Private Lies (24 page)

"FUCKING BLOODY HELL," Meade shouted, kicking the
tires. He had taken off his shirt and his body glistened with sweat.

Be ready in an hour he had told them. That was three hours
ago.

"You think we should go after them on foot?"
Maggie asked Eliot. She had asked that same question at least twice before.

"Won't be long," Eliot replied, watching the men
struggle with the motor block.

"I'm really getting anxious, Eliot," she
responded.

"How long, Meade?" Eliot asked.

"Soon, maybe, if you stop your bloody
distractions," Meade cried, looking up from his work in frustration.
"You shouldn't have left them there." He grunted as he and his man
grappled with the engine. At this point they seemed close to finishing, but
Meade's level of tolerance was strained to the breaking point and his constant
nipping away on a silver flask was not improving his disposition.

"Let's hope the whiskey in that flask is finite,"
Eliot whispered. Ordinarily he would have insisted on Meade's sobriety during
the day. Nor would he have stood for the man's surly behavior. Obviously, he
feared upsetting the man further.

Meade was getting progressively nasty as his frustration
and drunkenness increased. Maggie analyzed her concern. Of course, she assured
herself, she didn't want anything serious to happen to Ken and Carol, nothing
life-threatening. Eliot, too, appeared concerned. Surely, he hadn't expected
his little rearranging of the inner works of Meade's van to have such
time-consuming consequences. It was Meade's fault, she decided. It was he,
because of his drunkenness, who was not fulfilling his part of the silent
bargain.

"Looks like he's nearly got it fixed," Eliot
said.

"I hope so," Maggie said. She scanned the
horizon. The sun was setting rapidly.

"They'll be fine," Eliot said.

"It will be getting dark," she said.

"My God, Maggie, you are a worrywart," Eliot said
with some testiness.

"I don't know how I'd handle it if anything happened
to them," Maggie said, biting her lip.

"Nothing will. Trust me."

"You know I do."

"We agreed," Eliot said gently. "The more
time for them to be together the better."

"Yes," she replied. "We agreed."

By now the idea of going back by foot was becoming a moot
point since it was apparent that Meade could have the van operating long before
they reached the spot where Ken and Carol were.

"A little anxiety is a small price to pay," Eliot
said suddenly. The idea surprised Maggie. She looked at him and he averted his
eyes. But he had injected a measurement which frightened her. What price was he
prepared to pay for their freedom? And she? Any price? She felt a cold stab of
guilt shoot through her. What if ... she began to ask herself, then tried to
push the inchoate question from her mind. It was unthinkable. Then why was she
thinking it?

Whose fault would it be? Accidents happen. No one could
plumb the mind of a predator searching for the means of survival. All life out
here was risk and hazard.

With this dash of logic, she absolved Eliot, who had meant
well in this endeavor with Meade's van. Hadn't he? Yes, she decided, she could
be comfortable with such a conclusion.

She watched Eliot's eyes roam the sky. He pointed to the
east.

"Storm clouds," he said. "It will be quick
and hard."

"Won't that complicate things?" Maggie asked.

"Depends when it hits," Eliot responded. Somehow
she expected him to show more concern.

The clouds on the horizon grew darker and were now moving
in their direction. In the west the sky was turning purple as the sun's descent
accelerated.

"Got the bloody fucker now," Meade exclaimed. He
seemed in better humor, toasting them as he upended his flask and wiped his
lips with the back of his hand. Then, still shirtless, he hopped into the
driver's seat and started the motor, driving the van forward over bumps, then
backward, to test its tightness. "Got the bugger." He waved them in.
"Better hop it. There's a storm coming up and we've got no more than a
half hour of daylight."

The black man climbed into the rear of the van and poked
his head out the top of it. Eliot sat beside Meade and Maggie stood up in the
center portal.

"Hang on," Meade said, gunning the motor,
flicking on the van's brights as he sped over the terrain. Following Eliot's
directions they were at the place where they had left Ken and Carol in twenty
minutes.

"In there," Eliot instructed, pointing to the
copse that they had all entered earlier.

