This chapter was longer than I intended it to be, and it's not very good.

Thanks to my reviewers! I worry that the story is boring most of its readers; I'll try to avoid that with future chapters.

Chapter Three
September 18, 1934
Matheran, 50 miles east of Bombay, India

The rifle felt good in her hands – better than that, it felt right. It fit in the crook of her arm, the warmth of it comforting even through the sleeve of her tan-colored blouse. She lifted it so that it ran parallel to her hip, and it became an extension of her. Every day for the past five weeks, she had held the rifle against her like this, and each time, it convinced her that she was right where she should be.

The antelope stood alone in a small clearing in the jungle, munching contentedly on a patch of grass. Diagonal to it, Laura knelt in silence and removed the safety on her rifle. She'd stalked the young male since he left his herd group, which had moved out of the clearing almost a minute earlier. His ears perked to the side, but he had yet to come aware of Laura's presence.

She was reluctant to take the kill, but that didn't stop the rush of blood in her veins, pounding in her ears and across her temple. To know that she was close enough to smell the creature's musky scent and still be invisible to it put a smile on her lips. Her heart beat faster as she settled her gun into a ready position.

Antelope was not the quarry today. She had personally shot three of the animals since they arrived in Matheran five weeks earlier, and Beaufort had declared them an unworthy challenge for himself and the two other Society men. For the past three weeks, all of their attention focused on bagging the fiercest prey to be found in the mountains of India.

Antelope they had seen plenty of; tiger had yet to show its deadly face.

Giggling, behind her and off to the right, disrupted the silence. The antelope's ears twitched, and muscles rippled under its light brown coat. Laura raised the gun, but the antelope vanished before she could get off a shot.

Ah, well, she thought, lowering the rifle and flicking the safety back into place. Antelope's not why we're out here anyway.

Slinging the rifle across her back, Laura turned away from the clearing and headed south, back to where she had left Robert and Miss Elmund taking a rest. She didn't doubt that the giggling had belonged to Beaufort's young niece.

Bridget Elmund was a slender, pretty girl of only seventeen years. Laura had taken one look at the big blue eyes and dollish black curls and knew that the responsibility of looking after the teenager would fall on her shoulders. The men dismissed Bridget with verbal pats on the head and indulgent smiles, prompting her to approach Laura with an endless string of questions about what they were doing and where they were going. She'd grown up in the sheltered life of British nobility; her trip to New York had been her first outside the British Isles. Her tongue could barely keep up with the questions that plagued her brain.

Normally, such curiosity would have pleased Laura – girls these days seemed complacent to be dim-witted and dogmatic rather than educated, even in New York – but Bridget served only as a distraction in the jungle. Beaufort handed his niece over to Laura as though he had hired her for the specific purpose of being Bridget's chaperone.

She told herself that it didn't matter. The money was her only concern, and she'd done what she considered her job. When they arrived in Matheran, she'd made contact with Salman Inam, a friend of her father's dating back to the turn of the century. Because of her influence, he'd agreed to be the group's shikari, their jungle guide, and he'd gone to the village to hire Indian bearers for the hunters. Together, they'd spoken to the locals about the season's game, particularly any tiger that might have been spotted in the area. Most of their time had been spent tracking animals for the hunters to shoot, and they'd supervised the building of a stand, a standard practice for hunting in the jungle. Laura had taken on the task of scouting for game near the stand and driving it toward the hunters, a technique that she did found lazy and amateurish, but the Americans seemed to like it.

All of this was work that Robert, as the Society's primary handler, should have done from the start. It suited everyone to pretend that he earned his pay, though all he'd done for the past three months was provide the hunters with a jolly companion who bet heavily at card games. Beaufort had made it clear to the Ashfields that they were here only at Denham's behest.

Laura had beaten a small path into the jungle from the stand clearing, and

"Any tiger out there?" Bridget asked.

Laura winced but did not chastise the girl. Many who knew the jungle well – and Laura included herself in this group because the lore had been passed to her so often as a child that it was now ingrained in her – did not say the name of the tiger aloud. As Salman had told her and John often in their younger years: "never speak his name, for you may find you have summoned him out of the jungle." Bridget would no doubt find the superstition amusing, and Laura had already tired of her giggling.

