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.