Die Again Read Free

time.”
    “You’ve never been his tracker before?”
    Clarence briskly shakes pepper into the stew. “My cousin is Johnny’s tracker. But this week Abraham is in his village for a funeral. He asked me to take his place.”
    “And what did Abraham say about Johnny?”
    Clarence grins, his white teeth gleaming in the twilight. “Oh, my cousin tells many stories about him. Many stories. He thinks Johnny should have been born Shangaan, because he’s just like us. But with a white face.”
    “Shangaan? Is that your tribe?”
    He nods. “We come from Limpopo Province. In South Africa.”
    “Is that the language I hear you two speaking sometimes?”
    He gives a guilty laugh. “When we don’t want you to know what we say.”
    I imagine that none of it is flattering. I look at the others seated around the campfire. Mr. and Mrs. Matsunaga are diligently reviewing the day’s photos on his camera. Vivian and Sylvia lounge in their low-cut tank tops, oozing pheromones that make poor, awkward Elliot grovel for attention as usual. Are you gals chilly? Can I get your sweaters? How about another gin and tonic?
    Richard emerges from our tent with a fresh shirt. There’s an empty chair waiting for him beside me, but he walks right past it. He sits down next to Vivian instead, and proceeds to dial up the charm. How are you enjoying our safari? Do you ever make it to London? I’d be happy to send you and Sylvia autographed copies of Blackjack when it’s published .
    Of course they all now know who he is. Within the first hour of meeting everyone, Richard subtly slipped in the fact that he is thriller writer Richard Renwick, creator of MI5 hero Jackman Tripp. Unfortunately none of them had ever heard of Richard or his hero, which led to a prickly first day on safari. But now he’s back in form, doing what he does best: charming his audience. Laying it on too thick, I think. Far too thick. But if I complain about it later, Iknow exactly what he’ll say. It’s what writers have to do, Millie. We have to be sociable and bring in new readers . Funny how Richard never wastes his time being sociable with grandmotherly types, only with young, preferably pretty girls. I remember how he’d turned that same charm on me four years ago, when he’d signed copies of Kill Option at the bookshop where I work. When Richard’s on his game, he’s impossible to resist, and now I see him looking at Vivian in a way he hasn’t looked at me in years. He slips a Gauloise between his lips and tilts forward to cup the flame from his sterling-silver lighter, the way his hero Jackman Tripp would, with masculine panache.
    The empty chair next to me feels like a black hole, sucking all the joy out of my mood. I’m ready to get up and go back to my tent when suddenly Johnny settles into that chair beside me. He doesn’t say anything, just scans the group as if taking our measure. I think he is always taking our measure, and I wonder what he sees when he looks at me. Am I like all the other resigned wives and girlfriends who’ve been dragged into the bush to humor the safari fantasies of their men?
    His gaze rattles me, and I’m compelled to fill the silence. “Do those bells on the perimeter wire actually work?” I ask. “Or are they just there to make us feel safer?”
    “They serve as a first alert.”
    “I didn’t hear them last night, when the leopard came into camp.”
    “I did.” He leans forward, tosses more wood on the fire. “We’ll probably hear those bells again tonight.”
    “You think there are more leopards lurking about?”
    “Hyenas this time.” He points at the darkness looming beyond our firelit circle. “There’s about half a dozen of them watching us right now.”
    “What?” I peer into the night. Only then do I spot the reflected gleam of eyes staring back.
    “They’re patient. Waiting to see if there’s a meal to be scavenged. Walk out there alone, and they’ll make you their meal.” He shrugs. “Which is