Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [25]
“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,