Darkness was descending quickly now. The purple in the west
was blackening and the storm clouds were coming closer. The breeze had
quickened, chilling the air. Maggie got into her woolen pullover and Meade put
on a bush jacket over his bare torso.

Meade moved the van as close to the copse as possible,
shining his brights into the point where the trail began.

"Give the horn a few long blows at intervals,"
Eliot said as he jumped out of the van and headed for the trail into the copse.
Meade pressed the horn as directed, which croaked an angry clarion into the
silence. Turning in the portal, Maggie could see shadows of animal herds in the
fading light, their tranquillity disturbed, moving away from the sound.

"If they're in there, they'll hear us," Meade
said, peering into the area, the definition of which was fading into the
blackness. "Bloody stupid," he mumbled.

Then suddenly from the storm clouds came a flash of
lightning and the rumble of crashing thunder.

"Coming fast," Meade said, shouting up to Maggie.
"Better duck under and close the port." He talked to his man in
Swahili, presumably offering the same advice.

Both of them did as he advised, keeping the side windows of
the van open. Again and again Meade hit the horn in the quiet intervals between
the rolling thunder. Heavy raindrops suddenly began to crash against the metal
roof of the van and they quickly rolled up the side windows.

Between the thunder, the horn, and the pounding rain, the
cacophony was awesome. Then, behind Maggie, the black man reopened his window
and broke out into an avalanche of Swahili.

"What is it?" Maggie asked, genuinely frightened.

"Bloody hell, shut up," Meade cried, peering into
the beams of light thrown by his headlights.

Again the black man shouted something in Swahili.

"Please tell me," Maggie begged.

"I said shut the bloody hell up," Meade shouted
over the din.

Then she heard it, a cry of rage, more compelling than the
other sounds. Then the recent memory of the sound struck her and she quickly
determined what was happening. Her heart pounded with fear and a layer of
perspiration oozed out of the skin of her back. She started to open the door,
but Meade moved quickly, grabbing an arm, pulling her back.

"Eliot," she screamed. "Eliot."

She started to resist and soon Meade was asking the black
man for help, each taking one arm.

"Eliot," she screamed again, fighting to free
herself with all her strength. Suddenly Meade slapped her face, which shocked
her out of her hysterics. He pounded his fist on the horn.

"Please, God, save him, save my love," she cried.
"Oh, please, God, save my love."

"Well, you won't save him by going out there,"
Meade said.

"We can't just do nothing."

The awesome elephant sound seemed to be coming closer. She
felt her body shudder and her entreaty became a litany.

"Oh, God, save him, save my love, God, save him."

"Well, you're talking to the right bloke," Meade
shouted, peering into the darkness beyond the headlights. Suddenly the black man
shouted in Swahili and pointed.

"What is it?" Maggie cried.

Meade ignored her, listening to the black man's excited
remarks.

"Where?" Meade asked, following the man's finger.

"Eliot. Is it Eliot?" She rolled down her window
and they made no effort to stop her. "Eliot, my dear, sweet love. Come to
me. Come." Her words seemed drowned by the avalanche of other sounds.

"He's coming, for crissakes," Meade cried, and at
that moment she saw him, rushing madly toward them. Behind him she could see
the outline of the elephant, ears flapping wildly, pounding forward, as the
bloodcurdling screeching sound rang in the air, dominating all the others.

Meade opened the door.

The massive elephant, his eyes caught in the glare of the
headlights' beam, suddenly slowed, reared up on his hind legs, his forelegs
poised and bent, ears flapping wildly, his thick wet skin shining like ebony,
shouting his blind rage into the stormy night.

Coming toward them was the vulnerable figure of Eliot, on
the verge of exhaustion from fright and effort. The elephant hit the ground
with his forelegs again and resumed his charge, moving with unbelievable speed
for such a massive creature.

Eliot faltered, tripped, fell to one knee, and rose, coming
forward toward the van again.

"Eliot, move, move. My love. Here," Maggie
screamed, opening the door to the van on her side, starting to step out to meet
him.

