Fever Dream (9 page)

“That’s Wisley?” D’Agosta asked.

Pendergast nodded slowly. “He has not aged well.”

“And the other two—those are his ‘boys’?”

Pendergast nodded again. “It would seem this place has yet to enter the twentieth century—let alone the twenty-first.”

And then—slowly, with great deliberation—he eased out of the vehicle, turned to face the house, and raised himself to his
full height.

On the porch, Wisley blinked once, twice. He glanced from D’Agosta to Pendergast, opening his mouth to speak. But his expression
froze as he stared at the FBI agent. Blankness gave way to horrified recognition. With a curse, the man abruptly struggled
out of the chair and rose to his feet, knocking over the glassware in the process. Grabbing an elephant gun that had been
propped against the wooden siding, he pulled open a screen door and lurched into the house.

“Can’t get much guiltier than that,” D’Agosta said. “I don’t—oh, shit.”

The two attendants had dropped out of sight below the porch railing. A gunshot boomed from the porch and a spout of dirt erupted
behind them.

They threw themselves behind the car. “What the
fuck
?” D’Agosta said, scrambling to pull his Glock.

“Stay put and down.” Pendergast leapt up and ran.

“Hey!”

Another report, and a bullet smacked the side of the jeep with a
whang!
sending up a cloud of shredded upholstery stuffing. D’Agosta peered around the tire up at the house, gun in hand. Where the
hell had Pendergast gone?

He ducked back and winced as he heard a third shot ricochet off the steel frame of the jeep. Christ, he couldn’t just sit
here like a target at a shooting gallery. He waited until a fourth shot sailed over his head, then raised his head above the
vehicle’s fender, aiming his weapon as the shooter ducked behind the railing. He was about to pull the trigger when he saw
Pendergast emerge from the shrubbery below the porch. With remarkable speed he vaulted the railing, felled the African shooter
with a savage chop to the neck, and pointed his .45 at the other attendant. The man slowly raised his hands.

“You can come up now, Vincent,” Pendergast said as he retrieved the gun that lay beside the groaning form.

They found Wisley in the fruit cellar. As they closed in on him, he fired the elephant gun, but his aim was off—through drink
or fear—and the kick sent him sprawling. Before he could fire again Pendergast had darted forward, pinned the rifle with his
foot, and subdued Wisley with two swift, savage blows to the face. The second blow broke Wisley’s nose, and bright blood fountained
over the man’s starched white shirt. Reaching into his own breast pocket and plucking out a handkerchief, Pendergast handed
it to him. Then, seizing Wisley by the upper arm, the FBI agent propelled him out of the fruit cellar, up the basement stairs,
and out the front door to the porch, where he dropped him back into the wicker chair.

The two attendants were still standing there, as if dumbstruck.
D’Agosta waved his weapon at them. “Walk down the road a hundred
yards,” he said. “Stay where we can see you, hands up in the air.”

Pendergast tucked his Les Baer into his waistband and stood before Wisley. “Thank you for the warm welcome,” he said.

Wisley pressed the handkerchief to his nose. “I must’ve mistaken you for someone else.” He spoke in what sounded to D’Agosta
like an Australian accent.

“On the contrary, I commend you on your prodigious recall. I think you have something to tell me.”

“I’ve nothing to tell you, mate,” Wisley replied.

Pendergast crossed his arms. “I will ask you only once: who arranged my wife’s death?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” came the muffled response.

Pendergast looked down on the man, his lip twitching. “Let me explain something, Mr. Wisley,” he said after a moment. “I can
assure you, without the slightest possibility of error, that you
will
tell me what I want to know. The degree of mortification and inconvenience you will endure
before
telling me is a choice you are free to make.”

“Sod off.”

Pendergast contemplated the sweating, bleeding figure sprawled in the chair. Then, leaning forward, he pulled Wisley to his
feet. “Vincent,” he said over his shoulder, “escort Mr. Wisley to our vehicle.”

