Jackal's Dance by Beverley Harper Page A

over them.
    This one had the hard stare of wealth, position and authority. Dan knew, even before the game drive was over, where the night would end. After dinner, instead of going back to his room, he’d joined the others around the fire outside until, one by one, the tired tourists drifted away and it was down to him and Mrs Delaney. She was quite drunk by then and not about to mince words. ‘Where do you sleep, honey?’
    Dan had risen, held out a hand and, when she took it, led her to his room.
    He glanced back at her now. She had covered both eyes with an arm to shut out the light and Dan was not unsympathetic to how she must befeeling. ‘Breakfast,’ he suggested. ‘You’ll feel better with some food inside.’
    â€˜I doubt it,’ she groaned.
    He stifled irritation. She knew the rules. It was time to go. At last, Dan felt the bed move as she rose. Dressed now, Mrs Delaney stood in front of him. ‘If you’re ever in the States.’ She handed him a card, her eyes distant and impersonal. Without another word, she turned and left, the brief though intensely intimate experience a thing of the past.
    Her credentials announced
Doris Delaney. Attorney.
The address was Maine. Dan ran a hand through thick, strong, iron-grey hair before tossing the card onto a chest of drawers next to the bed. If he ever got to the States it was unlikely he’d bother looking her up. He rose, wincing slightly at a niggling pain in his lower back. Last week he’d been helping the park veterinarian with a study that involved darting, weighing and checking wildebeest for signs of anthrax. The pulled muscle happened while manhandling a two hundred and fifty kilogram male onto the weighing machine. It had been healing nicely but obviously didn’t appreciate a night’s exercise.
    The shower was lukewarm but that didn’t bother him. Dan had spent his entire adult life in the bush. Running water was a luxury, hot or cold. He stood under the tepid trickle, allowing it to flatten his hair. The soap didn’t lather too well but the shampoo bottle was empty. He paid attention to armpits, crotch and feet. In his mid-fifties, Dan was in good shape, not an ounce of fat on a hard,muscled body. His stubble-shadowed face weather-beaten, evidence of the years spent under a blazing African sun. Faded grey-blue eyes usually twinkled from some inner amusement and, when he smiled accentuating the creases in his face, they lit up with mischief.
    Wandering naked back into the bedroom, Dan sought out a clean park uniform and frowned slightly when he felt the material. He sniffed it. The laundry girl had put it back damp and it smelled faintly of mildew. He put it on anyway, having no option. Two other uniforms were exactly the same.
    Dan’s living quarters consisted of an oblong-shaped room with an ensuite at one end and a narrow porch outside. He had a standard issue queen-sized bed, curtain-covered hanging space, a chest of drawers, shabby armchair, desk and chair and one small round mat on the cement floor. The rangers’ rooms were all furnished with discards from the older rest camps as and when the guest accommodation was refurbished. More than adequate for a man who carried very little baggage. Dan never saw the point of acquiring possessions. He preferred listening to the bush rather than the tapes and CDs favoured by others. There were always a few books scattered around, all read, so there was no real reason to keep any of them. No photographs, no past, no signs of a hobby. If Dan chose to leave his life would fit in one small suitcase. It was the way he preferred it.
    No-one, least of all Dan himself, could have foreseen the man he was to become. He’d grownup in Cape Town, the middle child in a loving and happy family environment, with an older sister and younger brother. Outgoing, well-adjusted and friendly, Dan was popular with other kids and well liked by adults. At sixteen he