Fever Dream (8 page)

“Very well.”

Pendergast looked around the room for a moment, as if committing its details to memory. Then he turned to D’Agosta. His expression
was neutral, but his eyes spoke of sorrow, even desolation.

“Vincent,” he said. “We have a plane to catch.”

Zambia

T
HE SMILING, GAP-TOOTHED MAN AT THE DIRT
airstrip had called the vehicle a Land Rover. That description, D’Agosta thought as he hung on for dear life, was more than
charitable. Whatever it might have been, now it barely deserved to be called an automobile. It had no windows, no roof, no
radio, and no seat belts. The hood was fixed to the grille by a tangle of baling wire. He could see the dirt road below through
giant rust holes in the chassis.

At the wheel, Pendergast—attired in khaki shirt and pants, and wearing a Tilley safari hat—swerved around a massive pothole
in the road, only to hit a smaller one. D’Agosta rose several inches out of his seat at the impact. He gritted his teeth and
took a fresh hold on the roll bar.
This is frigging awful,
he thought. He was hot as hell, and there was dust in his ears, eyes, nose, hair, and crevices he hadn’t even known he had.
He contemplated asking Pendergast to slow down, then thought better of it. The closer they came to the site of Helen Pendergast’s
death, the grimmer Pendergast became.

Pendergast slowed just slightly as they came to a village—yet another sorry-looking collection of huts built of sticks and
dried mud, baking in the noonday sun. There was no electricity, and a single communal well stood in the middle of the lone
crossroads. Pigs, chickens, and children roamed aimlessly.

“And I thought the South Bronx was bad,” D’Agosta muttered more to himself than to Pendergast.

“Kingazu Camp is ten miles ahead,” was Pendergast’s reply as he stepped on the accelerator.

They hit another pothole and D’Agosta was again thrown in the air, coming down hard on his tailbone. Both arms were smarting
from the inoculations, and his head hurt from the sun and vibration. About the only painless thing he’d endured in the past
thirty-six hours was the phone call to his boss, Glen Singleton. The captain had approved his leave of absence with barely
a question. It was almost as if he was relieved to see D’Agosta go.

Half an hour brought them to Kingazu Camp. As Pendergast maneuvered the vehicle into a makeshift lot beneath a grove of sausage
trees, D’Agosta took in the trim lines of the photographic safari camp: the immaculate reed-and-thatch huts, the large canvas
structures labeled
DINING TENT
and
BAR
, the wooden walkways linking each building to the next, the linen pavilions that sheltered comfortable deck chairs on which
a dozen fat and happy tourists dozed, cameras dangling from their necks. Strings of tiny lights were strung along the rooflines.
A generator purred off in the bush. Everything was done up in bright—almost gaudy—colors.

“This is straight out of Disney,” D’Agosta said, getting out of the vehicle.

“A great deal has changed in twelve years,” Pendergast replied, his voice flat.

They stood there a moment, motionless, without speaking, in the shade of the sausage trees. D’Agosta took in the fragrant
smell of burning wood, the tang of crushed grass, and—more faintly—an earthy, animal muskiness he couldn’t identify. The bagpipe
drone of insects mingled with other sounds: the whine of the generators, the cooing of doves, the restless mutterings of the
nearby Luangwa River. D’Agosta shot a covert glance at Pendergast: the agent was stooped forward, as if he bore a terrific
weight; his eyes glittered with a haunted fire, and—as he took in the scene with what seemed like a strange mixture of hunger
and dread—a single muscle in his cheek twitched erratically. He must have realized he was being scrutinized, because the FBI
agent composed himself, straightening up and smoothing his safari vest. But the strange glitter did not leave his eyes.

“Follow me,” he said.

Pendergast led the way past the pavilions and dining tent to a smaller structure, set apart from the rest of the camp in a
copse of trees near the banks of the Luangwa. A single elephant was standing, knee-deep, in the mud of the river. As D’Agosta
watched, the animal scooped up a trunkful of water, sprayed it over its back, then lifted its wrinkled head and emitted a
harsh trumpeting sound that momentarily drowned out the hum of insects.