Gun pressed into the bulging back, D’Agosta prodded Wisley toward the jeep and into the passenger seat, then climbed into
the rear, brushing debris off the seat. Pendergast started the engine and drove back down the path, past the emerald grass
and the Technicolor flowers, past the two attendants—who stood motionless as statues—and into the jungle.

“Where are you taking me?” Wisley demanded as they rounded the bend and the house disappeared from view.

“I don’t know,” Pendergast replied.

“What do you mean, you don’t
know
?” Wisley’s voice sounded a little less assured now.

“We’re going on safari.”

They drove on, without hurry, for fifteen minutes. The tall grass gave way to savanna, and a wide, chocolate-brown river that
looked
too lazy even to flow. D’Agosta saw two hippos playing by the riverbank, and a vast flock of stork-like birds with
thin yellow legs and immense wingspans, rising like a white cloud from the water. The sun had begun to descend toward the
horizon, and the fierce heat of midday had abated.

Pendergast took his foot off the accelerator and let the vehicle coast to a stop on the grassy shoulder. “This looks like
a good spot,” he said.

D’Agosta glanced around in confusion. The vista here seemed little different from the landscape they’d been traveling through
for the last five miles.

Then he froze. About a quarter mile off, away from the river, he made out a pride of lions, gnawing at a skeleton. Their sandy-colored
fur had made them difficult to see at first against the low grassland.

Wisley was sitting rigid in the front seat, staring intently. He’d noticed them right away.

“Get out of the car, please, Mr. Wisley,” Pendergast said mildly.

Wisley did not move.

D’Agosta placed his gun at the base of Wisley’s skull. “Move.”

Stiffly, slowly, Wisley exited the vehicle.

D’Agosta climbed out of the backseat. He felt hugely reluctant to even stop the car this close to half a dozen lions, let
alone get out. Lions were to be looked at from the safety of the Bronx Zoo, with at least two layers of tall strong steel
fencing in between.

“Looks like an old kill, doesn’t it?” Pendergast said, motioning with his gun at the pride. “I imagine they’re hungry.”

“Lions aren’t man-eaters,” Wisley said, handkerchief pressed to his nose. “It’s very rare.” But the bluster had gone from
his voice.

“They don’t need to eat you, Mr. Wisley,” Pendergast said. “That would merely be icing on the cake, so to speak. If they think
you’re after their kill, they will attack. But then, you know all about lions, don’t you?”

Wisley said nothing. He was staring at the lions.

Pendergast reached over and plucked the handkerchief away. Immediately fresh blood began streaming down Wisley’s face. “That
should attract some interest, at any rate.”

Wisley shot him a hunted glance.

“Walk toward them, if you please,” Pendergast said.

“You’re crazy,” Wisley replied, voice rising.

“No. I’m the one with the gun.” Pendergast aimed it at Wisley. “Walk.”

For a moment, Wisley remained motionless. Then—very slowly—he put one foot before the other and began moving toward the lions.
Pendergast followed close behind, gun at the ready. D’Agosta followed, staying several paces back. He was inclined to agree
with Wisley—this
was
insane. The pride was watching their approach intently.

After forty yards of snail-like progress, Wisley stopped again.

“Keep going, Mr. Wisley,” Pendergast called.

“I can’t.”

“I’ll shoot you if you don’t.”

Wisley’s mouth worked frantically. “That handgun of yours will barely stop a single lion, let alone an entire pride.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“If they kill me, they’ll kill you, too.”

“I’m aware of that, as well.” Pendergast turned. “Vincent, stay back, will you?” He fished in his pocket, withdrew the keys
to the jeep, tossed them to D’Agosta. “Get to a safe distance if things go badly.”

“Are you bloody daft?” Wisley said, his voice shrill. “Didn’t you hear me? You’ll die, too!”

“Mr. Wisley, be a good fellow and walk forward. I do hate having to repeat myself.”

Still Wisley did not move.

“Indeed, I
won’t
ask again. In five seconds I will put a bullet through your left elbow. You’ll still be able to walk—and the shot will no
doubt arouse the lions.”

Wisley took a step, stopped again. Then he took another step. One of the lions—a big male, with a wild tawny mane—rose lazily
to his feet. He looked toward them, licking bloody chops. D’Agosta, hanging back, felt his stomach churn.

