Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [6]
Pendergast and his wife had left their hut and were in the dining shelter, guns beside them, sitting by the soft glow of a single bulb. There were no stars—the night had been overcast, the darkness absolute. They had been sitting there, unmoving and silent, for the last forty-five minutes, enjoying each other’s company and—with the kind of unspoken symbiosis that characterized their marriage—preparing mentally and emotionally for the hunt ahead. Helen Pendergast’s head was resting on her husband’s shoulder. Pendergast stroked her hand, toying now and then with the star sapphire on her wedding band.
“You can’t have it back, you know,” she said at last, her voice husky from the long silence.
He simply smiled and continued his caresses.
A small figure appeared in the shadows, carrying a long spear and wearing long pants and a long shirt, both of dark color.
The two straightened up. “Jason Mfuni?” Pendergast asked, his voice 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