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  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.”

  “So Nyala was in on it, too?”

  Wisley nodded.

  “What about Mfuni? The tracker?”

  “Everyone was in on it.”

  “These men you mention—you said they were well funded. How do you know?”

  “They paid very well. Woking got fifty thousand to carry out the plan. I… I got twenty thousand for the use of the camp and to look the other way.”

  “The lion was trained?”

  “That’s what someone said.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know how. I only know it was trained to kill on command—though anybody who thinks that can be done reliably is crazy.”

  “Are you sure there were only two men?”

  “I only heard two voices.”

  Pendergast’s face set in a hard line. Once again, D’Agosta watched the FBI agent bring himself under control by the sheer force of his will. “Is there anything else?”

  “No. Nothing. That’s all, I swear. We never spoke of it again.”

  “Very well.” And then—with sudden, frightening speed—Pendergast grabbed Wisley by the hair, placed his gun against the man’s temple.

  “No!” D’Agosta cried, placing a restraining hand on Pendergast’s arm.

  Pendergast turned to look at him and D’Agosta was almost physically knocked back by the intensity of the agent’s gaze.

  “Not a good idea to kill informants,” D’Agosta said, modulating his voice carefully, making it as casual as possible. “Maybe he isn’t done talking. Maybe the gin and tonics will kill him for us, save you the trouble. Don’t worry—the fat fuck isn’t going anywhere.”

  Pendergast hesitated, gun still pressed to Wisley’s temple. Then, slowly, he released his grip on Wisley’s thin tonsure of reddish hair. The ex-concessionaire sank to the ground and D’Agosta noted, with disgust, that he had wet himself.

  Without speaking, Pendergast slipped back into the vehicle. D’Agosta climbed in beside him. They pulled back onto the road and headed for Lusaka without a backward glance.

  It was half an hour before D’Agosta spoke. “So,” he said. “What’s next?”

  “The past,” Pendergast replied, not taking his eyes from the road. “The past is what’s next.”

  12

  Savannah, Georgia

  WHITFIELD SQUARE DOZED PLACIDLY IN THE failing light of a Monday evening. Streetlights came up, throwing the palmettos and the Spanish moss hanging from gnarled oak limbs into gauzy relief. After the cauldron-like heat of Central Africa, D’Agosta found the humid Georgia air almost a relief.

  He followed Pendergast across the manicured carpet of grass. In the center of the square stood a large cupola, surrounded by flowers. A wedding party stood
beneath its scalloped roof, obediently following the instructions of a photographer. Elsewhere, people strolled slowly by or sat on black-painted benches, chatting or reading. Everything seemed just a little soft and out of focus, and D’Agosta shook his head. Following the mad dash from New York to Zambia to this center of southern gentility, he felt numb.

  Pendergast stopped, pointing across Habersham Street at a large gingerbread Victorian house, white and immaculate and very much like its neighbors. As they headed over, Pendergast said, “Keep in mind, Vincent—he doesn’t yet know.”

  “Got it.”

  They crossed the street and mounted the wooden steps. Pendergast pressed the doorbell. After about ten seconds, the overhead light came on and the door was opened by a man in his mid-forties. D’Agosta looked at him curiously. He was tall and strikingly handsome, with high cheekbones, dark eyes, and a thick head of brown hair. He was as tanned as Pendergast was pale. A folded magazine was in one hand. D’Agosta glanced at the open page: the footer read Journal of American Neurosurgery.

  The sun, dipping behind the houses on the far side of the square, was in the man’s keen eyes, and he couldn’t see them well. “Yes?” he asked. “May I help you?”

  “Judson Esterhazy,” Pendergast said, extending his hand.

  Esterhazy started, and a look of surprise and delight blossomed over his features. “Aloysius?” he said. “My God! Come in.”