“All right!” Wisley said. “All right, I’ll tell you!”

“I’m all ears,” Pendergast said.

Wisley was shaking violently. “Let’s get back to the car!”

“Right here is fine with me. Better speak fast.”

“It was a, it was a setup.”

“Details, if you please.”

“I don’t know the details. Woking was the contact.”

Now two of the lionesses had risen, as well.

“Please,
please
,” Wisley begged, voice breaking. “For God’s sake, can’t we talk in the jeep?”

Pendergast seemed to consider this a moment. Then he nodded.

They returned to the vehicle at a rather brisker pace than they’d left it. As they climbed in and D’Agosta passed Pendergast
the keys, he noticed the male lion moving toward them at a walk. Pendergast cranked the engine. The walk became a lope. The
engine finally caught; Pendergast threw it into gear and slewed around just as the lion caught up, roaring and raking the
side of the vehicle as it lurched past. D’Agosta glanced over his shoulder, heart hammering in his throat. The lion slowly
dwindled behind them, finally disappearing.

They drove ten minutes in silence. Then Pendergast pulled over again, got out, and motioned for Wisley to do the same. D’Agosta
followed suit, and they walked a short distance from the car.

Pendergast waved his Les Baer at Wisley. “On your knees.”

Wisley complied.

Pendergast handed him the bloody handkerchief. “All right. Tell me the rest.”

Wisley was still shaking violently. “I, I don’t know much else. There were two men. One was American, the other European.
German, I think. They… they supplied the man-eating lion. Supposedly trained. They were well funded.”

“How did you know their nationalities?”

“I heard them. Behind the dining tent, talking to Woking. The night before the tourist was killed.”

“What did they look like?”

“It was night. I couldn’t see.”

Pendergast paused. “What did Woking do, exactly?”

“He set up the death of the tourist. He knew where the lion was waiting, he steered the tourist in that direction. Told him
a warthog, a photo-op, was there.” Wisley swallowed. “He… he arranged for Nyala to load your wife’s gun with blanks.”

“So Nyala was in on it, too?”

Wisley nodded.

“What about Mfuni? The tracker?”

“Everyone was in on it.”

“These men you mention—you said they were well funded. How do you know?”

“They paid very well. Woking got fifty thousand to carry out the plan. I… I got twenty thousand for the use of the camp and
to look the other way.”

“The lion was trained?”

“That’s what someone said.”

“How?”

“I don’t know how. I only know it was trained to kill on command—though anybody who thinks that can be done reliably is crazy.”

“Are you sure there were only two men?”

“I only heard two voices.”

Pendergast’s face set in a hard line. Once again, D’Agosta watched the FBI agent bring himself under control by the sheer
force of his will. “Is there anything else?”

“No. Nothing. That’s all, I swear. We never spoke of it again.”

“Very well.” And then—with sudden, frightening speed—Pendergast grabbed Wisley by the hair, placed his gun against the man’s
temple.

“No!” D’Agosta cried, placing a restraining hand on Pendergast’s arm.

Pendergast turned to look at him and D’Agosta was almost physically knocked back by the intensity of the agent’s gaze.

“Not a good idea to kill informants,” D’Agosta said, modulating his voice carefully, making it as casual as possible. “Maybe
he isn’t done talking. Maybe the gin and tonics will kill him for us, save you the trouble. Don’t worry—the fat fuck isn’t
going anywhere.”

Pendergast hesitated, gun still pressed to Wisley’s temple. Then, slowly, he released his grip on Wisley’s thin tonsure of
reddish hair. The ex-concessionaire sank to the ground and D’Agosta noted, with disgust, that he had wet himself.

Without speaking, Pendergast slipped back into the vehicle.
D’Agosta climbed in beside him. They pulled back onto the road
and headed for Lusaka without a backward glance.

It was half an hour before D’Agosta spoke. “So,” he said. “What’s next?”

“The past,” Pendergast replied, not taking his eyes from the road. “The past is what’s next.”