And what might be even better than one of his own rifles, if he had to be here in the Serengeti right now, would be the elephant gun that Patton had rented for him when he had taken care of his hunting license. The license allowed him twenty-five plains animals, ten rabbits, as many birds as he wanted, and a hippo. He had no plans to bring home anywhere near that many dead animals. He sure as hell had no need of a hippo. （God, how many people showed up to see the taxidermist at Zimmerman’s in Nairobi hoping to have the gargantuan head of a hippo dipped and shipped?）
He watched the men throw the bodies of the two dead rangers and the dead guide into the back of one of the lorries.
He wasn’t sure how he and Patton had gotten separated or where the hunter was now. Hadn’t they both gone behind this baobab to pee so the women could use the toilet tent before setting out for the day? But then all hell had broken loose, and so much was a blur.
He’d heard the pop of the guns and one of the Land Rovers taking off—and then screeching to a stop. He’d seen the rest of the safari guests herded into another vehicle at gunpoint and considered emerging from behind the tree with his hands up. Surrendering to these…kidnappers. That’s what he supposed this was. A kidnapping. But he didn’t believe he was hiding here out of cowardice. He thought, for better or worse, that he was being brave. His plan, as much as he had one, was that once the porters, working at gunpoint, had finished loading the truck and everyone had left, he would track down some Maasai villagers and then together they would find more rangers and figure out how to rescue Katie Barstow and her entourage. They’d passed a Maasai boma yesterday when they had been skirting the edge of the reserve, and it had been well into the afternoon. That meant it might be walkable. It was to the southwest. He would try to get there.
This all assumed, of course, that he didn’t get himself eaten. Or that they didn’t spot him behind this tree and shoot him for trying to evade capture.
He guessed Patton’s tent was about forty yards away. They hadn’t searched it for provisions or torn it down yet.
And so he made a decision: he would sneak to that tent first and see if any of Patton’s guns were there. Most were in one of the lorries, but not all. Maybe the rifle that fired the .375 H&H Magnum would be in the tent. Or, if not that one, he presumed the .38 Smith & Wesson might. A single weapon wouldn’t help much with the men back here at the camp: there were at least three of them still here and probably a few more he hadn’t spotted. But it might give him a fighting chance against any one of the creatures out here in the savanna that would eat him as happily as it would a solitary klipspringer or oribi it found alone in this endless ocean of grass.
* * *
.?.?.
Just yesterday, he had been in the third of the four rows of seats in the Land Rover, Terrance Dutton right beside him and Reggie Stout in the back. Katie Barstow and her husband were in the second row. They were traveling along the Mara River because Juma had heard that wildebeest were massing on the northern bank and there might be a crossing. But now Katie was pointing at the roll of toilet paper that the guide kept, among other critical provisions, in the front passenger seat to his left. For a movie star—for a woman who’d grown up in Manhattan—her utter lack of squeamishness impressed the hell out of him. But, of course, this whole safari was her idea, and he’d known her long enough to see that she was, as the movie mags liked to say, “as down to earth as your kids’ favorite babysitter.” Reggie knew as well as he did how toxic Katie’s childhood had in fact been, though she always insisted that her older brother had borne the brunt of it. Still, Reggie was the one who had masterminded the public persona of Katie Barstow. Sure, people in the know realized that she was Roman and Glenda Stepanov’s kid: a Broadway pedigree and serious Upper West Side scratch. But in Seattle or Tallahassee or Indianapolis, she was just that sweet, innocent, good-natured girl you hoped your son would date.
They stopped and Juma climbed out of the vehicle and looked around for animals. When it seemed safe, he nodded, and Katie grabbed the roll of TP and disappeared behind some thorn brush.
Peter knew that his first wife would never have put up with this nonsense. Neither would his second.
He stared at the ceaseless blue sky and squinted, enfeebled and enervated by the sun. The air was thick and heavy, and in the distance he saw a copse of trees, serried like soldiers. He couldn’t believe that he’d forgotten his hat once more at the camp. His forehead had been red yesterday afternoon. If he weren’t careful, it would hurt like hell by this evening. On the bright side? All this sun made his client even prettier. Yes, Katie had been an ingenue and always been seen as girl-next-door wholesome, but she still had just enough Stepanov inside her to add a pinch of exoticism to the look. It was, Peter realized, an unspoken part of her appeal.