Rhinoceros Summer Read online

  Jack laughed again. It sounded like an old man’s guffaw—someone impressed with his own joke.

  “I just don’t know.”

  Paul set the photo down on his desk. “This all sounds like you trying to talk yourself out of experiencing something few men can even dream of. What’s the real deal?”

  “Well…I was talking to my son. He’s working as some sort of stage lot person in Hollywood. He does a little hunting here and there. Mostly boar hunting. He did some Internet research stuff, and well…I know your deal is a good one, but you don’t have the greatest reputation and seeing as how he could find something cheaper in South Africa, or even Zambia, I thought I might switch things around.”

  Money was already stretched to the limit, but he couldn’t afford to let Jack go to someone else. Especially if Jack had a contact in Hollywood.

  Paul wanted Lydia to capture footage of him green hunting that rhino. He had planned to find some way to let the underground hunting world know about it. A guy from Hollywood might be just the thing.

  “How about I cut my price another fifteen percent?” He saw his profits drying up, like a pond turning into little more than a mud hole in the heat of summer. A ten-day safari might cost the client tens of thousands of dollars. Paul would be lucky to see half that. And out of his share, he had to pay the government for his hunting bloc, the upkeep for his resort, his employees’ salaries, food, travel, venom antidotes, malaria pills. The government also demanded he help fund local development projects like paved roads, airstrips, schools. Then there were all the little things a client might demand like fresh laundry, foreign cigars, a particular brand of liquor. The demands could be endless.

  Most everyone had a website. Paul couldn’t afford one. Most everyone had half a dozen guides, but after losing several to various disputes over the last few years, he was Blue Nile Safari’s only professional hunter. Paul had a reputation in the hunting industry here. A reputation that would sink him if he let it.

  “I don’t know,” Jack said.

  “No one hunts like I do.”

  “I want to say all right. Well, hold on here. Hold on while I think this through.”

  Paul pressed his hand harder into the desk wood and looked for inspiration at the three shelves of hunting books that lined one wall of his office. He might not talk like he was well read or educated, but it was a deliberate choice.

  Walter Fritz was the one who had first introduced Paul to the hunting world. His first lesson to Paul had been the importance of providing a hunting experience that made the client feel like a modern-day Hemingway or Roosevelt—a cowboy shooting up the place, proving his manhood.

  Millions of years had gone into shaping the human male’s basic drive. Women were the soft, the soothing, the mothers. Men were the hunters, the glory seekers, the conquerors. It was bred into a man’s genes, brain, hormones—civilization couldn’t make that disappear no matter how hard it tried, though it sure seemed like civilization had won whenever Paul came across someone like Jack, someone who thought hunting meant sitting in a blind with a duck whistle.

  Paul took a deep breath to prevent himself from yelling. Jack could just hang up the phone and be done with it if he wasn’t careful. “Life is what you make of it, Jack. You already put down a thousand-dollar deposit. You gonna go hunt some ducks instead of elephant? You gonna show all your buddies a pretty bird’s wing instead of a pair of ivory tusks?”

  “Listen, Paul. I think we have a deal here, if you do as you said, and lower your price, but let’s make it twenty percent. I’ll find a way to manage this pain in my back. Get some pills from the doctor or something.”

  Paul almost swore into the phone. He doubted Jack had any back pain. He doubted this was anything more than trying to shave a few more bucks off an already ridiculously low day rate. But he was also pretty sure Jack wasn’t lying about his Hollywood son.

  “All right. Though I can’t do anything about the trophy fees. That’s government regulation.” He’d find another way to pay the bills. He always did.

  “Fine. That’s just fine.”

  Paul went through the rest of the booking details, then slammed the phone as soon as the click signaled Jack had hung up.

  He muttered a few insults Jack’s way, then rested his forehead on the desk. His head was pounding now.

  The phone’s ring startled Paul into another burst of cursing. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had to deal with so many phone calls at once. This much paperwork forced him to be nice with people he’d rather lay out with a left hook.

  “Hello?”

  “May I speak with Paul Hunter?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is David Bundi from the Wildlife Division.”

  If Barry had talked after all, he’d hunt him down and kill him. “Yeah?”

  “This is a follow-up call regarding the Wildlife Division’s scheduled audit of Blue Nile Safari. We will be sending out an employee who will compile research to add to a Department statistics report. This is a follow-up call to ensure you have made the appropriate preparations for his room and board.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The letter with the concerning details was sent more than four weeks ago.”

  Paul bent over and halfheartedly shuffled through the papers now littering the floor. “I received no letter.” Well, it was probably in the office somewhere, maybe it had flown over by the door. “This is extremely inconvenient. I have not prepared—”

  “This is not a request.”

  Paul clenched his teeth until his jaw hurt. He did not need some government man tagging along while he engaged in less than legal activities.

  “You will be reimbursed for any lodging and food expenses.”

  Paul considered his options. There were a few guys in the Division who he knew could be bought. Not that he had any more money for bribes. But if he made promises of money to come, it might be enough to keep their mouths shut. “Who are you sending?”

