Jackal's Dance (45 page)

Silence pervaded the staff quarters, as it did the rangers' rooms and manager's cottage. In the office Megan managed to find keys for the game-viewing vehicles. At the workshop her excitement quickly changed to despair. Not one would start. She knew how to drive but the workings of an engine were a mystery. Fixing the problem was not an option. She didn't even know what it was. Keys belonging to guests, tried on their vehicles
in the car park, produced the same response. Nothing.

Megan had to get help. The phone was dead. Could she walk from Logans Island? What about lions?
A weapon. The lodge had guns.
Find them. Back in Billy's office was a large steel cabinet. Judging by its size, it could well contain the rangers' rifles. Keys? Where would she find them? Megan located a bunch in the top desk drawer. None of them fitted. ‘They wouldn't leave those ones in the office,' she told herself. ‘Look in the manager's house.' That was where she found them, a drawer full of keys, all conveniently tagged and identified. Megan took any marked ‘guns' and one that said ‘safe'. The gun cabinet needed two keys. Inside were the rifles. She removed them one at a time. ‘God, they're heavy!' Hefting each, she chose the lightest. Even so, it seemed to weigh a great deal.

Megan was functioning more efficiently now, taking decisions and acting on them. Unfortunately, she knew next to nothing about guns but was certain that they needed things called bolts. These had none. Her father used an old .22 rifle. He kept the bolt and bullets in a separate place. Try the safe. The heavy door opened easily to reveal, among other things, rifle bolts and boxes of bullets. The third one fitted perfectly. She worked the empty action, dry firing it a few times.
Ammunition. Which?
Each box was marked with its calibre, but turning the rifle every which way, Megan could find no corresponding information. Trying a bullet from each box, the 30.06 slid smoothly into place.
Gingerly she pressed another three rounds into the magazine, pushing them down with a finger while she closed the fully loaded weapon.

On a shelf above were hypodermics and a selection of drugs. Megan removed two vials of morphine and two needles. If infection did set in there would be more pain than she could endure. The drug would help. She considered taking the snakebite kit as well but, in the end, left it where it was. Megan already carried more than she'd have liked. If a snake bit her on top of everything else, she should probably take the hint and die.

Now she had a gun. Experimenting was one thing. The practical reality of firing it, given her physical condition, quite another. But she had to practise. There should be a safety catch. It had to be that little lever near the trigger. Which direction is off? There was only one way to find out. Picking up the weapon, she went outside.

Megan was right-handed so the stock should have snugged against that shoulder, steadied by her other arm and fired using her right forefinger. She couldn't do it. Her wounded arm made it impossible. She tried the other way around. Awkward, less painful but, with her right arm in a sling, she was unable to support the barrel. Lifting the firearm in her left hand, Megan fired from the hip. Well, that was the plan. She rested the stock against her tummy. With the barrel pointed vaguely towards the pan and waving around like a demented windmill, she pulled the trigger. The noise was deafening, recoil punching the butt halfway to her
backbone. ‘Ouch! Shit!' Dropping the weapon, she doubled over with pain. Despite her discomfort, Megan suspected that if the stock had been against bone, the pain could have been worse. If she needed to fire again the best bet might be a shot into the air, hoping that the noise alone was enough. It certainly had been for her. Megan's ears were still ringing. Straightening, she retrieved the rifle.

Okay
, she thought.
So now we know the safety catch is off. Should I leave it that way? No. Daddy always said how dangerous that is.

All of this had taken time. It was nearly four-thirty. Too late for self-drive vehicles to be this far north. She might as well spend a night at the lodge and set off first thing in the morning. The rest would probably be good for her. Although urgency was an issue, the terrorists had already killed those they didn't need. The others, and Megan had to assume they were being held hostage, would be kept alive. Bit hard to demand a ransom for those already dead.

‘Eat, then sleep.' She was talking aloud to herself, the sound somehow comforting. If she didn't keep busy and focused, panic would set in.

