"In fact," says Richard, "all of us are ready to pitch in. We can start tonight, by keeping watch." He holds out his hands for the rifle, which is always at Johnny's side. "You can't go all night without sleeping."

"But you've never shot a rifle like that," I point out.

"I'll learn."

"Don't you think that's up to Johnny to decide?"

"No, Millie. I do not think he should be the only one in control of the gun."

"What are you doing, Richard?" I whisper.

"I could ask the same of you." The look he gives me is radioactive. Everyone around the campfire goes quiet, and in the silence we hear the distant whoops of hyenas, feasting on the gift of entrails we left behind.

Johnny says, calmly: "I've already asked Isao to take the second watch tonight."

Richard looks in surprise at Mr. Matsunaga. "Why him?"

"He knows his way around a rifle. I checked him out earlier."

"I am the number one marksman in the Tokyo shooting club," says Mr. Matsunaga, smiling proudly. "What time do you wish me to stand watch?"

"I'll wake you up at two, Isao," says Johnny. "You'd best get to bed early."

THE RAGE IN OUR tent is like a living thing, a monster with glowing eyes that waits to attack. I am the one in its sight, the victim in whom its claws will sink, and I keep my voice low and calm, hoping the claws will pa.s.s me by, that those eyes will burn themselves out. But Richard won't let it die.

"What's he been saying to you? What were you two talking about so lovingly?" he demands.

"What do you think we were talking about? How we can make it through this week alive."

"So it was all about survival, was it?"

"Yes."

"And Johnny's so b.l.o.o.d.y good at it, we're now stranded."

"You blame him for this?"

"He's proved to us he can't be trusted. But of course you can't see that." He laughs. "There's a term for it, you know. They call it khaki fever."

"What?"

"It's when women fall into l.u.s.t for their bush guides. All it takes is the sight of a man wearing khaki, and they'll spread their legs for him."

It's the crudest insult he could fling at me, yet I manage to remain calm because nothing he says can hurt me now. I simply don't care. Instead I laugh. "You know, I've just realized something about you. You really are a b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"At least I'm not the one who wants to f.u.c.k the bush guide."

"How do you know I haven't already?"

He flings himself onto his side, turning his back to me. I know he wants to storm out of this tent as much as I do, but it's not safe to even step outside. Anyway, we have nowhere else to go. All I can do is move as far away from him as I can and stay silent. I no longer know who this man is. Something has changed inside him, some transformation that happened while I wasn't watching. The bush has done this. Africa has done this. Richard is now a stranger, or perhaps he was always a stranger. Can you ever really know a person? I once read about a wife who was married for a decade before she discovered her husband was a serial killer. How could she not know it? I thought when I read that article.

But now I do understand how it can happen. I'm lying in a tent with a man I've known for four years, a man I thought I loved, and I feel like the serial killer's wife, the truth about her husband finally laid bare.

Outside our tent, there's a thump, a crackle, and the fire flares brighter. Johnny has just added wood to the flames to keep the animals at bay. Did he hear us talking? Does he know this argument is about him? Perhaps he's seen this happen countless times before on other safaris. Couples dissolving, accusations flying. Khaki fever. A phenomenon so common it's earned a name of its own.

I close my eyes and an image appears in my mind. Johnny standing in the tall gra.s.s at dawn, his shoulders silhouetted by sunrise. Am I infected, just a little, by the fever? He is the one who protects us, who keeps us alive. At the moment he sighted the impala, I was standing right beside him, so close that I saw the muscles snap taut on his arm as he raised the rifle. Once again I feel the thrill of the explosion, as if I myself had pulled the trigger, I had brought down the impala. A shared kill, binding us with blood.

Oh yes, Africa has changed me, too.

I hold my breath as Johnny's silhouette pauses outside our tent. Then he moves past and his shadow glides away. When I fall asleep, it's not Richard I dream about, but Johnny, standing tall and straight in the gra.s.s. Johnny, who makes me feel safe.

