Fever Dream by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child Read Free Book Online Page A

attacked by a lion.”
    “Jesus. I’m sorry.”
    “At the time, I believed it to be a terrible accident. Now I know different.”
    D’Agosta waited.
    “Now I know she was murdered.”
    “Oh, God.”
    “The trail is cold. I need you, Vincent. I need your skills, your street smarts, your knowledge of the working classes, your
     way of thinking. I need you to help me track down the person—or persons—who did this. I will of course pay all your expenses
     and see to it that your salary and health benefits are maintained.”
    A silence fell in the car. D’Agosta was stunned. What would this mean for his career, his relationship with Laura Hayward…
     his future? It was irresponsible. No—it was more than that. It was utterly crazy.
    “Is this an official investigation?”
    “No. It would be just you and me. The killer might be anywhere in the world. We will operate completely outside the system—
any
system.”
    “And when we find the killer? What then?”
    “We will see to it that justice is served.”
    “Meaning?”
    Pendergast sloshed more brandy into the glass with a fierce gesture, gulped it down, and fixed D’Agosta once again with those
     cold, platinum eyes.
    “We kill him.”

7
    T HE ROLLS-ROYCE TORE UP PARK AVENUE, LATE-CRUISING cabs flashing by in blurs of yellow. D’Agosta sat in the back with Pendergast, feeling awkward, trying not to turn
     a curious eye toward the FBI agent. This Pendergast was impatient, unkempt, and—most remarkable—openly emotional.
    “When did you find out?” he ventured to ask.
    “This afternoon.”
    “How’d you figure it out?”
    Pendergast did not answer immediately, glancing out the window as the Rolls turned sharply onto 72nd Street, heading toward
     the park. He placed the empty brandy glass—which he had been holding, unheeded, the entire uptown journey—back into its position
     in the tiny bar. Then he took a deep breath. “Twelve years ago, Helen and I were asked to kill a man-eating lion in Zambia—a
     lion with an unusual red mane. Just such a lion had wreaked havoc in the area forty years before.”
    “Why did
you
get asked?”
    “Part of having a professional hunting license. You’re obligated to kill any beasts menacing the villages or camps, if the
     authorities request it.” Pendergast was still looking out the window. “The lionhad killed a German tourist at a safari camp.
     Helen and I drove over from our own camp to put it down.”
    He picked up the brandy bottle, looked at it, put it back into its holder. The big car was now moving through Central Park,
     the skeletal branches overhead framing a threatening night sky. “The lion charged us from deep cover, attacked me and the
     tracker. As he ran back into the bush, Helen shot at him and apparently missed. She went to attend to the tracker…” His voice
     wavered and he stopped, composing himself. “She went to attend to the tracker and the lion burst out of the brush a second
     time. It dragged her off. That was the last time I saw her. Alive, anyway.”
    “Oh, my God.” D’Agosta felt a thrill of horror course through him.
    “Just this afternoon, at our old family plantation, I happened to examine her gun. And I discovered that—on that morning,
     twelve years ago—somebody had taken the bullets from her gun and replaced them with blanks. She hadn’t missed the shot—because
     there
was
no shot.”
    “Holy shit. You sure?”
    Now Pendergast looked away from the window to fix him with a stare. “Vincent, would I be telling you this—would I be here
     now—if I wasn’t
absolutely
sure?”
    “Sorry.”
    There was a moment of silence.
    “You just discovered it this afternoon in New Orleans?”
    Pendergast nodded tersely. “I chartered a private jet back.”
    The Rolls pulled up before the 72nd Street entrance of the Dakota. Almost before the vehicle had come to a stop Pendergast
     was out. He strode past the guardhouse and through the vaulted stone archway of the