"It's quiet," she said. "We should get back to the stand. Evening's coming on, and I think it'll bring rain with it. I'd prefer to be at the bungalow when it starts."

She spoke of rain only as incentive to get them moving. The monsoon season was coming to an end; the rains now came later and lighter. Laura had thought Denham would have completed his filming by this time – normally he was efficient and not so inclined to linger – but he showed no indication that he thought the serial completed. He had been picky with his shots, expressing discontent with nearly each day's work. Laura tried to stay as uninvolved as possible.

"I'm all for it," said Robert as he stood up. He offered a hand to Bridget and helped her to her feet. She rewarded him with a shy smile, but he had already returned his attention to Laura. "I'll bet Mama Jas already has dinner started."

He began to move away from her, but Laura grabbed his sleeve. "Wait," she said. "I want to talk to you."

Robert motioned to Bridget. "Just stay on the trail. Remember?"

She nodded and ducked her head, black curls dancing about her chin. Without a sound, she turned and moved down the path.

"No luck?" asked Robert.

"Another antelope flees for its life," Laura said. "It's a good thing we're not hunting for food. We'd all be starved by now."

"I thought you were a better hunter than this."

Laura frowned. "I do fine when I'm not being followed by giggling tourists."

If Robert was offended, it didn't show. He said, "Miss Elmund's bored. I was just trying to entertain her with a few jokes."

"She should have thought about that before she convinced Beaufort to bring her all the way out here. As for your jokes, I hope you're doing an adequate job of censoring yourself. I won't have you responsible for ruining her sensibilities."

"Not all of my jokes are dirty jokes, Laura," he replied.

Chuckling, he unhooked his canteen from his belt to take a swig from it. She snatched the canteen from his hands and held it up to her nose, taking a long whiff. A scowl darkened her face, and keeping her eyes on Robert, she hooked the canteen onto her belt, next to her own.

Robert held out a hand. "Can I have that back?"

"You want it back, you'll have to give me your gun," she replied. She walked past him, following the thin little path that would lead them back to the stand.

He followed her, doing nothing to mask the sounds of his movement. "I'm not doing that."

"Then you'll have to do without the whiskey. I warned you about this. Several times, I believe."

"Three times just last night," he agreed.

"I don't care if you drink yourself blind, but I'll be damned if I'll let you carry a loaded weapon in that condition."

Sulking, he changed the subject. "Why are you so concerned about her anyway?"

She didn't even look back at him. "As the only other woman in this party, it's my duty. She hasn't exactly had any experience with men like you."

"And you've had too much."

Laura turned on him so sharply that, for a moment, he actually thought she might hit him. God knew, she'd done it before. He wasn't so sure he didn't deserve it.

The jungle went quiet and still. A rumbling sound filtered through the trees, a throaty growl that could belong to only one creature. It continued steadily off to their right, moving south, close enough to cause Laura's heart to tighten in her chest. In unison, the siblings readied their rifles, and Robert looked to Laura with a mixed expression of fear and confusion.

Bridget, she mouthed to him and pointed a finger in the girl's direction. She'd stopped not far away to admire a patch of flowers. Looking back at Laura and Robert, her eyes were wide and very young.

Robert shook his head, and she pushed him further down the trail. Extending her arm to the east, she jabbed at the air, hoping that he would understand that she wanted him to take Bridget away from the Society's stand. The tiger would head for the bait: a live goat that Salman and Laura had procured that morning.

Mouth agape, he stared at her, and she would have hit him if she thought he would've kept silent. Instead, she grabbed his hand and led him to Bridget, choosing her steps with care. Light filtering through the trees caught the tiger's orange coat, and it ambled along, showing no concern for the three humans nearby. It walked past them, no more than eight meters from the path, and continued on its way. Bridget stood frozen, her hands clasped tightly at her stomach, but her eyes moved across the underbrush.

"Where is it?" she whispered.

