Chasing The Leopard Finding the Lion. Julie Wakeman-Linn

her with a comparison to puku and waterbuck, Brett dropped an anchor and handed around sodas and beers. The Nelsons were more like the tourists the lodge used to get, not pushy, not drinking like fish, but they were missionaries, not international types or diplomats. Every missionary he knew was on a tight budget. David must have cut the price of the safari for folks from the region.

      “The sun is orange this afternoon.” Elise reached for her beer, her fingers sliding down his bare forearm. His skin tingled up to his neck.

      “It’s always this intense shade an hour from setting.” Brett wrapped his hand around hers while he popped open her beer. “It’ll drop fast in the last quarter hour.”

      Mr. Nelson gazed at the sun. “Yes, much brighter than Maine’s yellow sun.” Then he and the Mrs. started to talk quietly, prompting the kid to look at the half submerged trees, the reflections on the water. Tommy didn’t seem bored. Instead, he shot back lots of questions. Brett liked this kid.

      The lionesses napped. Their tails occasionally flicked at a fly.

      “May we see your video of the lionesses swimming?” Mrs. Nelson asked. “Elise mentioned you are a photographer.”

      Brett dug out his camera and set the playback. Elise offered to hold the camera so the Nelsons could see more easily.

      “Nice filmwork.” Mr. Nelson said. “Wildlife conservation is something Zimbabwe does so much better than Zambia.”

      “Zambia has the advantage in politics,” Mrs. Nelson interjected. “Our parliament still meets, even if they don’t agree on anything. South Africa has the best of both, of course, a functioning parliament and excellent wildlife conservation. Too bad Mugabe won’t listen to Mandela.”

      “Parliament’s just on a recess session, that’s all. The opposition is very active here. The next election will be different, I’m sure.” South Africa meddling in Zimbabwe--that couldn’t be a solution. Brett hated when politics interfered with game viewing.

      “I hope you’re right. Our last election at least had two real candidates, not Mugabe yes or no.” Mrs. Nelson sounded huffy.

      “Now, Leah, we shouldn’t judge. We don’t know what is happening in Harare, but it doesn’t sound good. Not much news gets out, even on the BBC.” Mr. Nelson tapped his chin. “I do wonder if Mugabe will start restricting everybody’s movements around the country and not just the journalists.”

      “I hear they all have to be licensed. Photographers, too. It doesn’t seem right.” Mrs. Nelson said. “At least not to me.”

      “No, that can’t be right. It couldn’t happen,” Brett sputtered. Licenses for photography? Not to be able go to the Matusadona Hills in the hot months? Not be able to go home on a whim? His dad and Noah once hinted the Rhodesians had restricted travel during the Chirumenga.

      “You should come to Zambia and film there, Brett, if they restrict photographers here.” Elise cradled the camera. “I’ve met a wildlife researcher in Lusaka.”

      Tricky ground--he was stuck between political nightmare scenarios and this mention of a guy who would likely be her boyfriend. Time to guide the conversation to less dangerous ground. Keep everybody happy. “What kind of animal is this guy researching?”

      “She. She’s tracking hyenas in Luangwa. Dr. Sally Pierce.”

      “I’ve heard of her,” Mr. Nelson said. “We’ve driven to a couple of tourist caravan camps there. Your lodge with its lovely dining room is fancier than we are used to.”

      “Another soda or beer, anyone?” Brett had been sure the wildlife expert was her boyfriend.

      “Through this lens, this is your world, isn’t it?” Elise asked, offering him the camera in exchange for a beer.

      “Look,” the little boy said, right into their ears.

      One lioness rolled onto her belly, swiveling her gaze from the boat to the herd. Her eyes were wide open now. The impala jerked their heads up, almost as one. One male bucked and leaped six feet straight up. Like an uncoiled spring, the whole herd bounded over the bluff on their lithe slender legs, their little black boot markings like ribbons fluttering in a breeze. The Nelson boy cheered, but then asked, “Now what will the lions eat for dinner?”

      The second lioness stood and padded down to the water’s edge. Every motion of her muscles was fluid and powerful as she crouched to drink. The boat had drifted much closer to shore; Brett focused and manually squeezed the shutter. Through his viewfinder, the lioness’s yellow eyes stared.

      “Magnificent,” Mrs. Nelson murmured.

      Mr. Nelson shifted, tucking the little boy between them. “Will she swim out again?”

      “Lions pounce at their prey, but she won’t because she can’t see us separate from the boat,” Brett said. “She smells the oil and gas, not us.”

      Elise seemed hypnotized by the lioness. “Her eyes are pure carnivore.”

      The sunset cast sharp shadows of the cat across the soil to the grasses. Given the angle of the boat’s drift, the Nelsons, in the second seat, were stuck behind him. Tommy’s head hung over Elise’s shoulder. She reached for Tommy’s hands and helped him step forward into her lap and she slid her hip close to Brett. She whispered, “Now your mummy and daddy will have a better view and you will have a terrific view.”

      Brett felt Elise’s thigh pressing his. Her perfume, that green juniper scent, mixed with a nice touch of sweat. Tucked in her arms, the little boy sat motionless while the lioness padded along the beach, her sister following. The Nelsons oohed, stretched around them, saying this was the best game viewing they’d ever had. The lioness shadows lengthened and darkened as the two padded down the lakefront.

      “I’m sorry to break this off, but driving across the lake in the dark is risky.” Brett scanned their faces, expecting the little boy to whine.

      The little boy smiled wide, dimples popping up in his skinny face. “This has been an adventure!”

      Brett grinned at the kid. The sun had sunk more than half below the horizon. As Brett raced back to the lodge’s dock, he mulled over the kid’s reaction--once the politics was dropped, it had been great. Few game drives ever ended so perfect--except they’d be late for the dinner hour which would make David furious.

      They crossed the lake, their speed rippling the shining orange surface. David waited on the dock.

      “Are you folks all right?” David asked. He frowned at Brett as he caught the tie rope and lashed the boat to its mooring. “It’s getting mighty dark.”

      “It’s only the start of sunset, David.” Brett steadied the gunwale and offered a hand to Mrs. Nelson.

      “Hello, Mr. Colton.” Mrs. Nelson landed lightly on the dock. “We had the most wonderful ride. The lionesses were fascinating.”

      David cut in front, offering a hand to Elise, which left Brett to get the kid. “What happened? Did Brett run the boat aground?”

      “He handled the boat like a Maine fisherman,” Mr. Nelson said as he stepped out. “You have a terrific guide in Brett, Mr. Colton.”

      Brett smiled at Tommy as he set him down--nice to hear praise for a change, but David wasn’t listening to the Nelsons.

      “This way, folks. You’ll have to hurry to change for dinner,” David said, tucking Elise’s hand through his elbow. “Let me escort you. The stairs get dark at twilight.”

      Brett stared after him. David didn’t even offer to help secure the boat. Where was Isaac? Now he had to wrestle the cover on the boat. The Nelsons’ comments saved him from another reprimand, but David got Elise. Damn.

      * * *

      The village of Hwange was only three kilometers from the lodge. Again they drove in silence. Brett felt too grouchy to talk and Isaac