Page 77

CHAPTER 76

I WAS PAST the Mitumba Mountains, bouncing across the savanna. It was getting to be dusk. I knew I was in dangerous territory, for too many reasons to count. But I’d come this far, and I wasn’t about to slow down now. I’d drive all night if I had to. From what I’d learned from my friends at the bar, the Shaba legend had started in the Kolwezi region, a few hundred miles to the southwest. That was my destination.

I knew that even if I was headed in the right direction, finding one woman in the African wilderness would be nearly impossible. I just hoped that the reports would get more detailed the closer I got. That might increase my odds. All that really mattered right now was to find out if the demon they called Shaba was really Kira—and if she was still alive.

The savanna was flat and covered with hip-high grass. Here and there the landscape was broken by bushy-topped trees with skinny trunks. Over the past few hours, I’d seen herds of giraffes, antelopes, and zebras. I knew for sure there were lions and hyenas lurking out of sight. As long as I kept moving, I trusted that the engine noise would keep them at a safe distance.

I had my sack with the cutlass and what was left of my nest egg in the footwell of the truck. The Mauser was clipped into a gun mount on the dashboard. The extra ammo was rattling in the glove compartment. I had about twelve gallons left in my fuel tank and a twenty-gallon reserve strapped to the rear fender, along with a ten-gallon container of water.

I was moving along an old hunting trail—basically two deep ruts with grass in the middle. There were long stretches where I could chug along at forty miles an hour. Other spots were so sketchy that I could barely crawl. I was in one of those spots now.

The trail was so pitted and rough that the truck was rocking back and forth. The transmission was complaining. I’d been in low gear for the past five minutes.

All of a sudden, I heard weird screeching ahead. I looked to my right and saw a pack of vultures peeking above the grass about fifteen yards off the trail. I don’t know what made me stop. Maybe it was my old scientific curiosity—the research professor in me coming out. I kept the engine running, set the brake, and grabbed my rifle from the mount. As soon as I stopped moving, the smell hit me. Thick, musky, putrid.

The birds looked up as I walked toward them, but they didn’t budge. They had purple-pink jowls and massive black bills. One of them reared up and stretched out its full wingspan—about eight feet from tip to tip. Trying to intimidate me.

When I pushed through the final stand of grass, I gagged, then almost vomited. The vultures were standing on top of an elephant carcass. It was a large female, a recent kill. There was a hole from a large-caliber bullet in her forehead, with dried blood caked below. Both tusks had been sawn off close to the jaw. Her trunk lay like a huge gray worm on the ground. The grass near the carcass was pressed down and roughed up. I could see boot prints in the dirt underneath.

The screeching of the birds got louder as I got closer.

Then I heard something else.

Human voices.

They were coming from my truck.