With a severe shake of her head, Laura held a finger to her lips. She let go of Robert and mouthed, Stay here.

Nodding, Robert put an arm around Bridget's shoulders; she looked anything but scared. Her eager eyes searched the jungle, and she stood up on her toes to see further.

Part of Laura's job was to make sure the client got the animal he wanted, but even if that hadn't been the case, she would have followed the tiger. The hunter in her demanded it. With Robert staring at her as though she had lost her mind, she continued down the path and hoped she hadn't lost the tiger to the jungle.

She went only a few meters – Robert and Bridget disappeared in the branches of the lower canopy – before she found the tiger again. It had stopped to urinate and mark the area. The stench made Laura's nose wrinkle up in protest. The tiger lingered, nosing about in the underbrush and pawing at something on the ground. They weren't far from the stand now; if the tiger continued drifting south, the goat would be sure to attract its attention.

She took a step forward, and the tiger turned its head, its mouth opening slightly. Surely it had seen her, and sweat broke out along her brow as she calculated the distance between them. If she was quick, she could hit it, but her aim would have to be flawless. If she missed – and that was possible even at this range – she wouldn't get another shot. Its bright eyes glowed in the shadow, and it began to turn in her direction. Laura held her breath and forced herself to keep the gun low. If she shot now, it would be over for her.

The goat at the stand bleated, and the tiger's ears cocked in that direction. Without hesitation, it trotted to the south, skulking away from Laura. She breathed in again slowly and followed it, making sure her boots stayed on the slender thread of the path to avoid making too much noise.

It didn't matter. The tiger had chosen its prey, and now it darted between the trees in anticipation. Laura lost sight of it, and then she heard shouts from the stand, the Indian bearers shouting in excited Hindi.

She ran, her hunting skirt restricting her to short but quick strides. Ahead, the goat's bleatings became shriller, and then the roar of the tiger drowned out everything.

The stand's clearing opened up before her, and the first thing she saw was the tiger crouched over its kill. The smell of its musky hide permeated the air as it held the broken, bloodless body of the goat in its paws. It looked up at the men in the hide and growled at them; Denham stood with the camera rolling while MacNamara leaned over the side with what Laura suspected was a microphone. None of the bearers moved.

Why isn't anyone shooting it? she thought, and then she saw Beaufort moving out of the jungle near the stand, his rifle at the ready.

Denham was about to get his climatic scene. Beaufort advanced; he could take the shot at any time, but Laura suspected he wanted to wait for his big moment.

He got within four meters of the creature before it made its move. In an orange blur, the tiger got to its feet and leapt at Beaufort, its growl drowning out the shouts of the men. Beaufort disappeared from Laura's view, eclipsed by the body of the tiger as it sailed through the air.

Beaufort's gun went off at the last possible moment, later than Laura had expected. The tiger landed on him, knocking him to the ground, and the big man gave a sharp cry of pain. The two lay on the ground, unmoving, and the heady, unmistakable scent of blood filled the clearing.

Denham and MacNamara scrambled down from the stand, but Laura got to Beaufort first, her rifle fixed on the tiger. It was still, no breath moving in and out of it. She knelt next to Beaufort, dropped her rifle, and pushed the body off him, half-expecting to find him wounded or dead.

He stared up at her, his arms crossed over his chest, his gun lying in the dirt beside him. Blood covered his arms and neck, but none of it belonged to him. His hat had fallen off, and his sandy-blond hair lay plastered against his sweaty, dirty brow.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

The shocked, distant look in his eyes vanished at once, replaced by the hard, superior glare that she had always associated with him. He pushed the body all the way off him and sat up; he stared at the wound in the tiger's chest, a gaping mess of blood and matted fur.

"Of course I am," he replied harshly. "I killed it, didn't I?"

Frowning, Laura stood up and backed away. She intended to tell him that he had almost waited too long to do it, but then the men from the stand converged on them, Denham leading the way.

"Fantastic!" Denham cried. He leaned down and grasped Beaufort's hand, pumping it with vigor. Beaufort used it to pull himself to his feet, nearly dragging Denham to the ground. "It's exactly what we needed, Henry; it was perfect."