Until the next morning, when I wake up to the news that Isao Matsunaga has vanished.

KEIKO KNEELS IN THE GRa.s.s, SOBBING SOFTLY AS SHE ROCKS BACK and forth like a metronome ticking off a rhythm of despair. We've found the rifle, lying just beyond the bell-strung perimeter, but we have not yet found her husband. She knows what that means. We all know.

I stand over Keiko, uselessly stroking her shoulder because I don't know what else to do. I've never been good at comforting people. After my father died, and my mother sat weeping in his hospital room, all I could do was rub her arm, rub, rub, rub, until she finally cried out: "Stop it, Millie! That's so annoying!" I think Keiko is too distraught to even notice that I'm touching her. Looking down at her bowed head, I see white roots peeking through her black hair. With her pale, smooth skin, she seemed so much younger than her husband, but now I realize she's not young at all. That a few months out here will reveal her true age as her black hair turns to silver, as her skin darkens and wrinkles in the sun. Already she seems to be shriveling before my eyes.

"I'm going to search by the river," says Johnny, and he picks up the rifle. "All of you, stay here. Better yet, wait in the truck."

"The truck?" Richard says. "You mean that piece of junk you can't even start?"

"If you stay in the truck, nothing will hurt you. I can't search for Isao and protect you at the same time."

"Wait. Johnny," I speak up. "Should you be out there by yourself?"

"He's got the f.u.c.king gun, Millie," Richard says. "We've got nothing."

"While he's hunting for tracks, someone needs to watch his back," I point out.

Johnny gives a curt nod. "Okay, you're my spotter, Millie. Stay close."

As I step over the perimeter wire, my boot b.u.mps the strand and the bells tinkle. Such a sweet ringing, like a wind chime on the breeze, but out here it means the enemy has invaded and my heart gives a reflexive kick of alarm at the sound. I take a deep breath and follow Johnny into the gra.s.s.

I was right to come with him. His attention is fixed on the ground as he searches for clues, and he could very well miss seeing the flick of a lion's tail off in the underbrush. As we move forward I am constantly scanning behind us, all around us. The gra.s.s is tall, up to my hips, and I think of puff adders and how you might step on one and not know it until fangs sink into your leg.

"Here," Johnny says quietly.

I look where the gra.s.s has been flattened and see a bare patch of soil and a sc.r.a.pe mark left by something being dragged across it. Johnny's already moving again, following the trail of flattened gra.s.s.

"Did the hyenas take him?"

"Not hyenas. Not this time."

"How do you know?"

He doesn't answer, but keeps moving toward a grove of trees, which I'm now able to recognize as sycamore figs and jackal berries. Though I cannot see the river, I hear it rushing somewhere close by, and I think of crocodiles. Everywhere you look in this place, in the trees, in the river, in the gra.s.s, teeth are waiting to bite, and Johnny relies on me to spot them. Fear sharpens my senses and I'm aware of details I've never noticed before. The kiss of river-chilled wind against my cheek. The way freshly trampled gra.s.s smells like onions. I am looking, listening, smelling. We are a team, Johnny and I, and I won't fail him.

Suddenly I sense the change in him. His soft intake of breath, his abrupt stillness. He is no longer focused on the ground, but has straightened to his full height, shoulders squared.

At first I do not see her. Then I follow the direction of his gaze, to the tree that looms before us. It is a towering sycamore fig, a majestic specimen with wide-spreading branches and dense foliage, the kind of tree where you'd build a Swiss Family Robinson house.

"There you are," whispers Johnny. "Such a pretty girl."

Only then do I spot her, draped over a high branch. The leopard is almost invisible, so well does she blend into the leaf-dappled shade. All along she's been observing us, waiting patiently as we drew near, and now she watches with keen intelligence, weighing her next move, just as Johnny weighs his. Lazily she flicks her tail, but Johnny stays perfectly motionless. He is doing exactly what he advised us to do. Let the cat see your face. Show it that your eyes are forward-facing, that you, too, are a predator.