In the kitchen Megan devoured a chunk of cheese, two apples and drank some milk. Painkillers and antibiotics, two of each, followed. The silence was uncanny. It would be dark soon. She'd done everything possible for herself. The need to rest overrode everything. ‘Can I sleep here? A bed would be more comfortable than my tent but what
about that dead body? Come on, girl, it can't hurt you.' Megan opted for bungalow one. Its proximity to the main building was somehow reassuring. The bed looked so inviting. She crawled under the duvet. ‘I won't be able to sleep,' she told herself. ‘Too much in my head. At least I can rest.' The events of the day, both physical and emotional, had taken their toll. Megan's system went on strike. She was deeply asleep within a few minutes.

That terrible night deep in the bush seemed endless. Sleep was virtually impossible for the captives. Some managed to catnap, but not many. Only Thea, snuggled back into Sean, found any real peace. She was so exhausted it became impossible for her to stay awake. Troy would have slept but for an overriding determination to escape. He kept twisting his wrists, trying to loosen the lashings. It got him nowhere. ‘Can you try to untie the knots?' he whispered to Angela.

She wriggled around until they were back to back.

Her scuffling alerted one of the men guarding them. Dozing off an excess of alcohol he raised his head and squinted in their direction. Satisfied that it was only someone trying to get comfortable, sleep soon returned.

Fletch saw what Troy had on his mind and quietly asked Caitlin if she could do the same. It was no good. Their captors had knotted the rope in such a way as to make it virtually impossible to get free. ‘There's still one hope,' Troy whispered to
Fletch. ‘The three who . . . ‘He could not bring himself to say the word. ‘They might not be so tightly tied. These bastards were pretty drunk when they brought them back.'

Walter, Jutta and Josie lay about a metre away.

‘Not Jutta,' Angela breathed softly. ‘She's still in shock.'

‘I know. I wouldn't anyway. She's been through too much already.'

Angela took in a shuddering breath of surprise. It was her firmly held belief that men had no idea of, or sympathy for, the pain and anguish they caused when some basic impulse made them lose control and abuse women. She felt Troy lean forward.

‘Ssstt!' he hissed.

Josie's head raised off the ground.

‘See if Kalila and James can untie each other's hands. Pass it on.'

Josie attracted the attention of Billy. The message finally reached its intended target. In doing so, another dosing guard came fully awake, instantly suspicious. There was too much rustling and whispering. Ignoring the inevitable hangover, he rose and inspected everyone's bindings. Satisfied that all was in order the fireside beckoned, and despite his best efforts not to succumb, sleep soon claimed him back.

Both Kalila and James were in a great deal of pain. Now that the horror was over, at least for one night, embarrassment had set in. They had been publicly degraded, their privacy violated. Why
them? Why had the others been spared? Questions, coupled with spirits so cowed that optimism had to be the furthest thing from their minds, meant that when the message did get through, neither was inclined to try for very long. Word came back. ‘We can't.'

Dawn broke and the miserable group were still bound hand and foot. In the cold light of day, their plight seemed far worse than yesterday. The men's unshaven faces and bleary eyes, the women's unkempt hair and tear-streaked cheeks, accentuated what was a totally desperate situation. Jutta's, Kalila's, Josie's and James' state of semi-nudity emphasised a terrifying probability that in a matter of hours it would be the turn of others. Despite everything, however, their bodies needed sustenance. Hunger and thirst were beginning to become another problem.

Two terrorists moved among them, untying hands and feet. Leering faces and obscene gestures a further confirmation that none of the men holding them captive had any sense of remorse or conscience. In the minds of these rebels, their prisoners were nothing more than a means of extorting money. Human rights, if the soldiers had even heard of such a thing, were of no consideration whatsoever. Chester requested food for everyone. They were given water but nothing else.

As soon as he was untied Fletch retrieved the garments discarded down by the fireplace. His actions were watched with amusement but no-one tried to stop him. He returned them in silence.
Words were useless. Kalila grabbed at hers and dressed quickly. James turned his back to dress. Those who watched saw what he couldn't. His buttocks were smeared with dried blood and encrusted with sand and dirt. Josie pulled her clothes on with quick, almost furtive movements. Jutta needed to be helped by her father.

Troy massaged feeling back into Angela's arms. She permitted him to touch her without a murmur, perceiving no threat, simply a desire to help.