  Esterhazy led the way through a front hall, down a narrow, book-lined corridor, and into a cozy den. Cozy wasn’t a word D’Agosta used very often, but he could think of no other way to describe the space. Warm yellow light imparted a mellow sheen to the antique mahogany furniture: chiffonier, roll-top desk, gun case, still more bookshelves. Rich Persian rugs covered the floor. Two large diplomas—a medical degree, and a PhD—hung on one wall. The furniture was overstuffed and looked exceptionally comfortable. Antiques from all over the world—African sculpture, Asian jades—adorned every horizontal surface. Two windows, framed by delicate curtains, looked out over the square. It was a room stuffed full of objects that somehow managed not to appear cluttered—the den of a well-educated, well-traveled man of taste.

  Pendergast turned and introduced D’Agosta to Esterhazy. The man couldn’t hide his surprise upon learning D’Agosta was a cop; nevertheless he smiled and shook his hand warmly.

  “This is an unexpected pleasure,” he said. “Would you care for anything? Tea, beer, bourbon?”

  “Bourbon, please, Judson,” said Pendergast.

  “How’d you like it?”

  “Neat.”

  Esterhazy turned to D’Agosta. “And you, Lieutenant?”

  “A beer would be great, thanks.”

  “Of course.” Still smiling, Esterhazy stepped over to a dry sink in the corner and deftly poured out a measure of bourbon. Then, excusing himself, he went to the kitchen to retrieve the beer.

  “Good Lord, Aloysius,” he said as he returned, “how long has it been—nine years?”

  “Ten.”

  “Ten years. When we took that hunting trip to Kilchurn Lodge.”

  D’Agosta sipped the beer and glanced around as the two chatted. Earlier, Pendergast had filled him in on Esterhazy: a neurosurgeon and medical researcher, who—having risen to the top of his profession—now devoted part of his time to pro bono work, both at local hospitals and for Doctors With Wings, the charity that flew doctors into Third World disaster areas and where his sister had worked. He was a committed sportsman and, according to Pendergast, an even better shot than his sister had been. D’Agosta, glancing around at the various hunting trophies displayed on the walls, decided Pendergast hadn’t been exaggerating. A doctor who was also an avid hunter: interesting combination.

  “So tell me,” Esterhazy said in his deep, sonorous voice. “What brings you to the Low Country? Are you on a case? Please, give me all the sordid details.” He chuckled.

  Pendergast took a sip of his bourbon. He hesitated just a moment. “Judson, I’m afraid there’s no easy way to say this. I’m here about Helen.”

  The chuckle died in Esterhazy’s throat. A look of confusion gathered on the patrician features. “Helen? What about Helen?”

  Pendergast took another, deeper sip. “I’ve learned her death was no accident.”

  For a minute, Esterhazy stood, frozen, staring at Pendergast. “What on earth do you mean?”

  “I mean, your sister was murdered.”

  Esterhazy rose, a stricken look on his face. He turned his back on them and walked—slowly, as in a dream—to a bookcase in the far wall. He picked up an object apparently at random, turned it over in his hand, put it down again. And then—after a long moment—he turned back. Walking to the dry sink, he reached for a tumbler and, with fumbling fingers, poured himself a stiff drink. Then he took a seat across from them.

  “Knowing you, Aloysius, I don’t suppose I need ask if you’re sure about this,” he said, very quietly.

  “No, you don’t.”

  Esterhazy’s whole demeanor changed, his face becoming pale, his hands clenching and unclenching. “What are you—are we—going to do about it?”

  “I—with Vincent’s help—will find the person or persons ultimately responsible. And we will see that justice is served.”

  Esterhazy looked Pendergast in the face. “I want to be there. I want to be there when the man who murdered my little sister pays for what he did.”

  Pendergast did not answer.

  The anger, the power of the man’s emotions, were so intense they almost frightened D’Agosta. Esterhazy sank back in his chair, his dark eyes restless and glittering. “How did you find this out?”

  Briefly, Pendergast sketched out the events of the last few days. Although shaken, Esterhazy nevertheless listened intently. When Pendergast finished, he rose and poured himself a fresh drink.

