Read Online Fever Dream by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child - Free Book Online
Authors: Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child
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even known he had.
He contemplated asking Pendergast to slow down, then thought better of it. The closer they came to the site of Helen Pendergast’s
death, the grimmer Pendergast became.
Pendergast slowed just slightly as they came to a village—yet another sorry-looking collection of huts built of sticks and
dried mud, baking in the noonday sun. There was no electricity, and a single communal well stood in the middle of the lone
crossroads. Pigs, chickens, and children roamed aimlessly.
“And I thought the South Bronx was bad,” D’Agosta muttered more to himself than to Pendergast.
“Kingazu Camp is ten miles ahead,” was Pendergast’s reply as he stepped on the accelerator.
They hit another pothole and D’Agosta was again thrown in the air, coming down hard on his tailbone. Both arms were smarting
from the inoculations, and his head hurt from the sun and vibration. About the only painless thing he’d endured in the past
thirty-six hours was the phone call to his boss, Glen Singleton. The captain had approved his leave of absence with barely
a question. It was almost as if he was relieved to see D’Agosta go.
Half an hour brought them to Kingazu Camp. As Pendergast maneuvered the vehicle into a makeshift lot beneath a grove of sausage
trees, D’Agosta took in the trim lines of the photographic safari camp: the immaculate reed-and-thatch huts, the large canvas
structures labeled DINING TENT and BAR , the wooden walkways linking each building to the next, the linen pavilions that sheltered comfortable deck chairs on which
a dozen fat and happy tourists dozed, cameras dangling from their necks. Strings of tiny lights were strung along the rooflines.
A generator purred off in the bush. Everything was done up in bright—almost gaudy—colors.
“This is straight out of Disney,” D’Agosta said, getting out of the vehicle.
“A great deal has changed in twelve years,” Pendergast replied, his voice flat.
They stood there a moment, motionless, without speaking, in the shade of the sausage trees. D’Agosta took in the fragrant
smell of burning wood, the tang of crushed grass, and—more faintly—an earthy, animal muskiness he couldn’t identify. The bagpipe
drone of insects mingled with other sounds: the whine of the generators, the cooing of doves, the restless mutterings of the
nearby Luangwa River. D’Agosta shot a covert glance at Pendergast: the agent was stooped forward, as if he bore a terrific
weight; his eyes glittered with a haunted fire, and—as he took in the scene with what seemed like a strange mixture of hunger
and dread—a single muscle in his cheek twitched erratically. He must have realized he was being scrutinized, because the FBI
agent composed himself, straightening up and smoothing his safari vest. But the strange glitter did not leave his eyes.
“Follow me,” he said.
Pendergast led the way past the pavilions and dining tent to a smaller structure, set apart from the rest of the camp in a
copse of trees near the banks of the Luangwa. A single elephant was standing, knee-deep, in the mud of the river. As D’Agosta
watched, the animal scooped up a trunkful of water, sprayed it over its back, then lifted its wrinkled head and emitted a
harsh trumpeting sound that momentarily drowned out the hum of insects.
The small structure was clearly the administrative building for the camp. It consisted of an outer office, currently empty,
and an inner office occupied by a lone man, sitting behind a desk and writing industriously in a notebook. He was about fifty,
thin and wiry, his fair hair bleached by the sun and his arms deeply tanned.
The man looked up as he heard them approach. “Yes, what can I…” The words died in his throat as he caught sight of Pendergast.
Clearly he’d been expecting to see one of the guests.
“Who are you?” he asked, rising.
“My name is Underhill,” Pendergast said. “And this is my friend, Vincent
He contemplated asking Pendergast to slow down, then thought better of it. The closer they came to the site of Helen Pendergast’s
death, the grimmer Pendergast became.
Pendergast slowed just slightly as they came to a village—yet another sorry-looking collection of huts built of sticks and
dried mud, baking in the noonday sun. There was no electricity, and a single communal well stood in the middle of the lone
crossroads. Pigs, chickens, and children roamed aimlessly.
“And I thought the South Bronx was bad,” D’Agosta muttered more to himself than to Pendergast.
“Kingazu Camp is ten miles ahead,” was Pendergast’s reply as he stepped on the accelerator.
They hit another pothole and D’Agosta was again thrown in the air, coming down hard on his tailbone. Both arms were smarting
from the inoculations, and his head hurt from the sun and vibration. About the only painless thing he’d endured in the past
thirty-six hours was the phone call to his boss, Glen Singleton. The captain had approved his leave of absence with barely
a question. It was almost as if he was relieved to see D’Agosta go.
Half an hour brought them to Kingazu Camp. As Pendergast maneuvered the vehicle into a makeshift lot beneath a grove of sausage
trees, D’Agosta took in the trim lines of the photographic safari camp: the immaculate reed-and-thatch huts, the large canvas
structures labeled DINING TENT and BAR , the wooden walkways linking each building to the next, the linen pavilions that sheltered comfortable deck chairs on which
a dozen fat and happy tourists dozed, cameras dangling from their necks. Strings of tiny lights were strung along the rooflines.
A generator purred off in the bush. Everything was done up in bright—almost gaudy—colors.
“This is straight out of Disney,” D’Agosta said, getting out of the vehicle.
“A great deal has changed in twelve years,” Pendergast replied, his voice flat.
They stood there a moment, motionless, without speaking, in the shade of the sausage trees. D’Agosta took in the fragrant
smell of burning wood, the tang of crushed grass, and—more faintly—an earthy, animal muskiness he couldn’t identify. The bagpipe
drone of insects mingled with other sounds: the whine of the generators, the cooing of doves, the restless mutterings of the
nearby Luangwa River. D’Agosta shot a covert glance at Pendergast: the agent was stooped forward, as if he bore a terrific
weight; his eyes glittered with a haunted fire, and—as he took in the scene with what seemed like a strange mixture of hunger
and dread—a single muscle in his cheek twitched erratically. He must have realized he was being scrutinized, because the FBI
agent composed himself, straightening up and smoothing his safari vest. But the strange glitter did not leave his eyes.
“Follow me,” he said.
Pendergast led the way past the pavilions and dining tent to a smaller structure, set apart from the rest of the camp in a
copse of trees near the banks of the Luangwa. A single elephant was standing, knee-deep, in the mud of the river. As D’Agosta
watched, the animal scooped up a trunkful of water, sprayed it over its back, then lifted its wrinkled head and emitted a
harsh trumpeting sound that momentarily drowned out the hum of insects.
The small structure was clearly the administrative building for the camp. It consisted of an outer office, currently empty,
and an inner office occupied by a lone man, sitting behind a desk and writing industriously in a notebook. He was about fifty,
thin and wiry, his fair hair bleached by the sun and his arms deeply tanned.
The man looked up as he heard them approach. “Yes, what can I…” The words died in his throat as he caught sight of Pendergast.
Clearly he’d been expecting to see one of the guests.
“Who are you?” he asked, rising.
“My name is Underhill,” Pendergast said. “And this is my friend, Vincent
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