The small structure was clearly the administrative building for the camp. It consisted of an outer office, currently empty,
and an inner office occupied by a lone man, sitting behind a desk and writing industriously in a notebook. He was about fifty,
thin and wiry, his fair hair bleached by the sun and his arms deeply tanned.

The man looked up as he heard them approach. “Yes, what can I…” The words died in his throat as he caught sight of Pendergast.
Clearly he’d been expecting to see one of the guests.

“Who are you?” he asked, rising.

“My name is Underhill,” Pendergast said. “And this is my friend, Vincent D’Agosta.”

The man looked at them in turn. “What can I do for you?” It seemed to D’Agosta that this was a man who didn’t get many unexpected
visitors.

“May I ask your name?” Pendergast asked.

“Rathe.”

“My friend and I were on safari here, about twelve years ago. We happened to be back in Zambia again—on our way to Mgandi
hunting camp—and thought we’d drop in.” He smiled coldly.

Rathe glanced out the window, in the general direction of the makeshift parking area. “Mgandi, you say?”

Pendergast nodded.

The man grunted and extended a hand. “Sorry. All the goings-on these days, the rebel incursions and whatnot, a fellow gets
a little jumpy.”

“Understandable.”

Rathe gestured at two well-worn wooden chairs before the desk. “Please, sit down. Can I get you anything?”

“A beer would be nice,” D’Agosta said instantly.

“Of course. Just a minute.” The man disappeared, returning a
minute later with two bottles of Mosi beer. D’Agosta accepted
his bottle, mumbling his thanks and taking a grateful swig.

“Are you the camp concessionaire?” Pendergast asked as the man took a seat behind his desk.

Rathe shook his head. “I’m the administrator. The chap you want is Fortnum. He’s still out with this morning’s group.”

“Fortnum. I see.” Pendergast glanced around the office. “I suppose there have been a number of personnel changes since we
were here. The entire camp looks rather different.”

Rathe gave a mirthless smile. “We have to keep up with the competition. Today our clients demand comfort in addition to scenery.”

“Of course. Still, it’s a shame, isn’t it, Vincent? We’d been hoping to see a few familiar faces.”

D’Agosta nodded. It had taken five swallows just to get the dust out of his throat.

Pendergast gave the impression of thinking a moment. “What about Alistair Woking? Is he still the district commissioner?”

Rathe shook his head again. “He died quite some time ago. Let’s see, it must have been almost ten years back.”

“Really? What happened?”

“Hunting accident,” the administrator replied. “They were culling elephants, and Woking went along to observe. Shot in the
back by mistake. Bloody balls-up.”

“How regrettable,” Pendergast said. “And the current camp concessionaire is named Fortnum, you say? When we were on safari
here, it was Wisley. Gordon Wisley.”

“He’s still around,” Rathe said. “Retired the year before last. They say he lives like a king on that hunting concession of
his near Victoria Falls. Boys waiting on him hand and foot.”

Pendergast turned to D’Agosta. “Vincent, do you recall the name of our gun bearer?”

D’Agosta, quite truthfully, said that he did not.

“Wait, I recall it now. Wilson Nyala. Any chance of our saying hello to him, Mr. Rathe?”

“Wilson died in the spring. Dengue fever.” Rathe frowned. “Just a moment. Did you say gun bearer?”

“Pity.” Pendergast shifted in his seat. “What about our tracker? Jason Mfuni.”

“Never heard of him. But then, that kind of help comes and goes so quickly. Now, listen, what’s all this about a gun bearer?
We only handle photographic expeditions here at Kingazu.”

“As I said—it was a
memorable
safari.” And hearing Pendergast say “memorable,” D’Agosta felt a chill despite the heat.

Rathe did not reply. He was still frowning.

