Fever Dream Read Free Page B

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