"No. We have several prides here--I know every individual by sight. This was a rogue male."
"Large?"
"Large as hell."
"Big enough to make the book?"
Wisley grimaced. "Bigger than anything inthe book."
"I see."
"The German, a fellow named Hassler, and his wife were the first to leave the table. I think it was around two. They were heading back to their rondevaalwhen--according to the wife--the lion leapt from the cover along the riverbank, knocked her husband down, and sank his teeth into the poor man's neck. The wife started screaming bloody murder, and of course the poor bloke was screaming, too. We all came running, but the lion had dragged him off into the bush and vanished. I can't tell you how terrible it was--we could hear him scream, again and again. Then all went quiet except for the sounds of..." He stopped abruptly.
"Good God," said Helen. "Didn't anyone fetch a rifle?"
"I did," said Wisley. "I'm not much of a shot, but as you know we're required to carry rifles during outings with tourists. I didn't dare follow him into the long grass--I don't hunt, Mr. Pendergast--but I fired several times at the sounds and it seemed to drive the lion deeper into the bush. Perhaps I wounded him."
"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'tblood?"
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 didmiss 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 gurgle and shush that belied its massive flow, perfuming the air with the smell of water. Only with the false dawn came the first noises of what passed for civilization: hot water being poured into shower-drums in preparation for morning ablutions.
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."