The Taste of Fear by Jeremy Bates Page B

slapped Sal on the rump, hard. He was a brainless animal. She slid the balcony door closed and flicked the lock. She left the blinds open, welcoming what little light the moon and stars provided. They returned to bed, but she couldn’t sleep. She had thought there had been somebody out there. Another arsonist or a hit man or whatever you called someone who came to kill you during the night. No—she was letting her imagination get the better of her. She and Sal had already discussed this. He was safe. Nobody knew he was here. What were the chances that somebody would fly all the way to Africa and follow him to the summit of a collapsed volcano? It was ridiculous, something out of Hollywood. The noise had just been a couple wild animals.
    Sometime later, Scarlett slept.
    At two thirty that morning Fitzgerald opened his eyes. He had been sleeping but not really sleeping, a skill he’d learned long ago in the British Army. He opened the door to the Land Cruiser and stepped into the night. The moon was nearly full, the sky awash with icy stars, and he could see well enough. A nightjar made a musical churring sound that rose and fell with a ventriloquist-like quality. He heard little else, although he knew the surrounding forest was alive with life. He started down the dirt road toward the lodge where Salvador Brazza and Scarlett Cox were staying, whistling “Johnny I Hardly Knew Ye” so he wouldn’t come upon any wild animals by surprise. The animals would usually run away, but sometimes they would panic and attack, especially if they were injured or with their young. He was carrying the driveshaft he’d purchased earlier, but a driveshaft wouldn’t stop a Cape buffalo, or a leopard.
    Five hundred meters later he arrived at the car park in the clearing behind Tree Camp where six SUVs were parked in a line, side by side. They were all Land Rovers. Three were Land Rover Discoverys. Only one was the latest model, a Series III. It was the second from the right. It was the one he wanted.
    He lowered himself onto his back and stuck a penlight between his teeth. Then he inched his way beneath the high chassis and studied the underside of the vehicle. He took a small wrench from his pocket and undid the six bolts securing the coupling. The first five came off easily enough. The sixth was a bitch, taking him nearly the same time to get it off as the first five combined. He slid the driveshaft forward to disengage it from the transfer case, slid it backward to free it from the differential, gave it a jog, and tugged it loose. The lubricated O ring inside the drive tube fell onto his chest. He left it there while he examined the driveshaft. The splines were not very badly worn, nor had he thought they would be. He set the good driveshaft aside, replaced the O ring, and inserted the nearly bald driveshaft he’d brought with him. He refastened the six bolts, the sixth going back on a lot easier than it had come off. There was a metaphor about life somewhere in there, but this was not the time to consider it. He extracted himself from beneath the vehicle.
    With one solid tug, Fitzgerald tore the CB antenna from where it was mounted on the Land Rover’s rear tire carrier. He retraced his steps back to the Toyota Land Cruiser, reclined the seat, and closed his eyes, hoping sleep would come quickly. He would be waking with the sun in a few hours.

Chapter 7
     
    Wednesday, December 25, 6:55 a.m.
Ngorongoro Conservation Area
    “Sal, you ready? Silly’s packed the Land Rover. He’s waiting outside.”
    “I’m coming.”
    He emerged from the bathroom moments later. His hair, still damp from the shower, was combed back from his forehead as usual. It might just have been a play of the light, but he looked darker than he had the day before, healthier. Scarlett felt a slight stirring in her loins.
    “You look good,” she said, wondering if tonight would be the night the invisible line in bed was erased. She thought maybe it might