THE SMELL OF DEATH still lingered in the house. Though the body and entrails had been removed days ago, decomposition releases its chemical signature into the air, a ripe bouquet of scents that find their way into every closet and crevice, seeping into furniture and carpets and drapes. Like smoke after a fire, the stench of decay does not easily surrender its quarters, and it stubbornly clung to Gott's home, like a ghost of the man himself. No cleaning service had yet come to mop and scrub, and b.l.o.o.d.y pawprints still tracked across the floor. A week ago, when Maura had entered, she'd been in the company of detectives and criminalists whose voices had echoed throughout the rooms. Today she heard the stillness of an abandoned house, the silence broken only by the hum of one lone fly circling aimlessly in the living room.

Jane set down the cardboard box. "Let's go room by room. Downstairs first."

"Why am I suddenly thinking about that dead zookeeper?" said Maura.

"This is a house cat, not a leopard."

"Even cute little house cats are predators, deep down in their DNA." Maura pulled on gloves. "One study I read estimates that pet cats kill almost four billion birds a year."

"Billions? For real?"

"It's what they're designed to do. Silent, agile, and fast."

"In other words, hard to catch." Jane sighed.

"Unfortunately." Maura reached into the box and pulled out a bath towel that she'd brought from home. Her plan was to toss it over the fugitive kitty and bundle him into the box without getting clawed. "This has to be done eventually anyway. Poor Frost can't spend the rest of his life delivering cat food and kitty litter. Once we catch it, do you think Frost wants it?"

"If we take it to the pound, he'll never speak to us again. Trust me, when I drop it off at his house, it's there to stay."

They both pulled on gloves. Mounted animal heads stared down at them as they began their hunt. Jane got down on hands and knees and peered under the sofa and armchair. Maura searched cabinets and cubbyholes where the cat might have retreated. Clapping dust from her hands, she straightened and suddenly focused on the mounted African lion head, its gla.s.s eyes agleam with such life-like intelligence that she half expected the animal to leap from the wall.

"There he is!" Jane shouted.

Maura spun around and saw something white streak across the living room and dart up the stairs. She s.n.a.t.c.hed up the cardboard box and followed Jane to the second floor.

"Master bedroom!" Jane yelled.

They stepped into the room and shut the door behind them.

"Okay, we've got him trapped," said Jane. "I know he came in here. So where the h.e.l.l is he hiding?"

Maura scanned the furniture. Saw a queen bed, twin nightstands, and a ma.s.sive chest of drawers. A mirror on the wall reflected their flushed and frustrated faces.

Jane dropped to her knees and looked under the bed. "Not here," she announced.

Maura turned to the walk-in closet, its door hanging ajar. It was the only other hiding place in the room. They glanced at each other and simultaneously took deep breaths.

"A hunting we will go," Jane sang softly and flipped on the closet light. They eyed jackets and sweaters and far too many plaid shirts. Jane nudged aside a heavy parka to peer deeper into the closet. Flinched back as the cat came flying out, yowling.

"s.h.i.t!" Jane stared at her right arm, where her sleeve had been clawed open. "I now officially hate cats. Where the f.u.c.k did it go?"

"It ran under the bed."

Jane stalked toward her feline nemesis. "No more Mrs. Nice Cop. Cat, you are mine."

"Jane, you're bleeding. I've got alcohol swabs in my purse downstairs."

"First we catch him. Go to the other side of the bed. Scare him toward me."

Maura dropped to her knees and looked under the bed frame. A pair of yellow eyes glared back at her, and the growl that rumbled from the animal's throat was so feral it made the hairs lift on Maura's arms. This was no nice little kitty. This was Demon Fluffy.

"Okay, I'm ready with the towel," said Jane. "Chase him my way."

Maura gave a timid swipe at the animal. "Shoo."

The cat bared its teeth and hissed.

"Shoo?" Jane snorted. "Seriously, Maura, that's the best you can do?"

"Okay, then. Move, cat!" Maura waved her arm and the cat backed away. Maura pulled off her shoe and swung it at the animal. "Go!"

The cat shot out from under the bed. Though Maura couldn't see the struggle that ensued, she heard the yowling and hissing and Jane's muttered oaths as she wrestled her prey. By the time Maura was back on her feet, Jane had Demon Fluffy securely bundled in the bath towel. Jane dumped the struggling cat and towel into the cardboard box and closed the flaps. The box rattled and shook with fifteen pounds of angry cat.

"Do I need a rabies shot?" Jane asked, looking at her clawed arm.

"What you need first is soap and antiseptic. Wash your arm. I'll go downstairs and get those alcohol swabs."

