Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [5]
“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.”
“Very well,” said the DC with a frown. “Mr. Wisley?”
Wisley nodded reluctantly.
“We’ll meet tomorrow morning at five,” Pendergast went on. “I’m quite serious when I say we’ll need a very, very good tracker.”
“We have one of the best in Zambia—Jason Mfuni. Of course, he’s rarely tracked for hunting, only for photographers and tourists.”
“As long as he has nerves of steel.”
“He does.”
“You’ll need to spread the word to the locals, make sure they stay well away. The last thing we’ll need is a distraction.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Wisley. “Perhaps you noticed the empty villages on your way in to the camp? Except for us, you won’t find a single human being within twenty miles.”
“The villages emptied that quickly?” Helen said. “The attack only took place yesterday.”
“It’s the Red Lion,” the DC said, as if this were explanation enough.
Pendergast and Helen exchanged glances. For a moment, the bar went silent.
Then Pendergast rose, took Helen’s hand, and helped her to her feet. “Thanks for the drink. And now, if you will show us to our hut?”
3
The Fever Trees
THE NIGHT HAD BEEN SILENT. EVEN THE LOCAL prides that often tattooed the darkness with their roars were lying low, and the usual chatter of night animals seemed subdued. The sound of the river was a faint