‘Is that better?'

‘A bit. Thanks.'

He rubbed his own arms, grimacing as feeling returned. Next to him, Fletch was stamping his feet and flexing strain out of aching limbs. ‘Tonight if they tie us up, try to keep your wrists slightly apart.'

Fletch nodded.

‘Tonight!' Near hysteria sounded in Angela's voice. ‘It'll be too late by then.'

Troy looked at the fear on her face. Whatever she had gone through, and he had no doubt that it must have been every bit as traumatic as what the little German girl endured, he sensed that Angela's vulnerable mind would not survive a second time. With nothing more than a need to comfort her, Troy held out his arms. ‘Come here.'

She saw genuine concern and, with no hesitation, fell into them.

He held her closely.

Angela cried against his chest, trembling so much Troy thought she might fall over.

‘I'm sorry for what I said on the bus,' he whispered in her ear. ‘I didn't understand.'

She shook her head, sniffing and snuffling, her hands clutching at the sleeves of his shirt. ‘I'd rather die, I'd rather die, I'd –'

‘Ssshhh,' he soothed. She had tapped into the soft centre he usually reserved for four-legged animals. Angela was like a frightened and trembling puppy, one who knew nothing but cruelty. Troy's heart went out to her. His hands stroked her back as he held her. ‘If it's at all possible, we'll get away today.'

‘How?' It was a cry of the deepest despair.

‘I don't know,' he said honestly. ‘But believe me, Angela, if I have to die in the process, I'll do everything I can to stop those bastards hurting you.' He meant every word. Keeping Angela safe had become the focus of his attention, the most important thing in his life. Surprisingly, she had given him strength, something to work towards.

Angela pulled away suddenly. ‘What's that?' Her cheek, resting against his chest, had encountered something hard.

Troy felt the pocket of his shirt. It was the one he'd been wearing when the rogue elephant found them. The heavy bush shirt had been casually thrown at him when he was ordered to dress. The pocket bore the manufacturer's label, a leather shield sewn onto the fabric. The small glass phials were still snug in their special carrying pouch. ‘Rompun,' he whispered. ‘I'd forgotten about it.'

‘How much?'

‘Four ampules.'

Angela stared at him, eyes registering hope. ‘Troy –'

‘Way ahead of you.' Excitement surged through him. ‘Hey, Fletch.'

Fletch looked over.

Troy jerked his head. ‘Here.'

Fletch moved closer.

‘I've got two hundred mills of tranquilliser in my pocket.'

‘Jesus!'

‘You thinking what I am?'

‘The booze. How much would it take?'

Troy calculated quickly. ‘Half an ampule per bottle should do it.'

Fletch and Angela nodded agreement.

‘Should knock them out for about an hour.'

‘That's all very well but we'd still have to get free,' Angela pointed out.

‘They've got knives. If we could just get hold of one. It's worth a try. Fletch, you stay close to me. Somehow I'll doctor some of the bottles. When we stop tonight it must be your pack they open.' Troy gave Angela a brief squeeze. ‘It's not foolproof, Angie, but it's better than nothing.'

She managed a wan smile. The odds were still against them.

Sean looked with concern into Thea's face. She was pale but a degree of determination glowed in her eyes. Mentally at least, she was bearing up. ‘How do you feel?'

‘Weak.' She looked down at his shirt which was
still tied around her waist. ‘But a bit better. Sort of exposed, though. Where are my jeans?'

He retrieved them from the bush where he'd draped them to dry. ‘They're still damp. So are your shoes and socks. At least they're clean.'

With no outward show of embarrassment, Thea pulled them on.

Sean claimed his shirt back. Thea's blood had stained some of it but he wasn't bothered. ‘I have to ask. Are you still bleeding?'

‘A little.'

‘If it gets worse let me know.'

‘Yes, Dr Hudson.'

Sean smiled slightly. Her humour was another good sign. ‘I mean it. Though God knows what I can do about it.'

‘You'll think of something.' Thea zipped up her jeans. ‘Don't worry about me, I'll manage.'

‘I'll help.'