The old Boy Scout motto of Be Prepared was one that Maura also shared, and in her purse she had latex gloves, alcohol swabs, tweezers, shoe covers, and plastic evidence bags. Downstairs, she found her purse on the coffee table where she'd left it. She dug out the bundle of alcohol wipes and was turning to go back upstairs when she suddenly noticed the bare nail in the wall. Surrounding the empty spot were framed photos of Leon Gott on various hunting expeditions, posing with his rifle and his lifeless trophies. Deer, a buffalo, wild boar, a lion. Also framed was the printed article about Gott from Hub Magazine: "The Trophy Master: An Interview with Boston's Master Taxidermist.' "

Jane came down the stairs, into the living room. "So should I worry about rabies?"

Maura pointed to the bare nail. "Was something removed from here?"

"I'm worried about my arm falling off, and you're asking about an empty spot on the wall."

"There's something missing here, Jane. Was it like this last week?"

"Yeah, it was. I noticed that nail before. I can check the crime scene videos to confirm." Jane paused, suddenly frowning at the exposed nail. "I wonder ..."

"What?"

Jane turned to her. "Gott called Jodi Underwood, asking for Elliot's photos from Africa." She pointed to the empty s.p.a.ce on the wall. "You think this has to do with why he called her?"

Maura shook her head, perplexed. "A missing photo?"

"That same day, he also called Interpol in South Africa. Again, it was about Elliot."

"Why would he focus on his son now? Didn't Elliot vanish years ago?"

"Six years ago." Once again Jane turned to look at the naked spot where something had been removed. "In Botswana."

BOTSWANA.

HOW LONG CAN A MAN STAY AWAKE, I WONDER AS I WATCH JOHNNY nodding off in the firelight, his eyes half closed, his torso slumping forward like a tree on the verge of collapse. Yet his fingers are still wrapped around the rifle in his lap, as if the weapon is part of his body, an extension of his limbs. All evening the others have been watching him, and I know Richard's tempted to wrestle control of that gun, but even a half-asleep Johnny is too formidable to tangle with. Since Isao's death, Johnny has caught only s.n.a.t.c.hes of sleep during the day and he's determined to stay awake all night. If he keeps this up, in another few days he will be either catatonic or insane.

Either way, he'll be the one with the gun.

I look at the faces around the fire. Sylvia and Vivian huddle together, their blond hair equally tangled, faces equally tight with worry. It's strange, what the bush does to even beautiful women. It strips them of all superficial gloss, dulls their hair, scours away makeup, erodes them down to flesh and bone. That's what I see when I look at them now: two women slowly being eroded to their bare elements. Already it has happened to Mrs. Matsunaga, who's been worn down to her fragile, fractured core. She is still not eating. The plate of meat I gave her sits untouched at her feet. To coax some sort of nutrition into her, I added two spoonfuls of sugar to her tea, but she immediately spat it out, and now she looks at me with distrust, as if I tried to poison her.

In fact, everyone now looks at me with distrust, because I haven't joined their blame-Johnny team. They think I've gone to the dark side, and I'm Johnny's spy, when all I'm trying to do is figure out the most likely way for us to stay alive. I know Richard's no outdoorsman, even though he thinks he is. Clumsy, terrified Elliot hasn't shaven in days, his eyes are bloodshot, and any minute now I expect him to start babbling like a madman. The blondes are falling apart even as I watch. The only person who still has it together, who actually knows what he's doing out here, is Johnny. I vote for him.

Which is why the others no longer look at me. They look past me or through me, shooting furtive glances at one another in some silent eyelid-flickering Morse code. We're living the real-life version of TV's Survivor, and it's clear I've been voted off the island.

The blondes are off to bed first, huddling together and whispering as they leave the firelight. Then Elliot and Keiko slip away to their respective tents. For a moment it's just Richard and me sitting by the fire, too wary of each other to say a word. That I once loved this man is almost impossible to believe. These days in the bush have added a handsomely rugged edge to his good looks, but now I see the petty vanity underneath it all. The real reason he dislikes Johnny is that he can't measure up. It's all come down to who's more of a man. Richard always has to be the hero of his own story.

He seems about to say something when we both realize that Johnny's awake, his eyes gleaming in the shadows. Without a word, Richard rises to his feet. Even as I watch him stalk off and duck into our tent, I'm aware of Johnny's gaze on me, can feel the heat of it on my face.

"Where did you meet him?" Johnny asks. He sits so still against the tree that he seems to be part of the trunk itself, his body like one long, sinuous root.

