Read Online Fever Dream by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child
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along a well-beaten path that led away from the camp. D’Agosta hurried to catch up.
The sun beat down mercilessly, and the drone of insects swelled. On one side of the footpath was a dense stand of brush and
trees; on the other, the Luangwa River. D’Agosta felt the unfamiliar khaki shirt clinging damply to his back and shoulders.
“Where are we going?” he panted.
“Into the long grass. Where…” He didn’t finish the sentence.
D’Agosta swallowed. “Okay, sure. Lead the way.”
Pendergast stopped suddenly and turned. An expression had come over his features D’Agosta had never seen before—a look of
sorrow, regret, and almost unfathomable weariness. He cleared his throat, then spoke in a low tone. “I’m very sorry, Vincent,
but this is something I must do alone.”
D’Agosta took a deep breath, relieved. “I understand.”
Pendergast turned, fixed him briefly with his pale eyes. He nodded once. Then he turned back and walked away, stiff-legged,
determined, off the path and into the bush, vanishing almost immediately into the woven shade beneath the trees.
11
E VERYONE, IT SEEMED, KNEW WHERE THE WISLEY “farmstead” was. It lay at the end of a well-maintained dirt track on a gently sloping hill in the forests northwest of
Victoria Falls. In fact—as Pendergast paused the decrepit vehicle just before the final bend in the road—D’Agosta thought
he could hear the falls: a low, distant roar that was more sensation than sound.
He glanced at Pendergast. The drive from Kingazu Camp had taken hours, and in all that time the agent had spoken maybe half
a dozen words. D’Agosta had wanted to ask what, if anything, he’d learned in his investigation in the long grass, but this
was clearly not the time. When he was ready to talk about it, he would.
Pendergast eased the vehicle around the bend, and the house came into view: a lovely old colonial, painted white, with four
squat columns and a wraparound porch. The formal lines were softened by beautifully tended shrubs: azalea, boxwood, bougainvillea.
The entire plot—maybe five or six acres—appeared to have been cut wholesale out of the surrounding jungle. A lawn of emerald
green swept down toward them, punctuated by at least half a dozen flower beds filled with roses of every imaginable shade.
Except for the almost fluorescent brilliance of the flowers, the tidy estate wouldn’t have looked out of place in Greenwich
or Scarsdale. D’Agosta thought hesaw figures on the porch, but from this distance he could not make them out.
“Looks like old Wisley has done all right for himself,” he muttered.
Pendergast nodded, his pale eyes focused on the house.
“That guy, Rathe, mentioned Wisley’s boys,” D’Agosta went on. “What about the wife? You suppose he’s divorced?”
Pendergast gave a wintry smile. “I believe we’ll find Rathe meant something else entirely.”
He drove slowly up the path to a turnaround in front of the house, where he stopped the vehicle and killed the engine. D’Agosta
glanced up at the porch. A heavyset man about sixty years old was seated in an immense wicker chair, his feet propped up on
a wooden stool. He wore a white linen suit that made his fleshy face look even more florid than it was. A thin circle of red
hair, like a monk’s tonsure, crowned his head. The man took a sip of a tall icy drink, then set the glass down hard on a table,
next to a half-full pitcher of the same beverage. His movements had the flaccid generosity of a drunk’s. Standing on either
side of him were middle-aged Africans, gaunt looking, in faded madras shirts. One had a bar towel draped over his forearm;
the other held a fan attached to a long handle, which he was waving slowly over the wicker chair.
“That’s Wisley?” D’Agosta asked.
Pendergast nodded slowly. “He has not aged well.”
“And the other two—those are his ‘boys’?”
Pendergast nodded again. “It would seem this
The sun beat down mercilessly, and the drone of insects swelled. On one side of the footpath was a dense stand of brush and
trees; on the other, the Luangwa River. D’Agosta felt the unfamiliar khaki shirt clinging damply to his back and shoulders.
“Where are we going?” he panted.
“Into the long grass. Where…” He didn’t finish the sentence.
D’Agosta swallowed. “Okay, sure. Lead the way.”
Pendergast stopped suddenly and turned. An expression had come over his features D’Agosta had never seen before—a look of
sorrow, regret, and almost unfathomable weariness. He cleared his throat, then spoke in a low tone. “I’m very sorry, Vincent,
but this is something I must do alone.”
D’Agosta took a deep breath, relieved. “I understand.”
Pendergast turned, fixed him briefly with his pale eyes. He nodded once. Then he turned back and walked away, stiff-legged,
determined, off the path and into the bush, vanishing almost immediately into the woven shade beneath the trees.
11
E VERYONE, IT SEEMED, KNEW WHERE THE WISLEY “farmstead” was. It lay at the end of a well-maintained dirt track on a gently sloping hill in the forests northwest of
Victoria Falls. In fact—as Pendergast paused the decrepit vehicle just before the final bend in the road—D’Agosta thought
he could hear the falls: a low, distant roar that was more sensation than sound.
He glanced at Pendergast. The drive from Kingazu Camp had taken hours, and in all that time the agent had spoken maybe half
a dozen words. D’Agosta had wanted to ask what, if anything, he’d learned in his investigation in the long grass, but this
was clearly not the time. When he was ready to talk about it, he would.
Pendergast eased the vehicle around the bend, and the house came into view: a lovely old colonial, painted white, with four
squat columns and a wraparound porch. The formal lines were softened by beautifully tended shrubs: azalea, boxwood, bougainvillea.
The entire plot—maybe five or six acres—appeared to have been cut wholesale out of the surrounding jungle. A lawn of emerald
green swept down toward them, punctuated by at least half a dozen flower beds filled with roses of every imaginable shade.
Except for the almost fluorescent brilliance of the flowers, the tidy estate wouldn’t have looked out of place in Greenwich
or Scarsdale. D’Agosta thought hesaw figures on the porch, but from this distance he could not make them out.
“Looks like old Wisley has done all right for himself,” he muttered.
Pendergast nodded, his pale eyes focused on the house.
“That guy, Rathe, mentioned Wisley’s boys,” D’Agosta went on. “What about the wife? You suppose he’s divorced?”
Pendergast gave a wintry smile. “I believe we’ll find Rathe meant something else entirely.”
He drove slowly up the path to a turnaround in front of the house, where he stopped the vehicle and killed the engine. D’Agosta
glanced up at the porch. A heavyset man about sixty years old was seated in an immense wicker chair, his feet propped up on
a wooden stool. He wore a white linen suit that made his fleshy face look even more florid than it was. A thin circle of red
hair, like a monk’s tonsure, crowned his head. The man took a sip of a tall icy drink, then set the glass down hard on a table,
next to a half-full pitcher of the same beverage. His movements had the flaccid generosity of a drunk’s. Standing on either
side of him were middle-aged Africans, gaunt looking, in faded madras shirts. One had a bar towel draped over his forearm;
the other held a fan attached to a long handle, which he was waving slowly over the wicker chair.
“That’s Wisley?” D’Agosta asked.
Pendergast nodded slowly. “He has not aged well.”
“And the other two—those are his ‘boys’?”
Pendergast nodded again. “It would seem this
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