Fever Dream

Pendergast crossed his arms. "I will ask you only once: who arranged my wife's death?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," came the muffled response.

Pendergast looked down on the man, his lip twitching. "Let me explain something, Mr. Wisley," he said after a moment. "I can assure you, without the slightest possibility of error, that you will tell me what I want to know. The degree of mortification and inconvenience you will endure before telling me is a choice you are free to make."

"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 sava

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, they'll kill you, too."

"I'm aware of that, as well." Pendergast turned. "Vincent, stay back, will you?" He fished in his pocket, withdrew the keys to the jeep, tossed them to D'Agosta. "Get to a safe distance if things go badly."

"Are you bloody daft?" Wisley said, his voice shrill. "Didn't you hear me? You'll die, too!"

"Mr. Wisley, be a good fellow and walk forward. I do hate having to repeat myself."

Still Wisley did not move.

"Indeed, I won't ask again. In five seconds I will put a bullet through your left elbow. You'll still be able to walk--and the shot will no doubt arouse the lions."

Wisley took a step, stopped again. Then he took another step. One of the lions--a big male, with a wild tawny mane--rose lazily to his feet. He looked toward them, licking bloody chops. D'Agosta, hanging back, felt his stomach churn.

"All right!" Wisley said. "All right, I'll tell you!"

"I'm all ears," Pendergast said.

Wisley was shaking violently. "Let's get back to the car!"

"Right here is fine with me. Better speak fast."

"It was a, it was a setup."

"Details, if you please."

"I don't know the details. Woking was the contact."

Now two of the lionesses had risen, as well.

"Please, please," Wisley begged, voice breaking. "For God's sake, can't we talk in the jeep?"

Pendergast seemed to consider this a moment. Then he nodded.

They returned to the vehicle at a rather brisker pace than they'd left it. As they climbed in and D'Agosta passed Pendergast the keys, he noticed the male lion moving toward them at a walk. Pendergast cranked the engine. The walk became a lope. The engine finally caught; Pendergast threw it into gear and slewed around just as the lion caught up, roaring and raking the side of the vehicle as it lurched past. D'Agosta glanced over his shoulder, heart hammering in his throat. The lion slowly dwindled behind them, finally disappearing.

They drove ten minutes in silence. Then Pendergast pulled over again, got out, and motioned for Wisley to do the same. D'Agosta followed suit, and they walked a short distance from the car.

Pendergast waved his Les Baer at Wisley. "On your knees."

Wisley complied.

Pendergast handed him the bloody handkerchief. "All right. Tell me the rest."

Wisley was still shaking violently. "I, I don't know much else. There were two men. One was American, the other European. German, I think. They... they supplied the man-eating lion. Supposedly trained. They were well funded."

"How did you know their nationalities?"

"I heard them. Behind the dining tent, talking to Woking. The night before the tourist was killed."

"What did they look like?"

"It was night. I couldn't see."

Pendergast paused. "What did Woking do, exactly?"

"He set up the death of the tourist. He knew where the lion was waiting, he steered the tourist in that direction. Told him a warthog, a photo-op, was there." Wisley swallowed. "He... he arranged for Nyala to load your wife's gun with blanks."