Miss Waldron brought a rifle. She’d been practicing with heavier guns, firing at empty biscuit cans and melons. She moved through the jungle next to Willoughby, and this time when she felt him sight a monkey, she was not shaken by the shot or the sounds of the other animals fleeing. She drew near as the men tied the creature’s arms and legs together and slid it on a stick for carrying.

The monkey had been shot once through the stomach. What remained of the coat shimmered and bristled, a combination of reds. The long, thin fingers curled tightly into themselves, holding on to nothing. Its face was a tight black mask. Miss Waldron reached down and touched the tail, and the monkey turned and sank its teeth into her arm.

In one movement the slave raised his machete and sliced through the animal’s neck, so that when Miss Waldron pulled her arm away, the head came with it.

It’s a colobus, said Willoughby. I’ve never seen one like this before. He pushed his fingers into the nose, eased the jaw back, and delicately took the monkey’s head from Miss Waldron’s arm as if he were removing a bracelet.

That night the scientists broke open the whiskey. They had spent all day taking the colobus apart and had decided that it was an entirely new species. Willoughby promised the scientists that he would shoot ten more. He promised Miss Waldron that he would name it after her.

They sat around the fire and told bawdy stories, and when they were very drunk they danced. They did waltzes and two-steps, minuets and the Charleston, all to the sound of flutes carved out of gourds. Willoughby shook his rump. Miss Waldron did the cancan. The men shot their guns in the air and then passed out, one by one.

The private detectives waited patiently nearby in a grove of cacao trees. They had received one line from Miss Waldron’s father: RETURN MONKEY GIRL TO BE FINISHED.

The detectives lingered until they could hear Willoughby Lowe snoring. The moon shone silver as they stepped over the sleeping scientists. Miss Waldron’s feet were hanging out of the tent. In the glow they looked half-alive, like fish freshly killed. The private detectives held above the ankles and silently yanked the rest of her out.

Miss Waldron was dreaming. She was in a hospital bed, and the sheets were binding her legs. There were monkey skulls holding her wrists. She could hear the footsteps of her father approaching. Above her were tangled roots with eyes. The slave leaned forward and told her to wake up. When she did she found herself being carried over the heads of the detectives into the jungle.