White Bone (22 page)

W
itnessing the dismemberment of a human finally proved too much. Grace backed away from the edge of the dry wash, moved into the SUV, out of the sun and away from the predators. She had no intention of attempting to interrupt their symbiotic system. Lions, spotted hyenas, black-backed jackals, hooded vultures, each appeared in order, seemingly from out of nowhere, each taking their turn at the trough. It was a thing of beauty, a thing of horror.

How long did it take to strip a man to bone? she’d wondered. The body at the bottom of the wash required only ninety minutes.

When at last she dared, Grace slipped over the edge and slid down to the dry river bottom, waving her arms and scaring away the vultures, though the big birds didn’t go far. They flapped and settled only meters away from the mangled bones and blood, spread around in an unimaginable scene of horror. There was nothing left, not even the piece of mirror Grace had lost. To the naked eye, even
Leebo’s clothing was gone. A few scraps of cloth remained, a belt, one sandal.

She used the stick end of her spear to move pieces of bone and fabric, to search for the ignition fob. She envisioned grids, searched each painstakingly. Halfway through, she no longer saw the gore, only colors and shapes. Thirty minutes. An hour. No fob.

In all likelihood, she thought, it had gone down a throat with a bite of clothing. It would appear in scat sometime tomorrow. The crushing defeat drove her to start again.

Grid by grid. Another hour. Two. Eventually she turned away; the SUV, so full of promise, had ended up being nothing but a tease.

Other thoughts came to her. One stayed: She had never killed a fellow human being before. She felt bad that it felt so good. Hated that she’d enjoyed it.

None of that mattered now. She’d done it. The driver was no more. She could feel the mirror slicing his arm, the plunge of the blade into his gut. She moved back toward the SUV, the guttural sound of vultures picking at bones rising from the wash behind her. A few of the birds flew away, lifting out of the pit to reach the trees cluttered with their kind. All waiting their turn.

Grace sipped the dead man’s tea, and thanked him silently for it.

But it was hard to stay calm. She pounded on the steering wheel, cursed in Chinese and screamed into the cab so loudly she hurt her own ears.

With her cry, some of the vultures startled out of the trees. They rose nearly in unison, flew to the next tree and settled in for the long wait.

Y
ou remember me?” Knox asked into his mobile, returned to him by one of Koigi’s men. Somewhere along the way, Olé had handed off his jacket and duffel bag recovered from the crappy hotel, the act of which implied a connection between all these men that Knox found unsettling.

“You ask this every time, Mr. John. Please!”

“I want to hire a private plane. Single prop. A bush pilot. You understand?”

“Why do you call if you think me stupid?”

“Tonight.”

“It will be expensive.”

Knox didn’t have the kind of cash required. He would have to hope for the Koigi/Winston alliance to supply it. “Call me back with the pilot’s number.”

“I will negotiate this for you.”

“I’m sure you would. The pilot. This number, within the hour.”

Ending the call, he spoke to a concerned Koigi. “I will need cash. A good deal of it.”

Koigi nodded. “I will confirm with Mr. Winston.”

“And we’ll need a reasonable landing strip,” Knox said. “Something a pilot can check on a map and see will work. But not the strip we’re going to ask him to use. We radio that location once we determine if I’ve been betrayed.”

“You’ve done this before.” Koigi smiled for the first time, suddenly impressed with Knox.

I
t took her several tries to get it right, but once she did, Grace filled her mouth with the infamous “Nectar of the Gods.” Warm milk seeped from her lips and ran down her chin; her tongue flashed sensually through the warm liquid, lapping it up, coaxing it into the back of her throat and coddling it between her tonsils before a gentle swallow and the long, slow trickle toward her empty belly.

The cow stood complacently, chewing on a bit of nothingness, some dry grass forcing itself up between rocks. Grace was bent and twisted partially beneath the beast. She squeezed the teat again. A spray of milk shot out and blasted the back of her throat.

Grace had heard all the jokes about praying to God and God never answering. The punch line was that the one doing the praying never opened his or her eyes to see that God had been responding all along—they’d been too resistant to the idea to see the opportunities before them.

For herself, she had no trouble understanding and acknowledging the source of her good fortune; she’d found the cow just standing there, all puckered body and protruding ribs, but a full udder. Might as well have had a neon sign pointing in its direction.

Grace drank until she threw up, then drank some more to wash down the foul taste in her mouth. When she was finished, the cow ambled away. As it did, a curtain to the landscape behind seemed to open itself.