A moment pa.s.ses, a moment when I have never felt so afraid or so alive. A moment when each heartbeat sends a sharp thrust of blood up my neck, whistling through my ears like wind. The leopard's gaze stays on Johnny. He is still gripping the rifle in front of him. Why doesn't he lift it to his shoulder? Why doesn't he fire?

"Back away," he whispers. "There's nothing we can do for Isao."

"You think the leopard killed him?"

"I know she did." He lifts his head, a subtle gesture that I almost miss. "Upper branch. To the left."

It has been hanging there the whole time, but I didn't notice it. Just as I didn't at first notice the leopard. The arm dangles free like the strange fruit of a sausage tree, the hand gnawed down to a fingerless k.n.o.b. Foliage masks the rest of Isao's body, but through the leaves I make out the shape of his torso, wedged in the crook of a branch, as if he'd dropped from the sky and landed like a broken doll in that tree.

"Oh my G.o.d," I whisper. "How are we going to get him-"

"Don't. Move."

The leopard has risen to a crouch, haunches tensed to spring. It's me she's staring at, her eyes fixed on mine. In an instant Johnny's rifle is up and ready to fire, but he doesn't pull the trigger.

"What are you waiting for?" I whisper.

"Back away. Together."

We take a step back. Another. The leopard settles back onto her branch, tail flicking.

"She's only protecting her kill," he says. "That's what leopards do, store their prey in a tree, where other scavengers can't get it. Look at the muscles in her shoulders. In her neck. That's real power for you. The power to drag a dead animal that outweighs her, all the way up to that high branch."

"For G.o.d's sake, Johnny. We need to get him down."

"He's already dead."

"We can't leave him up there."

"We get any closer, she'll spring on us. And I won't kill a leopard just to retrieve a corpse."

I remember what he once told us: that he would never kill a big cat. That he considered them sacred animals, too rare to sacrifice for any reason, not even to save his own life. Now he stands behind those words, even as Isao's corpse dangles above us, and the leopard guards her meal. Johnny suddenly seems as strange a beast as any I've yet encountered in this wild place, a man whose respect for this land runs as deep as the roots of these trees. I think of Richard, with his metallic-blue BMW and his black leather jacket and aviator gla.s.ses, things that made him seem masculine to me when we first met. But they were only trappings, to adorn a mannequin. That's what the word means, isn't it? A model of the human body, not real. Until now, it seems that I have known only mannequins who look like men, pretend to be men, but are merely plastic. I will never find another man like Johnny, not in London, not anywhere, and that is a heartbreaking thing to realize. That I will search for the rest of my life, and will always look back to this moment, when I knew exactly which man I wanted.

And would never be able to have him.

I reach toward him and whisper: "Johnny."

The rifle blast is so shocking I lurch backward, as if I've been struck. Johnny stands as frozen as a marksman's statue, his gun still aimed at the target. With a deep sigh he lowers the weapon. He bows his head as if praying for forgiveness, here in the church of the bush, where life and death are two halves of the same creature.

"Oh my G.o.d," I murmur and stare down at the leopard, which fell dead only two paces away from me, seemingly in mid-leap, her front claws a split second away from sinking into flesh. I cannot see the bullet hole; all I see is her blood, trickling into the gra.s.s, soaking into the hot soil. Her fur shines with the glossy elegance so coveted by the flashy tarts of Knightsbridge tyc.o.o.ns and I long to stroke it but it seems wrong, as if death has reduced her to nothing more than a harmless kitten. A moment ago she would have killed me, and she deserves my respect.

"We'll leave her here," Johnny says quietly.

"The hyenas will get her."

"They always do." He takes a deep breath and looks at the sycamore fig, but his gaze seems distant, as if he sees beyond the tree, even beyond this day. "I can get him down now."

