Fever Dream

by Douglas Preston

  “What a delightful setting,” Helen said as she looked around.

  “Kingazu is one of the oldest safari camps in the country,” Pendergast replied. “It was founded in the 1950s, when Zambia was still part of Northern Rhodesia, by a hunter who realized that taking people out to photograph animals could be just as exciting as killing them—and a lot more remunerative.”

  “Thank you, Professor. Will there be a quiz after the lecture?”

  When they pulled into the dusty parking area, the bar and dining shelter were empty, the camp staff having taken refuge in the surrounding huts. All the lights were on, the generator chugging full blast.

  “Nervous bunch,” said Helen, flinging open the door and climbing out into the hot evening, the air shrill with cicadas.

  The door of the closest rondevaal opened, striping yellow light across the beaten earth, and a man in pressed khakis with knife-edge creases, leather bush-boots, and high socks stepped out.

  “The district commissioner, Alistair Woking,” Pendergast whispered to his wife.

  “I’d never have guessed.”

  “And the fellow with him in the Australian cowboy hat is Gordon Wisley, the camp concessionaire.”

  “Come inside,” said the district commissioner, shaking their hands. “We can talk more comfortably in the hut.”

  “Heavens, no!” said Helen. “We’ve been cooped up in a car all day—let’s have a drink at the bar.”

  “Well…,” the commissioner said dubiously.

  “If the lion comes into camp, so much the better. Then we won’t have the bother of stalking him in the bush. Right, Aloysius?”

  “Flawlessly argued.”

  She lifted the soft-canvas bag that held her gun out of the back of the Land Rover. Pendergast did the same, hefting a heavy metal canister of ammunition over his shoulder.

  “Gentlemen?” he said. “To the bar?”

  “Very well.” The DC eyed their heavy-bore safari guns with a certain look of reassurance. “Misumu!”

  An African in a felt fez and red sash ducked his head out a door of the staff camp.

  “We’d like a drink at the bar,” said Woking. “If you don’t mind.”

  They retired to the thatched bar, the barman taking his place behind the polished wood counter. He was sweating, and not because of the heat.

  “Maker’s Mark,” said Helen. “On the rocks.”

  “Two,” said her husband. “And muddle in some mint, if you have it.”

  “Make it the same all ’round,” said the DC. “Is that all right with you, Wisley?”

  “Just so long as it’s strong,” said Wisley with a nervous laugh. “What a day.”

  The barman poured the drinks, and Pendergast washed the dust from his throat with a good slug. “Tell us what happened, Mr. Wisley.”

  Wisley was a tall redhead with a New Zealand accent. “It was after lunch,” he began. “We had twelve guests in camp—a full house.”

  As he spoke, Pendergast unzipped the canvas carrying case and removed his gun, a Holland & Holland .465 “Royal” double rifle. He broke the action and began cleaning the weapon, wiping off dust from the long drive. “What was lunch?”

  “Sandwiches. Roast kudu, ham, turkey, cucumber. Iced tea. We always serve a light lunch during the heat of the day.”

  Pendergast nodded, polishing the walnut stock.

  “A lion had been roaring most of the night off in the bush, but during the day it settled down. We often hear roaring lions—it’s one of the attractions of the camp, actually.”

  “Charming.”

  “But they’ve never bothered us before. I just can’t understand it.”

  Pendergast glanced at him, then returned his attention to the gun. “This lion, I take it, was not local?”

  “No. We have several prides here—I know every individual by sight. This was a rogue male.”

  “Large?”

  “Large as hell.”

  “Big enough to make the book?”

  Wisley grimaced. “Bigger than anything in the book.”

  “I see.”

  “The German, a fellow named Hassler, and his wife were the first to leave the table. I think it was around two. They were heading back to their rondevaal when—according to the wife—the lion leapt from the cover along the riverbank, knocked her husband down, and sank his teeth into the poor man’s neck. The wife started screaming bloody murder, and of course the poor bloke was screaming, too. We all came running, but the lion had dragged him off into the bush and vanished. I can’t tell you how terrible it was—we could hear him scream, again and again. Then all went quiet except for the sounds of…” He stopped abruptly.

  “Good God,” said Helen. “Didn’t anyone fetch a rifle?”

  “I did,” said Wisley. “I’m not much of a shot, but as you know we’re required to carry rifles during outings with tourists. I didn’t dare follow him into the long grass—I don’t hunt, Mr. Pendergast—but I fired several times at the sounds and it seemed to drive the lion deeper into the bush. Perhaps I wounded him.”

  “That would be unfortunate,” said Pendergast dryly. “No doubt he dragged the body with him. Did you preserve the spoor at the scene of the attack?”

  “Yes, we did. Of course, there was some initial disturbance during the panic, but then I blocked off the area.”

  “Excellent. And no one went into the bush after him?”

  “No. Everyone was simply hysterical—we haven’t had a lion killing in decades. We evacuated all but essential staff.”

  Pendergast nodded, then glanced at his wife. She, too, had cleaned her rifle—a Krieghoff .500/.416 “Big Five”—and was listening intently.

  “Have you heard the lion since then?”

  “No. It was bloody silent all last night and today. Perhaps he’s gone off.”

  “Not likely, until he’s finished his kill,” said Pendergast. “A lion won’t drag a kill more than a mile. You can be sure he’s still around. Did anyone else see him?”

  “Just the wife.”

  “And she said he was red-maned?”

  “Yes. At first, in her hysteria, she said he was soaked in blood. But when she calmed down a bit we were able to question her more exactly, and it appears the lion’s mane was deep red.”

  “How do you know it wasn’t blood?”

  Helen spoke up. “Lions are very fussy about their manes. They clean them regularly. I’ve never seen a lion with blood on its mane—only its face.”

  “So what do we do, Mr. Pendergast?” Wisley asked.

  Pendergast took a long sip of his bourbon. “We’ll have to wait until dawn. I’ll want your best tracker and a single gun bearer. And of course, my wife will be the second shooter.”

  A silence. Wisley and the DC were both looking at Helen. She returned their looks with a smile.

  “I’m afraid that might be somewhat, ah, irregular,” said Woking, clearing his throat.

  “Because I’m a woman?” Helen asked, amused. “Don’t worry, it isn’t catching.”

  “No, no,” came the hasty reply. “It’s just that we’re in a national park, and only someone with a government-issued professional license is authorized to shoot.”

  “Of the two of us,” said Pendergast, “my wife is the better shot. On top of that, it’s essential to have two expert shooters when stalking lion in the bush.” He paused. “Unless, of course, you’d care to be the second shooter?”

  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.

  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.