"A bookshop, of course. He came in to sign copies of his book Kill Option."

"What was that one about?"

"Oh, the usual R. Renwick thriller. The hero finds himself trapped on a remote island with terrorists. Uses his wilderness skills to take them down one by one. Men eat up the books like candy, and we had a full house for the signing. Afterward, he and the bookshop staff went out to the pub for drinks. I thought for certain he had his eye on my colleague Sadie. But no, he went home with me."

"You sound surprised."

"You haven't seen Sadie."

"And how long ago was this?"

"Almost four years ago." Long enough for Richard to get bored. Long enough for the various hurts and grievances to pile up and make a man wonder about better options.

"Then you should know each other pretty well," says Johnny.

"We should."

"You're not certain?"

"Can one ever be?"

He looks at Richard's tent. "Not about some people. The way you can't ever be sure about some animals. It's possible to tame a lion or an elephant, even learn to trust them. But you can't ever trust a leopard."

"What kind of animal do you think Richard is?" I ask, only half serious.

Johnny doesn't crack a smile. "You tell me."

His answer, spoken so quietly, forces me to consider my almost four years with Richard. Four years of a shared bed and shared meals, but always with a distance between us. He was the one who's held back, the one who scoffed at the idea of marriage, as if it was beneath us, but I think I knew all along why he never married me; I just refused to admit it to myself. He was waiting for the one. And I'm not her.

"Do you trust him?" Johnny says softly.

"Why are you asking this?"

"Even after four years, do you really know who he is? What he's capable of?"

"You don't think Richard's the one who-"

"Do you?"

"That's what the others are saying about you. That we can't trust you. That you deliberately stranded us here."

"Is that what you think?"

"I think if you wanted to kill us, you'd have done it already."

He stares back at me, and I'm keenly aware of the rifle at his side. As long as he controls the gun, he controls us. Now I wonder if I've made a fatal mistake. If I've confided in the wrong man.

"Tell me what else they're saying," he says. "What are they planning?"

"No one's planning anything. It's just that they're scared. We're all scared."

"There's no reason to be, as long as no one does anything rash. As long as you trust me. No one but me."

Not even Richard is what he implies, although he doesn't say it. Does he really think that Richard's to blame for what's happened? Or is this part of Johnny's game to divide and conquer, by planting the seeds of suspicion?

Already the seeds are taking root.

Later, as I lie beside Keiko in her tent, I think about all the evenings when Richard came home late. Out with his literary agent, he'd tell me. Or dinner with his publishing team. My biggest fear used to be that he was having a fling with another woman. Now I wonder if I suffered from a lack of imagination and his reasons were darker, more horrifying than mere infidelity.

Outside the tent, the nightly chorus of insects sings as predators circle our camp, held off only by the fire. And by a lone man with a gun.

Johnny wants me to trust him. Johnny promises he'll keep us safe.

That's what I cling to as I finally fall asleep. Johnny says we'll live through this and I believe him.

Until daybreak, when everything changes.

THIS TIME, IT'S ELLIOT who's screaming. His panicked yelps of Oh my G.o.d! Oh my G.o.d! wrench me awake and toss me back into the nightmare of real life. Keiko's gone, and I'm alone in the tent. I don't even bother to struggle into my trousers, but roll out of my tent in T-shirt and underwear, pausing only to shove bare feet into boots.

The whole camp is awake and everyone has converged on Elliot's tent. The blondes cling to each other, their hair greasy and disheveled, their legs bare in the chill dawn. Like me, they'd rushed out of their tents in only their underwear. Keiko's still wearing pajamas, her feet clad in tiny j.a.panese sandals. Only Richard is fully dressed. He stands gripping Elliot's shoulders, trying to calm him down, but Elliot keeps shaking his head, blubbering.

"It's gone," says Richard. "It's not there anymore."

"It could be hiding in my clothes! Or in the blankets."

"I'll look again, okay? But I didn't see it."

"What if there's another one in there?"

"Another what?" I ask.

They all turn to look at me and I see wariness in their eyes. I'm the one no one trusts, because I threw in my lot with the enemy.

"A snake," says Sylvia, and she hugs herself, shivering. "Somehow it got into Elliot's tent."

I glance down at the ground, half expecting to see a serpent slither toward my boots. In this land of spiders and biting insects, I've learned never to walk barefoot.

"It was hissing at me," says Elliot. "That's what woke me up. I opened my eyes and it was right there, coiled on top of my legs. I thought for certain ..." He wipes a trembling hand across his face. "Oh G.o.d. We're not going to make it another week!"