Die Again (Rizzoli & Isles, #11)(4)

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, I know 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 why you hired me.”

“To keep us from ending up as dinner.”

“I wouldn’t get paid if I lost too many clients.”

“How many is too many?”

“You’d only be the third.”

“That’s a joke, right?”

He smiles. Though he’s about the same age as Richard, a lifetime in the African sun has etched lines around Johnny’s eyes. He lays a reassuring hand on my arm, which startles me because he’s not a man who offers unnecessary touches. “Yes, it’s a joke. I’ve never lost a client.”

“I find it hard to tell when you’re serious.”

“When I’m serious, you’ll know it.” He turns to Clarence, who’s just said something to him in Shangaan. “Supper’s ready.”

I glance at Richard, to see if he’s noticed Johnny talking to me, Johnny’s hand on my arm. But Richard’s so focused on Vivian that I might as well be invisible.

“IT’S WHAT WRITERS HAVE to do,” Richard predictably says as we lie in our tents that night. “I’m only bringing in new readers.” We speak in whispers, because the canvas is thin, the tents close together. “Besides, I feel a little protective. They’re on their own, just two girls out in the bush. Rather adventurous when they’re only twenty-something, don’t you think? You have to admire them for that.”

“Elliot obviously admires them,” I observe.

“Elliot would admire anything with two X chromosomes.”

“So they’re not exactly on their own. He signed on to the trip to keep them company.”

“And God, that must get tiresome for them. Having him hanging around all the time, making cow eyes.”

“The girls invited him. That’s what Elliot says.”

“Invited him out of pity. He chats them up in some nightclub, hears they’re going on safari. They probably said, Hey, you should think about coming into the bush, too! I’m sure they never imagined he’d actually sign on.”

“Why do you always put him down? He seems like a very nice man. And he knows an awful lot about birds.”

Richard snorts. “That’s always so attractive in a man.”

“What is the matter with you? Why are you so cranky?”

“I could say the same about you. All I do is chat up a young woman and you can’t deal with it. At least those girls know how to have a good time. They’re in the spirit of things.”

“I’m trying to enjoy myself, I really am. But I didn’t think it would be so rough out here. I expected—”

“Fluffy towels and chocolates on the pillow.”

“Give me some credit. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Complaining all the way. This safari was my dream, Millie. Don’t ruin it for me.”

We’re no longer whispering and I’m sure the others can hear us, if they’re still awake. I know that Johnny is, because he’s on first watch. I imagine him sitting by the campfire, listening to our voices, hearing the rising tension. Surely he’s already aware of it. Johnny Posthumus is the kind of man who misses nothing, which is how he survives in this place, where hearing the tinkle of a bell on a wire means the difference between life and death. What useless, shallow people we must seem to him. How many marriages has he watched fall apart, how many self-important men has he seen humbled by Africa? The bush is not merely a holiday destination; it’s where you learn how insignificant you truly are.