Two Maasai herdsmen in their late teens or early twenties stood not ten meters away, an African version of
American Gothic
. The taller one held a ten-foot aluminum spear at his side, its sharpened tip stuck into the cracked earth. The other was significantly shorter. Their faces were as drawn as the cow’s belly, their black eyes oversized and haunting. The tall one wore a tattered and stained white T-shirt bearing the Nike swoosh and
JUST DO IT
in bright red letters, below which a yellow
shuka
wrapped his waist and hung to his knees. The smaller, sturdier boy wore a red
shuka
shoulder to calf. They were barefoot and carried no sacks or bags. Both carried machetes from ropes lashed around their waists and empty plastic water bottles hung over their shoulders on chains of rubber bands.

The tall man’s eyes were cold and distrusting. Fear and curiosity marked the smaller one, who did nothing to conceal his prominent erection, pressing up against the
shuka
. Grace remained squatting, bare-chested, absolutely still, her makeshift skirt riding high and showing more than she would have liked, her mud-and-dung-crusted skin giving her the appearance of a female shaman, or a wild spirit from the afterworld. But at her core she was an outnumbered, naked woman with a broken spear, a pair of antenna whips and a lumpy bag over her shoulder.

Taking a chance, she bared her teeth, hopped side to side and hissed like a snake. The smaller boy stepped back. It was the Nike
man she was going to have to contend with; he held his ground, the spear immobile, and smiled, entertained by her antics. The look in his quiet eyes was unmistakable. So was his white-knuckle grip on the spear.

She continued her chimpanzee dance, appreciating the continued retreat of the smaller man. Winning the numbers game, she focused on fight or flight. To run invited the spear.

Wild and alive with adrenaline, drained by the horror of the driver’s death, she elected for the unexpected: to charge the man with the spear. He stepped back to hoist the weapon. Grace knocked it aside with the front of her stick, while thrusting the butt end into the man’s chest.

She hit him hard in the solar plexus, stunning his lungs, then head-butted his right shoulder, sending a stinger down his arm. He dropped the spear. Her right knee found his crotch; her right elbow his jaw. She had a rhythm now, her right limbs punishing his left side, her left hand used to slap his head back to face her. She screamed, a terrifying, painful wail that seemed to come from elsewhere.

Her opponent found his machete; it took both her hands on his forearm to prevent him from hacking down. This freed his left hand. He threw a punch, full force into her bare breast. Grace’s knees went out from under her.

He was atop her then, fighting to pin her arms while he held the machete to her throat. He shouted, and Grace felt the other man’s hands on her legs. A split-second decision pushed her again to the unexpected. She fought every instinct, every natural response, and followed a former instructor’s teachings. She went limp, dropped her head, her eyelids closed as she feigned unconsciousness.

Count to two. One . . . two . . .
She felt the man’s hold on her relax ever so slightly. Enough. Grace jerked her head toward the handle of the machete, avoiding its blade, and sat up sharply, kicking the smaller
man in the face. Her teeth bared, she sank her jaw into the neck of the one atop her and bit down. She locked her jaw, his salty, sour flesh in her mouth. He let go of her arms. She thumb-gouged both his eyes and rolled, dumping the bellowing man off her.

She grabbed the spear. The boy ran away hard and fast. She stabbed the tip of the spear into the writhing man’s foot, ensuring he couldn’t follow her.

The cow had hardly moved. Grace saw the herd now—brown dots in the distance. The two men had been chasing down a stray.

Carrying the spear, she jogged off, following the boy.
When panicked,
she thought,
we all head home.

B
ishoppe waved from the passenger seat of the single-engine Cessna.

Despite his making the arrangements, Knox couldn’t believe the pilot had allowed the boy to come along.

Koigi and Knox occupied a well-hidden vehicle with a view of the roadway where the plane had landed.

“The boy is yours to deal with,” Koigi said before Knox could ask. “You will not leave him with me.”

Knox accepted the money and once again shook Koigi’s hand. “I hope I won’t have to see you down there,” Knox said.

“It is my wish as well.”

Knox thanked him a final time, grabbed hold of his duffel and made for the waiting plane. His ears rang from the roar of the blade as the pilot turned into the wind on the roadway. Despite the noise, Knox turned in the seat to address Bishoppe, who’d quickly climbed into the back.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

“I want to be paid,” the boy said, smiling widely. “If I don’t join you, how do I know I will be paid?”

The plane took off, charging through the black of night, a waning moon rising on the horizon. Knox pulled on the cumbersome headset, adjusted the microphone and waited for the pilot, a weathered South African in his sixties, to complete his procedures. They leveled off at five thousand feet. Knox spoke softly into the microphone, so only the pilot would hear him.

