Douglas Child - Fever Dream

Pendergast rose. "Here's how it'll work. I'll stay eight feet behind Jason, slightly to his left. Helen will be behind me another eight feet, to the right. Wilson, you float just behind us." He glanced over at his wife, who gave a subtle nod of approval.

"When the time comes," he continued, "we'll gesture for the guns--bring them up with safeties on. For my rifle, detach the strap--I would rather not hitch it up on brush."

"I prefer my strap on," said Helen curtly.

Wilson Nyala nodded his bony head.

Pendergast extended an arm. "My rifle, please?"

Wilson handed him his rifle. Pendergast broke the action, examined the barrel, dunked in two soft-point .465 nitro express cartridges--big as Macanudos--closed it, locked it, made sure the safety was on, and handed it back. Helen did the same with her rifle, loading it with .500/.416 flanged soft points.

"That's a rather big gun for such a slender woman," said Woking.

"I think a big-bore weapon is rather fetching," replied Helen.

"All I can say," Woking continued, "is I'm glad I'm not going into the bush after that brute, big rifle or no."

"Keep the long-triangle formation as closely as possible as we advance," said Pendergast, glancing from Mfuni to Nyala and back again. "The wind's in our favor. No talking unless absolutely necessary. Use hand signals. Leave the flashlights here."

Everyone nodded. The atmosphere of false jollity quickly evaporated as they waited in silence for the sun to come up enough to fill the underbrush with dim blue twilight. Then Pendergast motioned for Mfuni to proceed.

The tracker moved into the bush, carrying his spear in one hand, following the blood spoor. The trail moved away from the river, through the dense thorn scrub and second-growth mopane brush along a small tributary of the Luangwa called Chitele Stream. They moved slowly, following the spoor that coated the grass and leaves. The tracker paused to point with his spear at a brake of flattened grass. There was a large stained area, still damp, the leaves around splattered with arterial blood. This was where the lion had first put down his victim and begun eating, even while the victim still lived, before being shot at.

Jason Mfuni bent down and silently held up an object: half of a lower jawbone with teeth, gnawed around the edges and licked clean. Pendergast looked at it without speaking. Mfuni laid it down again and pointed to a hole in the wall of vegetation.

They proceeded through the hole into heavy green bush. Mfuni paused every twenty yards to listen and smell the air, or to examine a smear of blood on a leaf. The corpse had bled out by this point, and the spoor grew fainter: all that marked the trail were tiny smears and spots.

The tracker stopped twice to point out areas of broken grass where the lion had put the body down to shift its fang-hold and then pick it up again. The day was coming up rapidly, the sun breaking over the treetops. Except that, save for the constant drone of insects, this particular morning was unusually silent and watchful.

They followed the spoor for more than a mile. The sun boiled over the horizon, beaming furnace-like heat into the brush, and the tsetse flies rose in whining clouds. The air carried the heavy smell of dust and grass. The trail finally broke free of the bushveldt into a dry pan under the spreading branches of an acacia tree, a single termite mound rising like a pinnacle against the incandescent sky. In the center of the pan was a jumble of red and white, surrounded by a roaring cloud of flies.

Mfuni moved out cautiously, Pendergast, Helen, and the gun bearer following. They silently gathered around the half-eaten body of the German photographer. The lion had opened the cranium, eaten his face, brain, and much of the upper torso, leaving two perfectly white, unscathed legs, licked clean of blood, and one detached arm, its fist still clenching a tuft of fur. Nobody spoke. Mfuni bent down, tugged the hair from the fist, shaking the arm free in the process, and inspected it carefully. He then placed it in Pendergast's hand. It was deep red in color. Pendergast passed it to Helen, who examined it in turn, then handed it back to Mfuni.

While the others remained near the body, the tracker slowly circled the pan, looking for tracks in the alkaline crust. He placed a finger on his mouth and pointed across the dry pan into a vlei , a swampy depression during the wet season that--now the dry season was advanced--had grown up into an extremely dense stand of grass, ten to twelve feet high. Several hundred yards into the vlei rose a large, sinuous grove of fever trees, their umbrella-like crowns spreading against the horizon. The tracker was pointing at a slot bent into the tall grass, made by the lion in its retreat. He came back over, his face serious, and whispered into Pendergast's ear. "In there," he said, pointing with his spear. "Resting."

Pendergast nodded and glanced at Helen. She was still pale but absolutely steady, the eyes cool and determined.

Nyala, the gun bearer, was nervous. "What is it?" Pendergast asked in a low tone, turning to him.

He nodded toward the tall grass. "That lion smart. Too smart. Very bad place."

Pendergast hesitated, looking from the bearer, to the tracker, to the stand of grass and back again. Then he gestured for the tracker to proceed.

Slowly, stealthily, they entered the tall grass. The visibility dropped to less than five yards. The hollow stalks rustled and whispered with their movements, the cloying smell of heated grass stifling in the dead air. Green twilight enveloped them as they moved deeper into the stand. The drone of insects merged into a steady whine.

As they approached the grove of fever trees, the tracker slowed; held up his hand; pointed to his nose. Pendergast inhaled and caught the faint, musky scent of lion, overlaid with the sweetish whiff of carrion.

The tracker crouched and signaled for the others to do likewise--the visibility in the bunch grass was better closer to the ground, where they had a greater chance of seeing the tawny flash of the lion before he was actually on top of them. They slowly entered the fever grove, inching along at a crouch. The dried, silty mud was baked hard as rock and it retained no spoor, but broken and bent stems told a clear tale of the lion's passage.

Again the tracker paused, motioning for a talk. Pendergast and Helen came up and the three huddled in the close grass, whispering just loud enough to be heard over the insects.

"Lion somewhere in front. Twenty, thirty yards. Moving slowly." Mfuni's face was creased with concern. "Maybe we should wait."

"No," whispered Pendergast. "This is our best chance at bagging him. He's just eaten."

They moved forward, into a small open area with no grass, no more than ten feet square. The tracker paused, sniffed the air, then pointed left. "Lion," he whispered.

Pendergast stared ahead, looked left, then shook his head and pointed straight ahead.

The tracker scowled, leaned to Pendergast's ear. "Lion circle around to left. He very smart."

Still Pendergast shook his head. He leaned over Helen. "You stay here," he whispered, his lips brushing her ears.

"But the tracker--"

"The tracker's wrong. You stay, I'll go ahead just a few yards. We're nearing the far end of the vlei . He'll want to remain in cover; with me moving toward him he'll feel pressed. He might rush. Be ready and keep a line of fire open to my right."

Pendergast signaled for his gun. He grasped the metal barrel, warm in the heat, and pulled it forward under his arm. He thumbed off the safety and flipped up the night sight--a bead of ivory--for better sighting in the grassy half-light. Nyala handed Helen her rifle.

Pendergast moved into the dense grass straight ahead, the tracker following in frozen silence, his face a mask of terror.