Fever Dream

Pendergast grasped him by the lapel. 'I have a favor to ask you. More than a favor. Come with me.'

D'Agosta was too surprised by his vehemence to do anything but obey. Leaving the scene under the stares of his fellow cops, he followed Pendergast past the crowd and down the street to where the agent's Rolls was idling. Proctor, the chauffeur, was behind the wheel, his expression studiously blank.

D'Agosta had to practically run to keep up. 'You know I'll help you out any way I can--'

'Don't say anything, do not speak, until you've heard me out.'

'Right, sure,' D'Agosta added hastily.

'Get in.'

Pendergast slipped into the rear passenger compartment, D'Agosta climbing in behind. The agent pulled open a panel in the door and swung out a tiny bar. Grasping a cut-glass decanter, he sloshed three fingers of brandy into a glass and drank half of it off with a single gulp. He replaced the decanter and turned to D'Agosta, his silvery eyes glittering with intensity. 'This is no ordinary request. If you can't do it, or won't do it, I'll understand. But you must not burden me with questions, Vincent--I don't have time. I simply don't--have--time. Listen, and then give me your answer.'

D'Agosta nodded.

'I need you to take a leave of absence from the force. Perhaps as long as a year.'

'A year?'

Pendergast knocked back the rest of the drink. 'It could be months, or weeks. There's no way to know how long this is going to take.'

'What is 'this'?'

For a moment, the agent did not reply. 'I've never spoken to you about my late wife, Helen?'

'No.'

'She died twelve years ago, when we were on safari in Africa. She was attacked by a lion.'

'Jesus. I'm sorry.'

'At the time, I believed it to be a terrible accident. Now I know different.'

D'Agosta waited.

'Now I know she was murdered.'

'Oh, God.'

'The trail is cold. I need you, Vincent. I need your skills, your street smarts, your knowledge of the working classes, your way of thinking. I need you to help me track down the person--or persons--who did this. I will of course pay all your expenses and see to it that your salary and health benefits are maintained.'

A silence fell in the car. D'Agosta was stunned. What would this mean for his career, his relationship with Laura Hayward... his future? It was irresponsible. No--it was more than that. It was utterly crazy.

'Is this an official investigation?'

'No. It would be just you and me. The killer might be anywhere in the world. We will operate completely outside the system--any system.'

'And when we find the killer? What then?'

'We will see to it that justice is served.'

'Meaning?'

Pendergast sloshed more brandy into the glass with a fierce gesture, gulped it down, and fixed D'Agosta once again with those cold, platinum eyes.

'We kill him.'

7

THE ROLLS-ROYCE TORE UP PARK AVENUE, LATE-CRUISING cabs flashing by in blurs of yellow. D'Agosta sat in the back with Pendergast, feeling awkward, trying not to turn a curious eye toward the FBI agent. This Pendergast was impatient, unkempt, and--most remarkable--openly emotional.

'When did you find out?' he ventured to ask.

'This afternoon.'

'How'd you figure it out?'

Pendergast did not answer immediately, glancing out the window as the Rolls turned sharply onto 72nd Street, heading toward the park. He placed the empty brandy glass--which he had been holding, unheeded, the entire uptown journey--back into its position in the tiny bar. Then he took a deep breath. 'Twelve years ago, Helen and I were asked to kill a man-eating lion in Zambia--a lion with an unusual red mane. Just such a lion had wreaked havoc in the area forty years before.'

'Why did you get asked?'

'Part of having a professional hunting license. You're obligated to kill any beasts menacing the villages or camps, if the authorities request it.' Pendergast was still looking out the window. 'The lion had killed a German tourist at a safari camp. Helen and I drove over from our own camp to put it down.'

He picked up the brandy bottle, looked at it, put it back into its holder. The big car was now moving through Central Park, the skeletal branches overhead framing a threatening night sky. 'The lion charged us from deep cover, attacked me and the tracker. As he ran back into the bush, Helen shot at him and apparently missed. She went to attend to the tracker...' His voice wavered and he stopped, composing himself. 'She went to attend to the tracker and the lion burst out of the brush a second time. It dragged her off. That was the last time I saw her. Alive,