"Bloody bitch," Meade cried, grabbing her shirt
and wrenching her back inside just as Eliot came crashing through the front
door of the van, fighting for breath, his legs hanging over the side. With the
door to the front still open, holding Eliot fast with the grip of one hand,
Meade gunned the motor and the car shot backward inches from the swinging trunk
of the charging elephant.

With his free hand Meade turned the wheel a hard right and
the van angled out of the behemoth's path. Again the elephant reared, ears
flapping, his two front legs sparring with the black rain.

In that split second of relief, Meade snapped the van into
forward and pulled a U-turn, stalled suddenly in the soft earth, then shot
forward with the elephant resuming his charge directly behind him. As he drove,
the elephant fast on the heels of the van, Meade worked his free hand to
support Eliot's attempt to pull himself fully into the van.

Maggie reached over the seat to help him, and finally he
was in and she managed to grab the handle and shut the door while the black man
scrambled to the door of the backseat and slammed it shut as well.

"Good show," Meade screamed, shooting the van
across the plain pursued by the elephant. Occasionally, the van's tires
slipped, churned, broke loose, then moved forward. He squinted into the
darkness, looking for ground not yet softened by the pelting rain.

Eliot, awash with perspiration, panted for breath in the
front seat. Ahead was a stand of trees with a narrow wheel track moving through
it. Meade maneuvered the van toward it, then plunged onto the track, as the
elephant followed hard on its heels, inhibited finally by the narrowness of the
passage through the trees.

In fits and starts, the van made its way through the trees,
then came out on the other side of the plain, heading up a rise to the top of
it, then down again and across another plain. They heard the elephant's cry
grow dimmer as they drove, and it was soon apparent that they were out of
danger.

Maggie ripped off the tail of her shirt and mopped Eliot's
brow.

"Thank God," she said, kissing his face. "I
thought I lost you."

"Bloody nearly did," Meade muttered.

Eliot nodded, smiling thinly, as he sucked in deep breaths.

"Thought you might be in the bloody food chain,"
Meade said, chuckling. "Could use a bloody drink." He looked at
Eliot. "You could use one yourself."

They rode for a while in silence. Maggie continued to
caress Eliot's face and smooth his hair.

"Better get our bearings. Not a good night to be
lost," Meade said, bringing the van to a stop. Around them was nothing but
pitch black and the pounding rain. Meade took a flashlight from the glove
compartment and looked at his compass.

"Keeps up like this, we'll be riding around in mud
soup," he said. He looked toward Eliot, his head resting on Maggie's lap,
her hands gently massaging his face and forehead. She knew she was being bold
and indiscreet, but, in her mind, she had very nearly lost him. In that moment
of terror, the rest of her life had seemed to hang in the balance. She was
relieved, grateful. She bent over and kissed his lips again.

"Quite chummy, you two," Meade said.

It triggered a response in Eliot, who found the strength to
sit up immediately and push Maggie away.

"None of my bloody business," Meade muttered.

Maggie saw the men exchange glances.

"They weren't there," Eliot said, his voice
nearly up to its normal timbre. "Not where I left them."

"Could be that big bastard chased them out,"
Meade said. "There'll be hell to pay if we find them all mashed up. Bad
publicity kills our business."

"Now, there's an attitude for you," Maggie
snapped.

"Don't listen to him, Maggie," Eliot said.
"He's jumping to conclusions."

"Maybe so," Meade growled, looking at Maggie.
"He should have brought them back with you." Meade scowled at her,
jabbing a thumb in Eliot's direction. She felt the intensity of his stare as
she waited through the long silence, hearing only the rain smashing against the
roof and windows of the van. The thunder and lightning seemed to be moving
away, but the rain was relentless.

"I won't argue the point, Meade," Eliot said.
"In retrospect it was a damned fool thing to do."

"Yes. And I'm responsible for you people," Meade
said. "It's my bloody ass."

"And my wife," Eliot said. "And her
husband."

Meade looked at them and shook his head, blowing air
through his lips in obvious ridicule.

"For one thing, there'll have to be a hearing,"
Meade said in a tone redolent with implication. "Someone always around to
fix blame. And I don't intend to get my balls caught in some bloody government
wringer."