"Didn't I tell you it would be?" Beaufort replied. The Americans gathered around him, heaping praise upon him with wide grins and high voices. Beaufort stood with his shoulders squared and his head high, a self-appointed king among lesser men.

Laura stepped aside, separating herself from the hero and his worshippers. The hired Indians surrounded the tiger and whispered among themselves. Salman – old and wiry and dressed like the white men – knelt over the tiger to make his inspection. He treated the dead creature with gentle respect, and he spoke to it in soft Hindi tones.

Robert and Bridget emerged from the jungle and jogged over to the group. Bridget's smile brightened her pink face, and she threw her arms around her uncle in a celebratory hug. He wrapped an arm around her slender waist and though he still didn't smile, he gazed down at her with obvious affection. She was the only person he allowed to come so close to him.

"He finally got what he came for," Robert said as he joined Laura. "Why doesn't he look happier?"

"Why don't you ask him?" Laura replied.

"Does this mean we're done here?"

"Of course not!" Denham cried. He shook Robert's hand like he'd had something to do with the killing of the tiger. "Lots more to do," Denham added, "you can count on that."

Denham steered Robert toward Beaufort, going on about the plans he had for the serial's plot and how he wanted to fit in a part for Robert. Laura thought her brother looked far too pleased with that idea.

"Laura," Salman called to her softly and crooked a finger at her. She moved around the group of men to crouch next to him. He adjusted the head so she could get a better view of it.

She saw at once what he intended her to see. Blue film clouded the tiger's left eye: a cataract. It explained why the tiger hadn't attacked her in the jungle; she doubted it had even seen her. It had probably waited to leap at Beaufort for much the same reason.

Laura touched the gray fur around its muzzle. "How old do you think he was?"

"Hard to be sure," replied Salman. "But he's an old man. Probably didn't have much time left anyway." He laid the head back on the ground and wiped his hands on his trousers. "You know what I think?"

"Beaufort got lucky."

Salman furrowed his eyebrows until his bushy white eyebrows met. "The gods smiled on him today. He should be dead."

"Don't tell him that."

The Americans laughed at something Robert said; only Beaufort maintained his lordly silence. He stared at the jungle, the smug expression on his handsome face a badge of triumph over the wilds it contained.

The rains came in the evening, bringing early sunset and a heavy wind with them. Despite the kill he brought from the jungle, Beaufort maintained a moody silence through dinner, and nobody dared to start a conversation for fear of upsetting him. Even Denham remained quiet and pensive, as though he was trying to work something out in his head.

After dinner, the men retired to the library for cigars and brandy while Laura and Bridget sat on the porch and watched the rain. After a short time, Salman strolled out from the house and stood next to Laura at the railing.

In Hindi, he said, "Leaving soon."

Laura glanced over at Bridget. The girl sat curled up on one of the cushioned benches, her attention entirely on the paperback novel she read. Looking back at Salman, Laura said, also in Hindi, "Are you? Why?"

"Not me. You."

Frowning, she said, "How do you know?"

"Being invisible has its advantages." He paused and shook his head. In the porch's dim lamp light, he looked gray and dull. Laura realized he wasn't that much younger than her father. "Don't trust the big one, memsahib. He is looking for death."

"If he's doing that, why is he planning on leaving?"

"He didn't find it here."

She couldn't imagine where else he might look if the tiger had not made him happy. The mystique that surrounded the creature made it a worthy opponent in most hunters' eyes, but Beaufort treated the kill as though it was simply his right. Laura herself had killed only five tigers, all before she left Bombay in 1926, but the experiences had remained among her most memorable. To know that only her senses and her ability with a gun were all that kept her safe made her shiver even when she was sitting comfortably at home. The animals she had taken were all healthy and large; any one of them could have turned out to be a better hunter than she. It was that risk that made the hunt so thrilling.

Apparently, that wasn't enough for Beaufort. But Laura could think of nothing that might rival the situation he had already survived.

