A tidbit that stuck with me after the call was Thorpe’s comment that the Pruitts were friendly with Buckhalter, the lonely single guy. June Pruitt’s description of Sean’s “rough” friend “D” corresponded to this emerging portrait. D as in Danny? Any cop will tell you: Charity starts at home. Often, so does trouble. Daniel Buckhalter’s name got a double underline and an asterisk to boot.

I continued to pressure Sean’s dad, Dr. Alex Pruitt, for a follow-up interview and was rebuffed by a wall of silence. Finally, I left a message stating that perhaps I might catch him at home one evening. This elicited a cryptic email response: You’ve seen King Diomedes’s herd where they frolic. Sean admired and envied them. It would be wise to seek the counsel of Drs. Campbell and Ryoko. Lunatic cults are their specialty. This is the full extent of my knowledge. Don’t contact me further. Yours, Dr. Alexander Pruitt.

I’d maintained a lifelong fanboy interest in Campbell and Ryoko. Now Sean’s father had suggested the pair might know something. It bore investigation. I added it to the growing pile. Ted called them at a number we had on file to set up an interview. Whoever responded informed her the doctors declined to participate in phone conferences. Should I opt for an in-person visit, we would need to consult our respective calendars as they were busy, busy men. She promised to touch base with them soon.

■■■

Last night, a tiger came undetected onto our second raft and abducted a porter. The expedition is well armed with guns and spears. We have retained the services of an expert big-game hunter and guides. Lanterns were lighted. No one heard a disturbance, but we found the man’s sandal and his breeches, which were caught on a nail head. His comrades also discovered a quantity of blood. Several tigers have stalked us from the bank over the past five days. We saw one in the river, swimming behind the raft. Woodcutters wear masks that face backward to frighten the cats from creeping up behind. This strategy doesn’t always succeed. Humans are unwelcome here, except as a source of provender. This place is a reminder of our fragility, our insignificance.

In the earliest days, man, or the hominids who predated man, rightfully feared the natural world. The darkness that covered the earth, and what dwelled in the darkness; upheavals and floods; the occulted moon and sun. Later, man imposed himself upon the world, and the darkness that encompasses the world, with metal and fire and dogs.

Man declared himself the chosen of an almighty patron and those earlier fears were subsumed by adoring awe of He who ruled over all creation, and tribalistic antipathy toward nonbelievers. Then science came and over time, whittled down that patron creator. Science peeled away the illusion and showed us how minute, how alone we are in an unimaginably empty universe. Once again, man is afraid. And it is good.

I opened my eyes at the desk in Meg’s spare room. In the absence of guests, we used the room as an office. The Campbell-Ryoko documentary The Forest That Eats Men played on my laptop on a loop. I’d fallen asleep for a long winter’s nap with it muttering in the background.