  “Game Officer Caleb Morrell will arrive next Tuesday. In the meantime, I will make sure another official letter is mailed to you for your records. Good day.” The phone clicked.

  Paul didn’t move from his office chair. Didn’t return the phone to its cradle. Didn’t shift his stare from the wood grain of his desk.

  It couldn’t be.

  He hadn’t heard the name Morrell in almost twenty years. It had been Abby’s last name.

  He reset the phone, then sat back in his chair.

  He did not like surprises. Especially when they came in the form of a twenty-one-year-old son he hadn’t spoken to in five years. A son who had changed his last name to that of his dead mother. Maybe Paul should feel flattered. He’d changed his own name from Besly to Hunter once he decided to stay in Tanzania. Walter Fritz had called it Paul’s conversion name. Caleb was just following in his footsteps. Paul should be proud.

  He bit back a harsh laugh.

  He opened the drawer to stuff in the Gibb family photo, then stopped. He stared at a simple black frame and its cardboard backing.

  He’d put that picture in the little used drawer almost five years ago so he wouldn’t have to remember. But he did. It’s why he avoided this office, the entire resort, like it was infected. No need to turn it over to see how proud Caleb had looked standing over his first lion kill, his hair stringy and greased with sweat, long enough to push behind his ears. The double rifle leaning against his shoulder. The light shadow of hair beginning to surface on his chin. The collared shirt rolled up at the sleeves to expose decent biceps even at fifteen years old.

  In the picture, Caleb smiled to someone sideways from the camera—his blue eyes the color of washed-out jeans, always looking away from Paul.

  Now Caleb would arrive on government orders and show Paul he had most surely not grown up into the man that picture promised.

  Caleb, his son, a government man. Paul swore into the empty office. Betraying his father. Betray
ing everything Paul had ever tried to do for a baby plopped into his arms after Abby had died from hemorrhaging.

  They’d dared not go to a private Tanzanian hospital. They feared people back in the States would find out and cut them off from friends and family and church and college.

  Well, he’d cut himself off after that anyways. He wrote something about going deep into the bush for missionary work and then disappeared from that world with little more than a PO box to remind people he’d ever been alive.

  Lydia’s picture had showed up in that PO box with a note about her growing interest in photography. Nothing special about that. He’d stuffed the card in with the rest of the paper crap that littered his office and then spent a couple of hours trying to find it again months later after everyone else had turned him down.

  She was coming with two cameras. She would pay her own way. He turned it into a silent mantra to calm himself.

  His office door creaked.

  He looked up, furious that there wasn’t money to oil the hinges. Furious that his private office had turned into a public watering hole. Furious at this Jack Hellerman guy twisting Paul out of more money. Furious at his son for, well, for being his son. Everyone seemed ready to take what they wanted and dump their shit on him for trade.

  Abiba entered the office and stopped on the other side of the desk from Paul, her dark skin taunting him with its glow. The animal heads interspersed the old black and white photos of long-dead hunters surrounded her like an oversized crown.

  She had always looked young for her age, a rare quality in a society where a woman’s beauty often faded early from prostitution or hard work or both.

  “Msaka, what are you planning?”

  What wasn’t he planning would be a better question. He pointed a finger at a small line of Swahili script printed on the edge of the fabric she wore. “What does your kanga say today?”

  Abiba didn’t bother to look at where he was pointing. “Siri ni ya wawili,” she said.

  “A secret is that of two people,” Paul translated. “Did you wear that on purpose today?”

  Abiba narrowed her eyes. “I wear what I want.”

  Paul sighed. If he pressed any further she was liable to make him regret it. She liked proving she was better than him.

  “You must tell Caleb the girl come,” Abiba said.

  Paul snorted in contempt. “How did you know about that?”

  “I tell you about letter three weeks ago.”

  He couldn’t remember anything about a letter, but he did remember Abiba coming into his office about three weeks before with some paper in her hand, though he was too busy attempting a kiss. She’d punched him flat in the mouth and threw the paper at his face. He’d laughed and wiped the blood from his teeth as she walked away without another word, continuing the cold rejection she’d handed out ever since Caleb left.

  “You let me worry about Caleb,” he said.

  She frowned and crossed her arms over her breasts. “He will think you force Lydia to him.”

  Paul had trained his body to face down a charging Cape buffalo without flinching. Even still, his eyes widened at Abiba’s words. He remained silent for a moment, thinking about how he might use this to his advantage.

  If Caleb found out about the northern white, Paul’s chance at making money off it would be over. Going into the protected reserve as he and Barry had done was illegal enough. Caleb finding out that Paul planned for his clients to green hunt the rhino while Lydia captured it on video—that was career suicide. It would be easy to make Caleb believe it was Neela all over again. If he made Caleb angry enough, Caleb would leave and Paul could green hunt the rhino as often as he pleased.

  “I will handle my son my way.” Abiba’s lips tightened and a hard look came into her eyes.

  He’d paid Abiba to nurse Caleb alongside her own daughter after Abby had died. It wasn’t his fault Abiba’s daughter, Neela, had grown wild and uncontrollable. When at sixteen years old, Neela had come to him asking for a way to make money, he did what he thought was right.