She knew men who obsessed over the hunt, who wanted nothing more than to find the next deadly opponent and prove who the better hunter was. Some men lived only for that rush of adrenaline, only to crave it more and more when the hunt ended and the blood stopped racing. It could drive a person mad.

But Beaufort seemed such a man of control; she had seen none of the fanaticism in him. Had Salman seen it? He knew hunters as well as he knew the prey; perhaps he had recognized something in Beaufort that Laura didn't.

"Thank you, Salman. Will you go back to Bombay with us?"

"No. I'm not so young anymore. It's time I stayed where I belong."

"I wish I could too."

"The young must keep moving and keep seeing. You'll know when you're ready to settle."

She hugged him, and he felt small and frail in her arms. The days when he had been stronger and taller than her had long passed, but they returned to Laura like waking dreams. She owed her life to this man and what he had taught her about the jungle.

They're leaving me, she thought as she watched him descend from the porch and melt into the shadows. Like a cat, he did not look back. These men, who taught me to take care of myself, have nothing left to teach me.

She went to the room she shared with Bridget and took off her shoes and nylons. She made no noise as she went back to the main part of the house, moving down the library's wing. The wooden floor was cool and smooth against her feet. The servants had opened doors and windows to let in the evening breeze, and it ruffled the skirt of her pale blue dinner dress against her legs.

Only Denham and Beaufort remained in the library, and she caught them in the middle of a tense silence. She leaned against the wall next to the open door and waited.

Denham, not content to let Beaufort sit in languor, spoke first.

"What's the matter, Henry? Don't you like Matheran?"

"This isn't a goddamned vacation," Beaufort replied. "We came out here for a reason, and now I'm done with it. We're moving to phase two."

"Are you sure that's a good idea? We might not be ready."

"I'm ready. And I happen to be the financier of this trip."

"We should at least discuss it with the Ashfields."

"No. We don't need them, Carl."

"You don't know what you'll be up against. Maybe we could do without Robert, but Laura will be good to have around. I won't go without them."

One of them struck a match, and then Laura could smell one of the fat Cuban cigars that Beaufort favored. She could imagine him staring at Denham, gauging him.

"Are you scared, Carl?"

Denham laughed, but it sounded nervous and thin. "I'd be crazy not to be."

"You can't back out now."

"I'm not going to. I want to go. But there are things you have to understand. This isn't going to be like anything else you've encountered."

"This is precisely why I'm going. Inam is making the arrangements. In less than a week, we'll be back on the Juliette, and we can put the play-acting behind us."

A pause. Laura wondered how bruised Carl's ego was. He was used to calling the shots, to being the big man in charge. But he had not worked under the likes of Beaufort, and this was beginning to sound less like a movie enterprise and more like an extended hunting expedition.

But to where? Wasn't Skull Island somewhere in the Indian Ocean? Could either one of these men be crazy enough to plan a return trip to Kong's home? Research teams were fighting over who could get there first – with or without various government grants – but she'd not heard of a hunting party taking interest in the Island.

Carl said, "I still think we should talk to the Ashfields."

"In due time. For now, let's worry about getting there first."

For several minutes, they sat and said nothing. Laura left before either of them decided to call it a night. In their room, Bridget was already in bed, not quite asleep but drifting. She'd shown no fear of the tiger, alive or dead, and she'd happily posed for pictures of it with the Americans. As far as she was concerned, her uncle was a hero.

Laura prepared for bed, going over Beaufort and Denham's conversation. The more she thought about it, the surer she was that Skull Island was their ultimate destination. She didn't know many precise details about the first trip, but she knew enough to understand the dangers involved with the Island. She couldn't afford to take those risks, not with Alice and her parents still reliant on her support.

As she slipped into her bed and pulled closed the mosquito netting, she resolved not to mention her suspicions to anyone. She could leave at any time; perhaps that time had come. She would take the money owed to her and go back to New York. Or maybe she'd remain in Bombay and stay with John's family for a while. She wouldn't linger for long; Salman was right about traveling. Settling down wasn't on her mind now. And when she did settle, it wouldn't be in Bombay. The city held too many memories for her to be happy there.