White Bone by Ridley Pearson Page A

Pub.”
    He scrolled down, by which point Knox was reading over his shoulder, heart pounding. He could see Grace reading these words in his mind’s eye, could hear her internal reactions. He knew her too well, he realized. She was on his brain. “Hotel transportation arranged . . . so on and so on . . .”
    “Print it, please.”
    “Here’s one: ‘The guest for whom you left a package is not registered with the hotel, nor has a reservation on file. We regret to inform you that it is strictly against hotel policy—’”
    The boy’s reading was slow. Knox took over. “‘—to hold items or luggage for third parties. Please see the concierge or the hotel manager for the return of your property. Regrettably, any such item will be destroyed after twenty-four hours of the issuance of this notice as per our security standards.’”
    It was signed by the hotel assistant manager, Clare Umford.

20

    F rom the moment the sun had dimmed on the first day, Grace had worked feverishly to stay alive. Relying upon her military survival techniques and the Maasai lore provided by Olé, she sought first to keep the insects off and the animals away.
    “They are attracted to our human smell,” he’d said. “Fear causes us to sweat. Running causes us to sweat. From the moment we panic, we are telling the animals where we are and how desperate we are. Mosquitoes can smell humans as far away as fifty meters. They are attracted to carbon dioxide. Some people give off much more of this than others. Maasai wear very little clothing, because clothing holds scent. The animals are put off by the dung and urine of other animals—it is how many of them declare territory. In the bush, Maasai cover ourselves with dung to disguise our human smell.”
    “Perfume,” Grace had mused.
    “If you will. Yes. Just that.”
    Now, despite her reluctance, she stripped. As she shed her clothing,she recognized an opportunity. She could use her clothes to stage evidence of her death. If Leebo or others returned in an attempt to confirm her death, she would leave them what they wanted. It was something she hadn’t considered previously, and it filled her with purpose.
    Working fast, Grace tore and shredded her clothes, laying them across the ground, dragging pieces into the bushes. In doing so, she told a story. Animals were certain to investigate, perhaps even fight over the remnants. She used sticks to break up the crusted sand, making what might pass for a freshly contested battleground between animals and a desperate woman.
    Let them use their imagination,
she thought.
    Shivering from chill, embarrassment and the fear that accompanied her nakedness, she went the final step and removed her underwear, straining to rip them apart. Arms crossed, tears threatening, she stood in place for several minutes, unable to move. Then, finally, she trudged over to the waiting piles of dung.
    The moment came, the moment when she had to dig through the crust of each for the moist, grassy manure within. It was cold, sloppy and horrible-smelling, and it took a good bit of courage to smear it over her limbs. Bugs buzzed around her head. She smeared the foul paste under her arms, over her legs and between her buttocks, onto her neck, chest and belly.
    When it came time to spread the horrible stuff onto her face she was crying, her stomach heaving.
    But as she rubbed it into her skin, she felt something change. She was aboriginal. Old. Maasai. Olé’s teachings came flooding back. Edible plants and grasses. Tools. Weapons. Poisons. Water sources. Navigation.
    She kept her high hiking boots on. No amount of risk was going to make her go barefoot. She packed the dung onto and over theboots. She finger-combed dung through her hair. Feeling light-headed, she broke a thin branch from a prickly bush and snapped off enough of the thorns to hold it. Three feet in length, it gave her a dangerous whip with which to defend herself.
    The trick with the bugs was to move, and