Fever Dream (2 page)

“One other thing.” The DC’s voice hesitated and there was a silence over the radio, filled with hissing and crackling.

“What?”

“Probably not very important. The wife who witnessed the attack. She said…” Another pause.

“Yes?”

“She said the lion was peculiar.”

“How so?”

“It had a red mane.”

“You mean, a little darker than usual? That’s not so uncommon.”

“Not darker than usual. This lion’s mane was deep red. Almost blood red.”

There was a very long silence. And then the DC spoke again. “But of course it can’t be the same lion. That was forty years
ago in northern Botswana. I’ve never heard of a lion living more than twenty-five years. Have you?”

Pendergast said nothing as he switched off the radio, his silvery eyes glittering in the dying twilight of the African bush.

Kingazu Camp, Luangwa River

T
HE LAND ROVER BANGED AND LURCHED ALONG
the Banta Road, a bad track in a country legendary for them. Pendergast turned the wheel violently left and right to avoid
the yawning potholes, some almost half as deep as the bashed-up Rover. The windows were wide open—the air-conditioning was
broken—and the interior of the car was awash in dust blown in by the occasional vehicle passing in the other direction.

They had left Makwele Stream just before dawn, making the twelve-mile trek through the bush without guides, carrying nothing
but their weapons, water, a hard salami, and chapati bread. They reached their car around noon. For several hours now they
had been passing through sporadic, hardscrabble villages: circular buildings of lashed sticks with conical roofs of thatch,
dirt streets clogged with loose cattle and sheep. The sky was a cloudless, pale, almost watery blue.

Helen Pendergast fiddled with her scarf, pulling it more tightly around her hair in a losing battle with the omnipresent dust.
It stuck to every exposed inch of their sweaty skin, giving them a scrofulous appearance.

“It’s strange,” she said as they crawled through yet another village, avoiding chickens and small children. “I mean, that
there isn’t a
hunter closer by to take care of this lion problem. After all, you’re not exactly a crack shot.” She smiled
wryly; this was a frequent tease.

“That’s why I’m counting on you.”

“You know I don’t like killing animals I can’t eat.”

“How about killing animals that can eat us?”

“Perhaps I can make an exception there.” She angled the sun visor into a new position, then turned toward Pendergast, her
eyes—blue with flecks of violet—narrowed by the bright light. “So. What was that business about the red mane?”

“A lot of nonsense. There’s an old legend knocking about this part of Africa concerning a red-maned, man-eating lion.”

“Tell me about it.” Her eyes sparkled with interest; the local stories fascinated her.

“Very well. About forty years ago—the story goes—a drought struck the southern Luangwa Valley. Game grew very scarce. A pride
of lions that hunted in the valley starved to death, one by one, until only a single survivor remained—a pregnant lioness.
She survived by digging up and eating the corpses at a local Nyimba cemetery.”

“How horrible,” Helen said with relish.

“They say she gave birth to a cub with a flaming red mane.”

“Go on.”

“The villagers were angry with this continuing desecration of their burial grounds. Eventually they tracked down the lioness,
killed her, skinned her, and nailed her hide to a frame in the village square. Then they held a dance to celebrate her demise.
At dawn, while the villagers were sleeping off the effects of all the maize beer they’d downed, a red-maned lion snuck into
the village, killed three of the sleeping men, then carried off a boy. They found his gnawed bones a couple of days later
in a stand of long grass a few miles off.”

“Good Lord.”

“Over the years, the Red Lion, or the
Dabu Gor
as it was called in the Bemba language, killed and ate a large number of locals. It was very clever, they said: as clever
as a man. It shifted ranges frequently and sometimes crossed borders to evade capture. The local Nyimba claimed the Red Lion
could not survive without the nourishment of human flesh—but with it, he would live forever.”

Pendergast paused to circumnavigate a pothole almost lunar in its depth and extent.

“And?”

“That’s the story.”

“But what happened to the lion? Was he ever killed?”

“A number of professional hunters tried to track him, without success. He just kept killing until he died of old age—if he
did
die, that is.” Pendergast rolled his eyes toward her dramatically.

“Really, Aloysius! You know it can’t be the same lion.”

“It might be a descendant, carrying the same genetic mutation.”

“And perhaps the same tastes,” said Helen, with a ghoulish smile.

As the afternoon turned to evening, they passed through two more deserted villages, the usual cries of children and lowing
of cattle replaced by the drone of insects. They arrived at Kingazu Camp after sunset, as a blue twilight was settling over
the bush. The camp stood on the Luangwa River, a cluster of
rondevaals
arranged along the banks, with an open-air bar and a dining shelter.

“What a delightful setting,” Helen said as she looked around.

“Kingazu is one of the oldest safari camps in the country,” Pendergast replied. “It was founded in the 1950s, when Zambia
was still part of Northern Rhodesia, by a hunter who realized that taking people out to photograph animals could be just as
exciting as killing them—and a lot more remunerative.”

“Thank you, Professor. Will there be a quiz after the lecture?”

When they pulled into the dusty parking area, the bar and dining shelter were empty, the camp staff having taken refuge in
the surrounding huts. All the lights were on, the generator chugging full blast.

“Nervous bunch,” said Helen, flinging open the door and climbing out into the hot evening, the air shrill with cicadas.

The door of the closest
rondevaal
opened, striping yellow light across the beaten earth, and a man in pressed khakis with knife-edge creases, leather bush-boots,
and high socks stepped out.

“The district commissioner, Alistair Woking,” Pendergast whispered to his wife.

“I’d never have guessed.”

“And the fellow with him in the Australian cowboy hat is Gordon Wisley, the camp concessionaire.”

“Come inside,” said the district commissioner, shaking their hands. “We can talk more comfortably in the hut.”

“Heavens, no!” said Helen. “We’ve been cooped up in a car all day—let’s have a drink at the bar.”

“Well…,” the commissioner said dubiously.

“If the lion comes into camp, so much the better. Then we won’t have the bother of stalking him in the bush. Right, Aloysius?”

“Flawlessly argued.”

She lifted the soft-canvas bag that held her gun out of the back of the Land Rover. Pendergast did the same, hefting a heavy
metal canister of ammunition over his shoulder.

“Gentlemen?” he said. “To the bar?”

“Very well.” The DC eyed their heavy-bore safari guns with a certain look of reassurance. “Misumu!”

An African in a felt fez and red sash ducked his head out a door of the staff camp.

“We’d like a drink at the bar,” said Woking. “If you don’t mind.”

They retired to the thatched bar, the barman taking his place behind the polished wood counter. He was sweating, and not because
of the heat.

“Maker’s Mark,” said Helen. “On the rocks.”

“Two,” said her husband. “And muddle in some mint, if you have it.”

“Make it the same all ’round,” said the DC. “Is that all right with you, Wisley?”

“Just so long as it’s strong,” said Wisley with a nervous 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 will be the second shooter.”

A silence. Wisley and the DC were both looking at Helen. She returned their looks with a smile.

“I’m afraid that might be somewhat, ah, irregular,” said Woking, clearing his throat.

“Because I’m a woman?” Helen asked, amused. “Don’t worry, it isn’t catching.”

“No, no,” came the hasty reply. “It’s just that we’re in a national park, and only someone with a government-issued professional
license is authorized to shoot.”

“Of the two of us,” said Pendergast, “my wife is the better shot. On top of that, it’s essential to have two expert shooters
when stalking lion in the bush.” He paused. “Unless, of course, you’d care to be the second shooter?”

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.”