“Thank you for your hospitality.” Pendergast rose, and D’Agosta did the same. “Wisley’s hunting concession is near Victoria
Falls, you say? Does it have a name?”

“Ulani Stream.” Rathe stood as well. His initial suspicion seemed to have returned.

“Would you mind if we take a brief look around?”

“If you wish,” Rathe replied. “Don’t disturb the guests.”

Outside the administration building, Pendergast stopped, glancing left and right, as if orienting himself. He hesitated briefly.
And then, without a word, he struck out along a well-beaten path that led away from the camp. D’Agosta hurried to catch up.

The sun beat down mercilessly, and the drone of insects swelled. On one side of the footpath was a dense stand of brush and
trees; on the other, the Luangwa River. D’Agosta felt the unfamiliar khaki shirt clinging damply to his back and shoulders.
“Where are we going?” he panted.

“Into the long grass. Where…” He didn’t finish the sentence.

D’Agosta swallowed. “Okay, sure. Lead the way.”

Pendergast stopped suddenly and turned. An expression had come over his features D’Agosta had never seen before—a look of
sorrow, regret, and almost unfathomable weariness. He cleared his throat, then spoke in a low tone. “I’m very sorry, Vincent,
but this is something I must do alone.”

D’Agosta took a deep breath, relieved. “I understand.”

Pendergast turned, fixed him briefly with his pale eyes. He nodded once. Then he turned back and walked away, stiff-legged,
determined, off the path and into the bush, vanishing almost immediately into the woven shade beneath the trees.

E
VERYONE, IT SEEMED, KNEW WHERE THE WISLEY
“farmstead” was. It lay at the end of a well-maintained dirt track on a gently sloping hill in the forests northwest of
Victoria Falls. In fact—as Pendergast paused the decrepit vehicle just before the final bend in the road—D’Agosta thought
he could hear the falls: a low, distant roar that was more sensation than sound.

He glanced at Pendergast. The drive from Kingazu Camp had taken hours, and in all that time the agent had spoken maybe half
a dozen words. D’Agosta had wanted to ask what, if anything, he’d learned in his investigation in the long grass, but this
was clearly not the time. When he was ready to talk about it, he would.

Pendergast eased the vehicle around the bend, and the house came into view: a lovely old colonial, painted white, with four
squat columns and a wraparound porch. The formal lines were softened by beautifully tended shrubs: azalea, boxwood, bougainvillea.
The entire plot—maybe five or six acres—appeared to have been cut wholesale out of the surrounding jungle. A lawn of emerald
green swept down toward them, punctuated by at least half a dozen flower beds filled with roses of every imaginable shade.
Except for the almost fluorescent brilliance of the flowers, the tidy estate wouldn’t have looked out of place in Greenwich
or Scarsdale. D’Agosta thought he
saw figures on the porch, but from this distance he could not make them out.

“Looks like old Wisley has done all right for himself,” he muttered.

Pendergast nodded, his pale eyes focused on the house.

“That guy, Rathe, mentioned Wisley’s boys,” D’Agosta went on. “What about the wife? You suppose he’s divorced?”

Pendergast gave a wintry smile. “I believe we’ll find Rathe meant something else entirely.”

He drove slowly up the path to a turnaround in front of the house, where he stopped the vehicle and killed the engine. D’Agosta
glanced up at the porch. A heavyset man about sixty years old was seated in an immense wicker chair, his feet propped up on
a wooden stool. He wore a white linen suit that made his fleshy face look even more florid than it was. A thin circle of red
hair, like a monk’s tonsure, crowned his head. The man took a sip of a tall icy drink, then set the glass down hard on a table,
next to a half-full pitcher of the same beverage. His movements had the flaccid generosity of a drunk’s. Standing on either
side of him were middle-aged Africans, gaunt looking, in faded madras shirts. One had a bar towel draped over his forearm;
the other held a fan attached to a long handle, which he was waving slowly over the wicker chair.