“Our destination is Oloitokitok. And someplace between here and there, where we can drop the boy.”

The pilot nodded. “There’s a grass strip used by the Del Monte pineapple farm in the village of Thika. North of the Mathare slum. The boy can easily return to Nairobi in the morning. I didn’t want to bring him.”

Knox glanced over his shoulder. Bishoppe, unable to hear the discussion, looked deeply concerned.

“We will land at either Chyulu Hills or Amboseli, not Oloitokitok,” the pilot added.

Knox didn’t appreciate people messing with his plans or delaying him. If Grace was being moved, it would be at night. That gave him less than eight hours. “Oloitokitok.”

“It’s not safe. The village is too near the border. It’s policed. Small planes like mine are searched for drugs and contraband. It’s random, but much more regular at night. These arrangements we’ve made . . . my transponder’s off, as you wanted. I’m giving you as much radio silence as possible. And I’m taking your money, gladly. But I won’t go to prison for you. Grass strips are okay. Roadways, fine. But nothing bigger.”

Knox unclenched his fists, roiling at the thought of delay. “I will need transportation.”

“The lodge can supply you.”

“You’ll radio them?”

“When we’re closer. Our mobiles will have signals intermittently if I fly the roads.”

“Do it. And I’d like you to ask some questions about the lodge.”

They flew for ten minutes. Just the flashing lights on the wings, the glow of the instruments, the reflections off the glass and the pitch-black night outside. Rarely did Knox see a single light below.

“How do you know the boy?” Knox asked.

“Bishoppe? He’s an errand runner for a friend of mine. Keeps tabs on everything at the airport. He’s a good boy, just a little aggressive. One of so many in Nairobi, but he’s wise beyond his years, eh?”

“He’s helped me out. This is the last I’ll see of him.”

The pilot looked over. Said nothing.

“Are you familiar with the Oloitokitok Clinic?”

“Very. I flew its biggest contributor more than once, when she missed a Safarilink or needed a direct flight.”

“She?”

“An American, like yourself. From Baltimore, Maryland. I’m told it was very old money. Chemicals, I think.”

“It closed recently, the clinic.”

“Yes. Her doing, I imagine. Told me she accounted for over thirty percent of the funding. But the current government wouldn’t support her. Claimed the place was servicing mostly Tanzanians. It’s not true, but that’s politics for you.”

“Why would she withdraw her funding?”

“Controversy. The usual for Kenya.”

Knox wanted to believe the clinic had closed because of Grace—that Grace had had time to celebrate a victory. Something about the vast black night absorbing the small plane made her situation seem
all the more grim. He’d seen it in Koigi’s eyes, felt it in the man’s handshake: you don’t fuck with men like Xin Ha and Guuleed. Grace had made one too many hacks, one too many connections, pulling a thread between the clinic, a trio of executions and the funding of insurgents.

Sooner than Knox expected, the pilot radioed and the plane began its descent. The boy leaned forward.

“Check your belt please,” the pilot advised.

The strip was lit dimly: a motorcycle headlight at one end, a man waving a flashlight on the other. The landing was rough.

Knox climbed out and allowed the boy to follow before saying anything. He didn’t want to wrestle him out of the backseat.

On the rough strip of grass, he handed Bishoppe a roll of bills. “You can get into the city from here. This should be enough to help your sister for some time. Use it for that, you understand?”

“You’re getting rid of me?” Despondent and upset, the boy tried for puppy eyes. “I’ve helped you more than once.”

Knox wasn’t buying. “It’s too dangerous. If I’m caught, you would be considered an accomplice.”

“I don’t care! We are a team! Take me with you. It is my decision, Mr. John. Please!”

“You stay here. You’re a good man, Bishoppe.”

“How can you do this, Mr. John? You and all the others, just like the men with my sister. Hello. Goodbye. Get lost.”

Knox’s chest knotted. “Take care of your sister like you’ve taken care of me, and she’ll be fine.”

“I can help you.”

“You already have, Bishoppe. Trust me, you already have.”

Tremulously, the boy backed away from the plane. Knox climbed into the seat, pulled the door shut and turned its handle. The act
itself seemed so final. He understood the limitations from here. Grace was being held in or near Oloitokitok. She was being returned to an unidentified location. Knox didn’t know the area, speak the language or have any backup.

He waved to the boy. Bishoppe did not wave back. Instead, he lifted his hand and flipped Knox his middle finger.