Douglas Child - Fever Dream

The DC fell silent.

"I won't allow my husband to go in there alone," said Helen. "It would be too dangerous. The poor dear might get mauled--or worse."

"Thank you, Helen, for your confidence," said Pendergast.

"Well, you know, Aloysius, you did miss that duiker at two hundred yards. That was as easy as hitting a barn door from the inside."

"Come now, there was a strong cross-wind. And the animal moved at the last moment."

"You spent too long setting up your shot. You think too much, that's your problem."

Pendergast turned to Woking. "As you can see, this is a package deal. It's both of us or neither."

"Very well," said the DC with a frown. "Mr. Wisley?"

Wisley nodded reluctantly.

"We'll meet tomorrow morning at five," Pendergast went on. "I'm quite serious when I say we'll need a very, very good tracker."

"We have one of the best in Zambia--Jason Mfuni. Of course, he's rarely tracked for hunting, only for photographers and tourists."

"As long as he has nerves of steel."

"He does."

"You'll need to spread the word to the locals, make sure they stay well away. The last thing we'll need is a distraction."

"That won't be necessary," said Wisley. "Perhaps you noticed the empty villages on your way in to the camp? Except for us, you won't find a single human being within twenty miles."

"The villages emptied that quickly?" Helen said. "The attack only took place yesterday."

"It's the Red Lion," the DC said, as if this were explanation enough.

Pendergast and Helen exchanged glances. For a moment, the bar went silent.

Then Pendergast rose, took Helen's hand, and helped her to her feet. "Thanks for the drink. And now, if you will show us to our hut?"

3

The Fever Trees

THE NIGHT HAD BEEN SILENT. EVEN THE LOCAL prides that often tattooed the darkness with their roars were lying low, and the usual chatter of night animals seemed subdued. The sound of the river was a faint gurgle and shush that belied its massive flow, perfuming the air with the smell of water. Only with the false dawn came the first noises of what passed for civilization: hot water being poured into shower-drums in preparation for morning ablutions.

Pendergast and his wife had left their hut and were in the dining shelter, guns beside them, sitting by the soft glow of a single bulb. There were no stars--the night had been overcast, the darkness absolute. They had been sitting there, unmoving and silent, for the last forty-five minutes, enjoying each other's company and--with the kind of unspoken symbiosis that characterized their marriage--preparing mentally and emotionally for the hunt ahead. Helen Pendergast's head was resting on her husband's shoulder. Pendergast stroked her hand, toying now and then with the star sapphire on her wedding band.

"You can't have it back, you know," she said at last, her voice husky from the long silence.

He simply smiled and continued his caresses.

A small figure appeared in the shadows, carrying a long spear and wearing long pants and a long shirt, both of dark color.

The two straightened up. "Jason Mfuni?" Pendergast asked, his voice low.

"Yes, sir."

Pendergast extended his hand. "I'd rather you didn't 'sir' me, Jason. The name's Pendergast. And this is my wife, Helen. She prefers to be called by her first name, I by my last."

The man nodded, shook Helen's hand with slow, almost phlegmatic movements. "The DC want to talk to you, Miss Helen, in the mess."

Helen rose. So did Pendergast.

"Excuse me, Mr. Pendergast, he want it private."

"What's this all about?"

"He worry about her hunting experience."

"This is ridiculous," Pendergast said. "We've settled that question."

Helen waved her hand with a laugh. "Don't worry about it--apparently it's still the British Empire out here, where women sit on the veranda, fan themselves, and faint at the sight of blood. I'll set him straight."

Pendergast eased back down. The tracker waited by him, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot.

"Would you care to sit down, Jason?"

"No thank you."

"How long have you been tracking?" Pendergast asked.

"A few years," came the laconic reply.

"Are you good?"

A shrug.

"Are you afraid of lions?"

"Sometimes."

"Ever killed one with that spear?"

"No."

"I see."

"This is a new spear, Mr. Pendergast. When I kill lion with spear, it usually break or bend, have to get new one."

A silence settled over the camp as the light crept up behind the bush. Five minutes passed, and then ten.

"What's taking them?" asked Pendergast, annoyed. "We don't want to get a late start." Mfuni shrugged and leaned on his spear, waiting.

Suddenly Helen appeared. She quickly seated herself.

"Did you set the blighter straight?" asked Pendergast with a laugh.

For a moment, Helen didn't answer. He turned to her quizzically and was startled at the whiteness of her face. "What is it?" he asked.

"Nothing. Just... butterflies before a hunt."

"You can always remain back in camp, you know."

"Oh, no," she said with vehemence. "No, I can't miss this."

"In that case, we'd better get moving."

"Not yet," she said, her voice low. He felt her cool hand on his arm. "Aloysius... do you realize we forgot to watch the moonrise last evening? It was full."

"With all the lion excitement, I'm not surprised."

"Let's take just a moment to watch it set." She took his hand and enclosed it in hers, an unusual gesture for her. Her hand was no longer cool.

"Helen..."

She squeezed his hand. "No talking."

The full moon was sinking into the bush on the far side of the river, a buttery disk descending through a sky of mauve, its reflection rippling like spilled cream over the swirling waters of the Luangwa River. They had first met the night of a full moon and, together, had watched it rise; ever since it had been a tradition of their courtship and marriage that no matter what else was happening in their lives, no matter what travel or commitments they faced, they would always contrive to be together to watch the rise of the full moon.

The moon touched the distant treetops across the river, then slid down behind them. The sky brightened and, finally, the gleam of the moon vanished in the tangle of bush. The mystery of the night had passed; day had arrived.

"Good-bye, old moon," said Pendergast lightly.

Helen squeezed his hand, then stood up as the DC and Wisley materialized on the path from the kitchen hut. With them was a third man, hollow-faced, very tall and lanky. His eyes were yellow.

"This is Wilson Nyala," said Wisley. "Your gun bearer."

Handshakes. The bartender from the previous night came from the kitchen with a large pot of lapsang souchong tea, and steaming cups of the strong brew were poured all around.

They drank quickly in silence. Pendergast set his cup down. "It's light enough to take a look at the scene of the attack."

Nyala slung one gun over each shoulder, and they walked down a dirt path that ran along the river. Where it passed a dense stand of miombo brush, an area had been marked out with rope and wooden stakes. Pendergast knelt, examining the spoor. He could see a pair of enormous pug marks in the dust, next to a puddled mass of black blood, now dry and cracking. As he looked about, he reconstructed the attack in his mind. What had happened was clear enough: the man had been jumped from the brush, knocked down, bitten. The initial reports were accurate. The dust showed where the lion had dragged his thrashing victim back into the brush, leaving a trail of blood.