  “I believed…” Pendergast paused. “I believe I knew Helen extremely well. And yet—for someone to have killed her, and taken such extraordinary pains and expense to disguise her death as an accident—it’s clear there must be a part of her life I knew nothing about. Since we spent most of her last two years on earth together, I have to believe that, whatever it was, it lay farther back in her past. This is where I need your help.”

  Esterhazy passed a hand across his broad forehead, nodded.

  “Do you have any idea, any, of a person who might have had a motive to kill her? Enemies? Professional rivals? Old lovers?”

  Esterhazy was silent, his jaw working. “Helen was… wonderful. Kind. Charming. She had no enemies. Everyone loved her at MIT, and in her graduate work she was always scrupulous in sharing credit.”

  Pendergast nodded. “What about after her graduation? Any rivals at Doctors With Wings? Anyone passed over for a promotion in favor of her?”

  “DWW didn’t operate like that. Everyone worked together. No egos. She was much appreciated there.” He swallowed painfully. “Even loved.”

  Pendergast sat back in his chair. “In the months before her death, she took several short trips. Research, she told me, but she was vague about the details. In retrospect it seems a little odd—Doctors With Wings was more about education and treatment than it was about research. I now wish I had pressed her for more information. You’re a doctor—do you know what she might have been up to, if anything?”

  Esterhazy paused to think. Then he shook his head. “Sorry, Aloysius. She told me nothing. She loved traveling to faraway places—as you know. And she was fascinated by medical research. Those twin loves were what led her to DWW in the first place.”

  “What about your family history?” D’Agosta asked. “Any instances of familial conflict, childhood grievances, that sort of thing?”

  “Everybody loved Helen,” Esterhazy said. “I used to be a little jealous of her popularity. And, no, there have been no family problems to speak of. Both our parents died more than fifteen years ago. I’m the only Esterhazy left.” He hesitated.

  “Yes?” Pendergast leaned
forward.

  “Well, I’m sure there’s nothing to it, but long before she met you she had… an unhappy love affair. With a real bounder.”

  “Go on.”

  “It was her first year in graduate school, seems to me. She brought the fellow down from MIT for the weekend. Blond, clean-cut, blue eyes, tall and athletic, always seemed to go about in tennis whites and crew sweaters, came from a rich old WASP family, grew up in Manhattan with a summer cottage on Fishers Island, talked about going into investment banking—you know the type.”

  “Why was it unhappy?”

  “Turned out he had some kind of sexual problem. Helen was vague about it, some kind of perverse behavior or cruelty in that area.”

  “And?”

  “She dumped him. He annoyed her for a while, phone calls, letters. I don’t think it reached the level of stalking. And then it seemed to fade away.” He waved his hand. “That was six years before you met and nine years before her death. I can’t see there being anything in it.”

  “And the name?”

  Esterhazy clutched his forehead in his hands. “Adam… First name was Adam. For the life of me I can’t remember his last name—if I ever knew it.”

  A long silence. “Anything else?”

  Esterhazy shook his head. “It seems inconceivable to me anyone would want to hurt Helen.”

  There was a brief silence. Then Pendergast nodded to a framed print on one of the walls: a faded picture of a snowy owl sitting in a tree at night. “That’s an Audubon, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. A reproduction, I’m afraid.” Esterhazy glanced at it. “Odd you should mention it.”

  “Why?”

  “It used to hang in Helen’s bedroom when we were children. She told me how, when she was sick, she would stare at it for hours on end. She was fascinated by Audubon. But of course you know all that,” he concluded briskly. “I kept it because it reminded me of her.”

  D’Agosta noticed something very close to a look of surprise on the FBI agent’s face, quickly concealed.

  There was a brief silence before Pendergast spoke again. “Is there anything you can add about Helen’s life in the years immediately before we met?”

  “She was very busy with her work. There was also a period where she was heavily into rock climbing. Spent almost every weekend in the Gunks.”