eye and aimed at a tree in the distance. I brought it back in and fed the oilcloth through the feeder, then slid the cloth down the barrel.

  I hadn’t expected to be in Africa for as long as I had, and yet two years later I still found myself searching for more. Africa had gotten into my blood, but it was only now that I realized I wasn’t looking to quell an addiction anymore. A year after Sean died, I was running from my own ineptitude.

  I needed to stop running. I needed this stint to regain my confidence, despite the challenges and the cool reception by the rangers. It was clear that Eli thought I wouldn’t last longer than a few nights. And after what I had seen on the road, I was having my doubts as well.

  A streak of lightning flashed across a darkening purple sky. Thunder exploded deep over the floodplain as if cracking open the earth to release some primal force. A wall of water approached, and sheeting rain pummeled the corrugated iron roof. My ears were saturated with the deafening rattle of water striking metal as I tried to erase the vision of a bloody faceless head with the brains removed.

  The wet breeze gave me a chill, but I sat there holding the gun until it got dark, thinking about the last visit I’d had with my father. He and I had had coffee around the corner from his house in the Cow Hollow before I moved to South Africa. He was never a fan of cities, but his new wife, Kelly, had inherited her parents’ home in San Francisco, and they’d needed a change. And it was easier for his band to get gigs. He’d invited me for a visit, hoping for another opportunity for Kelly to like me. I think every woman that Dad was with after Mom died saw a little of her in me, and viewed his admiration as a threat, no matter what I did or didn’t do.

  I used the visit as an opportunity to check out the market in Chinatown, as I was in the middle of doing some research for an article for the Associated Press about the illegal trade of exotic animals to the restaurant industry in Hong Kong. It was the only work I could get that was temporary, since I knew I’d be leaving in a few months.

  Never having been to Hong Kong, I thought perusing the markets in Chinatown in San Francisco was the next best way to get a sense of the challenges. The smell is what struck me the most, and then the piles of monitor lizard feet next to chicken feet and tiny birds barbecued and skewered on sticks. The article was focused on endangered snakes. The only evidence of an endangered snake I saw was a python skin stretched over the resonating chamber of an erhu, the Chinese two-stringed violin being played by a street musician.

  My working in the realm of illegal trafficking had made my dad nervous. He’d wanted me back in Yellowstone, where it made him feel safe. But he slowly got used to the idea of me going to Kruger.

  When Sean and I got together, he was excited for me. But then Dad and I fell out of touch after a stupid argument we’d had when Sean and I got engaged. He had never interfered with previous relationships, and I knew the doubt was coming more from Kelly than him, which got me even more upset. So when Sean died, I rejected their offer to come over and help me pick up the pieces.

  Dad’s been feeling guilty ever since. And I’ve been missing him.

  Another cool breeze and a rustle in the bushes above the barracks sent me inside. It was pitch-black, so I opened the door and groped around for the light. I switched it on, and a dim flicker illuminated my path to the stove. I lit a match under the kettle and grabbed a tin mug from my duffel, having picked the honey rooibos package out of the jumble of assorted teas in my tea tin.

  While the water heated, I packed up my gun-cleaning equipment, slid my revolver back in its holster, and put it next to my pillow. Then I made tea, covered three crackers with peanut butter and honey, and got ready for bed.

  Fumbling with matches, I lit a candle on a makeshift table made from a cardboard box I’d found in the closet that had been empty but for the scorpion that dropped out and ran up a crack in the wall and disappeared. My novel and a small round basket sat next to the candle to ground me in this new place. I put my crackers and tea next to them.

  My bedroll sagged within the dented metal cot. My mosquito net was so small that my elbows touched the sides as I tried to let William Boyd take me into his world of Brazzaville Beach and the politics of chimpanzee field research.

  I had wanted the life of a field biologist, but the fieldwork I did in Kruger quickly taught me that what elephants really needed in order to survive was better protection and greater appreciation by those who had to share land with them. Collecting data on male elephant social structure seemed like a luxury now that the illegal ivory trade was heating up again. This job held the promise of doing something concrete to make a difference.

  While I’d been secretly placed at Susuwe to figure out who the players were in the local ivory trade, the job I was assigned seemed simple enough. Fly over the area. Count elephants. Look for anything unusual that might suggest elephant poaching and try to identify the players, while at the same time, help the rangers with elephant mortality data management. Pretty straightforward
stuff. Only I wasn’t supposed to talk about what I found out—eyes and ears only, as Craig said.

  As I lay eating my crackers, sipping tea, and listening to the dripping bathroom tap, I tried to let the words on the page send me off to sleep, but my plan wasn’t working. A flurry of insects hurled themselves at my candle and eventually snuffed it out. I didn’t bother relighting it to read on.

  Instead, I put my tea and crackers down and picked up the small basket from my nightstand and held it in the palm of my hand. Sean had given it to me the day he asked me to marry him. I’d been carrying it everywhere since he died.

  I gently rolled the slippery, tightly woven palm fronds around in my fingers. Opening the small lid by its stem, I tried not to let my mind go where it had a thousand times before. Yet tonight, that place felt safer than replaying the gory events of earlier in the day. With the whine of mosquitoes against my face, I returned to Victoria Falls.

  VICTORIA FALLS, ZAMBIA, ONE YEAR EARLIER

  Sean lay next to me on the grass, holding my hand in his while we soaked our feet in the chilly, fast-flowing Zambezi, listening to the roar of Victoria Falls in front of us. We were on the Zambian side of the falls, up for a long weekend before he took his final trail-ranger exams for Kruger National Park.

  He rolled over, cradled my face in his warm hand, and held my gaze. A strawberry-blond Afrikaner with a torso like a Viking, he smiled as he put a finger over my eyelid and then slowly drew a circle around my eye admiringly. “You have the most beautiful cat-green eyes. How is it that nature invested so much beauty in a single place?”

  I looked at him suspiciously.

  “I’m serious.” He took his hand away and moved his head back to look at me from farther away, sifting my long auburn hair through his fingers. “God, you are the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.”

  “Okay, now I know you’re lying. You told me the sleek elegant line of a female kudu is the most beautiful thing in nature.” I pinched an inch of fat away from my stomach. “I’m hardly an elegant kudu.”

  Sean took my hand away from my stomach and, looking up at me, kissed my belly and then my hand. “Listen, my sleek bokkie,” he said. “I’ve never been more serious in my life.” He gazed at me intently.