Fever Dream Read Free

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