Chap­ter 18 – The beasts of Tarzan begins with Paul­vitch seething in iso­la­tion, his hatred for Tarzan fes­ter­ing into a dan­ger­ous obses­sion. Alone and humil­i­at­ed, he finds his pride wound­ed more than his body, and that wound fes­ters into a plan fueled not by log­ic but by mal­ice. Revenge is the only idea that keeps him mov­ing, despite hav­ing no allies and lit­tle chance of suc­cess. He knows he can’t take on Tarzan in a direct fight. Instead, his plan becomes a blend of des­per­a­tion and mad­ness. He con­vinces him­self that a sin­gle, dev­as­tat­ing act could set­tle the score once and for all.

He stum­bles through the jun­gle toward a coastal vil­lage, hop­ing to secure a canoe. The vil­lagers, rec­og­niz­ing Paul­vitch from ear­li­er mis­con­duct, reject him vio­lent­ly, leav­ing him to slink into the shad­ows. He watch­es for hours until a young boy approach­es the shore alone. See­ing his chance, Paul­vitch acts with­out remorse, killing the child and tak­ing the canoe. It’s a bru­tal, silent moment, one that reveals how far he has fall­en. His cru­el­ty goes unchecked, masked as neces­si­ty in his warped mind. With blood on his hands and a stolen ves­sel beneath him, he rows toward the Kin­caid, eager to put his plan into motion.

Arriv­ing under cov­er of night, Paul­vitch boards the ship silent­ly, mov­ing like a rat in the shad­ows. He approach­es a sailor and offers a deal—help him reclaim con­trol, and rich­es will fol­low. But the crew, though no saints, want no part in anoth­er betray­al. Paul­vitch is rebuffed and threat­ened with being turned over to Tarzan. He pleads, bribes, even begs, but none lis­ten. Reject­ed again, Paul­vitch becomes even more dan­ger­ous. He choos­es not to run away, but to strike in secret, con­vinced that he still holds pow­er if he can’t be stopped.

In his quar­ters, Paul­vitch retrieves a dead­ly inven­tion from his time with anar­chist rebels—an infer­nal machine craft­ed to destroy. It’s a bomb, small yet lethal, and he arms it with steady hands. His fin­gers, once clum­sy with pan­ic, now move with eerie calm. He hides the device in a place where it will cause the most dam­age, believ­ing it to be poet­ic jus­tice. To him, Tarzan will nev­er see it com­ing. His exit is qui­et. He col­lects what he can and dis­ap­pears into the dark, car­ry­ing with him the illu­sion of vic­to­ry. The ship con­tin­ues to sleep above the tick­ing threat.

The chap­ter builds dread with sub­tle pre­ci­sion. Paul­vitch, once only a pet­ty vil­lain, becomes an embod­i­ment of bit­ter per­sis­tence and cal­cu­lat­ed mal­ice. His actions are not mere­ly evil; they are a reflec­tion of the twist­ed log­ic that fes­ters in soli­tude. Read­ers wit­ness a man who believes the world owes him ruin in return. The jun­gle has not reformed him—it has hard­ened his cru­el­ty. The bomb now aboard the Kin­caid rep­re­sents more than sab­o­tage. It is the last des­per­ate grasp of a man who has noth­ing left to lose and sees destruc­tion as his only lega­cy.

Mean­while, aboard the Kin­caid, Tarzan remains unaware of the per­il. His mind is set on fam­i­ly, on res­cu­ing what remains of his peace. The ani­mals are rest­less, the ship car­ries ten­sion like a storm about to break. Yet amidst the antic­i­pa­tion of reunion, no one sus­pects that vengeance is already embed­ded in their path. The tick­ing bomb is more than a device—it’s a sym­bol of all that Tarzan’s ene­mies have failed to destroy by force. Now, they’ve turned to cun­ning and cow­ardice. And as the ship sails for­ward, unaware of the threat lurk­ing below, the ques­tion remains whether Tarzan’s strength and instinct will be enough to defuse more than just a bomb—but the con­se­quences of all the ene­mies he’s left behind.