"You told me you'd never kill a leopard. Not even to save your own life."

"I won't."

"But you killed this one."

"That wasn't for my life." He looks at me. "That was for yours."

THAT NIGHT I SLEEP in Mrs. Matsunaga's tent so she will not be alone. All day she has been nearly catatonic, hugging herself and whimpering in j.a.panese. The blondes have been trying to coax food into her, but Keiko has consumed nothing except a few cups of tea. She's retreated into some unreachable cave deep in her mind, and for the moment we're all relieved that she's quiet and controllable. We did not let her see Isao's body, which Johnny brought down from the sycamore fig and quickly buried.

But I saw it. I know how he died.

"A big cat kills by crushing your throat," Johnny told me as he dug the grave. He shoveled steadily, his spade cutting into the sun-baked earth. Though insects hara.s.sed us, he didn't wave them off, so intent was he on carving out Isao's resting place. "A cat goes straight for the neck. Clamps its jaws around your windpipe, ripping through arteries and veins. It's death by asphyxiation. You choke on your own blood."

Which is what I saw when I looked at Isao. Though the leopard had already begun to feast, tearing into abdomen and chest, it was the crushed neck that told me of Isao's final seconds, fighting for air as blood gurgled into his lungs.

Keiko knows none of these details. She knows only that her husband is dead and that we have buried him.

I hear her sigh in her sleep, one little whimper of despair, and she goes quiet again. She hardly moves but lies on her back, like a mummy wrapped in white sheets. The Matsunagas' tent smells different from mine. It has a pleasantly exotic scent, as if their clothes are impregnated with Asian herbs, and it is tidy and well organized. Isao's shirts, which he will never again wear, are neatly packed in his suitcase along with his gold wrist.w.a.tch, which we retrieved from his body. Everything is in its place, everything is harmonious. So unlike my tent with Richard, which is the opposite of harmonious.

It's a relief to be away from him, which is why I so quickly volunteered to keep Keiko company. The last place I want to sleep tonight is in the tent with Richard, where the hostility hangs as thick as sulfurous fog. He's hardly spoken two sentences to me all day. Instead he spends his time huddled with Elliot and the blondes. The four of them seem to be a team now, as if this is a game of Survivor Botswana, and it's their tribe against my tribe.

Except I don't actually have anyone in my tribe, unless you count poor fractured Keiko-and Johnny. But Johnny belongs to no team, not really; he is his own man, and killing that leopard today has left him troubled and brooding. He's hardly spoken to me since.

So here I am, the woman no one talks to, lying in a tent beside a woman who talks to no one. Though it's silent in here, outside the tent the night symphony has begun, with its insect piccolos and hippo ba.s.soons. I've grown to love those sounds, and I'll surely dream about them when I go home.

In the morning, I wake up to birdsong. For once there are no screams, no shouts of alarm, just the sweet melodies of dawn. Outside, the four members of Team Richard are huddled together at the campfire, sipping coffee. Johnny sits by himself under a tree. Exhaustion seems to drip off his shoulders, and his head bobs forward as he tries to fight off sleep. I want to go to him, to ma.s.sage away his weariness, but the others are watching me. I join their circle instead.

"How's Keiko doing?" Elliot asks me.

"Still asleep. She was quiet all night." I pour myself coffee. "I'm glad to see we're all alive this morning." My quip is in poor taste, and I regret it as soon as the words are out of my mouth.

"I wonder if he's glad about it," Richard mutters, glancing at Johnny.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I just find it strange, how everything's gone so wrong. First Clarence gets killed. Then Isao. And the truck-how the h.e.l.l does a truck just go dead like that?"

"You blame Johnny?"

Richard looks around at the other three, and I suddenly understand that he's not the only one who thinks Johnny's at fault. Is this why they've been huddling together? Exchanging theories, feeding their paranoia?