  Neela was a girl looking for trouble who didn’t care about school, not when a couple of her friends were making what seemed like easy money with their suitors’ gifts and attention and telling her to just try it, it wasn’t so bad, you could make them wear protection and still go to school and not be stuck as a pseudo-maid out in the wilderness.

  He had planned for it to be as horrible an experience as he could make it to scare her off prostitution for good. He’d taken matters into his own hands, figuring Caleb and Abiba would trust he was doing what was best. Wasn’t he the makeshift head of this family? He did what he did for all three of them, but they didn’t see it that way. He tried to explain, but neither Abiba nor Caleb believed him, and Neela had lied.

  Well, he would use it to his advantage now.

  Abiba still waited across the desk, her silence a laying on of guilt that fiercened Paul’s pounding head. He ran a hand through his hair. He knew she must be thinking—Paul is not a real bwana. His business is failing, he cannot pay the porters to set up his tent, clients are not hiring him, he cannot find the nunda, and when he does, his ‘big rifle’ misses and his clients go home with empty wallets and hands.

  She looked at him as if she already knew about the dozens of lies he planned to tell. Had already told.

  “You don’t know a damn thing,” he said.

  “Think I no see? I understand.”

  He pointed towards the open office door. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

  Abiba uncrossed her arms and left as if he meant nothing to her.

  “Damn straight,” he proclaimed into the air of his empty office. He unplugged the phone from the wall, locked the door to his office, and rested his head on the desk.

  CHAPTER 4

  Caleb

  Sweat prickled along Caleb’s neck. He wanted to put off this little family reunion for as long as he could.

  He told the driver, “Drop me off around back.” Not that all of Blue Nile Safari didn’t already see him coming—the tell-tale dust spirals shooting up from the truck’s tires showed a good mile away. If that didn’t do it, then the truck engine noise should have been unmistakable in this middle-of-nowhere place. But no one ran out to meet him like they would have in the old days.

  Didn’t matter. It meant he didn’t have to face Paul yet. But where was Abiba? Something caught in his throat. She always used to welcome him home.

  He croaked out thanks at the driver and pulled his stuff from the truck bed. They’d tied a tarp down but a film of dust still covered his bags. He watched the truck drive off in another cloud of dust and retreated to the back porch. It looked more rickety than he remembered, but he sat on the top step anyways, under the shade of the overhang. He remembered how much care Paul had taken in adding on this porch. The careful selection and treatment of wood. The hours spent applying the right chemicals to protect it from weather and insects. How Paul used to examine every board once a year to make sure it was in excellent shape. If not, he always brought out materials and labor from Arusha to take care of it.

  A dust plume rose in the horizon. Caleb stood and leaned against the porch post, but it creaked and seemed about to give out. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and stepped off, trying to act like nothing in the world mattered.

  He would do his duty, and then he would return to his work at the Wildlife Division.

  The Land Cruiser rumbled to a stop within a few yards of the porch. He only saw the shadowed outline of the driver. His heartbeat ramped up as the car door squeaked open and someone slammed a booted foot into the dirt.

  “Saw the dust trail on my way in. Figured it must have been you,” Paul said. He leaned against the open door of the Land Cruiser. His arms crossed against the window frame showed a web of scars. Only some of them looked familiar to Caleb. Others were too new.

  “I’m here…the government…” Shit. His first words and he couldn’t get out a straight senten
ce. He dug his hands deeper into his pockets. “I’m here on government business.”

  Paul stared at Caleb with pale blue eyes. Eyes that had watched over Caleb when he was little, making sure he knew how to hold, shoot, and clean a gun. Even if the rest of Paul looked older than Caleb remembered, the eyes were the same ones that had judged Caleb when he’d fallen into books and drawing and science.

  “Yeah, I heard you were working for them now. I guess I have you and your Division friends to thank for all the new paperwork.” Paul slammed the door, never taking his eyes off Caleb.

  Caleb shifted his stance in the dirt but did not look away. He knew better. The multiplying lines on Paul’s face, the dusty jeans, the faded shirt with a rip in the sleeve, the little bit of gray showing up in his hair—maybe other people would look at that and see a worn-out man growing old. That would be a mistake. Better to treat them like battle scars.

  Paul took a step toward the porch. Caleb’s heart rate increased but he tried to keep any reaction hidden. Paul didn’t need to know how much this whole situation unsettled him.

  “Where’s Abiba?” Caleb asked.

  That’s when Paul broke his stare. Except Paul never backed down. Paul didn’t give in. This was some ploy, some new feinting strategy to make Caleb put his guard down.

  Paul scanned the horizon. A habit Caleb had himself—always figuring out what might be coming your way, or what was just moving out of reach.

  “You come out here after five years, with your government clothes and government education. Yeah, you got that look about you for sure, but you still talk like a child. You expect to do what? Save a village that don’t want to be saved? Save some elephants that as soon tusk you as look at you? Shut me down?”

  Caleb crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s all in the letters. Nothing is getting shut down as long as you’re doing things the way they’re supposed to be done.”